There Are Monsters Nearby

by uhohbestie

Summary:

The day after Scar breaks up with Grian, the dead come back to life. Knowing that venturing out alone is a death sentence, the sudden onset of the apocalypse forces them to stick together despite the tensions between them. In the wreckage of the world, they're forced to survive side-by-side, coming to terms with the fact that—try as they might—there's no one they trust more than each other.

“Go!” Grian shouts as the monster charges, putting his whole force into the blow.

Scar watches, frozen stiff as Grian fights until blood and gore and viscera mark the creature up like a Pollock painting.

“What are you waiting for?!” Grian snaps when he finally notices that Scar is still standing there. He grips his weapon tight and attacks a final time, slamming the zombie down—good and dead—and standing panting over top of it, strained but victorious. He starts rushing from the scene, calling back for Scar over his shoulder. “Run!”

And in a way that’s as familiar to him as breathing, Scar chases after him.

Chapter 1

Notes:

Hello and welcome to a brand new long fic! 🎉

It's a Scarian Zombie AU that Lock and I have been working on literally all of last year and we're sooo excited to start posting it for you guys! (So if you've been wondering why we had no new fics--this. This is why LMAO) It's been hard keeping it under wraps, but hopefully it'll be well worth it! :D

Heads up that Scar and Grian's characterizations in this fic are based heavily on the first three Life Series installments (Double Life in particular) and not on Hermitcraft. So if they're a lil hostile and a lil angsty, just think of it as them being on their Yellow/Red lives and being super on edge ;)

All that said, this first chapter is a long'un, so settle in for some excitement as desert duo get their lives crumpling disastrously around them :)

We hope you'll enjoy!! :D

The week the world ends sticks out in Scar’s memory as an eventful one, all things considered. Fast paced, one hit after another, adrenaline pumping, the whole shebang. And really, it has to be, doesn’t it? No good story has ever started with a dull, rolling recap of the mundane.

Not the kind that Scar likes to chew on, anyway.

No, the week where life as he knows it changes forever is explosive from start to finish.

“Shit,” Cub hisses, the machine in front of him giving a loud, shuddering groan before popping several screws and spewing black smoke from its exhaust fan, ominous and foreboding.

From his position laid out on the couch, Scar whistles long and low, exaggerating a grimace that Cub responds to with an exasperated sigh. Scar snickers at his friend’s misfortune, comforted in the knowledge that Cub would do the same if their situation was reversed. He then stretches his legs, shifting them over and grabbing the cane leaning against the armrest. It takes him a minute, but it’s a relatively low pain day, so he’s able to get onto his feet without a hassle, making his way over to where Cub is fiddling with a now pitifully sparking machine.

He stands close, looming over his friend in a familiar way that comes from years working at his side. Scar peers down at the contraption with curiosity, well within Cub’s personal bubble without invading his working space.

“Whatcha got there, Cubby Cub?”

“It’s the project I told you about.”

“The one with the strict deadline at the end of the month?”

The machine—a table-sized collection of gimbals, rotary belts, and some sort of proprietary hydraulic lift—sputters pathetically, another spurt of smoke escaping it before the whole thing gives one final shake and goes completely dark.

“Yeah,” Cub responds, grim.

“Yikes.”

Scar’s best friend sighs, pushing his glasses up to rub at his eyes before pinching the bridge of his nose.

“It’s not that bad, I can fix it. It’s just gonna take more time than I anticipated. See, the gears I had machined down were interfering with the—”

“Don’t explain it to me, Cub,” Scar interrupts, throwing a hand up dismissively, “I’m more than happy thinking of it as magic. All this engineering stuff is hocus pocus to me.”

Cub snorts, fond in that subtle way that Scar knows is reserved only for him. “You’re a weird guy, Scar.”

Scar laughs, grinning broadly and winking. “And don’t you forget it.”

After a moment more of tinkering, Cub sighs and moves away from the project. He side-steps around Scar and takes a seat in front of his desktop setup, the surface strewn with graph paper, nearly illegible schematics, and empty coffee mugs.

Now that he’s up, he doesn’t fancy sitting down again, so instead Scar meanders over to the couch without taking a seat. He picks up the remote lying on the cushion and flicks through the TV channels while Cub begins troubleshooting across his spread of monitors.

“I’ve got a knack for magic, you know,” he says conversationally, talking over his shoulder in Cub’s direction, his voice light and teasing, “Just get me a few crystals and I’ll really make sparks fly.”

“The sparks are the problem, dude,” Cub replies, distracted but playing along good-naturedly.

Scar snickers to himself and turns back to the TV, eyes catching on a shot of drag performers showing off their outfits on a lavish stage. It strikes him that the show might be a good watch for date nights with Grian. Something campy, creative, and flashy that they both could enjoy. He lingers for a bit, filing the information away for later before changing channels again, catching the trailing end of a Halloween horror movie marathon before switching to the news. Almost immediately his stomach drops—a report about a spike of sudden hospitalizations is scrolling through the headlines, and the rows of hospital beds full of sick people on screen twists up his heart. He’s hated hospitals even before he’d been diagnosed, but the sensationalism of these news stories always catches him in a vulnerable place. He zones out, stuck in his own thoughts.

The last time there was a particularly bad strain of flu spreading through the city, his doctor had stopped barely short of ordering him to stay indoors. They meant well—didn’t want to exacerbate the issues with his already fragile immune system—but it had been a miserable time for him. He’d been isolated and alone, feeling unsafe and unable to leave his apartment. Staring at walls and text messages day in and day out.

“Scar?”

He jolts, clicking the remote and changing the channel to something less upsetting, plastering a smile on his face as he turns back to acknowledge Cub.

“Mmm?”

His friend looks him over at him for a moment, calculating, but eventually relents, “I was just asking if you’d heard anything about this, seeing as you’re the resident Disney guy.” Leaning back in his chair Cub gestures at his computer screen, likely at some sort of article that Scar can’t see from his angle. “It says here that they’re closing the parks for a couple days. That’s pretty unprecedented right?”

“I suppose so,” Scar hums. He usually loves rambling about Disney parks, but it’s a little difficult to reorient himself after the depressing dip of his thoughts. “They’ve closed before for hurricanes. Can’t fight natural disasters!”

“Yeah, sure, but it’s not hurricanes that’re doing it this time. They’re only citing ‘circumstances beyond our control’,” Cub counters, tapping his pen against the edge of his computer screen.

“Ohh, that is interesting,” Scar admits, curiosity piqued.

He tosses the remote towards the couch cushion and is starting to make his way over to Cub when his phone begins to ring. Yelping in surprise, Scar takes a second to calm his startled heart before reaching into his coat pocket and fishing out the device. It’s a reminder, scheduled into his calendar. He smiles at the message before muting it and dropping his phone back into his pocket. When he looks up again, Cub is watching him in askance.

“Grian,” Scar explains, “It’s my turn to cook tonight and I’m always forgetting, so he set up a reminder for me! Isn’t that sweet of him?”

The sound Cub makes is non-commital.

“Sure.”

“Aw, c’mon Cub,” Scar admonishes teasingly. “Don’t be that way!”

“I’m not being any kind of way.”

Scar knows he should leave well enough alone—knows it’s not fair to harp on Cub—but there’s a quiet anxiety that settles in his chest whenever he feels like the people he cares for don’t get along with one another. It makes him want to solve it. Like if he simply forces the subject along far enough, they’ll realise they really do like each other, and then everything will be fine.

“You know, you should come over for dinner sometime,” he suggests, keeping his tone cheerful and optimistic. “It’s been a while since you two have had a chance to hang out!”

“Scar, we’ve talked about this,” Cub sighs, leaning further back in his chair and sending a serious look his way. “Grian’s fine, I don’t have a problem with him. I know you like hanging out with him. He’s fun.”

“See? So what’s—”

“I just don’t think he’s good for you. And I don’t think having dinner together would be good for me. That’s it.”

“Cub…”

An awkward mood settles between the two of them, Cub’s lip curling slightly as his brow furrows.

“You’ve been together, what? Two years? And he still won’t let you call him your boyfriend,” he says at last, when it becomes clear Scar isn’t going to speak first.

“He’s just a little shy!” Scar defends, shoulders tensing up.

“That goes beyond shyness, Scar. Anyone else might be living together by now. Or at least have left more stuff in your apartment than a toothbrush and a couple of socks in a drawer.”

Scar can feel his palm sweating where he’s gripping his cane, knuckles tight around it. His stomach churns. He hates arguing with anyone, but especially with Cub. There’s no one who knows him better, except maybe Grian. When they fight it feels wrong.

His heart hurts. The evening had been going so well—he doesn’t want to leave things like this, and he certainly doesn’t want to make it worse. The subject of his relationship with Grian is a conversation he and Cub have been having increasingly often lately, and Scar’s not looking to add another strained night to the tally.

Taking a deep breath, he forces his muscles to untense, meeting Cub’s gaze with his own pleading one. “Things are good between us, Cub. I promise. And… if they weren’t, I’d come to you about it.”

“Would you, though?” Cub asks, testing.

Scar’s shoulders sag. “Cub, come on.”

There’s a flash of guilt on his friend’s face, the moment where he breaks clearly written in the twist of his features. “Sorry,” Cub apologises, and Scar can tell he means it. “I know you would. I just… get worried sometimes. I don’t want him taking you for granted.”

Feeling the tension drain from the air, Scar smiles and crosses the short distance to him, wrapping Cub up in a hug where he sits. “Oh, you big ol’ teddy bear! I’ll be fine, don’t you worry your precious head!”

Cub laughs, a little strained, holding onto Scar’s arms briefly before tapping at them to let Scar know to let go. “Yeah, yeah. I gotcha.”

It’s not the ideal way for them to part, but Scar knows not to push when it comes to things Cub feels this strongly about. He knows that one of these days going to have a proper sit-down conversation with his best friend about Grian. Cub’s concerns aren’t unfounded, Scar knows that—he’s had several of them himself. But what do the little things matter when he comes home to Grian smiling at him, and falls asleep with him in his arms? That’s got to count for something. The material things are what’s real.

Crossing the room again, Scar picks up his phone, taking a moment to check his messages. There’s nothing from Grian, but at times like these he’s learned that it’s better to act like there is.

“I’m gonna head out now—Grian says he’s hungry. But hey, keep me updated on how much worse your project gets, alright?”

Cub raises a brow at him from where he’s already immersed himself back in his bank of monitors, running numbers and testing new models. “Bold of you to assume I’ll answer any messages before I’ve got this handled,” he quips. “I’m going into fixation mode, dude. You won’t hear from me until this is done or I’m dead.”

“You get good reception from beyond the grave?”

“You tell me,” Cub grins, “You’re the one with the magic.”

The retort makes Scar laugh, genuine and heartfelt, and that’s how he knows things are okay between them. With his wallet, keys, cane, and phone, Scar gives Cub’s shoulder a parting squeeze before he heads for the door. He promises to drop by later in the week and waves as he lets himself out, leaving Cub’s apartment for the very last time. Grian is late for dinner.

Then again, Grian prides himself on being the last to show up to anything, so Scar never really expected him to arrive on time. His stubborn lateness is just one of his many quirks, and Scar loves him for it.

His first text comes an hour after he was supposed to arrive.

‘Running late. Sorry :( See you soon.’

Scar smiles and doesn’t let it bother him.

Forty minutes later, he gets another text.

‘Terrible traffic. Be there in an hour.’

The excuse settles funny in Scar’s mind. Traffic? He slides his thumb along the screen of his phone, pulling up their messages from that morning, the ones where Grian had said he was working from home that day.

Most days, Grian walks to Scar’s place, insisting the fresh air is good for him. Traffic’s never been an issue before.

‘Aren’t you working from home?’

Scar doesn’t have time to put his phone down before it lights up with three quick messages.

‘Yes.’

‘I am.’

‘See you in an hour.’

Grian’s never been particularly warm in text. When Scar thinks back on this moment, weeks later, he’ll understand that this should’ve been when a warning bell went off in his head. Instead, he pulls out his cast iron pan and begins preheating the oven.

Two hours pass before Scar caves and texts Grian again. Grian had chastised him once for messaging him too often and Scar had since done his best to practise patience, but the low rumble in his stomach forces his hand.

‘Traffic still bad?’

It takes ten minutes for Grian to reply.

‘I don’t think I can make it tonight. Work’s awful.’

He waits for a sorry, he waits for a love you.

He gets silence.

‘No worries,’ Scar replies. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

Dinner sits untouched in the oven, and Scar is ravenous. It’s past 8 PM, getting closer to 9. A cool fall evening, with the sky still caught in the deep indigo blues of dusk. The perfect kind of night for taking pictures of the stars. Outside his open windows, Scar can hear people talking as they come and go, the rumbled sounds of traffic from the side-street, a distant dog barking. It’s only a short walk to Grian’s place, but his legs already ache, and they’ll ache worse tomorrow if he pushes it now.

Still.

He packs a portion of their dinner onto a plate and covers it in tinfoil. In a cloth napkin he wraps up two, large, chocolate chip cookies he baked the day before.

Grian’s working late, and Scar already went through all the trouble of cooking for him. It’s a short walk, but an even shorter drive.

In hindsight, he should’ve seen it coming.

Grian lives in a townhouse on a nice street lined with big trees, the neighbours’ decorations still out from Halloween two nights ago. It’s a lovely place, with more than enough room for two. Scar knows it. Everyone knows it. Scar’s stayed overnight countless times, but the longest he’s been welcome to linger in their two years of dating has been the occasional long weekend.

Grian has a covered carport and a short driveway.

Scar almost doesn’t think about it when he finds another car parked there.

He pulls up to the curb, blocking a fire hydrant. It’s illegal, but he knows he’ll only be there for a minute—unless, of course, Grian invites him in. But then, rules are made to be broken, and nothing is currently on fire. The hydrant will be fine, and so will he.

He has a key to Grian’s front door. Of course he does. You don’t date someone for two years and not get the key to their place. So what if Scar had to finagle a copy out of Grian like he was some sort of hostage negotiator? So what if Grian made him swear up and down that he would only ever use it for emergencies? Scar has a key to his not-boyfriend’s place, that’s all that matters.

He still knocks first, though. Still leans on his cane as he stands on the front step, the bottom of the plate warm in his hand, the cookies balanced carefully on top of the tinfoil. He has a moment to think about how he wishes he’d tucked a note in between the cookies, a pen doodle of a smiley face and a big goofy heart.

He has several moments, actually.

Maybe Grian’s not home after all.

He’s not going to leave a plate of food on the ground—there’s a raccoon problem and he doesn’t believe in feeding wildlife—so he fishes out his key and lets himself in.

“Ready or not, here I cooome.” He intends to sound silly; it is silly, speaking out loud to an empty house. Instead, he nearly trips on a pair of shoes just inside the door. It’s odd, because when he looks down he notices they’re bigger than Grian’s small feet. Nearly as large as his own, actually. Except he’s never left a pair of shoes at Grian’s place.

The navy blue jacket thrown over the bannister is new as well.

There’s a sound he can’t place. Something thumping softly against a wall upstairs. It goes on for a moment as he steps over the unusual front-door clutter, then it stops.

In hindsight, he should’ve turned around.

In hindsight, he should never have let himself in.

Scar is in the kitchen, giving a sideways glance to two unfinished glasses of wine on the counter as he opens the fridge to stash away Grian’s meal, when he hears hasty feet on the stairs. He thinks, again, to the car. To the shoes. To the jacket, and to the noises.

Grian’s flushed when Scar finally sees him, frozen in the kitchen doorway, and for some reason Scar can’t make his body move to shut the fridge as they both stand there and stare.

Grian’s cheeks are bright pink, distressed and embarrassed and something else incriminating and so much worse. His hair is mussed up, pushed out of place by fingers that aren’t his own. His clothes look haphazard on him, as though they’ve been donned quickly.

Scar has a second to take him in as his mind plays catch up, filling in all the blanks. A second that stretches entirely too long as he fully commits to memory the sight of his boyfriend, caught in the act.

“Grian,” he says, the word forced into something cheerful despite the immensity of his discomfort, the sounds incredibly heavy in his mouth as he forces them out.

“Scar.”

If he didn’t think Grian was guilty before, the dread in the way he speaks confirms it. There’s an inky, black sorrow—betrayal—rising in Scar’s chest and overflowing up into his throat in a way that threatens to choke him.

He swallows it back.

“I brought you dinner,” Scar says, and closes the fridge door forcefully enough that some of the magnets are jostled off and skitter away across the floor.

Grian winces as they clatter, and Scar feels nothing.

“Because you’re working so late.”

“Scar,” Grian repeats, and it doesn’t sound better a second time.

“I only brought enough for one. There’s two cookies, though.”

Scar moves and Grian shrinks out of his way like water displaced by oil. Scar is back in the hall, passing the navy jacket, the shoes.

He’s leaving.

“Scar,” Grian tries it a third time, and there’s an edge to his tone now, like he’s angry, like he has something to be angry about.

Scar doesn’t hear him.

He doesn’t hear him, because there’s a man. There’s a man standing on the staircase. He’s got his clothes on, but it’s clear that, much like Grian’s, they were pulled on in haste. His sweater looks soft. If they were standing in line together at the grocery store, Scar would ask him where he got it.

He has the same deep fluster on his face that Grian has. Like two peas screwing each other in a pod, Scar thinks.

The man’s thoughts behind his expression are unreadable—but then, Scar doesn’t exactly give himself time to properly study him.

He’s thinking about traffic that never existed. He’s thinking about the bottom of the plate, warm against his palm. He’s thinking about the rhythmic sound of Grian’s bed frame hitting the wall.

He’s thinking about Cub.

He’s thinking about how Cub warned him.

“I want you to come get your stuff.” Scar doesn’t recognise his voice when he speaks. It sounds like he’s hearing himself on a television set that’s playing in another room, his role played by an actor who has his words right, but his intonation all wrong.

“Scar...” Grian tries for a fourth time, and has the nerve to sound hurt when he says it.

“Tomorrow. First thing. It’s gone or it’s on the lawn.”

He’s shaking as he tries to open the door, fumbling his cane into his other hand as he tries to get a proper grip on the doorknob. In his periphery he can see Grian moving forward automatically to help him, and a part of Scar feels like he’s going to catch on fire and self-immolate if Grian gets within an arm’s length of him. He shudders, feeling sick, and then the door is open. The man on the stairs starts to say something, but Scar doesn’t hear him—can’t hear him. Scar’s on the front step, down, cutting across the lawn. He’s stepping on some flowers, but it doesn’t matter. He’s always hated the look of a lawn with flowers.

He’s parked in front of a fire hydrant. He was only going to be here a minute.

He feels sick.

Grian isn’t chasing after him.

He remembers a morning, months ago, where he woke up from a dream to find Grian sitting up in bed, back resting against the headboard—the one he just heard traitorously thumping against the wall—reading a book that Scar had thought sounded boring.

“I had a dream you cheated on me,” Scar had mumbled, voice rough with sleep as he’d moved his arm and slung it across Grian’s lap.

“Is that so?” Grian had asked, still reading his book, fingertips moving to idly pet the hair on Scar’s forearm. “Did I trade up?”

“He had a moustache,” Scar had offered, words muffled into Grian’s hip. “And a son.”

At least this one didn’t have a moustache, Scar thinks, before realising he’s in his car. He doesn’t remember getting in it. The key’s in the ignition, though. In his rearview mirror he can see Grian standing on his front step. He’s too far away for Scar to make out his expression, but distantly Scar thinks that he doesn’t look as sad as he should.

He releases his parking brake and pulls away from the curb more aggressively than he’s ever driven before in his life. Then he jams his fist against the centre of his steering wheel and doesn’t let off the horn until he’s several blocks away.

Once the sight of Grian’s street has disappeared in his rearview mirror, he tries to turn the radio on, but every station is playing a news update. He can’t stomach inane chatter about sports and the weather right now so, just as quickly, Scar turns it off.

Funny, he thinks as he drives home, ears ringing with silence while his heart races in his chest. The roads are incredibly clear.

He’s in no state to be driving, but he has no alternative. His mind is racing, connecting dots he intentionally ignored and things he overlooked—every time Grian cancelled plans, his cagey responses about work, sudden friends coming in from out of town that Scar had never heard of before that he was meeting late for drinks—there’s been months of this. A string of red flags going back further than he wants to admit.

He parks his car in a haze, slamming the driver’s door with trembling hands and feeling weaker than ever as he grips his cane tight and pushes himself back towards his apartment.

It had taken a lot of smooth talking to get himself a place on the ground floor, but right now it makes no difference to him at all. Scar feels winded, breathing hard like he’s been climbing a mountainside. His blood rushes in his ears, heart tight in his chest and body clammy with sweat and nerves. Distantly, it occurs to him that he might be panicking. Something he hasn’t done quite like this since he was a child.

He doesn’t know how he gets his door open, but he manages, discarding his coat and keys on the coffee table before collapsing onto his couch. Breathing still feels difficult and his stomach is in knots. He feels sick to his core, blood churning and the sting of bile sharp in his throat. His vision is watery.

He needs to call Cub.

Scar wipes at his eyes and struggles through a breath. He’d dropped his cane carelessly when he’d come in the door, so instead of getting off the couch, he merely pushes himself until he’s sitting upright, feeling exhausted beyond words by the simple movement.

He promised he’d call Cub if anything ever happened.

It’s just that he never, ever thought anything would.

An awful, mournful noise works its way out of his throat, and even all alone in the dark of his cold, empty apartment, Scar feels humiliated by it. Grian always said he was too emotional, and right now, beat down under the weight of his feelings piled in a crush against his chest, Scar agrees. No matter how much he spins the procession of events around in his head, he can’t make sense of it at all.

How long had Grian been cheating on him? Does this go back half a year? Ten months? More? When Scar had thrown him a surprise party for his birthday a while back, and Grian had flushed bright pink, all flattered and enthused—had he spent that following weekend in someone else’s arms instead of busy at work like he’d said? Had he been spending days with his lover and nights with Scar? Was he splitting time evenly, or had Scar always been his lowest priority?

Surely there had to have been a time when he was Scar’s and only Scar’s. Surely.

Another anguished, half-choked noise escapes him, and Scar curses himself for not being strong enough to swallow it back. What exactly had he done so wrong that Grian felt the need to hurt him like this? If they weren’t working out, why hadn’t Grian simply broken up with him?

Or was he truly so indifferent to Scar that he hadn’t even considered his feelings in the first place?

On the coffee table, Scar’s phone comes to life with a shrill ring, its black screen lighting up. He lurches towards it like a man possessed, clutching it tight in his grip and staring down at the display like it will somehow magically smooth away the pain of his heartbreak. For a second, for just a moment, he hopes against hope—only to fall apart further when it’s not Grian’s name on the caller ID.

It’s Cub.

Anxiety overwhelms him at once. Logically, there’s no way Cub can possibly know what just happened. Scar understands that, he does.

And yet, as much as he’d yearned to speak to Cub mere moments before, it’s impossible to pick up the phone now. He can’t bear the thought of hearing Cub’s voice on the line and having to confirm that his friend had been right about Grian all along. He’s ashamed of himself—for not seeing the signs sooner, for not listening to Cub’s advice, for not heeding his many, many warnings.

Mortified, Scar realises he doesn’t want Cub to see him like this.

He holds the phone in his hand until the ringing stops, shoulders only relaxing when the room goes silent again, but he has only a moment of reprieve before the ringing starts anew, Cub’s name flashing up once more across the screen. Gritting his teeth, Scar switches his phone to vibrate and lets it clatter down onto the coffee table once more. The insistent drone of its vibration rattles against the wood of his table, but he turns his head away from it. When a call comes through for a third time, Scar grabs the couch cushions and stuffs his head between them.

He’ll talk to Cub, he will—he just… needs a minute.

When sleep comes, Scar isn’t ready for it. He hardly feels like he’s sleeping at all, forced instead to relive the drive to Grian’s house in his dreams, the trip both too long and too short, nightmarish in the way his footsteps echo across the kitchen floor as he turns to see Grian’s face. In the dream he’s smiling. He hadn’t been in real life—had he? Scar can’t remember clearly, not in this circular hell where he runs out the front door and ends up right back in his car driving to Grian’s place, the ground beneath his wheels shaking like it’s seconds from cracking open and swallowing him whole.

Waking up feels like falling, disorienting on all accounts, and Scar grips tight to either side of the sofa as his foot slips from the armrest where it had been dangling.

His phone is still vibrating.

He stares at it, blinking slowly. It takes him a second to place where he is, and a second more to gauge how much time has passed. From the way the light has completely faded from the sky, it’s been a few hours at least—so surely it’s not still Cub calling.

Scar steels himself and picks up his phone, answering it in the same instant.

He can’t avoid this forever.

“Hello?” he croaks out, voice both pained and dull.

“Scar!” Comes a bright, accented voice, excitable and entirely discordant with his current state. “Did you see the news?”

It takes Scar a moment to place who it is, having been so sure he’d be speaking to Cub.

“Pearl?”

“Of course! Who else would it be?”

His stomach twists terribly. “Nobody. Sorry… what did you call for?”

On the other end of the line Pearl laughs, bright and delighted.

“The world’s ending!”

There’s a feral kind of glee in her voice, and she laughs again with an almost manic enthusiasm that, despite everything, still manages to light up a deep, earnest feeling of fondness in Scar’s chest. Pearl’s always been like this—on the wild side of weird. Always with something new: a conspiracy, a cover-up, a close-encounter. Usually he delights in it.

Today he’s simply too tired.

“That’s great, Pearl.”

His voice is flat as he says it, and he knows he’s incapable of hiding anything about his current state.

There’s a pause on the line and Scar can almost picture the way Pearl must now be frowning.

“Is everything alright?” She ventures, her voice cautious. “You sound a little low…”

“I’m fine.”

It’s a lie, and she hears it as blatantly as he does.

“Oh, so we’re telling fibs now?” She asks, and he hears the sound of her beginning to grin through the line. “C’mon Scar. You can confess your crimes to me. What did you break this time? Tell ol’ Saint Pearl what’s the trouble.”

The words stick in Scar’s throat, thick and tarry. As much as he tries, he simply can’t get them out.

“Scar…?” There’s a genuine note of concern in her voice, now. He doesn’t want to worry her—hates that he can’t seem to stop it from happening.

“Grian—” Scar’s throat closes up and he can barely get the name out. He doesn’t want to cry like this. Doesn’t want to put the burden of his broken heart on Pearl’s shoulders.

“What’s happened to Grian? Is he hurt?” There’s a sudden edge to Pearl’s tone, tight with concern.

“No.” Scar spits the word out like it’s something rotten.

A moment passes. Then another.

“Oh, Scar…”

He can hear the pity now, rolling in like a wave. It sounds kinder than if he’d told Cub. None of the flat ‘I told you so’ judgement that Cub—even with the best of intentions—would try and fail to conceal. Just the deep sympathy of a person who’s had her fair share of relationships turn sour. Two lonely people seeing each other clearly.

All at once the isolation is crushing. Scar can’t stand another second of being by himself.

“Can you—”

“I’m on my way,” Pearl says, finishing his thought before he has a chance to properly complete it. “Just let me get Tilly in from the yard. You sit tight, alright? Ten minutes and I’m out the door, tops.”

 

 

 

Ten minutes is more like twenty, but that gives Scar a chance to sit up so that he’s not curled in a ball on the couch when Pearl lets herself in.

She’s carrying a six pack of beers hooked on her middle finger and two pints of ice cream in a plastic shopping bag dangling from her wrist. It’s not that Pearl’s especially good in a crisis, but she puts the effort in when it counts. A more than meagre part of Scar has always adored Pearl, and that fondness flares up especially strong now as she shucks off her jacket and deposits her food offerings on the kitchen counter before crossing the room to join him on the couch.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” she says, getting the words in before he can say anything, having clearly rehearsed them on the short drive over. “I just want you to know that he’s crazy and an idiot and a fool, and that no matter what, you didn’t deserve it.”

“I told him to get his stuff first thing in the morning,” Scar says, numb and practical as he states the facts.

“You’re kinder than me,” Pearl says, blowing out a breath and slouching down onto the couch next to him. Her shoulder is warm and solid leaning into his side. It’s a welcome touch, not as overtly pitying as a hug, but sympathetic and supportive all the same. “When I broke up with my ex, I threw all his stuff right out into the snow.”

“He broke up with you,” Scar clarifies, sullen but still a stickler for detail.

“It’s always hard to remember the specifics,” Pearl replies dismissively. She leans forward, reaching for the remote and turning Scar’s TV on, an easy way to break any morose silence that might seep in between them.

“No news channels. I don’t want to hear about the world ending,” Scar groans, pressing his forehead into the heels of his palms.

“I’ll put on a movie, no worries.” She sounds too casual, and her not joining him in what he’d hoped was a bit catches Scar off guard.

“Is the world really ending…?” he can’t help but ask, peeking at her profile from between his fingers.

“Yeah,” she cackles like a witch, her attention focused on the TV screen as she flips through channels. “Fire and brimstone, the whole nine yards. It’s what we all deserve.” It’s clear that she’s enjoying whatever disaster may or may not be unfolding in the headlines. Any other day they’d be delighting in it together, gleeful about whatever scrap of chaos she’s uncovered, but right now Scar simply can’t muster the energy. Can’t even pretend to be on the same page.

Pearl finally catches his eye as Scar continues to look at her. Her grin turns mollifying as she explains, “Just some folk getting twisted out of shape and catastrophizing about some cold that’s going around. Nothing to worry about, Scar. We’re fine.”

He knows he could press it further, get the truth about whatever’s going on for his own peace of mind, but the fact is, he doesn’t really want to. They could all succumb to a plague, or the seas could rise, or the floor could drop out from beneath them, and at this point he’d welcome it gladly. The world ending would be better than having to sit a single second longer with the awful rot currently hollowing out his chest.

Scar lets himself lapse into silence as Pearl finds an action movie from the 80s that’s already midway through its run-time. Dimly, Scar recalls watching it once with Grian, the two of them out together on a warm summer night, parked at a drive-in theatre, soft with the blush of the tender new emotions they were nurturing for each other. The part of him that wants to beg Pearl to turn it off finds itself overwhelmed by his own inertia, however, so instead they sit in silence and watch, neither really processing what’s on the screen.

During one of the commercial breaks, Pearl gets up and retrieves the beer and ice cream from the kitchen counter.

Scar accepts the offering gladly.

He’s almost done his pint of chocolate-swirled vanilla when he says, quiet, “I walked in on him. Caught him red-handed with some other guy upstairs.”

“He’s an asshole,” Pearl says cooly, using the side of her spoon to pry a chunk of brownie out of her ice cream. If she’s surprised by the development, she hides it well. It makes Scar wonder if she, like Cub, had misgivings about his relationship as well, and had simply bitten her tongue in the face of Scar’s blissful ignorance.

He supposes it doesn’t matter now, not when his pain doesn’t feel any less all-encompassing, even with Pearl’s frank appraisal of Grian. For a moment Scar sits, the question heavy on his tongue, before he finally steels himself and asks, “Am I a bad boyfriend?”

Pearl stares at him, eyes wide. Suddenly shy, Scar opens his mouth to retract the question when suddenly Pearl’s hands are on his, her grip dewy and cold from having held the ice cream container that she’s hurriedly set aside. Dimly, Scar tries to remember the last time anyone held his hand and he finds himself pulling up a blank. Grian was never a fan of public displays of affection, always pulling away from Scar’s brief touches.

Scar grips her hands tightly, struggling to distract himself from wondering if all Grian’s cagey distance was because he preferred the feel of another man’s hand in his instead.

“Scar,” Pearl says, firm and broaching no argument. “If you look up the definition of Good Boyfriend, your picture is right there. You’re an amazing partner, and anyone would be lucky to have you.”

The sting of tears bite at the corners of his eyes and he lets go of Pearl’s hand, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyelids to stem them, which only makes them well up more.

“I hate this,” he says, honest, “Why did he—” he can’t get the word out, still can’t make himself face the reality that he’s been cheated on. “Why…?” he whispers listlessly instead, defeated.

Pearl shifts her weight, tucking her knee up on the sofa. She tugs on Scar’s hand, pulling his body forward so that he’s forced to lean into her as her arms lift up and encircle his shoulders. For a moment Scar hangs, indecisive in the midst of the gesture. Then the weight of the world crashes down on him, and Scar finds himself sagging into her embrace, burying his face against her neck as he lets out a shuddering sob.

The movie continues to play in the background as Scar cries into the collar of Pearl’s shirt. Eventually the story concludes and the credits roll and the programming turns to infomercials, but neither of them pay them any attention. Pearl holds him and doesn’t say a word, and after some time, her hand finds his hair, soothingly combing through the short strands. It lulls him, comforting and calming, and Scar doesn’t even realise he’s fallen asleep until he abruptly wakes up.

“Hey.”

Pearl’s awake—maybe she never fell asleep, he thinks. She’s smiling softly at him, and the part of Scar that’s mortified he dozed off on her finds only the barest comfort that at least he doesn’t have to worry about his boyfriend flipping out about it.

Not that said boyfriend—ex-boyfriend… never a boyfriend at all, from Grian’s side of things—seemed to have any problems about falling asleep on others himself.

“I passed out,” Scar croaks, groggy and not yet fully conscious.

“Yeah, you were really gone for a while there.” Pearl’s smile hasn’t faded—if anything it grows wider and more fond as she watches Scar struggle to wake up. “Don’t beat yourself up about it,” she adds, like she’s reading his mind and predicting where his nerves are about to take him. “You needed the rest.”

“How long was I out for?”

Pearl’s eyes slide towards the window, and slowly Scar realises the darkness of late night has been replaced by the early blue-grey that comes before dawn.

“Shit,” he mutters, sitting up quickly from where he’d dozed off slumped against her.

Grian.

He told Grian to come get his stuff first thing.

It’s not that he has to explain himself—not after the state he found Grian in earlier. Not when they’ve already broken up. It’s just that he doesn’t know if he can handle the inevitable argument if Grian were to come over and find Pearl already here.

“Do you want me to clear out?” Pearl asks, reading his tension clear as day as Scar anxiously combs his hand back through his hair. His jaw aches from clenching it, and his leg hurts, a throbbing pain spiking all the way up into his hip. Everything hurts, actually. His heart continues to ache, feeling carved away from the inside, like an open wound in his chest.

“Maybe that’d be for the best,” he hears himself say, his own voice sounding unfamiliar and distant.

“Will you call me when he’s gone?” Pearl prompts, resting her hand on his knee. “I’ll bring Tilly over. We can trash old photos and order a mess of food, and you can watch me get drunk and text my ex.”

“I thought you said the world was ending,” Scar replies morosely, unable to lift his gaze to meet hers, choosing instead to focus on the hand she’s left resting on his knee.

“We can still talk trash and get wasted at the end of the world,” Pearl teases, giving his leg a pat. Then she’s standing up, gathering the warm, un-drunk beers and the melted remnants of their ice cream. She crosses the floor to his tiny kitchen, depositing it all unceremoniously in his sink before checking her pockets for her keys and phone.

She’s amazing, Scar thinks. Dropping everything to come over and let him cry himself to sleep on her like he was some sort of infant, and then letting him carry on with all his dignity intact.

“Sounds like a plan,” he says.

Her smile is bright and genuine in response. “Alright. I’ll get out of your hair then.”

She pauses just inside his door, lower lip snagging between her teeth for a moment before she adds, carefully, “Maybe I can loop Cub in. Send him over while you deal with Grian.” She’s cautious as she suggests it, not wanting to overstep. “Y’know, strength in numbers and all that.”

Scar knows she’s worried about potentially breaking the news about Grian before he has a chance to tell Cub himself. Unfounded, because, in reality, he finds the suggestion comes as an immediate and overwhelming relief. It means he won’t have to deal with Cub’s inevitable sour reaction, and leaves it to Pearl to talk Cub into not flying off any handles.

“I’d appreciate that,” Scar says, gratitude in his tone. “Cub doesn’t know. He—he’s not gonna take it well.” There’s a pause, reluctant and grim before Scar explains, “Cub told me to call him if something like this ever happened, but I just…”

“I’ll handle it,” Pearl insists, clearly galvanized now that she has something concrete to do. “Leave it to me.”

She quickly moves back across the floor, squeezing Scar’s shoulder in a brief hug before she kisses the top of his head. The next thing Scar knows, she’s opening his apartment door, and then she’s gone.

With Pearl’s departure, his place seems immediately gloomier. The thoughts that had shadowed the corners of Scar’s mind while she was there to distract him become abruptly apparent again, growing darker as they prowl around his empty walls and lonely rooms.

He’s got an hour at most until Grian is due to arrive, and despite the ache in his legs, Scar finds himself getting up to pace with restless energy, unable to sit still. He’s both dreading Grian’s arrival with every fibre of his being, and also incredibly anxious for him to appear so that he can get it over with. Nothing is appealing, no matter how Scar attempts to distract himself. No TV, no games on his phone, no mindless scrolling through the internet.

Instead, he busies himself collecting the meagre few belongings Grian had left at his place after all their time together. It seems so obvious in hindsight now. Of course, of course, Grian hadn’t been faithful to him. The signs were strewn throughout their relationship. Like Cub said, anyone else would’ve been living together after this long. Or at the very least had a dedicated drawer of their own in his bedroom—a corner on his bathroom counter, a shelf in the tiny pantry of his kitchen. Grian had never once made any effort to integrate himself into Scar’s life. He’d never even called Scar his boyfriend out loud, and here Scar had been chasing after him like he hung the moon.

Humourlessly, Scar laughs to himself. Bitter.

He should have known it was only a matter of time before the moon came crashing down to Earth.

Working methodically, Scar assembles a pile of Grian’s belongings. Not in any sort of neat, organised manner—he knows better than that now. He’s not gathering things with any regard for Grian’s convenience or ease, but because he figures it’ll work best if he dumps Grian’s possessions near the front entrance. That way, he can minimise the amount of time he and Grian have to see one another. Like this, it’ll take two, maybe three trips for Grian to carry his things to his car. If Scar helped it would probably only take one, but he believes he’s earned the right to watch Grian struggle through this on his own.

It’s as Scar’s tossing the last of Grian’s things onto the floor and the grandfather clock in his hall shows a quarter till nine, that the stray thought sneaks up on him.

What if Grian’s not planning on coming at all?

Scar glances towards his partially open blinds. Daylight is now properly making its way into his home, spilling into the room with its bright, mid-morning glow. And yet there’s still no sign of Grian.

Did he not take Scar seriously? Did it not matter to him at all? Did he watch Scar drive off, laugh, and return to bed, falling back into the arms of the man on the stairs, rolling his eyes and giggling at what a nuisance Scar was?

A hot prickle of shame and embarrassment burns through Scar, heating his cheeks and stinging at his eyes.

He hates this. He hates feeling like this. Like a bother and a chore.

Unwanted.

No one’s ever made him feel this way before.

Small and insignificant.

His hands begin to shake as he makes his way back to Grian’s belongings, swallowing past the lump that’s formed in his throat.

It’s fine if that’s how things stand, he reasons. It’ll work out for him either way. Having all of Grian’s possessions piled up here just makes them that much easier to throw out.

Burying his aching heart behind his anger, Scar reaches for a stack of notebooks Grian had left from a project at work. He debates on the catharsis in tearing each page of carefully articulated writing to shreds.

It’s as he props open the front cover of the first notebook that his doorbell rings.

In an instant, his bravado falters. His heart stutters in his chest, his body growing cold. Scar feels stiff—nearly robotic—as he moves on automatic, putting the notebooks back down and moving towards his door.

Peering through the peephole, he can see him standing there.

Grian.

A numbness settles over him, all his earlier feelings of heartache and pain driven from him. Gone is the agony, the embarrassment, the agonizing hurt. All that remains is a cool indifference that he’s not even present enough to hope Grian will be threatened by.

Scar opens his front door to find Grian looking small on his welcome mat, shoulders held rigid and nerves evident as he cautiously looks up in order to make a brief second of eye contact.

“Hi,” he says.

Scar steps to the side, wordless, leaving room for Grian to enter if he squeezes past. Grian’s awkward half-smile slips a little at the cold reception, and he breathes out a deliberate sigh in a way that reignites a spark of anger in Scar’s deadened haze. How dare Grian act as if this is bothersome for him after what he just put Scar through? What he’s been putting him through for who knows how long? The audacity of it makes Scar want to yell—if only a single word came to mind.

Carefully stepping in past him, making sure to keep his distance, Grian moves to the side and bends to take off his shoes like he’s done countless times in the past. It makes Scar’s heart wrench in an awful, ugly way. He speaks before he’s even fully thought through what he’s going to say.

“Keep them on—you won’t be here long.”

It’s a wonder how steady he sounds, considering all he wants is to fall to pieces. His voice is firm and unwavering, icy and precise. A perfect mask for the way he wants to drop to his knees and ask Grian why—why? Did he really hate Scar so much that he had to hurt him like this? Has it always been this way? Is Scar as stupid as he is blind?

Grian flinches in response, embarrassment flushing his cheeks, and a distant part of Scar is gratified to see it.

“Right. Yeah.” He straightens up and clears his throat mindlessly, rubbing the knuckles of one hand into the palm of his other as he gathers his bearings. Scar can see when he spots the untidy pile of his things because his eyes widen minutely in recognition. “Oh, you’ve already gathered everything up for me.”

“Not for you,” Scar corrects, still clinging to the stone-faced demeanour he’s created for himself. “You were late, so I was getting set to throw it out.”

It’s a lie, but Scar’s always been a good liar when he needs to be.

And it turns out Grian is too, he thinks, sardonic.

Grian’s blush grows deeper, a familiar set appearing in his expression that Scar knows means he’s about to dig in, rather than simply letting go. He used to love that about Grian—his tenacity; pedantic past ever really needing to be—but right now he wishes he would simply let it go.

“It’s still morning, Scar. I just—I lost track of time.”

Against his will, Scar thinks of the unfamiliar car in Grian’s driveway, the shoes by his door, and the thump-thump-thump of his headboard knocking against the wall. His lip curls, the grip he has on his door knob tightening enough to make it creak in his hand.

“Yeah, I’ll bet. You’ve had a lot to keep you occupied, after all.”

In response, Grian visibly winces. Scar wishes he could delight in the reaction instead of feeling a persistent hollowness deep in his chest where every good memory of the two of them used to reside.

“Scar…” Grian starts, pleading, but Scar’s not interested in entertaining any more of his excuses, and certainly none of his platitudes.

“You better hurry up with that stuff,” he drawls, backing away from the door. He plucks a dining chair from the little nook next to his kitchen, and drags it the short way back to the front entrance. Without any formal ceremony, he takes a seat, intending to enjoy observing Grian’s miserable little trek to and fro as he removes his things. “Cub will be here soon, and it’s probably for the best that you’re gone before then.”

“Cub?” Grian bristles, rising up an inch like an electric shock has been put through him. “Why is he… Did you tell him?”

Scar shrugs. “Him and Pearl,” he answers dismissively. It’s not the whole truth, but it’s close enough that he feels at peace with it.

“Pearl too?” Grian is frustrated now, his brows furrowing, annoyance clear on his face. “You couldn’t have given me at least a day to get my shit together?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did you want us to announce it together?” Scar mocks in a singsong, his tone biting. “This isn’t an engagement, Grian. I think I get to tell who I want when I want, when my partner of two years sneaks around and sleeps with somebody else behind my back.”

Grian tenses every muscle in his body, cheeks alight with a guilty blush but agitation writ in every line of his posture. “Well if you’d just listened to me and stayed home when I told you—but no, you had to come over!” He starts, grasping at straws they both know he should leave well enough alone. “You know, when you coerced that key out of me, I told you it was only for emergencies! And you just—God, that’s the problem with you Scar, you never fucking listen!”

“And what would listening to you have gotten me, huh?” Scar shoots back, refusing to bend in the face of Grian’s misplaced anger over his own guilty actions. “A few more weeks of not knowing you were cheating on me? A few more months?” Despite himself, his voice grows hoarse, wavering as he speaks. “Tell me, Grian—how long? How long were you screwing around and lying to me about it? Was he the only one? Are there others?”

The sudden silence between them is damning. As is the way Grian refuses to make eye contact.

Softly, stubbornly, Grian says, “We’re never going to see eye-to-eye on this. So maybe I’ll just start taking my stuff and go.”

Scar doesn’t bother to grace that with any sort of answer, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. After a moment’s pause, Grian stoops down and begins to gather up his belongings. Scar watches him impassively when he heads out the door.

In any other situation, it would be more than a little funny watching Grian struggle to carry his things out by the armful. Overladen, he knocks into the front door and accidentally closes it over and over, cursing under his breath every time. But then, in any other situation, Scar would’ve offered to help him. The two of them, aligning as a team. Instead, Scar sits firmly in his dining room chair, watching Grian as though he’s a stranger.

He looks terrible, Scar realises, having not really looked at him since that awful moment the night before. He’s still wearing the same clothing he was in when he met Scar in the kitchen, and it’s abundantly clear that he hasn’t slept at all. There are dark shadows under his eyes, and a yellowy look to his usually bright complexion. Whatever happened after Scar left hadn’t been easy for Grian, clearly.

An ugly part of Scar delights in that, the feeling of schadenfreude settling warm across his chest.

He’s not proud of it, but somehow he thinks it’s easier to be bitter and vindictive than it is to openly mourn as his life falls apart in front of him.

“I think this is the last of it,” Grian grunts at last, picking up the few remaining items, and accidentally knocking the door shut yet again in the tight space when he turns.

The frustrated sound he makes is music to Scar’s ears.

He ought to get up and open the door for him, a vindictively magnanimous gesture, if only so Grian can get out and leave for good. But instead, Scar finds himself watching as Grian tries to shuffle all the things he’s carrying to one arm in an attempt to open the door with his free hand. It’s a sight that Scar probably would have watched indefinitely, if it weren’t for the sudden, loud, thump of a knock at the door.

“That must be Cub,” Scar hums, enjoying the way Grian blanches at the name.

He gets up from his seat, stretching out his legs to work the slight ache out of them before he steps forward. He avoids Grian, doing his best to appear calm and collected, even if the truth is that he’s just as terrified of seeing Cub as Grian is.

What will his best friend say when he sees the two of them, when he’d been the one warning Scar about a scenario like this right from the start?

Scar steels himself for the worst of it, twisting the door knob and pulling the door open wide.

The man standing pressed against the frame is on him in an instant.

To say Scar is surprised would be an understatement. He doesn’t even register that he’s been jumped until he’s on the ground with the wind knocked out of him, the man on top of him snarling as he attempts to dig his nails into Scar’s biceps. He’s disoriented, relying on instinct as he shields himself from the stranger’s attack, blindly grabbing for the man’s shoulders and shoving him as far back as he can as he struggles to recover from the shock of the initial lunge.

Distantly, Scar thinks he hears Grian shout something, but there’s no time to focus on that when the man above him snaps his teeth, angling his head forward like he means to take a bite out of Scar’s throat. Scar tilts his head away as best he can without losing sight of his attacker, adrenaline and instinct fueling him while everything else in his brain continues to pinwheel in confusion.

“Shit,” he wheezes, winded as the stranger digs a knee into his gut. His eyes water from the pain, his mind racing with questions.

What’s going on? Who is this man? And what’s Scar done that’s got him angry enough to try and take a chunk of flesh out of him with his teeth? Scar lives in a quiet area—a homey suburb where he gets along with all his neighbours. He’s never once in his life been randomly attacked.

The man screeches and makes another desperate lunge towards Scar’s face, teeth snapping and spittle flying from his saliva-wet mouth. From this angle, crammed beneath his assailant, Scar can see that the man’s eyes are cloudy and bloodshot in a way he’s never seen before. The man kicks, his hard-toed boots sending a sharp pain up Scar’s shins that only compound the pain that’s already weakening him.

All at once, he knows with grave certainty that he’s going to lose this fight, and that it’s going to be the last defeat he’ll ever suffer.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he catches a flash as Grian runs up and swings down with all his strength, striking something heavy against the man’s head. Scar can hear the crack of skull in a way he’ll never forget for as long as he lives, blood and something thick splattering against his face and slopping down onto his shirt.

Standing above him, Grian’s face pales, his grip on the makeshift-weapon—a tire iron Scar had borrowed from Cub a week ago—slackening, his voice pitching as he gasps, “I killed him…? Oh my god. Scar, I think I killed—”

The stranger’s head snaps back up, despite his gushing head wound. There’s no change—no weakening—in his strength as he snaps his jaw at Scar again, somehow completely unaffected by the way a part of his skull has caved in on itself. Scar shouts for Grian, who’s watching in stunned silence, mouth hanging partially open. His fearful scream launches Grian into action once more. Scar winces, attempting to shield himself as Grian brings the tire iron down on the man’s head again, and again, and again, until no normal person, no human, would’ve still been alive.

It takes time for the man—the creature— to go still. And it’s only when he collapses fully that Grian throws the weapon aside and moves to drag Scar away from the carcass pooling blood on the floor.

“Holy shit,” Grian pants, chest heaving and voice frantic. “Holy shit, Scar. Are you okay?”

Instead of attempting to formulate a response, Scar stares at the body by his feet, shock keeping him from total hyperventilation. “Is he… is it dead?”

The body on the floor twitches, neither in confirmation nor denial.

“Fuck,” Grian curses, putting his arms under Scar’s and shouldering his weight, helping him stagger back to his feet. The second Scar orients himself and isn’t in immediate danger of falling over, Grian lets him go and races back to pick his weapon up off the floor.

The thing on the ground groans, body undulating unnaturally.

“Grian,” Scar gasps, fear locking his limbs.

“Can you run?” Grian barks at him, taking a defensive stance that Scar does not like one bit.

“Grian—”

“Can you run, Scar?”

Scar swallows, mouth dry. “Not very far. Not today.”

Grian’s eyes look impossibly wide, panic racing through him as he considers their options.

“Can you make it to my car?”

Scar thinks of the spot Grian nearly always chooses to park at. The one he complains about. Not enough guest spaces, why is it always street parking, not enough shade, the potholes that are bad for his tires, on and on and on. It used to make Scar laugh, endearingly fond of Grian’s constant griping.

He doesn’t know if he can make it that far.

He knows he has no choice but to try.

“Yeah.”

“Good,” Grian says, the weapon raised over his head as the body on the ground lethargically struggles to pick itself up off the floor, groaning in a way that sounds hauntingly inhuman. “That’s all we’ll need. The second this thing gets up, I’m gonna smash it. That should be enough of a distraction for you to get around it. Get to the car—the doors aren’t locked—and I’ll meet you there.”

Hysteria lodges in Scar’s throat, nervous laughter bubbling its way out of him. “But—”

“Scar, for once in your life, listen to me! We don’t have time. Are you with me or not?”

Scar snaps his mouth shut, shelving the argument and a dozen similar ones just like it for now.

“I’m with you,” he says, steeling his resolve and looking at the open door, just past the grotesque human-shaped creature that’s slowly getting to its knees.

“Alright then. Ready—set—” Grian’s voice sounds strangely light, hysteria creeping its way into him as well. The shambling thing, skull caved and shoulder dislocated, but still, somehow, very much alive, gets its bearings at last, standing still for just a fraction of a second before it locates them with what remains of its eye and screams.

“Go!” Grian shouts as the monster charges, putting his whole force into the blow as he swings the tire iron down.

Scar watches as Grian attacks the thing over and over again. Until blood and gore and viscera mark the walls and floor like a Pollock painting.

“What are you waiting for?!” Grian yells when he finally notices that Scar is still standing and hasn’t moved. He grips the weapon tight and attacks a final time, slamming the creature down, good and dead. He’s panting as he stands over top of it, looking drained but victorious. “Run already!”

As he says it, Grian is already rushing from the scene himself, calling back for Scar over his shoulder. And in a way that’s as familiar to him as breathing by now, Scar chases after him.

Outside, Grian’s car isn’t far—half a block away at most.

It feels like miles.

Scar’s entire body hurts, and running is agony. His joints and muscles, everything aches, but the adrenaline keeps him moving—down the front steps, across the yard, to the sidewalk. Grian is at his side, barely half a stride ahead, but even with his shorter legs he’s outpacing Scar, glancing at him and stressing—insisting—that he go faster.

“Scar, we have to move!”

It’s adrenaline. It’s desperation. Scar can see Grian’s car parked on the other side of the street. The back seat is piled with the things he’d been moving out of Scar’s apartment, shoved in haphazardly, disorganised and ashamed. The sky overhead is bright and sunny, a clear blue for a temperate, pleasant November day.

Grian opens the driver’s side door as Scar rounds to the other side of the car. He’s fumbling for his keys, cursing under his breath, trying to get them into the ignition as Scar hastily buckles himself in.

That’s why Scar sees them first.

People—no, not people, not anymore—standing in the middle of the street about a block and a half down.

“Grian.”

Grian isn’t paying attention. He’s finally gotten the key in the ignition, he’s buckling himself in, he’s checking his rearview mirror as if that’s what he has to worry about most right now.

“Grian.”

The bodies—corpses; zombies—are standing in the middle of the street. There’s four of them, and they look, for lack of a better word, lost. Swaying back and forth as if undecided on where to go. Even from a distance Scar can see that they’re stained with blood and viscera, their clothes smeared, red caked on their hands and faces. He feels sick just looking at them, glad that they’re not close enough for him to identify. He doesn’t want to recognize them as a neighbour. He doesn’t want to spot a former friend.

A fifth zombie lurches out onto the street as Grian finally pulls away from the curb, slow, like he has all the time in the world. At their movement, five bodies twist to face them in unison and begin their approach. They’re not fast, but the fear they instill in him doesn’t seem to care.

Scar can’t take it any longer.

“Grian, for goodness’ sake they’re on the road!”

Grian’s never been great when things don’t go according to his plans. When he gets stressed, he gets anxious, and he panics.

He’s panicking now.

“I don’t know what to do.” His fingers are white-knuckled where they grip the steering wheel. The zombies are advancing, two of them faster than the others. Scar recognizes one, he thinks. His stomach twists.

“Grian!” Scar yells, his voice loud, to the point that Grian startles on reflex. “The gas! We can’t just sit here!”

The front-runner is metres away, arms outstretched and making swiping motions. If they don’t move they’re going to die.

“Grian, now!”

Grian’s leg jerks on reflex, hammering down the gas pedal. For a moment their world is nothing but the squeal of tires on asphalt and the force of the car’s acceleration pushing them back into their seats. Grian veers left roughly, swerving around the nearest zombie. There’s a moment, sickening and terrible, where Scar locks eyes with the milky, dead sockets of the creature as their side mirror clips its hip. It crumples to the ground in a spurt of gore and a screaming, too-human wailing that Scar will never forget.

Then it’s over and they’re past it, and the zombies are rapidly shrinking in the rearview mirror.

Somehow, it doesn’t feel any safer.

“Where are we going?” Grian’s voice is high and quivery around the edges. He’s pale and looks like he’s about to be sick. The last thing Scar wants to be right now is his emotional support.

He becomes it anyway.

“We have to get out of the city.”

“I don’t know where to go,” Grian babbles. There’s a frantic edge to his tone, a hair’s breadth away from an anxiety attack. “What even were those things? Where did they come from? Why did they—oh god, Scar, you almost died.”

Scar thinks back to all the times he listened to Pearl prattle on about hypothetical emergency scenarios, listing the best places to go in a crisis and what areas to avoid. It had seemed so amusing at the time—her silly fascination with the abnormal. The Scarlet Witch, he’d teased her, always planning for the end of the world.

He wishes she were here now.

“We’ll take alleys and side roads,” Scar says, more calm than he has any right to be. “We’ll get out. Pearl always said, you… you get out, you get clear, and then you re-evaluate. We need a safe distance to—”

“To what, Scar?” Grian’s voice is biting, and Scar hates how it makes him bristle. “What are we going to do?”

Service roads. They just need to get to service roads. Once they’re outside the city they can. They can…

“We’ll go to the police,” Grian announces, coming to his own conclusion amidst his panic. “That’ll—”

“Grian.” Scar’s tone is firm. He’s gripping his hands into fists so tight that his arms ache. “I think we can agree, you owe me at least one thing. So if you could listen, I’d appreciate it.”

The air in the car grows tense and guilty. Grian stares grimly at the road ahead as he drives and says nothing.

“We need to get out of the city. If something’s happening, if there’s some sort of invasion or—or uprising, we can’t be here. Be smart about this, Grian. Think.”

Grian is silent. Up ahead there are brake lights, multiple cars backing up at an intersection. Instead of stopping, Grian turns left into an alley. He continues driving, taking side-streets, heading in the direction Scar knows leads to the outskirts of town. He’s listening, and there’s no need to fight about it, but Scar refuses to feel grateful.

On autopilot, he reaches out and thumbs on the radio, scrolling through the stations.

There’s static at first, then music, predictable and casual, as if nothing is going wrong. Every station is playing the same—radio ads, the weekend top 40, oldies, rock, classical. Scar scans the channels, one after the other, looking for a news report, listening for something to confirm that things aren’t alright.

Finally, one station breaks from the rest.

It’s an emergency broadcast, automated and on alert. The same words repeating over and over: out of an abundance of caution, with no cause for alarm, stay off the roads, stay at home, stay inside.

Grian still says nothing.

They’re speeding, but it doesn’t seem to matter. The side-streets are empty. Emptier than Scar thought they’d be in a crisis. It feels like the world has already ended. Like they’re lingering in a post-credits scene that no one was meant to see.

“It’ll be fine,” Scar hears himself say. In the side view mirror, messy and streaked with gore, he can see a column of smoke rising in the distance. A building on fire; maybe more than one. “I’m sure of it,” he insists.

Next to him, Grian remains silent.

Together, they drive.

Notes:

THERE IT ISSS!! >:D We'll be updating every Friday barring any breaks/holidays so please check in once every week for a new addition! We're excited to hear what y'all think!

Also, please check out the fantastic art Lock has done for our AU so far! You can find it here and here!

See you next week! 💫

Chapter 2

Notes:

Thank you all so much for your comments and support here and on Tumblr for the fic ;w; It was such a warm reception that honestly it made the wait till posting Chapter 2 feel almost unbearable! But it's Friday now, so here we are with the update! :D

As a reminder, both Scar and Grian are a little bit unreliable in their narration--not out of any deliberate maliciousness, but because it's kinda hard to see the best in a person you just broke up with ;) We haven't tagged it, because it's a mild hiccup in terms of the larger overarching plot itself, but it's good to keep in mind anyhow :D

ENJOY!

“I think we need to break up.”

Cub looks at Scar, expression flat behind the square frames of his glasses.

“Y’know,” Scar continues, voice wavering around the edge of the word. “Spend some time apart… See other people.”

Across the room Cub remains silent, and Scar can feel the awful bloom of embarrassment from a joke failing to land wind slowly up his spine. It makes him want to hide his face in his hands until he can muddle out an apology, curling up and waiting till he gathers the wits to explain himself properly.

He thought Cub would be in on it, and that he wouldn’t have to explain the bit any further for him to join in. Now he feels ridiculous, and the mortification of it makes his face feel like it’s on fire.

“I didn’t know you felt that way about me,” Cub says at last—after a silence that felt interminable—tone almost performatively neutral in its delivery. “But if that’s what you want, then I suppose I’m going to have to respect your say on the matter.”

A pause follows, marked only by the smallest up-tick of a grin tugging at the corner of Cub’s lips.

“I’m keeping the diamonds in the divorce, though.”

The immediate relief Scar feels is overwhelming, to say the least.

“Cub!” he exclaims, the world properly re-aligning itself around him. “That’s not fair! You know you can’t separate a man from his dozens of offshore shell corporations through which he’s embezzled his millions.”

“Should’ve signed a prenup,” Cub replies dismissively, his focus slanting away as he returns his attention to the paperwork strewn across his work table. “That’s how they get ya.”

Scar had invited himself over earlier with no forewarning, and Cub had casually welcomed him into the cluttered workspace he’s built up in his garage with the affable familiarity Scar’s grown accustomed to over their years-long friendship. He’d assured Scar that he was just wrapping up and that Scar would have his full attention in a moment. That had been hours ago. Usually, Scar is content to while his time away in the periphery of Cub’s company, but right now, with the light of afternoon fading into evening, Scar is finally forced to reveal his true motive for coming over.

“The thing is, Cub,” he says with careful confidence, hoping the segue lands as well as he needs it to. “As funny as they are, I think we’re gonna have to start tabling some of those kinds of jokes. The—you know—the marriage and prenup ones.”

He can feel the mood within the room shift, the amicable comfort that had spread between them slanting towards something a little bit sour. From his worktable, Cub turns to look at him, face neutral and hands unmoving where they had just been busy sorting through papers.

“Just,” Scar adds, doing everything in his power to avoid making direct eye contact. “You know, in case.”

“In case,” Cub repeats, flat.

“In case someone thinks we’re…”

“We’re...?”

A sigh wrenches itself out of Scar before he can think it through, mild frustration with Cub’s obstinance mixing with annoyance that he even has to say any of this in the first place.

“The thing is, Grian doesn’t find it as funny as we do when we joke about us being a couple.”

“Ah,” Cub says, and Scar can feel the judgement pressed effortlessly into the single syllable of the word. “Grian.”

Scar doesn’t want to do this—doesn’t want the responsibility of curating his friendships this way. He gets where Grian is coming from, of course he does. It’s just… he wishes Grian wasn’t acting as if his friendship with Cub now needed to drastically alter in the face of their potential future together.

He wishes Grian had brought it up sooner if it truly bothered him so much, instead of letting it linger on in the background until he served an ultimatum and sent Scar off to ‘deal with it now,’ forcing him to rush into Cub’s home unannounced. He resents everything about this, really, but Grian had made it clear to him that the jokes had to go, so Scar was going to do the right thing and smooth out the creases before they had a chance to bunch up further.

He braces himself for the worst—an argument, a dramatic production of impatient anger and curt words. At the very least, he’s expecting Cub’s calculating gaze and the weight of the years they’ve known each other levied against the short span of his relationship with Grian.

What he’s not prepared for, is an immediate, uncomplicated understanding.

“That makes sense,” Cub agrees, and if Scar was standing he’s sure his feet would have slipped out from under him in shock. “If it makes him uncomfortable, I’m glad he said something.”

Scar doesn’t anticipate the relief that washes over him to feel as good as it does, anxiety that had been choking him from the inside draining away in an instant. The fact that this doesn’t have to be a messy situation, that Cub simply takes him at his word and understands feels like a gift in and of itself… But then, when has Cub ever done otherwise? For a moment, he’s embarrassed he ever doubted his friend, spending the day bracing for Cub to shout at or scold him, when, in reality, Cub has never been anything but patient and understanding.

He doesn’t know why he came here preparing for the worst.

It makes the ease of the moment feel strangely unearned.

“I guess that must make it official then,” Cub continues, unaware of Scar’s inner turmoil. He shuffles a stack of papers into a loose pile, tapping their ends to bring them in order. “Congratulations on the boyfriend, Scar.”

Those words, too, come at Scar sideways.

“Well,” Scar starts, drawing the word out while he busies himself looking at a spot on the ceiling. “Grian doesn’t want to rush into putting a label or anything on us just yet, so…”

He can feel Cub’s gaze on him, level and direct.

His silence speaks volumes.

“He wants us to take it slow,” Scar finishes lamely, levelling it like an excuse, aware of how flimsy it sounds.

He hears another tap of papers, Cub working efficiently now to clean up his workspace.

“Sure, Scar,” he says with a forced deference, like he has no emotional investment in the topic at all. “I understand.”

Scar knows he has more to say—and that he’s about to say it. There are words stocked up in the back of his throat, well-rehearsed and practiced, ready to defend Grian and the meticulously ill-defined shape of their relationship.

Instead, when Scar opens his mouth, the garage jerks suddenly, like he’s looking out through a camera that’s been dropped hard onto the floor. The memory stutters in his mind’s eye, the image blooming with the bright flare of over-exposure before it begins to fade away as Scar reluctantly opens his eyes.

He finds himself bent awkwardly in the passenger seat of Grian’s sedan. His arms are cramped from how tightly he’s had them folded across his chest, and his neck aches from the uncomfortable angle of the headrest. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep—frankly, it’s a shock he was able to at all, with how much he hates being cooped up in a car. It doesn’t help either that it’s disorienting to surface up out of a dream cobbled together from a memory he remembers so well.

The last thing he recalls is a spluttering radio broadcast fading into static, Grian’s grip tight on the steering wheel as they’d driven out of town, and an uneasy silence that had lingered wretched between them. The roads had been surprisingly empty, which Scar had found strange. He’d always imagined more chaos in a catastrophe. Traffic backed up for miles, sirens and screaming and helicopters hovering overhead. He still doesn’t know if the empty roads had been a good sign or not.

He sits up, clearing his throat as he drags himself out of the final dredges of his dream while his brain reluctantly reorients itself.

“Oh good, you’re awake.”

Next to him, Grian is putting the car into park and pulling on the emergency hand-brake. His fingers settle tense on the car door as he casts a wary glance around them. From the look of things, they’re in the parking lot of a rest area just off the highway at the end of an exit ramp. There are three buildings facing them: a squat, nondescript public restroom, a gas station, and a drive-thru burger chain. The trio of properties is arranged around a small green space, lined with concrete picnic tables and trash bins.

The only other cars in the area are entirely empty, their passengers conspicuously missing. In fact, there seems to be no sign of life near them at all. It wouldn’t normally be all that alarming, but they’re not far enough out of the city for a place like this to be completely abandoned at midday. It’s unusual, and it pushes some instinctive reluctance into Scar’s hindbrain, making him want nothing to do with this place.

He doesn’t want to investigate, and blessedly, Grian doesn’t seem inclined to either. They’re parked on the edge of the asphalt, as far away from the cluster of buildings and other vehicles as possible. Their car is pointed towards the exit back to the highway, as if anticipating the need to make a hasty retreat.

“We need to take stock of what we have, so we know what we need to pick up along the way,” Grian explains. Matter-of-fact, like he’s done this before. “We should also get gas while we’re here. I didn’t think to fill up before I left home this morning.”

There’s an edge to his tone, a subtle shifting of responsibility that ends up making Scar feel like he has something to apologise for. It sits uncomfortably on his shoulders, making his throat tight. He’s forced to remind himself of exactly what Grian’s just put him through.

He doesn’t need an attitude like this from him already. The usual endearment he once felt for it is utterly absent.

The urge to put some distance between them claws at Scar’s chest, but he knows that’s impossible. He’s stuck here, alone, and Grian’s stuck here too.

The two of them.

Together.

Picking up on his silence, Grian finally drags his eyes away from scanning the parking lot and looks at Scar. His expression is pinched, a crease between his eyebrows beginning to form a frown.

“What?” he prompts, and it’s clear from his tone that he’s already on the defensive. “Are you still mad about earlier? I told you it wasn’t safe to go back, Scar.”

While Scar has, quite frankly, more than a few reasons to be mad, anger isn’t the primary emotion Grian evokes when he brings Scar’s mind back to the city.

It’s incredible really, how quickly the narrative between them has shifted. Before, Grian had stubbornly wanted to stay within city limits—just in case the police managed to sort things out; just in case this was a misunderstanding that would soon be explained and dealt with. Scar had been the one who’d had to guilt him into continuing on in the first place, and Grian had been obstinate about it the whole time.

It stings more than a little that Grian had only changed his tune to shut him down when Scar remembered there were more than a few people he knew that might need saving.

Or maybe that’s simply Scar’s guilt talking. After all, it had only been when the radio broadcast had instructed people not to venture out in search of loved ones that Scar had found himself scrambling for his phone, realising too late that they’d fled before he’d even stopped to think about Cub or Pearl.

The horror of it churns in his stomach still—the way he’d sat tense in the passenger seat while Grian had reluctantly driven on, scrolling through text after text from Cub, the usual bluntness of his requests slowly succumbing to outright begging for Scar to pick up, to respond, to let him know he was okay, did he see the news, did he need Cub to come get him, please, Scar, don’t do anything reckless, it’s dangerous—

Scar had choked then, holding back a staggered, gasped breath.

It was the dozens of missed calls from Cub, the single cryptic text from Pearl, and the fact that neither of them were picking up when Scar had tried to call them that had changed Grian’s perspective. Suddenly, he no longer wanted to wait for news while crouched within city limits. Suddenly they needed to stay on the highway.

Suddenly, they had no pressing reason to turn around.

“If Cub was trying to call you, that means he was smart enough to get out,” Grian had argued, shoulders square as the speedometer crept further and further above the speed limit. “If we go back, all we’re going to find is that he left ages ago. If you’re out, stay out. That’s what the broadcast said.” The words had settled awful between them, Scar’s body taut with tension. He’d had to resist the urge to rip the steering wheel out of Grian’s hands, turning them back towards his friends himself.

It had been a meagre olive branch, offered as a paltry comfort, when, after several minutes of silence, Grian had cast a quick glance in Scar’s direction and added, “If anyone is going to stay safe and survive in the face of… whatever this is, it’s Cub.”

The consolation hadn’t been well-received. Scar had bit the inside of his cheek to stay silent, knowing full well that the argument had already been lost and that Grian wasn’t going to budge.

It didn’t matter that Cub had tried to call him. It didn’t matter that Scar knew that, without an answer, Cub would have tried to come looking for him. It didn’t matter that Scar knew the scene that had been left to greet him on his arrival—blood and guts splattered across the entryway of his apartment, his front door left open, and his own car still sitting in its parking spot as what remained of his neighbours lurched across the lawn.

Grian was driving. And to Grian it wasn’t a priority, so it wasn’t going to happen.

Scar hadn’t even told him about Pearl coming over the previous night, not willing to face the misplaced jealousy he’d have to deal with. His stomach twists as he thinks of her. Had she made it back home safe? Had she gathered up her things and Tilly in time to escape? Or had she been overcome along the way, taken by surprise because her focus was on Scar and helping him out?

If only he’d listened to her musings about the troubling state of the world—maybe that would’ve clued him in before things had had a chance to go so catastrophically wrong. Maybe then they could’ve escaped together, and met Cub along the way. All three of them would be the ones sitting here now. Rattled, but okay.

Instead, on his own and miles away, unable to contact them… it feels like he might as well have killed them both himself.

The sigh that yanks Scar out of his tumbling thoughts and back into himself is impatient and cutting. Scar blinks in surprise as he readjusts to the present.

“Scar—”

“Do you think…” Scar interrupts, still in a bit of a daze. “Do you think there are more of those things out here?”

The expression on Grian’s face falters, changing from annoyance to something milder and more human.

“I don’t know,” he admits at last, casting his attention uneasily towards the too-quiet gas station. “While you were asleep, we passed a police barrier about an hour outside the city, but no one was at it. The traffic seemed normal, I guess…” Uncertainty flickers in his eyes, lasting for a moment before it’s replaced by something more focused and determined. “The best thing we can do right now is take stock and get gas, and then keep going.”

“Keep going where?” Scar can’t help but ask.

“Well I don’t know, Scar,” Grian snaps, exasperation returning in an instant. “It’s bad enough with the—with those googlies running around. I don’t have answers, alright? We’re going to get gas, and we’re going to keep going until we find someone that can tell us what’s going on. That’s all.”

The buckle of Grian’s seatbelt is loud in their silence as he unfastens it. Grian moves with determined confidence, opening the door and stepping out onto the asphalt of the parking lot. There’s a moment of stillness as they both hold their breaths, waiting for the world to dissolve into bloodlust around them, but nothing happens. Nothing reacts, lurching grotesquely at them out of nowhere, and with it Grian’s confidence grows.

“Come out and help me,” he instructs, and obediently Scar follows. He steps out in the heat of noon, the sun shining high in the southern sky with only scant, wispy clouds above to offer a fleeting pass of shade.

It’s a beautiful day for the end of the world, really. The kind of weather that Scar would’ve used as an excuse to enjoy a stroll in the park, relishing the warmth while he daydreamed about pulling Grian away from work long enough to seize the day with him.

Instead, he’s here. Carefully keeping Grian at arm’s length as he walks around the perimeter of the sedan. He cautiously scans the area for any danger before he stops at the trunk, hauling it open and studying the mess Grian has crammed inside.

It’s a mishmash. Like he’d packed up the remains of a rummage sale, thrown in with no care or order. Beside him, Grian assesses it all with his usual brusque efficiency, reaching in to remove every piece. The cardboard boxes and canvas tote bags containing the leftovers of his life are unloaded one at a time. His toothbrush, his extra sleep shirts and workout clothes, his breakfast cereals, several of his DVDs, and his non-functioning iPod. There are also two blankets rolled up in the trunk, remnants of a picnic date Scar had planned weeks ago that Grian had cancelled at the last moment. He’d been busy with work, he’d said.

Scar knows what that means now—knows that work was a confused looking man standing near the bottom of the stairs with a well-worn sweater on—and the way Grian’s fingertips tense when he touches the fabric says he’s aware of it, too.

He’s not polite enough to look away and give Grian a moment to collect himself, and Grian’s not foolhardy enough to ask for it, so they continue sifting through his things wordlessly. A lot of it is junk in terms of survival gear, but luckily Grian had kept an emergency bag and first-aid kit in his car, and it’s stocked well enough that it feels like they have something to go on.

The monotony of sorting through items makes the earlier tension between them fizzle away, and soon they have an assortment of goods piled together. They put the things they have no reason to keep with them to one side—a plastic cactus in a clay pot, magnets Grian had bought as souvenirs but insisted on keeping on Scar’s fridge, and a large stuffed bee that Scar had won Grian at a fair several summers ago.

“Aw,” Scar mourns as Grian sets the bee on the curb. “You don’t want to keep Mr. Bubbles?”

“I just don’t think we’ll get much use from it,” Grian reasons, though there’s a guilty tilt to his voice when he says it, eyes casting down towards the plush where it sits in a sad lump on the concrete.

Scar doesn’t push. There’s not much to say when he essentially agrees with Grian. The truth is, he’s just making conversation. Despite how much he’d rather have some distance from the person who tore his heart in two, he’s always been a social person, and spending time with Grian in silence is far worse than trying to maintain some sort of dialogue with the only person around for miles. Even if that person is now officially his ex.

Still, the knowledge that everything they have available to them right now originally belonged to Grian settles strangely in his chest. There’s nothing of Scar’s left—not his clothes, not his books, not the new couch he’d only just bought, not his favourite cane. He supposes he should be grateful they have anything to pick through at all, but it’s not lost on him that the only reason they do is because he’d told Grian to take his things and go. He tries to ignore it—doesn’t want to pick at a wound so fresh that it hasn’t yet had the chance to scab over—but it stings in a way that’s unfamiliar and new. The fact is that, while he has nothing to get sentimental over, Grian has the luxury of picking out the excess from his trove and choosing to leave parts of it behind.

Scar hasn’t had the chance to make a choice yet.

Not in any of this.

“Come on,” Grian prompts, changing the topic before Scar has any opportunity to spiral further. “We’ll get water and snacks in the gas station. Then we’ll refuel, and we’re gone.”

The walk across the empty blacktop takes longer than Scar would’ve thought, the caution in the way they approach making them both slow. He feels his tension coiling in a tight knot between his shoulders as they approach the double doors of the gas station. The sunlight slanting down from overhead makes it impossible for them to see inside, showing only their reflections in the streaked panes of glass. Scar can see the same nerves he feels mirrored in Grian, who looks likely to bolt at any second. There are still no sights, no sounds—nothing out of the ordinary—to alert them that anything is askew. But in its normalcy, it all feels so wrong.

“Should we have brought something? Like a weapon?” Scar asks, keeping his voice quiet, hoping that maybe, just maybe, Grian kept the tire iron from earlier and hadn’t left it behind when they ran.

“What weapon?” Grian’s reply is equally hushed, though it’s sharp enough to dash Scar’s hopes all the same. “Did you happen to hide a handgun in my glovebox? Or do you just want to wail on someone with Mr. Bubbles?”

“Okay,” Scar bristles, feeling his nerves smoulder under the prickle of Grian’s overly-critical personality. “Message received. I’m sorry for asking—”

With a sigh and a dramatic roll of his eyes, Grian cautiously moves forward, cupping his hands around his eyes as he leans against the glass of the doors and peers inside.

“I don’t see anyone,” he announces after a careful study of the interior. “Some stuff’s knocked over, but it looks dead in there.”

Scar hesitates, reluctance written in every line of his body as Grian’s hand settles on the push-bar of the door.

It’s as Grian’s about to enter the gas station that Scar spots salvation. Off to one side, tucked next to an outdoor freezer that looks like it used to hold bags of ice, sits a bucket of sloppy grey water.

There’s a squeegee sticking up out of it. Aluminum, with a long, sturdy handle.

“Hang on,” he whispers, moving towards it despite Grian’s whispered snap of his name. Pulling the squeegee out of the water, Scar lets it drip on the ground, casting Grian a sideways grin as he returns and nods towards the door. “Okay, ready.”

It takes Grian a moment, a flurry of micro-expressions crossing his face before he settles on a look of bewildered exasperation, shaking his head as he pushes on the door and slowly nudges it open.

They both wait, poised and ready. Scar doesn’t know what he expects—an explosion of activity maybe, a zombified body lurching up from behind every shelf and counter, grasping and clawing and terrible.

He holds his breath, anticipating, but the door simply swings in on its hinges, letting out nothing but a curl of cool air conditioning and silence.

Carefully they creep in, one after the other, but there are no spring-traps, and no sudden horde of undead to disturb them.

“Guess everyone’s got somewhere better to be,” Scar suggests, optimistic for lack of anything better to say.

Next to him Grian rolls his eyes, but Scar can see the way his shoulders relax, his tension ebbing out as it becomes clear no fresh horror is about to rush out to greet them.

“Get water, and as many energy drinks as we can carry,” Grian instructs, and despite the friction between them Scar finds himself following his directions.

He skirts around a rack of chips and heads towards the stacks of water bottles, all piled next to refrigerated walls of pop and soda. It’s a little awkward to lift the plastic-wrapped cases with one of his hands encumbered by the squeegee, but Scar finally manages to heft two of them up onto his shoulder. He casts his eyes around for Grian, who he finds with a wad of plastic bags in his hand, grabbing all the protein bars and beef jerky he can carry with focused determination.

“They’ve got that cheese-flavoured popcorn you like,” Scar remarks, but if Grian hears him he doesn’t react. He’s busy shaking out another plastic bag with a flick of his wrist as he moves over to the stand of chocolate bars, pulling entire boxes off the shelf and bagging them.

Scar can’t help but feel silly, pointing out Grian’s favourites during a crisis, while Grian fails to acknowledge him at all. Then again, it’s not exactly new behaviour. Their entire relationship was a series of times where Scar put Grian’s preferences first, and Grian failed to ever acknowledge that Scar had any of his own. He used to brush it off, making endless excuses for Grian, justifying him each and every time. Shy, overwhelmed, awkward, intimidated.

Now he knows it’s simply because Grian never cared enough to pay attention to him in the first place.

It makes something desperate and spiteful fester in Scar’s chest. The sudden desire to be prioritised, to have his needs addressed.

“Can you get me the Reese’s?” he asks, shifting the water as he attempts to better redistribute its weight.

“I’m not a fan of peanut butter,” Grian answers absently, a fresh plastic bag snapping as he moves to the candy aisle, making a pleasantly surprised noise in the back of his throat. “They have the good gummy bears, though.”

Scar feels the familiar sting and pushes out a breath to stay calm. He wants to believe it’s not Grian being intentionally callous. He wants to blame the tension of the situation, the adrenaline, the uncertainty—but he knows from experience that this would’ve played out exactly the same way, with or without a zombie invasion unfolding all around them.

“Grian,” he repeats, stern, knowing he’s making an issue out of something that would be ridiculous to anyone else. He doesn’t know how else to justify that he simply needs this. Needs the chance to assert himself when Grian’s already taken so much from him. It’s trivial, he knows, but for the moment it’s all he has. “I want Reese’s.”

Grian’s eyes meet his from over the racks of snacks. There’s a frown on his features, something frustrated—ready to boil over and cause the same scene Scar desperately wants to claim for himself. A tense moment passes between them, awful in its silence.

“Fine,” Grian spits at last, like he’s been tasked to do a chore unfairly. “If it’s so important to you.”

Stubbornly, he rounds the aisle and pushes more chocolate bars into his bag. There’s a pettiness to the action that begs a confrontation, but Scar lets it pass. He focuses instead on carrying the water back to the car, wishing in afterthought that he had a chance to slam the gas station door shut behind him.

He heads back to the car on his own, and something about the moment of solitude feels both incredible and frightening. Like it’s the first deep breath he’s taken since it all went wrong. He pushes the cases of water into the trunk and then leans against the side of the car, appreciating the sunlight and the fresh air.

It’s hard to believe anything could be wrong when the world has gone on looking so beautiful. It’s idyllic, and yet… he’s unable to stand for long before the anxiety starts to creep in, a concern for safety he’s never felt before forcing him to return to the store to make sure nothing’s gone wrong.

Grian is just as he’d left him, picking and choosing more items to take off the shelves. He only glances in Scar’s direction for a moment as he enters before deliberately looking away again. Feeling magnanimous, Scar picks up a bag of the cheesy popcorn anyway, determined to be the bigger person and not to stoop to his level.

It’s on their final trip back to the car that it occurs to Scar to check out the drive-thru. At a glance, it’s equally deserted, but they haven’t even given it a passing look, and his curiosity compels him.

He doesn’t know why he veers off from Grian without a word—a careless action he would have scolded Grian for if their positions were reversed. Maybe it’s prompted by the earlier serenity he felt, when he was alone in the sunlight, far from the man that has caused him so much grief. Maybe it’s prompted by some spiteful yearning for independence—the need to prove he’s still in charge of some small thing in his life. Maybe he’s simply being thoughtless, operating with naivety when he should know better.

Whatever the case, Scar ambles towards the restaurant with a relaxed air, like he has nothing in the world to worry about. He’s not cautious when he puts his shoulder against the door to nudge it open. The abandoned state of the gas station gives him a false sense of security, his hubris immediately rewarded with horror when a ghoulish figure lurches out at him, arms extended as it snaps and snarls.

He falls back, nearly tipping over, arms too full of assorted supplies to counterbalance himself. The squeegee is completely forgotten, clutched uselessly at his side as the surprise immobilises him. It’s only a shoulder pushed against his spine as Grian runs up from behind him that keeps Scar from toppling over completely, saving him from being descended upon and torn to pieces.

Grian’s scolding yell splits the air as he steadies Scar, pulling him back with desperate urgency.

“Scar, what are you doing?!”

The creature—person—thing—doesn’t move quickly, shambling on what should be an irreparably broken ankle as it limps through the door and follows after them. Blood and spittle slick down its jaw, part of its shoulder mangled with a bloom of grotesque looking bite-marks torn through what remains of its shirt. It groans wretchedly as it stumbles after them.

Scar watches in frozen fascination, entranced with the desperate motions it makes towards them, hunger writ in every swipe of its protruding digits. Beyond its mangled arm, affixed to the front of its bloodied shirt, Scar catches sight of an employee name tag, innocuous and unassuming. It sticks ugly in his chest, the idea of a person with a life and a job being reduced to this.

It takes him a second longer to realise that Grian is shouting—has possibly been shouting this entire time. His hand is fisted tight into the back of Scar’s shirt, and he’s pulling, hauling Scar towards the car with a desperate urgency, even when it becomes clear the shambling mess of a body can’t possibly keep pace with them.

“—in the car, we have to go. We have to go now, Scar! Why did you open that door, what were you thinking—?”

The shock and surprise of the encounter has Grian’s fury tuning in and out of Scar’s hearing. He finds himself pushed into the passenger seat, door slamming as Grian scrambles to the other side of the car. Through the windshield, Scar watches the figure continue its staggered advance. They look to have been about his age, with a beard that would’ve made them look handsome before it became clotted with gore. Beneath their employee apron they’re wearing a t-shirt with the logo for Disneyland on it, and the part of Scar not frozen in shock finds that detail amusing.

The zombie is still yards away, barely having passed the picnic tables, when Scar spots several others begin to shuffle out after it through the now open restaurant doors.

It solves the mystery of where all the people went, he supposes. An awful answer to his curiosity.

He doesn’t know if Grian sees the others. All his attention appears to be focused on getting them out of the parking lot, jamming the key into the ignition as he lifts the parking brake. The tires spin for a second, kicking out with a squeal as Grian applies the gas with a heavy foot. And then they’re off, flying down the on-ramp and back on the road.

“I’m fine, by the way,” Scar says, still a bit dazed, the adrenaline not yet having caught up to him. “It didn’t even touch me.”

Grian shouts something, loud and upset and angry, speeding fast as he merges across four empty lanes, but Scar, still thinking about blood and viscera splattered down the front of a theme park shirt, simply doesn’t hear him.

Notes:

Lock has posted some references on their designs for Scar and Grian in this AU which you can check out here! 💜

Thanks again for reading! See y'all next week! >:D

Chapter 3

Notes:

WE GOT FANART! 😭💜

Thank you so much to Flykering for this gorgeous piece capturing the end of Chapter 2! Absolutely didn't expect any fanart, so this had us on the floor sobbing fr 💫 Please check it out and send Flykering your love!!

The farmhouse is a bad idea, but it’s the only option they have.

From where they sit, parked on the gravel shoulder of a service road split off from the highway, they can see the proper entrance to the area. It lays at the end of a road that skirts the long way around the edge of several fields, crossing a culvert and emptying into a gravel driveway set between two large silos. There’s a barn on one side and a simple saltbox house with a large garden beside it on the other.

It’s a three minute drive. Four at most.

They don’t have enough fuel to get them that far.

While Grian did have the foresight to grab a gas can from a stack by the fuel pumps back at the gas station, they hadn’t exactly had time to fill it during their hasty exit. Neither of them knew how to syphon fuel, but when they’d found an abandoned car on the highway, they’d stopped to try. Scar, at least, had an idea of how to do it, having watched Cub syphon gas a handful of times, an action that had always seemed both in and out of character for the type of man Scar had always known Cub to be.

He’d tried, at first, to call Cub again for advice—all while Grian had given him an impatient look and scolded him for ‘wasting limited battery’. However, unlike earlier, his phone hadn’t even connected to Cub’s answering machine.

‘We’re sorry, all circuits are busy. Please try your call again later.’ came the dull, electronic voice over the line, and Scar had to wonder how bad things had gotten for all phone lines in the area to be full to capacity. It had only been a handful of hours since they’d left Scar’s apartment—surely that was too short a time for communication to collapse?

With his heart heavy in his chest, Scar had resorted to typing out yet another text to Cub, letting him know that he was still fine, that he was still alive, and that if Cub somehow received his message, to please let him know if he was okay. He’d already sent the same message to Pearl too, desperately trying not to think too hard about whether it might have been better for her if she’d never come to his apartment to comfort him at all.

The texts had gone through at least, which came as a relief, and it had pinged a thought in his head that had made Scar scramble to pull up the browser on his phone. Grian had peered at his screen out of curiosity, and together the two of them had tried to pull up site after site, looking for updates, explanations, or answers.

Unfortunately, it had all been to no avail. Whether news or government webpages, or any number of social media sites, nothing had connected, either timing out or infinitely loading.

“There must be too many people trying to connect right now.” Grian had reasoned, awkward in his delivery. “Like the phone lines.”

Or the internet’s gone down entirely, Scar had thought. He hadn’t needed to say the words aloud, he knew Grian had the same hunch—could see it in the tense set of his jaw.

“We’ll just have to wing it,” he’d declared, with more confidence than he felt, crouching by the abandoned car and trying to remember exactly what he’d seen Cub do.

It had been an awkward few minutes, struggling with the length of hose they’d pulled from Grain’s roadside emergency kit, but Scar had finally managed to coax a couple quarts of fuel out of the car. Fuel they’d burnt through sooner than he’d thought they would, leaving the needle of Grian’s gas gauge deep in the red without sight of a single other vehicle on the road.

Desperation is what had driven them to take the highway exit, having spotted the farm from a distance. Desperation is where they stand now; wary of the world around them, with no one else but each other.

“I still don’t know if this is a good idea,” Scar declares, his voice deceptively calm despite his inner turmoil.

“I can see three trucks from here,” Grian reasons, impatient and defensive all at once. “Between them there’ll be more than a full tank of gas. That’s what we need right now, Scar.” He pauses, deliberating for a moment before adding, “Unless you want to go on foot.”

Without a doubt that’s not something Scar wants. However at the same time there’s a multitude of reasons that Scar isn’t a fan of the alternative. It’s too quiet for one. While the roads have been deserted, with no sign or trace of the carnage Scar had come to expect from the countless apocalypse movies he’d watched with Pearl, it doesn’t feel right that there seems to be no one around. The silence is eerie and unnatural, the kind that winds a coil of tension tight around his stomach.

Of course, the alternative to silence is coming across unfriendlies—whether that be living survivors with no intention of working together, or the corpses of those that hadn’t escaped infection fast enough.

Admittedly, the threat of running into something bitten and rancid ranks at the top of his list of concerns.

The large drainage pond that separates them from the farm is a close second.

It’s wide—too wide to jump across, with sloped banks edged by tall grasses and reeds. Scar doesn’t know if it’s ever been used for swimming, but he can see a tatty lawn chair on the opposite bank, left by someone who enjoyed secret smoke breaks, by the looks of the white cigarette butts he can barely make out stubbed into the muddy earth. On either end, the pond is fed by ditches, their water choked in duckweed and cattails, and their sides too steep to clamber out of should they attempt to leap across that point.

“I can’t believe they didn’t bother building a bridge,” Grian mutters, like the water’s lack of a proper crossing was in every way intentionally designed to inconvenience him specifically. “It’s gonna take us forever to walk the long way around.”

“We’re not gonna walk around,” Scar dismisses succinctly, undoing his seatbelt and climbing out of the car. He doesn’t bother to shut the door behind him as he circles around to the trunk, already pulling the hem of his shirt up in preparation to lift it off over his head.

“Scar, jesus!” Grian squawks as he follows him out of the car, hastily looking away like there’s any semblance of modesty left to protect between the two of them.

“Come on, Grian. Do you really think there’s anyone around to see me?” Scar asks, deadpan, as he begins undoing his belt.

He wants to add more, wants to press that it’s nothing Grian hasn’t seen before, but that much feels too raw. It’s still too soon for him to be making anything close to approaching a joke like that. And besides, he doesn’t want to remind Grian of those moments just yet. Doesn’t want to bring up anything fond between them.

Instead, he shimmies out of his pants, grateful that he’d opted to wear his favourite pair of jeans before he was forced to abandon his home—potentially forever. It leaves him in his boxers as he fishes into the trunk and shakes out one of the many plastic bags Grian had taken from the gas station.

Packing his shoes into one and tying it tight, he decides that it’s as waterproof as it’s going to get before he pads barefoot towards the pond, the mud of the pond’s bank cool against the bottom of his feet.

Over his shoulder he can hear Grian mutter a disbelieving, ‘You can’t be serious.’ And then he’s ankle deep in cold water. No turning back.

He sinks deep and quickly as the pond’s shore slopes steep down under his feet. He does his best to keep balance while holding his bagged shoes above his head with one hand, trudging forward—up to his thighs, up to his hips, up to his chest, and then he’s swimming. In the end, it’s a simple task to kick his feet and breast-stroke one-armed across to the other side.

After his diagnosis, swimming had become a lifeline for him—a physical activity that was easy on his joints and good for when his muscles were feeling particularly stiff. He’d spent a lot of his time swimming before he’d met Grian. Hours and hours at his local pool. Familiar with all the life-guards, the favourite of their regulars.

The distance across the pond is shorter than the full length of a swimming pool. He makes it easily, not even strained for breath.

On the other side Scar hauls himself out onto the shore, dripping water down the planes of his skin, feeling it sluice off him in a way that’s fond and familiar. Grinning from the exertion, he casts his attention back across the rippling water towards Grian, who stands with his hands on his hips. There’s a mixture of a scowl and an expression that could almost be mistaken for pleasant surprise mixed on his face.

“It’s not that bad,” Scar calls across, raising his voice to be heard. “Not even cold, I swear.”

“I can’t swim,” Grian objects, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify his words, even though Scar can hear him just fine. “Not when I can’t see the bottom.”

Dimly, Scar feels that he already knew this, and it’s not something Grian is making up to be intentionally difficult. He could coax Grian over—with enough persuasion he knows it’s possible to get him to do almost anything—but instead, he upends the plastic bag and shoves his wet feet back into his shoes. He then walks the short distance to the farm itself, towards the trio of pickup trucks they intend to syphon from.

The first one’s truck bed is empty, but the second yields what he’s looking for: a stepladder, just long enough for what he needs, shoved in amongst yellow plastic egg crates and several uneven pieces of plywood.

“Here.” Making his way back with the ladder in tow he returns, not to the shoreline, but to the steep edge of the ditch. “Be careful.”

It’s not an ideal solution. In fact, it’s barely a solution at all. But it does what they need it to do. The ladder lays flat across the ditch, stretching from the rough gravel shoulder of the road to where he stands. It provides a simple bridge that stays stable once Scar jiggles it into place.

Grian eyes it with his arms still tightly folded across his chest, openly reluctant. He stands with one foot braced against the rung that anchors the makeshift bridge to his side.

“Scar…”

“You just walk. Try not to look down. Once you get past the halfway point, I’ll put my arm out and I’ll catch you, okay?”

Scar explains it with confidence and practicality, oozing the kind of charm that got him far in his career, before he had to leave it all behind. He’s not trying to manipulate Grian—he knows he can catch him if things go wrong, or swim to fish him out if need be—but he doesn’t think it’ll come to that. This should be easy.

And will be easy if Grian just agrees to go along with it.

“I’ll… I can crawl,” Grian compromises after a moment spent scrutinising the makeshift ladder bridge. “Just make sure you hold it steady.”

“It’s steady,” Scar assures him, crouching down to brace his hands against either edge of the ladder’s rungs, holding it in place. Grian tentatively sets his foot on it, bending over to brace his hands directly ahead of himself.

His crossing is not graceful, nor is it dignified. It’s nothing like the standard Grian usually holds himself to. But one awkwardly shuffled crawl-step at a time, he manages to creep across to the other side. He’s ungainly as he puts both hands, then knees, on solid ground, pulling himself up into an unsteady crouch, purposefully ignoring the hand Scar extends out to him as he slowly gets up on wobbling feet.

“Put your clothes back on,” he mutters, pushing Scar’s shirt and pants into his outstretched palms. Scar’s hand closes around his things automatically, and immediately he steps back to give Grian space. Meanwhile, Scar pries his wet feet out of his shoes before stepping one foot and then the other into his pants, legs still damp from his swim.

Scar’s never been easily embarrassed by nudity—his or anyone else’s—but he’d have probably hung his head at least a little at the scolding if he didn’t notice the way Grian’s eyes glance down his chest and torso as he yanks his pants up. It’s a familiar once-over that Scar used to enjoy; to take pride in, even. Before Grian decided to throw everything they had away, his lingering attentions would never fail to bloom warmth in Scar’s chest.

Now, all it brings is a mix of melancholy, regret, and something a little bitter. Scar doesn’t care to be attractive to Grian anymore.

He’d rather not feel seen by him at all.

“I didn’t know you could swim that well,” Grian says at last, attempting some kind of awkward conversation as Scar wrestles his pants up his thighs.

“Well. You don’t know everything about me,” Scar replies, far more curt than he intends to be. He’s not being callous on purpose, that’s never been his style. Though a part of him argues that, after everything Grian’s done, he absolutely has a right to be a little bit short with him. Things are going to change. They have a new dynamic now. This is part of setting a clear separation between the two of them and reminding Grian where they stand.

They’re not dating.

They’re not friends.

They’re not anything.

Not anymore.

Whether he wants it to or not, his curt response puts an immediate end to any attempt at chit-chat. Grian looks away, face flushed with what Scar hopes is some semblance of shame.

A moment of silence passes while Scar pulls his shirt back on, hating how the fabric sticks to his damp skin. Then, finally, Grian sniffs loudly and clears his throat.

“I’ll get the gas,” he declares, scuffing the sole of his shoe into the grass, kicking up a clump of soil with the motion. “You check the house.”

“Check the house for what?”

“Stuff we can use, Scar.” The reply is matter-of-fact, with just a hint of impatience, like the answer should have been obvious. It makes the words stick strangely in Scar’s head, giving him pause. Grian’s tone suggests he doesn’t expect they’ll find any other people around—like the world is now theirs for the taking.

It pulls something uncomfortable up from the back of Scar’s mind, fearful and uncertain. For all that he’s grateful not to be alone in the apocalypse, he’s not about to accept a future where his only company is the man who cheated on him.

The world can’t possibly have ended that way.

It wouldn’t be fair.

“We’re not the only survivors,” he reasons, as much a rationale as a request for reassurance.

Grian glances at him, eyes dark and expression unreadable. His hand flexes slowly around the plastic handle of their gas can. It takes him a moment before he offers, deferential, “Well, if there’s anyone inside, maybe you can make some new friends.”

His words make Scar’s heart jump in his chest, reading them as both a compliment and an insult wrapped in one. Pointedly, he doesn’t refute the statement. Grian’s lips thin as Scar simply lets his words settle, his expression strangely conflicted when he turns away.

There’s a pause, with no additional conversation forthcoming, and then, before Scar can so much as tell him to be careful, Grian sets off, heading in a direct line towards the pickup trucks collected on the driveway.

With a sigh, Scar briefly casts his eyes upwards, marvelling at how the more things change the more they stay the same, before he dutifully begins his own task, moving towards the farmhouse.

As he gets close, he can tell from the state of the porch that no one will be inside to greet him. The front door hangs open, propped in a way that’s innocuous but telling, the worn screen door torn to one side. Scar wants to imagine that it’s for a reason better than the one he’s steadily becoming familiar with, but deep in his heart he knows that’s impossible. He chooses not to ring the doorbell, and instead raps his knuckles against the wood frame, giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the dark of the mudroom before he fully steps inside.

At a glance he can tell that this was a house that raised and held generations. Family portraits line the walls; graduation photos, snapshots from weddings, and baby pictures in pretty frames. The mudroom opens into the kitchen, with the living room just beyond, and both are full of the clutter from busy people with overlapping lives. A harvest schedule and a note about youth organizations is pinned on the fridge next to a chore wheel, reminders about softball practice, and a grocery list. There’s a basket of laundry set on a chair pulled up next to the table, with mismatched socks layered on top of neatly folded sets of sheets ready to be put away. Everything about the home has the look of lives caught mid-sentence. Nothing put down permanently—everything placed with the intent of being returned to.

Scar wants to believe it means that whoever lived here got out in time.

He hopes they had the chance to take more with them than he did.

Normally, Scar considers himself a bit of an opportunist, always keen on a deal or a discount. He’s not above stealing, he’s done it before. However, the idea of picking through the home of people he’s not sure will ever see it again… the thought constricts tightly around his heart, overwhelming him with empathy for a family he’ll never know.

Silently, with a reverence he hopes is respectful, he walks across the floor and into the living room. He doesn’t open any drawers or cupboards, refusing to pry too deeply into the secrets of these unfortunate strangers. He feels bad for them, and he feels sad for himself. He regrets his intrusion into a scene he was never meant to see, and yet a part of him can’t help but think that this is important, that he needs to see this so that he can better understand the magnitude of what’s unfolding all around them. Apart from the chaos and the sirens and the ominous columns of smoke rising in the distance… Here, at the end of the world, there is silence.

And that’s important, too.

Quietly, he takes the stairs up to the second level, feeling the mounting pressure that he’s trespassing somewhere he shouldn’t be. The stairs creak with the familiarity of old wood, and he can’t help but picture children stepping in precise locations to avoid making a sound, the secret codes of the house passed down from oldest to youngest through generations. He’s expecting bedrooms when he reaches the landing, and that’s exactly what he finds: all the doors left open, everything ready to be returned to.

He doesn’t look at the walls, which hold even more photos than downstairs, wanting to avoid humanizing the home’s former occupants any more than he already has. He tries to remind himself that survival is what’s important here. That he has to prepare for the worst of what the elements of this strange new world are going to offer. He hopes it won’t come to that. Hopes things will somehow sort themselves out before the chill of fall fades into the frost of winter… but something in his gut tells him that’s a fool’s hope, and that he’s leading himself astray by thinking in such a manner.

With staunch practicality, Scar picks a quilt up from the foot of an unmade bed, using it like a makeshift pack. He grabs two clean towels from the linen closet and a plastic-wrapped six-pack of toilet paper from the bathroom. He hesitates for a moment, contemplating if he should risk taking a stranger’s toothbrush, but ultimately decides against it, pocketing only the toothpaste. He grabs a large, red, flannel overshirt thrown into a laundry hamper as he leaves, the colour catching his eye, as it’s always been one of Grian’s favourites.

It’s not stealing, he tells himself; repeating it over and over like a mantra. It’s borrowing. He’s borrowing. And if the owners want their stuff back, then they can show up and tell him themselves.

When he steps into the last room—clearly the master bedroom, judging by its size—he finds something even better draped over the back of a chair. A brown, aviator jacket; worn leather covered in embroidered patches, with a wide sheepskin collar. He almost passes it by—he’s not looking to make a fashion statement, and Grian would roll his eyes at the choice for sure. But the cut of the coat looks ample, and it’s rare for him to find clothes that fit his broad shoulders. It’s a bit awkward to set down his pile of borrowed items, but he manages to do it without unraveling the quilt bindle and spilling things everywhere.

With the confidence of someone trying on a garment being leant to them by a friend, Scar grabs the jacket and slips his arms into the sleeves, hiking it up his shoulders and grinning when he finds how well it fits him. The leather is real—none of the plastic, pleather nonsense—and it’s soft to the touch. Although there are some worn-in creases from years of use, it’s obviously been well taken care of.

Beloved by someone, Scar thinks. It would be a shame to leave it behind.

Suddenly, and for a reason he can’t explain, Scar finds himself thinking of Grian.

He’s probably already filled the gas can and returned to the car. No doubt he’s standing impatiently by the ladder-bridge, arms folded tight across his chest and sighing in annoyance every few extra seconds that Scar makes him wait. With one last wistful look around the room, Scar turns to leave, making sure to grab their scavenged goods as he goes.

He’s on his way back down the stairs, the few borrowed necessities tucked under his arm and an out of place spring in his step at the thought of a job well done, when he finally notices it.

Set off to the right of the staircase, recessed down a shallow hall, there’s another doorway.

It’s shut tight, wedged in place by a chair that, from the looks of it, was dragged in from the dining room. On the wood of the door itself, made by a roll of duct tape that lays discarded on the floor a few feet away, is a huge X, marked so prominently that it feels jarring.

A warning.

Scar takes a moment to study it, pausing midway down the stairs. Part of him wants to investigate closer, but he remembers with sharp clarity the drive-thru and what happened the last time he went poking around somewhere without letting Grian know.

There’s a nauseating, dreadful twist in his gut as he continues to stare, understanding implicitly what lies behind the door.

There were people here. Not all that long ago. Hours, maybe. A couple days at most. People just like him, just like Grian… and just like the neighbour who had thrown their mangled body at Grian’s car. Just like the stranger at the gas station who had stumbled out of the restaurant.

For a moment, Scar stands frozen on the bottom step, overwhelmed by the sheer scope of it, the reality that this isn’t a concentrated event or an outlier. That this—whatever it is—is widespread, and not something they can simply drive away from.

He feels the pressure like a vice gripping his chest, pressing tight to his sternum as it abruptly becomes almost impossible for him to take a proper breath. This isn’t the time or the place to have a panic attack, but he feels it looming nonetheless, a wave rolling above him, the full force of it ready to crash down.

If they’re the only people left alive—if it’s just him and Grian. If the last person he’s ever going to know is the man he caught cheating on him less than twenty-four hours ago. If his choice is a life with him and the pain he caused, or a life entirely alone, he doesn’t know if he can—

The blocked door thumps abruptly.

It’s a listless sound, less like it’s being intentionally knocked on, and more like it’s being nudged by the meandering passage of a shoulder as something—someone—aimlessly circles the perimeter of the room.

Immediately, as if in response, the noise is answered by a clattering in the kitchen, and the shapeless, existential panic gripping Scar’s chest quickly transforms into something far more pressing.

It’s not Grian. He knows it’s not Grian.

Grian wouldn’t wander in silently. Grian would announce himself. Loudly.

He doesn’t like what else that means it could be, though.

Carefully, holding his breath and praying the floorboards won’t squeak, Scar moves down off the last step.

The living room lies in front of him, and through the open doorway he can see into the kitchen. It’s there, stumbling slowly out of the walk-in pantry, that Scar sees the source of the sound.

A woman—maybe the same age as him, maybe a little younger, her skin mottled and blotched, dark with blisters that bloom around a series of bite marks trailing down her right arm. The gore itself seems contained, less mutilated than the other zombies Scar has seen in his short introduction to this awful horror.

Her movements are aimless, dragging herself against the edge of the kitchen counter until she bumps blindly into the fridge, heedless of the magnets and coupons she sends scattering to the floor. Scar doesn’t know if she can see, doesn’t know if she knows if she can see. All he knows is that he needs to leave. Every second spent standing in the living room is a second closer to her noticing him, and he dreads the catastrophe that will inevitably unfold the moment that happens.

And yet… despite himself, he finds a terrible sort of sympathy holding him in place, freezing him to the point where he can’t bear to move.

She’s wearing a hoodie with ‘Graduating Class 2004’ printed on the back. It’s well worn, the kind of sweater you’d only put on while at home, on a day where you don’t have plans that take you outside. Scar can’t help but try to imagine how her last moments unfolded. Who was the first in the house to turn? Was she weeping when she’d been bitten all the way down her arm? Was she shaky and delirious, pressing her already infected family members into the sideroom and barricading the door?

How long after that had it taken for her to succumb? How quickly until she’d been lost herself?

Did she have time to apologise? Was she even able to say goodbye?

Scar can’t push forward, can’t wrench himself away from the sight of her. Slowly, she turns to face the other wall, uncoordinated hands grasping blindly at the sink. It’ll be only a matter of seconds before her wandering trajectory has her turning in his direction. Scar has a rapidly closing window of opportunity to sneak out past her, to leave her be, and to put all of this behind him. He has to move, he has to—

The axe comes out of nowhere, swinging down harsh and violent. It embeds its head deep in her shoulder, sticking for a second before it’s jerked free and brought down again into her skull right above her ear.

Scar doesn’t have time to brace for it, isn’t prepared at all. The axe rises and falls again, again—there’s no fight, no struggle. Any instinctive reaction the woman might have had is robbed of her as she collapses in a pile of loose, disorganised limbs.

When she at last goes completely still, Grian puts his foot against what remains of her shoulder, jerking the axe free before he looks at Scar with his face pursed into a scowl.

“What the hell are you doing?”

The question is snapped rhetorically, giving Scar no time to reply before Grian is stomping forward, hands out, snatching the bundle of blankets from Scar and turning sharply towards the kitchen door.

“Standing there like you were frozen. You’re going to get yourself killed, and then where will that leave us?”

Scar knows Grian isn’t expecting an answer. He’s not sure he even wants to provide one.

“She was just getting a drink,” he hears himself say, deflecting Grian’s anger with as much casual humour as he can manage while his mind is still so deeply unsettled. “You got something against staying hydrated?”

“Now’s not the time, Scar,” Grian sighs, and Scar can practically hear him rolling his eyes. He stops at the front door, holding it open expectantly, but when Scar hangs back, looking down at the corpse in disarray, spread out on the floor, Grian doesn’t wait for him.

“I got the gas,” he passes back over his shoulder. “We’re refilled and ready to go. I’m going back to the car. Don’t dawdle. Who knows how many more of those there are lurking in the corners.”

Behind him, just past the living room, Scar can hear a low moaning from behind the locked door, the room’s trapped occupants alerted by their commotion. It’s disconcerting, the bodies creating a rhythmic thumping against the wall as they move in an effort to break free.

He tries his best not to think back to soft thumps coming from upstairs as he stood on the threshold of Grian’s front door.

He tries not to think at all.

Making his way into the kitchen and stepping over the body, Scar reaches into the dishrack. He removes a glass that was left to dry and leans awkwardly against the counter to avoid getting his feet in the spreading gore. He fills the glass slowly with water from the tap, then kneels down and sets it on the floor near to what was once the woman’s outstretched hand.

“I’m sorry,” he says; to the corpse, to her infected family members barricaded behind the door, to the world at large. To himself.

He stands back up, wishing there was something more he could do, knowing his gesture is silly and pointless at best. He leaves the house, carefully shutting the door behind him as he goes—the last shred of privacy he can offer them.

Grian’s already crossed the ladder bridge, standing near his car and looking impatient even from a distance. Feeling guilty for making him wait, Scar jogs across the driveway to catch up to him, ignoring the spike of pain that spiderwebs up from his knee and digs into his pelvic joint with every stride.

“It’s about time,” Grian grumbles, hefting the second gas can into the trunk when Scar finally catches up.

Without a word, Scar gets into the car, continuing to process the way the world around them has forever been changed. He closes the passenger-side door and looks out through his window at the farmhouse, still and silent where it sits across the pond.

With another mutter of some words under his breath that Scar doesn’t catch, Grian shuffles into the driver’s seat. For a second, Scar notices the way Grian’s eyes remain on him, as if needing to reaffirm that he’s all in one piece.

When he notices Scar looking back at him, he scowls.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he says, a reminder that forces Scar to confront the fact that Grian, in no uncertain terms, has now killed for him. Twice. It doesn’t matter that they were technically grotesquely undead. What counts is that Grian moved without hesitation, placing Scar’s life above anything and anyone else present.

Scar doesn’t know how to feel about that.

He supposes he should show some gratitude, offer a word or two of thanks… but all he can think about is how funny it is. Funny that Grian would be willing to put his own life on the line for him, and is willing to kill for him, but still somehow didn’t care enough to stay faithful to him.

Grian saved his life.

And Grian broke his heart.

In the passenger seat, Scar stays silent.

Within the awkward silence, it becomes obvious that Grian was expecting some sort of response. When the acknowledgement fails to come, he can only turn away, tone rough and prickly as he says, “There’s a rest area with camping six hours from here. If we drive without stops, we can sleep there for the night and see what the situation’s like in the morning. Get some proper information.”

Thinking of the family of strangers, alone in their farmhouse, far, far away from the ravages of the city… Scar doesn’t believe the morning is going to offer them anything other than more of this and worse.

Nevertheless, he nods, working up enough of his voice to say, “Let me know when you want to switch off on driving.”

It’s as close to ‘thank you’ as he can get, and it’s all he’s capable of offering.

He can feel Grian staring at him, quiet and inscrutable. However, despite his intensity, there’s no further conversation. With a sigh, Grian merely starts up the car, and privately Scar wishes they still had something to listen to on the radio as Grian steers them back onto the road.

Notes:

We've updated our tumblr a bit! :D Dunno how many of you still use it on desktop, but check out our Scarian theme and our new pinned post! (It's got some lovely new TAMN art ;3)

Things will slowly start to pick up from next chapter! Stay tuned >:)

Chapter 4

Notes:

More gorgeous fanart!! 💘 Please show your love to the artists for all their hard work!!

First, this fantastic little comic by i-crave-sleep from Chapter 2!

Second, another lovely piece by Flykering from Chapter 3!

And third, this gorgeous, vivid work by Dizzovskey!

Thank you all sooo much! 💫 Honestly, we're both so overwhelmed with gratitude for the love and encouragement--really didn't expect this level of support for the fic and we're lowkey still dumbstruck that we now have all this art to print and put on all our walls HAHA To you three and to everyone reading along, we're so, SO thankful to you for every kind word and action 💜

The sun rises slowly with the dawn. A rusty smear against an overcast horizon.

It’s chilly in an arid, preemptively sunbaked, November kind of way. While they’re too far south for it to get particularly cold when the sun is high up in the sky, the early hours of the day are another story. There’s a bite in the air, crisp with each inhale; a warning for the winter season to come.

Scar is awake.

He’s been awake since just past five in the morning, when Grian had nudged him with his elbow and said it was time for him to take his turn on watch. Wrapped up in his borrowed coat and a throw quilt, he’s been able to keep warm enough, though he’s glad to see the sun rise through the windshield, anticipating the day’s heat that will shortly follow.

It’s surprisingly boring being on watch, he’s discovered. He’s never had to do it before, sitting up alone in the dark on the off-chance that something might happen. From what he had seen in movies and shows, he’d expected it to be more nerve-wracking. Constant tension while watching his back to ensure that no one snuck up behind them. Instead, the hours had passed, slow and miserable, with too much time for him to think and nothing to distract himself with.

Behind him, spread across the back seat in a far more comfortable looking sprawl than the one that Scar had managed for himself, Grian is still deep asleep. His shorter stature fits snugly into the back in a way that Scar’s long limbs simply can’t, and he curled up easily without complaint. Meanwhile, Scar’s joints still ache from having attempted it hours ago.

Grian’s breathing is heavy, bordering on a snore. Scar used to find the sound an endearing reminder of his presence. Now it grates on him. One of a myriad of Grian’s formerly delightful quirks that suddenly rub him the wrong way.

“Grian,” he says, coughing to clear his throat as the syllables catch on his tongue. He continues watching the sun pull itself a sliver at a time over the horizon. He waits a moment, but when Grian doesn’t stir, he reaches back and shakes him twice, firmly. “Grian, c’mon. Time to wake up.”

In response, Grian’s eyelids flutter but stay closed, brows furrowing in sleep-addled confusion.

“B?”

It’s an unconscious accident, surely. A slip of the tongue that Grian isn’t awake enough to catch in time.

Scar feels it like a blow to the chest all the same.

A sharp stab of pain and fresh betrayal rushes through him, hot and humiliating, running all the way down to the tips of his fingers as his hands instinctively curl into fists.

Entirely unaware, Grian breathes a frustrated sigh, mumbling quiet into the bend of his arm. “You shouldn’t have stayed over. I told you not to.”

Deep down Scar knows he should have expected this. He’d assumed that Grian cheating on him hadn’t been a one time thing and yet, somehow… having his hunch confirmed by the familiarity in Grian’s voice is abruptly too much to bear. Scar feels like his heart’s been swallowed by his lungs; squeezed and constricted into breathlessness.

Sensing the silence, Grian’s eyes shoot open, reality setting in fast as he sits up, expression twisted into something both guilty and ashamed.

“Scar.”

All at once the inside of the car feels impossibly small. Not remotely large enough to contain the two of them and the scale of the emotions that Scar is feeling, each of them welling up hot, and rancid, and ready to explode. Scar doesn’t realise the car door is open until he’s slamming it shut behind him, taking long strides away from the vehicle as he stomps down the shoulder of the rest stop parking lot they’d pulled into for the night. The dry soil kicks up dust under his feet and he knows he’s making a scene, but there’s no one—no one—here to see it. No one but Grian, and frankly, Scar doesn’t care what Grian thinks about his reaction right now.

Bitterly, he wishes he could skip to the part where he doesn’t care about Grian at all.

With an ache in his chest so pronounced it feels like he might split apart around it, Scar takes a deep breath and stares up at the brightening sky, hands clenched so tightly they ache. He hates this. Hates being stuck, trapped next to the person who caused this hurt. Hates feeling anger and bitterness and betrayal with nowhere to put it. Hates feeling stupid and short-sighted and broken-hearted.

Hates knowing that this is as much distance as he’s going to get from the source of all his anguish—that the most he can afford is several minutes kicking sand next to the tufts of sagebrush and brittle, dry grass before the risk of drawing unwanted attention outweighs the catharsis of physically working the negativity out of his system.

In a normal world, he’d spend several weeks pouring his heart out—subtly, probably too-politely, trash-talking Grian to everyone he knows while also painstakingly removing him from every single facet of his life; he’d have his friends to keep his head above water every time his mind would spiral, trying to reason he must’ve done something to deserve this, that this was his fault, really. That he pushed Grian into it.

They’d be exes, it would hurt, and then eventually he’d get on with his life.

In this world, however, he’s seen Grian cleave a blunt object through the skull of an undead monster for him. Twice.

In this world, Grian calls out someone else’s name while he dreams.

In this world...

Grian’s the only one he has.

Scar feels sick.

It takes him a few minutes to calm down, clutching the front of his shirt and leaning over just in case he vomits while he struggles to breathe. He tries his best to stay grounded, his thoughts swimming with a sharpness that warns of an impending headache. He squeezes his eyes shut tight enough to see static, forcing himself to breathe in and out until the pressure passes.

When he finally comes back to the car, Grian is sitting in the driver’s seat with the door kicked open, eating a granola bar and refusing to make eye contact.

“Thought I saw something,” Scar lies, and Grian doesn’t press it.

He accepts the granola bar Grian hands him, even though he’s not remotely hungry, not realising until the last bite that Grian had given him the peanut butter one—his favourite.

He doesn’t know how that’s supposed to make him feel.

“Should we look around?” Grian asks once they’re both done, finally breaking their silence. It’s obvious that he’s desperate to bleed out some of the tension between them by changing the subject, and Scar’s too tired to fight it. “I don’t think there are any googlies here.”

It makes sense. From what Scar has been able to discern, they must’ve caught the very start of the infection’s outbreak and acted quick enough to avoid the chaos. They’d left the city and then stayed off the beaten path, Grian’s navigation keeping them out of the thick of anything consequential or dire. They’ve stayed ahead of any horde that overran the home they left behind.

They’ve been lucky to get this far seeing only a handful of corpses in the distance. Zombies shambling aimlessly around rest stops and overturned vehicles. The two of them veer far enough out from civilization to avoid sight of anything truly catastrophic.

Scar just hopes their luck doesn’t run out the second they relax enough to let their guard down.

They’ve gleaned a few updates from looping radio broadcasts that have phased in and out as they’ve driven—it’s a mish-mash conflicting instructions; calls to avoid city centres, cautions to shelter in place, to head for designated safety areas, or dire declarations that it’s now every person for themself. The last transmission they’d heard was an advisory instructing people to move north if at all possible in order to avoid epicentres of infection. It had seemed as good a direction as any, so they’d done their best to follow it, sticking to isolated rest-stops and out-of-the-way gas stations, a habit that has served them well thus-far.

“Not like there’s anything better to do,” Scar replies, brusque, knowing he doesn’t sound like himself.

In his periphery he sees Grian’s head shrink down into his shoulders, and he tries his best not to feel a bitter curl of satisfaction from it.

The place they’d chosen to spend the night is slightly more extravagant than their previous pit-stops. A roadside attraction, advertised by large, hand-painted billboards spaced along the side of the highway for miles, boasting genuine extraterrestrial artifacts and proof of alien encounters. It’s appropriate—they’ve been skirting the edge of Roswell since mid-afternoon the previous day—but it’s still a bit darkly comedic. A hoax-riddled tourist trap pushing proof of aliens feels largely out of place and grossly inconsequential in the face of a true-to-life, zombie outbreak.

Still, by the light of day, with seemingly no one else around, it’s probably worth exploring.

If nothing else, Scar knows it will at least get his mind off the enormous, traitorous elephant sat between them.

Leaving the car behind, the two ease in closer, cautiously approaching the cluster of adobe buildings. Though the apocalypse is still fresh, somehow they already carry an air of abandonment around them. There are sun-faded awnings covered in bright signage and colourful streamers that seem both overly-inviting and curiously limp, alongside light-catchers flashing where they twist on hooks that overhang every door. It’s kitschy, the kind of place Scar would’ve wanted to stop at anyway, were the situation not so dire.

The irony isn’t lost on him as he pauses just outside the largest of the buildings, feeling both woefully unarmed and dangerously over-prepared. At his hip, he’s carrying the axe Grian had taken from the farmhouse—the one he’d used to cleave into the zombie where it stood swaying aimlessly in the farmhouse kitchen. The blade’s been cleaned, though not by Scar. Somehow, the picture of Grian crouched over and wiping off grime and gore is not as jarring for Scar to imagine as it should be. He can’t help but wonder if he’s already becoming numb to what’s happening to them, concerned only about how it all somehow pales in comparison to the ache ever-present in his chest.

Nevertheless, it doesn’t diminish how glad he is for the sense of safety that the weapon provides, and beside him he can see the way Grian eyes the axe with approval. The two of them stay for a moment, wordlessly looking around for any signs of life; reanimated or otherwise. When they don’t see or hear anything, Grian nods, and Scar pushes the door open.

What they enter into is a single large room, lit with soft fluorescents and cluttered with shelves, glass cases, photographs, and shadow boxes. It’s packed to the brim with hundreds of maps, diagrams, polaroids, and clipped newspaper headlines, all amassed into a kind of organised chaos. A lifetime of sifting and collecting conspiracy theories and allusions to government cover ups and covert military operations. At the centre of the room are two small pedestals, holding bits of plaster and papier mache. One is a diorama, supposedly recreating the sight of an alien landing in a nearby valley, and the other holds a variety of pebbles and stones set in a hermetically sealed box that alleges proof of an extraterrestrial encounter.

Nothing charges at them, no undead corpses lurking around the displays.

It’s empty, and they’re alone.

Scar wanders inside, catching the sign marking this building as a ‘Museum’ and smiling to himself as he leans over the glass to inspect the contents more closely. Grian shuffles behind him, his response considerably more reserved. Together, they meander from display to display before Grian abruptly disregards the space, classifying it as useless and urging them on.

“We can’t dawdle,” he insists, though admittedly there’s a reluctance to it, the words offered cautiously, hyper-aware of the fragility of their dynamic.

“C’mon Grian,” Scar responds, unable to help himself from getting a little caught up in the novelty of the place. “There’s always time for legitimate proof of an alien encounter.”

“There’s nothing legitimate here, Scar,” Grian insists with a sigh. “This is a lot of hokum and you know it.”

“They’re pretty persuasive totally-normal-looking rocks,” Scar counters, and the eye roll it evokes from Grian warms something deep and satisfied in Scar’s chest.

In the past, he used to delight in the ways he could get Grian to heave a beleaguered sigh and admonishingly shake his head at his antics. Now, he simply enjoys the chance to grate on Grian as much as Grian grates on him.

Eventually they leave the museum—at as much of a snail’s pace as Scar can muster—and cross a small, paved courtyard between the buildings to enter what’s garishly labelled as, ‘The Extra Terrestrial Emporium and Gift Shop.’ This fares them slightly better, though not by much. The normal gas station fare is juxtaposed against more alien-themed tchotchkes than Scar thought existed in the world. Bulging, black eyes on bulbous heads, and disc-shaped flying saucers emblazoned on t-shirts, coffee mugs, shot glasses, fridge magnets and more.

They help themselves to a display of local beef jerky, emptying the majority of it into a tote bag Grian pulls down off a display board next to some t-shirts and hoodies. Next to the cash register, there’s a slushie machine which continues to churn despite who knows how long without any human interaction. The flavour is listed simply as Abducting Alien Green and a part of Scar wants to try it.

“Do you dare me?” He asks, nodding towards the slush.

“I dare you not to,” Grian replies, exasperated.

A petty part of Scar wants to drink it to spite him, only the idea of food poisoning holding him back. Imagining himself hunched over the side of the road with Grian condescendingly saying, ‘I told you so,’ while a shambling undead horde advances sobers him quickly.

Instead, he picks out a selection of puzzle books and crosswords off a wire rack. Things that will occupy time on the road and give them something to do outside of sitting in animosity and silence. He grabs a couple of pencils with alien shaped erasers on the end, as well as a few other mostly pointless knick-knacks that he pretends might come in handy: a lighter with a bright green sun printed on the casing, and a metal nail file with planets painted on the handle. It’s as he’s rummaging through a bin of discount plushies, all cheaply made and unravelling at their seams, that he spots it.

“Oh my god.”

The words escape him on instinct, a knee-jerk reaction as he abandons the toys and moves to pick up the item that caught his eye.

It’s a disposable camera; the plastic shell wrapped in a green decal with the word FUJI printed on it in large capital letters.

“Grian,” he says, holding it up like a prize. Something remarkable, every other emotion sliding away as he gets swept up in the novelty of his discovery. Glancing over, even Grian looks excited, a grin of recognition spreading across his face as he steps closer.

“Haven’t seen one of those in years,” he remarks with the fondness of youthful nostalgia.

It’s true, Scar hasn’t either. Not since he was a teenager, away at summer camps and out on weekend trips. He remembers constantly counting out how many photos he had left, mindful not to waste the limited roll of film, though his pictures were always taken in haste regardless—washed out or reflecting too much light from the sun. The quality never mattered in the end, though. Once they’d been developed they’d been precious snapshots all the same.

“I can barely even remember how these work,” Scar mumbles, turning the camera over in his hands, squinting at the tiny instructions on the back and sighing when the letters swim in front of his eyes, unreadable. “It shouldn’t be too hard to guess though, right?”

“You gotta wind it. Here—” Stepping forward, Grian inserts himself into Scar’s personal space without a second thought, deft hands taking the camera from him with familiar confidence. It sends a tension racing up Scar’s spine, the urge to back away pulling his posture tight, but he resolutely shoves it aside, not wanting the drama. Instead, he watches Grian focus on the camera with his head bent, heedless of Scar’s rigid discomfort at having him so near.

Sure fingers advance the film, Grian popping up the flash prior to tilting the camera up at Scar, snapping a photo almost before he says the words, “Say cheese.”

The camera clicks and Grian immediately passes it back to Scar, their fingers knocking together with the gesture. With the camera in Scar’s hands, Grian’s focus slides away easily, unaware of the subtle shift in the air between them as he gravitates towards a rotating rack of keychains and fridge magnets set next to a shelf of large, alien-head mugs.

Holding the camera tight, Scar feels a tingling in his fingertips, like an electric current has been run through them. It’s the first scrap of entertainment he’s had in days—the first thing they’ve done that’s not been linked to survival and horror and grief. He finds himself nearly giddy with it, delighted by the simple act of taking a picture. Grian’s hands around the camera, the smile on his face prompting one of Scar’s own, even before he’d said the words to encourage him…

He doesn’t want to admit it was nice. Doesn’t want to give Grian that kindness.

“Do they have our names?” he asks instead, forcing himself to sound casual as he stays rooted in his spot, winding the camera to line up the next photo.

“They never have our names,” Grian commiserates, distracted as he scans the keychains, letting them rattle together as he turns the display. “Good news if you’re a Karl or a Dave or a Xelqua, though.”

“Perfect, we know plenty of them. Some souvenirs for the office.”

Grian scoffs absently and it’s enough mild approval that, out of habit, Scar pursues it. It’s better this way, he reasons. Better to keep the line of communication open and not let things stumble back into awkward, disjointed interactions between them. For better or worse, they only have each other, and he can’t be the one who squanders it.

“How ‘bout this, Grian?” he asks, rattling the hanger of a t-shirt that has, ‘I went to Roswell and all I got was [censored by AREA 51]’ printed on it in bright red.

“Everything here is awful,” Grian sighs, rolling his eyes before he holds out his hand. “Here—give me the camera and I’ll take a picture of you with it.”

Scar can’t help himself, grinning as he passes the camera over to Grian. He doesn’t think as he holds the t-shirt up to his chest, winks at the camera, and waits for the click of the shutter. There’s no way they’ll be able to get the film developed, he knows that already. He’s not even sure if these are memories he wants to preserve. But he doesn’t focus on any of it, simply letting himself be led around the abandoned gift shop, posing for Grian when prompted while they chuckle at the absurdity on display all around them.

He counts down the remaining photos, click after click—a force of habit, despite how the number of photos left is now clearly visible on this more modern model—trying not to dwell on how monumentally pointless it all feels now.

It’s only when Grian grabs his hand as they exit the gift shop that it all comes crashing down. The fun fantasy of wandering through the store together, laughing and teasing like they used to do, abruptly shatters the moment Grian’s fingers interlock with his own. Suddenly, Scar is thrown back into the foyer of Grian’s townhouse. The grim resignation on Grian’s face when he’d met Scar in the kitchen. The stranger standing on the stairs as Scar told him they were through—the stranger whose name Grian had murmured into his elbow while half asleep only an hour or so ago.

“Is there a timer on the camera?” Grian asks, swept up in the moment and oblivious to Scar’s abrupt change of mood. “Look, you can set it up here and we can go pose.”

He points to the lid of a trash can directly across from a plywood photo-op: two gangly grey alien bodies standing in front of a flatly painted scene of the desert at night, a flying saucer hovering in the background. Holes have been cut in the painting where the alien’s faces would be, leaving gaps so people can stand behind and stick their heads through. It’s the sort of thing they would have done as a couple once—the sort of thing that Scar would have enthusiastically dragged Grian to. That they’d laugh and joke about while looking at the pictures later.

Scar can’t stand the thought of doing it together now.

“This isn’t a date,” he says, blunt, noting the way Grian’s eyebrows fly up before he quickly pulls his hand away.

There’s no kindness to Scar’s words, and he struggles to remain the bigger man in the face of his obvious rejection.

“I’ll hold the camera and take a picture of you, if you want.”

“No,” Grian replies, the word sharp and quick, cheeks flush with embarrassment that Scar can’t help but feel he deserves. “I was being stupid. Nevermind.”

A part of Scar feels bad, but he can’t bring himself to muster up the effort to temper his emotions for the sake of Grian’s own. It’s a bad crash for both of them. He got too caught up in how much he was enjoying the atmosphere, relieved at the sense of normalcy after everything they’ve gone through over the last few days. It lowered his guard. Stupid.

There’s no going back though—not to a moment ago, and certainly not to how they used to be.

It’s all gone now. Completely erased.

“Alright then.” As easily as that, their exploration is over. Scar shoulders what little they’ve pilfered from the gift shop and adjusts his hold on the axe before he starts back towards the car. “Let me know when you’re done looking around and we can go.”

He doesn’t look at Grian as he speaks, leaving him standing there while he opens the trunk and divides their new supplies up wherever there’s most space. He hopes the sting forces Grian to take his time poking around the area. He wants to be alone.

Getting bodily in the car, he pushes the passenger seat back and reclines it as far as it will go before he settles in properly. He waits a minute, and then another, but thankfully Grian doesn’t show up. His impulse is to take a nap, but the only thing worse than falling asleep and being woken up by an irritable Grian, is falling asleep in a vulnerable place and waking up surrounded by a horde clamouring for his flesh.

He figures he’ll need something else to occupy his time.

After a moment of hesitation, he pulls out his phone again, staring at the black screen and the hollow-eyed look of his reflection staring back. He’s been keeping it off to conserve the battery, but he wants to get in the habit of checking it once a day, in case there’s any news from the people he cares about. Bracing himself, Scar powers on the device, holding his breath as the lock screen appears—a picture of two cats from a shelter he and Grian had visited together, back when Scar had dreamt about adopting one with him.

He types in his passcode as his phone syncs up.

There’s nothing.

No new alerts. No texts. No missed calls.

Not a word from anyone.

With his heart heavy in his chest, Scar aimlessly scrolls through his last messages, as if somehow staring at them will make new ones appear. There’s people from work, from the gym and the park, neighbours and strangers he met out on strolls—he’s always been charismatic, always been friendly and approachable, which makes the isolation feel that much worse. A whole world of people at his fingertips, and not one around to reply.

With a shaky breath, Scar dials Cub’s number and holds his phone up to his ear. The same message from yesterday greets him. Mouth dry, and knowing it likely won’t be any different, he calls Pearl. Again, the same monotone voice. The same, ‘All circuits are busy at this time.’

He needs air.

Despite wanting some distance from Grian only moments ago, finding no responses on his phone makes Scar feel more alone than ever. Anxiously, he exits the car and walks back in the direction of the museum. He finds Grian sitting by the alien photo-op, his back to Scar, and it settles the rawest edge of his apprehension about being alone. Briefly, he considers approaching him, but ultimately decides against it.

Instead, Scar looks back over at the museum and all the hokey decorations surrounding it. He thinks of the disposable camera still in Grian’s hands. He remembers all his time spent on day trips and vacations with friends—good times filled with fond memories and laughter.

He pulls out his phone.

It takes a bit of finagling, to get both himself, Grian’s back, and the museum all lined up in one shot, but he manages it and takes a few selfies with a wry grin on his face. Satisfied with his results, he attaches the image to a message and sends it to both Cub and Pearl.

‘Wish You Were Here.’

The images mark as delivered, but don’t change over to ‘read.’

“What are you doing?”

Scar jumps, nearly dropping his phone as he fumbles it, then instinctively clutching it tight to his chest.

“Grian! You can’t just sneak up on a man like that in the middle of the apocalypse! You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

Somewhat amused but still mostly looking exhausted, Grian raises a brow at him. “Maybe you should be more aware of your surroundings. What if I’d been a zombie?”

“I’d have taken you out with the axe!”

“What axe?”

Opening his mouth to respond, Scar immediately snaps it shut again, remembering he’d left it in the trunk with the rest of their supplies. It’s a habit he’ll need to form—it’s no longer safe going anywhere unarmed. Beside him, Grian’s expression is smug and Scar has nothing but a sheepish shrug to offer in return. With a shake of his head, Grian turns away from him and walks back towards the car.

“There’s nothing left for us here,” he calls back over his shoulder, “Let’s head out.”

It’s frustrating in a way Scar finds difficult to put together clearly—how easily Grian shifts control back into his own hands. Refusing to let Scar have and keep his moment.

Taking one last look down at the selfie he took and texts he’d sent, Scar waits one minute, and then another. But when no responses come, he gives in and powers his phone down again.

He’ll try again tomorrow.

“I think we should stick to the highway and keep driving through the state,” Grian says as they get back into the car, locking his seatbelt across his chest. “We’ve got food, we’ve got a weapon, and we’ve got this car. It’s not worth stopping for anything other than gas right now.”

Scar nods. “Still going north?”

“That’s the plan. We’ll make use of the daylight and get as far as we can—trade off driving and keep an eye out for any place that might make a good camp spot before the sun sets.”

His voice is practical and matter-of-fact. A natural born leader. Scar’s always been fond of that about him, and even now, despite everything, he finds it something of a comfort.

“We’ve been lucky so far,” Grian remarks idly as they pull back onto the wide lanes of the freeway, checking over his shoulder out of habit as he merges. “Not a soul blocking our routes, and only a handful of monsters to deal with.”

“Why do you think that is?” Scar muses.

“How do you mean?”

“Like… isn’t it strange that we’ve had no issues getting this far?”

“I wouldn’t call being attacked by zombies multiple times ‘no issues,’ Scar.”

“No, I mean,” Scar sighs, unsure how to phrase it and feeling unjustly picked apart. “Aside from right at the start, back at my place… we’ve had it relatively easy. I would’ve thought things would be worse, y’know? Cars backed up, blocked roads, fire and chaos and massive hordes of undead… It just seems really quiet for the end of the world.”

“Are you saying you’re disappointed?” Grian asks with a laugh, bemused.

“Not disappointed, but… worried, I guess. Worried that this is it. That this is all there is.”

Just you and me and endless miles of road and no room to breathe, he thinks.

There’s a beat before Grian prods, cautious. “Is this about Cub again?”

It is and it isn’t. Not exactly. “I’m worried about him. About everyone we knew. Aren’t you?”

“No,” Grian responds, blunt, his grip tightening around the steering wheel, brokering no argument. “We can’t waste time worrying about anyone else when we’re not safe yet, Scar.”

Scar stares at him, dumfounded. “You don’t mean that.”

Grian doesn’t respond, gaze fixed resolutely ahead as he continues to drive.

“Grian, come on. You’re worried about everyone else too, I know you are.”

For all that Grian’s broken his heart in a way he never could’ve seen coming, Scar knows him. He’s had years to know him. And while Grian is great at putting up a tough front, Scar’s seen the anxiety, the stress, the insecurity and the fear—he’s seen the worst of Grian; from his breakdowns to his cheating. Grian’s not made of stone. He’s more than capable of warmth and love and affection. If he wasn’t, breaking up would’ve been so much easier.

Grian’s worried too. He’s just better than Scar is at compartmentalizing it.

Frustrated, Grian relents with a sigh. “How I feel isn’t going to change things, Scar. Getting emotional never helps. All it’s going to do is make it more difficult, and then where does that leave us? No, we have to stay focused. What’s important is going north and getting there in one piece. Everything else is secondary.”

Hearing Grian now, forcibly detaching himself from the life they’d lived and the person Scar thought he knew, some part of Scar can almost understand it. Can almost see why Grian wouldn’t think twice before throwing the towel in for all they built together. It’s who he is in the face of things new and uncertain—flighty, like a bird.

“It’s early days yet,” Grian reasons after a pause, somber, and Scar knows it’s the end of the conversation. “Maybe this is just how these things go. Maybe we’re fortunate. If this is as bad as it gets, maybe we should be grateful.”

That’s easy for you to say, Scar thinks, but manages to keep his mouth closed.

Silence settles between them, nothing but the hum of the engine to fill the space. Wordless, Scar reaches back behind his seat and digs through the pile of knick-knacks he’d grabbed from the gift shop. With a crossword book in one hand, and a green pen with an alien shaped cap in the other, he settles back in and starts on a puzzle.

Briefly, Grian glances over at him, but ultimately doesn’t say anything.

It’s for the best—Scar needs to focus.

Crosswords are a bitch with dyslexia.

Notes:

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Chapter 5

Notes:

Happy day before Hermitcraft Season 10 everyone! 🎉

To celebrate, we have a new chapter where everything goes fine and nobody lashes out at anyone! :)

 

(... unless...?)

It’s frustrating how disorganised everything after the end of the world has become.

Cosmically cruel, maybe. A little too on the nose. Because while the apocalypse is its own inconvenience, there’s something else to it—something more. The fact that the world has chosen to fall apart right as Scar’s relationship is crumbling feels deeply, painfully ironic, in a cold and callous way. His life unravelling as society falls into disarray all around him.

He and Grian have continued heading north as best they can with the limited navigation skills they share between them. At some point, Grian picked up an orienteering compass, grabbed from the shelf of an outdoor goods store that had all its windows smashed out. He’s strung a nylon cord on it long enough to wear around his neck and has been gamely following the cardinal directions. Mostly they follow the roads that direct them towards the next state, listening while the radio repeats the same message over and over—shelter in place, isolate, make efforts to ration what you need to survive. Rest stops are minimal, only taken when they can’t put off refuelling any longer.

They sleep as little as possible, and they talk even less.

Outside the car, the landscape has transitioned into low hills covered in dry, weathered grass, and the occasional scrubby cluster of squat, leafy trees. Although he knows it’s only a matter of time before they hit the next stretch of desert when they pass through the Mojave, Scar appreciates the change in view. It’s distinctly different from the environment he’s used to, and for the first time it feels like they’re actually getting somewhere, even if he’s not entirely sure where exactly they’re getting to.

It feels silly to already be losing track of time and days, but Scar has to admit, he is. For the last ten or so hours, he and Grian have been switching off driving, taking turns so that neither of them gets too cramped or too complacent on the road. It’s nice to be able to take a break, but Scar finds he’s still feeling anxious and uncomfortable, and not just because of his past with driving.

The feeling only gets worse as they progress.

Though the roads remain mostly empty, every town they pass they give a wide berth, sometimes going out of their way to avoid.

They do it because they have to. Because it’s too dangerous to linger or get too near.

They do it because monsters are everywhere now.

They see them. Hordes of them. The shambling bodies of people who aren’t people anymore. Thanks to the distance they’ve kept, they’ve yet to draw any kind of mass attention to themselves, but it’s impossible to ignore how many there are—in pairs and clusters and large, roving crowds. It’s what’s given Scar that sinking feeling. A fear he can’t escape.

He had hoped, somehow, that heading towards larger populations would’ve meant more coordination. More organisation. More signs of survival in the face of the outbreak. Instead, they pass through abandoned towns strewn with bodies and infested with zombies, the re-animated corpses wandering around aimlessly and seeming without motive.

The devastation that has unfolded in only a handful of short days is immeasurable.

Disquieting and terrifying.

Scar doesn’t know what they’re going to do.

“This is a mess,” Grian says from the passenger seat, stating the obvious. His arms are crossed tight over his chest, posture stiff, looking every bit as unhappy as Scar feels. “What are we supposed to do here?”

They’re in the outskirts of a town Scar doesn’t know the name of, pulled off to the side of the road next to a large four-way intersection while they survey the entrance of a shopping mall. The sun is setting—has set—and they’re losing what’s left of the remaining daylight fast. They have to find a place to park and camp for the night but… this isn’t it.

The mall itself barely remains, only a fraction of the structure still standing. The rest has collapsed in on itself in a tangle of tilted rebar and masonry after what looks to have been a colossal fire. There’s no sign that anyone tried to stop it. No fire trucks, no barricades. No emergency response at all.

Aside from the blackened structure, everything else looks untouched and unaffected. The garden beds outside each entrance are immaculate, parked cars left in orderly lines on the large stretch of parking lot.

Closer towards what once was the glass-faced main entrance are dozens of infected. A nauseating addition to the already grim scene.

“We need gas,” Scar says, his words coming out flat. He’s tired, his body aches, and he feels filthy. He longs for a long shower and a proper bed, neither of which he’s going to get.

He’s not in the mood for Grian’s attitude right now.

“I hate malls,” Grian states, as if that’s remotely relevant to their situation right now.

“Well lucky for us we’re not here to window-shop.” The words come out meaner than Scar intends them to, and Grian immediately bristles at his side.

“You’re in a mood,” he grumbles, like he has a leg to stand on.

“I’m exhausted, Grian,” Scar sighs. “Let’s not do this right now.”

After several more minutes of hesitation, they eventually move into the parking lot, pulling up next to a cluster of abandoned cars, as far from the group of corpses congregating near the mall as they can get. Together, they carefully check the vehicles one by one to find which will be the easiest to syphon from. Luckily, there’s an opportunity in the form of a cherry red convertible, which has a gas cap that comes off without any resistance.

With a now well-practiced ease, Scar dips their syphoning hose into the tank and tries to ignore how illicit the activity still feels. He can’t shake himself from bracing for an accusatory shout every time he does this, expecting someone to ask him what the hell he’s doing, or threatening to call the police.

Part of him longs for it. The grounding normalcy of a stranger’s accusation.

While he fills up their jerry can, keeping a wary eye on their surroundings lest they be caught off guard by some rogue ghoul, Grian walks the short distance back to their car and pops open the trunk. Silently, Scar watches him as he rifles through their supplies and what they’ve managed to amass. It’s been several days of gas station junk food and snacks, and he knows they’re both longing for something more substantial. He feels grimy, every inch of him uncomfortable.

At this point, he’d settle for just brushing his teeth.

“I wish I had a toothbrush,” he voices aloud, conversational as the gas can continues to fill.

“Why?” Grian asks, bristling slightly in that instantly defensive way he’s had ever since they escaped Scar’s apartment together. Scar gives him a moment, and when the question properly settles into him, nothing accusatory snuck into it, Grian’s shoulders relax. It takes him a second to consider it, unwrapping a granola bar and chewing on it before he offers, “You can use mine.”

It’s a stupid thing to get paranoid about, and Scar knows it. There’s literally nothing to read into. In fact, if anything, Grian is being uncommonly generous.

It’s stupid to spur an otherwise kind offer. And yet…

“Since when do you share your toothbrush?”

“What?” Grian begins to respond, caught entirely off guard.

“Did you share yours with ‘B’?”

The question comes out sounding hostile—and maybe it is. A snap in his words as he says the name Grian called in his sleep.

There’s no reason to drag him into this. Not now. A dead man Scar will never properly meet. It’s unnecessary of him. Petty.

Grian looks as shocked at his outburst as Scar feels, but Scar doesn’t regret it. It’s out there now, and Grian’s wide eyes don’t offer any excuses.

Roughly, Scar yanks the hose up out of the gas tank he’s syphoning from, twisting the cap back in place before he hefts the full jerry can and carries it back towards the car.

“Well?” He prompts, looking pointedly at Grian as he goes about refilling their car.

Grian doesn’t look upset. He doesn’t look angry, either. He merely casts his eyes away while Scar stares him down. Colour rises to his cheeks under the scrutiny as he chews the last bite of granola bar and swallows it.

It might as well be confirmation, as far as Scar is concerned. This isn’t about the toothbrush. Not really. But Grian’s silence speaks volumes.

“I’ll take the bad breath and tooth decay then, thanks,” Scar chirps, more cheerful than he has any need to be, tipping the can up at an angle to wring out the last drops of fuel. When it’s empty he pulls the spout back, holding it out towards Grian, tone murderously bright as he says, “Your turn.”

It’s not unfair. It takes more than one fill from the can to raise the fuel gauge in the car. If they want to travel any real distance without stopping to syphon again, it’s best to do it all here now, while they have an abundance of cars around them and the relative safety to do so.

There’s something cathartic in weaponising his cheer like this, pushing the can into Grian’s unenthusiastic hands. Though Scar’s never truly been the confrontational type, he’s not a pushover either. He’s always been able to sweet talk would-be aggressors and deter bad-faith encounters with a little mirthful sarcasm. Barbed words coated in a sweetness like honey—a warning to anyone who underestimates him.

He just never thought he’d have to speak to Grian this way, is all.

To his credit, Grian doesn’t say anything haughty in return. Doesn’t put up a fight or resist. Instead he gives Scar a single nod and turns away, jerry can clasped to his side as he walks to the furthest car in their corner of the parking lot. Retreating to lick his proverbial wounds.

It’s only when he’s out of earshot that Scar allows himself the reprieve of a tight, strained exhale.

Not for the first time, he wishes he had the company of someone—anyone—else. He doesn’t enjoy arguing, and he’d much rather spend the little down time they have relaxing instead of lashing out over ridiculous things that ultimately amount to nothing.

Admittedly, now that the moment has passed, he feels the predictable rush of remorse for having spoken to Grian like that. It’s not that Grian doesn’t deserve it—as far as Scar is concerned, he’s been kinder about this whole situation than most people would be. It just seems… pointless. Nit-picking details in the face of an enormous catastrophe neither of them can control.

He’s just got all these emotions and nowhere to put them. He can’t talk things through with a friend, he can’t get distance, and he can’t untangle the mess in his head through any healthy means, so instead he takes it out on the person who caused it in the first place. The only person he has left, in a very literal sense.

It’s not the way he would choose to do this had he any say in the matter. It’s not the person he wants to be.

Still.

He’s not going to apologise for it, no matter how guilty he feels.

Standing on his own, keeping watch over the car, he continues turning over his reaction, feeling it unpalatable but objectively not wrong, until the trunk, left open by Grian, catches his eye. Its contents are a mess, things haphazardly shoved in with haste and no consideration for order or accessibility. It’s not in Scar’s nature to organise, but his squabble with Grian has left him sour and wanting to do something. Sorting their things can be his non-apology. Something that’ll benefit the both of them.

He arranges their supplies, methodical and slow, and it’s as he’s cleaning that he wonders if maybe he could simply use a bit of toothpaste to freshen up. Even if he doesn’t use Grian’s toothbrush, he figures rubbing some paste on his teeth and gums will do better than doing nothing at all. At the very least it’ll make him feel more put together.

It quickly becomes clear, however, that none of Grian’s toiletries are in the trunk, so once the last of the supplies are sorted, Scar pulls open the back door of the car. He might as well air out the nest of blankets that Grian has piled into the back seat, searching for wherever his things have been squirrelled away.

Leaned over, pushing aside empty cans and food packaging from the floor, Scar spots it.

A used condom wrapper—gold, foil and square, torn open along its side.

It’s lying beneath the driver’s seat, in a place that would be easy to miss if someone wasn’t actively searching for it. Numbly, Scar picks it up, feeling a fresh crush of emotions wash over him.

It’s not a brand he’s ever bought before.

Not that he needs the confirmation to know whose it is. He and Grian have never messed around in Grian’s car. Scar’s too broad and tall for the back seat, his chronic pain making contorting into the space basically impossible. It had never been an issue, though. They’d talked about it once, on a whim, and Grian had said he wasn’t interested in things like that anyway. Too old, now. Too mature. Not one for college-age shenanigans in sweaty, cramped spaces, fogging up windows and banging your head for something only marginally satisfying.

It hurts to know that excuse had just been another lie.

Spiralling, Scar can’t help but wonder how many more blatant untruths there are. How far back it all goes. And—with a sick twist of his gut—how much of Grian’s cheating was motivated by exactly this. The desire to be with someone who could do all the things Scar simply couldn’t. Someone who didn’t feel the muscles cramps and exhaustion. Someone who didn’t have the bad days. Someone who woke up and got out of bed each and every morning, and who never had to wrestle or compromise with what they could manage at any given time.

Panic tightens his chest. Negativity shrouding him in darkness, his throat going tight, making it hard to breathe. The sudden unease. The idea that maybe this was his fault. That he hadn’t been enough for Grain.

That maybe he deserves this.

He tenses until his muscles ache, fingernails biting so deeply into his palm that he can feel the sting of his skin splitting under the pressure.

He thinks he’s going to be sick.

A loud scuffing of feet comes up behind him, breaking through the ringing in his ears. Scar jolts, pulling himself up and out of the car, heart beating fast within his ribcage, his loathsome discovery cut short.

It’s not a zombie. His immediate fear congealing into a revelation that’s far worse. It’s Grian, dragging the soles of his shoes against the pavement as he trudges back towards the car, the gas can thumping against his leg as he walks. It’s performative, and if Scar was being generous he’d think Grian was trying to lighten the mood. A little slapstick pantomime in an attempt to make him smile. However Scar can barely pull himself together enough to appear neutral, much less appreciative of his theatrics.

Instinctively, he pushes the condom wrapper into his back pocket, turning to meet Grian, who blows out an over-dramatic sigh as he drops the can at his feet. The noise it makes sounds hollow, and it only takes a second for Scar to realise that Grian hasn’t returned with anything.

“We aren’t the first people to think of this,” Grian informs him, matter-of-fact. “They’re empty already. All of ‘em. Unless we want to search through the cars near the horde up there…”

They turn towards the entrance to the mall in tandem to size up their odds. The corpses continue to shamble around aimlessly, heedless of the way the light has faded from the sky and how the temperature around them has cooled. They’ve remained ignorant to Grian and Scar’s presence, and deep down Scar knows it’s best to keep it that way.

Grian sighs again, resting a hand on the hood of their car in a sympathetic gesture as he mourns, “If we can’t refuel her we’re gonna have to leave her behind.” He’s being over the top in his sadness, lower lip pouting as he speaks. Scar knows he’s doing it intentionally, trying to clear the air between the two of them with some levity. In any other situation it might work, but Scar’s in no mood for it right now.

“Poor Ariana,’ Grian continues, sounding genuinely crestfallen amidst his theatrics. “She’s got so many good memories attached to her…”

Scar doesn’t know what to say or how to react. He’s still processing, still holding back a tide of emotions that threaten to overwhelm and drown him. There’s just no strength left in him to respond to Grian’s obliviously tone-deaf behaviour. In the face of all they’ve gone through, after all Scar’s lost, openly mourning his car, of all things. It feels like a slap on the face of everything Scar’s lost—of everything he’s had to quietly deal with.

Still unaware, Grian merely muses nostalgically. “I got her when I finally decided to stay in the country. She’s been through so much with me… God, actually, I think I drove home from my first date with you in this car.”

It’s too much. He can’t do this. He should know that Scar can’t handle it.

Can’t stomach Grian waxing poetic over fond memories while Scar stands with further evidence of his cheating burning a hole in his pocket.

“We should go,” he says, sudden and brusque, ignoring the way Grian looks at him, surprised and put out, like Scar’s ruined a grand gesture he was trying to make. “We can’t camp here, and we’ve already lost our daylight. We’ll have to find somewhere else to stop.”

“Maybe we’ll find somewhere else to syphon along the way,” Grian suggests, optimistic as he packs the jerry can back into the trunk, oblivious or intentionally ignoring the edge in Scar’s tone, as well as his efforts to organise.

Scar can barely hear him. He doesn’t want to, half his mind urging him to use what little fuel they have to drive them headfirst into a wall instead. Put them both out of their misery.

They resume driving, this time with Grian at the wheel. Scar can’t focus enough to read or attempt a crossword, so he simply stares apathetically out the window. If nothing else, it gives him a chance to fester, the deep well of hurt within him mixing into an ugly bitterness that steeps a growing revolt. He feels truly trapped now. Suffocating. Confined to a space that’s been defiled behind his back who knows how many times.

He can’t help it. Can’t help but wonder how many times Grian said goodnight to him and then slipped out to meet up with another man. Had it been weeks of this? Months? Had he simply come to assume that Scar would leave him unsatisfied? Is that why it started? Was it just sex, or had his feelings blossomed into something more?

Scar wants to ask. Wants to grab the steering wheel and pull them over onto the side of the road and demand Grian give him answers until he has no questions left. It’s only the thought of hearing Grian’s answers—of having his worst fears confirmed—that stops him. He doesn’t think he can handle Grian telling him that he lacked in ways he could never physically overcome. That he was never going to be enough.

Just the thought of it terrifies him.

So he keeps his mouth shut and stews in the sepsis of his own torment, letting it consume him as time blurs, and dusk descends into darkness.

They’re deep into the night when the fuel gauge starts to ding. Utterly detached, Scar watches from the corner of his eye as the stress of it begins to creep into Grian’s shoulders. The slow realisation that their luck, such as it were, is running out. It settles on Grian visibly, heavy and inescapable.

“It’s not fair!” Grian’s words are angry, his tone frustrated. He slams the heels of his palms against the steering wheel and breaks the silence they’ve shared since they left the mall parking lot. “We have so many supplies! Our water! Our gear! We can’t possibly carry it all! Everything we own is in this car—”

“Everything you own,” Scar mumbles, pedantic to a fault.

“Do you really want to do this right now?” Grian snaps, bristling at Scar’s apparent audacity of pointing out the truth. “They were my things because you were making me take them, remember? But I feel like it’s reasonable to say they’re ours now, considering the—considering… bloody hell, just look around, Scar!”

He makes a gesture with his hand, cramped in the confines of the car as he takes in the state of the world around them.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Grian continues, irritable, like he’s the one who has any right to be upset. “I don’t know why you’re short with me one second, and fine the next, but like it or not we’re all we’ve got right now. So we can split hairs and dither over which of us has what stacked against them, or we can get it together. Because I don’t know if you’ve realised it yet, Scar, but without a car things are going to be so much harder for us.”

There’s a sharpness to his words. An undercurrent that Scar has never heard from him before.

Grian’s been frustrated with him in the past. Annoyed. Blowing out his breath and rolling his eyes more times than Scar can count. He’s never gotten angry with him though. Not to the degree that he is now. It awakens something in Scar, something vindictive. The nerve of Grian to imply that Scar’s the problem here, that he’s the one making this difficult.

“Alright,” he says simply. Petulantly. Filing all his simmering defiance away for later. “Sure. Fine.”

Grian nods his head in response. A single, rough jerk of a motion, his hands settling back on the steering wheel, fingers flexing where he grips it white-knuckle tight.

“Alright,” he agrees with finality. “Fine.”

They continue driving in a frigid, angry silence, a cold animosity settling between them until the periodic ding of the gas gauge becomes a more frequent, insistent alert.

There are no other options. They haven’t come across a single car or gas station. Like the entire world has been scrubbed clean of them.

Reluctantly, Grian finally takes an exit off the freeway, following signs that point them towards a regional park. It doesn’t take long before they’re turning into an open area with an empty gravel parking lot surrounded on all sides by tall ponderosa pines. It’s one of those nice, partially-wild parks, tucked just outside city limits. A large sign posted at the entrance illustrates the abundance of walking paths and green spaces for ball games and family picnics. It’s the kind of place people would go to jog and teach their kids how to ride a bike. It feels safe.

They know enough by now to understand that it isn’t.

“I don’t want to stay here for the night,” Grian says, brokering no argument as he scans for a place to park. “It’s too close to the city and too open. We’ll get swarmed if we wait until dawn to start walking. We just need to pack up as much of our stuff as we can carry and get going before we attract any attention.”

There’s something callous to his words. Too readily letting go of something Scar wants him to cling to. He hates it—another chance for Grian to get off easily without having to own what he did.

But then he notices something past the signs and between the trees. A lake; its surface illuminated in the moonlight. It’s big—large enough for swimming and paddle boats, with a wide crescent beach pushed against the opposite shore, and a short grassy bank on the side nearest to them.

It sparks an idea.

“Wait, wait—park it by the lake.” He sits up, suddenly engaged, and before Grian can dismiss his suggestion, offers up an explanation, “With the water on one side, it’ll be harder to surprise us. Plus we’ll be able to see anything approaching better from the light reflected on the water.”

The look Grian gives him is dubious at best, but he complies all the same, driving up over the grass and stopping a few feet from the edge of the lake. Maybe he does it because he’s glad Scar isn’t giving him the cold shoulder anymore. Maybe he’s simply already focused on the step after they leave the car behind. Whatever the case, Scar can’t help the strange, bitter, excitement from bubbling up in his chest as they both sit and stare through the windshield, out at the water.

“I think we should have a funeral,” Scar announces at last. “If we have to say goodbye to her, we should pay our respects.”

He’s prepared for a heavy sigh and a roll of the eyes.

Instead, he’s met with silence. When he turns to look, Grian is staring at him with a sort of vulnerable tenderness in his eyes. The expression of someone who’s being given something that means a lot to them.

Scar tries not to let it get to him.

“Yeah. I… I like the sound of that,” Grian agrees at last, nodding.

The process of unpacking the car is a tedious one, especially in the dark, but Scar’s earlier sorting makes it easier to decide what to keep, at least. With no clothes and barely any survival supplies, their key focus is on portioning out the food and deciding what’s going to get left behind. They’d pulled backpacks out of a camper van they’d found tipped over at the side of the highway hundreds of miles ago—the vehicle smeared in blood but with no sign of any bodies inside—and those come in handy now, packed full of as much as they can manage to cram in.

Without making a big deal about it, Grian ends up hefting the heavier of the two bags up onto his shoulders, adjusting the straps so that they hug his body and settle the weight properly on his hips. He takes the axe too, and Scar doesn’t stop him, too busy putting the car in neutral and making his own final preparations. When he finally steps back, he takes a good long look at Grian, who’s staring at his car, visibly upset as he faces the reality of having to leave it behind.

“She was a good car,” Scar says into their silence, taking a deep breath and speaking from his chest. He sounds as sombre as he does formal, speaking just as he would at a real funeral. “I met her one stormy night, when she and Grian gave me a ride home rather than forcing me to walk in the rain. And it may be true that I only knew Ariana for a few years, but I cared for her all the same. I’ll never forget the smell of her air freshener, or the sound of her horn as Grian laid on it impatiently even though it doesn’t make rush hour traffic move any faster. And that’s a fact by the way, you don’t even have to Google it. Anyway—She always got us where we needed to go… except right now, of course, what with her empty gas tank and all.”

“Scar,” Grian hisses, but it’s lighthearted, and Scar can see him smothering a grin even as he chides him with it.

“What matters is, we will miss her,” Scar continues, clearing his throat as he gets back on track, Grian bowing his head as he plays along. “… And her broken cup holder that Grian never found the time to fix. And her CD player that ate every disc we ever tried to listen to.”

“Except for Christmas Cats volume 2,” Grian adds.

“Except for Christmas Cats volume 2,” Scar amends, nodding in agreement.

Together they stand in silence for a moment, Grian’s hands clasped in front of him while Scar tucks his own into his jacket pockets, his fingers closing around the small, foil wrapper.

“Maybe you’d like to say a few words,” he suggests, prompting Grian in a way that seems to genuinely surprise him.

“Oh,” Grian says, eyebrows rising. “Yeah. I should, shouldn’t I?”

He takes a deep breath while he collects himself, twisting his fingers together before he opens his mouth and speaks.

“I bought Ariana because I needed a car,” he explains simply. “I chose her because she was fuel efficient and in my budget.”

Scar snorts at that and Grian smiles.

He pauses, taking another long breath. “I always felt it was a bit silly to care about a car—which is just a thing, and doesn’t have feelings—but I’m pretty sad right now, so I guess I cared about her more than I realised. She was always reliable and got me where I needed to go. For every milestone in my life, Ariana was there, costing me a fortune in parking tickets because I just fundamentally don’t believe anyone should have to pay for the privilege of parking at the side of the same bloody road we all drive on.”

“Here, here!” Scar enthuses, egging Grian on while he inches closer to the vehicle.

“Thank you for everything you did for me, Ariana—namely getting me from Point A to Point B. I’m sorry I hit a zombie with you… and a raccoon that one time. And also got so drunk that one New Year that Scar had to drive me home and I threw up in you.” He bows his head after that confession, contrite. “Goodbye.”

Together they take a moment of silence, and it’s as Grian’s head is still down that Scar makes his move.

The click of his lighter is loud in the silence.

Immediately, Grian’s head snaps up, but by then it’s already too late. Effortlessly, Scar rolls the igniter with his thumb as he steps forward, opening the back door and lowering the lighter down to the seat where he ignites a tinder pile of crumpled papers and forgotten receipts, all left intentionally by him when they were unloading.

The flame catches fast—faster than Scar had anticipated, if he’s being honest—spreading quickly from the point of ignition into a flare that crawls up over the upholstery.

“Scar… Scar, what—”

The stunned horror from Grian is satisfying enough in its own way.

Scar doesn’t respond. Knows that deep down he doesn’t need to, simply smiling as he walks back to the trunk and pushes the car with all his might, despite the way his body protests. It rolls forward, the motion made easier by the gear Scar had left it in and the gradual slope of the ground beneath its wheels. He steps back just at the edge of the lake, fresh ripples disturbing the night’s reflections as the car’s front wheels roll into the shallows. It’s there that Scar steps back, watching passively as the flames lick up the back seat with a hungry crackle, orange light spilling from the rear windows.

Grian remains mute, eyes fixed on him, horrified, stricken, and dismayed.

Scar waits until the fire is past the point of extinguishing before he reaches into his other pocket and pulls out the condom wrapper. Gold, open, and accusing as the foil catches the light of the fire. He makes sure to hold it up. Makes sure that Grian sees it. All the while keeping eye contact, smile fixed on his face even when Grian’s eyes widen in recognition.

Then, he crumples it in hand, pulls back, and tosses it into the flames, letting the fire swallow it up in its destruction.

Turning away from Grian, Scar braces both hands on the quickly warming trunk and gives it a final, decisive push into the water, something maliciously content settling in his chest at the sight of the spectacle he’s created.

“Viking funeral,” he says, flat.

There’s nothing. No argument, no furious reaction. Grian simply stands in place as Scar returns to his side, watching as the flames grow, reaching high up into the night as they consume the car. A beacon in the growing gloom of the evening. The crackle is loud and ominous, metal creaking and airbags popping from the heat. The car won’t sink, the water too shallow beneath its wheels, so Scar takes a minute to enjoy the heat and light that comes with a job well done, knowing the skeleton of it will remain long after they’ve gone. A burnt out husk. A true testament to what Grian’s made of them.

When, finally, the imminent threat of a bonfire outweighs the satisfaction of watching Grian’s car burn, Scar sighs and bends down, lifting up his backpack and hefting it onto his shoulders. He glances over at Grian, who’s still staring at him like he’s only just now seeing him for the very first time.

Scar’s voice is sweet when he speaks, laying on as much treacle as he can manage.

“All those memories, eh? Bye bye!”

There’s something slowly concentrating in Grian and Scar can see it. A keg of vitriol ready to burst.

“We’d better get going,” Scar explains, eyes cold behind his smile as he turns away from the fire and smoke. “A lightshow like that is bound to attract some unsavoury attention. They’ll be out here in droves before you know it.”

It’s mean, but he feels like he’s allowed that. An eye for an eye.

Justified.

Grian takes a moment longer to process, continuing to stare dumbstruck at the carnage before he turns on Scar, shoulders hunched and tone furious as he spits out, livid, “Scar.”

“We don’t really have time for dramatics,” Scar says, aloof in a way he can tell slides under Grian’s skin like a papercut. “Every zombie in the area is on high alert now. Either we do couples counselling or we leave while we can, you decide.”

Behind the two of them, the flames roar, brighter and hotter than Scar had anticipated they would be. It sends a prickle of adrenaline up his spine, an exhilaration he enjoys more than he fears. Next to him, Grian casts one more glance back at his car—at the beacon and pyre it’s become—before he angrily twists his fingers into his backpack straps. He straightens his shoulders, stomping ahead of Scar, head bent and refusing to engage in any sort of interaction.

“Good choice,” Scar needles, loud enough for Grian to hear.

The flames are warm against his back as he sets out, following in Grian’s wake.

He doesn’t look back.

Grian doesn’t either.

Notes:

Catharsis. 🔥

Gonna need a new summary after this one--can't exactly have a road trip without a car ;)
fr tho send summary suggestions in the comments please, I'm very much at a loss OTL

Chapter 6

Notes:

Starting off strong with some fantastic fanart of Chapter 5 from Linkito! 💫 Love, love, love the way it turned out! Thank you so much ;w;

As for today's chapter, we're finally going to get a little bit of Grian POV ;) It'll probably leave as many questions as it answers, but we hope you enjoy it all the same! >:D

Grian wakes up to a stiff neck and an ache in his shoulders the likes of which he’s never felt before.

He feels a lot older than thirty-one. Sixty at the very least.

The morning air is crisp as he slowly uncurls from the mess of blankets he’s wadded on top of himself. It takes him a minute to reorient, his brain struggling to catch up with the situation he’s found himself in. Not in his bed, not on his sofa, not even in his backyard hammock.

No. He’s huddled on the bed of an abandoned pickup truck with shredded tires, everything he lays claim to in the world stuffed into a backpack crammed beneath his feet. And Scar—

“Scar?”

His voice catches immediately, rough from the earliness of the hour as Grian finally sits up and looks around.

He remembers now. They’d been walking, leaving behind the flaming wreck of what had formerly been his beloved car, her smoke a twisting plume that rose up like a spire into the night sky, lit acrid yellow and burnt-umber from below. Though he’d initially been furious, Grian’s response had gradually tempered once he’d realised that Scar’s fire had successfully drawn the attention of every zombie in the area to the source of the light and roar of the flames. It had left them entirely unbothered as they’d moved west, passing through the park and eventually returning to the highway. Almost like they’d planned it that way.

Eventually, when the wan light of the moon had sunk behind cloud cover, they’d had to admit they couldn’t progress any further until dawn. They’d chosen the back of a pickup to sleep, for lack of anywhere else to shelter. Abandoned on the side of the road, its windows smashed, and enough dried blood smeared along its side to paint a clear picture—it was as good as they were going to get in the circumstances.

Grian had offered to take the first watch, despite the resentment that made him want to curl into himself, silent and closed-off. He was motivated… out of guilt, maybe. Capitulating to the part of himself that had been ashamed when Scar pulled out the condom wrapper.

Caught in the act yet again. Red handed.

They’d eaten a simple, cold dinner, not daring to light another fire, no matter how small. Afterwards, Scar had dropped off to sleep almost immediately. The sound of his breathing, heavy in the dark, had been a comfort to Grian as he’d sat up, staring into the night. Periodically, he’d check the soft, backlit, LCD glow of his wristwatch to mark the passage of time, unsure what he’d do if something were to actually happen.

He’d dozed off roughly an hour into his watch, only his own nodding head dropping down into his chest waking him. He’d snapped up, disoriented and panicky, tossing a guilty look in Scar’s direction. Anxiety bruised his conscience as he’d realised he’d betrayed Scar’s trust.

Again.

Restlessly, Grian rubbed at his eyes, patting his cheeks to force himself awake. The next few hours had passed slowly, and it was a relief when he’d been able to wake Scar to take his turn. Scar had taken over without protest, bright and alert the moment he opened his eyes. Exhausted, Grian had hunkered down into their single bed roll, still warm from Scar’s body heat, and folded his arms under his head to make a pillow.

He’d fallen asleep faster than he had in years, deep and dreamless, only to be tugged awake reluctantly with the dawn.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Scar chirps, and if he’s tired he doesn’t show it. His voice has the forced bright quality it takes on when he’s trying to prove a point. “All rested up?”

“I could sleep for at least another eleven hours,” Grian mutters, rubbing the muscle in his shoulder to work out an ache before it has the chance to settle any deeper. “Anything exciting happen while I was out?”

“Oh yeah, we were ambushed by at least thirty googlies. I dispatched ‘em bare handed, though. So you’re welcome.”

Grian wants to smile and shake his head at Scar’s nonsense; wants to at least pretend to play into his joke. He can’t feign the emotion though, the events of the night still weighing on him. Instead he merely nods, neutral, working the crick in his neck for a moment longer before he pulls his backpack towards him and roots around for something that can serve as breakfast.

“We’ll get going in a minute,” he states, matter of fact, and if Scar’s shoulders droop slightly, he tries not to let it get to him. “There’s no use sitting around just waiting to be found.”

It takes some time for Grian to pull himself together, chewing his way through a protein bar and some vacuum sealed beef jerky, before he packs up their sleeping bag and shifts his backpack up onto his shoulders. There’s nothing to do but continue walking in the direction they’d been driving. Grian doesn’t feel he has to explain the plan as he slips off the back of the truck and moves towards the shoulder of the road.

“No stretches?” Scar asks, conversational. He falls into step beside Grian, more cheerful than he has any right to be, considering their situation. “You’re going to turn your calves into string cheese that way.”

“I’ll be fine,” Grian grunts, and it’s clearly not worth the hair-splitting because Scar shrugs and lets it slide.

There’s a mood between them, a tension ready to fracture and erupt at any moment. Grian feels, in a word, bad. Like overworked dough or underproofed bread. It’s like a key ingredient of himself is missing, and he wishes he could curl up and nurse it until it smoothed itself away. That’s not an option, though. Not in the middle of an apocalypse. So instead he broods as they walk, hoping Scar can read his body language well enough to leave him alone.

“We should talk about something,” Scar suggests instead, his timing catastrophically poor. Grian tries to even out his reaction with a slow breath in, then out.

“What would you suggest?”

“I don’t know…” Scar drawls, shrugging. “Maybe what our plan is now that we no longer have a car?”

His tone is conversational; frustratingly up-beat. He chats like they’re discussing the weather or he’s describing a friendly cat he met.

It instantly sets off the short fuse of Grian’s patience.

“We don’t have a car because you set it on fire, Scar,” he snaps, angry.

Grian’s never been good at putting on a brave face. He can’t act like things are fine when they’re not. A part of him—before everything went wrong—had once admired how Scar could always smile no matter the situation. Recently, though, Grian has begun to resent him for it. Bitterly.

“I set it on fire to honour its memory, Grian.” Scar is wide-eyed and guileless as he speaks, blinking at him in surprise. Grian’s stomach twists at the mockery, unused to being on the receiving end of Scar’s performative platitudes. “That car meant a lot to you. It was only fair that we found a way to pay our respects to it.”

Gripping the shoulder straps of his backpack tight, Grian keeps his voice low, like a warning. “I don’t want to play this game with you right now, Scar.”

There’s a beat. Then, abruptly, Scar stops and faces him, his expression leveling out into something closer to a scowl, the false cheer in his voice evaporating. “You and I both know you had him in that car with you. The car you wanted us to ride out the apocalypse together in. So you’ll have to forgive me for indulging in a little bit of old-fashioned cleansing with fire after you sullied all the memories we made in it together.”

It stings to hear it, the confirmation that Scar knows full well what he did. Guilt and humiliation spiral, incriminating and searing hot in Grian’s chest. He wants to deny it, but there’s no point in lying, not now. He knows there’s nothing he can say, not when the world has fallen apart around them and there are more important things to focus on.

It doesn’t matter in the end. He’s not going to talk about it.

Scar doesn’t expect him to, anyway.

Bitterly, Grian sets his shoulders and stomps ahead. It’s better like this—putting space between them as they both struggle to calm their emotions. He just wishes his body’s response to being overwhelmed wasn’t to well up with hot tears that sting at the corner of his eyes.

For the better part of an hour they walk in silence, Grian keeping himself resolutely ahead of Scar. The sun pushes above the horizon, climbing steadily overhead. Without the protective shell of the car insulating them, the end of the world feels much more apparent now. For days, while they’d driven through the desert, it hadn’t felt like much around them had changed. The absence of people was unusual, but hadn’t felt too alarming. The hours of dead radio had simply felt like any other time they’d slipped out of signal range.

Now, with the vestiges of society crowded up all around them, the cruel reality begins to settle in.

The wreckage has become unavoidable, and seemingly endless. Cars and trucks lay piled up on the wide lanes of the interstate, in jumbles of twisted metal and shattered glass. Having entered the suburbs, they can see entire blocks burnt down to nothing. Bustling neighbourhoods reduced to ashes. Shattered windows, broken doorways, and the signs of desperate, hasty exits. In some places they pass police barricades and riot gear, and at one point they pass a high school and even see a helicopter crumpled into what used to be the football field. Its cockpit is shattered, propellers dug deep into the earth.

Everywhere bears the marks of chaos and disarray.

But the worst part is the bodies.

They’re everywhere, in numbers too high to count. Grotesque, mutilated corpses, torn apart and left in pieces on the pavement and spread across lawns. If there are survivors, they aren’t nearby or they aren’t looking to make friends.

They don’t come upon anyone living at all.

Walking out ahead, alone, Grian can’t help but wonder how things could have gone so wrong in such a short amount of time. Had it really taken less than a week for everything they knew to collapse? Surely there had to be people fighting somewhere—pushing back the ghouls and setting up safe zones for survivors.

There had to be more left for them than this expanse of devastation and disaster.

At the very least, Grian was expecting the undead to be wandering around in incalculable numbers. Great masses of them forming hordes numbering into the thousands. However, as they continue to walk he sees no signs of them, either. It’s foolish to jinx their luck and ask where they are, but he can’t escape the creeping dread that the world has slipped past the apocalypse, and instead become an enormous ghost town. That the two of them, singularly, have been left to pick their way across the carcass of society, forever wandering without a clear destination.

It doesn’t help that Grian feels the furthest he’s ever felt from Scar. Their animosity stretches sour between them, masked like an afterthought by Scar’s forced-easy demeanour that only serves to bear down on Grian like a weight. He wants Scar’s familiar optimistic reassurance. He wants a warm hand on his shoulder, pulling him close in a comforting embrace. He wants Scar’s voice, mumbled soft against his hair, telling him that things will be alright.

Instead, all he gets is Scar’s distance.

He doesn’t know how Scar feels about the hellscape they’re wandering through. At a glance, he’s seemingly at peace with their situation, humming to himself. Grian tries, desperately, to seek comfort in that; to let the idle tune push away the static in his head.

Then, quite suddenly, Scar stops humming, heaving a gasp so sharp it startles a yelp out of Grian on instinct.

“Scar! What on earth—”

“Grian,” Scar says, eyes fixed ahead. “We have to go.”

Heart in his throat, panic seizing his chest, Grian turns to face what Scar is looking at. He’s expecting carnage on a level they’ve yet to see. He’s expecting a band of zombies shambling towards them, innumerable, with nowhere safe for them to hide.

What he’s not expecting is for Scar to be staring at a road sign staked on the shoulder of the highway, a marker of places of interest emblazoned with large, white, capital letters.

‘DISNEYLAND’ is second on the list.

His anxiety dissolves in an instant.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Grian—”

“No.”

“It’s only seven miles.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I’ve always wanted to go. I’ve been telling you for years.”

“Scar, you cannot be serious!”

Any other time, Scar’s needling might have been amusing. Might have been cute, even. But the audacity of him to think they have time for this—to suggest sightseeing at the end of humanity as they know it—!

Grian’s voice pitches up without him realising it, rising into the tone he uses when he’s determined. “I said no. And I quite honestly can’t believe you think it even sounds sane to suggest it.”

He’s firm, and it’s usually enough to dissuade Scar from pushing any further.

This time, however, Scar refuses to be dissuaded.

“I can safely say that you owe me this,” Scar intones, voice flat and far harsher than Grian is used to hearing from him.

He recoils on instinct. “You can’t—you’re seriously leveraging that for Disneyland?”

“I think I’ve earned the right to leverage it whenever I want to,” Scar replies, cool.

His frosty demeanour only serves to incense Grian further.

“Scar—don’t act like I’m doing this to be petty!” He snaps, his voice rising further into a shout. “Of all the stupid things—there are zombies, Scar! Reanimated corpses are walking about everywhere, and you want to go deeper into one of the most populated places in the country for—for what? A theme park? What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that maybe I’ll just go without you.”

The words send a chill up Grian’s spine. He closes his mouth, staring at Scar’s entirely indifferent expression.

It’s a bluff. He knows it is. Scar hates being alone, maybe even more than Grian does. Scar wouldn’t split off from him without another living soul around for miles. It’s unthinkable. And yet…

Don’t leave me, he thinks, desperate.

Grian doesn’t realise how tight the sudden panic has gripped him—how hard it is to process, to move, to breathe—until, all at once, Scar’s expression softens.

“Cub told me the parks had shut down. We didn’t know why at the time, of course, but… they’ve been closed since before the outbreak. I doubt there was anyone other than a handful of maintenance staff on-site when things went sideways, and they probably weren’t going to stay at their posts just to go down with the ship. I don’t think going there will be any more or less dangerous than us being out here in the open, wandering down the middle of the freeway.”

Grian doesn’t respond, simply taking Scar’s words in and trying to cling to any shred of sense in them.

He breathes deeply in and out through his nose, calming his racing pulse as best he can.

“I just want to look,” Scar adds, a gentler bargain this time. “See the castle from a distance, take a peek at the front gates… we’re heading in that direction anyway.”

Grian chews at the inside of his mouth, struggling against the tide of petulance that rises up to battle the fear and despair within him; the dismal sense that he’s already lost. That he lost the moment Scar saw the road sign in the first place.

It’s not that he doesn’t feel Scar has earned this. Before things had all gone wrong, he liked to imagine that he’d always been happy to indulge the fancies and passions in Scar’s life.

It’s simply the reality of their current situation that forms the impasse. The persistent pressure of his anxiety, placed like a heel against his throat. Rankling him. Causing him to twist and turn in on himself with a defensive pettiness he knows is unfair.

“We look at it as we walk by,” he manages after a silence that stretches on too long, offering the words like a magnanimous compromise—like he hadn’t been thoroughly shaken by Scar’s threat to leave and is doing what he can to grab onto him. “We don’t get carried away.”

When he looks up, Scar is beaming at him. The genuine brightness and enthusiasm of his smile makes Grian flush unexpectedly, unused to it after their fallout, and the awful, uneasy days that have followed. It almost makes his concession worth it.

“No aways will be carried,” Scar reassures him, resuming his walk with renewed vigour and setting a pace that Grian has to struggle to keep up with. “This I promise you, dear Grian.”

Grian thinks a million things about promises, but doesn’t say any of them aloud. He only chews the inside of his lip as he tightens his grip on his backpack, and falls into step just behind Scar.

 

 

 

They get carried away almost the moment they arrive.

It’s a four hour walk to the entrance of the park and, much like the rest of their journey, they don’t come across another living soul. The undead they encounter are few and far between, easily avoided with the aid of daylight and plenty of open space for them to maneuver. The time spent between them feels easier—more light-hearted than the hours preceding. If nothing else, Scar’s mood is far more agreeable now that Grian has decided to go along with his request.

While Scar had passed the hours with idle conversation, discussing the history and trivia of the theme park they were heading towards, Grian had spent the walk calculating how to curb Scar’s enthusiasm. For all that they’re holding each other at a distance now, he knows Scar, and he knows there’s no way he’ll be content to simply appreciate the scenery from afar.

“Grian, please.”

The only word to describe Scar is vibrating. His hands grasp the straps of his backpack tight, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as they look up at the gates of the park. Because of course, of course, ‘looking at it from a distance,’ had become, ‘let’s just walk to the bus drop-off,’ had become, ‘we might as well—the ticket booths are right there,’ had become, ‘I just want to look through the gates and take a peek.’

It would be comedic if it weren’t so tense.

Grian doesn’t want to do this. There are a hundred reasons why it’s a bad idea, but he can’t voice any of them for fear of Scar calling it the final straw and leaving Grian standing on his own while Scar forges on ahead. Instead, Grian stands stiffly in place, coiled within a knot of his own nerves as Scar reaches out, wraps his hand around the iron gating that keeps the park shut up tight, and gives it a tug.

It doesn’t budge, which they both expected, but that doesn’t seem to deter Scar in the slightest.

“Here. Put your hands on my shoulders, I’ll give you a boost.”

“Scar.”

They can’t do this. They can’t risk it. There’s an uneasiness in the air, like the lead-up to the jumpscare in a horror movie. Grian can already tell that their guards are lowering, lulled into a false sense of security by the quiet ruin all around them, seemingly devoid of company, living or undead.

Scar had already explained that the parks had closed days prior to the final outbreak, but somehow Grian had still expected to find crowds surrounding the place. Looking around now, it makes sense to find it so deserted—the area surrounding the park is all restaurants and shopping and hotels; a wide swath of commercial land designed for tourists, without much residential.

If the parks were closed, and people had been instructed to go home, he understands why the area doesn’t look like the neighbourhoods they’ve skirted around. The ones where residents were told to shelter at home or to run for their lives, before they were driven wild by whatever sickness had compelled them to lurch out and attack one another.

Still. Some innate instinct of Grian’s says that entering the park is a deathtrap. If they go, his gut insists they won’t come back out.

And yet…

“Come on, Grian. Before my knee seizes up.”

Scar is crouched down, fingers woven together to make a step for Grian to put his foot in. At a glance, it looks like he’s proposing, and the absurdity of that notion is enough to make Grian feel embarrassed for even thinking it.

He knows better. He knows he knows better.

“I just want to see,” Scar says, quiet, and for the first time in days Grian finds Scar looking at him directly. Not casting his gaze aside, not pinning his attention somewhere on Grian’s shoulder or over by his ear. He looks him straight in the eye and asks, “Please. We’re never going to be here again.”

The sentiment is implied, heavy and potent. ‘It would mean a lot to me.’

Without a word, Grian fits the sole of his shoe into Scar’s grip, hoisting himself up. Using Scar’s shoulder for leverage, he boosts himself off the ground and Scar helps lever Grian over the top of the gate. It’s awkward, and Grian lands heavily on the other side, grimacing as his knees take the impact, but already Scar is hefting his bag over, forcing Grian to scramble to catch it before it lands in a heap.

It’s a testament to Scar’s athleticism, the way he effortlessly grabs the wrought-iron bar that runs along the top of the gate and uses it to haul himself up and over without a second of struggle. It sparks a pulse of appreciation in Grian’s gut, the kind of thing he used to praise and compliment Scar for before they grew so distant. He opens his mouth out of habit, but hesitates at the last breath, ultimately not saying a word. It feels weird mentioning it now, when things are still so strained between them.

“Come on,” Scar grins, oblivious to Grian’s inner turmoil, and reaches out to grab his hand. He’s done it presumably on instinct, but it’s still hard for Grian to ignore how warm and solid their palms feel pressed together like this, as Scar tugs him towards the park. “If we wanna make the most of our time, we’ve gotta be quick. Did you know the rail line was an opening day attraction? Disney had it built based off of his own miniature train, Lilly Bell, that he had in his backyard—named after his wife.”

There’s an excitement in Scar’s voice that’s unfortunately contagious. Grian can’t remember the last time he heard Scar like this; openly, unabashedly enthusiastic, and eager to share something. How long has it been since Scar last rambled to him? How long since Grian paid any attention?

His heart aches. Sudden, guilty, and profound.

Walking together, they pass through an arched tunnel that runs beneath the railway line that encircles the park, and emerge out onto a large central avenue. The road is flanked by wide sidewalks in front of an immaculate recreation of a classic American main street, the pastiche bathed in nostalgia for a simpler time that only ever existed in fantasy. It’s deserted and silent, but still manages to feel magical—like a scene transported out of another time. One where they’re not currently mired in the midst of a national catastrophe.

The sun shines bright overheard without a cloud in sight; an otherwise beautiful day. Past balmy and verging on too hot, enough so that Scar pauses to take off the coat he’d donned back at the farm, wrapping it around his waist. Grian tries not to stare at his shoulders and the broad lines of his chest, but it’s difficult to avoid it when Scar’s hand is firmly held around his, like they’re simply on a regular old date.

Grian isn’t sure Scar is aware he’s hanging on, or if he’s just so swept up in the moment that he’s forgotten their animosity entirely. There’s a light in him Grian doesn’t want to dampen though, so he doesn’t draw attention to it. Instead, he gently swings their clasped hands as they walk down the centre of the empty street, sunshine radiant above them, reflecting off the storefront mirrors of a dozen different establishments.

“It’s all t-shirts and knick-knacks now, but in the old days they used to sell actual goods here,” Scar explains, gesturing at the shuttered shops. “Infamously, one of these places sold bras, back when the park had just opened.”

Grian smiles, unable to resist Scar’s chipper attitude. They walk the length of mainstreet and end up standing at a central hub, the road splitting to encircle a statue and gardens before working off in several directions, each avenue leading to another portion of the park. Directly in front of them the iconic castle rises up, white and blue and trimmed in gold, yet somehow smaller than Grian thought it would be.

He glances around, trying to maintain at least some degree of caution, but despite his vigilance, there’s nothing but immaculate landscaping and empty park benches to greet them.

“I always wanted to come here,” Scar says, a fondness in his voice. “When I was a kid, y’know…? But we could never afford it.” His smile turns bittersweet, emotion welling in a way that makes his tone waver when he adds, “Cub and I were gonna visit, once. The summer before I met you, actually. But then he got a grant and had to work, so we put it off. And after that we just never really had the time.”

The revelation twists jealously in Grian’s stomach, his hand tightening on Scar’s.

“You could’ve asked me,” he says, trying not to sound as petulant as he feels. Trying not to take it personally that Scar hadn’t even known him yet at the time.

Scar’s responding grin is equal parts amused and cynical, raising an eyebrow as he glances sidelong at Grian.

“Would you have come if I asked?”

The question sticks like an uncomfortable barb between Grian’s ribs. He can’t help but immediately think of all the weekend trips, the holiday plans, and the impulsive vacations suggested by Scar that he had deferred and declined, time and time again. Just another facet of his reluctance to commit to any level of their relationship.

Sometimes, it’s a wonder to him that Scar didn’t leave sooner. That he remained as patient and faithful as he had.

He tries not to think about it.

“I never knew you cared about theme parks so much,” Grian says instead, deflecting Scar’s question as they continue to walk. They pass a bronze statue of Walt Disney holding the hand of Mickey Mouse, heading towards the wide avenue that takes them directly through the castle.

“Then you weren’t really listening to me,” Scar replies easily. “I like this park in particular—something about the passion project of one man, you know?” He pauses, their joined hands easily swinging between them as he considers the castle, a large mountain capped in fake snow rearing up to its right, and a lagoon beneath the drawbridge to its left. “I know it’s all a corporate, capitalist mess now, but the thought of having a dream and building it yourself from the ground up…”

He shrugs, the movement of his shoulders feeling a bit sheepish.

“I know that’s silly,” he adds, almost like he’s getting the words out before Grian has a chance to.

Grian doesn’t want it to hurt as much as it does. It stings that Scar doesn’t trust him to not say something cruel. He’s known for his biting sense of humour, sure, and he’s always been a bit of a cynic, but he’s never intentionally turned it on Scar. To think that Scar would ever brace against him… it’s a painful blow to his ego.

“I’ve always liked that you like things,” he finds himself saying softly, the words honest. Scar’s enthusiasm has forever been one of his best qualities. Grian’s always liked that about him.

He likes so many things about him.

In response, Scar smiles, but it’s weak. Like he doesn’t actually believe Grian is offering him anything more than lip service.

The conversation peters out as they walk through the magnificence of the castle. They’re dwarfed by its towers and arches, heads tilting back to admire the architecture swooping above them.

On the other side of the drawbridge it’s like they’re entering into a fairy tale, the area designed to look magical and idyllic, like something pulled straight out of a storybook. There are cobblestone buildings with thatched roofs and painted, wooden shutters, bright banners strung between eaves, flowers sprouting up between sculpted hedges, and hundreds of brass stanchions forming empty queues for motionless rides.

“I wish I knew how to turn them on,” Scar sighs as they pass the ride for Peter Pan, a tattered pirate flag hanging near the entrance. “I don’t think anyone else on earth has had the chance to have the entire park completely to themselves like this.”

“The sounds might attract something,” Grian cautions, still not convinced they’re alone.

Out of the corner of his vision, he sees Scar roll his eyes.

Somewhat condescendingly, Scar says, “I’m just daydreaming.”

Grian feels chided, which seems silly and unfair. However, before he has a chance to let the hurt settle in, Scar gives his hand a squeeze, yanking his attention back up and out of himself.

“Look at that.”

Ahead of them stands an enormous carousel. The biggest one Grian’s ever seen. Dozens of white horses—decked out in brightly painted saddles and regalia, with their legs lifted in spritely steps—prance under a large, pink and blue tent. For a ride that likely sees a lot of traffic, it looks remarkably polished, the figures clean and unscratched. The figures gleam in the sun, gold and sparkling.

It’s stunning. Magical.

“C’mon,” Grian says, nudging Scar with his elbow. “Let’s sit on it. Even if we can’t make it spin.”

For a second, Scar stares at him, something akin to reservation on his face. Almost as if he can’t quite decide whether or not Grian is making fun of him. Then, he smiles, broad and genuine, and Grian winds up following behind Scar as they weave through the empty queue. It prompts a laugh out of him, and that makes Scar laugh in response. It’s unthinkable. They’re in the middle of the apocalypse, in Disneyland, and they’re laughing together. Grian can’t remember the last time they felt like this.

The last time it felt like they were having fun with zero reservations.

“Pick your favourite,” Scar encourages as they step up onto the carousel platform, and Grian nods enthusiastically. He’s attentive to the personality of each and every horse as they weave between them. Finally, he points towards a figure with a radiant mane and a candy-pink bridle caught in its open mouth. Without a moment’s pause, Scar boosts him up, and Grian feels giddy sitting astride the horse. Silly, maybe, but he’s really, truly enjoying himself.

“Are you picking one too?” Grian asks, but Scar is already shaking his head.

“With all the walking we’ve been doing, my joints are aching like crazy. I already pushed it by climbing the gate—don’t wanna go overboard trying to get my leg up over one of these bad boys,” he explains, which makes sense but still feels unfair.

A thought occurs to Grian, then. Impulsive but insistent.

“Wait.”

It’s awkward, but he manages to shift his backpack into his lap and reaches into one of the side pockets. He digs around for a bit and eventually pulls out the disposable camera from the Roswell-adjacent tourist trap. Grian winds the camera, turning towards Scar in order to capture his picture next to the nearest horse—a candid snapshot—but Scar stops him, holding out his hand.

“Here, let me.”

Grian’s heart sinks, Scar’s angry words from just a day or so ago flashing in his mind’s eye. He’d wanted to make a memory for Scar, even if there’s no chance the film will ever be developed. He doesn’t want to be photographed alone. Not then with the cutouts, and not now either. Nevertheless, he hands the camera over to Scar, less excited now that his efforts have been rejected.

Only…

Once in his hands, Scar immediately turns the camera around, holding it as far away as the reach of his arm will allow. He angles his torso, inviting Grian to lean in for the photo.

A picture of the two of them. Together.

Grian tries not to let his emotion show. Tries not to read too much into the gesture, even as his heart races in his chest. He leans in, a surge of happiness filling him in a way he’d forgotten it could.

He smiles and the camera shutter clicks.

Realistically there’s no way the photo will turn out. Even if all the zombies collapsed at the same moment, and the world emerged out on the other side of the outbreak, photo centres would be the last thing on people’s minds as they attempt to rebuild society from the ground up. Grian knows that this image of the two of them, side-by-side despite everything, will likely remain undeveloped on this roll of film forever.

Still. He treasures the idea of it, all the same.

With the mood between them still light, they carry on through the park. The warm afternoon keeps them company, light streaming over them and lending a perfect, postcard appearance to the apocalypse. Scar shows him various points of interest—the spinning tea cups, the miniature storybook boat ride—brimming with stories and bits of trivia that Grian listens to attentively. When they reach the outer facade of It’s A Small World, they stop.

Scar stares in genuine wonder and delight at the display.

At his side, Grian watches him, a fond smile on his face.

It’s incredibly surreal, like something out of a dream. Despite Scar’s earlier suggestion that the park might still have a skeleton crew within it, they remain entirely alone and undisturbed every step of the way. They walk through the stillness, taking in the scenery hand in hand, everything left in-place—every kiosk and popcorn cart sitting patiently on the sides of paths and avenues; every storefront fully dressed and stocked; all of it waiting for the park to reopen and for people to return.

Eventually their exploration runs its course, and they begin to retrace their steps, cutting back through Fantasyland. They walk along the edge of a large, artificial lagoon with a forested island at its centre. A masted sailing ship floats on the calm, glassy waters.

“That’s the Haunted Mansion,” Scar explains when they pass a foreboding looking house sitting on a hill in the midst of a dark and dreary garden. “The house itself is fake, and the ride’s hidden underneath it. They put you in a room and make it look like the ceiling is stretching up, but it’s really an elevator taking you down.”

They pass through a recreation of a New Orleans avenue, and Scar stops to point out a nearly ordinary doorway marked with an inconspicuous 33.

“There’s a really fancy restaurant in there,” he explains. “I couldn’t even pretend to afford it. And the waitlist to get a membership for it is years long.”

“Let’s go in,” Grian insists, sudden and determined. Without waiting for a response, he walks to the door, wrapping his hand around the handle and giving it a push.

It doesn’t budge, which he probably should’ve expected. Instead of giving up, however, he gives it a reproving look before he dips his shoulder down and puts it against the grey-blue door with a rough shove.

Again, nothing happens.

It’s laughable, probably. Definitely. Grian’s not particularly large, and though he’s strong in his own right, he’s certainly not the kind of person that can break down a door simply by pushing on it.

Embarrassment heats his cheeks, but luckily, Scar is sympathetic.

“I don’t think the two of us together could get in there,” he says, humouring Grian if nothing else. “C’mon, let’s leave it a mystery.” Still, he pauses, studying the door for a moment more before he adds, with the kind of optimism that Grian has always rolled his eyes at, “We’ll apply for the waitlist when the world’s gone back to normal. I bet it’ll be way shorter because of, y’know, the tragedy.”

Grian doesn’t want to sully the sentiment. Doesn’t want to insist that he’s reasonably sure there will never be a, ‘back to normal.’ Instead, he gives the door a kick with the toe of his shoe, and turns to Scar with his hands planted on his hips.

“Well, since that dump won’t have us, where are we off to next?”

“I want to see the Enchanted Tiki Room.”

The name sounds preposterous, and absurd, and very Scar—enough so that a bemused smile tugs at the corner of Grian’s lips.

Motioning with a gesture of his hand, he chirps, “Lead on then, Mr. Disney.”

“Please,” Scar teases with a grin. “Mr. Disney was my father. You can call me Mickey.”

“Absolutely not,” Grian snickers, making a face that they both laugh at.

Taking their time, they leave the faux alleys of New Orleans behind. They end up in an area of the park that’s lush and overgrown, like a genuine jungle. The wide footpath is lined with bamboo signposts and awnings overhung with trailing vines. There are sculptures shaped like temple ruins towering above them, with torches and dangling lanterns hanging unlit.

The Enchanted Tiki Room is tucked away unobtrusively, shaded by palm fronds and decorated with wood statues and carvings. Unlike the rest of the rides, there’s no organised, switch-backed queue outside of it. When Scar leads Grian up to the thatched roof building, they’re met by two doors, one of which has been left propped open.

It should be a warning sign, but they step inside anyway, caught up in the enjoyment of the moment.

“It’s dark.”

It’s a statement of the obvious, but funny in its own way. Grian can’t help the little laugh that escapes him. The building they’ve entered doesn’t contain a ride, per say, but outlined in the dim glow of the emergency lightning, he can see rows of benches arranged around a central carved pillar overflowing with flowers. Shapes he can’t identify hang in bunches from the ceiling, too dark to make out.

“Hang on. I’ve got a torch.”

Pulling his backpack under his arm, Grian opens the large, zippered front pouch and roots around until he produces a small flashlight, the one he’d kept on Ariana’s keyring, just in case. It only casts a small glow, but it’s enough illumination for them to get a better glimpse of the room. There are masked carvings on every wall, flowers hanging from the beams overhead, and perches full of still, silent bird statues dangling from the rafters.

“They sing,” Scar explains, reaching up to touch one of the long tail feathers of a red, yellow, and blue macaw. “It was a whole musical animatronic show. The very first of its kind.”

The longing in his voice is palpable, the desire to properly see the thing he’s heard about for years. All at once, Grian wishes they’d come here before everything went wrong. He wishes he’d made time for it. Wishes he’d cared enough to notice how important it was to Scar.

The realisation twists something resolute in his chest, forming a sudden determination to make at least this one sliver of Scar’s dream a reality.

Holding the torch up, he walks further into the room, inspecting the walls and the large columns covered in masks that reach up to the ceiling.

“What are you doing?” Scar asks, fondly curious but clearly confused.

“There’s got to be a button or a switch or something to turn it on,” Grian explains stubbornly. “There are lights on in the streets outside, the world hasn’t gone dark. Surely there’s a way to get this rigamarole started.”

He doesn’t notice it until he steps too close—a back door, clearly intended to be an exit for the audience after the conclusion of the show, also propped open and left ajar.

Through it, one of them—one of those things—is emerging.

He doesn’t have time to properly assess it. The creature is wearing some sort of work uniform, either custodial or maintenance, if Grian had to guess. Scar would know, but there’s no time to ask him. The sleeves on the uniform are twisted up and rolled haphazardly, as if the creature was attempting to tear them off. Their head twitches left and right jerkily, like a predatory animal hunting for its next meal.

Grian makes a noise, a choked gasp of surprise, and suddenly the thing is looking right at him.

It lurches forward the second it spots him, its movements uncoordinated and unhinged, its jaw making an ungodly sound as it clamours for him. It’s only the fortune of Grian’s high-strung nerves that has him falling back, stumbling over his own feet before he manages to catch himself against one of the benches. It should give him a second to assess his options, but in his panic his foot slides on the tile floor, and there’s a moment where he feels his centre of balance shifting, his body made unfamiliar by the weight of the backpack resting on his shoulders.

He knows that if he topples over, the zombie will be on him in seconds, but the low back of the bench gives him nothing to grab onto for purchase. For a second he sees it—his throat torn open, body left mutilated, twisted and torn in a puddle of guts right in the middle of Scar’s most treasured place. Then, out of nowhere, heavy hands are taking hold of his shoulders and straightening him up as Scar pulls him back, dragging him almost effortlessly and manhandling him towards the door of the attraction.

“Grian, run!”

The words are grit out, brokering no argument as Scar shoves Grian forward. Grian’s legs move on their own, driven by fear and instinct, stumbling down the shallow stairs leading into the building, Scar right at his back. With the benefit of his long reach, Scar yanks at the door that had previously been wedged open, slamming it shut behind them, the sound loud in the otherwise complete silence of the park.

Grian just hopes it doesn’t draw the attention of anything else.

“Vacation over,” Scar says, any trace of the delight that had filled him mere moments before completely gone. “Back to the gate. We gotta get out of here.”

They jog fast, urgency making them frantic and every shadow putting them on edge. While Grian had told himself not to let his guard down, it’s obvious to him now how relaxed their day had become in the absence of any immediate danger. Now however, just one creature ambushing them in the margin of an otherwise undisturbed attraction makes the whole park feel abruptly unsafe and contaminated.

Where there’s one zombie, there must be others, he tells himself. This whole time they’ve been wandering through a death trap.

It’s only as they prepare to pass under the rail bridge and through the tunnel that leads to the entrance of the park that Scar slows. Reluctant, he turns his gaze towards an old fashioned fire hall. A dusty pink, brick building festooned in red and white bunting, with an enormous bell on its gabled roof.

“Scar—” Grian feels the hiss of his name boiling in his throat, but Scar waves him off, nodding his head towards the second floor window of the building.

“Do you see that light?” he asks, breathless from their escape.

It’s obvious at a glance, a vintage oil lamp sat in the centre of the window, white lace curtains pulled back on either side of it.

“When Disney used to come here, in the early days of opening the park, he’d have that light lit to let everyone on staff know he was around.”

There’s something in Scar’s tone, grief and sadness; a longing for something he never got to properly experience. It makes Grian’s heart twist in an uncomfortable way.

He wishes things could be different. Wishes he could reach out and comfort Scar in any way that matters.

“We should go,” he hears himself mutter instead, unsympathetic. He’s more curt than he means to be, but the anxiety of the encounter has left him unable to gentle himself.

Scar looks at him and offers a half-quirk of his lips, like somehow that’s exactly what he’d expected Grian to say.

It’s pointless for Grian to explain himself—it’ll only waste time they don’t have. So Grian doesn’t deliberate, giving Scar a tug by the arm instead.

He’ll let Scar believe he’s being intentionally cruel. Just another mark on the tally.

Together, they hasten towards the gates, Scar helping Grian climb back over. When they’re both safe on the other side, he doesn’t move to take Grian’s hand again like he had in the park.

They leave with the sun still high overhead, the sky cloudless and perfect. A pristine kind of day.

The bittersweet unfairness of it sits sour on the back of Grian’s throat.

Walking beside Scar, head stubbornly bowed, his palm feels empty and cold.

Notes:

Just something a little softer after the tension of the last chapter 💜 (Even though it didn't end on the best note HAHA)

Also! Please check out this doodle Lock did of the burning car from last chapter! :D They drew this like last year back in January, when we talked about what we wanted to happen in Chapter 5 for the very first time! Hard to believe we're finally at the posting stage :")

Chapter 7

Notes:

Another batch of amazing fanart!! Seriously, you guys are blowing all our expectations out of the water, we could not be more grateful for the tremendous amount of support ;w; TYSM!! Please give the artists all your love, we're honestly so humbled 💜

Firstly, some moody, beautiful, eye-catching art by i-crave-sleep!

Secondly, great perspective and details by THB!

And finally, glowy, perfectly rendered work by verdantglow!

Thank you three for all the amazing art of Chapter 5! We're thrilled beyond words!! :'D 💫

Leaving Disneyland and the tourist area surrounding it behind doesn’t make things better.

In fact, it makes things worse.

They see them now. Zombies. Wandering aimless and alone, or in disorganised, shambling clusters.

Like a veil has been lifted, suddenly the undead become easy to spot, prowling aimlessly through back allies and across open parking lots. The sheer number of them is a stark contrast to anything they’ve encountered previously, and it puts Scar and Grian on edge as they venture forth.

It’s not that it’s difficult to avoid them—if they cut down side streets and through backyards, or just change directions entirely, by and large the zombies don’t seem to notice them. It’s the anxiety that’s the issue. The tension wiring their jaws shut, and keeping their joints stiff. The fear that lodges itself in their chests, making every movement, every word, feel risky, like glass that could shatter if they handle it wrong. No matter how they try, it’s hard not to worry about when they’ll find a horde they can’t simply back away from.

Scar tries not to be too hard on himself. They’ve been lucky so far, and there’s no reason to believe their luck won’t continue to hold. However, the fact of the matter is that they don’t know how best to keep the zombies from stumbling into their way. Remaining quiet and avoiding being spotted is a given, but can the walking corpses smell them if they get too close? Can they simply sense the difference between the living and the dead in an innate way that Scar can’t hope to comprehend?

When it comes down to it, they’re woefully ill-equipped for confrontation. Just the axe between them, deadly, but not nearly enough.

So they stick close together out of desperation, navigating with care. The few times they’re sighted by one of the undead, they’re able to dodge it without inciting any others in the area. Sometimes Scar wonders if maybe it’s because they’re so early into the apocalypse that things don’t seem so dire yet—wonders if maybe it’s because the zombies have had their fill of the living and are currently sated, that it’s slowed them down and made them nearly passive; not driven by a ravenous hunger and desperation to attack.

It’s impossible to know, he supposes. A foolish curiosity. He needs to stop letting himself daydream. Stop searching for a silver lining when there isn’t one.

He focuses, and their progress remains cautious and careful. Safe, but too slow. Every detour they make eats up precious daylight, and as the high sun of the afternoon crawls towards evening, the realisation that they have nowhere safe to stay the night sits heavy in the silence between them.

The silence.

That’s yet another issue for them to contend with.

While Scar understands the need for quiet while sneaking past ghouls, there are so many open stretches of time that they could fill with conversation if only Grian would simply talk to him. It doesn’t have to be anything special, he’s not looking to relitigate the details of their breakup, or debate why Grian made the decisions he chose to make. Scar just wants something to keep his mind off the constant dread, a distraction as they push through these interminable infested areas, searching for somewhere safe to stay.

He tries not to read too far into Grian’s reticence—a quiet that feels both stubborn and unfair. It’s a problem Scar can’t find a solution for, his softball conversation starters met with simple, single word replies, and his more probing questions ignored altogether.

He’s not used to this. Not used to things being this complicated with Grian. It throws into sharp relief the fact that he’s no longer with his Grian anymore. That Grian, the Grian he loved—the Grian he was building his life with—no longer exists in the same way he once did. The Grian walking at his side is a person made of decisions and actions Scar never would have ascribed to him. Would have sworn he was better than.

Pointlessly, Scar thinks about a version of himself that exists in a timeline where the world never fell to pieces. He thinks about a real breakup. A proper breakup. The kind where he would have meticulously scrubbed Grian from every inch of his life. That version of him could’ve chosen to reach out to the people he loved and trusted. To grieve properly. He’d have had the option to take all the time he needed to work through his betrayal, his anger, and eventually his acceptance.

That Scar would’ve had the ability to move on, in time. Not better for the experience, but grateful for the lessons it taught him.

A part of him hates that, instead, he and Grian have been forced to remain together. It leaves Scar unable to process what has happened, mourn what he’s lost, or even share his pain with a sympathetic ear. Rather, he’s made to relieve the reality of their situation over and over again, sharing every second with the person who hurt him the most he’s ever been hurt, continually scraping the wound raw so that it never has a chance to scab.

Yet, reluctantly, another part of him knows for a fact that he couldn’t do this without Grian at his side. Wielding the axe, forging ahead, making the judgement calls that need to be made.

A traitorous, pathetic, needy part of Scar is so, so glad Grian’s here. More than anyone else on earth. No matter what he’s done.

“It’s nice that they don’t seem all that interested in us,” he remarks, attempting yet again to bridge the dead air between them.

Grian startles slightly, pulled out of his own thoughts, glancing first at Scar, and then looking further down the street. They’re at a large intersection, stop lights blinking red overhead. Two blocks ahead, they can see several zombies wandering together, aimless and oblivious to their passing.

“Yeah…” he replies, dragging the syllable out as though he’s unconvinced. “I’d still feel better with a solid steel wall between them and us. Or at least another weapon or two in hand.”

“Oh yeah?” Scar asks, raising an eyebrow, relieved to finally have some conversation going to distract him from the tangled knot of his emotions. “You’ve already got that axe—what are you in the market for next? Tire iron? Machete? Bullwhip?”

“I was thinking just a good old fashioned gun,” Grian admits, hurrying his steps so they can get out of the zombies’ line of sight on the off-chance they spot them across the distance. Scar follows after him, sticking close. “Maybe two guns, actually. And a third in reserve.”

“In reserve? What are you saving it for, a rainy day?”

Caught up in the complacency of the conversation, Grian responds without thinking.

“Saving it for marriage, of course.”

They both hear it, but it’s impossible to take it back once said. It’s too soon to be joking about anything broaching the subject of a relationship, much less marriage. Not when that’s something Scar had once professed to dreaming about, and Grian had waved it off. And not when the easiest retort would be for Scar to remind Grian that he couldn’t be trusted to save anything for anyone.

Taking a deep breath, Scar works against himself to tramp down on the angry, spiralling thoughts that kick up in the back of his head. He’d wanted a conversation, he reminds himself, and he’s not about to give that up over one ill-timed comment. He can’t afford to foster any more animosity between them, not now.

Grian wasn’t being intentionally cruel, he reminds himself. He was just careless.

“I think that’s called a shotgun wedding,” Scar offers with an awkward smile, watching the tension visibly drain from Grian’s shoulders, followed by a small, relieved tremble of laughter.

The topic lapses as they face another intersection, this one completely blocked by abandoned vehicles. A pile-up of cars driven recklessly into one another, windshields shattered, and doors twisted inwards or thrown open as if in a hasty exit. Crushed glass litters the street, snarled bits of metal and torn fibreglass spreading out from the accident’s centre, around which more vehicles have been left, abandoned seemingly at random.

A memory pings in the back of his mind, the wreckage familiar in a way that makes his stomach swoop and clench. Unconsciously, Scar rubs at the old, faded marks hidden under the sleeves of his shirt, his hand slowly drifting up to his face and tracing over the aging cuts left across the bridge of his nose and through his right brow. He catches himself and shakes his head, dispelling the thoughts.

They weave their way through the cars and don’t talk about what’s inside of them. Bodies torn apart in ways that’ll be imprinted in Scar’s mind forever. Limbs left in pieces. A few of the corpses have turned, but remain strapped in by their seatbelts, clawing at air as he and Grian pass. It sends a full-body shudder through Scar’s system, a queasiness that sits like a rock in his gut.

“Maybe it’s better that we couldn’t bring the car this far,” he says, testing the subject as he helps Grian over the wrecked remains of a pickup truck. He tries not to look at the blood splattered across what remains of the seats and windshield. It’s toeing the line of argument territory, but maybe it’ll annoy Grian enough to make him keep a discussion going. “There’s no way we could’ve driven through this.”

Unfortunately, as a conversation starter, it fails to work. Grian makes a face but doesn’t disagree, and Scar decides to throw in the towel.

Together they press on, wordless.

It’s late afternoon when Scar starts to feel it—the telltale warning he’s been dreading ever since they first registered something was going wrong with the world. The muscles running down his leg and up into his hip ache, and his joints begin to hurt like they do before a flare-up.

Resolutely, he keeps it to himself. Not wanting Grian’s irritation or panic.

It’s not easy, but the walk is far from the most difficult thing Scar has ever had to do. They follow the main through-ways out of the city—the highway arteries of six lanes intended for rush hour traffic and heavy commuting. It’s eerie, experiencing the world like this. No passing cars, no sirens, no construction. Scar longs for an impatient honk, or a frenzied alarm.

Not for the first time, his thoughts wander to where everyone else has gone. There are zombies as far as the eye can see, more than he can count, but it doesn’t escape him that they’ve still yet to see signs of even a single living survivor.

What happened during the two short days they spent driving alone through the desert? Had everyone else escaped? Are they in some undisclosed location? He can’t help but wonder if any of the buildings they’ve passed were filled with survivors, hidden away for their own safety, holding their breath and desperately hoping not to attract attention.

He dreads the thought that maybe they’re it. That he and Grian now live in a world where they’re the only ones left. Scar swallows down the nausea that accompanies that panicked thought, physically shaking his head to clear it, focusing instead on simply placing one foot in front of the other.

They’re passing a golf course, tall palm trees and Italian cypress surrounding immaculate greens, when Grian speaks up, surprising Scar by being the one to break the silence for a change.

“Would you rather grass, or mushrooms?”

Bewildered, but desperate to have something distract his thoughts, Scar repeats, “Mushrooms?”

Lengthening his stride to fall in step with Scar, Grian hums in assent, arms swinging as he walks.

“Like, instead of blades of grass there’s hundreds of mushrooms?”

“No, they’re tall. Like trees. Red caps with the white spots, flat brown ones, little purple-y ones near the ground—like in books.”

Scar doesn’t know what kind of books Grian’s been reading.

“Tree-sized mushrooms?” he echoes.

Grian nods. “Versus grass.”

“Just grass? No weeds or hedges or—”

“Just grass.”

Scar takes a moment to consider the options. He can tell that Grian assumes the choice is obvious—that no one in their right mind would take plain, uninspired grass over the wonders of a mushroom forest. There’s certainly only one easy answer.

“I’d take the grass.”

Beside him, Grian makes a sound of disbelief, as much genuinely perplexed as he is disgusted. “You’re kidding. Why?”

“I like the simplicity. It’s like a blank canvas,” Scar insists, smiling at Grian’s utterly predictable reaction. “Besides that, it’s a nice lawn, easy to maintain… even better if you get one of those rider-mowers, y’know? Sit back and let it do the work for you. Nothing better than that. The American dream.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not the American dream,” Grian protests.

“Well it’s better than some Alice in Wonderland mushroom forest situation,” Scar argues, grinning. “Big mushrooms towering up all over the place, wafting their spores, putting mycelium in the dirt. Nothing appealing about that, if you ask me. It’s the kind of thing that should be outlawed.”

Grian shakes his head, utterly unconvinced, and Scar’s heart squeezes with fond familiarity. This is the Grian he knows—the Grian he fell in love with. The one with unpredictable taste and vehemently strong opinions.

The one who never cheated on him. Or put an axe through a zombie’s skull.

“My turn,” Scar says, and Grian looks up at him, waiting. “A dishevelled, dramatic, ragamuffin of a man has wandered into your city and declared himself king. Would you rather join his side as a knight, or fight in the resistance rising up against him?”

“Is it too predictable if I choose resistance?” Grian asks.

“It is,” Scar replies, chuckling, and Grian groans dramatically in response.

“Ideally I’d just stay out of it, I think. Putting up a resistance is harder than it used to be, these days.”

“I’d join the knights,” Scar responds, matter of fact. “The pay’s gotta be good working for royalty, right? Imagine the riches!”

As expected, Grian rolls his eyes. “It’s always money with you. Say there was a civil war, would you rather—”

“War profiteering, easy.”

“I wasn’t even done the question yet!” Grian exclaims, and laughter bubbles up in Scar’s chest.

It’s easy. A lighthearted conversation without any high stakes. Scar is grateful for the distraction, a slice of normalcy in what’s been one world-shattering event after another. Walking side by side with no heaviness between them… Scar feels nostalgic for a simpler time. He knows it makes him more forgiving than he should be, but he can’t help it. He’s always been a sucker this way. Especially when it comes to Grian.

They play the game for hours, trading hypothetical either-ors while they head north along abandoned roads. They avoid zombies when they see them, giving the dead a respectful distance when their bodies lay in the way. The sun is barely a finger above the horizon when Grian finally heaves a breath, dredging weariness up from the soles of his feet as he says, “That’s enough for today. We need to hunker down for the night.”

It’s not as easy as it sounds. They’re in a commercial area entirely made of strip malls, retail outlets, and storage units, with huge sprawls of asphalt parking lots taking up the majority of the space. Some of the businesses show signs of forced entry and looting, glass windows smashed and electronics pulled out of displays. However they don’t see any signs of zombies, which comes as a relief after hours and miles of avoiding them.

It’s nice to have one less thing to worry about.

“That storage unit might have a staff room,” Scar suggests, nodding towards the business across the corner from where they’re standing. “Bars on all the windows. Maybe a fridge and running water inside, if we’re lucky.”

Grian considers it, rubbing his jaw as he looks at the building, a single storey standing alone on its lot, with a tall cinder block wall running around its perimeter.

“It’s not a bad idea,” he admits, which is as close to a compliment as Scar is ever going to get.

“If we get bored we can smash some locks. Play ‘Price Is Right’ with people’s treasures and trinkets,” Scar offers, attempting to sweeten the pot.

“People’s useless tat, more like,” Grian counters, but it’s clear he’s in favour of Scar’s suggestion anyhow.

Together, they cross the centre of the abandoned intersection, traffic lights obediently changing from red to green for no one. The front gate of the building is closed, but with a little brute force they manage to pry it open.

Ultimately, the storage unit doesn’t offer them much. When they finally get inside, abandoning their attempt to force the lock and simply smashing a window, they find the front lobby empty and useless. The reception desk has nothing of interest on it, just an old computer with a bulky monitor, and a phone without a dial tone when they lift it off its cradle.

Scar seeks out the staff room at the end of a short hall, the door opening into a small space with a thin slit of a window high up on one wall. There’s a sink and a sliver of counter beneath it, which is promising, along with an aged fridge covered in takeout menus and hand-written betting pools for every sport imaginable. The centre of the room is occupied by a table with four plastic-backed chairs. There’s no couch to crash on, but there is a door marked as a washroom, and most exciting of all—

“Grian,” Scar says, careful not to raise his voice too much as he speaks. “You’re gonna want to see this.”

Grian’s steps approach quickly, not quite at a run but understanding the urgency in his tone. There’s a second where he stands in silence at Scar’s side, and then he bursts out with a loud, excited exclamation.

“This is the best day of my life.”

It’s a sight for sore eyes—placed right next to each other against the furthest wall: a fully stocked vending machine, and an automated coffee station.

Grian has crossed the room before Scar can get another word out. There’s a stack of styrofoam cups next to the coffee machine and Grian puts one in place, crouching slightly so he can figure out the buttons.

“Scar, if this works…” he trails off in anticipation, the LCD panel flashing green. Something whirs inside the machine, a grinding that doesn’t sound like a malfunction, and a moment later hot coffee is dispensing into the cup.

Delighted, Grian shouts, and it’s hard not to get swept up in his enthusiasm. There’s always been an infectiousness to Grian’s good moods, and it’s no different now even with all the new complications between them. When the machine finishes brewing, Scar takes a step forward as Grian picks up the cup.

“Well?” Scar asks, apprehension colouring his tone while he watches Grian blow on the liquid and cautiously takes his first sip. “How is it?”

“Oh,” Grian sighs, blissful, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “It’s awful.” He beams at Scar, his smile radiant in a way that’s uniquely his. “And it’s the best I’ve ever had.”

They hastily brew Scar his own cup of truly mediocre, watery coffee, and together take a moment to simply enjoy the first warm caffeine they’ve had in days. It feels like bonding—a threshold of endurance they’ve now passed together and get to celebrate. They share their drinks in silence, companionable and grinning at one another between sips.

Eventually, once their cups are empty and the novelty of a warm drink has settled down, they return to assessing the situation, both of them slightly more clear-headed in focus. Together, they inspect the remainder of the building, ultimately determining that it doesn’t have much to boast for itself. Outside the staff room the hall splits—one direction leading to the front door and reception, and the other ending in two doorways. The first opens into a small janitor closet that contains a mop, a bucket, and a vacuum. The other leads into what Scar assumes was the manager’s office. Inside is a desk, several filing cabinets, a stubby potted palm, and a pair of beige armchairs.

“Oh my god,” Grian exclaims, shrugging his backpack off his shoulders and dropping it to the floor, nearly throwing himself on one of the seats and relaxing into the upholstery. “Finally. Something comfortable for a change.”

Scar doesn’t want the drama of any hair-splitting. Doesn’t want to point out that up until last night, Grian had been sleeping cozy, curled up in the backseat of his car with plenty of room to spare. The backseat he’d cheated with another man in. So he says nothing and lets the moment pass.

The chairs aren’t large enough for either of them to sleep on, but they have cushions that they can collect to take back to the staff room. Scar almost reminds Grian not to forget his things, but stops himself as he imagines Grian’s sigh, the exaggerated roll of his eyes, and the tone he’d use, saying, ‘I’m not five, Scar. Don’t nanny me.’

Instead, as Grian leaves the room, Scar turns his attention to the office window. With some measure of trepidation, glances cautiously through the lowered blinds.

The storage units themselves are outside, constructed out of cinder blocks with orange aluminium roll-up doors in orderly rows, walled in on all sides. Large spotlights mounted to the edge of the building illuminate the lanes running between the lockers. In the growing dark they cast off-kilter, overlapping shadows that send a shiver down Scar’s spine. Still, from his vantage point there doesn’t seem to be any sign of movement—neither from the living or the dead. The confirmation that they’re alone doesn’t necessarily ease the anxious clench pressing into his chest, but it does offer him a sliver of reassurance.

The illusion of safety.

Alone, he paces the manager’s room, inspecting the cluttered surface of the desk and finding nothing remarkable about any of it. He feels like a voyeur, peering into someone else’s life—the timetables and schedules of employees he’ll never know; the client contracts left unsigned; the sticky notes with phone numbers and lunch orders. He’s not sure what he thought he’d find. The office is mundane and ordinary in every way. Just another relic of a world that no longer exists.

Feeling a touch melancholy, Scar leaves it, returning to the staff room.

He’s not expecting the sight that greets him: Grian, grinning from ear to ear, sitting at the small lunch table. In front of him lies nearly the entire contents of the vending machine, spread out in an organised arrangement.

“What in the world…” Scar begins, but Grian cuts him off with a bursting eagerness.

“It’s a buffet!”

He seems incredibly proud of himself, and Scar again feels the infectiousness of his enthusiasm, an automatic smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. Setting his share of the couch pillows next to his bag, he allows Grian to draw a chair out for him. Almost as soon as he sits, Grian is excitedly shoving a selection of vending machine foods in his direction.

“Look at this! Ramen, instant oatmeal, apple chips, even miso! Must’ve been a real health-conscious kinda crowd.”

They’ve been eating the same gas station fare for days. The same granola bars, beef jerky, and chocolate bars. It’s not that he’s unappreciative of having food to eat, but the additional options make his mouth water. The vending machine’s contents aren’t decadent, but it’s enough to feel like a novelty. Even the different brands of chips strike Scar as exciting, something he’s not sure he would have noticed before the end of the world.

“How did you—how much did this cost you?”

“Scar,” Grian chides, rolling his eyes in a light-hearted way that doesn’t feel mean. “I don’t think we’re ever going to have to pay for anything anymore, buddy.” He holds up a hand, fingers splayed wide. “Five finger discount, right? Well, five fingers and the back of the chair I used to smash the glass.”

That startles a burst of laughter out of Scar, which in turn makes Grian grin bright and wide, eyes twinkling in that mischievous way of his. Scar sees it now—or, doesn’t see it, rather. The glass that had previously been a part of the vending machine is broken into large fragments, all of them swept carefully aside into a corner of the room. Lost in thought down the hall, Scar must’ve been too far to hear the moment it shattered.

“Oh! And one more surprise,” Grian adds, perking up before he proudly slides a proper ceramic mug across the table. “I found it drying in the sink,” he explains. “I figured you’d get a kick out of it.”

Scar turns it around on the table, revealing the graphic printed on its side. It’s a silhouette outline of Disneyland, the castle bookended by a set of large mouse ears. The words ‘#1 Boss’ are printed on it in curvy lettering.

It’s impossible not to crack a smile at it, and Scar doesn’t fight the urge, letting his delight show. It’s clearly the reaction Grian was seeking, because he beams and then, satisfied, he turns back to the food on the table. Picking up a mini sleeve of sandwich cookies, Grian opens the bag and dumps them all out in front of them.

“By the way, I checked the bathroom and there’s no shower, but I still want to try and scrub off in the sink later. I figured you’d probably want to as well.” He sounds organised and pragmatic, confidently in charge of the moment. His actions don’t match up, busy as he is in scraping the icing off each cookie in some effort to create one large, incredibly thick, cream filling. It strikes Scar as amusing, like they’re kids out camping, and not adults surviving an apocalyptic nightmare.

Working together they find an electric kettle under the sink and boil water, making a cup of instant noodles each. The end result is far too salty and the shrimp flavour is terrible, but after days of potato chips it’s still the best thing Scar thinks he’s ever tasted. They share in Grian’s cookie concoction for dessert, passing on another round of coffee in favour of hot chocolate, which the coffee maker also produces. It’s tasty, if a little gritty.

After they’ve eaten their fill, they portion off what they can take with them and what they should save for the morning. Satisfied with their preparations, Scar and Grian take turns in the bathroom, doing their best to wash their hair in the sink with hand-soap, and clean off using wads of damp paper towel. Scar watches as the water swirls down the drain with some measure of relief. He doesn’t feel entirely clean—not in the way a proper shower and scrub would allow—but he’s no longer covered in dry sweat and dirt, so he’ll take it as a win.

He finishes up in the bathroom in time to find Grian padding out their slapdash bed of stolen couch cushions with the few extra items of clothes they have. It’s nothing to write home about, but it’s better than sleeping flat on the ground. Grian looks at him as Scar closes the bathroom door. He smiles apologetically while folding his sweater into a makeshift pillow.

“It’s not glamorous, but it’ll get the job done.” Grian sits up on his knees, hands on his hips and inspecting his creation. “I think it’ll fit us both with a squeeze.”

Obviously Grian doesn’t mean anything by it, but the idea of sleeping next to him makes Scar feel suddenly ill. He doesn’t know if he’s ready for that, even if it’s strictly for survival’s sake.

“We should probably still sleep in shifts,” he says instead, hoping Grian can’t hear the aversion in his tone.

It’s a foolish hope, because Grian’s always been able to read him at a glance. The smile on his face immediately turns downwards, an embarrassed flush rising to his cheeks, even while he keeps his expression carefully schooled. When Scar doesn’t look away, Grian does, breaking eye contact, shame-faced.

“Right,” he manages at last, hands clenching tight in the folded sweater he’d been shaping. “That’s smart. Good idea, Scar.”

Quick and casual, before the moment can spin into something any more awkward than it needs to be, Scar offers, “I’ll go first.”

He can see the subtle twist in Grian’s countenance, the twitch of his lips that accuses, ‘You always take the first shift,’ like he does it with some sort of agenda. However, instead of arguing, Grian simply nods in one sharp, jerky motion.

Scar doesn’t press it, taking it for the concession it is.

They’re both too tired to fight. Scar, especially, can feel the aggravation of his usual symptoms, inflamed and prescient in the back of his mind. He’s always been an athletic guy, and his diagnosis had never stopped him from pursuing all the avenues of exercise still available to him, but he’s found that in balancing both his enjoyment and his health, he’s achieved a better understanding of his body than most. His next flare-up is looming, and he can already tell that it’s going to be a bad one. He can only hope that, when it finally happens, they’re somewhere safe enough to comfortably wait it out.

Not that they’ll have much say in the matter.

Whatever the case, he won’t impress the situation by worrying. They’re both exhausted—neither of them used to having to travel by foot for such long distances. He’s got callouses on his callouses, but he knows there’s nothing to do but continue pushing along for the sake of their survival. Scar’s not blind to the fact that this moment of security is a rare gift.

He doesn’t intend to squander it.

While Grian settles down, Scar drags one of the break room chairs over to the door, taking his place by it for his watch. Across the room, Grian lays curled up alone on the makeshift bed. Neither of them says goodnight, and the silence wraps awkwardly around them in a way Scar can’t begin to fix.

In the blue-shadowed gloom, the spotlights outside filtering in through the high window, Scar watches Grian shift restlessly. He lays first on one side, and then the other, a consistent rustle in the dark as he shuffles back and forth.

It’s just over half an hour before Grian finally breaks, sighing out his frustration and muttering miserably, “It’s cold.”

He’s right. The air conditioner hasn’t yet been affected by the apocalypse, and they can hear the hiss of it filtering in from the vents overhead.

“I can’t sleep when it’s cold,” Grian adds, miserable.

Scar is intimately familiar with this. He’s spent countless nights sweating in a room kept stifling while Grian slept soundly beside him. He also knows that maintaining his integrity would be the right thing to do here. One of them needs to stand watch. One of them is nursing a broken heart. One of them is the person who carelessly broke that heart.

But if Scar’s being honest… he’s tired, too. Weary right down to his bones. A fatigue that’s been creeping in since the moment they let themselves into the staff room, making his eyelids heavy and his mind sluggish. He could fall asleep in a minute if given the chance.

Across the room, he hears Grian shifting around on the cushions again, followed by another sigh. His mind is made up. Scar’s knees protest, a little sore as he gets up from the seat and crosses the floor, aching even worse when he bends down. He braces one hand on the linoleum before he lowers himself into a crouch, and then, resting his weight on his elbow, he finally settles next to Grian on the tiny bed on the ground.

“C’mere, G.”

It slips out of him naturally, a fond nickname he hasn’t said in days. He holds his arm out in the dark, and after a second of hesitation Grian tucks himself into it, pressing inward until his back settles against Scar’s chest.

It twists something impossibly knotted up and messy in Scar’s core. The intimacy of it mixing with the heartache. He tries to push down how much he’s missed this, how much it hurts, and how reluctant he is to fall back into familiar patterns.

His arm drapes around Grian’s waist. Bundled as he is in his extra layers, Scar’s body heat seeps steadily into the curl of Grian’s body.

“Better?” he asks, words mumbled into the damp tangle of Grian’s hair, still wet from the sink and smelling of cheap, lemon hand soap.

It takes a moment for him to get a reply. Grian’s hand tentatively settles on his wrist before he pulls Scar’s arm tighter around him and nods, his head tucked under Scar’s chin.

They lay there, breathing evenly in the dark. Scar can feel himself drifting, beginning to nod off with Grian in his arms. It’s complicated, but he’s too drained to think about it any deeper. Reluctantly he admits that there’s comfort in the normalcy of it. Familiarity in the face of all the uncertainty surrounding them.

Pressed back into his chest, Grian sighs, gentle, his thumb running slowly back and forth along Scar’s knuckles.

He’s nearly asleep, limbs heavy and thoughts slow when he feels it, subtle but intentional.

Grian’s hips pressing back into the cradle of his pelvis.

It’s not displeasing, but it does take him by surprise. Consciousness snaps back into him as Grian breathes out heavy in the dark, pressing back more intentionally, his squirming unmistakable.

Firmly, Scar settles a hand on Grian’s waist, freezing him in place. He’s too tired to make a scene. Not interested in hearing Grian try to explain himself. Not wanting the inevitable fight that would ensue.

“Get some sleep,” he mumbles into the wisps of Grian’s hair, arm clasped tight around him and putting an end to his movements. He can feel the tension in Grian’s shoulders, can sense the fear and frustration he feels at rejection, but Scar is simply too exhausted to care.

In another breath he’s drifted off, falling into a heavy, dreamless sleep, leaving Grian to churn over his own restless emotions by himself in the dark.

Notes:

That's all for now! :3 But in case you're still in a reading mood, feel free to check out a Valentine's Day Scarian fic Lock and I posted this week if you haven't already! 💟💞 It's an entirely different mood because it's very much got that chill Hermitcraft vibe, but it was a pleasure to write all the same! :D (Definitely a nice exercise in reminding ourselves what Scar and Grian are like without the "Trauma and Angst™" HAHA)

Chapter 8

Notes:

Starting with some gorgeous, new fanart from THB! Loving the desert vibes in this, tysm once again! ;w; 💜

As for the chapter ahead, there's a bit of a CONTENT WARNING necessary for this one!

If you have any common triggers or are a minor, please skip to the end notes before proceeding for spoilers on what to expect.

Grian wakes up alone.

For a moment he enjoys it, wrapped in his blanket, warm. The familiar smell of coffee wafts into the bedroom, along with the sounds of Scar rummaging around in the kitchen. He hopes Scar’s making him breakfast in bed. He hopes it’s waffles.

He stretches, languid as his spine uncurls, and his feet fall off the end of the mattress and drag along the linoleum.

He frowns, eyes still shut against the morning light. His bed’s never been that short. Neither has Scar’s.

He doesn’t think it’s B’s…

The movement in the kitchen is loud. Far too aggressive to simply be seeking out measuring cups and flour. It feels all wrong in his chest, his heart pounding as the soft, cozy illusion of a lazy morning dissipates in an instant.

His eyes snap open to the sight of drop ceiling tiles and lines of tubular fluorescent bulbs.

He’s not at home.

An instinct he doesn’t know keeps him still. A prickling up the back of his brain telling him to remain quiet. He’s not safe right now.

He knows where he is, at least. Laying on a bed made out of couch cushions on the floor of a staff room in a southern California storage unit. He fell asleep full and safe and clean, with Scar’s chest pressed warm against his back. He slept deep and dreamless.

Something outside the room makes a loud banging sound.

Carefully, by inches, he turns his head, looking left towards the door.

Green eyes meet his, dark circles smudged beneath them. They’re wide with an emotion Grian immediately recognises.

Fear.

The clattering outside continues, and with a slow motion Scar raises a hand to his lips, laying a finger across them, signalling silence. He’s crouched next to the door, holding the doorknob with his other hand, tension wired tight into every line of his body.

Warily, bit by bit, Grian sits up as Scar continues to brace the door, more aware than ever of the absence of a lock. Their eyes never leave one another. It’s all too clear what’s outside, now. The disorganised, aimless banging, the shuffle of careless movement…

It’s a zombie. Maybe more than one.

Internally Grian curses himself, immediately regretting their reckless decision making yesterday. Any number of mistakes could’ve led to their current predicament—breaking the window, not ensuring the gate was locked, the fact that they fell asleep together instead of in shifts, secure in their seclusion. They practically begged for this, inviting the shambling corpses in with open arms.

There’s no window in the door, no way to tell what’s outside of it or how near. They don’t know if it’s just the one undead creature that’s wandered in on its own, or if it’s part of a large, dispersed horde.

With careful movements, Grian bends his knees and slowly pushes his feet back into his shoes. Then, in that same, slow, trepidatious manner, he crawls over to Scar, mirroring his gesture as he holds his finger up to his lips.

It’s a stilted pantomime as they motion out how long the zombie has been there, and how many Scar thinks there are. With some fumbling of hand gestures, Grian gathers that the noise has been going on for the better part of twenty minutes, and that it’s steady but seems contained. Most likely actions of an individual, rather than that of a group.

What they’re going to do about it is another debate, and this one is less clear in its verdict. Their supplies are scattered, carelessly left strewn about with the assumption that they’d have the luxury of a leisurely morning to get themselves together. Grian’s bag—and the axe—is still in the office, where he put it down in order to test out the armchairs. He curses himself internally, upset at his oversight. He let his guard down. He was supposed to be careful, and he’d let the illusion of safety set them up for failure.

He knows they’re at an extreme disadvantage if it comes down to a fight. Without a proper weapon, they’ll have to go hand-to-hand with the infectious creature, and that’s a risk they simply can’t take.

Their only option is to run for it and hope for the best, but to do that they’ll have to abandon the majority of their supplies…

Grian could start to pack what they have here with them, but there’s no guarantee they’ll be able to do it without alerting the zombie. And even then, Grian’s not confident the additional baggage won’t make any attempt to escape too encumbered. Their best case scenario is if the zombie wanders past the offices and into one of the other rooms down the hall—that way they could secure their things and make a run around the corner towards the exit.

He stops himself from thinking about what will come after—what they’ll find outside and how they’ll overcome any obstacles. He tries not to imagine the parking lot overrun with zombies. His self-flagellation is at an all-time high, angry about the pointless risk they took, how they left gates open and smashed windows with impunity, confident they were safe.

The thumping outside the door continues, aimless in its trajectory. Then, suddenly, the door knob rattles.

Grian’s mouth goes dry.

Without a word, Scar gestures with the hand not keeping the door held firmly in place. He motions for Grian to get his pack and to load up as much of the supplies as he can. It’ll be dicey, but there’s no time to hem and haw over what they want to keep and what they want to toss. Methodically, Grian chooses the things that’ll keep the longest and are the most filling.

Suddenly the ramen and miso aren’t as exciting anymore.

He realises, dimly, that his hands are shaking. When he’s done cramming what food he can fit into Scar’s bag, he edges towards the bathroom for the few things he left on the counter when they’d cleaned up the night before. His throat feels thick with emotion. It’s unfair. It’s so fucking unfair. He’s already lost so much, and he has to give up the little he has left?

He picks through things as fast as he can without making a noise. Minutes feel like hours and every rustle or errant clatter feels like a siren alarm. Finally, he eases the pack onto his shoulders and returns to Scar, crouched low and nodding wordlessly to signal his readiness.

They wait, listening and gathering their courage, neither wanting to move, but knowing they have no choice.

The shuffling sound continues, aimlessly pacing and directionless as feet drag and a shoulder bumps against the wall. They have no way to control the situation—no way to goad the zombie, and no way to direct its attention. The best they can do is bide their time, concentrating on the sound of thumps and shuffling. They hear the creature draw close, closer, until the fumbling slides across the door, and then it’s passed, the sound distinctly disappearing up the bend in the hall.

They don’t know where it goes after that.

Grian hopes it’s not about to simply turn around.

Scar looks at him, waiting for his assent, and despite every fibre of Grian’s being telling him not to do it—to wait, even though he knows that’s only inviting the situation to worsen, that inevitably more ghouls will drift in and make what’s already difficult, nigh impossible—Grian nods, quick and tight as he pulls himself into a half-stand and braces.

Not wasting any more time, Scar swings the door open and springs forward. Immediately, Grian starts towards the office, hoping to at least grab the axe, but before he can bolt Scar throws a hand across his chest, blocking his movement. Grian scowls, but Scar merely points to his ears, mouth clamped shut, and bitterly Grian takes a moment to listen. His heart sinks, stomach twisting at the sounds of shuffling in the room where he knows all his possessions lay.

He has no choice but to leave them. Even their one good weapon.

With the energy of the moment considerably subdued, together they creep down the hall towards the front entrance. They keep their shoulders pressed against the wall, attempting to stay small and keep their footsteps quiet.

The reception is empty, which floods Grian’s body with more relief than he knew he could feel at one time. The only door still remains locked shut, but the broken window shows signs of entry, tattered strips of cloth and shreds of rotted flesh clinging to the jagged edges of glass where the ghoul had hauled itself in. Yet again, Grian chastises himself for his oversight. He should’ve been more careful. If something had happened to them while he was asleep—if something had happened to Scar—

They don’t have time for his spiraling now. Checking over his shoulder, Scar keeps watch while Grian scrambles with the deadbolts. He yanks the door open once he twists the locks free, and the pair of them rush out side by side, springing from the darkness and into the too-bright California morning.

The light is overwhelming after the dark of the staff room, and the halo of the sun’s glare blinds Grian as his eyes struggle to adjust. It forces him to squint, hand instinctively reaching out to find Scar’s, the other raising to shield his eyes.

“Grian,” Scar says, clipped—urgent—and that’s all Grian needs to hear to start sprinting, blindly following Scar as he waits for his sight to return.

Together, they run.

Dimly, Grian can tell they’re skirting the edge of the building, heading away from the gate they’d originally come through. He doesn’t stop to ask questions; doesn’t hesitate to trust Scar’s judgement. Rows of storage lockers line the driveway to their left, single-lane avenues between them barely wide enough for a trailer to pass through. Scar mutters something Grian can’t hear, and then they veer left. Scar presses his shoulders flush back against the stippled concrete wall, and Grian quickly follows suit.

“There were four,” Scar pants, drawing quick, rapid breaths after their mad-dash. “At the gate. We can’t get out that way.”

“Maybe there’s a back exit,” Grian suggests, shoulders prickling in pain from the impact on the textured concrete behind him. The adrenaline and the fear makes him feel light and manically clear-headed, like he’s never been more alive. “An alley gate or something, y’know?”

Scar looks at him, considering, then draws in a deep breath and nods.

“Stay close,” he instructs, and Grian doesn’t need to be told twice. There’s an easy synchronicity to their movements, like somehow this is how they’ve always been, working together and trusting each other’s actions. Swept up in the high of his endorphins, Grian thinks they make a perfect team.

They creep along the wall, risking a glance down the avenue before they make another rush, heading deeper into the rows of storage units.

There’s no noises following at their heels, no guttural groans or growling to alert them, but that doesn’t mean they’re safe. Grian’s hands twitch as he thinks of the axe left propped up by his backpack in the office, wishing he had the shred of protection it afforded them. He presses himself close to Scar instead, the two of them moving towards the back of the lot on silent feet, hoping for an exit. A door; a dumpster they can climb over; an escape of any kind.

Instead, they’re met with a seven-foot high brick wall with a loop of barbed wire running along the top. Impractical. Unscalable.

Trapped.

“What’ll we do?” Panic creeps into the edge of Grian’s voice, an anxiety rising within him that he can’t simply push aside.

Stubbornly, Scar stares hard at the wall, expression inscrutable. Then he turns, quick, to face Grian.

“What’ve you got in your pockets?”

The question catches him entirely off guard, prickling an instinctive guilt that slithers up his spine—the result of one too many close calls from the life they lived before the world fell apart. The secrets Grian had kept hidden away on purpose, for no other reason than because he knew he could.

He pushes his shoulders up, immediately defensive. “What are you talking about?”

“Your pockets, Grian,” Scar repeats, firm, commanding. “What’ve you got? Empty them.”

Grian can’t help but feel like he’s being reprimanded. Caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. His cheeks flush hot as he glares at Scar, uncomprehending.

“I’m not carrying an escape hatch with me, Scar—”

“Bobby pins,” Scar snaps, clearly losing his patience. “Paperclips, a ballpoint pen. Come on, Grian! I saw you rifling through the place, you definitely took something.”

“Oh, so it’s alright when you take things.” Grian snaps, prickly when pushed into a corner. He hasn’t done anything wrong—Not when it comes to this, anyhow. “Your ‘borrowing’ is different, I guess?”

“Grian.” Scar is keeping his voice down, but his agitation is clear, brokering no argument as he continues to press. “Pockets. Now.”

“Fine!” Grian’s shout is louder than it needs to be, unable to help his frustration from boiling over. Bitter, he yanks their sole backpack over his shoulders, unzipping a side pouch and pulling out the things he’d taken from the reception desk. A pocket mirror, three pens, some elastic bands and paperclips, and a small emergency first-aid kit. It feels stupid and trivialising, like he’s a child being scolded.

“Shall I go put it back?” He asks resentfully. “Would that make it better? If I get bit while I’m doing it, will that make you happy?”

If Scar is listening to him he doesn’t show it, pawing through what Grian’s put on display.

He’s acting as if Grian isn’t there, which only twists his frustration tighter.

“Okay,” Scar mutters, both absent and focused at the same time. Resolutely, he takes the paperclips and then begins scanning the storage units, moving from one door to another, crouching down to check each of the heavy looking padlocks.

“What the hell are you doing?” Grian asks, verging on a demand. It comes out as angry as it could possibly sound, and he means it to.

“They’re storage lockers, right?” Scar says, ignoring or oblivious to Grian’s tone. “Someone here has a shovel or a baseball bat or some golf clubs locked up. We just need to find one of the cheap, unsecure styles of—” He cuts off abruptly, turning one of the locks over in his hand and inspecting the keyhole. “Okay. Okay,” he repeats to himself, unbending one of the paperclips. “This can work.”

“Scar.” The fight drains from Grian all at once, like water through the bottom of a broken glass. Suddenly, he can’t keep the exhaustion out of his tone, weariness and frustration blending together. “What are you doing?”

“Cub and I used to watch these videos—lock picking ones,” Scar explains, his tone distracted. “Sometimes we’d practise, y’know? Just something to do.”

With one eye squinted, Scar slips the long end of the paper clip into the lock, angling it like he has some idea what he’s doing.

“Cub was always better at it than me, but…” he trails off, his words running out of steam as he works on the lock, jiggling it slowly.

They don’t have time for this. Grian can feel the mounting pressure gripping him like a vice. He’s a little skeptical of Scar’s expertise but mostly stupidly upset about Scar sharing things with Cub that he hadn’t mentioned to Grian at all. Something shambling and not quite alive is about to stumble around the far corner of the alley at any second and they’ll be defenceless and trapped, all for the sake of a fool’s errand.

“Scar—”

“I need something thinner,” Scar explains, brow furrowed, still focused on his task. “Do we have a sewing kit?”

They don’t, but Grian finds himself looking down on the first aid box still clasped in his hands. He opens it, despite his misgivings, rifling through bandages and gauze until he finds two long needles; one straight and one curved.

“We need to get out of here, not waste precious time on petty thievery,” he insists, petulant but nevertheless handing Scar the straight needle.

If Scar hears him he doesn’t acknowledge it. Angrily, Grian bites the inside of his cheek, anxious as he crosses his arms. He doesn’t even know what Scar is doing—what good will a golf club be if they’re overrun? It feels immeasurably stupid, wasting valuable time on something Scar has never done before and likely won’t even—

“Got it.” Scar’s breath leaves him in a rush, twisting the padlock as it springs open.

Grian gapes at him, gobsmacked.

For a moment, they both forget their situation, entirely elated. Scar looks up at him from his crouch, beaming with pride.

“I told Cub it’d be worth it, one day. I told him, Grian.”

It takes Scar a second to get up, hand braced against the unit door for leverage. Grian can’t deny that he’s impressed. In fact, the display of competence sends an automatic wave of affection through him, making him smile at Scar despite himself.

Enjoying the thrill of success, Scar grins back at him with a rakish pride. Then, refocusing, he kneels down and grabs the handle on the sliding garage door, pulling it up in one, strong, fluid motion.

It’s the loudest, most abrasive sound Grian’s ever heard.

Metal scraping on metal, unoiled wheels grating along a rusted track.

A sound like steel screaming.

“Scar!” The shout is out of Grian before he can even pause to consider it. The two gawk at each other, frozen in place and incredibly aware of the beacon they’ve just made of themselves, the noise ricocheting like a gunshot off the concrete.

“Hurry,” Scar urges. “Quick.”

They duck inside and it takes a moment for their eyes to adjust to the shadows within the locker. Grian’s anticipating an overflowing bounty of supplies. A hidden cache, like a treasure trove left in place expressly for them. Anything to make it worth the time they’ve squandered, and the risk they’ve taken by making such a racket.

He looks around expectantly, dark shadows still gathered in the corners of his vision.

On the floor are several wooden pallets stacked with bags of mulch and grass seed. A few rakes and shovels lean against a corner. A coil of garden hose sits next to a flimsy metal shelf, a single push mower parked beside it.

Gardening supplies. Useless, pointless, gardening supplies.

“Scar,” Grian starts, and the acerbic anger in his tone is so strong he can taste it. “You—”

“I’ll try another one,” Scar interrupts, quick, like they haven’t already run out of time. “Grab a shovel.”

“And do what? Dig our own graves?!” The words are out of him fast and biting, but Scar is already on the move, crossing the lane checking the lock of the next storage unit, and then the one after that. He carries himself quickly, but it feels for all the world like he’s browsing the produce selection at the grocery store. Nothing about him looks like he’s trying to avoid being cornered by hobbling, undead corpses. Like he’s not really afraid at all.

Disgruntled, Grian stalks deeper into the locker. He doesn’t want to admit Scar’s right; doesn’t want to accept that a rake in his hand is better than nothing at all. His own failure still stings, the one weapon they’d had left behind thanks to his carelessness.

Consumed by thoughts of which of them should share the most of the blame, he tests the heft of the tools available, though admittedly not quite sure what he’s looking for. He can hear Scar approaching from behind him, and turns to offer him the shovel in his hands.

He only gets a millisecond of warning—a slight prickling of the hairs along the back of his neck—before he turns quick, raising the shovel he had previously been about to offer over his head and slamming it down with as much force as he can muster.

The zombie—not Scar; not Scar at all—lurches forward, some glottal, inarticulate sound choked in its throat as it reaches for Grian with grasping, fumbling hands. Grian strikes out, turning the flat blade of the shovel into a bludgeon as he attempts to swing at the zombie’s head. He misses, connecting to its shoulder instead, with a wet noise that makes his stomach turn and sends a sharp shock rattling up his arm.

The zombie doesn’t seem to notice, unbothered by the hit as it takes another swipe at Grian. It forces him to stumble back, tripping on the garden hose, his heel slipping out from under him. Grian falls awkwardly, tumbling into the pallet of grass seed.

He wants to yell, to alert Scar of his predicament at the very least, but he can’t find his voice, fear silencing him entirely. The corpse lunges at him again, and Grian has no choice but to let instinct take over, heart pounding in his throat as he lifts the shovel like a spear and jams it forward with a grunt.

The sharp edge of the blade finds the bottom of the zombie’s ribcage, and he pushes in, in, until rotten tissue splits apart with the pliability of a wet paper bag. Something like blood, but blackened and thick, slops out in a wet gush out of the zombie’s stomach. Coagulated, Grian thinks, dimly wondering where he learned that word in the first place.

It should be enough to end it. For a human being it would be more than enough. The thing in front of him, however, endures the assault, snapping and snarling undeterred. Grian twists the shovel and feels resistance, the abdomen’s rotted entrails impeding his movements. He pulls the shovel back, guts sluicing out alongside it, landing on the ground in thick coils as the creature drools from its open maw, reaching for him desperately.

He’ll only have one more shot at this, he realises. One more chance before he’s overwhelmed. Bracing himself, Grian levels the shovel properly and then swings it violently. He uses the side of the blade this time, ensuring that it cleaves into the creatures’ skull. The zombie’s cranium splits like an egg, and Grian strikes down, once, twice, until the corpse wails, pitches sideways, and falls.

Dead.

Properly dead.

In the aftermath he’s left breathing hard, drawing in deep, rasping gasps while his hands shake. He thinks he may be in shock, ears ringing in a way that fills the entirety of his head. He doesn’t know what’s happened, doesn’t know what he’s done. Did he kill it? Is he safe?

There’s no time to process, no time to calm down.

Another zombie appears, silhouetted grotesquely in the doorway of the locker.

There’s something wrong about it, worse than the first. Its right arm and leg bend at crooked angles, like they’ve been folded wrong and pinched in. It dawns on Grian suddenly that what he’s looking at is a body that’s been mangled in a car accident. That either this person survived one only to be attacked, or that they turned, horrifically, while they were driving, and in so doing were wrecked almost beyond recognition.

Now they jerk towards him, uncoordinated and horrific, and try as he might, Grian can’t pull the shovel free from the skull of the zombie he’s just struck down.

He pushes himself up, reaching for another makeshift weapon, and blindly grabs the handle of a garden hoe. It’ll be less effective than the shovel by every metric, but it’s all he has. Turning around, he swings wildly, hoping that if nothing else, it’ll push the zombie back and leave an opening he can escape through.

The end of the hoe connects to the zombie with a wet sound of splitting flesh that makes Grian feel ill. But either the tool was made flimsy, or Grian has misunderstood his own strength, because the handle splinters in his palm, snapping in two midway down the shaft and sending both pieces clattering to the ground. Blindly, Grian grabs for the nearest portion—his hands landing on the length with the hoe blade still attached—both he and the zombie stumbling back from the force of the impact.

It’s not elegant. He’d feel ridiculous defending himself with gardening tools if he wasn’t mindless with fear and adrenaline. By sheer luck, he manages to manoeuvre their positions, putting his back towards the open locker door and sending the zombie toppling over the same coil of hose he himself had stumbled on. The creature shrieks and snaps as its back hits the floor, mangled body twitching and twisting as it attempts to right itself on broken limbs.

It’s the extra second of time Grian needs to bolt. He rips his gaze away from the ghoul and reaches up as high as he can in order to grab the handle of the locker door as he passes beneath it. Pulling down with all the force he can muster, the unoiled metal screeches, loud, but blessedly begins to move, slamming down securely into place.

Almost immediately, he can hear hands scraping futilely from inside the locker, banging against it in an attempt to get out. The metal barrier stays in place, separating them, and he feels a starburst of relief welling up so huge within his chest that he shakes from it.

There’s no time to appreciate his accomplishment. Despite his victory he’s still panicking, pulling in shallow, gasping breaths as he looks around wildly for Scar.

Horribly, he finds that the alley is bare.

Grian can’t see Scar, can’t see any trace of him. The sunlight beats straight down from overhead, leaving no shadow of doubt that he’s been left alone here. Terrified, Grian manages one unsteady step forward, not sure which direction he should run without a partner at his side, when suddenly something grabs him from behind.

It’s the backpack that saves him, the bulk of it meaning that the bite aimed for the vulnerable part in the crook of his shoulder falls short. Rancid spittle lands on his cheek, gnashing jaws making Grian’s gut twist. His assailant is larger than him and impossibly strong. Its rotting arms attempt to seize him around his middle, trying to pull him back so it can get a proper bite.

Grian doesn’t think to yell out. Can’t form a coherent thought at all. There’s no calm serenity or placid acceptance of his fate—all he feels is fear. Fear so strong that he chokes on it as he’s pulled back, back—

A voice cuts in, loud over the rasped groaning in his ear.

“Grian! Down!”

He doesn’t hesitate, legs buckling as he immediately drops himself to the ground. Uncoordinated, undead fingers grasp at him clumsily, but aren’t able to get a secure hold. He doesn’t have time to brace himself. Has no idea what’s coming.

A millisecond later his eardrums reverberate from the loudest sound he’s ever heard.

It takes him a moment to collect himself, his body shaking, pushed to its limits. He struggles to open his eyes.

The first thing he sees is the ghoul, collapsed on bent knees and face-down next to him.

It’s been shot once. Clean between the eyes.

A second later a large hand, living and strong, wraps around his bicep, pulling him to his feet. Panicked, familiar green eyes look him over quickly.

“Did it get you?!”

Grian can’t answer the question. Can’t process it quick enough in his daze to even know what he’s being asked in the first place.

“Are you bit?!” Scar presses, his grip firm and grounding as Grian’s focus slowly returns.

Inch by inch he processes the question, and then finally manages to shake his head, slow. His words are like a slurry, tongue thick as he husks out a single dazed, “No.”

Scar looks at him, expression broken, pupils shrunk to pin pricks and body tight with fear. And then he surges forward all at once, a desperate hand fisting into the shoulder of Grian’s shirt as he yanks him close and kisses him hard.

It’s not gentle, and it’s not romantic. Scar’s lips are chapped and bruising against Grian’s own, and by the time Grian registers that it’s even happening, the exchange is already over. Just as hastily, Scar pulls back, hand brushing through Grian’s hair in a tender, devoted gesture. And then his eyes focus on something over Grian’s shoulder and he says, firm, “We have to go.”

Only when Scar steps back does Grian see it—the rifle gripped tight in his free hand. Stunned, his eyes scan the bank of storage units and see the two other doors Scar had managed to pry open while Grian was preoccupied fending off his undead attackers. One of the units is entirely empty, but the other is crammed with shelves, mattresses, bed frames and—tucked against the foot of a sofa—a gun safe, the door thrown open with its contents strewn across the asphalt.

“Scar,” Grian whispers, relieved and confused and awed all at once. “How did you—”

“Later,” Scar replies, hand wrapping around Grian’s wrist and pulling him forward, leading him back towards the entrance gate they first came through. “We dealt with three of them, right? I only saw four by the gate to begin with. If we’re lucky, the straggler went the other way around the main building and hasn’t caught on to us yet. We can sneak out and shut it in.”

A distant part of Grian knows that Scar’s explanation makes sense, but in the heat of the moment he can’t make heads or tails of it. Neither of them says what they’re both thinking, that maybe there’s more than the handful of zombies they’d originally seen. That maybe there’s no safe exit for them at all.

Determined, Scar jogs ahead, hugging the line of storage units, rifle clutched easily in his hand. Grian follows after him, chest tight and ribs aching as he pushes through the short breaths of his panic. Everything hurts and he’s scared—more scared than he’s ever been in his life. Possibly more scared than he knew a person had the capacity to be.

Carefully they make their way to the front of the building, rounding the small parking lot near the reception door that they first came out through. The gate is only a few metres away, clearly visible to them, but it’s what they hear—a low, agonising sound, pulled through clotted lungs—that gives them pause. They duck against the brick, hoping to stay out of sight.

“I can’t tell how many there are,” Scar says, words whispered and his shoulders pressed flush to the wall. “On the count of three you run, okay? Don’t stop, don’t look back. Make it through the gate and shut it behind you, no matter what.”

“What about you?” Grian asks, the fear of being separated again, even for a minute, near strangling him.

“Come on,” Scar says, either not hearing him or refusing to acknowledge the question. He’s preoccupied with leaning forward just enough to risk a glance around the edge of the building. “On three—one. Two—”

Grian wants to fight. He wants to argue; wants to insist that they take the time to properly think about this. For Scar to fill him in on whatever he has planned so that Grian knows they’ll both be okay. But then Scar is already moving, numbers hissed in a whisper as he snaps, ‘Three!’ and suddenly they’re both running.

Grian moves as fast as he can across the pavement, hoping he doesn’t trip and hoping even harder that nothing latches onto him. He’s through the gate before he knows it, grabbing the bars and looking around wildly for Scar when a shot reverberates around him, exploding loud in the relative silence. Behind him, he sees Scar holding the rifle at shoulder level, shooting the corpses that are chasing after them.

There are more—much more—than they’d originally accounted for. Scar seems unconcerned, firing twice, each shot hitting its target. Two of the nearest bodies drop heavy to the ground and then Scar is shouldering himself through the gate and Grian is slamming it shut. Then, with foresight Grian didn’t even know he had, Scar secures it with one of the padlocks he took off a storage unit door.

Grian only has a second to admire the accuracy of Scar’s aim through the gates—the two zombies laid out, shot with neat, pin-point accuracy—before Scar is pulling his arm again and they both break into a sprint. There are more of them, dozens of zombies trickling out of the ransacked businesses and into the parking lots of the adjacent shopping plazas. No doubt they’ve been drawn in by the sound of Scar’s gun shots.

He feels a sick twist in his gut as he realises they had to have been there the whole time, hidden in the quiet while he and Scar had slept the night away, unprotected. Their recklessness could’ve gotten them killed at any point and they’d never have even known.

“We can outrun them.” Scar grunts as they run, jarring Grian from his thoughts. “Look, they’re slow.”

It’s true, they are. Even alerted to their presence, the best the zombies can seem to do is trudge forward at an amble. If he and Scar can maintain a jog, they’ll be able to get away easily.

Grian’s not a practiced runner, however. He hasn’t trained for anything since he left secondary school. His lungs already hurt from the panic, and each inhale sears the inside of his chest. Not to mention the way the soles and heels of his feet remind him that they’re already sore from the previous day’s trek.

Not for the first time—and definitely not for the last—Grian thinks about how much he misses his car. How much easier this would be if he could just foot the gas and go.

Doggedly, they run until they can’t anymore. Maybe half a mile. Maybe less. Then they walk, checking over their shoulders at every opportunity. As Scar predicted, the zombies are unable to maintain a pursuit, which comes as a small blessing.

But as one threat fades, others rise up in their place, like eager weeds ready to choke a garden. Nowhere seems safe now. Every building they investigate, every storefront they peer into, there’s something grasping and swaying as it reaches out to greet them. Whatever it was that had kept the zombies from accosting them throughout their journey thus far, it’s decidedly absent now. They encounter them repeatedly, hordes lurking around corners and on open streets.

There’s not a moment to rest, and every narrow escape pushes bile up into Grian’s throat, anxiety clawing within him like something feral and alive. Neither of them mention it, but it’s clear they’re both keenly aware that they have no water and very few supplies. It’s a desperate situation, and the apprehension over it eats Grian alive.

The day passes in a haze of adrenaline and fear as they push on, seeking the edge of civilization, knowing it’s their only hope for safety. Resolutely, Grian tries not to relent too much space to his growing negativity. He’s well aware that once it takes hold of him it won’t easily bed back down. As a distraction, he tries to take charge and control the things he can. He scours the map book they picked from their last rest stop, deliberating over the best possible routes. Confidently, he directs them away from major intersections and the possible choke-points of infection, pulling them through suburbs and heading towards the low mountains he sees in the distance.

It takes hours.

They trade the backpack back and forth between each other, taking turns sharing the burden of it. Not that it amounts to much. Grian tries not to dwell on the hoard of food he’d pulled out of the vending machine and the treats he’d had to leave behind because they only had one bag to stuff it all into. He tries even harder not to grieve the loss of the watery, flavourless coffee, reminding himself that he’s always been more of a tea person anyway.

It doesn’t help, but at least he can pretend.

As they walk, they look across sun-baked lawns and wide empty driveways. Each house they pass is tempting; the potential of a safe bed, a roof over their head, cupboards full of food, and running water… but they’ve both agreed it’s not worth the risk. They can’t take on the threat of walking into a home and finding themselves surrounded on all sides by the undead.

Or worse…

As they walk, Scar keeps suggesting there may be survivors; that it’s too soon to give up hope on others having made it out or being holed up somewhere, isolated and alive.

Grian is unconvinced. If there are survivors, they’ve yet to see any trace of them. Even if there are people locked up in the houses they’re passing, it’s not like any of them would happily welcome two strangers in with open arms.

Grian knows he wouldn’t, if the roles were reversed.

No. Letting their guards down and setting up in any of these suburban homes, only to find themselves swarmed—either by moaning corpses or despairing survivors—is not in Grian’s game plan. He brushes Scar’s suggestions to go door-to-door seeking refuge aside, ignoring the look Scar gives him. Instead, they push on together, their shadows lengthening as the day leans over from afternoon into evening.

Eventually, even the suburban sprawl comes to an end, the mountains that had seemed so far away earlier in the day now looming up, blue-purple just in front of them. The road they’ve been following thins to a single lane that winds in a lazy serpentine up the first hill, the slope gradual enough that it doesn’t seem too intimidating. It’s clear that this is the point where they’re once more leaving civilization behind, scrub and thickets growing wild all around them, the air sweetened by the sage pushing up out of the dry soil.

Together they begin their climb, knowing the only way over is by taking the incline one step at a time.

It’s by chance that they come across a shooting range. Half a mile up the road they discover it, marked by a large, plywood sign directing them to a members-only gun club just over a mile ahead.

“It’ll either be overrun or entirely deserted.” Scar reasons, speaking with an authority that catches Grian by surprise. He’s still not used to the idea of Scar being someone who knows how to handle a firearm, the information running against the affable, easy-going charmer he’s grown accustomed to over the years. It’s a side of Scar he wasn’t prepared to see.

“We should check it out, regardless,” Grian huffs, their journey upwards making him sound more than a little winded. “If it’s bad we’ll keep walking, but we could really use somewhere to stay the night.”

He doesn’t want to sleep outdoors for a multitude of reasons, but most of all he just doesn’t know if he’ll be able to do it without the protective insulation of a tent to cover him. Some animal part of his brain loathes the idea. If there’s somewhere safe, somewhere provisioned, somewhere with ammunition… then they’d be fools to not at least take a look at it from a distance.

The alleged mile stretches on longer than it has any right to. Grian glances at Scar repeatedly, trying to gauge how he’s fairing under the exertion, but while he doesn’t look comfortable by any means, his expression remains the same—a weary but resolved determination.

By the time they make it to the gates of the shooting range, Grian is hot, tired, thirsty, and more than willing to risk a zombie attack if it means he gets to sit and rest for fifteen minutes. The setting sun is hot on the back of his neck, and his feet ache fiercely, so the sight of a driveway veering into what looks to be a cleared area gives him a visceral sense of relief.

“Finally,” he sighs, shoulders sagging. “I thought we’d never make it.”

Beside him, Scar says nothing, eyes rapidly running over the area on approach. Together they advance, the lane bending into an empty parking lot. Cautiously, Scar shifts the rifle off his shoulder, walking with it held steady in his hands as they near the seemingly abandoned range.

The club is laid out like a compound, with three, long, flat-roofed buildings covered in white aluminium siding forming a ‘U’ around the shooting range itself. They draw closer slowly, checking the exterior of each building in careful lines, but at first glance the grounds seem completely empty. No hobbling creatures tumble out to greet them. No warning shots are fired to keep them at bay. In the distance, they can hear birdsong carried on the evening warm breeze.

No cataclysm befalls them. No second end of the world.

Sticking together, Scar and Grian try the door of the first building and find that it opens into a garage, with several ATVs up on blocks, their tires removed and in the midst of refurbishing. The second building holds even less than the first, mostly just plywood sheets and some siding. There are targets, decoys, and clay pigeon throwers arranged on shelves, but it’s all things to shoot at, nothing to shoot with.

The third building is the least shed-like and clearly the most used in the establishment. Inside it they find what’s clearly a clubhouse, with worn, brown, leather couches and sun-faded upholstery arranged within the single large room. Hunting trophies, taxidermied deer heads, and award plaques for marksmanship are mounted on the walls. There’s a bar in one corner—which strikes Grian as a ridiculous addition to a place teeming with guns—with a self-serve, honour system menu written on a whiteboard, alongside liquor bottles lined up against the wall.

“There’ll be an ammo room,” Scar explains, matter-of-fact as they stand inside the doorway. There are large windows and sliding glass doors leading out to the shooting range itself. It’s rustic, but it looks nice. Almost inviting.

Grian has never been somewhere more alien in his life.

“How do you know?” He asks, voice somewhat detached as he looks around the room. Scar gives him a look, eyebrow raised as if it should be obvious.

“I had other hobbies before I met you,” he says, like that clarifies anything at all.

Grian’s not sure what to make of the remark. Not sure whether he should feel jilted by it, or guilty for not having learned more about Scar in all the years they’d been together.

He settles on a dim neutral, trying not to get bent out of shape about their distant history. Especially when the far more recent memory of Scar’s hand on his cheek and lips pressed to his are still smouldering in the back of his mind. A port in a storm, making him feel like they might not be as final as he’d once thought.

Scar himself seems unbothered, passing through the lounge and down a short hall. There’s a single door at its end, and Grian watches as he tries the handle only to find it locked. Without stopping to reconsider, Scar puts the meat of his shoulder to it and shoves two times, until the cheap plywood splits and the door swings inward.

Grian tries not to stare. Tries to hide the flutter Scar’s strength ignites in him, warm and liquid in his belly.

Through the door is a small room—more like a storage closet than anything else—lined with cheap wire racks and simple shelves. Sets of ear protection and glasses hang off hooks next to half a dozen reflective vests. There is no gun safe. In fact, there are no firearms at all.

What there is, however, are boxes of ammunition. A lot of them. Stacked by calibre in orderly, organised rows.

Scar moves through them without hesitation, acting with the confidence of a man who knows exactly what he’s looking for. It sends a buzz up Grian’s spine, appreciating the sight of Scar acting so competent. It’s not the time nor the place for such a reaction though, so instead he focuses on looking over the rest of the room, hoping to resupply their woefully diminished resources.

“A lot of these are no good,” Scar says, pushing aside the boxes and cartridges he deems of no value and stacking up the ones he can use. “Wrong calibre, wrong model. It looks like this place dealt mostly with pistols and handguns.”

Grian hums in acknowledgement, understanding the gist of it despite not being a gun person himself. While he listens, he pulls down an empty shoulder bag off of a shelf. It’s meant to sit snug across the chest—not as good as a backpack, but it’ll be better than nothing.

“We’re gonna take everything worthwhile,” Scar adds, gathering his final selection of ammunition and packing the boxes into their backpack. “Let’s just hope this mess blows over before we go through it all.”

The statement catches Grian somewhat off guard. Unable to help himself, he asks, “How long do you think this is gonna last?”

Tellingly, Scar goes quiet. When Grian looks at him, their eyes catch, exchanging a million words that neither of them dare speak out loud. The final bit of the setting sunlight slants in from the windows facing the hall, casting a warm glow to one side of Scar’s face. His mouth pulls, an indiscernible expression that’s tight at the corners, and for the first time Grian really takes in the circles worn dark under his eyes.

“I think it’ll be over right before the ammunition runs out,” Scar replies, simple.

Tactfully, Grian chooses not to press it, nodding like he agrees.

It doesn’t take them long to finish sorting through the small room, but by then the sun has already set. The last, rusty, halo of light fades from the sky, the only remnant of a sunset that appears to have been magnificent. It’s clear they’ll be staying where they are for the night—there are no street lights, and no ambient, city haze to light their way. They don’t know what’s waiting for them out in the dark, and neither of them cares to risk it. The club might not be safe forever, but it’s safe for now, and that’s all that they can hope for.

Still, there are windows on all sides of the lounge, and no curtains to cover them with. The doors are flimsy, and they have nothing sturdy to secure them. The morning’s encounter weighs heavy on both their minds, making them restless even as they pretend to settle down.

All they can do is hope their luck lasts the night.

“Beer nuts,” Grian announces from where he’s standing behind the bar, trying to brighten his tone and keep the mood between them upbeat. “And pretzels. Some M&Ms, and those awful pre-packed brownies. Man, they really said, ‘you can, in fact, shoot guns on an empty stomach,’ didn’t they?”

“I don’t think they meant for their off-grid shooting range to include five-star dining,” Scar snorts, his tone affable. He’s sitting on the floor, legs stretched out in front of him, yet again too tall to sleep comfortably on any of the couches. Though it’s dark, they haven’t risked turning any of the lights on, not wanting to create a beacon in the shadows. They rely instead on the dim glow shed by the bar fridge, and the surrounding gleam of the night sky.

Grian scoffs at Scar’s comment and picks out what interests him most from the meagre offering of snacks before he trudges back across the floor. “We’ll just have to enjoy the best this mini-fridge has to offer. I promise not to complain too much.”

Scar makes a noise in the back of his throat, bemused. He tilts his head back to look at Grian, who steps carefully in order to avoid being silhouetted in any of the windows he passes.

“You’re in a good mood,” Scar remarks idly, and Grian tries not to imagine that he said it with some kind of fondness.

He sits down heavily on the sofa Scar is leaning back against, pulling his legs up under him and placing the snacks in his lap.

“Well, yeah.” He can’t hide the slight tug of his smile, a flush rising to his cheeks that he’s glad the darkness will cover. “We have a place to stay, we’re about to eat some potentially stale cheetos…” he pauses, taking a breath before he adds, “And you kissed me today.”

For a moment, Scar sits silent, his face in profile, expression unreadable.

Grian doesn’t know if he’s overstepped. Doesn’t know which direction their conversation is about to take.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” Scar explains at last, admitting it carefully. “I don’t know… I panicked. And then I was so relieved when you were alright, I just…”

He trails off and a hush settles between them. They’re on the precipice of something that feels enormous, something that pulls Grian’s heartbeat up into his throat. A part of him wonders if it’s too soon to push ahead, when Scar’s clearly only just begun to forgive him… but another part can’t resist.

He misses Scar. He misses everything.

The worn leather of the couch cushions creak as Grian slides off them, food abandoned in favour of something he’s always found more appealing. He settles himself on the floor next to Scar, looking at him intently in the dark.

“Scar…” he whispers, soft, laying his hand against Scar’s cheek and turning his head to look at him. He can’t see the fine details of Scar’s face in the dark, can’t guess what he’s thinking.

So he takes a risk, hoping it’s the right thing to do.

The kiss is slow and gentle, Grian leaning forward to press his lips against Scar’s. For a long moment nothing happens, and nothing is reciprocated. Scar is still, like Grian’s not even there. It’s enough to make a tangle of anxiety twist in Grian’s chest, nearly forcing him into a shameful, red-faced retreat.

Then, finally, Scar kisses him back.

Scar takes his time, reading distant and unsure, hands still in his lap even as Grian slides his fingers up and back to run them through Scar’s hair. There’s nothing desperate between them, not the same passion Grian felt when the adrenaline was running through him like a livewire and his ears were still ringing from the gunshot. Grian kisses Scar, searching, and Scar kisses him in return.

Slowly, slowly, Scar opens up in a way he hasn’t since… since before.

Grian knows he’s missed him. Missed this. He knows they’re not ready to pick things up where they left off—that there’s still too much unresolved between them to dive right back in. But he also knows that, despite everything, his feelings are still there. He still wants Scar just the same.

He never stopped, really. Not even when he strayed.

It was just…

Complicated.

He’s shifting forward while his mind drifts in loops, raising his knee to straddle himself across Scar’s lap when Scar stalls him, hand pressed heavy on his thigh. Grian makes a questioning noise against his lips, confused, and Scar carefully pulls back to press a kiss to his cheek.

His voice is quiet in the dark as he asks, “Can we lay down instead? My legs are killing me.”

Relief blooms like a rose in Grian’s chest, petals fanning out to fill him all the way up inside with eagerness and warmth. A part of Grian that he didn’t even know was grieving feels all at once soothed. After everything, he’d been prepared for Scar to never want him this way again. He didn’t dare dream of it, especially not so soon. But the fact that Scar does—that he’s initiating it…

Emotions swell up within him, overlapping in a mish-mash of tangled thoughts.

Grian nods, agreeing, and lets himself be manoeuvred in place. Scar lays him down on the makeshift bed he’s made of cushions and hunting jackets they’d found in a closet. He tucks Grian’s back against his chest, hands warm and familiar on his body. When he’s finally settled comfortably in place, Grian finds that he can’t hide his eagerness; his desire for the same closeness they used to share. Now that it’s within reach—now that it’s a valid option—he doesn’t want to wait.

He knows Scar is trying to ease them into it bit by bit, but he can’t bear the slow smoulder after what feels like a lifetime apart.

A pleading noise works its way out of Grian’s throat, wanting Scar to touch him, please touch him. He’s pushing his hips, not sure whether to rock forward or nudge himself backwards, wanting to feel more, feel something.

“Grian,” Scar sighs into the nape of his neck, something in him sounding lost.

“Scar,” Grian replies, pushing his shoulders back into the bulk of Scar’s chest, near desperate for the contact. “Don’t make me beg…”

The moment stretches, verging on too quiet, but finally Scar gets the message. Though his hands are hesitant at first, he still manages to work Grian’s trousers open without complaint. Grian’s entire body feels set alight from how much he’s wanted this, how much he’s ached for the familiarity and security of Scar’s touch. He’d tried his best to keep it all locked away, to be cognizant of how awfully things had ended between them, but now, with Scar offering, he feels overwhelmed by the prospect of it—intoxicated by the way it feels when Scar holds him, anchored and protected and strong against his body.

Grian doesn’t know if he should try to stifle any noises, but when Scar’s hand slips under the waistband of his pants and works him free, he can’t hold back a cry, choking a small moan out into the dark. Scar’s fingers curl around his length, calloused and familiar as he strokes him once, slow, like he has to remember how Grian feels in his hand. It’s a stupid thing to get worked up over, but Grian feels like he’s falling apart already. So content, and so, so relieved.

It’s good. It’s exactly what he needs. Scar gets him to the edge of release embarrassingly quick, hand stroking him steady as he pulls the slick of Grian’s pre down his length. It helps the slide of his hand, which almost completely encompasses the whole of Grian.

“Scar…” A soft sigh slips from between his lips as Grian hitches his hips forward, chasing the feeling of Scar’s touch wrapped around him. He repositions himself, pushing his shoulders even further back, wanting to feel Scar—wanting to be encircled by him entirely. He feels a little bit wild with it, like a starving man presented with a feast.

He missed this so much. God, he missed it.

He can feel Scar’s breath, hot against his neck. He takes even pulls in and out, pressing soft kisses to Grian’s nape as his hand moves faster, faster—picking up until Grian is gasping with every breath, feeling the knot wind tight in the pit of his belly, flaring out into his pelvis.

“Scar,” his voice rises in pitch, the hiss of his whispers breaking, and his body reaching its peak. “Scar—Scar, oh—” He comes in a rush, barely having a chance to catch it, his hips pushing forward in a few needy ruts. He fucks into the curl of Scar’s fingers, his mess splattering onto the floor and dripping down the ridge of Scar’s knuckles.

He unwinds almost immediately, breath leaving him in a moan that tapers out into a sigh as satisfaction floods every atom of his being. He feels good, loose and gummy around the edges. He hears himself giggle, distant, like he’s no longer fully present within himself. Slowly, Scar’s grip on him loosens up, and Scar moves to wipe Grian’s mess onto the lining of one of the hunting jackets they’ve stolen.

There’s a residual thought in Grian’s head; a reminder that it’s Scar’s turn now. Sluggishly, he starts to turn over, hand pressing uncoordinated against the front of Scar’s trousers.

He’s not expecting to find Scar unaroused, no hard line presenting itself to the searching pressure of his touch. He’s not sure what’s happened. Did Scar already finish?

“G,” Scar mumbles, words hushed in the dark. “It’s okay, don’t worry about it.”

Distantly he feels Scar’s kiss, lips pressed once to his forehead, and then again to his temple.

“Just lay back. Relax.”

A part of Grian isn’t sure this is right, something unsettled creeping at the fringe of his consciousness. However, so much more of him is already buried under the warm comfort of his orgasm, sleepiness settling into him and his concerns slowly ebbing away.

Wordlessly, Scar helps tuck him back into his pants. He buttons Grian’s trousers and draws up some of the jackets, tucking them around Grian like a blanket. Another kiss is pressed against his cheek, lingering just a second before Scar pulls back.

He wants Scar to kiss him properly. He wants words of adoration and assurance washing over him, the way Scar used to do after they were finished. But he’s not certain he knows how to ask for them anymore.

“I’m going to take the first watch,” Scar explains, voice low in his ear.

Grian doesn’t want him to go; doesn’t want this moment between them to slip away. However, for the first time in days he feels secure and comfortable, like an inch of common ground has finally been reclaimed between them.

Ultimately, he doesn’t fight it. He lies still as Scar slowly stands up, footsteps retreating across the floor. He goes to take up watch where he can see out the majority of the windows.

A sleepy desire overcomes Grian, urging him to express his gratitude. He wants to confess he’s glad that Scar still cares. He’s glad that Scar is choosing to forgive him.

Instead, Grian lets himself drift off, falling into a sleep that’s heavy and dreamless, thinking only about the comfort of Scar’s strong hands.

 

 

 

Notes:

(Click to reveal.)

[ SPOILERS ]

This chapter contains sexual content--the fic is already rated E, but if you're still reading along despite being sex repulsed, a minor, or otherwise uncomfortable with scenes of that nature, please skip the following section at the end of the chapter: stop reading from, "He nods eagerly" and continuing reading after, "Wordlessly". If you've read fics by us before, then you'll know that we love us some Plot Relevant Smut™ and, as such, there are some small nuances/details that might be missed on skipping that portion of the fic. To mitigate that, we've provided a short summary below that you can read if you're curious about the general details.

[ SUMMARY ]

After they kiss, Grian misinterprets Scar wanting to lay down as Scar wanting to take things further. Not wanting to waste the forgiveness he thinks Scar is presenting him with, Grian takes the risk (not entirely realising that it's a risk at all) and presses in close to Scar, relaying his desires with everything but words. After a moment of consideration, Scar reaches out for him and gives him what he wants. There is no penetration and Scar uses only his hands. Grian is thankful and relieved through it all, really thinking this means they've made progress together and that Scar isn't as upset with him anymore. Once Grian finishes, he turns over to do the same for Scar, but Scar gently turns him down, telling him not to worry about it and giving him two soft kisses to reassure him. Grian is confused, but too caught up in the post-release high to push the matter.

---

Finally got a lil HotGuy action in this chapter heheh 💫🏹

Chapter 9

Notes:

More fanart from THB, this time in the form of a truly gorgeous comic of Chapter 8! 💫 THB also made us this kickass playlist for TAMN, and it's been a ton of fun giving it a listen while writing! 🎶

Give both fanworks some love and please enjoy the chapter! :D

Scar wakes up to a hand gently shaking his shoulder and a voice, calling for him by name, whispering in his ear. He frowns, trying to tuck his face deeper into his pillow, unwilling to let go of sleep just yet, his body resisting wakefulness every step of the way.

“It’s morning,” Grian murmurs, low, and Scar supposes that by some definition it is. There’s sunlight on the horizon, a fuzzy halo of pink-orange pushing the deep indigo back. It can’t be any later than six. Too early for him—he’s never been a morning person.

He sits up slowly, feeling grimy and stale in the clothes he fell asleep in. He’s been wearing the same thing since before the end of the world. The same blue, gingham button-up, the same reliable pair of jeans. The same socks and briefs. The same sweat-soaked bandanna. There’s nothing to do about it at this point, but he still wishes he’d had time to wash them in the storage unit sink. Or better yet, had time to look around through the boxes of other peoples’ lives to find something fresh he could change into.

Morosely, he thinks about how he’s getting used to wishing for things that will simply never be.

When Scar sighs and opens his eyes, Grian is crouched on his knees beside him, his features picked out in the warm haze of the rising sun. There’s a small but earnest smile on his face, and he looks pleased and reasonably well rested. Upon seeing that Scar’s eyes are open, he shifts himself forward, leaning in for a kiss.

Scar retreats on instinct, his heart immediately pushed up into his throat.

An expression Scar can’t place moves across Grian’s face, resolving near-instantly into an understanding smile. He rocks back, settling his weight on the balls of his feet as he affectionately squeezes Scar’s shoulder.

“I’ve got pretty bad morning breath, too.”

Scar doesn’t know what to do with that statement; doesn’t know what to say. Instead, he wordlessly looks away, letting things sit strange between them as he absently works his hands into the sore tendons behind his knees.

“We should get going,” Grian finally adds, breaking up the quiet and pushing himself to his feet. “I’m going to pack as many of the water bottles as we can carry. There’s some energy drinks if you want them, but they’re not my favourite flavour.”

He’s cheerful and downright chatty as he paces around, getting their things together. It’s a side of Grian that Scar hasn’t seen in a long time—even before the world spun off its axis. Whenever Grian passes near him, he impulsively touches Scar—a brush against his wrist, a hand on his shoulder—all smiles and sweet enthusiasm. It’s as if they’re on a romantic weekend getaway together, and not trying to outrun the collapse of society as they know it in the wake of their catastrophic breakup.

Scar tries not to let it get to him. Tries not to let it make his skin crawl. Something about the situation feels like he’s relapsing, though. Like he’s let himself slide into a situation he should be trying harder to avoid.

Eventually, he pushes himself to his feet and keeps himself busy, trying to distract from his uncomfortable, wandering thoughts. He double-checks their pack to make sure everything of value is still in it, counting and recounting the new ammo they’ve acquired. His breakfast is a protein bar, which he eats in a perfunctory way, barely tasting it as he heads towards the minifridge to pick out the aforementioned energy drinks.

Upon opening the door, he pauses, blinking at the change from last night.

“The light’s gone out.”

“Mm?” Grian hums from where he’s knelt down, sorting through food and water.

“The fridge light,” Scar repeats, “Last night, it was still on. Did you unplug it, or…?”

“Oh,” Grian says, tone light and dismissive. “We lost power. It happened during my watch, I guess about an hour before you woke up.”

A trickle of irritation crawls up Scar’s spine, an instinctive tension he tries not to let overwhelm him. “And you didn’t think that was important information to share with the team?”

Across the room from him Grian shrugs, utterly nonchalant. “It was bound to happen at some point, right? Can’t exactly keep the electric grid up and running when there’s no one left to do it.” Unperturbed, he resumes packing M&Ms and pretzels into his bag. “Remember when you and Pearl watched all those disaster documentaries last year and you got all paranoid? You were saying power would give out after a day or two. We had almost a week of it. If anything, we should be grateful that those prepper weirdos were all wrong.”

Scar’s stomach twists. If they’ve lost power, then what does that mean for their chances of survival, especially when winter is only just around the corner? Their plan is to head north, away from the temperate safety they’ve grown accustomed to over the years. What will they do for heat? And light? They’ve only got Grian’s keychain flashlight to their names. How long will its batteries last when they’re forced to use it every night while setting up camp in chilly, powerless buildings?

It bothers him to see Grian so unconcerned. Hasn’t he considered any of the obstacles they’re bound to come across because of this?

“C’mon,” Grian calls with a smile. He ties the long sleeves of his flannel overshirt around his waist, leaving him in his somewhat dingy looking undershirt that—much like everything Scar is wearing—is well overdue for a wash. “We have a long day ahead of us, can’t be dawdling.”

Still somewhat shell-shocked, Scar shuts the fridge door, no longer in the mood for drinks. He knows this pernicious positivity and upbeat mood of Grian’s is his own doing. That he coaxed this situation into being as a direct result of how last night went. A thousand poor decisions made in the heat of the moment, and acted on only because exhaustion made it impossible to think straight.

He regrets it, already wishing he could go back and undo it all. It had just been so easy to fall into old patterns leading down the path of least resistance. He hadn’t wanted to rebuff Grian and instigate a fight. Hadn’t wanted to lie about how much he has been missing him. So instead he’d let their intimacy unfold the way it had, creating a false sense of peace between them.

Much of it had been prompted out of fear—the terror from the near miss with the zombies back at the storage unit still looming large on his mind. The nightmarish possibility that maybe, just maybe, he had been about to lose Grian forever in that attack. Even after they’d escaped, it had remained a white-hot impression, seared on the forefront of his mind for the rest of the day. He hadn’t stopped checking over his shoulder at every chance, looking at Grian and ensuring he was keeping pace at his side. All the anger he’d been carrying, the betrayal and the rotten feeling of rejection and deceit, had suddenly seemed so inconsequential.

He’d just been glad, in that split second, to hold Grian, solid and real. Unharmed and alive. It had come as such a reassurance, that Scar had thought maybe… securing that feeling was something he still wanted.

It was only when Grian fell apart under the touch of his hand, gasping and moaning, that Scar had realised he’d pushed himself too far. That he wasn’t ready to return to old habits. Their intimacy had felt wrong, with none of the pleasure he’d come to expect from it.

He’d made a mistake, and now it feels impossible to walk it back.

Grian smiles at him again while putting on an ill-fitting hunting jacket—the size far too large, and long sleeves bunching up at his wrists. The sandy-coloured camo looks ridiculous and somehow suitable at the same time. Like something Scar’s seen him in before, but can’t quite place.

It’s better than gore stains, at least.

It’s better than blood.

“Ready?” Grian asks, oblivious to the storm raging in Scar’s head.

Forcefully, Scar manages a smile of his own, brittle and fake. “Let’s get going.”

He checks over their newfound gun—still pleased beyond words to have acquired it—and adjusts it into a carry tucked against the backpack while Grian explains the route they’ll be taking. He’s found maps in one of the bookshelves by the entrance; local ones, detailing ATV trails and little-known side roads that cut through the shallowest slopes of the mountains. From how Grian describes it, the hike shouldn’t take too long. A couple hours, tops. A challenge, but certainly something that they can manage.

Scar isn’t so sure he agrees.

The moment they set out, he can feel the reluctance in his joints—an ache that tells him he’s already pushed himself too far, and that forcing his limits is only going to leave him worse for wear in the long run. He misses his cane, and misses his chair. Misses the times when even taking transit seemed too exhausting, and Pearl would offer him her spare helmet and give him a ride on the back of her motorcycle.

He doesn’t regret setting Grian’s car on fire—the bitter catharsis has been worth every aching step—but he does wish he had something to make the distance they have to travel easier.

It’s not that he can’t do this, he just doesn’t know how long he can keep it up for. Sooner or later he’s going to have to rest.

The road leading out from the gun club is forested on both sides. Dense, hardy trees grow out of the arid soil. The ground slopes up, steeper than Scar would like, but he supposes that at least it’s shaded. The air is shrill with the sounds of the morning chorus, a multitude of songbirds chirping loud in the blue-grey light of dawn.

Beside him, Grian is cheerful, humming to himself like they’re on a casual stroll. He repeatedly tries to catch Scar’s hand to hold, undeterred when Scar resists him every time.

Eventually, Grian begins outpacing him—frustrating, considering how much more experience Scar has with hiking than he does—and takes the lead as they follow the road. The pavement turns sandier the further they go, asphalt replaced by hard-packed gravel. It eventually thins into a dirt track, rutted by ATV tires and the occasional crescent print of a horse shoe.

Doggedly, Scar continues placing one foot in front of the other, ignoring both the ache in his leg, and every time Grian remarks that they should have done hikes like this more often. There’d be no point in reminding him that he’d made a habit of turning Scar down every time he asked Grian to join him.

The morning is turning to afternoon when Scar finally admits he’s in too much pain to continue like this. They stop at a bend in the road, the remaining third of the shallow mountain rising up in front of them, still daunting despite having the majority of it at their backs. The trees are scrubby, stout growth with rough branches and bristly bushes made to weather the dryness and the heat. Scar knows that this is transient scenery. That the route they’re taking will lead them down into the Mojave on the other side, returning them to the desert vistas that they’d become so familiar with on the outset of their journey.

Grian is sitting down as he finishes a bottle of water, resting on a boulder that was likely heaved out of the way back when the road was being put in. He looks fresh-faced and pleased with himself, enjoying some exercise on a bright sunny day. He’s clearly on the cusp of saying something carelessly casual when Scar cuts him off.

“Are you using that?”

It takes Grian a moment to notice where Scar’s gaze has fixed, resting on the broken half of the garden hoe he’s strapped to his bag. Grian swallows the last of his water and twists the plastic cap back on the bottle. “Why do you ask?”

“Can I borrow it?”

Grian’s already loosening the belt he’d used to hold the handle of the hoe in place, handing it over to Scar without any reservation.

“Gonna do some gardening?” He asks, the corners of his mouth lifting in a grin.

Scar snorts, turning the hoe over so the broken end of the handle is set on the ground. He taps it a few times to test its balance. It’s not better than his cane, and it’s a far sight from his chair, but it’ll do.

“Just acclimating,” he says, gripping the curve near the trowel blade and nodding towards the road. “C’mon, ain’t no flies on us.”

Grian eyes him silently, then bends down, lifting up one of his shoes and yanking on the laces.

“Just give me a second,” he says. “These damn laces are way too tight.”

Their break ends up dragging on as Grian muddles with seemingly every element of his outfit, allowing Scar some extra time to recoup. Idly, Scar wonders if this is Grian’s way of apologising for not noticing his struggle before now.

It’s another hour of hard hiking before they reach the ridge that forms the crest of the mountain. It’s not a challenging landscape; more a gentle bend that buckles up and then descends down gradually in the other direction. It’s mostly dry and grassy at this altitude, pocked in places with short, weathered trees, their branches bent from years of growing in the lee of the wind.

Picturesque, someone with less on their mind might say.

There’s a sense of pride in Scar’s chest for having dragged himself up here, despite the exhaustion that’s settled into his bones. He looks to Grian, a small grin on his face, ready to wheedle a compliment out of him for reaching the summit, but all he finds is Grian looking back the way they came with a grim expression locked on his face. Frowning, Scar turns around, leaning heavily on his makeshift walking stick.

A mute kind of shock wedges itself in his throat, freezing him in place.

The city stretches out below them, wrapped tight to the base of the mountain and stretching out until it disappears into its own haze. Scar’s seen a city sprawl before, but he’s never seen anything like this. Parts of it are blackened, still smouldering from uncontained fires run amok. Other sections look cratered; homes, buildings, and entire blocks crumbled back on top of themselves, leaving concrete skeletons standing in their absence. Smoke trickles up towards the sky in thready columns, signs of occupation or encampments, maybe, or just society continuing to collapse in on itself.

It looks like a war zone.

He feels sick.

“This isn’t a small hiccup, is it?” Grian asks as they both stare, his voice flattened and low. “This isn’t just going to blow over in a week.”

“I don’t know.” It’s not a lie, but deep in his gut Scar feels the permanence of their situation making itself clear. An irreparable shift in the way the world works.

They continue staring in silence, just the two of them, alone on the edge of the wreckage of what used to be. Mourning, not for the first time, and not for the last.

“Have you noticed there are no planes?” Grian asks after what feels like hours, though it’s only been a handful of minutes at most. “No highway noises, no industry, no sirens. It’s so quiet.”

It’s true. Their last few days have been crushingly devoid of sound, all the usual background clamour of their lives absent. Scar tries not to dwell on it much.

It scares him.

“We should keep going,” he says instead, even though every one of his limbs protests at the thought. “The hard part’s over, right? All downhill from here.”

“Right,” Grian says, slowly tearing his eyes away from the scene spread before him. “Hard part’s over.”

He’s not wrong, really. The opposite side of the mountain slopes down, laced by the wide, lazy zig-zag of the dirt road. The path it makes stretches out before them, almost completely visible from where they stand. Its end is overlapped by a highway and what looks to be an average sized town beyond. This side of the mountain has no forests, the ground dry and stony as the terrain gives way to desert. They pass scrubby bushes fit to endure the climate, and patches of yellowed, wind-swept grass. The few trees they spot, clinging to the soil, look more like shrubs.

“There’s a service road,” Grian explains, walking at his side. “I saw it on the map. It runs north east, along the highway. We can follow it and maybe avoid any… you know, googlies.”

It’s a practical plan in theory, but Scar doesn’t know how realistic it is. His body hurts more than he’s willing to admit. Another hike is going to push him well past the limits he already knows he’s crossed, and he doesn’t think he can simply force himself through this.

“We might have to find somewhere to hole up,” he says as diplomatically as possible.

Dismissive, Grian brushes his words aside. “Once we’re far enough out of town, we will.”

Scar knows Grian hasn’t truly heard him. Hasn’t understood the implication behind his suggestion. However, he can’t spare the energy to argue, so he simply tightens his jaw and continues walking.

Together they descend the mountain, following the road. With less vegetation to cover the sandy soil, the slope is littered with stones of various sizes. Years of people—on foot or on ATVs—have stopped to make piles out of the flat rocks that litter the ground. Some have names scratched on them, celebrating graduations or marked in memorial. A large boulder at a switch-back on their descent has the initials ‘M.E. + W.S.’ encircled by a large heart painted in purple. Grian stops to admire it, casting his glance back at Scar with a smile.

“Too bad we don’t have anything to write our names with,” he teases, unaware of how his casual flirtations stick like a stone in Scar’s shoe.

Without answering, Scar keeps moving. He steps carefully, more grateful than ever for his makeshift walking stick. The peak of the day has passed, and their shadows are lengthening out as they near the base of the mountain. The rutted trail empties into a flattened area that was clearly used by locals as a parking lot, splintered off from a rarely used service road.

There are no cars to greet them.

As usual, there is no one.

“We should sit for a minute,” Grian proposes, and even he looks tired, red splotches spread along his cheeks and brow from too much sun. He winces as he crouches down to rub the meat of his calves.

Scar doesn’t want to sit. He knows too well what resting now will mean.

“Grian,” he says, keeping his tone a careful neutral. “We can’t stop yet.”

“I just need a minute, Scar,” Grian replies, continuing to rub his leg and working the tendons of his thigh.

“Grian,” Scar repeats, hoping not to scare him, knowing what this admission is going to do to his current calm. “If I sit down right now, I’m not going to be able to get back up again.” He pauses, taking a deep breath. “For a while.”

Suddenly, Grian is looking at him as if seeing him clearly for the first time. Scar feels the direct point of his gaze as he asks, frightened, “What are you getting at?”

“You know what I’m ‘getting at,’” Scar sighs, leaning heavily on his walking stick. “Grian… we need to find a place to stay. Somewhere safe. With doors and a roof.”

He sees the panic settling into Grian’s expression already—the instant anxiety and the realisation that they’re about to become much, much more vulnerable.

“You can’t be serious,” he says insistently, standing up, body tense as he bargains, like it’s something they can deliberate on. “Scar—”

“Grian,” Scar repeats for what feels like the hundredth time. “I’m tired.”

“What are you asking us to do?” Grian stresses, shoulders stiff, his good mood abandoned. “What are you even saying?”

“I’m saying we’re going to find a place with a proper bed,” Scar explains, laying it out as impartially as he can. “A bathroom, a kitchen, and a front door that we can lock and barricade.” He pauses to ground himself, bracing for Grian’s outburst. “And then we’re going to wait.”

“For how long?!”

It feels like he’s bartering. Like there’s some part of this situation that Grian thinks he can haggle down if he negotiates well enough. It’s as frustrating as it is predictable, and Scar struggles to suppress a sigh.

“We should get going,” he says instead, trying to put an end to the dispute. He scratches the end of his walking hoe into the dry, sandy dirt, avoiding Grian’s searching gaze. “It’s gonna get late if we hang around for much longer.”

“Scar, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but every place we’ve stopped at has been overrun with things that want to eat us alive!” Grian nearly shouts, snapping like the apocalypse is something Scar is at fault for. “And we’re about to enter another, no doubt infested, town! We can’t just decide to—to settle down and plant roots and—”

“Grian,” Scar snaps, and for the first time since their conversation began, his voice comes out sharp, shutting down any continued argument. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I’m gonna need you to stop acting like I’m making a choice here, and listen to me. I’m telling you that we have a finite window to get somewhere safe before I lock up completely, and that window is rapidly closing.”

That, at least, gets through to Grian, a shock of embarrassment passing over his features before he squares up and nods tightly.

“Okay,” he relents, understanding at last. “You’re right. I—I’m sorry. We should get going.”

“We should,” Scar agrees, drained from diverting the little energy he had left towards their squabble.

They resume walking, Grian’s pace far outmatching Scar as the urgency of their situation pushes him ahead.

The edge of town is marked by the highway they saw from the mountain. Two lanes in each direction, piled with backed up, abandoned cars. The outskirts are the same as any highway-adjacent city—gas stations, auto repair shops, drive-thrus, and convenience stores. Even from a distance they can see them, though. The wandering corpses, shambling as they meander aimlessly. There are dozens of them, littering the streets and sidewalks.

They can’t seek out a base here. They have to pass through as best they can.

Scar can feel the mounting pressure every time Grian looks over his shoulder back at him. He can tell that Grian’s calculating his pace against the setting sun, casting his gaze around constantly to keep track of the movement of the ghouls around them. There’ll be no sprinting to escape if they get ambushed.

It’s exhausting.

Eventually, Grian pauses at an intersection, the traffic lights dead above them, not even blinking on emergency power. He crouches down, hiding behind a row of abandoned cars that conveniently block them from the zombies ambling along the cross street, groaning tonelessly. He motions with his hand, indicating for Scar to wait in place, and together they hold their breaths as the creatures move past them.

“I need you to wait here,” Grian says once they’re gone, breaking the silence they’ve maintained since their argument at the foot of the mountain. “I have an idea. You just need to sit tight for a minute.”

Scar wants to push back, but his joints are in agony, searing pain running the full length of his legs and leeching up into his spine. Just having stopped for a minute has made him never want to move again. This is as far as he can realistically go. He’s beat.

“How long will you be?” He asks, but Grian responds to his genuine question with a cynical raised eyebrow and a roll of his eyes.

“Very funny.”

Without any further explanation he stands and unclips his shoulder bag from across his chest, holding it out to Scar.

“Just trust me, okay?”

Scar wants to say that’s impossible. He wants to ask on what planet does Grian think he gets to be sensitive about Scar asking how long he’ll be, and then turn around and expect his trust? After lying to Scar over and over, after cancelling plans, delaying dates, being late because he was in bed with someone else, how can he look Scar in the eye and think he deserves any faith at all? Grian made short work of Scar ever trusting him again.

But he can’t afford a fight about that right now.

So instead of saying anything at all, Scar simply rises up and accepts the bag from Grian without complaint.

He wonders if Grian means it like collateral—a promise that he’ll return, if not for Scar then at least for his belongings. It’s a grim thing to think, that Grian might only be using him as a glorified coat rack, but Scar can’t put it past him. Sighing, he hooks the straps over his right shoulder. He glances around, seeking out somewhere to wait that isn’t in the open, but is still within a reasonable walking distance for his weary body.

“Yeah, fine,” he says, flat. “I’ll wait.”

He’s distracted, trying to decide if he can make it to the glassed-in bus stop across the street, when he feels Grian’s hand on his forearm. He only has a second to prepare before Grian is rocking up on tiptoes and kissing his cheek, the gesture landing far too close to the corner of his mouth.

“I’ll be quick,” he whispers, the assurance almost entirely lost on Scar, who finds himself blindsided by the gesture.

Before he can even react, Grian is off, crouching low as he jogs up the street, avoiding the direction the zombies had straggled off in. At a distance, he looks small and vulnerable in a way that has Scar’s heart twisting, a strange mix of emotions clogging his chest.

Then, the anxiety of being left by himself sets in fast.

He hates being alone like this.

Forcing himself to act, Scar pushes the last few feet to the bus stop he’d been looking at. In terms of shelter it’s in no way secure—a simple bench surrounded by glass on three sides—but beggars can’t be choosers. He sits down heavily, tucking himself against the poster-ad plastered to one side advertising a probiotic brand of yogurt, and tries to plan what he’ll do if a zombie lurches towards him.

He’s relatively safe, visually speaking at least. He’s lower to the ground, and the pile-up of vehicles just ahead keeps the bus stop out of view of any creatures wandering past. Still, that doesn’t mean he can lower his guard and relax. He checks his six often, followed by his open sides, all while going through escape routes in his head. He could use his gun in a pinch, but the sound would absolutely draw every other zombie in the area to him. In such close quarters, the best bet would be to run, but he doesn’t know if his body is even capable of that at this point.

Not to mention, the thought of being driven away and potentially losing track of Grian puts a terror in him that he doesn’t have a name for. It’s a wretched sort of vulnerability, a kind he’s never felt prior to this. He’s clinging by his fingertips to the edge of the world and hoping he doesn’t have to find out how far it will be if he falls.

It’s fifteen, maybe twenty minutes before Grian comes back. For Scar, the time since he’s left has passed in a tense anxiety that ratchets up one minute at a time, knowing it’s only a matter of time before he’s discovered. He’s started to stew in a darkening cloud of certainty that he’s been left behind, cast aside and abandoned, when he catches sight of Grian’s form.

He’s pedaling towards him on a bicycle, of all things. Its tires are thick, and its frame bright orange.

Seeing Grian again stirs up both relief and dread, the two emotions curled together as one, tumultuous in his gut.

“There’s no way I can pedal that,” he blurts out before Grian even has a chance to come to a complete stop. It’s a nice bike, it’s practical, but Scar’s limbs are like lead—there’s just no way he’ll be able to ride it.

There’s a look of disappointment on Grian’s face, and Scar gets the feeling he was expecting a hero’s welcome. A part of him feels bad for robbing Grian of that, but they don’t have time for the trappings of civility, not when they’re sitting out in the open, unguarded as they are with the snarling of the undead audible just outside their tentative hideaway.

“No one said you have to pedal,” Grian mutters, propping out the kickstand as he hops off the bike. He moves with quick efficiency, holding out his hand for his bag and strapping it back across his shoulder once Scar returns it to him. “I worked it out. It’s got one of those flat-top rack thingies, see? You just sit on the back, I’ll take care of it.”

Scar can’t help himself, doubtful as he gives the bike a once-over.

“I’m not exactly a small guy, Grian. How on earth are we supposed to squeeze onto this thing together?”

“If you keep your legs bent and your arms around me while we ride, it’ll work,” Grian insists. “Look, I know it’s not the best method and it won’t exactly be comfortable, but we can’t hole up here where there’s dozens, maybe hundreds, of corpses walking about. I can’t—we can’t risk it.”

Scar is still hesitant, too many memories of a childhood spent falling off bikes in front of the neighbourhood kids cluttering his mind. “Will you really be able to pedal with the weight of two people, though?”

Grian looks affronted, genuinely, and Scar gets the sense he’s touched a vulnerability he didn’t even know Grian had.

“I’m stronger than I look.”

It’s ridiculous. There’s every chance that this will only blow up in their faces, leaving them worse off than they started, but… with the way Grian looks at him, eyes bright and determined, Scar can’t do much other than relent.

He sighs and hefts himself up off the bench, leaning heavily on the hoe to manage it. It’s not the easiest thing he’s ever done, but it’s clear he has no other choice. He shakes himself out a bit, letting his body adjust to the pins and needles of standing up, and then he nods at Grian.

“Let’s go.”

With a beaming smile, Grian immediately gets into position, sitting ready on the bike seat and waiting for him. It takes some effort, but Scar manages to leverage himself up onto the bike rack. Surprisingly, that part is easier than figuring out how to fit his legs into a position that doesn’t snag the bike chain or drag his heels along the street. When it’s discovered that he’s too tall for Grian’s earlier suggestion, he ends up awkwardly adjusting so that he’s sitting sideways, backpack worn across his chest in order to distribute the weight better. His feet just barely miss the pavement as he wraps an arm around Grian’s middle and tucks his face against his shoulder.

There’s a sharp intake of breath from Grian when he does so, something surprised and pleased. Scar doesn’t dwell on it, interrupting the moment with a question. “Where’d you even find this thing?”

“Lucky us, the bike store up the street was having a sale,” Grian says with a laugh, sarcastic. “That five-finger discount’s really come through for us lately.”

“Should’ve gotten a tandem bike then,” Scar remarks. “Would’ve worked a lot better for our situation.”

Grian snorts, amused. “All sold out, I’m afraid. Slim pickings at the end of the world.”

It takes them a bit to get going, a few false starts with Scar sliding off the rack and having to adjust how he sits. Grian grunts with effort as he finally gets the bike moving, the initial startup requiring the most force from his pedaling. Once they’ve begun moving however, their arrangement works remarkably well. They round back towards the highway, turning away from the rest of the town.

The direction catches Scar off guard. He’d been assuming they only had a few minutes to travel before they were going to find a place to lay up.

He taps Grian’s side to alert him. “Wrong way.”

Grian shakes his head, pushing the pedals faster as they merge onto the deserted highway, easily skirting the few abandoned vehicles clogging the on-ramp. Scar tries not to stare at them, their windows smashed, rust-red viscera smeared across their hoods and dashboards.

“Lotta googlies back there,” Grian explains, grim. “Not Scar-safe.”

The anxiety nestled deep in Scar’s chest ramps up once more, choking him on his own nerves. All at once, delayed fear for Grian wraps around him like a vice. He thinks of himself, left to sit idly by with a gun in his hands, kicking his feet at a bus stop for what felt like hours. He thinks of Grian, alone without their only means of defence, peering through windows and checking car doors in an attempt to find some form of transportation for them. For him.

He thinks about how easily Grian could have been caught unawares. How easily he could have been cornered.

If he’d been swarmed or surrounded—with no one to help him, mauled and ripped apart—Scar never would have even known.

“We don’t split up again,” he says suddenly, firm.

Grian’s response is merely silence, though Scar gets the impression he wants to glance back. Instead, Grian concentrates on keeping them moving, panting from the exertion. They follow the line of the highway, past a road sign that lists the nearest town as just over twenty-five miles away.

Scar doesn’t dare to ask how far Grian thinks he can cycle for.

For three hours they travel along the highway, Grian focused and Scar sitting silent behind him. The highway is a straight shot, flat, and relatively bump-free, but that doesn’t mean their progress is easy. Grian labours, breathing hard, his hair sticking to his forehead from sweat that he repeatedly wipes away from his eyes. They stop a few times for him to catch his breath and drink some water, waiting until his pulse has slowed until they resume their progress again. Their supplies are already getting low, but Scar doesn’t mention it, too worried that Grian will simply stop taking breaks and push himself to pedal for longer in order to preserve what little they have left.

The journey is bleak. Desert stretches out around them in every direction. Dry, sandy soil, broken up in places by clumps of agave and cacti, but nurturing very little else. It wouldn’t be an interesting drive in a car, and it’s even less compelling from the back of a bike, staring out at the darkening horizon that only seems to creep by.

They come across just one delay. A collision of cars, with a miasma of traffic radiating out from it in both directions. There’s a handful of undead milling about, distant enough to avoid, but there’s no way to easily cycle around the pile up. They only slow down to sidle the bike between gaps in the cars, but that’s enough to draw the attention of a lone zombie they hadn’t noticed, which pulls its head up out of the crumpled trunk it had been awkwardly slumped in. It makes a guttural, too-human noise that catches them both off guard, wondering, for just a brief instance, if it might be an injured person in need of help.

Their concerns dissolve when the zombie catches its own arm on the jagged edge of a crushed car door as it lunges towards them. Muscle and sinew peel off, revealing bone, the flesh clotted and gangrenous from days of sun exposure. It stumbles, struggling to pull itself free, leaving most of its forearm behind. Undead and terrible.

Scar raises his rifle, aiming down the barrel, finger resting careful on the trigger. Grian elbows him gently, shaking his head. All a shot will do is alert the others. There’s no need to waste the bullet.

“I feel bad for it,” Scar says, lowering the gun, his voice quiet and meant only for Grian to hear.

“You shouldn’t,” Grian dismisses simply. “I don’t.”

They resume their progress, pushing the bike through the last of the mangled vehicles as they continue on. Behind them, the lone ghoul follows with slow, ragged steps. Scar watches it silently over his shoulder until it dips out of sight, his arm tightening slightly around Grian, forehead turning to press between his shoulder blades.

By the time they reach their destination, it’s late. The day is long shadowed by evening, the sky a bruised blue-purple above them as the western edge withers with the last of the sunlight.

It would be boastful to call the place they’ve arrived at a town. A single gas station stands directly off the highway, with a meagre mainstreet of sun-faded businesses running a couple blocks behind it. There’s a sign declaring the presence of a space museum in the area, and Scar nudges Grian with a grin, only to be met with a tired glower.

The place is small enough that, without even trying, they immediately slip into what stands for the residential area. Simple homes, single-wide trailers and tract housing, all spaced evenly apart on gravel lots with minimal gardens. Every window they pass is dark, every driveway empty. The place is eerily quiet—either evacuated, deserted, or devoured.

It’s a sea of options for shelter though, which is why it confuses Scar when Grian doesn’t stop.

“What are you looking for?” He questions after they pass the tenth viable house without so much as slowing down. The night is fully around them now. The darkness unsettling, an unease burying bone deep in his chest, and pulling out the animal instinct to find somewhere safe to hide. To cower. “Any of these places will work fine.”

“I’ll know it when I see it,” Grian replies.

He’s winded; breath laboured and shoulders heavy. Scar doesn’t know why he’s pushing himself like this—what he could possibly have to prove. He’s never really understood Grian’s tenacity, nor his inability to compromise once his mind is made up.

They’re near the end of a cul-de-sac street when Scar spots it, the only house in the neighbourhood with a second storey. It must be one of the original homes from when the town was first established, built from weathered construction that’s stood the test of time. It has a larger lot and a detached garage set apart from it on the end of its forked driveway.

“I could see it from a distance,” Grian explains, breathing hard as he brings the bike to a stop at the curb. “I always wanted a big family house like this. Lots of space to grow into.”

Scar tries to ignore the way that stings. Grian’s making a joke, he’s sure, but it still hurts to hear. Getting a cat together had been too much commitment for him, and here he is joking about notions of family.

He forces the feeling down. He doesn’t want to know if this had been a long standing dream for Grian. Doesn’t want to wonder if Grian had always wanted those things, just not with him.

Whatever the truth is, they don’t have time to unpack it now. Scar’s body is an overlapping twist of searing pains as he carefully eases himself off the rear of the bike. He wobbles as he pushes his backpack and gun over his shoulder. He can barely walk—in fact, it’s a miracle he can stand. The hours sat hunched over hanging tight to Grian have sapped what little was left of his reserves, leaving him completely empty.

“Grian,” he says, voice tight, and automatically Grian moves to his side. It allows Scar to rest his arm heavy across Grian’s shoulders and lean all of his weight against him.

Up close the house is dark; looming and intimidating. Unbidden, the memories of the ambush at the storage locker, and the encounter with the zombie that wandered out of the pantry in the farmhouse, wisp up in Scar’s mind, nagging at him. They don’t know what waits for them inside—if the former residents are pacing the rooms, mindless and ravenous, just waiting for someone to crack the door open before they spring—and Scar knows he doesn’t have the fortitude to fend off an attack.

“We’ll sleep in the garage,” Grian says, echoing Scar’s unspoken concern. “Figure the rest out in the morning.”

It’s as good an idea as any, both of them too tired and, in Scar’s case, in too much pain to dither about it. Together, Grian helps Scar limp the short distance up the driveway. The simple, counterweight garage door swings up when Grian bends down to pull on it. Inside, the space is almost comically vacant: a dusty cement floor with a bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. There’s a door to the side, and in the far corner sits an empty tool bench with nothing but a stack of water-damaged magazines on top of it, the paper buckled and covers rolled back.

It feels stupid to rest here when they both know there’s a bed less than twenty feet away, but Grian insists that it’s fine. He helps Scar down until he’s sitting, legs stretched out long in front him, and his back resting against the unfinished plywood wall.

“There,” Grian says, smile strained with fatigue as he sits down heavily beside him. “Our five-star suite.”

Scar can’t even bring himself to offer a smile in return. With careful movements, he eases the backpack off his shoulders, settling the rifle on the ground next to his thigh. His body feels weighted and his movements impossibly slow, like he’s dragging himself around on puppet strings stretched over a great distance. Next to him Grian is talking, but Scar can’t hear, can’t focus beyond his pain and the relief of knowing that they’re somewhere that he can relax. Somewhere safe.

They’ve left the garage door open, the ambient moonlight offering what little illumination it can in the otherwise total darkness of the room. They’ll have to shut it before long, but for now Scar lets himself breathe in the night air, steady breaths filling his lungs before he exhales. He closes his eyes, listening to Grian talk until even he eventually quiets. Scar doesn’t quite fall asleep, but he does let go of himself in an out-of-body sort of way, allowing himself to uncoil, each limb dropping loose. In doing so, his whole body throbs in an almost satisfying way—the kind that hurts, but is a relief to feel all at once.

He doesn’t know how long he sits for, but by the time he’s finally cognizant enough to open his eyes again, Grian has apparently already laid out provisions for the night. Currently, he’s using the thin beam of their flashlight to look through the water-logged magazines Scar had spotted earlier. Scar peers at the protein bar, chips, and bottle of water set out with blankness. He’s hungry, but in an absent way—like his body doesn’t consider it a priority compared to everything else it’s dealing with. Nevertheless, he takes a deep breath and inches his arm forward, gathering up the pieces of his meal.

It’s as he’s unwrapping the protein bar that he hears a foot scuff outside, heel dragging slow across the ground.

Automatically, Scar wrenches his gaze towards Grian. It’s obvious Grian’s heard the noise too, his eyes snapping up to Scar’s, blown wide.

Without a word, Scar reaches for the gun laying beside him.

It seems monumentally short-sighted for them to have left the garage door pulled up now, leaving them both entirely exposed. The sound draws nearer and nearer still. Careless shuffling; the telltale, aimless approach of a zombie that they’ve both become so awfully familiar with.

Scar fits the rifle against his shoulder, aiming at the wide moonlit opening. Neither he nor Grian breathe, dead silent.

They wait, tense, but it’s not the open garage that gets them.

Without warning, the side door—the one leading towards the house—swings open. Standing nearest to it Grian jumps, a startled yelp escaping him at the unexpected motion.

On pure instinct, Scar spins around, the gun’s ignition catching with a bang that’s ear-splitting as he aims and pulls the trigger.

 

Notes:

Annnd that cliffhanger brings us to the end of the first arc of this fic! >:D 💥🔫

I've mentioned this over on tumblr a bit but, essentially, each arc focuses on mainly one character, with the other's POV popping up a few times in between. So, the next arc will be heavily Grian POV, with a scattering of Scar POV here and there to supplement it, in a reverse of what we've had so far! We'll ease into it with a couple of Scar chapters though, so there's plenty of our favourite boy to come ;)

Very excited to share the next portion of adventure it with y'all! Anxiously hoping you'll enjoy it hahaha! 💜

Chapter 10

Notes:

HELLO ALL! There is Great News, Good News, and Bad News.

The Great News is!! THB came through with some more fanart! :D This time of Grian in Chapter 9 looking sooo, so good 💜

The bad news is--there won't be a new chapter next week 😔 Think of it as us taking a mini-vacation on our end! A week off and then posting should go back to normal after that :3 The good news is: this current chapter is twice as long as a regular chapter in order to make up for it >:D So hopefully you'll have plenty to keep you occupied while we rest up!

All that said, this chapter was an exciting one to write--we really hope you'll enjoy it! 💫

On a good day, Scar is an expert marksman. Years of practice, dedication, and a love for the skill have paid off for him. He can hit a moving target at a distance, he can nail a bullseye, and he can fire multiple rounds and hit the exact same mark…

On a good day, he doesn’t miss.

On a bad day, the pain in his joints and the strain on his muscles makes his hands unsteady, unable to follow the sights of a rifle or accurately gauge the movement of a target. On a bad day his shots are off-centre, listing to the right as he pulls up to favour the ache in his arms. It’s why he gave up shooting in the first place—it’s no good to be unreliable when you’ve got a gun in your hands.

All things considered though, Scar’s lucky that today is a bad day.

The ignition of the rifle fires, but the barrel pulls to the side, missing his mark entirely. The sound of the shot deafens him for a moment, and Scar winces as he suffers through the ringing in his ears. In the doorway, another figure winces as well. A young man, barely into his twenties, his brown hair hanging in front of his eyes, unwashed and tousled. He’s dressed in an over-large, floral knit sweater under a khaki overcoat, his feet shoved into leather boots with dangling, untied laces. Blotchy, sunburnt skin; chipped nail polish; breathing. Human. Alive.

Alive.

“Oh,” the stranger says, voice brighter than it has any right to be. “You’re people.”

“Oh my god.” The revelation hits Scar all at once, the surprise and delight at meeting another person—someone else; not just him and Grian, but a survivor—upended by the fact that he’d instinctively tried to kill him. “I almost shot you.”

A laugh bubbles up out of the stranger, high and delighted, almost manic.

“Holy shit,” he gasps in agreement, voice edged in disbelief. “You almost shot me.”

They look at one another, Scar laid out on the floor, back resting against the plywood wall, rifle still held tight in his hands—and the stranger, hands fidgeting at his sides, rocking his weight from one foot to the other.

At almost the exact same time, they both dissolve into relieved, jittery laughter.

“You could’ve killed me,” the stranger adds, like the revelation is still settling in. “I could’ve died.”

It’s a nerve-wracking thing to consider. In all their reckless slaughter of the corpses lurching out at them from the dark, Scar had forgotten he still had the potential to kill real people. If he’s being honest, a part of him had already lost hope that there were any real people left.

“Damn, and here I was, coming in all cocksure and confident! Didn’t stop to think about someone packing heat.” The stranger lifts his foot, about to move further into the garage when a cry from behind him catches his attention. His gaze hooks back over his shoulder, turning to greet the two panicked voices that shout out, overlapping one another.

“We heard a gunshot!”

“Are you okay?!”

“I’m fine,” the stranger shushes, reassuring. “I was just making a friend.”

“Did you take it out?” One of the voices asks, the lowest timbre of the three. “How the fuck did one figure how to shoot a gun?”

The stranger giggles with the same high, infectious laugh as he gestures into the garage, stepping in and waving the other survivors outside to join him.

“Not a zomboid,” he says as a pair of tentative footsteps approach, scuffed soles dragging on the gravel. “Check it out—we got guests.”

Warily, two new faces peer into the garage. They match the first in age, barely out of their teens, fresh and out of place in the new grimness of the world. They’re both shorter than their companion—the shortest with a beanie crammed down over shoulder-length black hair, and the other boasting a ragged wolf cut, bangs held back by a bandanna. They wear the same mishmash of layers as their friend, one of them in a Nevada U sweatshirt, while the other sports a white shirt over a dark hoodie with fire decals snaking up the sleeves.

“… They gotta go.”

The statement comes from the boy in the flame-sleeved sweater, turning to face the other two after only a moment spent studying Scar and Grian.

Crouched down next to him, Grian bristles, and Scar rests a cautioning hand on his forearm, quieting him with a motion. There’s no point in setting themselves up as the antagonists in this scenario. Better to wait and see where things stand.

A brief discussion breaks out between the trio, their backs turned to Grian and Scar, apparently unthreatened by them, despite the reverb of Scar’s shot still ringing in their ears.

“Don’t be like that.” The one Scar nearly shot, the tallest, has his face squinting with distaste at his companion’s knee-jerk reaction. “They only just got here. How’s that for hospitality? Think of the Yelp review…”

“Karl, we don’t have time to dick around. It’s getting late. We gotta get them out of here, now.”

“And that’s exactly why we can’t make them leave. C’mon Sap, don’t be heartless.”

“I’m not being heartless. I’m being realistic.” The speaker—Sap; with the flames—tilts his head forward, a serious expression on his face. “C’mon, Karl. Think about this. You know I’m right.”

There’s something loaded in that sentence. It piques Scar’s interest, listening intently for any further clarity on their situation.

Unfortunately, despite his cautioning, Grian refuses to be patient.

“We can hear you, you know,” his voice snaps out irritably.

“Of course you can,” Karl says, looking over at them with a grin. He has a sweet smile, boyish and naïve, lips parted wide, like they’re not in the middle of a tense negotiation. “And that’s why we’re gonna ask you to spend the night with us—platonically, of course.”

Scar can feel Grian coiling. He’s on the defensive, which brings out the hair-trigger in him. While normally Grian is humorous and jovial, with a mischievous touch that made Scar fall for him in the first place, all of that evaporates when he feels like he’s been backed into a corner. When Grian’s like this, he’s a lit fuse. A stick of dynamite primed to go off at any moment.

Scar can easily imagine the multitude of ways Grian is likely to lash out and ruin this for all of them, all too familiar with his barked words and cutting insults. He knows he has to think quickly—that his window of opportunity is closing fast, and that Grian is liable to verbally shoot them both in the foot if he feels himself being back-talked in the slightest.

He can’t let Grian blow this for them, but there’s no time to step aside and form a plan.

So he takes a breath and goes for it.

“Well shucks, we’d love to,” he supplies, quick, before Grian has a chance to speak. He matches Karl’s smile with a wide one of his own, the kind he knows reads as affable and charming; the one that says, ‘trust me, I’m a good guy.’ “You know, I was just saying to Grian that folks ‘round here are known far and wide for their generous hospitality! You boys are certainly living up to the reputation.”

“We’re not from around here,” the smallest of the three mutters, shoulders pulled up and subtly leaning into Sap’s personal space.

“Must be the local air rubbing off on you,” Scar counters, effortlessly moving with the conversation. “Honestly speaking, it’s gotten to me as well. Put me in a real sharing mood! Maybe we could all pass around our names while we’re feeling so giving—mine’s Scar.” Before Grian can speak, he sets a large hand on his shoulder, patting him fondly. “And this is my sidekick, Grian.”

The tallest of the three smiles brightly at that, stepping forward as he holds out his hand. “I’m Karl,” he offers without a shred of hesitation.

Scar’s expression tightens at the corners as he continues to sit, unable to rise and meet his hand. “Karl! Good name. Great name, even—so glad I didn’t shoot you before I had the chance to learn it.” He takes a risk, gambling as he adds, “You’ll forgive me for not getting up. We’ve had a long day.”

Without hesitation, Karl bends his knees and sits down affably on the ground next to him, meeting Scar at his level as he eagerly takes his hand and shakes it. Still crouched beside him, Grian makes no motion to offer the same gesture, and Scar is relieved when Karl doesn’t even try to engage him.

“Believe me, man, we’ve all been there,” Karl confesses, like he has decades of experience to draw from. “Anyway, Pandas here—I mean, this is Sapnap. And that’s Quackity.”

Uneasily, Sap—now Sapnap—kneels down beside Karl, not willing to sit, but getting near enough to give Scar an acknowledging nod. Standing alone, Quackity doesn’t move at all, arms folded tight across his chest, expression pinched with distrust and concern.

“Quackity, eh?” Scar offers, sensing his reticence to join them. “Never heard that one before. You get it from your mallard’s side?”

Karl bites down on a quick laugh, but clearly Quackity doesn’t see the humour in it, bristling in a way that Scar is all too familiar with.

“None of your business where I fucking got it from,” he snaps, shutting the conversation down and shifting his attention to his companions. “C’mon, let’s get out of here,” he mutters, blunt and direct.

“Well I think—” Scar begins, but is interrupted by Grian’s hand grabbing his shoulder.

“Just let them go, Scar,” he mock-whispers, loud enough for them all to hear. “We don’t know what their angle is—we can’t trust them.”

“Hey fuck you, pal,” Quackity barks immediately, hackles raised. “It’s you we can’t trust.”

“Q’s got a point, Karl,” Sapnap cautions, words civil but the spark in his eyes no less dangerous than Quackity’s. “We’re not exactly in a position to take risks right now.”

“See?” Grian says, uncrossing his arms to gesture emphatically, taking their rejection as a triumph. “None of us like each other so it’s just best to go our separate ways, and since we got here first—”

“Like hell you did!” Quackity bites, his voice raising up against Grian’s, the two of them talking over one another in a way that’s already getting hectic. “We’ve been here for days, buddy. You can’t just—”

“Now hang on a second, gentlemen,” Scar reasons, raising his hands in a pacifying gesture. “All this getting up in arms when there’s simply no need. Surely we can make this work! Wise folks always said there’s safety in numbers, right? So what say we huddle together for warmth tonight, and we’ll go our separate ways in the morning.”

He uses his most charming voice, the kind that’s gotten him out of multiple sticky situations in the past. He’s good at talking his way out of things; much like shooting, he’s got a knack for it.

However, just like shooting, sometimes he misses, and Scar is rewarded by a beat of silence before three voices speak out at once—Grian, Quackity and Sapnap raising a din in their rush to object.

“Absolutely not, no.”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“We don’t even know you.”

“Scar,” Grian says, springing to his feet at last, dusting off his knees and pressing his toe into Scar’s thigh. “It’s time for them to go.”

With an incredulous snort, Quackity laughs, “Time for you to go.”

“No offence,” Sapnap adds, softening Quackity’s hostility, but still firmly refusing to budge. “We just can’t risk—”

“Risk what, exactly?” Grian snaps. “I told you: we got here first.”

The cacophony builds, Grian raising his voice to argue and Quackity raising his in turn. The sound of shouting will be a beacon to attract any wandering ghouls, if the earlier gunshot hasn’t alerted them already. The tension feels impossibly high, and Scar remains stuck in place, joints stiff and his heart up in his throat as he watches their first chance to catch a break spiral down the drain.

Carefully, he speaks up, adding his voice to the fray as he tries to negotiate. “Okay, okay, so maybe we need to workshop our terms, but you boys can’t tell me there’s not a glimmer of a good idea in there.”

If the other three hear him they don’t acknowledge it, arguing back and forth until, all at once, they’re interrupted by the sound of two hands clapping together, just once, followed by Karl’s voice, loud above it all.

“Enough.”

Like a switch has been thrown, both Quackity and Sapnap fall silent, leaving Grian’s voice to ring out alone, alarmingly loud in the now quiet space. Immediately he pauses, suddenly self-conscious as his eyes dart around to the others one by one.

“Wow,” Scar breathes out in a huff of surprise, admiration in his tone. “How did you manage to do that?”

Eyebrow quirked, Karl glances at him, a grin pulling at his lips. “Do what?”

“Get them to listen to you.”

Karl’s laugh is tittering and delighted. It trails off into a giggle as he rocks to his right, pitching his shoulder into Sapnap and leaning heavily against him.

“Well that’s just how we work,” he says, easygoing, like the words explain themselves. There’s a momentary pause, and Scar watches as Karl looks him over before taking a quick glance at Grian as well. Whatever he sees makes him hum cryptically. “You know…” he adds, eyes narrowing with a conspiratory smirk. “Because we’re in love.”

Scar blinks at that, not quite taken aback but still somewhat confused. He waits, wondering if it’s the lead-up to a joke and the punchline is about to be delivered, but when only silence follows, he reassesses.

Slow and careful, he takes in the way Karl leans into Sapnap’s space, looking for all the world like he belongs there. At the same time, Sapnap crouches just in front of Quackity, blocking him in a way that’s decidedly protective. The admittance must be a joke—Scar can’t fathom three people in a real relationship like that, when just two together already makes such a complicated mess. But it’s hard to see it any other way when Karl conveys it with all the enthusiasm of someone freshly engaged, heart full of affection for the beauty of the world and eager to invite everyone around him to share in it.

“Ah,” Scar laughs, a strange bittersweetness settling over him. Being in love… respecting and listening to each other… He’d almost forgotten how that worked for most people. “Well, that would explain it, I suppose.”

The strangeness of his reaction doesn’t seem to register to Karl, who instead says, matter-of-fact, “Seriously, though. I think Mr. Scar here has a point. There’s safety in numbers and, no offence, there’s strength in it too.”

He pauses, giving Scar and Grian time to do the quick math he’s implying. Karl’s three to their two. Beside him, Grian takes a breath to speak, but Karl simply continues, talking over him with easy confidence.

“And instead of taking that as a threat, maybe you could just let us give you a hand.”

There’s a pause, expectant as he waits for them to react.

“Do we look that bad?” Scar asks at last, smiling despite himself.

“You look like car crash victims,” Karl answers bluntly, and the irony of the statement isn’t lost on Scar, who holds back a little laugh and avoids the urge to rub at age-old injuries. “I’m gonna be honest, there’s no point to any of us sleeping out here when there’s beds and a shower inside.” His voice softens, genuine, “I promise we’re not bad people, man. We could help each other.”

It’s enough to sway Scar, his elbow nudging into Grian, needling persuasively. “A bed and a shower, Grian.”

He can see Grian’s reluctance, the petulant set of his expression and the stubborn way he bites his bottom lip. For all his attitude, Grian’s sharp—much sharper than he lets on. It’s clear to Scar that he doesn’t trust these people as far as he could throw them, and Scar knows how unlikely it will be for him to budge. Grian would sooner sleep outside on the dirt, confident of his mistrust, than accept the suspiciously convenient charity of a helping hand. It’s a survivor’s instinct, and while it often benefits them, Scar knows he needs them to take a risk right now.

“Please,” he whispers, pulling Grian in gently by the arm and lowering his voice to keep it just between the two of them. He plays his cards, leaning on Grian’s nickname to play on his goodwill. “G. I need this.”

Grian stares at him, frowning. The chewing on his lip becomes more aggressive until, finally, he sighs.

Heaving his shoulders in an exaggerated, long-suffering shrug, Grian relents. “Fine.”

“Awesome!” Karl crows, effortlessly springing to his feet with Sapnap following suit right behind him. “And you’re just in time for dinner, too.”

He looks down expectantly, hands on his hips as he waits for Scar and Grian to join them.

It’s a sudden and unexpectedly tricky situation. While Scar’s happy to have some new company, he’s not about to be an open book. He doesn’t want them to know any more about him than they need to, and that includes his current inability to stand.

“We’ll catch up in a minute, if it’s all the same to you,” he says diplomatically, praying it doesn’t sound as suspicious as it feels. “Pack up our things. Make sure all that hootin’ and hollerin’ didn’t draw in any unmentionables.”

His words have a curious effect, Quackity stiffening up immediately at the implication that they might have made themselves targets. Scar catches Sapnap glancing at him, hand twitching at his side like he wants to reach out. Karl, however, only smiles.

“Hey, no rush,” he says, calm, elbowing Sapnap and Quackity as he shares a grin between them. “That’ll give us a chance to make the place decent. Can’t remember the last time we had guests over that weren’t dead-eyed and slobbering.”

“We’ve never had guests at all,” Sapnap corrects, stiff and plain, but he still lets himself be led away, Karl linking elbows with him and moving towards the side door. The only one of the three to hang back is Quackity, sharing the same mistrustful expression on his face that Grian wears plainly on his own. After a tense moment, he snorts, muttering something under his breath before he turns to leave.

The door closes after him, leaving Scar and Grian alone, a lingering tension rolling loose and unformed between them. Scar waits for the sounds of the trio to clear away from the doorway, then turns Grian with a grimace.

“I need you to help me get up.”

There’s no hesitation as Grian pulls his knees under him, shifting into a crouch. He easily slings Scar’s arm over his shoulder, helping him to his feet with practised familiarity.

“What the hell are you thinking?” he hisses as they move together, sour and upset.

Scar shrugs, not letting go of Grian’s support. He won’t be steady on his feet without it, and he needs all the leverage he can get before he has to pretend in front of their new friends.

“I’m thinking that we need a win,” he replies, his answer succinct.

“And if they kill us in our sleep?”

“Grian,” Scar sighs, barely able to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “They’re three scared kids. The tallest one can’t be older than twenty-three. I don’t think they’re the threats you’re taking them for.”

Grian doesn’t look convinced, but to his credit, he drops it. Together, they move towards the door, Scar keeping his arm around Grian’s shoulders and propping himself up with the rifle when he dips too low. It’s not exactly proper handling of a firearm, but it’s not like anyone’s around to write him up for it.

“Besides,” he teases, unable to help himself as they make their way out of the garage and move towards the house. “We’ve been taking risks this whole time. What’s one more?”

The front door has been left cracked open, a risk Scar knows Grian would never approve of in a million years. The moment they step inside it’s clear that the trio have been squatting for a while. All of the windows have been covered from the inside with cardboard, sheets and blankets, and then barricaded by the majority of the home’s furniture. On the emptied floor, there are board games and puzzles piled everywhere, alongside books and magazines, and candles and camping lanterns arranged on almost every surface.

It looks less like a survival situation and more like a sleepover with insurance.

The trio greet them with an easy familiarity, watching curiously as Grian nudges the door open and helps Scar in. It’s clear they’re as tired as Grian and Scar are, because the conversation that follows is perfunctory at best, Karl explaining that he’ll take the first watch as he volunteers Grian to join him, and Sapnap saying he’ll take the second shift with Scar. Neither Grian nor Scar feel in a position to disagree, so it’s declared settled.

Once the minutiae is sorted, Karl makes a grand sweeping gesture with his arm and offers to show them to their room. Bouncing on his heels, he heads up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Scar feels Grian’s hand spreading unobtrusively against the small of his back, bracing and preparing to support him.

It’s to Scar’s detriment that he forces himself upwards, walking steadily, gripping the handrail so tightly he worries the skin on his knuckles is going to split. At the top of the stairs, Karl points towards a closed door, indicating it as the bathroom with the aforementioned shower. While the idea of getting clean sounds heavenly, Scar grits his teeth as his body threatens to teeter. It feels like ages before Karl shows them to an open doorway, ushering them into what might’ve once been a guest room. The windows are curtained, but not heavily barricaded. The bed is large and luxurious, with fresh sheets and an abundance of pillows. It looks like an invitation, and every inch of Scar longs to succumb to it.

Cheerfully, Karl asks if they’re hungry, and Scar’s smile wavers. He doesn’t want to go back downstairs, but doesn’t know what to say that won’t immediately give him away.

“We want to settle in first,” Grian answers, tactfully avoiding Karl’s question. “I’ll come down in time for our watch, I promise.”

“Wasn’t doubting you,” Karl replies, effortlessly quick and seemingly unbothered. “Get comfy, and, hey—” he pauses, hand resting on the doorframe and idly scratching his thumbnail into the wood grain before he speaks. “We’re glad you’re here.”

It’s a vulnerability or a ruse, but blessedly Grian doesn’t say anything in time to question it. Karl’s feet thump loudly as he heads back downstairs, and Grian closes the door behind them, letting his breath out the moment they know they’re alone.

Like a battery on empty, the last of Scar’s energy drains, whatever adrenaline that was keeping him going well and truly shot. He only has a second to mumble Grian’s name before he stumbles towards the bed, exhausted beyond belief.

At his side in an instant, Grian remains close, offering familiar reassurances and helping Scar out of his jacket and shoes. Scar nods along but says nothing, only wanting to curl up and pass out. Now that he’s completely let the tension in his muscles go, he feels more beat down than he’s ever been. Grian says something about going to talk to the trio as he pulls the covers up over Scar’s body. Scar thinks he manages a nod, but he can’t be sure of it, sleep already edging the fringes of his consciousness. He watches Grian leave the room through bleary eyes, and that’s all he can recall before he gives in to sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s a deep, dreamless night, and Scar doesn’t realise he’s slept through it all until Grian is waking him up, hand gentle but insistent on his shoulder as he shakes him awake.

It’s a nice feeling, being woken up by Grian while laying in a bed—a real bed, with sheets and pillows and a comforter tucked up around his ears. There’s the familiar sounds of pots and pans bustling in the kitchen drifting up the stairs, and the smell of food cooking in the air.

Scar never knew he could miss such simple things so much.

He never knew he could sleep so heavily, either.

“Scar.” It’s not the first time Grian’s whispered his name, but it’s the first time it properly catches his attention. Scar inhales deep through his nose, then slowly turns over to lay on his back.

“Hey,” he mumbles, the word sleep-slurred. He only just barely cracks his eyes open, unwilling to fully commit to being awake just yet.

“They’re making breakfast,” Grian explains, soft. He’s dressed and looks clean, his hair damp and skin scrubbed pink from a shower. Scar foggily remembers Karl pointing it out last night, though he’d been too tired to follow up about it. Grian has cleaned up nice, though; he always does, really. Properly shaven for the first time in weeks, hair brushed back, looking like the Grian that Scar remembers before it all went wrong.

A part of himself that Scar wishes he could squash down wants to compliment Grian—wants to drag him close and kiss him. Wants to languish in the echo of what used to be.

Instead, Scar clears his throat, rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyelids to stop himself from thinking about it anymore.

“What’s on the menu?”

“Waffles.” Grian grins, a genuine thread of excitement in his tone. “Real waffles. They’ve got a waffle iron and a mix.”

Scar chuckles, admiring how the universe yet again dips in Grian’s favour.

“Sounds like I should get up, then.”

It’s a gamble and they both know it. Scar can feel Grian’s eyes on him, watching intently, trying not to add any additional pressure but failing.

He just can’t help but think he’s letting Grian down if he doesn’t push himself now. It wraps around his chest wrong, and logically he knows it’s stupid to blame himself for something he can’t control, but it doesn’t stop him from doing it anyway. He relies on Grian, and Grian is relying on him to get up, so he continues pushing. For a man he’s broken up with.

Taking a deep breath, Scar throws the covers back and swings his legs over the edge of the mattress. His joints don’t feel as bad as yesterday, offering nothing more than the persistent ache that’s always there—something he’s long since gotten used to. Emboldened, he clenches his jaw, bracing himself as he settles his weight on his feet.

Slowly, carefully, he stands up.

There’s pain, but it’s not significant. He feels the soreness he’d expect from a long day spent walking, throbbing muscles and stiff joints, but it’s nothing he can’t handle.

He takes a step forward, and behind him Grian lets out the breath he’d been holding.

“Good day today,” Grian says, relief evident in his tone.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Scar deflects, attempting to shift the tightness out of his shoulders with a stretch and moving towards the bedroom door to crack it open.

The noise filtering up from the kitchen is warm and inviting. There’s something deeply comforting in the sound of casual voices deep in conversation, punctuated by the occasional high giggling—laughter that Scar now knows is Karl’s. He can smell their cooking wafting up the stairs, a thing he hasn’t been able to enjoy since the world fell to pieces. He misses warm food, and he misses breakfast.

He misses companionship.

“Gimmie a hand,” he says, extending his arm out to Grian, who steps forward and helps him without question. Together, they make their way down the stairs, taking it slow as Scar lowers himself down each step one at a time.

The scene that greets them in the kitchen makes his heart ache. Not painful, but a nice, tender squeeze in his chest. The downstairs room is dim—even in daylight, thanks to the blocked out windows—and the kitchen looks visibly picked apart; thoroughly rummaged through for supplies, the majority of the cupboards thrown open, and the contents of the pantry pulled down onto the countertops and piled haphazardly on the floor. It’s a mess, with plates and dishes left everywhere, and Scar remembers how having his kitchen in a similar state used to have Cub heaving a sigh before he’d roll up his sleeves and start tidying.

Around the table is the sight that’s really caught his eye, though. Quackity, in a baggy t-shirt with his hair hanging over his eyes, is sitting with his shoulder tucked into Karl’s chest, and Karl’s arm lazily looped around him. The two are in conversation with Sapnap, who stands at the stove next to a waffle iron. It’s an old-fashioned, cast-iron, non-electric kind that Scar had only ever seen his grandparents use, the flat of it resting right above the open flames of the gas stove. Sapnap looks relaxed and open, his attention split between his companions and the breakfast he’s cooking.

The three of them together paint a perfectly domestic image, though admittedly Scar’s still uncertain how it’s meant to work between multiple partners.

All the same, he can’t deny that he’s missed seeing people look so happy. He certainly hasn’t felt that way lately.

It’s Quackity who notices them first, the easy smile on his face vanishing as he sizes them up, eyes fixing on their entrance as tension winds through his body. His sudden stiffness alerts Karl, who glances towards the bottom of the stairs with a smile.

“Hey, look who’s awake.”

He’s on his feet easily, drawing a chair out from the table and motioning Scar and Grian in, inviting them to join.

“We were just taking bets on how long you’d sleep.”

Scar smiles. It’s easy to do so, enamoured by the genuine hospitality from a total stranger. Taking the chair Karl offers him, he sits down with relief, glad he doesn’t have to waste his limited capacity calculating how best to hide his disability as he leans inconspicuously against a wall. He wishes he didn’t have to be so secretive, but—much like travelling with Grian—the end of the world has forced him to make all sorts of compromises with himself.

Leaning back, he pats the seat next to him, motioning for Grian to join. After a pause, Grian does, but it’s clear he’s reluctant, sitting perched on the edge of the chair as if ready to take flight at a moment’s notice.

“And so? Which of you called it?” Scar asks, driving the conversation forward.

“It was Big Q. Right darlin’?” Sapnap says, nodding towards Quackity. It seems like he’s had a change of heart overnight, his attitude towards them much more easygoing in the newness of the day. He’s tied his dark hair up in two matching buns at the top of his head, and it makes him look sweet. Like the kind of guy you’d tip generously at a coffee shop.

Quackity nods carefully, though there’s still an uncertainty in him. It doesn’t feel like mistrust, but Scar can’t put his finger on what else it might be. His behaviour reminds Scar of Grian in a lot of ways. Constantly on guard and anxious; an open book until he’s not.

“I hope you put money on that bet,” Scar jokes, Quackity offering him a thin smile in return but not much else.

“Waffles will be ready in a minute,” Sapnap says, nearly apologetic as he flips the waffle iron over. “Power’s out, but the propane’s still good—that’s why we got hot water, too. There’s a learning curve on this thing, though. No wonder we were buying Eggos.”

Karl retakes his seat and plants his elbows on the table, propping his chin in his palms. “So,” he says, cheerful and a little like a talk show host. “Two guys on a bike in the middle of nowhere. Pretty far from home, I bet.” He winks. “Where were you when the zombies attacked?”

It’s blunt, but Karl seems extremely casual as he says it. Still, Scar’s smile falters all the same, and he can feel Grian tense up beside him.

Karl doesn’t mean anything by it, obviously. It’s a perfectly normal thing to be curious about, especially considering their situation. Scar himself knows he’s just as curious about Karl’s answer. There’s no way for Karl to know what a sensitive topic it is. Nor can he know how little Scar and Grian themselves have thought about it—the reason they were together when all hell broke loose.

“Scar’s apartment,” Grian replies, clipped, offering the answer before Scar can.

It’s the exact thing Scar would’ve said, but it bristles against him anyhow—like somehow Grian cut him off, getting his answer in first because he couldn’t trust Scar not to immediately air out their dirty laundry.

Not to be beat, he leans back in his seat, looking Grian in the eyes with a bright smile and adding, “We were doing a little spring cleaning together. Getting rid of things we didn’t need anymore.”

He can see the flash of betrayal in Grian’s eyes before he smooths his expression over. It’s stupid and petty of him, especially when things have been generally civil between them for the last few days, but somehow Scar feels less sorry for saying it than maybe he should.

“I knew it!” Sapnap crows, plating the first round of fresh waffles, the smell of them enticing in a way that makes Scar’s stomach audibly growl.

Grian frowns at him, confused. “Sorry?”

There’s a moment of shared laughter from the trio, exchanging grins and glances before Karl finally explains, “It’s obvious that you two haven’t just met along the way. The way you act around each other—you’ve clearly got some history. Only, Pandas here took that one step further. He’s sure that you two are together, you know?”

The silence that follows is potent.

It’s awkward in a tangible way, Karl waiting expectantly for an enthusiastic confirmation that will never come. The laughter dies down, and unless one of them speaks, Scar knows that this is about to become a bigger deal than it needs to be.

“Oh, we’re not together.” He doesn’t dare look in Grian’s direction as he says it, afraid it’ll make him lose his nerve. “But! We have known each other for a long time, so you get points for that at least!”

“No fuckin’ way,” Sapnap slaps the countertop, shaking his head. “So what’s with the crazy vibes between you two, then? Apocalypse UST or what?”

“Sapnap!” Karl gasps, covering his mouth with a hand, eyes twinkling with amusement and delight.

“C’mon, you see it too, don’t you?” Sapnap presses, and it’s clear he’s having fun, like they’re all playing some kind of game. Scar’s never been ribbed like this. It makes him feel like he’s sitting at the kid’s table at a family event. Out of touch in every possible way.

Face burning, he fights to keep his voice from cracking in embarrassment, carefully training his gaze on the table, trying not to read too much into Grian’s silence. His heart pounds incriminatingly loud in his chest, the idea of sexual tension—memories of Grian warm against him, moaning, calling his name and finishing in his hand—vivid in his head.

“Definitely nothing like that,” he lies.

“So,” Quackity starts, interjecting with the glint of an opportunist. It’s the first time he’s made an effort to join the conversation, his eyes catching Scar’s from across the breakfast table. A smirk quirks the edges of his mouth. “You’re saying you’re single?”

The reaction is immediate and loud. Karl bursts out laughing, tilting his chair back as he clutches his stomach. Sapnap sighs loudly, muttering a soft, ‘here we go again’ while plating another two waffles that he sets on the table. Quackity looks up at him, gesturing with his hands as he attempts to explain himself, but neither of the other two give him a moment to speak, shouting and yelling over his words, all with matching wide grins on their faces.

Scar feels entirely out of the loop.

“Sorry,” Sapnap says at last, when the mayhem finally dies down, a wry grin on his face. “Q’s got a thing for handsome older men.”

If Scar felt embarrassed before, it’s nothing compared to how he feels now, heat flooding his cheeks and turning everything from the tips of his ears to the skin of his neck red. Beside him, Grian shifts in his chair, and Scar tries not to think about it—tries to pretend Grian isn’t here at all. It’s easier than imagining the fight that’ll no doubt come of this afterwards.

“Shut the fuck up, Sapnap,” Quackity snaps, and his tone would be intimidating if not for the way he’s hiding behind his hands in mortification. “What the hell is wrong with you, oh my god?”

“Am I wrong?” Sapnap crows, clearly enjoying himself as he prods at Quackity.

Gleefully, Karl answers for him, “You’re not, your honour!” He turns towards Scar, mock-whispering, his voice loud and conspiratory, “Between that and his boner for politics, we can’t watch the news around him at all—he’d run off with the first barrel-chested, salt-n-pepper politician he saw on screen.”

“That’s not even close to true. What the fuck Karl, you’re supposed to be on my side!” Quackity cries, glowering but unable to wipe the guilty smile off his face.

“Plus, Q has a type—tall and broad,” Sapnap adds, finishing the last of the waffles. He leans in to press a kiss to the side of Quackity’s temple as he places the plates on the table. “Tell Scar what you said to us last night about how he checks all your boxes.”

“You guys are such dicks,” Quackity whines, but doesn’t resist when Karl scoots in close and wraps his arms around him, pressing a kiss to his other temple, mirroring Sapnap’s affections.

“Well, we’ve really enjoyed our breakfast, thank you,” Grian interrupts, using the curt, forced-polite tone he has when dealing with the bank or his landlord.

It’s entirely at odds with the mood of the moment, and the trio abruptly stop what they’re doing to listen to him.

“We really need to get going, though,” Grian continues, clipped. “Don’t we, Scar?”

It’s a rhetorical question, Scar can hear it in the way Grian speaks. He turns to face his companion at last and hates the twist in his heart when he sees how closed off Grian’s expression is. It shouldn’t matter to him that Grian’s jealous, insecure feelings are hurt. It shouldn’t. Not anymore.

And yet a part of him wants to console and reassure Grian all the same.

“What’s the rush?” Karl asks, clearly trying to navigate the energy of the room and keep things up-beat. “Scar hasn’t even had his waffle yet.”

At that, Sapnap slides the syrup Scar’s way and, despite Grian’s bristling, Scar can’t help but be excited. With fork in hand, he digs in immediately, sighing aloud at the first mouthful and beyond grateful for the hot meal.

It’s impossible not to notice Grian’s pointed glare out the corner of his eye, though. Something he needs to acknowledge, at least.

He defers Grian’s assessment slightly, shrugging a shoulder and speaking around another bite of waffle. “I wouldn’t say we’re in a rush.”

He’s ambiguous on purpose. While he doesn’t want to incense Grian any further, he’s not yet ready to part ways from the only other living company they’ve had in weeks. If nothing else, they’re a welcome buffer, even if all they seem to do is piss Grian off. It’s nice to be around other people. Comforting to know they’re not the only two survivors left in the world.

“You got a destination in mind that you’re heading off to?” Karl asks, cocking his head to the side as he turns to Grian, his smile as bright and enthusiastic as ever.

“North,” Grian replies, guarded for no good reason. “Before all the radios went out that’s where the emergency broadcasts were saying to go. Supposedly it’s better up there.” He pauses, and Scar knows him well enough to anticipate it coming. A calculating, condescending jab. “But I’m sure you knew that already.”

“We didn’t!” Karl says, Grian’s words sliding off him like water off a duck’s back. He claps his hands together once, nodding confidently. “Sounds like we have a plan now, though. We can get our stuff together pretty quickly, can’t we, boys? I’ve been saying we need a reason to pull up these roots, and I don’t know about you two, but the three of us agree we’d really like the company.”

It’s presented like the best possible option, and an extremely logical conclusion to their situation, but Scar can feel the desperation in it all the same. Behind Karl’s easy smile and Sapnap’s gentle affection, he can sense their apprehension and anxiety.

‘Don’t leave us. Please,’ it says.

“Well it’s certainly an idea,” Grian allows, dragging the word out in a slow drawl. “What do you think, Scar?”

It’s clear what answer Grian wants to hear. He would rather continue on their own. For whatever reason, he can’t seem to stand having the three of them around.

It’s an issue he and Grian should probably pick apart later, but not something they can dissect right now.

That doesn’t mean Scar’s about to fold, though.

“I think it wouldn’t be a long, perilous journey through a zombie infested wasteland into the frigid north without you three,” he quips, winking at the trio. The instant relief from them is palpable, tensions Scar hadn’t even realised they’d been holding relaxing right in front of his eyes as they exchange quick looks and small, private nods.

“Well I just… I don’t know,” Grian interrupts, the only note of dissent at the table. “We haven’t really planned our route to accommodate five…”

“Then why even ask my opinion if you’ve already decided, Grian?” Scar snaps, sharp. His frustration bubbles up fast, catching even himself off guard, fork clattering down onto his plate as he lets it drop. A part of him is embarrassed—this isn’t something he wants to air in front of strangers—but it’s not a situation where he can back down, either. “Kind of feels like a jerk move to do if you’ve already made up your mind.”

There’s a sting in his words and it lands, Grian’s brows pinching together as he frowns.

“No offence,” he says at last, surprising Scar by choosing to speak to the trio rather than acknowledge him at all.

“Some taken,” Karl cracks, and it’d be funny if the tension around them wasn’t already wound so tight.

With a frustrated sigh, Grian blows out his breath in a loud huff. “The thing is, we just met, you understand. There’s googl—there’s zombies outside. The world’s gone to hell. Suddenly teaming up like we’re all pals is a big ask when we don’t know you at all.”

“Funny,” Karl answers smoothly, his tone mild but aloof with the confidence of youth. “‘Cause we don’t know you at all, either. And yet, we still invited you in, gave you a bed, and shared our food.”

It’s a checkmate and Grian clearly sees it. Without a word, he folds his arms across his chest and looks away, jaw tightly clenched.

“Where exactly were you planning on heading anyway?” It’s the first thing Sapnap has said in a while, clearly attempting to broker peace between them before the situation can fracture further. It’s obvious he’s not used to negotiating, his words coming out slow between pauses for thought.

Scar finds it endearing.

“You said you had a route in mind,” Sapnap continues. “We might not even want to go in the same direction.”

Grian says nothing, and Scar wonders if he’s been shamed into silence by the simple rationality of Sapnap’s words. Whatever it is, Scar can practically feel him stewing.

“Grian,” he presses at last, when it becomes clear the conversation won’t continue on its own. “Go and get the maps.”

It’s another mark against him, Scar knows. Their camaraderie is tenuous at best and he shouldn’t be pushing it, but he’s not willing to give up on the chance of fresh company. Not yet.

Luckily, Grian doesn’t push back, simply shoving his chair aside as he stands. He heads back up the stairs, feet thumping in heavy steps.

“I’m sorry about him,” Scar says, quick while they have a moment, his voice low. “He’s—”

“Hey,” Karl interrupts, smiling soft and understanding. “Don’t worry about it. It’s the end of the world, dude. We’ve all been stressed. Nobody’s at their best right now.”

An unkind part of Scar—the part still hurting from the betrayal that forced their break up—wants to say something callous. Wants to explain that Grian wasn’t at his best before the world went off the rails. That he’s been cruel, and selfish, and only looking out for himself for who even knew how long. But Scar pushes that impulse down, simply nodding along, appreciating the sympathy for what it is.

It’s only a minute or so for Grian to return with the maps and, to his credit, he hands them over without a fuss. Quickly, Karl and Quackity clear the table of their plates, breakfast polished off and minds set towards what comes next. Grian unfolds the crumpled papers officiously and lays them out, the group listening intently as Grian shows the tentative route he and Scar had planned to follow.

“We don’t want to go too far west,” Quackity advises after Grian has finished explaining. He’s standing so he can lean over the table, his eyes calculating and keen. “There’s a lot of big cities that way. We have to avoid them as much as we can.”

“Why?” Grian presses without hesitation. It’s the kind of hostility that reads like it carries a grudge. Like he’s mad about something he has a reason to be mad about. Unbidden, Scar thinks back to Quackity’s harmless, teasing flirts over breakfast and hopes against hope that it’s not the reason why Grian has decided to put up a fight. “Is there something you’re trying to hide?”

“Hide?” Sapnap echoes, incredulous. “We’re not trying to hide anything, what the hell are you talking about?”

“The cities are infected wastelands, asshole,” Quackity states bluntly.

“They’re also the only places we’re going to find shelter and supplies,” Grian counters, like he’s pointing out something masterfully profound.

“Dude, have you never seen a zombie movie in your life? You know that when those things bite you, you turn into one, right?” Sapnap argues, brushing a hand back through his uneven bangs in frustration. “You die and then you come back different.”

“You come back worse,” Quackity interrupts, curt, drawing looks from both Sapnap and Karl. “I don’t care what your reason is. Supplies or not, you’re crazy if you think walking directly into the centre of civilization makes any sense at all.”

“It’s not that bad,” Grian dismisses breezily. “We went through Anaheim and got out fine.”

They’re met with a stunned, incredulous sort of silence.

“You were in Anaheim during the zombie apocalypse?” Sapnap says at last. “Why the fuck…?”

Sheepishly, Scar chuckles. “I’d never been to Disney, and we were already in the area, so…”

“Oh I love you, dude,” Karl breaks in, delighted. “Holy shit, you’re amazing. Did you, like, climb the Matterhorn? Or—”

“Point being,” Grian interrupts, wrestling the conversation back in-hand. “The zombies we encountered were slow, mostly uninterested, and kept their distance. I’m not saying it was easy, but—”

“For now,” Quackity interrupts, quiet.

“Excuse me?”

A strange mood descends over the group in an instant. Scar doesn’t know what it’s about, but whatever Quackity’s about to say has Karl and Sapnap exchanging significant glances. On his own, Quackity doesn’t look in either of their directions, gaze fixed on Grian, mouth set and expression knit.

“It’s been, what? A week since things went to shit? Give or take a couple days, depending on how fast it spread in your area.” Quackity’s voice is level and strong; engaging in a way that has Scar hooked. Absently, Scar wonders if he’d done a lot of public speaking before. He’s certainly a natural at it. “The infected humans are all reduced down to their base instincts: eat and spread. Right now, all we’re encountering are the ones that are well-fed and satiated. They’ve had their fill of the people that weren’t fast or smart or lucky enough to find somewhere to hide—they’re full. So why the hell would they go against their instincts and put themselves at risk by going after some dessert carrying a shotgun?”

Grian’s expression is carefully neutral, and the room remains completely silent, all of them gripped by Quackity’s words.

“In a week or two, when they’re hungry and have no easy prey left… when they’re desperate and starving and the only thing they care about is trying to fuel their decaying bodies—it’s not going to be so easy anymore.” Quackity’s eyes flash, agitated. “You’re a fucking idiot if you think things won’t change—that this is as bad as it’s gonna get.”

The silence persists, the mood darker than it’s been since Scar and Grian first arrived. Scar doesn’t pretend he’s getting all the implications of what’s being said, but he processes enough to understand that Quackity’s making several extremely valid points.

He looks over in Grian’s direction, hoping to find the same acknowledgement in his eyes, but all he finds is a look of indifference.

“And you’re a biological expert on these things, I suppose?” Grian asks, drawing a minorly irritated sigh from Karl while Quackity’s jaw tightens in frustration.

“Look, if it’s supplies you’re worried about, we have them already,” Karl reasons. He reaches out, presses his finger down on the map, and points to a thin line heading north. “We were gonna head this way originally. There’s loads of old ghost towns from the gold rush along this route. Not a lot of people, a clear road, and plenty of empty places to crash for the night when we have to.” He pauses for a moment, carefully considering Scar and Grian before he adds earnestly. “I won’t speak for these two, but this whole… everything has been hard—really hard. We’re not getting down on one knee to propose here, but it would be nice to have some company for a while.”

Unconvinced, Grian huffs a breath, making a little noise to Scar’s left, tetchy and unconvinced.

“When this road here meets the interstate heading into Oregon you can tell us to fuck off, if you want,” Karl adds persuasively. “Just a little temporary partnership, y’know?”

It’s increasingly obvious that, no matter what Karl says, Grian is not going to bend. His mind is set on splitting up here and now, despite the obvious benefits being part of a larger group would offer them. But this is something that will be of mutual benefit for them all, and it’s cruel to make the trio continue begging for it.

So Scar puts the matter to rest, making a unilateral decision.

“Gentlemen, we’d be honoured.” With a flourish, he extends his hand, ignoring the way Grian hisses his name from the side. Abundant relief plain on his face, Karl reaches out and shakes Scar’s hand, wrapping long fingers around the width of his palm, that now-familiar giggle of Karl’s working its way out of his throat.

“You won’t regret this,” he says, like a kid who’s just gotten his first full time job. “I promise you, we’re a hoot.”

“Guess we should get packing then,” Quackity murmurs from beside him.

Scar gives him a wide grin, hand still gripped by Karl’s, ignoring Grian to the best of his ability. “Guess you should.”

With their plan settled, the trio immediately get started, divvying tasks up with their usual play-shouting and bantering. It amuses Scar, and he watches them while Grian gathers and refolds the maps. He’s holding himself stiff, mouth shut in a way that suggests clenched teeth.

It doesn’t bother Scar. He’s ready for the fallout that’s guaranteed the moment they’re alone, waiting out the time with practiced familiarity. It’s not his first rodeo.

Sure enough, the moment they’re back in their room upstairs, Grian is snapping at him.

“What’s the matter with you?”

He’s mad—as mad as Scar’s ever seen him. He used to find Grian’s temper endearing in its own way; how he’d bend himself out of shape over every minor inconvenience, taking things personally that he had no need to. Now he just finds it tiring.

“What’s the matter with me?” Scar asks, sitting down heavily on the edge of the bed, his legs already aching, not yet fully recovered from the flare-up yesterday. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t want to stick with them!” Grian responds, blunt. “They’re a liability, surely you can see that.”

“Grian, they’re a bunch of scared kids.”

“Not kids, Scar. Not even close.”

“Young adults then. You know what I mean,” Scar sighs, rolling his eyes as they split this hair. “We’ve got a decade on them, Grian. They’re kids to me, and I can’t in good conscience leave them here to fend for themselves when they’re begging us to help them, just because one of them looked at you funny.”

“It’s not how they look at me,” Grian spits, pacing the floor. “It’s how they look at you.”

The confession, the sheer unbelievable audacity of it, shocks Scar to his core. It shouldn’t maybe—not after years of Scar defending his friendship with Cub against Grian’s constant criticism.

It’s ironic, looking back at it now. Because when it came down to it, despite Grian’s frequent accusations of Scar being ‘too friendly,’ he’s not the one who ended up cheating.

He sighs, weariness seeping into him as they revisit another old issue. “They’re not a threat to you, Grian.”

That, at least, gets Grian to stop his pacing, looking at Scar with a mixture of emotions on his face that Scar can’t even begin to pull apart. It frustrates him. He hates how fragile they’ve become. Hates how his instinct is to comfort and reassure Grian, even now. Feeling like he once again has to cover and make excuses for all the people in his life.

“Besides,” Scar continues, rising to his feet despite the pain in his legs, wanting the height advantage when he speaks as he redraws the line between them yet again. “You need to remember that there is no us to feel threatened about.”

He doesn’t look at Grian as he says it, not interested in what kind of expression he’ll make. Scar’s always been soft at heart—especially when it comes to Grian. If he’s being entirely honest, it’s taking a lot of effort to keep his distance. He knows that all Grian would have to do is look hurt for Scar’s insides to twist in guilt and for him to cave in to some degree. So he avoids facing that reality at all, instead focusing on getting their meagre belongings together.

It doesn’t take him very long, and Grian watches him do it silently. Finally, Scar hauls the pack with all their worldly possessions in it up onto his back, slinging the strap of the rifle over his shoulder right after it.

“Get your things,” Scar says, moving towards the bedroom door, and still not looking Grian’s way. “I’m going to take a shower, and then we’re out of here. I’m not keeping the guys waiting any longer than we have to.”

He leaves in the direction of the bathroom at the end of the hall. The lighting is dim, only coming through from a window covered by thin, almost sheer curtains. It’s enough visibility for him to work by though, so he strips down quickly and steps into the shower, not bothering to wait for the water to heat up. Even braced for it, he still yelps as the first bit of spray hits his skin, working quickly to wash himself, and making use of the soap and shampoo that either the trio or the prior owners of the home left behind.

It feels good to get clean, and even better to give himself a moment to clear his mind, letting it go blank as he rinses the suds out of his hair. He wishes he could stay longer, but if there was hot water, he suspects Grian might have used the last of it. He rinses off the soap in a few passes, then shuts off the showerhead and grabs the towel hanging on the rod, still damp from when Grian used it this morning. Drying off, Scar sighs as he stares at his dirty clothes bunched up on the floor.

It’s a shame to have to get back into them when the rest of him feels so clean for the first time in days. Nevertheless, Scar does what he has to, dressing and heading out of the bathroom. He lifts his bag back onto his shoulders before he makes his way down the stairs, taking it slow and keeping a firm grip on the railing so he doesn’t lose his balance. Once he’s at the bottom, he’s greeted by the loud voices of the trio, presumably packing their own things. They smile at Scar when he enters the room, and for the first time in a long time, he feels welcome.

It takes them the better part of an hour to sift through what the trio have amassed and determine what to take. Grian joins them partway through, and when Scar meets his gaze he sees nothing but focus for the task at hand. Together, they pack up bed rolls and blankets, alongside canned foods, matches, and candles. It’s with great reluctance that the three set the heaviest, most perishable items aside, mourning them almost overdramatically. There’s a mood the trio carry between them, like they’re preparing to go camping—excitable and enthusiastic, laughing and joking amongst each other with a levity Scar hadn’t expected, but finds himself enjoying.

They don’t have any firearms, but each has a weapon of their own that they carry with pride; a machete, a tire iron, and a crow bar. Additionally, Sapnap keeps a hunting knife strapped to his hip, and shin guards on his legs. Of the three of them, Quackity travels the lightest, either on purpose or out of ignorance, wearing the fewest layers and the lightest pack, with his sleeves partially rolled up and exposing unprotected forearms.

Still, he remains organized and practical, keeping Sapnap on track while Karl and Scar sit aside and plan their route.

It’s a bit awkward, navigating why Scar and Grian need to use the bike, and why they can’t simply walk along with the trio. Eventually, they both agree that the best thing to do is split up. Scar and Grian can peddle ahead and scout for safety, then wait for the trio to rendezvous at a set destination, allowing the whole group to gradually daisy-chain their way north.

Their first day’s goal is an abandoned outpost of a town, about a three hour walk away. They’re anticipating something derelict—old trailer homes and shacks left to rot in the desert. No zombies. No survivors. No one around for miles.

“Not a lot of five star villas in our future, huh?” Scar muses.

“It’ll be enough to see your handsome, smiling faces,” Karl assures him, grinning at him with a confidence that pulls an easy chuckle from Scar.

It’s nearly noon by the time they’re all ready to go, standing inside the front door of the house with packs strapped to their backs. Scar’s own is heavy with supplies for the first time since they were forced to strike out together. It’s reassuring for their odds of survival, but he worries about his legs under the extra weight.

“Here.” Sapnap reaches out to him, holding a walkie talkie in his hand. “We tested it, and it’s got a range of like seven miles. Not as good as our phones, but…” He trails off, shaking the walkie impatiently as he waits for Scar to take it. “If you check in every half hour or so, at least we’ll know when we’re getting near and what to expect.”

“Don’t take any stupid risks,” Karl adds, cautioning them both. “We’ve stopped at a few of these kinds of places before and haven’t had any trouble yet, but you never know when that luck’s about to run out.”

“We’re a bad omen, we get it,” Grian sighs, making a show of rolling his eyes.

“We’ll assess things from a safe distance,” Scar promises, speaking up to cover for Grian’s attitude. “If there’s any googlies, we’ll wait for your arrival to set ‘em straight.”

Karl’s eyes light up at his phrasing, delighted. “Wait, what was—do you call them googlies?”

“Ah—oh. Well, Grian started it,” Scar says, seeing the opportunity and wanting to encourage camaraderie. Even now, broken up and with Grian at his worst, a part of him still wants others to see Grian the way he does. The way he used to. Resourceful, intelligent, witty, and so, so funny.

He doesn’t know if calling attention to it will help, but it’s worth a shot.

“I can’t believe you two were wandering around Anaheim,” Sapnap marvels, shaking his head. “It’s a miracle the zombos didn’t tear you up just for calling ‘em that.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure when they caught sight of those guns, they thought twice. Right fellas?” Quackity teases, elbowing Sapnap as he grins in Scar’s direction.

“I’ve only got the one,” Scar clarifies, pleasant.

Karl can’t hide his smile, shaking his head fondly. “He wasn’t talking about your rifle, dude.”

Sapnap gets a good laugh out of that, and Quackity giggles as Karl loops an arm around shoulder, muttering ‘down, boy’ in a way that’s clearly fond. Heat rises up in Scar’s cheeks. He knows it’s a joke, but it’s been a while since he’s been appreciated so openly for his appearance. Even when he had Grian were still dating, Grian’s compliments had grown scarcer in recent months.

Maybe that should’ve been a sign.

They split up with little fanfare, quieter out in the open, aware of how easily they could draw attention. The trio hang back for a moment, something about Karl wanting to say goodbye to the house, which Grian ignores as he goes to collect their bike. With Scar once again seated on the rack, his backpack in his lap and rifle slung behind him, they set off, Grian pedaling hard. Scar keeps the walkie talkie in hand, counting down the minutes before he can use it. They ride in silence at first, with nothing but the sound of wheels on concrete and the pattern of Grian’s breathing to keep them occupied.

Once Scar estimates that they’ve travelled about five miles, he holds the radio up to his mouth and presses down on the push-to-talk button.

“Pandas. Pandas, this is Sparrow. Come in, over.”

He hears Grian sigh heavily—can imagine him rolling his eyes—but it does nothing to dim his own excitement. A moment passes, and then another, until Scar begins worrying that maybe they’ve overshot the seven miles of separation they had.

But then, crackling over the speaker—

“Uh, hey Scar—I mean… Sparrow.” Sapnap’s voice is crackly through the radio, laughter apparent even in his choppy tone. “What’s up?”

“Say again? Pandas, is that you, over?”

Another pause, followed by a rush of static and then, firmer than before: “Roger that, Sparrow. This is Pandas, over.”

Scar grins wide, chuckling as he presses on the button again. “Reading you loud and clear now, Pandas. Just wanted to inform you boys that it’s been smooth sailing—or biking. Not a googlie in sight. Over.”

“Roger that, Sparrow. When will you be checking in next, over?”

“Let’s say at around 1300 hours, Pandas. Do you copy, over?”

“Err, that’s like… one o’clock, right?” comes the uncertain response, breaking off before starting again to add, “Over.”

Scar bites back a laugh. “Affirmative, Pandas. Over.”

“Alright, Sparrow. We’ll stand by for an update when you’re ready. Over.”

“Roger Wilco,” Scar agrees. “This is Sparrow, over and out.”

He removes thumb from the PTT, the walkie cutting into silence as he takes a deep breath, enjoying the fresh air. Above them, the sun is at its zenith, not a cloud around to block it. It shines down on them, lighting the desert in bright tans and oranges. The terrain looks more appealing than it has in ages, a development that Scar feels must be a reflection of his own lift in mood.

“Well that was fun,” he says, prompting a bit of conversation, wanting Grian to have enjoyed it even just a fraction as much as he did.

Grian replies with a tiny grunt of acknowledgement and nothing else.

Mood faltering for a second, Scar tries again, making a couple of light observations about the scenery around them. This time, Grian doesn’t reply at all, not even offering so much as a shrug.

It’s another half-mile before Scar gets bored of the silence. Trying not to jostle Grian, he digs his phone out of his coat pocket, powering it up and trying not to look too closely at the already enormously depleted battery life. Out of habit, he checks his social media apps, unsurprised when nothing connects. It’s what he expected, but it still feels distressing in a way he’s not used to.

He shifts into his photo album next, going through snapshots he’d taken of various cats from his walks, landscape inspiration, and meme after ridiculous meme he saved for a chuckle. The nostalgia gets a few grins out of him, but the humour is quickly lost when he thumbs through the first few selfies of himself with Grian. A snapshot of the two of them lazing around in bed on a weekend, Grian, dishevelled and shirtless, sleepily pressing a kiss to his cheek. Another where Grian is holding the phone up at an angle to catch himself in the image, laughing as he frames Scar in the background, absolutely soaked from a bucket that had just fallen on him, the end-result of an escalating series of pranks they’d been playing back and forth for nearly two weeks.

The memories curl into a knot in his stomach, and Scar finds himself passing through every picture with Grian as quickly as he can, trying not to look at them, but somehow lingering all the same. His anxiety spikes even further when he stumbles onto the first selfie of him and Cub. His best friend had never been a picture guy, but he’d made an exception for the surprise party Scar had thrown him after he’d secured his newest multi-year grant. In the photo, Scar’s arm is thrown around Cub, pumping his fist in the air and cheering, all while his friend sips casually on a drink and looks to the side. There’s a small smile on his face, hidden behind his glass, and it’s so Cub that it makes Scar’s chest hurt.

Instinctively, he pulls up Cub’s text messages, staring at the unanswered notifications and feeling the guilt of having missed his last calls. He hesitates before sending another, ‘I hope you’re doing alright,’ adding to the line of unanswered texts. Trying not to dwell on the futility of it, he thumbs over to his conversation with Pearl, intending to send a similar message.

It’s there that his heart nearly stops.

There are no replies, no reactions, no response—nothing as remarkable as that—but… beneath his last message to her, the grey text has changed from ‘Delivered’ to ‘Read.’

It should make him feel hopeful, but it doesn’t. All Scar can think about is what it means. A glitch, or a system error? Has something gone wrong? Or did Pearl actually open the message and simply never bothered to reply? That doesn’t seem right. Pearl would never leave him on read like that; especially in such a dire situation. So then… what? What had kept Pearl from responding?

Scar knows that the likeliest outcome is that his messages have gotten lost somewhere along the way. It’s the end of the world and the power grid is down, it’s not like they have proper service. More than likely the erroneous ‘read’ message is a symptom of further societal collapse. And yet…

The possibility of an alternative sticks like burrs inside his head.

Anxious, Scar looks to Grian, hoping for a chance to share his concerns, but the sight of Grian’s scowl and the memory of his bad mood makes him rethink himself. Heart heavy, he powers off his phone instead. He tucks it away, pushing down the gnawing unrest of the mystery to focusing on the problem at hand instead.

Grian has held his tongue a lot longer than Scar expected him to. Their destination isn’t far now, and the entirety of the journey has passed in the company of his determined silence. In truth, Scar had thought they’d spend the majority of the ride bickering, and the absence of that argument leaves him feeling like something between them is about to snap.

“Can we talk?” he prods at last.

Blessedly, Grian doesn’t ignore him this time.

“Kind of a captive audience right now,” he huffs, hands flexing on the handlebars. “Don’t think I can really stop you.”

The assessment is fair enough.

“What’s your problem with them?” he asks, opting to be direct. “Actually, and not just ‘I don’t like it when they look at you.’”

“Going straight in for the kill,” Grian mutters, incredulous. Scar would give him a winning smile, but the mood isn’t right, and it’s not like Grian can see his expression anyway.

Resolutely, Grian continues pedaling, fixing his voice into the scolding tone he uses sometimes, like he’s pointing out something astoundingly obvious. “You don’t think it’s suspicious? Like, why were they just there? Hanging out and waiting for us?”

“I wouldn’t say they were waiting for us,” Scar counters, trying to keep an open mind. “It was just one of those things—a coincidence. If you think about it, it’s weirder that we haven’t seen anyone until we met them, y’know?”

“That’s just it though, isn’t it?” Grian argues back. “If we haven’t come across anyone before, either because they were all turned or dead, how come those three weren’t? Why were they just wandering out in the open like that?”

“We were also just wandering out in the open.”

“That’s different,” Grian insists, undeterred. “We’re heading north. That’s been our plan from the very first day. But they had no clue where to go until we gave them a direction!”

Scar closes his eyes, resisting the urge to drop his forehead against Grian’s back. “That’s nothing, Grian. All that tells us is that they were lost and confused, like anyone their age would be when thrown into a survival situation.”

“So what’s all the secrecy about?”

Scar can’t help himself, giving into the impulse to roll his eyes at Grian’s paranoia. “What secrecy?”

“You can’t be serious,” Grian says, barking out a laugh with no humour in it. He’s speaking through gritted teeth, pedaling harder, the pavement flying by. “All those little glances they keep exchanging with one another? Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. Or what about all the info they have on how zombies act and behave. Where did they learn that?”

“What are you implying?” Scar challenges, frustrated with Grian’s obstinance. “Are you saying they’re double agents? Working on the side of Big Infection?”

“I don’t know! I’m just saying it’s suspicious, that’s all!”

“Listen to yourself, Grian.”

“I am listening!” Grian retorts, twisting his head to the side so he can throw a quick glare over his shoulder. “And you asked! So I’m telling you: I just don’t like them, Scar. But it’s fine. We’re doing it your way, so that’s—you know. It is what it is.”

The accusation stings. The implication that Scar has somehow strong-armed Grian into something wholly unreasonable, when anyone with sense could see that grouping up benefits them all. He’s trying to improve their odds, and there’s always strength in numbers. He’d never willingly put Grian in harm’s way. Never.

“I don’t like this side of you,” he declares at last, words low in his chest. “You’re—”

“Not the man you married,” Grian retorts, bitter, vicious, and sharp.

The words connect with Scar like a slap across the face, jerking him back and almost offsetting the balance of the bike—And maybe that’s what does it.

Maybe the rapid shifting of gravity is the final nail in the coffin. Maybe it’s Grian’s rough pedaling, and his heavy handling of delicate parts—or even just the strain of having to accommodate the weight of two people when the bike was only ever built for one.

Whatever it is, it’s still a complete surprise when the bike chain snaps, the sudden swerve of the bicycle sending Scar pitching over and tumbling off the back, landing roughly on the ground in a way that knocks his teeth together hard.

“Scar!” Grian shouts as Scar falls, turning around on instinct.

The bike’s tires screech on the patchy pavement as it comes to a stop. However, Grian barely has time to push it aside before Scar is gathering himself into a kneel, trying not to appear winded by the accident. Grian moves to crouch by him, telling him to take it slow and reaching out to help, but Scar jerks away from his touch and Grian pulls his hands back like he’s been scalded.

Scar doesn’t know why, doesn’t know what makes him act so petty. All he knows is that after their argument, the last thing he wants is Grian’s pity.

It takes longer than he would like, but eventually he manages to get up on his own, head still swimming from vertigo. Taking a moment, he assesses the rifle, checking it over to make sure nothing broke or got jammed during the fall. He counts himself lucky it didn’t misfire when he hit the ground, not wanting to think about who or what an errant shot might have alerted, or how badly the distant sound might have worried the trio.

While the rifle is fine though, his body is another matter. If his joints were bothering him before, they’re worse now, pain shooting through him in a rhythm to match his pulse as he sways on his feet.

Frustratingly, Grian hovers next to him, hands held loose in front of his body like he wants to help steady Scar, but is afraid of being rebuffed again. Scar pretends he doesn’t notice, walking shakily past Grian and picking up his backpack. He grabs the walkie talkie from where it skidded out from under him, immediately holding down the push-to-talk button rather than saying anything to Grian at all.

“Pandas, this is Sparrow,” he clips out, curt. All trace of his earlier entertainment is gone, giving his message a hard, no-nonsense air. “The road’s clear. I’ll hail again once we’ve reached the destination, over.”

The walkie talkie crackles moments later, Sapnap’s voice concerned over the line.

“Hey Sparrow, this is Pandas—that’s good but, uh, you sound a little rough. We got some static a couple minutes ago, and gave us a bit of a scare. Is everything okay? Um. Over.”

“Everything’s peachy,” Scar responds, short and to the point. “This is Sparrow, over and out.”

He thumbs the walkie off, gripping it tight in his hand as he inhales a deep, long breath and then blows it all out, attempting to vent his frustration without losing his cool. Pain ricochets up his leg as he continues to stand, but he ignores that too. The only thing he can’t ignore, no matter how much he tries, is Grian, who watches him with worry writ in every line of his being.

“Scar,” he starts, words incredibly careful. “Are you al—?”

“I still care about you,” Scar interrupts, attempting to keep his voice steady. He takes another breath, deep and even, struggling to settle his riotous thoughts. “You know that, right? You know I still care. You know that this is hard for me.”

Grian’s expression immediately shutters, his hands tightening into fists at his sides, knuckles white where the skin pulls tight. He looks resolutely towards the horizon, jaw clenched.

He stays silent.

Of course he does.

“What do you want me to do?” Scar asks, begs, pressing a palm flat against his chest. “Because I have no other options right now, Grian. It’s you and me, or it’s no one and I’m alone, and we both know how far I’ll make it by myself, so just—put yourself in my shoes, alright? Try.”

Seconds pass in uncomfortable silence, Scar’s heart aching in his chest, racing too fast and feeling too many emotions all at once.

Still, Grian doesn’t speak.

Scar wishes it didn’t have to be this way, hating the reality of the hand he’s been dealt. If he could’ve chosen anyone to be with during the fallout of something so horrible—the end of the world and the end of his relationship—it never would have been the man that had just broken his trust and torn his heart to pieces.

What he needs is distance. What he needs is time to grieve and recover. But the universe has opted to offer him neither. So in the absence of all of that, Scar is doing the best he can.

It just hurts that it’s too much to ask for Grian to do the same.

“Grian,” he pleads, “I’m not asking for the world here. All I want is to be civil with some strangers. It’s not forever, but for now let’s make the best of it. Because they need us and you know we need them too. Grian. Please.”

There’s a familiar tension in the air, the kind that Scar’s grown reluctantly used to in the months leading up to their breakup. Resolute, he presses harder, intentionally picking at scabs, hitting where he knows it’ll hurt.

“You’ve already shown me what us hitting rock bottom feels like. Why don’t we try something else for a change, huh?”

It’s a cheap shot, but it works.

“Fine,” Grian spits at last, choking out the word like it’s some sort of awful surrender.

Angrily, Grian turns away from him, heading back towards the bike.

Scar takes it as a blessing.

Alone, he uses the time Grian spends trying to salvage the chain to rub the ache concentrating around his knees. If he has to walk, he supposes they still have the broken hoe—strapped to the side of Grian’s bag, it’s still as good a makeshift walking stick as any.

Cursing draws his attention, and Scar looks over to see Grian standing by the bike with a grim expression on his face.

“We can’t fix the chain. Not without any tools. We’re going to have to go the rest of the way on foot.”

He looks like he wants to say something more, his expression flickering when he eyes how Scar has switched to massaging his thighs. “Shouldn’t be much further, at least. We were almost there.”

With nothing else to add, Grian moves the bike to the side, pushing it off the edge of the road and letting it fall onto a clump of dry, brittle weeds. He hesitates, adjusting his pack across his shoulder, thinking something over. Finally, Grian glances at Scar again and wordlessly tugs the hoe free, handing it over to him and starting off towards their destination.

The idea of walking the rest of the way is daunting, but Scar knows there’s no other option for them. He’ll walk until he can’t anymore. There’s nothing else they can do.

Brushing the dust and road grit off his clothes, Scar straightens up as best he can under the weight of his bag, adjusting his grip on the garden hoe. Then, with a final, parting glance at the bike—lying broken on the side of the road, useless and alone—he begins following after Grian.

Notes:

To nip any confusion in the bud--yes, the Life Series peeps will be in this fic. There's just a very specific part we want them to appear during, so until we get to that part, our choices essentially were: 1) Have Scar and Grian continue to travel alone for longer and risk making the future chapters boring/repetitive 2) Make OCs for them to interact with along the way 3) Do cameos from other MCYT and otherwise related media. We chose to do the last one, simply because it seemed like the most fun :3

If you don't know these characters, you're safe to treat them as OCs since, within the text, Scar and Grian are also meeting them for the first time. Any necessary information will be traded between the characters within the fic itself, so you won't be missing much ;) If you DO know these characters, then I hope you'll enjoy a temporary little crossover! :D For us, Karlnapity was what got us into MCYT, so it was exciting and nostalgic to revisit them :')

Thanks again for reading and supporting our fic! 💜 Reminder once more that there won't be a new chapter next week, but we'll get right back to it after our break! :3 Love y'all--see you two weeks from now!

Chapter 11

Notes:

Hi hi everyone! Let's get into it with some sweet, new fanart!

We've got this gorgeous, monotone piece of Scarian at the gun range in Chapter 8 by roseandmaple!

As well as a heart-wrenching, soft work of the boys together by mishori-o!

And finally this incredible piece that looks just like a book cover by caroline-bunny!

Thank you all so much!! Your styles are so lovely, we literally can't get enough of fawning over your work ;w; 💜

Hope all of you reading had a nice spring break if you had one--and a nice week overall if you didn't! Glad to be back with another new chapter!!

It’s mid-afternoon when they finally spot their destination—the shanty remains of what once was a building, abandoned and standing alone on the otherwise flat, featureless, desert horizon.

It’s generous to call the place anything more than an outpost. A single, weathered, trailer home on a cinder block foundation standing next to a huddle of ramshackle sheds left to fade into obscurity. Nothing about it has the look of permanence. A place patched together for years, lingering over the bones of something that had once held value to someone, now left wholly abandoned.

The tension between Scar and Grian hasn’t faded, and when they do a cursory look to check for zombies, they do it wordlessly. Once the area is secure and Scar has radioed to let the trio know they’ve made it, the two of them settle down to rest, pulling out water bottles and taking long, deep drinks. Sitting in the shade of one of the broken down sheds, Grian perches on the rusted out drum from an old washing machine, and Scar rests against a stack of wood pallets left to rot into the sandy soil.

It’s quiet, the air still and the sky above them clear, the sun shining bright without a cloud to disturb it. Even still, the November chill is apparent, and though it’s not exactly cold, Scar wonders how they’ll fare the further they venture up north.

A quarter of an hour passes while they wait, then fifteen minutes more. He’s not anxious as much as he is exhausted, and he’s beginning to doze off when he finally hears the approach of the trio. He can tell it’s them by the sound of their laughter; a cacophony of overlapping calls and chattering filtering in across the distance.

It takes him a moment of hard thought to remember the last time he had a chance to enjoy himself like that. The sentimentalist in him wants it to have been with Grian, but reluctantly he’s almost positive that it was with Pearl.

He tries not to overthink it—doesn’t want to spend any more time wrestling with the bag of cats that are his feelings for Grian. It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. Despite it all, Scar would rather have Grian with him than be alone without him. Even if it comes at the cost of the laughter and light-hearted banter he so desperately wishes he could share with him again.

He cocks his head to the side, listening to the trio’s approach. Karl is giggling, giddy and loud, while Sapnap and Quackity banter back and forth, words indiscernible, but easy to recognise from their pitch and tones. It’s funny to hear them when they think no one else is around. Understandably, Quackity and Sapnap have both remained carefully subdued in their presence—a caution that Karl seems to have forgone—but at a distance, Scar can hear them as they normally are. Boisterous and carefree, talking easily over top of one another. Shouting and laughing in a casual, comfortable exchange.

“They’re certainly loud enough, aren’t they?” Grian tuts, busying himself with putting away the snacks they’d taken out during their break. It’s obvious he’s doing his best to clean up the area and not leave any mess behind, even though no one but them will ever be around to see it. “They’re lucky there’s no googlies around. They’d be calling them in for miles.”

“I think it’s nice,” Scar deflects, almost without thinking. “I’m glad they can still be happy.”

He can see the way his words slide beneath Grian’s skin, poorly timed at best. Grian’s expression immediately shutters, dipping into something sour as he turns his torso away, focusing on packing his bag. Scar knows he should apologise, not wanting to push their fragile truce into something argumentative. The words are on the tip of his tongue, but before he can say anything, Karl’s shaggy head peers around the corner of the trailer, face lighting up when he sees them.

“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!” the boy crows, sounding genuinely glad to see them. He tilts his attention back over his shoulder, calling out, ‘this way, fellas,’ before he ambles over to where Scar and Grian are sitting. Oblivious to their tension, he sits down squarely between them, legs stretched out on the sandy soil, and his shoulders pressing back against the rusted aluminium siding of the trailer as he heaves a relieved sigh.

Karl looks heated from the exertion of his walk, but not overly tired, bangs slicked down to his forehead with a light sheen of sweat. Several of his layers have been discarded from when Scar saw him last, now draped in a loose shirt unbuttoned almost to his navel, its sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“Got any water on ya, big guy?” Karl asks, and without hesitating Scar digs into his backpack for one of the bottles he’d packed.

Taking it and drinking deeply, Karl is preoccupied when Sapnap and Quackity catch up, smiling just as brightly as Karl had when they round the side of the trailer. Predictably, Sapnap takes a seat beside Karl, shrugging off his backpack with a sigh of relief. Curiously, though, Quackity opts to settle next to Scar, their legs nearly touching when he sits on the stack of pallets closest to him.

They’re all affable, retaining the same easygoing mood Scar had heard as they approached, but it’s clear Quackity and Sapnap are back to acting somewhat guarded, the trust of familiarity not yet earned.

“So?” Karl asks, after having drained a good two thirds of the water bottle. “Was it as good for you as it was for us? Bet it was a breeze with the bike.”

“The bike chain snapped,” Grian says without preamble, his focus on the negative not surprising Scar in the slightest. “So that was a pretty big bust for us.”

“Aw, well, welcome to the On Foot gang,” Karl chuckles, handing the water bottle to Sapnap.

“I’m not pleased about it,” Grian mutters, getting to his feet and dusting himself off before he clips his pack back across his chest. “But let’s get going.”

“Whoa,” Sapnap says, Quackity joining in with a laugh of disbelief.

“So, we just got here,” Karl smiles, his tone delicate but firm. “You’re gonna need to give us a minute to catch our breath, compadre.”

Grian stands silent as he looks down at Karl, his expression inscrutable. Grian’s never called himself a leader per say, but he’s always had the personality of someone who expects to be listened to when he speaks. At the moment, his reaction speaks a thousand words. He’s clearly not used to being talked back to, and even less used to being told what to do himself—especially by someone so much younger than him.

“His face,” Quackity snickers, quiet, so only Scar can hear.

It’s not that he’s picking sides, but Scar allows a small smile to play about his lips. It’s nice to feel like he’s in on something, especially when it’s versus Grian. A moment of petty catharsis.

“We saw a kangaroo rat,” Sapnap pipes up helpfully, butting into the strained silence between Karl and Grian with endearingly inoffensive smalltalk.

“I wanted to see some wild horses,” Karl adds, instantly relaxing as he leans against the slant of Sapnap’s shoulder. “Imagine if we got our hands on some desert ponies, right? We’d be made in the shade.”

“Have you two been using the bike since the outbreak started?” Quackity asks, looking to Scar with a conversational smile.

It strikes Scar, not for the first time, just how young the three of them are. Easily a decade younger than him, just barely into their twenties. The way Quackity speaks has the polite deference of a student to a teacher, or an employee to their boss. Scar wants to tell him to relax—that Quackity doesn’t have to treat him like a distant uncle he’s unfamiliar with—but he doesn’t know how to say the words in a way that won’t come off as insulting or condescending.

‘I’ve never been good with kids,’ is the joke he wants to make, but he knows it wouldn’t go over well. Not yet, anyway.

“We had a car,” he shares, opting to simply speak to Quackity like he’d speak to any adult peer. “But we had to put her down.”

“Sounds like there’s a story there,” Quackity encourages, his interest a little more genuine this time around.

“He set her on fire,” Grian interrupts, arms crossed, still standing.

“Oh shit,” Sapnap chirps, and there’s awe in his tone that Scar knows Grian won’t appreciate. “That’s so badass.”

“You see, baby?” Karl hums with a smile, speaking to Quackity and clearly picking up a well-worn subject. “I told you, there’s no rules anymore. We can do whatever we want, now.”

Intrigued, Scar sits up a little straighter, his grin turning rakish, like he’s an expert on the subject. “Ah, have you fine boys been nurturing a craving for arson as well?”

Karl laughs, almost a chortle, shaking his head before he pushes his hair back with an absent flick of his wrist.

“I want us to get married,” he declares proudly. “The three of us.”

He states it simply, like it’s very matter-of-fact, but his words catch Scar and Grian in a similar way, both their eyebrows shooting up in unison as they react to his declaration.

“We couldn’t—y’know, it didn’t work like that before. Three people and all,” Karl continues, hand dropping to his side to seek out Sapnap’s, threading their fingers together in a familiar way. “But if nothing matters anymore and no one’s checking, what’s to say we can’t just do it now? Make our own rules.”

It’s wholesome. A sweet, romantic, remarkably mature sentiment from someone Scar had been thinking of as basically a child just moments ago. He can’t help but wonder about the logistics of it. Marriage, so early? In the wreck of the world? How can they trust that it will last? How would they even go about it? Do all of them share the fantasy, or is it just Karl’s dream?

A part of him wants to question them, but another part worries that maybe this is just the way people are when they fall in love these days. Maybe he’s the one who’s been turned cynical by years of half-hearted efforts from his own commitment-adverse partner.

He can feel Grian watching him from where he stands, focused and incredibly intense, but chooses to ignore it in favour of finding out more, motivated by curiosity and a tiny bit of spite.

“Have you been together that long?”

The question makes Grian’s shoulders lift up an inch, stiff, as he finally, reluctantly sits back down. The two of them hadn’t ever really discussed marriage themselves. The few times it had come up it’d been brushed away with a joke or a distraction. Scar had always wanted it, but Grian would only quip that he couldn’t stand rings, and didn’t know when—if ever—he’d be ready to settle down.

It had been funny enough at the time. The occasional joke from friends teasing about proposals, admiring engagement rings in storefront windows, looking at vacation destinations and wondering if they would work for a honeymoon… The entire time spent amused with Grain’s complaints of rushing into things; of the stress and inconvenience of wedding planning; of the cost and the ridiculousness of the expectation.

And then discovering that Grian didn’t just need more time. That he was truly opposed to any kind of dedication at all.

“We haven’t been together long, no,” Karl admits, and laughs at the expression Scar can’t keep off his face. “I mean, me and Sap have, yeah. We’ve been together for—man, since junior high? But as far as the three of us go, we’ve been friends for a while, but Q was…”

“I was both of their Other Man,” Quackity teases, unaware of how Scar’s mouth instantly goes dry, the air becoming loaded in a way he knows the trio won’t understand—won’t recognise the warning signs of all. “I third wheeled them for ages. I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing.”

“You were in love with us,” Karl assures him, soft. Fondly, he reaches a hand towards Quackity, who brushes his fingertips against Karl’s before he lets Karl hook their pinkies together. “And we were in love with you. It just took us all a little while to sync up.”

“What happened?” Scar can’t help but ask. He’s always been a romantic, though he’ll admit that the idea of three people together—without jealousy or anger—is entirely foreign to him. It touches a frayed part of his aching soul, something pained and bitter, but his interest outweighs the hurt, curiosity getting the better of him. “What got you all on the same page?”

A look passes between the three, quick and deliberate. It’s the kind of glance that Grian had been upset about earlier, but Scar can’t find it in himself to be suspicious of. It’s clear that it’s nothing other than the wordless communication that can exist between three individuals entirely in tune with one another. They’re being careful. Willing to share, but acknowledging that there’s a level of trust to be earned in order to reveal this information.

“It was the zombies,” Karl confesses at last.

“We had… a pretty bad scare that first day. When it all went to shit,” Sapnap adds, hand reaching out to find Karl’s, fingers intertwining naturally before he puts his other hand out to Quackity. Their third has gone completely silent, but moves his hand towards Sapnap’s from across the gap anyhow. “It put a lot of things into perspective for us. Showed us how much time we were all wasting being… I dunno, dumb and shy and stupid.”

“It sounds crazy,” Karl jokes, shaking his head ruefully. “But the zombies were maybe the best thing that could’ve happened to us.”

Sitting amongst the three of them, hearing their story, marveling at how the catastrophe brought them cohesion, and not whatever he and Grian are currently dragging themselves through…

Scar’s so jealous it hurts.

Of all the people to meet in the apocalypse, Scar finds it ironic that they ended up crossing paths like this. With three people who came together and entwined so strongly in the chaos, overcoming hurdles that Scar can barely even fathom, while meanwhile he and Grian were falling so disastrously apart.

A part of Scar is delighted for them—overjoyed that they could find such happiness in the face of a world turned on its head.

Another part of him nurses his own heartache enviously. Resenting the idea that three people could navigate something so complex and not fall victim to lies, deception, and cheating the way Grian had.

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

He doesn’t know if he could have done what the trio have done—doesn’t know if his love was ever meant to split into thirds that way. But the fact that he was never even given the chance to try leaves him feeling robbed. An insult added to injury. A fresh bruise on what’s already become a deep and painful ache.

As polite as he can be in the midst of his own turmoil, Scar speaks up quietly, “It sounds like it all worked out for the best, then.”

“We’ve genuinely never been happier,” Karl replies, looking at Quackity as he says it, who returns the confession with a tremulous smile.

Abruptly, Grian stands up, expression set and fists clenched tight at his sides.

Scar could’ve seen this coming from a mile away. It astounds him, sometimes, how Grian can take everything as a personal attack—even when the people involved know absolutely nothing about him or the skeletons in his closet. A nagging thought in his head tells him he’s being unkind, reading too much into Grian’s reaction when he likely doesn’t intend it that way. And yet, Scar can’t shake himself of the negativity.

Leave it to Grian to get insecure about another person’s happiness.

“Excuse me,” Grian mutters as he cuts across their circle, moving to put himself at a distance from the group.

It makes Scar’s heart sink. Makes him tired. It’s not unexpected, but it’s still disappointing. If anyone should need some distance, it’s Scar. And yet, he knows perfectly well there would be no room for such a response. That it would be childish and petty to do anything other than politely listen to the trio.

“Was it something I said?” Karl asks, light, a rhetorical joke that has Sapnap laughing half-heartedly at his side.

“Don’t worry about it,” Scar sighs. “He just…” his words trail off, hand flexing on his knee as he prepares to get up and follow after Grian. Surprisingly, Quackity hops to his feet first, motioning for Scar to stay where he is.

“I’ll go,” he suggests, casual, like he’s done it a hundred times. “Just keep him company, right? No problem.”

Scar hesitates. Grian’s no doubt prepared for Scar to follow him—poised to pick an easy, predictable, guilt-riddled fight. Quackity going instead will force Grian onto his back foot, and hopefully off-centre him enough that the sore spot will blow over without any larger issue. Scar wonders if Quackity sees it like that too, and admires his maturity for the suggestion regardless of the intention.

Maybe he judged him too quickly for his youth.

“Thanks,” Scar says, and means it. He relaxes back heavily, like a puppet with its strings cut, letting his breath out in a rush. It takes him a moment, lingering on the words and rolling them over before he adds, “Grian’s not a bad person. We’re just… in a rough spot right now.”

“Hey man. Been there, done that. You shoulda seen me a week ago,” Quackity says, huffing a small laugh. He’s casual about it when he speaks, expression serious but holding no judgement. “No worries. What are friends for, right?”

Scar tilts his head to the side, considering him carefully. It’s an odd thought, to be friends already. The idea isn’t unwelcome, but it still feels a little premature to his sensibilities. Like underripe fruit. He’s not about to rebuff Quackity for it, though. He likes him well enough, and Scar’s never been opposed to making as many connections as possible.

“You’re a good guy, Q-bert,” he says, grateful.

Quackity grins at that, tugging his beanie back into place before he turns to follow the direction Grian stormed off in. He walks a few paces before he seems to remember something, turning and blowing two comically large kisses back towards his partners. Karl and Sapnap both mime catching them, and place them to their heart and mouth respectively. It’s clearly a familiar practice and it’s achingly sweet to observe.

As Quackity disappears from view, turning around the corner of the trailer, Sapnap pipes up, “So… how long have you and Grian known each other, then?”

Scar tries to resist saying he doesn’t want to talk about his and Grian’s history right now. After the trio’s careful disclosure of their history, it’s only fair to offer something in return. Scar closes his eyes, thinking.

“Well, that’s a bit of a complicated question,” he admits after a pause, absently scratching at his chin. “Grian and I had some mutual acquaintances before we formally met one another, so I’d known of him for maybe five or six years? We didn’t get, uh… close, until a couple years ago, though.”

Karl and Sapnap exchange a knowing look, but Scar doesn’t mind. He’s okay with the trio coming to the conclusion that he and Grian have dated. There’s even a bit of catharsis in being the one to share the story. He’s not about to divulge every detail, but he has nothing to hide.

He didn’t cheat on anyone.

Neither of the two pursue the topic any further however, Sapnap simply taking a swig from the water bottle Karl had handed him earlier before wiping his mouth on his wrist. “Me and Karl have you beat,” he says, bragging in a way that comes across as oddly endearing. “We’ve known each other since halfway through middle school.”

Karl grins fondly, like he’s reminiscing on something decades in the past and not a handful of years ago at best. “C’mon, Sap. I saw your dumbass hanging out on the bleachers attempting to look cool with your asshole friends a total of three times before I got pulled out.”

“Pulled out?” Scar asks, mildly amused by the idea. “What were you, a couple of bad boys?”

Karl shakes his head, smiling. “Nah, man. Puberty had me all fucked up. I could not stay awake and my grades were a disaster, so eventually everyone decided I’d try homeschooling for a year to see if that could help me out.” He jerks his chin in Sapnap’s direction, smiling fondly. “Sap ended up coming over to my place a lot ‘cause one of his dads was my tutor, and—” Karl stops suddenly. His eyes dart over to Sapnap, and Scar follows his glance.

Between them, Sapnap’s expression has gone closed, his mouth tight around the corners.

“God,” Karl breathes, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I’m sorry baby, I forgot. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” Sapnap interrupts, shoulders tense but voice even. “They’re fine. I know they are.”

Karl leans close to him, and Sapnap allows it, clearly glad for the comfort as their hands find each other. After a moment of catching his breath, Sapnap looks over at Scar and explains.

“Me and Karl went out of state for college. My dads were really supportive, but they both cried a lot when I left, and—” his words break off, faltering. “I should’ve called them more, I should’ve gone home to see them. I should’ve…”

“Pandas, if anyone’s still out there, it’s your dads,” Karl insists reassuringly, squeezing Sapnap’s hand in his.

Sapnap manages a fragile smile, nodding his head, clearly clinging to the hope that Karl is providing him. Admittedly, Scar has been so caught up in his own trauma that he’d entirely forgotten most people likely had whole families they must be worried about. Chagrinned, Scar awkwardly reaches out to give Sapnap a bracing clap on the shoulder, taking the small huff of laughter that comes out of him as a victory.

It’s a raw moment of unexpected vulnerability between the three of them, when, all at once, Quackity and Grian return.

They’re not good-natured and laughing, but then, Scar didn’t expect them to be. It’s enough to see Grian’s expression somewhat less twisted up. Not smiling, but not outright scowling either.

It also helps that Quackity flashes him a covert thumbs-up and a quick grin.

“Are we ready to go?” Grian asks the moment he’s back by Scar’s side, arms folded tight across his chest, impatient.

“Mm,” Karl hums, “I think we’ve rested enough to keep pushing—what do you think, boys?”

“It’s probably best to go while we’ve still got light,” Sapnap offers, peering up at the sun like he’s gauging its distance from the horizon. Beside him, Quackity nods in agreement, hooking his thumbs under his backpack straps and facing towards the direction they were originally heading in.

“We continue,” Karl announces, chipper, and Scar manages a low chuckle as he gets back on his feet.

He can feel the tension in his legs—the joints that don’t want to work the way he’s asking them to—but obediently his limbs move with him. He takes a step with less pain than he expected, especially after his fall, and he proceeds without issue back around the trailer. He’s grateful for the full night’s sleep that allowed him a chance to recover somewhat.

They file out of the pitstop in a loose cluster, the trio sticking more or less together, naturally pulled into each others’ gravity. Unsurprisingly, Scar ends up walking beside Grian, who keeps his attention focused on the ground immediately in front of his feet. He briefly considers asking if he’s okay, but ultimately opts to simply putting an arm around Grian’s shoulders—a sort of half-hug that lasts for a second before he breaks away. He can feel Grian watching him as he moves ahead to join the trio, leaving Grian to walk on his own.

Logically, Scar knows it’s petty to keep his distance, but admittedly he doesn’t want to deal with the weird, antagonistic way Grian gets when he’s feeling guilty with nowhere else to put it. He’s still not used to this version of Grian; the one who’s hot and cold and needy and distant all at once. He misses the Grian he fell for, all embarrassed flushes and earnest apologies when he spilled a drink or broke a cup at Scar’s apartment. The Grian who laughed at silly jokes and stupid pranks. The Grian who was uniquely fond in secret, private ways, all catalogued in stolen moments kept just between the two of them.

His nostalgia barely has a chance to breathe before it curdles, memories of missed meals and curt texts flashing through his mind instead, reminding him of how badly things had soured. Scar wants so badly to treasure the Grian he had, but all he can dwell on now is how he can’t remember the last time Grian apologised to him and meant it.

Time passes faster while traveling in a group, Scar finds. It’s easier having people to talk to—exchanging stories, and getting to know one another. They trade off positions from time to time, so Scar gets the opportunity to converse with the entirety of the trio as they move through the seemingly endless desert. It’s nice to be able to connect with them, especially Sapnap and Quackity, who relax and grow less guarded by the minute. He’s already mourning their loss, dreading the return to angry silence once Grian insists on parting ways after they’re through the next town.

It frustrates him, because Scar knows Grian would love these three if he’d just give them a chance. Especially Quackity, who’s got calculation and intelligence hidden behind easy words that reminds Scar so much of Grian back when they’d first met.

He just wishes he could convey that to Grian without making him bristle up defensively.

Unfortunately, Grian continues to make his thoughts on travelling with the trio abundantly clear. He keeps himself several steps away from them at all times, rarely participating in their conversation or the games they play to pass the time. They all exchange significant looks with one another each time Grian snubs them, which they make no effort to hide from Scar either. At the very least, if they hold any genuine ill-will towards Grian for it, they don’t say so out loud.

Instead, without any formal signal, they simply tone down the number of times they ask Grian to join in, until eventually they’re making no effort to include him at all.

It hurts Scar’s heart to see Grian isolated like this. The part of him that still cares and desperately wants them to see Grian the way Scar knows he can be, has to hold himself back from interfering. Instead, he keeps a smile on his face, laughing and chatting as the sun gradually shifts lower in the sky, their shadows lengthening out from under their feet and the air around them beginning to cool off.

They’ve been walking for several hours, following the straight line of the highway as it cuts across the desert, keeping the distant range of mountains to their left, when they see the zombies coming.

There’s maybe half a dozen of them—eight at most—following the road, with no obvious point of origin. Scar knows they must’ve come from an accident or roadside rest-stop somewhere up ahead, but it’s hard not to imagine them clawing their way up wretchedly out of the dry, dusty earth, like the Hollywood horrors he’s familiar with.

Somehow that would be preferable, he thinks.

The horde is far enough away that it’s clear they haven’t yet been spotted. Sapnap, who up until now has been leading them at a brisk pace, immediately slows down, casting a cautious look back towards Quackity and Karl. There’s a winding tension between the five, all of them chewing an uncertainty about how to address this obstacle.

“Alright,” Sapnap says eventually. His voice is low, expression serious, attention fixed on the zombies as he speaks. “They haven’t seen us. If we give them enough room, we can just walk around. Give ‘em a wide berth. No stupid risks. It’s just not worth it.”

The suggestion comes with an air of experience, and Scar’s inclined to agree with it. It doesn’t benefit any of them to put themselves at risk of receiving an errant bite or scratch when the whole situation could just as easily be avoided. Plus, he can’t deny that, despite the welcome distraction of the trio’s company, his body is crying out in desperate need of a rest. Hand to hand combat isn’t about to do it any favours.

He’s opening his mouth to agree when Grian shoulders up to him, yanking the hoe that Scar had been carrying strapped on his back next to the rifle free with a single, rough gesture.

There’s zero discussion, no additional conversation. Without a word, Grian starts towards the zombies, raising his voice in a shout to draw their meandering, unfocused attention. Beside him, Karl says something loud and unrepeatable, but Scar doesn’t have time to acknowledge it, his heart up in his throat as the creatures all simultaneously turn their gazes on Grian, locked on him like a target.

There’s no pause. No time to think. Just a single, automatic reaction. Without hesitating, Scar unhooks the rifle from across his back and raises it up to his shoulder, focusing down its sight. Beside him, the trio curse and scramble for their weapons.

He exhales, controlled, and squeezes the trigger as soon as the first zombie’s skull comes into his sights, the recoil pushing back hard against his shoulder. His first shot takes out one of the two zombies converging on Grian easily. At the same moment, Grian dodges to one side, knocking the feet out from under the second with the broken handle of the hoe. When it stumbles and falls, he cleaves clean through its head viciously, burying the sharp edge of the blade into its skull and then jerking it back, violent, to turn his attention on the next.

Scar lines up a second shot as another swing from Grian’s hoe cleaves into a third skull. Together, he and Grian have taken out half the ghouls before Karl and Quackity have even had a chance to get their weapons ready. Sapnap, at least, who has spent the day walking with his crowbar swinging idly in his hands, and is able to sprint up and join Grian. He yells something loud and fierce, bringing the blunt end of his tool down several times in quick succession on a zombie that looks to have once been a man old enough to be his father.

Despite the fear, despite the panic—there’s a thrill to it all that Scar doesn’t yet understand.

It’s exhilarating, the way he can tell from a distance what Grian is about to do; where he’ll step and when he’ll flex and get ready to heft his weapon up once more. Scar can aim easily to aid him, taking out a zombie that stumbles too close when Grian is busy with his back half-turned. By the time Karl and Quackity catch up, there’s only one left, and they work in easy unison to put it down. Quackity goes so far as to raise his leg to kick it roughly in the mid-section, throwing it backwards at Karl who dispatches it with aggressive hacks from his machete.

Quick and efficient, the zombies are dealt with. Every last one.

The aftermath of the violence is swallowed by the almost eerie silence, each of them breathing hard as the adrenaline catches up with them. After waiting long enough to ensure the zombies are truly down, Scar kicks the end of the rifle off his shoulder, lowering the barrel and thumbing the safety back in place.

“Smarter to deal with them now when we have light, instead of risking them sneaking up on us in the dark later,” Grian says, smug in a way that Scar is all too familiar with. He taps the blade end of the hoe against the sole of his shoe, knocking off some clinging viscera. “You’re welcome.”

Karl, Sapnap, and Quackity exchange a look, but none of them speak up to argue. Stepping over the prone pieces of a zombie, Karl holds his arm out to Quackity, murmuring something quiet to him. Quackity nods in response, mumbling what sounds like, ‘I’m fine,’ before he crouches down. Focused, Quackity uses a handful of gritty soil to scour the gore off his tire iron, face set in a neutral expression. When he finishes, he takes a deep breath before he stands back up, slinging the weapon over his shoulder.

“Wow!” Quackity calls over to him, and Scar gets the impression that he’s putting on a brave face, forcing normalcy to prevent himself from breaking down. “Tall, handsome, and a good shot. Are you sure you’re not single?” He smiles for a beat, waiting for comedic pause before he concludes, “‘Cause I’m not.”

Scar manages a chuckle, but it’s half-hearted at best.

For a few minutes they linger, not entirely sure what to do in the blowback, their bodies still strung through with adrenaline and nerves. Then, together, they resume walking, keeping their weapons in-hand while they glance around warily. They’re all on alert, now. The sanctity of the desert shattered.

Almost instinctively, the trio cluster together, a closed circle that Scar is not included in. With no other option, he finds himself once more walking with Grian, offering the three what space he can.

“I made the right call,” Grian insists after a span of testy silence, the words low under his breath. “You know I did. If they followed us and attacked after sundown, it would’ve been a nightmare.”

“I’m not mad at you,” Scar answers him, forced calm.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Grian,” Scar tries. “We were all thinking it, sure. But Sapnap suggested—”

“And he’s the leader now? When did we decide that?” Grian snaps.

Scar sighs, rubbing at his eyes and dragging his palm down over the scruff of his jaw, tired. “It’s not about anyone being the leader. It’s about jumping headfirst into a group of zombies without any plan or any backup.”

“I wasn’t in danger,” Grian dismisses.

“You could’ve been.” Scar wants his words to have heft to them, he wants Grian to take this as seriously as he needs to. “You could’ve gotten bit.”

Grian simply tilts his head back to look at him, eyes dark and expression loaded.

“I wasn’t worried. I knew you’d have my back.”

Scar’s heart thuds loud against his sternum. He wets his dry lips, cracked from the desert air. He doesn’t know how to feel, doesn’t know what he wants. It’s clear from the way Grian speaks that he’d felt it too—the rush as they’d synched up, perfectly working together in an effortless dance.

He just doesn’t know if either of them should be wanting that..

“I don’t like it when you take risks that put you in harm’s way,” he settles for at last, voice quiet.

“Come off it, Scar,” Grian huffs, covering his nerves with bluster in a way that’s incredibly familiar. “It wasn’t a risk. You had a gun, and I knew you’d cover me. Besides, you’ve always been a shoot first, ask later sort of guy.”

He’s not wrong. For all that Scar likes to plan in a nebulous sort of way, he’s always been easily pulled towards impulsivity and chaos. There’s freedom in doing things off the cuff; an excitement with dealing with life as it comes.

Then again, he’s beginning to see that there are many moments in his life where he could’ve saved himself hurt and anxiety if he’d just taken a moment to think things through.

“Maybe I’ve changed,” he says after a pause. “Maybe we both have.”

Beside him, Grian clamps his mouth shut, expression suitably stung.

They don’t talk after that, walking side-by-side with their eyes fixed ahead.

In time, the sun sets behind a distant line of mountains, the sky smeared an orange and fuchsia that fades gradually into indigo. Ahead of them, Karl and Sapnap pull out flashlights and the group gathers together, following the jittering beam of their lights across the cracked asphalt.

Progress is slow. Slower than they’d anticipated when picking their destination that morning, but none of them feel comfortable camping out in the open for the night. Despite having dealt with the zombies, the bruise of their presence lingers. They’re overly-cautious now, continuously scanning ahead, looking up the road as far as possible in the gloom and trying to pick out any grotesque, shambling shapes in the ink-dark distance.

It’s past nine when they see it. Not a gang of zombies, but a road sign marking the outskirts of a town.

It’s weathered and tilted to one side where one of the support posts has been knocked out. The aluminum is pock-marked from years of taking shots from bullets and paintball pellets. The name of the town itself has been worn away by time, only the A and L left legible, but the ‘Welcomes you’ printed beneath it remains, as well as ‘Population: 221.’

It’s the first mark of civilization they’ve seen since they left their rundown rest stop hours ago, and the relief they feel as they cast their flashlight beams over it is palpable.

Behind the sign, the road forks, asphalt turning to rough grit and sand that leads off the main highway, softer under their feet as they turn to the right. It feels surreal in the dark of night, their flashlight beams picking out chicken wire fences and squat, red-brick walls. Property markers, clearly delineated; places where homes and buildings used to be but aren’t anymore.

There’s no sign of life. No lights ahead and no presence whatsoever. The feeling of it—the sense of trespassing somewhere they’re not meant to disturb—crawls up the back of Scar’s neck, making his hair stand on end.

As they continue walking, their flashlights start to outline the shapes of homes, empty windows staring out to greet them. Broken glass; doors left hanging on busted hinges; half-hearted graffiti scrawled across weathered siding left to rot in the desert for decades; all speaking one fact clear and unambiguously loud.

Nobody lived here before the outbreak. Nobody lingers here now.

A ghost town.

“This place gives me the creeps,” Karl whispers. He’s just loud enough for the group to hear, doing them the favour of saying what they’re all thinking.

“I don’t think we should separate,” Sapnap advises, voice low despite the feeling of almost crushing isolation. “Let’s pick a place for the night and check stuff over properly tomorrow morning when we can actually see shit.”

A ripple of agreement passes between them, and after some hesitant decision making, they head towards the house with the most windows left intact. A flat bungalow, much like all the others, its car-port roof fallen in and sagging to one side like a sleepy-eyelid.

Together, they pass hesitantly in through the open front door, moving quiet and careful. There’s dirt and sand tracked in on the floor, bits of spackle fallen down from the ceiling, and empty beer cans pushed into corners; the signs of trespassers who have come and gone over the years. There are still a few pieces of furniture, though. A ragged recliner and a battered looking table with three chairs pushed up against a wall—items dragged in by squatters drifting through the area, or maybe the work of curfew-breaking teens. Tentatively, they inspect the rooms, being as meticulous as they can be with their limited lighting. There’s a bathroom with several bike tires piled into the tub, a den with a pullout couch propped up by plastic egg crates, a main bedroom, and an empty hall cupboard.

There’s no bed-frame in the bedroom, only a threadbare mattress placed on pallets. However, the moment Scar sees it he feels his body instinctively give out, like it was simply waiting for the sign, every muscle tightening as he grips Grian’s shoulder for support.

It’s only their years of familiarity—of Grian seeing Scar at his weakest and most vulnerable, and knowing how to assist him in those moments—that saves him from being left to fall to his knees. Quickly, Grian slings Scar’s arm around his shoulder, hugging him around his waist and taking on the role of supporting his weight. It gives Scar a moment to reorient himself, pushing the last vestiges of his strength to its limits and hoping the darkness will hide how he looks well enough for the trio to ignore.

“We’re taking this room,” Grian announces, stating it firmly and matter-of-fact.

Immediately, Quackity bristles at the assumption. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“You three take the pullout. It’s bigger.”

Grian’s not wrong. The pullout is bigger, but there’s no denying that the bedroom is the better of the two options.

“Like hell are you gonna decide for us, as if you’re the boss now,” Quackity snaps. “You think just because you got lucky murdering those zombies back there, suddenly you’re in charge?”

“It’s not murder,” Grian counters, tense. “They’re not people.”

“Don’t fight about it, Q,” Karl sighs, putting his arm in front of Quackity, embodying the exhaustion they all feel. “We’ll take the pullout. We can figure it out in the morning—hell, we can pick our own place in the morning. Okay?”

He presses his forehead to Quackity’s temple, murmuring something to him that Scar can’t hear. Whatever it is works to defuse Quackity’s tension, and he turns abruptly to stomp out of the room, his shoulder bumping into Sapnap’s as he says, “C’mon, Sap. Help me barricade the front door with that table.”

Sapnap hesitates for a moment, staring hard at Grian before he turns to join Quackity. Their departure leaves Karl alone with them, the mood low and untenable.

“You’ll take first watch, then,” Karl says neutrally, and his tone brokers no argument.

Scar can feel his legs weakening, his window of relief rapidly closing. He’s been ignoring it all day—the shooting pains in his joints and the ache in his muscles that he can’t simply will away. But now that there’s clear respite available, it’s like his body refuses to pretend anymore. His exhaustion has caught up to him, and for all that he’s grown to believe the best of the trio, he doesn’t want the spectacle of collapsing in front of any of them. Doesn’t want the burden of explaining himself, and the weight of their pity when he’s already pushing himself to his limits.

His fingertips dig into Grian’s shoulder, biting and painful. Begging—begging—him to swallow his pride and agree.

“That goes without saying,” Grian replies, shrugging a shoulder like the fact is plain and simple.

Karl takes a moment, studying them both before he nods. “I’m glad that’s settled.”

He hesitates at the doorway, turning back to face them, and it’s only the darkness that masks the strain on Scar’s face at being forced to stand a moment longer.

“It was the right move, taking those zombies out,” Karl confesses, and it’s a clear peace offering, meant to bleed out the tension Grian has created. “But you’re kind of killing us with your inability to be a team-player, dude. I told you—We’re good guys, I swear. I know times are tough, but if you stop treating us like a bother and give us a chance, we could really be an asset to you.”

There’s a pause after he speaks, and Scar can feel the way Grian works his shoulders back, straightening his spine.

His tone is carefully blank when he replies, like a judge metering out a sentence.

“I’ll sleep on it.”

The expression on Karl’s face is wry, evident even in the darkness. “I suppose that’s all I can ask for.”

And then he’s gone, shutting the door behind him.

The moment they’re alone, Grian springs into motion, helping lower Scar down to the mattress the moment his body begins to sag. Scar hisses, wincing as he sits and then lays back. He’s worn down to the bone, exhausted from maintaining a smile and keeping up pleasantries. It’s a relief like no other to bare himself plainly now, able to air his ailment to someone who already knows the intricacies of it.

Working fastidiously, Grian helps him undress enough to relax before whispering that he’ll take both their watches. Scar is too tired to fight it, accepting the offering for what it is and thanking Grian with a nod. He thinks Grian smiles at that, or at least squeezes his hand in affirmation. It’s hard to be clear as weariness clouds over him, sleep edging in from the corners of his mind.

He rests deeply, waking only briefly when Grian slips into bed beside him, likely hours later. Settling in, he throws an arm around Scar’s middle, pressing close to his back. In a distant, sleepy way, it feels comforting.

Scar sighs, placing his hand over Grian’s and running his thumb slowly across his knuckles.

“G’nna need m’chair tomorrow,” he mumbles, words drowsy and slow. “Help me with it, please. Dunno where I put it.”

“Okay, Scar,” Grian replies after a lengthy pause, so soft that Scar barely hears it. He wonders why Grian sounds so hesitant—so sad. It’s just his wheelchair.

But that line of questioning doesn’t have time to take root, Scar already dozing off again in the warmth of Grian’s embrace.

It’s nice, he thinks.

He missed this.

He’s happy to sink into it and disappear.

Notes:

In our absence last week, we've since hit 200+ kudos, 100+ subscriptions, and 80+ bookmarks of this fic! 😭💜 Thank you all so, so much for your love!

And if you're interested in reading some more, we wrote a silly little Ghost Hunter Scarian oneshot set in Phasmophobia, very much inspired by the GIGS streams! Please check it out if you're in the mood for something steamy that doesn't take itself too seriously ;)

Catch you next week! 💫

Chapter 12

Notes:

Hellooo everyone! We're finally making a switch to Grian POV for the arc! >:D

A bit of a CONTENT WARNING for this chapter!

Please skip to the end notes for spoilers if you are a minor or feel it might apply to you! Stay safe :3

Grian wakes up with sun on his face, Scar breathing slow and deep beside him, and the muffled sounds of giggled laughter and voices filtering in through the wall. He can’t place where he is, disoriented as he lays in a bed that isn’t his, wearing clothes that feel stale, with his arms and legs aching like he endured a strenuous workout. It takes him a minute, thoughts sluggish, before he finally remembers.

Not at home. Not in his bed. Not safe.

Not with Scar.

Not in any way that matters.

For a while he lays in silence, staring up at the crumbly popcorn ceiling above him. He’s not yet ready to commit to being awake, still tired from the previous day, and all the previous days that came before that. He’s not really thinking of anything, which comes as a relief, a reprieve from the tangled knot that’s made a mess in his head lately.

Through the wall, the muffled voices eventually taper off into quiet. Then, tellingly, the lull gives way to sighs, and the occasional unmistakable moan.

Heat floods Grian cheeks, even as a scowl works its way onto his face. He wishes he had a pillow to ball up and shove over his head, or earplugs to block out the noise. A part of him wants to bang his fist on the wall and tell the trio to knock it off. There’s no way they don’t know they’ll be overheard, and the audacity of them digs into him.

Another part of him remembers being the same way once—a time that feels so long ago, now.

Lately, he feels like he’s become a stranger to the version of himself that exists in his memories. Like he’s looking in on a person that no longer exists. He’s cataloguing the things that used to make him laugh, make him happy, and made him smirk all sly and confident as he pulled the person he wanted into a room and ran his hands reverently over each and every one of his scars.

He’s simply an observer to who he was in the past; the Grian that would giggle through kisses and smile against Scar’s mouth and moan when touched. In a way, he envies the trio and their naïvety—too young and foolhardy to realise how much harder things get as life goes on.

And yet, while the voices murmur and sigh pleasantly just feet away, Grian wonders if there isn’t some shell left from his and Scar’s history that they can make a new home in. A do-over with the person he is now—the person who made a mistake, but who still wants what he once had. The person who doesn’t want to be alone.

He knows it’s not entirely right. He knows there would be more than one person from Scar’s old life that would frown at this. He knows they’re not together-together.

But Scar’s been nice to him lately. Nicer than the immediate aftermath, anyhow. Still keeping him at an emotional distance, but they’re laying next to one another right now, aren’t they? Scar shifted over in bed to make room for him last night, and Scar was there with his rifle ready when Grian needed him to have his back. They’re a team, for better or worse. And besides…

Scar kissed him back at the storage lockers.

He’d initiated that himself.

Scar had kissed him again at the gun range, holding him close and touching Grian the way he liked…

People hook up with their exes all the time. It doesn’t have to be weird. It’s reassurance and companionship, and a reminder that they still care about one another, even if their circumstances have changed. It’s a way to speak to one another without saying any words at all, something Grian finds easier to do when everything else around him is so overwhelming.

If Scar rebuffs him, he’ll back off. It’ll be embarrassing but…

The worst he can do is try, right?

It’s almost too easy for Grian to turn onto his side, pressing a kiss, tender, against Scar’s shoulder.

It doesn’t wake him, doesn’t even cause Scar to stir, but it gives Grian the confidence to lean in closer and kiss him again. He follows the line of Scar’s collarbone towards his throat, a motion he’s done a thousand times before this. Slowly, Scar lets out a breath, shifting onto his back and relaxing under Grian’s gentle kisses. Grian can feel him waking up, entering the syrupy warm state that follows a deep sleep. He wants to keep him here, to hold him in that fuzzy, liminal space, tender and pleasant and not yet anchored in reality.

“Good morning,” he whispers, soft against Scar’s neck, feeling his stubble scratch against his cheek and nose. It’s familiar in a way that tugs at his heart, and Grian burrows himself closer to Scar to feel it.

Scar doesn’t speak, simply humming low in his throat as Grian’s hands trace across his chest. There is softness and muscle in equal measures, warm beneath his palms. He continues to trace his fingertips along Scar’s body, wondering at his next step in between slow, fleeting kisses. He’s not sure what else to do to make his intentions clear without alarming Scar and ruining the soft haziness of their morning.

As it turns out, he didn’t need to worry. Without a word, Scar shifts their positions in a move that surprises Grian, wrapping his arms around Grian’s middle and pulling him up to lay across his chest.

Their bodies slot flush together, Grian’s legs settling between Scar’s thighs.

Grian doesn’t question it, doesn’t stop to think. He doesn’t want to let this miraculous moment go. He recalls the sounds of the trio that disrupted him, and he finds himself as determined to mark his territory as the others seemed to be to mark theirs. He lets Scar pull him closer, muscles flexing, a gentle press up that Grian responds to by rolling his hips down. The awakening thrill from the contact goes through him like a live wire. They shift together, sleep-warm and slow, and Grian can’t help the way he feels, vulnerable from how much he’s missed this.

“Scar…” he whispers, a quiet whine slipping between his lips as he pushes his hips down again. In response, Scar’s right hand settles on the curve of his rear, squeezing firmly, fingers flexing as he grinds up with slowly growing arousal.

It’s nice. It feels nice. The comfortable, easy motions, the relaxed familiarity of it. At some point, Scar moves his hand, angling his wrist to slide his palm under the waistband on the back of Grian’s jeans. The broad warmth of his palm spreads across Grian’s skin, kneading and squeezing him the way Grian likes. The firm warmth of their dicks frotting together through too many layers of denim builds until Grian finally whispers, “I have lube.”

It’s a risky confession, one that might ruin the moment. It’s tentative, what they have here. Fragile. Grian is half-shocked that Scar’s allowed things to get as far as they have, but maybe the sounds of the trio outside have gotten to him, too. Maybe their open affections have dug just as deep under his skin as they have Grian’s.

Maybe he misses Grian in the same way Grian misses him, even if he won’t admit it out loud.

Still, bringing up something that has no business being in his possession right now could put an end to this if Scar thinks too deeply on it. The lube is something Grian kept tucked in the backseat of his car, just in case. And after everything that’s happened, he and Scar both know that ‘just in case’ was never meant for the two of them.

Grian had fished it out surreptitiously when they were picking out their supplies, right before Scar dropped his lighter and set it all ablaze. He’d kept it tucked into his pocket ever since, and when they’d met up with the trio, he’d snuck it into his new pack. Another chance for ’just in case,’ only this time with the person it should’ve been about all along.

A moment of silence settles between them, one that has Grian’s heart up in his throat, wondering if Scar is trying to piece together why Grian has the offending item in the first place. He doesn’t want to ruin the tranquil mood they’ve stolen into; doesn’t want to lose Scar’s hands warm on his rear and on his hips. As the seconds stretch, a low anxiety begins to bubble up inside of him—a regret for pushing. He shouldn’t have suggested it so soon. He should’ve waited until Scar had woken up a little more. He should’ve been happy with what they had.

He tries not to think about how that’s a running theme in his life right now.

But then, Scar exhales, heavy, and pulls Grian tighter against him, mumbling a quiet, “Get it.”

It’s an exhilarating rush, giddiness going through Grian like an electric shock. He leans over eagerly, sprawling across Scar’s chest and fumbling for his pack, digging into one of the side pockets with an uncoordinated and eager hand. He doesn’t know if it’s the sun warm on their faces; the bed, sagging but soft beneath them; or some actual effort at reconciliation that has made Scar so willing, but he’s not about to squander the moment.

Tube in hand, Grian settles back into place comfortably against Scar. Stubble scratches his cheek when they press together, somewhat hurried from anticipation but relaxed in that slow, intimate, sleepy way. Grian presses the lube into Scar’s hand, muffling a noise into his throat as Scar obligingly thumbs open his jeans.

It’s a disappointment when Scar’s hands slip away after a moment, gone too soon and leaving Grian feeling oddly bereft. He squirms his hips on his own, managing to push his pants low enough to give Scar room to work with. He’s not going to strip down—it’s too soon and they’re too exposed to dive in head-first like that. He’ll be patient and let things evolve in their own time.

The click of the lube uncapping makes his chest tighten with anticipation, fiery and eager. Scar’s palm returns to his ass in short order, edging his thighs apart as far as the legs of his jeans will allow before, at last, a slick, calloused, finger presses gently up against his hole.

The noise Grian makes is shameless. He can hear it as it escapes his throat, making Scar chuckle in a low rumble beneath him. Scar’s touch circles him slowly, idle with the confidence of experience. He takes his time, enjoying it, before at last he lets the pad of his middle finger press in, slowly spreading him open.

Grian sucks in a breath on automatic, more reflexive than surprised. He lets it out a moment later in a soft, stifled moan, and Scar continues easing in slow, slow, taking his time.

I’ve missed this, Grian thinks but doesn’t dare say out loud, awash with an emotion he can’t find a name for. While it’s true that they haven’t spent a moment apart in days, Grian years for the closeness they used to share. How they used to lay together like this on lazy mornings, Scar making him feel whole and safe and wanted all at once.

“Oh,” Grian murmurs, exhaling the word in a rush, forehead pressed into Scar’s chest while Scar fingers him, unhurried and steady. Grian can feel his own dick, achingly hard, still trapped by the thin cotton of his pants. He fumbles his hand down, and it feels good when he presses the heel of his palm against the shape of his own erection. It feels better when he pulls his arousal free, tucking the elastic of his waistband low beneath his balls, circling his thumb over the sticky head of his cock, and smearing the pre down his length.

It’s an easy rhythm, stroking himself in conjunction with the movement of Scar’s fingers. It feels good—like normal, even. Conjuring up memories of mornings long since passed. Laying in until noon, talking and touching. Kissing and laughing. The way they would enjoy each other, and Grian would indulge himself, letting Scar spoil him as he fell to pieces under his guiding hands.

“Love it when you sound like that…”

Scar’s words cut through the cloud of Grian’s nostalgia, pulling him back into the moment. He hadn’t realised he’d gotten so loud—hadn’t realised he’d been making any sounds at all. He whimpers in response, pushing his forehead into the crook of Scar’s neck as he continues touching himself. He feels full from the thickness of Scar’s middle and ring finger, eagerly anticipating the pleasant stretch of a third.

“Scar,” Grian whines, hand speeding up as he pleasures himself. His body parts easily under the patience of Scar’s hand, and he grinds himself forward, shamelessly rutting against the swell of Scar’s own arousal. His mind is full of the pleasure Scar is giving him, and his eagerness to take more. To take as much of him as possible.

“Fuck,” Scar groans, the sound guttural and low. His free hand shifts from where it’s been settled on Grian’s hip, and then Grian hears the rattle of Scar’s belt. Scar undoes his own jeans with ease, pulling his dick free. He curls his fist around his length, eagerly touching himself to the sounds that Grian is making.

It’s the closest to one another they’ve been in ages. The most in-sync they’ve felt in awhile, even before everything fell to pieces. Grian gasps, choking on words he can barely form, and Scar shushes him tenderly, his cheek pressed to the prickling line of sweat on Grian’s forehead as he holds him close and fucks him full with his fingers.

“I’ve got you,” Scar whispers into the mat of Grian’s hair, like it’s a promise he intends to keep. “I won’t let you go.”

His words touch something vulnerable in Grian. Some part of him he didn’t know was starving until he hears it. All at once his body tenses, a moan catching in his throat as his orgasm sweeps over him. It’s unexpected and overwhelming, his hand working in quick, greedy strokes on his dick as he ruts against the exposed sliver of Scar’s stomach. His mouth is open, noises shameless as he comes, hard, into the curl of his fist.

It takes Grian a moment to collect himself, taking greedy, gasping breaths, hot against Scar’s clothed chest. He turns, collapsing bonelessly next to Scar, hiding his face against his shoulder to muffle his laughter, awash with relief that they can still have this after all. That it’s not all lost—that things haven’t been irreparably shattered forever.

It’s only when Grian gathers his knees underneath himself, wobbly but determined to show Scar his appreciation, that the fragility of the moment reveals itself.

A knock, loud and determined, sounds against the bedroom door, followed by a voice, barely containing a laugh of its own.

“Hey, you two awake in there?”

It’s Sapnap, smothering his giddy mirth at the fact that he’s caught them at their most vulnerable. He plays oblivious, voice light in a mocking manner. “Up and at ’em! We’re gonna have breakfast and take a look around.”

Like the shuttering of something immense and irreversible, Grian feels Scar go still beneath him, muscles stiffening in a way that speaks to some kind of immediate discomfort.

“We’re awake,” Grian says at last, raising his voice just loud enough to be heard, impatience colouring his tone. “We’ll be out in a minute. Just—Just getting up.”

“I bet you are,” comes a second voice—Quackity’s—and it’s scarcely spoken before both he and Sapnap dissolve into barely stifled laughter.

“Take your time,” Sapnap insists, and there’s a sound of bodies moving just outside the door. The tousle of the two playfully pushing at one another. “I know it’s pretty hard to get out of bed sometimes.”

That tips them both over, the two cackling aloud like hyenas.

Grian grits his teeth, ready to tell them to piss off, when Karl’s voice calls out from somewhere else in the house.

“Boys? C’mere.”

It’s a casual call, but the direction within it is firm. Quackity and Sapnap can be heard retreating down the hall, still laughing in a way that keeps Grian on edge. Their departure leaves him and Scar on their own once more. Grian takes a moment of embarrassed silence to collect himself, breathing in deep before he returns his attention to Scar.

“So… where were we?”

It’s meant to sound cute—a coy segue back into the moment they’d been enjoying. He has visions of falling back into Scar’s arms, tugging his legs free from his jeans, and straddling Scar’s hips. Taking Scar inside himself and helping him feel as good as Scar just made him feel. However, when Grian moves to slip his hand down and cup Scar’s arousal, Scar redirects him with a nudge of his arm.

Grian glances down, questioning, only to be met by Scar’s green eyes, their usual brightness dimmed by the deep circles worn beneath them. He looks just as exhausted as he did before they fell asleep. Maybe even more.

At a glance, Grian can tell that the moment is gone. That whatever had unfurled between them, familiar and warm and magical, is over now.

He shifts, his gaze slanting further down as Scar eases their bodies apart, hands busying to re-buckle his jeans. It’s with a twist of something like rejection that Grian notices Scar’s already gone soft. It’s a strangely specific, fragile kind of hurt. To see so clearly that their special moment could pass by so quickly.

An insecure part of him wants to twist up into something small. Feels ridiculous for letting himself get caught up in the excitement and hope that easy intimacy was something they could return to.

Silly to think it was a good idea to hook up with his ex.

Stupid.

It takes him a second to pull himself together, jostling his layers back in place. He stews in his feelings, shame and foolishness churning in his belly. He’s so wrapped up in his own awkward misery that he doesn’t realise Scar is speaking to him until he catches sight of the expectant look on his face.

“What?” His tone comes off boorish, and it’s clearly the wrong thing to say, judging by the way Scar frowns, looking humiliated more than anything else as he repeats himself.

“I asked if you could give me a hand.” It’s a vulnerable request, presented stand-offishly the second go around, and Grian feels immediately bad for making Scar repeat himself. “This bed’s too low. I—” The word sticks in Scar’s throat, forced out with a cough as he clears it. “I can’t get up.”

Grian doesn’t hesitate, standing up and offering both hands, his own fragility at Scar’s rejection set aside. Scar grips his wrists for leverage while Grian does the same in turn to solidify their grasps. With a strong pull, Scar hauls himself up, making it halfway before something twinges in his side and he flinches and staggers. Grian struggles to help him back down, taking most of Scar’s weight as he eases him onto the mattress again. Scar hisses a pained breath as soon as he settles back.

“Scar…” Grian looks at him and trails off, not wanting to say anything that might be mistaken for condescension or pity. He can’t help but worry though, remembering the way Scar had sleepily asked for his wheelchair during the night, clearly lost in between dreams when he made the request. Grian hovers anxiously as Scar rubs his hands into the muscles of his legs, his breathing measured and slow, working through whatever spasm he’s feeling. Scar keeps his expression schooled, not allowing Grian the ability to read him. It’s frustrating, but deep down Grian gets it. He wouldn’t let himself in right now either.

“I need a minute,” Scar says neutrally and Grian can only nod, moving to sit down next to him and only stopping when Scar shakes his head. “Go and meet up with the trio. They’ll get suspicious if both of us stay holed up in here.”

“With what Sapnap and Quackity overheard, I don’t think there’s much left to hide,” Grian tries, attempting the joke with a small smile.

Scar doesn’t return the expression. If anything, it almost seems as if he gets a bit more tense.

“Grian,” he mutters, quiet. “Please. I’ll catch up with you in a minute, okay?”

Hesitation wraps tight around Grian’s chest but, after a long moment, he manages a nod. It’s with incredible reluctance that Grian slowly turns away, murmuring a ‘see you soon’ as he lingers in the doorway. Scar doesn’t reply.

It feels lonelier than he expected when he steps out into the hall.

Steeling himself, Grian approaches the main room of the house, only to find it empty, though it’s clear from the din he can hear that the trio are outside—or rather, they’re in the collapsed remains of what used to be the carport. Grian steps out the front door and finds them talking easily as they bathe in the morning sun. Their grins are bright and hands animatedly moving about as they chatter. The trio quieten down in triplicate when they spot him, and as if on cue Sapnap smirks, his canines pulled sharp against his lower lip.

“Well, good morning,” he purrs, all insinuation and glee. “Scar still getting dressed?”

“Something like that,” Grian replies, attempting to remain civil, squinting as he waits for his eyes to adjust to the sunlight.

He’s on his best behaviour, trying not to ruffle any feathers. He’s well aware of the precarious position he left them in last night, and how even Karl got short with him towards the end. In fact, despite Karl and Quackity’s snickering, even now Sapnap watches Grian from a clear distance, something calculated and impatient behind his eyes. Grian doesn’t pick at it—knows he needs to keep the peace for Scar’s sake. It would be stupid to stoke a fire of animosity now, when they can afford it the least. After the previous day sulking and snapping at them, he knows he needs to extend an olive branch and play nice.

“What’s on the schedule for today, then?” he asks, ignoring the way Quackity elbows Karl, copying his voice with a terrible accent as he mimics the way Grian pronounces ‘schedule’ to Karl’s clear and abundant delight.

“We were thinking of checking out the rest of this place once you two were up and about, right boys?” Karl says. He raises his arms and crosses them behind his head, making a large display of stretching out his spine. “See what there is to see. The shopping, the sights, the shows.”

At the mention of venturing out, Sapnap’s smile slips, his expression morphing into something more serious.

“We’ve got enough supplies for now, but it’s best to scope the area out and find anything else we can. Even if this is a ghost town… we need to make sure there aren’t any zombies hanging around just waiting to sneak up on us.”

“Can’t let our guard down,” Grian agrees.

There’s a laugh at that, and Grian turns his gaze over to face Quackity’s delighted, incredulous expression looking back at him.

“What, no drama-queen push-back? For real?”

“Q—” Karl starts, but Grian interrupts with a tight smile and an even tone.

“I’m only looking out for our best interests.”

“You mean your best interests,” Sapnap corrects, making it abundantly clear that Grian’s effort to maintain the peace isn’t going over as well as he’d hoped. He wishes Scar were here to sweep in and use his big, charming personality to diffuse the situation. Grian’s not good at this on his own, doesn’t have the way with words that Scar so effortlessly makes games of. “You gave us attitude all day yesterday, you were a huge bitch last night, you slept in, and now you come out here with your post-nut clarity all buddy-buddy like we’re lucky to be in your presence? Gimmie a break, man.”

It’s clear whatever briefing Karl had given Sapnap has fallen through, his fiery impatience showing itself in abundance, charitable mood abandoned.

“What is your problem, anyway? Scar seems to like you, and he says you’re a decent guy, but we definitely haven’t seen it. You know we were fine without you, right? Don’t forget that it’s our supplies in your backpacks right now.”

“Scar said that…?” Grian asks, focusing on the wrong words, immediately distracted by the thought of Scar defending him against the same strangers that Grian was so sure he’d leave him for.

“Sapnap. Fellas, come on,” Karl sighs, and there’s a familiarity to his weariness, like this isn’t new behaviour. “It’s too early for this. Let’s just cool our heads and take a walk, alright? Scout the place out, like we planned.”

There’s a pause between them, tension still too thick to make any sudden moves. With similar expressions, Sapnap and Quackity exchange glances with one another, but ultimately stay quiet. Quackity in particular makes a show of sighing aloud, shoulders dropping in an affected manner.

“Fine, Karl. Whatever.”

Karl smiles at the display, fondness etched on every inch of him. He allows them both a moment to settle before he returns to the task at hand.

“How are we splitting teams, then?”

“I want to be with Scar,” Quackity pipes up, which has Grian making a face on instinct, unable to hide his reaction.

Karl chortles at the declaration, amused. “I think G-man will probably want to be on the same team as Scar, Big Q.”

“I’m okay with that,” Quackity retorts, teasing Grian with a sly smile. “So long as G-man doesn’t mind sharing.”

Grian attempts not to visibly bristle, well aware he’s being toyed with.

“Scar and I work better as a duo,” he says, forcing himself to sound far more calm than he feels.

“Well, why don’t I go ask him, just to be sure?” Quackity presses. “I could probably convince him to change his mind. I can be very persuasive, actually.”

Irritation claws its way up Grian’s spine, the way he’s being spoken to grating at him like nails on a chalkboard. Jealousy, insecurity, and the fear that the trio might discover what’s wrong with Scar before he’s ready to share it, tugs at him, threatening his plan to be polite and agreeable. He tries to persevere, forcing a thin smile onto his face.

“Tell you what,” he counters. “Why don’t you three get ready, and I’ll go ask Scar.”

If he’s met with protest, Grian doesn’t hear it, turning around and rushing back towards the house before any of them can react.

When he enters their room Scar is still sitting in bed, exactly where Grian left him.

He doesn’t look good.

“The other three are ready to check out the town…” Grian starts, staying carefully neutral as he stands with his back to the door. “They were wondering if you’re coming…”

Scar is silent. He’s clearly working through a response in his head, his expression conflicted. It makes Grian want to reach out and reassure him. Still, despite their morning together—or perhaps because of it—he doesn’t know if his consolation would be well received.

“Grian,” Scar says at last, the inflection in his words delicate. “We shouldn’t have…” he trails off, clearing his throat uncomfortably like his words stick funny. “We need to talk later,” he finishes. It’s ambiguous, but Grian has a lifetime of reading between the lines to draw on.

The implication is clear. This morning was a mistake.

Grian stands still and silent, awash with too many emotions at once to truly feel any of them significantly at all.

Eventually, Scar continues, low, “I don’t think I can join you four. I can’t get myself up right now. It’s beyond me.”

In an instant, the tension of their relationship and the sting of Scar’s rejection vanishes. It’s replaced instead by a panic that blooms, sharp and anxious, in Grian’s chest. He bites down on his lip to keep himself silent, knowing an outburst won’t contribute anything to this moment. He’s aware of how hard this is for Scar to admit. He knows there’s no way to simply ‘push through’ when he’s in the middle of a flare-up—that Scar is only saying this because he has no other option.

Grian swallows the fear bubbling up in his throat, nodding once, tight.

“Okay,” he says, voice clipped into a forced-calm. “That’s alright. We can work around that.”

He can feel the unspoken element looming large in the room. The ‘what if?’

What if it’s a bad flare-up? What if it lingers? What if Scar can’t move for weeks?

“You should get some rest then, right?” he adds, clinging to words that sound normal. “I’ll handle things with the guys, don’t worry.”

Scar looks up at him finally, making eye contact in a vulnerable, direct way. There’s a look on his face like he wants to add something more to the conversation, but ultimately Scar turns away again, motioning towards the corner of the room instead.

“Pass me the rifle before you go? If you’re all heading out, I want to be able to defend myself… just in case.”

Obligingly, Grian grabs the gun and hands it to Scar, passing the butt of it to him like he’s offering over a kitchen knife or a pair of scissors. “I could stay, if you want?”

Scar only shakes his head, handling the rifle in a practiced manner and giving Grian a wry half-smile. “Nah. Just hurry back.”

It feels wrong to leave Scar bed-bound like this, but admittedly there’s some relief in securing the chance to have some time apart—if only so that Grian can feel his own emotions without imposing them onto Scar. With a final glance, he steps away from the mattress and leaves the room. Grian pauses outside the door for a moment just to settle his nerves, then at last he heads back to where the trio are waiting.

Sapnap is pacing impatiently, but Karl still seems relaxed and under control. Quackity alone remains impervious to Grian’s scrutiny—a nut he can’t crack at a glance.

“So? What did ‘Scar’ say?” Sapnap asks, making finger quotes around Scar’s name, clearly doubting that Grian’s spoken to him at all.

Acting aloof, Grian ignores the slight, forcing a mildly indifferent smile onto his face. “He’s gonna stay here and hold down the fort,” he explains simply. “Scar says we’ve got too much stuff here to just leave it unattended, and I agree with him.”

Sapnap raises an eyebrow, critical. “You think he’ll be okay on his own?”

Grian’s not sure. The fear of the unknown is so persistent that he can feel it lodged in the back of his throat. He and Scar haven’t been apart since the apocalypse started, and even though this is a ghost town, the idea of overlooking a monster that might somehow sneak up on Scar while Grian’s away has him already rethinking the plan.

He knows he’s hurt Scar enough. He can’t be responsible for letting him get hurt any further.

But this is something Scar himself had requested…

“Scar can handle himself,” Grian shrugs, feigning disinterest.

The trio exchange looks, significant in a way Grian doesn’t miss. However, to be frank, he also doesn’t care. Let them count up all his faults. More baseless notions that he’s untrustworthy, or only looking out for himself. Their opinion doesn’t matter to him. All he needs is to do right by Scar—everyone else is expendable.

“Well, good luck, baby duck,” Sapnap snorts, clapping a hand on Quackity’s shoulder hard enough to make him yelp.

“I always get the short end of the fucking stick…” Quackity grumbles, taking the hint and trudging over to Grian, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“I can go on my own,” Grian insists, “You three do your thing, we can meet back here in a few hours.”

Karl gives him a sideways glance, his ever-present smile soft on his face. “There’s no shot, dude. We’re gonna buddy up whether you like it or not. What would we tell Scar if something happened to you ‘cause we let you scramble off on your own?”

Grian bites back the urge to tell them that Scar would probably be relieved more than anything. That he cares about Scar far more than Scar cares about him these days.

That the way Scar looks at him now makes Grian wish he could shrink into the floor and disappear.

But that’s not something the trio need to know about.

“Fine,” he sighs, wishing he could sound more unbothered and not just petulant. “But why can’t I be paired with—”

“Because we already played rock-paper-scissors for the pleasure of your company while you were inside wasting time,” Sapnap says, rushing the words out with impatience. “Now can we please get a move on before we lose the entire day?”

Together they leave the sagging carport, he and Quackity heading left at the end of the sanded-in driveway while Karl and Sapnap veer right. The plan is for those two to circle the perimeter of the ghost town, while he and Quackity pick through the interior. Not that there’s much to look at—most of the buildings are too dilapidated to be worth investigating, and the others are visibly empty just from looking in off the street.

Grian tries not to read too deeply into it; tries not to think about how it feels like he’s been given the easier portion of the task. He doesn’t know if it’s in deference to him, or for Quackity’s sake, or because Karl and Sapnap simply feel that one—or both—of them aren’t fit for a proper reconnaissance. No matter the interpretation, it comes up insulting. A relegation he takes personally regardless of how he looks at it.

At first he and Quackity walk in silence, Grian stubbornly leading the way as they cross from one point of interest to the next. Wordlessly, they peer through the broken windows of several abandoned homes, finding nothing but sun-faded surfaces and peeling, weathered paint. That’s all there is, over and over, until Quackity finally takes it upon himself to interrupt the peace.

“So,” he starts, having clearly psyched himself up to begin the conversation. “Grian’s a pretty cool name. Did you pick it yourself?”

Grian doesn’t know what to make of the question, strangely baffled by it.

“Why would I have done that?” he asks, prickly to a point.

“No reason, I guess.” Quackity shrugs, oblivious to Grian’s bristling as he swings his tire iron at a dry, scraggly clump of desert grass. “Quackity’s not, like, my government name,” he adds, as if that clarifies as anything.

“Well Grian is mine,” Grian dismisses, which only manages to pull a bemused laugh from Quackity.

“You’re not really a small talk kind of guy, huh?”

The accusation strikes Grian sideways, disarming him entirely. He doesn’t want to confirm or deny that. Doesn’t want to be caught saying anything that might make its way back to Scar, like a poor performance review. It already stings the way the trio has caught Scar’s attention, making him smile and laugh and chatter like Grian can’t seem to do anymore.

He misses the days when they were alone and it was just the two of them. So that even if Scar was mad, at least Grian didn’t have to share him.

He takes a breath and levels himself. Asks, flat, “Well, what do you want to talk about?”

For whatever reason, Quackity perks up at that, eyes glinting and his mouth tugging up in a grin.

“What was your life like? Y’know, before all this.”

It’s an aggressively inoffensive topic, but Grian side-eyes Quackity for it anyway. He doesn’t want to share any facets of his life with a near stranger; the dreams he had and the things he lost. He can’t stand the thought of inviting a new person into his life just to be judged by them.

“I worked in marketing,” he says at last—the truth, but separate enough from any of the significant details of his life. He’s stilted as he speaks, like he’s at a family dinner explaining himself to relatives he doesn’t want to be around. “Branding, consulting, sales. That kind of thing.”

“Were you good at it?”

It’s a genuine question, backed by an actual interest in getting to know him more, but all it does is make Grian tense and uncomfortable. He doesn’t want to do this—doesn’t want to ‘shoot the shit’ and team-build like he’s on some sort of corporate excursion. Especially with Quackity, who seems particularly skilled at honing in on his vulnerabilities.

“I don’t know. It didn’t matter,” he dismisses, shrugging a shoulder. “It wasn’t my passion. I wasn’t planning on doing it forever.”

Grian wishes he’d lied and said he worked as a private investigator. He wishes he’d said he was a masked vigilante, or a train conductor, or a fisherman. He wishes he’d said he used to pitch elaborate game shows to television. He wishes he’d said anything else other than the truth, because the reality of his life prior to the apocalypse makes him feel nothing but bitter and sour.

He remembers his ambitions—grand plans to return to school and change career paths entirely. How he’d had Scar’s unfailing support, even as he’d dragged his feet on making any real steps towards change. Even as Scar himself had been able to work less and less, forced to reprioritize his own life in order to accommodate his declining health.

He remembers Scar brushing it all off, simply winking at him and saying that his set-backs only gave him more time to be there for Grian.

Unflinching encouragement; both unconditional and endless. Scar had been so patient and understanding that it had made Grian sick.

“What about you?” he cuts in, turning the conversation away from himself, needing a break from the ugly introspection clawing at the inside of his chest.

“I was at school,” Quackity declares with an air of pride. “Hotel and casino management. Las Vegas boy, y’know?” He rolls his shoulders, stretching his arms up above his head for a second before he adds, “I had a part time thing at a club, but I’d barely started before it all—you know.”

Grian nods, not really contributing, and in his silence Quackity happily fills the void.

“That’s how I met Karl and Sap. Kinda. We kept bumping into each other on campus. Karl was studying creative writing, and Sapnap was majoring in Having Rich Dads And A Hot Boyfriend.” He laughs at that, smiling in Grian’s direction like they’re both in on the same joke.

Grian’s aware of Quackity’s eyes on him, waiting for a reply, but he keeps his gaze focused ahead, acting intent on scouting for things of use. In the lull, they lapse back into silence.

He can’t help but wonder what’s wrong with him. It’s not that he hates Quackity. He just…

There’s something about him that rubs Grian the wrong way. He’s not sure if it’s the constant chest-puffing, the way he talks like he’s everyone’s best friend, or the loaded glances he exchanges with the others. Or maybe it’s simply the way Scar will look at Quackity sometimes, nostalgic and fond in a manner that makes Grian feel both insane and desperate to hang on to him as tight as possible.

In any other world—one both without the apocalypse, and his and Scar’s current animosity towards one another—he’s sure he could have found a way to enjoy Quackity’s company, regardless of the obnoxious self-assurance that his youth has given him.

In this world, however, letting Quackity endear himself is not something he’s willing to bend on.

Grian lengthens his stride on purpose and they move forward together, rounding a shoulder-high cinder block wall to find a yard filled with rusted-out, abandoned cars. There are dozens of them, arranged into disorganised rows, most stripped for parts—missing windows, hoods, doors, and entire engine blocks. A few look remarkably intact, raised up on blocks and missing only their tires. All of them are well-aged, coated in sand and grit, and patchy with rust.

There’s a lopsided, chain-link gate fencing the cars in, and without a thought Grian attempts to drag it open. The hinges wail in protest, barely budging. Quackity steps in to help, and with a little force they manage to yank it open, standing together at the entrance to the yard.

It’s eerie, a feeling Grian doesn’t enjoy prickling uncomfortably up the back of his neck. Like they’re trespassing in a cemetery.

At the far back of the yard is a garage, partially collapsed but with enough left in-tact that they move towards it out of curiosity.

Grian doesn’t know what they hope to find at this point. It’s clear that no one’s been here for years. Maybe even decades. There’s no life-saving cure-all hidden amongst the refuse. No cache of secret supplies. They’ll be lucky if they find three empty bottles and an old oil rag, and that’s if they find anything at all.

“So how long have you and Scar been together?” Quackity asks as they approach the garage, bending down to peer in through the smashed windshield of a car.

The question twists an insecurity deep inside Grian, vulnerable in a way he doesn’t want to admit bothers him. The only benefit of the apocalypse is that he hasn’t had to tell anyone the embarrassing truth yet. That he and Scar aren’t together anymore. That he was dumped unceremoniously the evening before the world fell apart.

It stings, and in the face of Quackity’s perpetual honeymoon-happiness with his multitude of boyfriends, Grian doesn’t want to talk about it.

“We’re not,” he replies simply, resisting the urge to put his broken garden hoe through one of the few remaining car windows.

“Fuck off, you liar,” Quackity laughs, but when Grian only shrugs, his expression scrunches up. There’s confusion clear on his face, the kind Grian wishes he could take pride in. He can almost see Quackity’s mind racing, predicting the follow-up before Quackity even asks it. “What was this morning about, then?”

“It wasn’t about anything,” Grian dismisses, then immediately changes the subject. “There’s nothing but scrap metal and junk here,” he declares. “I don’t think there’s any point in hanging around.”

Quackity wavers, expression pinched like he still wants to say something. They stand in unresolved silence for a moment, Grian’s impatience wrapped like barbed wire tight around his chest. He doesn’t know what they’re doing here. Doesn’t know what the point of any of this is. They’re wasting time combing through the garbage of a ghost town while Scar is alone and in pain, confined to a dirty mattress on the floor. He hates being apart from him. He hates it in every way imaginable.

“Let’s try the next place then,” Quackity suggests at last, offering the option like an olive branch—as if wasting time is something Grian desperately wants to do.

With a sigh, Grian shrugs, and together they turn back towards the gate, leaving the rest of the yard unexplored.

“You won the apocalypse lottery getting stuck with Scar, by the way. If you really weren’t together before all this,” Quackity says, picking the conversation up again once they’ve passed back out through the fence. “That guy’s the real deal.”

Grian ignores him, walking a pace ahead so Quackity can’t see his face.

“Tall, broad, and handsome. Sweet and funny. Plus, he can shoot?” Quackity whistles appreciatively. “He’s the complete package.”

Grian grits his teeth, fists held tight at his sides.

“You already have two boyfriends,” he says at last, curt.

“I don’t see your name on him,” Quackity quips, fast and grinning bright, like they’re discussing good weather or playing a fun word game.

Jealousy hits Grian like a freight train, the magnitude of it so strong he thinks he might be sick. Logically, he knows Quackity is just messing with him. That he’s trying to smoke out a confession about the nature of their relationship by pressing all of Grian’s buttons at once. But then Grian thinks back to Scar’s frigidity when he’d told Grian they were though, and how he’d raised his eyebrows in interest when the trio had explained the multiplicity of their partnership…

The fear of being abandoned springs out, wailing and vulnerable from deep within his gut.

He fights his urge to lash out, burying his insecurity and trying to answer like he would if he wasn’t Scar’s ex. “You’ve only got two hands. Who are you gonna trade out for him?”

Quackity laughs uproariously at that. Like the question is the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

“Dude, that’s so fucked up. What do you mean ‘trade out’? They’re not Pokémon cards.”

Grian manages a single shrug, flustered to be called out for how little he understands their arrangement. He wants to move on, desperately, but Quackity seems delighted by what he’s uncovered, pressing in with a wide, wolfish grin.

“Do you really think that’s how it works? Oh my god, dude. Come on, you’re not that old.”

He laughs, clapping his hands together quickly.

“Does that mean you’d trade Scar for one of us?”

“I didn’t say that.”

The notion is absurd, but Quackity persists with it, clarifying, “So have some fun with it, you asshole. Pretend you had to pick one, who would it be? Which of us is your favourite?”

Grian feels searing hot, the idea of choosing someone else over Scar hitting far too close to home.

“I’m not an asshole,” he defends, obstinate.

In response, Quackity throws his head back, laughing out loud.

“Dude, you’ve been frowning since we met you! Your whole vibe is just, ‘fuck off, don’t speak to me.’ Literally the only reason I think there must be more to you is that Scar said you two have known each other for years, and he doesn’t seem like the type of guy to hang out with irredeemable, lost causes. No offense.”

“You can’t just stick ‘no offense’ at the end of something objectively offensive and call it a day,” Grian snaps, exasperated.

Undaunted, Quackity simply continues to grin at him. “Am I wrong though?”

It’s true that Grian’s been less than inviting since he met the trio. It’s true that, in a perfect world, he would be far more gracious to them than he’s been.

He just doesn’t feel inclined to be cordial with his back up against a wall.

With an irritated sigh Grian gestures at the desert around them, barren and lifeless. “Well take a look at where we’re at, and think about the situation we’re in,” he explains bitterly. “This isn’t exactly the kind of environment where the kindness of strangers thrives.”

“Why not?” Quackity presses immediately, and Grian feels his gut twist, hating the gleam of optimism in the other man’s eyes. It’s too much like how he remembers himself being, wishing for the best and believing in the inherent good of those around him. It’s how Scar still is. Unlike Grian, who let apathy sink in and swamp him, worn down by the monotony of the world, too big to change, and too overwhelming to challenge.

“Because it’s dangerous,” he declares at last. “If I trusted you from the outset and you’d smothered us in our sleep, where would that have left me? Where would that have left Scar? If I’m an asshole, it’s only because I need to be. Because that’s how things are going to be from now on.”

“Well, I don’t agree,” Quackity argues, his humour fading into something more determined and passionate. “Maybe things were that way, but we have a chance right now to alter all those old assumptions. We can choose to be better than we used to be.”

It’s naïve, and Grian can’t stand it. He’s being foolhardy in a way that will ultimately only end in him losing everything.

“The world is life and death, now,” Grian dismisses. “We don’t get to be like we were before. That’s not the same thing as making an active choice. And even if you did have the option, lowering your guard and being kind is only going to have you out there in the dirt with the googlies. And y’know what? You’ll have deserved it.”

“I’m not saying it’s easy—fuck, I’m not even saying it’s smart,” Quackity insists, stubborn beyond Grian’s understanding. “I’m just saying, it doesn’t have to be that black and white.”

Grian stares at him, uncomprehending. “Why are you so hung up on this?” he presses, which seems to knock Quackity off the subject.

He averts his gaze, muttering a rough ‘nevermind’ under his breath before he scuffs his shoes against the ground and presses ahead, leaving Grian behind.

It should be a relief to be done with the conversation, but something about it still nags at him. With another sigh, Grian jogs after Quackity so that they’re keeping pace again, walking side by side.

“You’re young. You’re idealistic. I get it,” he soothes, rewarded by Quackity looking over at him, expression guarded. “But what you’re asking for isn’t as easy as it sounds.”

He gets no response, Quackity snorting in a way that has Grian feeling too much like a parent dealing with a moody teenager.

He resists the urge to run a hand tiredly down his face, trying instead to put himself in Quackity’s shoes—still in college, falling in love; by all accounts just barely starting to establish himself when something beyond his control snatches it all away. It sucks. It must feel godawful.

“I’m not saying the only way to prosper is to be a dick. I’m just asking you to take a good, hard look at the world around you, think of what you care about, and understand that nothing’s ever going to be as easy as you hope. This—this disease… The world is hungry, Quackity. It’s ravenous.” He pauses, letting his words sink in. He has Quackity’s full attention now, both of them no longer walking. Grian looks directly into his eyes, dark and focused and so much like his own.

“You can give it all your smiles and sweet words, but what surviving this is going to take is more than a nice sentiment. It’s going to take the sweat of you toiling, and the tears running down your face. If you really want to do right by whatever comes next, and leave some sort of legacy behind after you’re gone, you’re going to have to work for it. Otherwise, the world as it is will swallow you whole.” They stare at each other, intense. “Kindness is not, and will never be, enough.”

Silence hangs between them, Quackity letting Grian’s words sink in as a light breeze dies against their shoulders.

“A legacy, huh?” he repeats at length, the way his eyes flash sending a shiver down Grian’s spine.

He has to break eye contact, his heart beating fast against his ribs. He hates that he recognises the look in Quackity’s eyes.

Hates that he can’t remember the last time he saw it in his own.

Without another word, Quackity resumes walking, Grian falling into step right behind him, quiet now that they’ve both said what was needed. The heavy finality of their conversation lingers between them as they pick through the remaining homes on their way back. Unlike earlier however, it’s a reasonably comfortable silence. There’s something that’s been forged between them—not companionship exactly, but more than the polite strangers they’d been when they’d set off together.

By the time Sapnap reaches out to them, voice crackling through the walkie-talkie, they’re already done with their sweep of the interior. Grian gives Quackity his space while he chats with his boyfriend over the radio, mostly for his own comfort than for Quackity’s discretion. Their conversation tugs something wistful in him, their flirtations teasing an ache, no matter how casual it may be.

“Sapnap says that he and Karl haven’t found much either,” Quackity relays to Grian once the radio chatter is over. He steps into what might have once been a storage shed, where Grian’s poking at a weather-worn tarp slung over old fuel containers.

“Shall we head back then?” Grian asks.

“Might as well. Sap says they just have one final stop they wanna check out.”

He nods, and the two of them turn back towards their homebase. A nervous energy thrums in Grian’s chest at the thought of returning. Not because he thinks anything’s happened, but because he hopes that Scar has somehow miraculously recovered in the time they’ve been away. He doesn’t know how much longer he can hide things from the trio, but he still doesn’t trust them enough to feel inclined to share their vulnerability either. It stews inside of him, messy and complicated in a way he’s not sure how to control.

“Hey,” Quackity says, and Grian resists the urge to jump, startled out of his thoughts.

“Yeah?”

“You never did answer.” Quackity presses, his smile mild. “Which one of us is your favourite?”

Grian doesn’t have to answer. He knows he can brush the question aside and it would be perfectly within his rights in front of these strangers. He could roll his eyes and scoff, or turn away from Quackity without another word, and it would be nothing more than expected. There would be no entertaining story for Quackity to go back and share with the others. Just the same, cranky, cold Grian.

But at the same time… he can’t shake the memory of Quackity’s intense eyes. His mouth set with stubborn determination. A fire sparking inside every word, so much like a version of himself Grian thought he’d lost forever.

‘Which one of us is your favourite?’

“Karl,” Grian lies, and the taste of it stings bittersweet on his tongue.

Notes:

(Click to reveal.)

[ SPOILERS ]

This chapter contains sexual content, so if you're a minor or would otherwise like to skip that section, please stop reading from, "Scar doesn’t speak" and continuing reading after, "It takes him a second". Like last time, we've provided a short summary below that you can read in order to keep up with any plot details that might be relevant.

[ SUMMARY ]

Grian kisses Scar awake, slow and soft. He's not sure how to make his desires known beyond just touching Scar, but is pleasantly surprised when Scar understands him and reciprocates by moving Grian onto his lap. The two of them rock against each other for a bit before Grian confesses that he has lube, indicating he wants to take things further, and deliberately skipping over that it was lube he kept in his car specifically to use while cheating. After a bit of a tense silence, Scar agrees to proceeding. Scar uses the lube to ease the way for fingering, and both Grian and Scar mutually masturbate while he does so. During, Scar speaks softly to Grian, like he used to, and emotional weight of it all sends Grian over the edge into a rapid orgasm. They are then interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by jeering from Sapnap and Quackity, which derails the remainder of their shared intimacy. Once the boys are gone, Grian tries to get Scar back in the mood, but is hurt to find that Scar's already gone soft. Scar bats away Grian's hands and rebuckles his jeans, effectively ending the coupling, and all of it makes Grian feel small and stupid for ever having tried in the first place.

---

Man, in the Phasmo fic Lock and I posted last week, I had Grian say (paraphased) "It's not like I keep lube in my back pocket." as a cheeky reference to this chapter because I totally forgot it hadn't even been posted yet 😂 So a little trivia for y'all I guess—that was meant to be a callback to the start of this chapter HAHA! Hope you guys enjoyed it! See you next week! :3

Chapter 13

Notes:

Every new chapter I get nervous like "Okay listen, I know this makes Grian look bad, BUT--" 😂

Here's yet another promise that our boy gets better! ...he just... has to get worse first ;) Enjoy!

When Grian and Quackity return to the house, Scar is waiting for them.

It’s a relief to see him on his feet, even if he doesn’t look any better. He puts forward a good front, though. The way he leans heavily against the doorframe is barely noticeable, even to Grian who’s explicitly looking for it.

“Missed me so much you’re back already?” he asks, smiling to show his teeth.

Grian opens his mouth to respond, but Quackity beats him to it, laughing easily. “You caught me,” he teases. “I’m obsessed with you, can’t get you off my—” he stops, pausing to squint dramatically. He shields his eyes with the side of his hand, then chuckles and shakes his head. “Oh, sorry, I thought you were Karl and Sapnap.”

Scar gasps playfully in response, placing a hand on his heart and acting wounded. It’s silly and fun—the way Scar used to act with Grian. A fact that makes him ache with jealousy.

Oblivious, Quackity jogs up to the front door, abandoning Grian without a thought as he’s drawn into Scar’s orbit by conversation alone. Grian watches them like an outsider, keeping his distance. An outcast on the fringes of their solar system.

Busying himself, he shrugs off his pack, trying to ignore how the entire situation makes him feel. His pettiness sits rancid in his stomach. He watches Scar, open and smiling, with Quackity bantering along with him, the two talking like they’re old friends. Their conversation flows naturally and it makes Grian’s entire body hurt, acutely aware of all that he’s lost in the schism that’s grown between him and Scar. A small part of him even manages to feel betrayed by Quackity, though logically he knows that isn’t fair—that one scouting mission together doesn’t mean he’s earned Quackity’s loyalty.

By the time Sapnap and Karl return, Scar and Quackity are still chatting inside, and Grian sits quietly off on his own.

“This dump is a bust,” Sapnap announces, words edged in frustration as he pushes the door open. His hair slicked down with sweat at his temples, the bridge of his nose already red with sunburn. He looks beat, depositing his bag onto the floor without fanfare before he sits down heavily in the only other chair.

“I know we figured as much, but it doesn’t look like anyone’s lived here for years. Decades even,” Karl explains, trailing in after Sapnap. He appears equally worn out, flushed across his cheeks and forehead. “We found a few camps at the far end of the street. There were ATV tracks, but they looked old. Managed to swipe some cans and stuff. It’s all expired by about a year, but that’s better than nothing.”

He sits down on the floor, shrugging his arms out of his jacket sleeves and then hauling the hem of his sweater up, pulling it off over his head. It leaves him in only a t-shirt—one that’s definitely seen cleaner days—the logo for a defunct video rental place emblazoned across his chest.

“We did have one good find, though,” he offers, cheerful with his consolation. “Show ‘em, Sap.”

Sapnap perks up at the reminder, at least some of his good mood returning. He opens his bag, rooting around until he produces their find: a solar-powered camping lantern.

“Check this out.” Placing it on the table, he flicks the switch. The light is sterile—a kind of antiseptic LED glow—but it’s bright and self-sustaining, and even Grian can admit it’s a good find.

“How ‘bout you two lovebirds?” Karl asks, and the question startles a shocked look from Grian and an amused grin from Quackity.

“There’s a car graveyard at the far end of town,” Quackity explains, folding his arms across his chest. “Nothing there, though. Everything’s rusted out.”

“Quackity wanted to check a few of the houses nearby,” Grian adds, “But we didn’t find anything salvageable.”

“Why do you think this place was abandoned?” Sapnap asks, adopting a mildness that comes out incredibly forced. It’s obvious he’s trying not to sound too concerned, but he’s unable to hide the edge from his tone. He turns towards Karl, as if expecting him to share his worry, but Karl’s brow remains smooth and his posture calm.

He only hums low and shrugs. “I think there are hundreds of places like this. People die, kids grow up and move away, nobody new moves in…”

“It’s the highways,” Scar explains, and Grian can’t help a small, fond, smile pulling at his lips. Of course Scar is up-to-date on the history of run-down little towns. It’s just like him to have these bits of obscure knowledge tucked away. “When they built all the interstates back in the 60s, people stopped needing these side roads and winders. Communities got cut off, and they didn’t have any industry to sustain them, so they died out.”

“You’re telling me there’s a million more of these shitty little dead-end ghost towns in our way?” Quackity groans, rubbing his face in frustration. “That’s gonna suck for us. There’s nothing we can scavenge. We’re just gonna waste time and supplies.”

“It’s fine, we can avoid them once we’re back on the interstate,” Sapnap says, confident. “Which—we should figure out where to go next from here, actually. Especially if we wanna get going before we start losing daylight.”

Immediately, Grian looks in Scar’s direction, only to find Scar already meeting his gaze over top of Quackity’s head, the same dread in his eyes that Grian feels in his bones. The trio don’t seem to notice, chatting about if they have time for a proper lunch and what they should eat before they head onwards.

“I’m sure we can leave the catering in your capable hands,” Scar says, bright and forced-enthusiastic as he claps his hands together. “Meanwhile, Grian! Can I trouble you for a moment of your time?”

It sparks a note of selfish satisfaction in Grian that Scar would make a point of asking for him. It’s silly—of course Scar would choose him right now—but it still feels nice to be singled out by name.

“I’ll allow it,” Karl jokes, none-the-less taking the hint and hauling himself to his feet. He nudges Sapnap with the toe of his boot and gestures for Quackity to join them, motioning towards the front door as he begins towards it. “We’ll be outside if you need us.”

“Keep your hands where the Lord can see ‘em though. No funny business,” Quackity teases.

The other two laugh as they leave, ignorant to the tension that settles into the room with their departure.

The moment the door shuts, Scar is shifting in his seat, the wince in his expression obvious. Worry grips Grian tight, and he resists the urge to gravitate to Scar’s side and fuss.

“Grian,” Scar says, serious.

“How bad?”

Scar glances once towards the exit, expression inscrutable, before he breathes out, slow and even. “Bad.”

Silence settles between them, the air suddenly thick and heavy with the implication.

“I need you to help me get back to the bedroom.”

The reality of what Scar is saying dawns on Grian like something unexpected and terrifying. The worst case scenario of having pushed himself too hard for too many days.

“Okay.” Grian is numb as he says it, stepping forward on autopilot and slinging Scar’s arm across his shoulder to help leverage him to his feet. Scar’s expression is tight, determined to look strong even in a vulnerable moment. He lets a short breath in and out through his nose before he nods and they move with slow, careful steps down the hall.

They’re lucky they have a bed. For a moment, Grian tries to imagine what would have happened had Scar seized up out in the open desert, but the horror of the hypothetical compresses into an impenetrable knot in his mind. It’s more important to focus on the almost imperceptible positives. The roof over their heads. The solid walls around them. The fragile bubble of safety in an otherwise inhospitable void.

Working together, he helps Scar lay down on the mattress, expression creased and concentrating while trying not to freak out. Once safely down, Scar closes his eyes and tilts his head back, exposing the column of his throat as he heaves a long, pained sigh.

Hesitant, Grian deliberates for a moment before he asks, “What do we tell them?”

“I don’t want them to panic,” Scar replies, eyes still shut.

“I don’t want them to know,” Grian stresses, determined.

Scar chuckles, a forced sound that devolves into a sort of wheeze. Slowly, he opens his eyes, staring up at the patchy, popcorn-stucco ceiling.

“At this point, I don’t know if that’s really an option.”

“Do you think you’ll feel better after you sleep?” Grian rushes, words tumbling out of him all at once. Even as he speaks, he knows this isn’t something he can barter their way through; knows it isn’t fair to pry at Scar this way. “Maybe tomorrow—”

He stops himself, forcibly closing his mouth. From his place down on the mattress Scar watches him with tired eyes. Guiltily, Grian looks away. He knows how much Scar hates when people explain his own limitations to him. Of all things, Scar doesn’t need Grian attempting to negotiate with him about his health.

“I’ll take care of it,” he says instead. Simple, broaching no argument.

“You’ll take care of it?”

There’s something skeptical in Scar’s tone, but Grian merely nods in response. Scar continues to watch him, as if unsure of Grian’s conviction. He’s not sure how he’s going to follow through, but Grian refuses to let that show on his face.

In the end, Scar only offers a weary smile of acceptance, more tired than grateful.

“Okay, Gri,” he says, and the use of his long-abandoned nickname briefly takes Grian’s breath away. Immediately he feels his pulse race, desperate to hear Scar say it again—this time in praise instead of surrender.

For a moment he simply lingers, unwilling to leave Scar’s side. It takes everything he has to pry himself away. He exits the room with his heart pounding, trying to calculate the next steps he’ll need to take.

While he’s generally good at thinking on his feet, he has no experience with a situation like this. Persuading people is more Scar’s forte. While Grian can lie just as well as Scar can, there’s a charm to Scar’s method that wins people over—a natural way with them that Grian can’t emulate.

Karl and Quackity are outside, sitting on the steps, when Grian opens the front door. Their shoulders are together, Karl’s arm resting across Quackity’s knees, and Sapnap standing just ahead with his arms crossed while he squints unhappily in the sunlight. They all turn at the sound of the door’s hinges, looking at him expectantly.

grian takes a bracing breath.

“We’re going to be saying here another night,” he explains, stating it as simply as fact.

Three sets of eyebrows rise in reply. Almost comedic in their unity.

“Says who?” Sapnap asks, shoulders bristling.

“Says me,” Grian answers, firm. “We have good shelter here, we’ve got enough provisions for now—there’s no reason to go running right back into the fray when we have a chance to spend a few days in peace and quiet without a single soul around.”

“We can’t just wait around,” Sapnap argues, vehement in a way Grian hadn’t quite expected. He’s been fairly quiet after getting over his initial mistrust, but now his temper rises seemingly out of nowhere. It immediately puts Grian’s back up to have the younger man in his face, angrier than he has any reason to be. “How many of those infecteds did we just see wandering along the road on our way up here? You think we’re safe right now? We’re not.”

“We’re in the middle of the desert,” Grian refutes, glad that Karl and Quackity are remaining silent, their eyes darting back and forth between them. “We’ll be able to see anyone or anything coming for miles.”

“But why the fuck should we wait at all?! There’s literally no food or water in this dust bowl, and you wanna stay here longer?”

Something about the situation feels wrong to Grian. Putting him on his back foot, defending what doesn’t feel like a big ask. He talks around it, slow and even but inevitably condescending, watching Sapnap’s face for a reaction. “We’ll leave tomorrow morning and be back on the interstate by the afternoon, if it’s so important to you.”

Sure enough, Sapnap’s expression wavers, glancing in the direction of Quackity and Karl. Whatever he finds in them has him halfway relent. It’s a hollow victory that causes paranoia to sink into Grian’s gut, even as Sapnap rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

“This is such fucking bullshit, man.”

“I don’t see how wanting to rest one more night is such a big deal,” Grian needles, unable to help himself. “We left a bad spot, walked for hours to get here, and now that we’re safe you want us to just push on? Seems reckless to me.”

“Like it isn’t just as reckless to stay here and whittle our resources down to nothing?”

The frustration rolling off of Sapnap is evident, his arms crossed tight over his chest, anger creasing his expression. Again, his gaze shifts in the direction of the other two in his party, Quackity with his mouth set in a firm line, and Karl’s expression carefully neutral.

All of it has Grian’s hackles raised.

There’s something more to it. There has to be.

“It’s one night, Sapnap,” he insists, determined.

“It’s a big fucking waste of our time, is what it is.”

Grian laughs, a sharp scoff without humour. “If it’s that much of a waste of time, then by all means, you three can leave without us.”

It’s a blatant call on their bluff. A hope to destabilize them and put himself in control of the situation.

“What’s up with Scar?” Quackity interrupts, precise in a way that catches Grian completely off guard.

The challenge cuts through him like a knife, the epicentre of his vulnerability suddenly exposed and dragged out into the open. Without a word, the trio exchange glances with one another before looking back at him. It puts him on the spot in a viscerally uncomfortable way, and Grian crosses his arms in a defensive manner, mirroring Sapnap’s pose and posture both.

“What are you talking about? Nothing’s up with Scar.”

There’s a reluctance in Quackity’s eyes, an uncertainty Grian can’t quite place.

“You say nothing’s up with him, but when Sapnap suggests moving on, suddenly Scar has to talk to you alone, and then without warning you’re saying we’re staying put for another night?”

A chill runs down Grian’s spine, followed by the cold sweat of being caught acting careless. He’d been so busy seething in his own distrust and dislike of the trio that he’s failed to keep his motives subtle. In his haste, he’s put Scar in danger.

He feels ill.

“Is he sick?” Quackity asks when Grian remains silent, careful as he voices his doubt. A tension spreads between them, three sets of eyes boring into Grian with their breaths held. When no reply is offered, Quackity presses, insistent. “Has he been bit?”

The allegation crushes like the breaking of a dam, and suddenly it’s too hot, too much, too loud, and Grian is angry; livid at the proposition that he and Scar would ever harbour a secret like that. He draws in a breath, sharp, squaring his shoulders as he gets ready to lash out.

Only for Karl to step up fluidly, effortlessly intervening.

He rises up off the front stoop in a single, smooth gesture, brushing sand and grit off his hands and dismissing, calm, “Come on, Big Q, don’t be ridiculous.”

It takes the wind out of Grian’s sails, his shoulders automatically slackening. The idea that he has an ally on his side knocks the temper right out of him, defusing the situation in a masterstroke.

“When would Scar have gotten bit?” Karl asks, more rational than Grian would have given him credit for. “We’ve had eyes on him since we ran into him. If he’d gotten chomped before we met, he would’ve turned by now. We’ve seen enough to know that.”

“He didn’t get close to the googlies on the road,” Grian adds, insistent. “If anyone, Sapnap—”

“I didn’t get fucking bit, you asshole,” Sapnap snarls, bristling. “You got close to them too, by the way. In fact, you were the first one to rush into them.”

“And I didn’t get bit, did I?” Grian argues, raising his voice slightly. “So if I didn’t, then Scar definitely didn’t.”

“Boys,” Karl interrupts again, level and firm. “We’ve all made our points. Nobody got bit, nobody’s turning into a zombie.” He stares at each of them in turn before finally resting his eyes on Quackity, who stares back at him, guilty and indignant at the same time. It’s a look Grian knows well, having worn it plenty of times himself, on the receiving end from Scar. After a pause Karl sighs, more patient than he has any need to be, “So then let’s not jump to conclusions.”

With Sapnap and Quackity’s accusation defanged, Grian doesn’t know what to do with the adrenaline rushing through his system. It’s almost a relief when Karl turns to him, using the same no-nonsense tone, so different from the way he normally presents himself.

“Grian—you’re saying you want to take a rest day? Stay here just for another night?”

It’s weird being spoken to so sternly by someone almost a decade younger than him, but Grian takes the hit to his pride with as much grace as he can manage. He nods, not trusting himself to speak and start the argument up again once more.

Karl nods back at him, decided. “So that settles it. We’ll stay the night and head out in the morning.”

“Karl…” Sapnap starts, clearly unhappy with the final call.

“It’s okay, baby,” Karl promises, “Tomorrow, first light, we’re gone. It won’t even be a full twenty-four hours from now. Okay?”

Karl passes the compromise between both his partners, and they hesitate as if waiting for each other’s agreement. Quackity’s expression is self-evident and clearly reluctant, but after a moment he relents, and Karl smiles wide, pulling him into a side-hug. After that Sapnap seems to give in as well, the stiffness in his posture relaxing.

“Is that it then…?” Grian asks, cautious. “Are we good?”

“We’re good,” Sapnap sighs, and Grian chooses to believe him.

“I’m going to go tell Scar,” he explains, careful, taking a step back and doing everything in his power not to seem like he’s fleeing the scene.

He leaves the trio to their business, relieved to catch a break. Grian heads back inside in a hurry, only to find that Scar’s fallen asleep, mouth slack and chest rising and falling with slow breaths. For a moment, Grian considers leaving again. He should, really. But instead, he takes a seat on the floor, resting his back against the wall and watches Scar rest. After the better part of an hour, clattering and scraping noises filter in from the main room, but Scar sleeps through it all. Grian tries to picture what the trio could be doing but makes no move to check it out, listening aimlessly to the sounds of Quackity’s high laughter and Karl and Sapnap cursing bleeding in through the walls.

Their good moods should be a comfort, a sign that everything’s fine, but to Grian they’re not. Everything catches like a bur on his skin, twisting his mood into a knot of tension he nurses bitterly, like it’s something of value he should preserve. He’s envious of them and their laughter. He hates how it makes him feel.

When Scar eventually stirs, it’s late into the afternoon, with hours having passed. He wakes unhurriedly, consciousness filling him like water poured into a glass. He’s relaxed in a way that makes a private, guarded part of Grian glad. Scar doesn’t jerk awake, quick-pulsed and frightened; he’s not pulled out of one nightmare, and opening his eyes into another. He’s been resting, deeply, and Grian knows that’s what he needs.

“Nice nap?” he asks, pulling his knees up to his chest and circling his arms around them, his shoulders braced against the wall he’s been leaning against for the better part of three hours.

Scar nods, yawning as he sits up, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyelids.

“Didn’t realise how much I needed it,” he mutters, clearing his throat to dislodge the growl that curled into it while he was asleep.

“We’re gonna stay another night,” Grian explains, answering the question he knows Scar’s about to ask him. “Karl made the call. If it matters.”

Scar hums his acknowledgement, still sleep-relaxed. “Good.”

“They’ve been up to something. Kept hearing great, big noises, like they’re chucking things about.” Grian jerks his chin in the direction of the main room. “Surprised they didn’t wake you.”

“You didn’t go see?” Scar asks, tone casual, reminding Grian so much of the morning conversations they used to have on lazy days. Weekends with nothing pressing to do, sprawled out on Scar’s enormous bed. Wrapped up and content together.

The confusion in Scar’s words catches Grian sideways, causing him to tense up, guilty.

But Scar only smiles at him, sleepy and slow. “Did you keep guard over me, Grian?”

His head tilts to the side, genuinely curious. The query feels odd and misplaced—Grian hadn’t exactly been going about it that way, but now that it’s been asked he can’t exactly deny what it looks like. He feels his cheeks warm, and self-consciously tightens his arms around his knees. The uncertain shame of whether or not he’s about to get in trouble makes him reluctant to answer.

“They’re not exactly my number one fans right now,” he offers trepidatiously. “I didn’t want to third wheel where I’m not wanted.”

He’s so focused on deflecting that he almost misses the fond smile that passes over Scar’s face. It shocks him to see the way Scar attempts to smother his grin before it has a chance to manifest further. He’d been so sure that Scar would chastise him instead.

“Third wheeling a trio… that’s just a car, isn’t it?”

“Scar,” Grian snorts, but his relief that he’s passed Scar’s scrutiny makes him smile despite himself.

Scar chuckles, rubbing the stubble on his jaw for a moment as he thinks. Grian watches him, wanting to reach out and touch his skin himself. He knows the way Scar’s stubble feels—against his palms, and his cheeks, and the inside of his thighs… It’s difficult to reconcile that knowledge with the part of him that wonders if he’ll ever feel it again.

“Do you think that really works for them?” Scar asks at last, interrupting Grian’s complicated yearning with a carefully neutral voice. “That three peas in a pod routine?”

All at once, Grian remembers Quackity asking after Scar’s availability back at the rusted-out trailer. The jealousy from that conversation comes rushing back tenfold. It’s stupid and pointless to feel this way, he knows that. He and Scar aren’t together, and they’re not discussing the nature of their relationship—nor the idea of a fabled third joining them.

And yet, Grian can’t help but feel threatened and possessive anyhow. Like an integral part of himself is being challenged and at risk of being stripped away.

There’s too much within Scar’s inquiry to unpack, and not enough time for Grian to process any of it. So he does what he does best, and simply pushes it aside, letting it fall off his priorities to fester unattended in the background.

Grian lowers his head onto his arms where they rest atop his knees, muttering low and dismissive, “I don’t think it matters.”

He can feel Scar’s eyes on him, gaze fixed and even. Grian keeps his own attention locked on the far wall of the room. He doesn’t want to know what Scar is thinking, but it’s easy to guess—the obvious ‘what if’ that they’re both circling around. The idea that in some universe, one where Grian had made different, more honest choices, maybe he could’ve openly had two partners as well. That he could have spared them both the hurt, if he’d simply told Scar the truth.

It wouldn’t have worked like that though, Grian is certain.

It’s not what he or Scar would’ve wanted.

And yet…

“Do you think you can stand up?” he asks, desperate to change the subject before it has the chance to metastasize any further.

Scar shifts on the mattress, testing his knees as he bends his legs before he gives a small nod. “If you give me a hand.”

Brushing himself off, Grian stands swiftly, making his way over to Scar in a few short steps. Together they get Scar back on his feet, taking a minute to balance and wait for him to acclimate after a long day spent laying down. Once steady, they make their way into the main room.

“I wish I had my chair,” Scar confesses, quiet as he grits his teeth against whatever pain he’s experiencing.

I wish you did too, Grian wants to say, but the words catch in his throat.

“Maybe next time we’ll stop at a mobility aid shop instead of a theme park,” he says instead, hoping for a laugh from Scar, and stinging when he’s instead met by stolid silence.

Together, they proceed slowly down the hall, towards the sounds of the trio’s voices. Scar leans heavily on Grian, though they both try not to be obvious about it.

Grian doesn’t exactly know what he was expecting when they enter the living room. He’d heard the three moving things around, dragging weighted objects back and forth across the floor all afternoon. He’d entertained the idea that they were playing some sort of game, or maybe simply fortifying the windows and doors, but the reality of what they’re met with truly takes him by surprise.

Before them, in what only a few hours ago was a mostly empty room, sits an almost fully furnished living space.

It’s cobbled together, made of salvaged wood pallets and broken furniture, most likely scavenged out from the nearby houses. Grian counts seating enough for five arranged around the brick fireplace. The plywood that had been wedged up against it, presumably to keep out the draft, has been removed. There’s even a wood pile made from broken chairs and scrap lumber organised semi-neatly beside the hearth. It’s meagre and makeshift, but Grian can see the effort that’s gone into it—a peace offering, maybe, after the accusations hurled at him on the front steps earlier.

“Well, hello there,” Scar greets, the pleasant surprise in his voice abundantly evident as they step further into the room. “My, my, gentlemen. Now what do we have here?”

Sapnap gets up to meet them first, hands tucked into his pockets as he approaches. He shoots a glance back towards Karl and Quackity, both standing at the table and sorting through the cans he and Karl had pilfered earlier. When he finally meets Grian’s eyes, there’s something apologetic in them.

“We figured… since we’re staying another night, we might as well make the place more, y’know… liveable.”

It’s a kindness that Grian hadn’t anticipated, and all at once he feels awful for reacting so strongly earlier. He tries to find something to say in response, but then Scar is stepping away from his side, and his attention immediately shifts to follow him. He’s anxious, waiting for him to stumble, but when Scar takes another few steps, as casual and confident as ever, the relief that swells in Grian’s chest is overwhelming.

The seats the trio have made aren’t elaborate—simple benches more than anything—but Scar sits without complaint, patting the space beside him as he looks Grian’s way. “Making a house a home… Now that’s just genius. I like you boys. You’ve got good style.”

Before Grian can sit next to Scar, Quackity is inserting himself into the space, putting his knee on the seat as he shuffles over. “We like you too, handsome,” he says, coy, grinning in a way that immediately puts Grian’s guard back up.

It reignites the same jealousy Scar’s musing had sparked back in the bedroom, and Grian tries to tamp down on it, tightening his jaw and biting down his insecurity. He knows he can’t afford to turn his nose up at the trio’s efforts at reconciliation, but it’s hard to keep that in mind as he watches Quackity where he sits next to Scar, smiling bright and eager and far too friendly.

Oblivious to Grian’s turmoil, Quackity simply holds up two cans, one in each hand. “Now, are you canned Alphagetti guys, or Beefaroni?”

“And, totally unrelated,” Karl pipes up from behind them, still standing at the table with their spread of supplies. “Do either of you fine gentlemen know how to start a fire?”

The words and his failing mood spark the memory of his car, a beacon in the night, flaming climbing up higher and higher even as it sank slowly into the lake.

Grian doesn’t want to say it—knows it’s petty beyond compare—but the words come out of him anyway.

“Some of us do. Don’t we, Scar?”

He looks at Scar pointedly, and there’s only a split second of confusion on his face before understanding sets in. Scar’s hand moves down to his pocket, where Grian knows the lighter he used to set his car alight still sits. There’s a guilty pull on Scar’s features that Grian wishes he could relish, but most of him is anxious about having spoken up at all. Stupid, knee-jerk behaviour. Always acting first and thinking later.

Slowly, Scar pulls the lighter out of his pocket, turning it over in his hand. He looks like he’s considering something as he gazes down at it, expression gradually morphing from upset to resolute.

“I suppose you could say we’re both experts at letting things go up in flames,” he answers, looking up to meet Grian’s eyes.

It hurts more than Grian would like to admit, and it sparks something in him, bitter and retaliatory.

Resolute, feeling his nerve endings sing from the sudden sting of adrenaline, he steps forward and snatches up the lighter, moving to the empty fireplace. Crouching down, he busies himself to keep from spiraling, rejection curling around his heart. He knows he brought this on himself, knows he should’ve just kept his mouth shut and been nice, but he’s never been good under pressure. And watching Scar interact with the trio... with Quackity—smiling and laughing and carrying on, happier than he’s ever been while travelling alone with him… it gets under his skin.

It makes it hard to breathe.

Kneeling, he starts snapping the smallest pieces of wood into kindling. Still, try as he might to focus, he can’t stop his thoughts from wandering. Behind him, Quackity continues chatting Scar up, and Scar engages with him easily.

Scar’s always been friendly. Sometimes more friendly than Grian can stand. People always like Scar, drawn in by his natural, easygoing charm. When they’d first gotten together, in those early days, rife with insecurity, Grian had felt sure he was only a passing interest—a blip in Scar’s life that would hardly be missed when he was gone.

Now, he’s well aware that he’s made himself memorable; unforgettable for all the wrong reasons.

He’s spinning out. He knows he is. Balanced on the very edge of a panic attack.

For every piece of kindling he splits, another thought is pulled up. Another worry, another insecurity—all while Quackity’s bright, eager laughter runs in the background. It’s nothing Grian wants to hear—his leading questions and teasing replies, the affable way he keeps Scar engaged, the conversation carrying on and on and on as Grian’s kindling piles up until his fingernails hurt and he can’t take it anymore. Can’t take the talking and the laughing and the flirting—

“Will you knock it off already?” The words are out before he can rethink them, throwing a glare angrily over his shoulder only to be met by Quackity’s exaggerated expression of surprise.

Somehow, it makes Grian angrier.

“For fuck’s sake, could you be any more annoying about your little crush? He’s clearly not into you, so just give it a rest already.”

The silence barely has time to settle before Quackity is smiling, wolfish, as he leans forward. His chin nestles in the palm of his hand, elbow planted on his knee, and eyes narrowed as his canines peek out at the edge of his grin. He’s enjoying this, and it makes Grian seethe.

“Wow, jealous much?”

Karl laughs at that, and Sapnap hoots like they’re in primary school, both of them mocking and immature. It infuriates Grian, pushing the bitterness coagulating in his chest up into his throat until he’s choking on it. It feels juvenile. It is juvenile. He doesn’t want any part of it.

“Light your own god damn fire,” he snaps, tossing the lighter with excessive force into the soot-black back of the fireplace and getting to his feet before he storms towards the door.

It’s not until he’s outside that he can take a proper breath, the door slamming loud behind him. He can hear Quackity laughing through the wall, brash and callous, followed by the cheerful voices of Karl and Sapnap encouraging it. Their words are muffled by the door, and the plaster, and the plywood, but it’s clear that they’re all in on it. A united front.

It’s ridiculous and it’s childish. He’s overreacting and he knows it, but he hates feeling like this—like he’s being ganged up on by a pack of arrogant bullies. Too many awful memories.

The sandy soil scuffs under his feet, kicking up dust as he stalks out into the middle of the yard, staring angrily up at the darkening sky. He won’t give them the satisfaction of hearing him yell his frustration, so he merely compresses his hands into fists so tight that his palms sting where his nails bite into his skin.

He wishes they didn’t have the power to bother him so much. He wishes he didn’t care.

He wishes things were different. He wishes he was anywhere else but here.

He wishes they would just leave Scar alone.

“Grian?”

His name has barely been spoken before he whirls around to find Scar standing on the stoop outside the door, looking reluctant to step down and approach him. He’s eyeing Grian with a mix of weariness and concern, one hand steadying himself against the door frame, the other favouring his hip.

It’s humiliating to be followed—concerning when he considers how difficult it must’ve been for Scar to push himself to move—but the knowledge that Scar came after him anyway soothes something in Grian’s chest.

He could’ve stayed inside but he didn’t.

He came out here.

For him.

“I don’t know why you let him talk to you like that. All fawning and cutesy.” The words are out of him, sharp and possessive, before he can even think to temper them into something less aggressively needy. His tone is edged in anger—the desire for attention and reassurance shot through with how badly he wants to make a scene. The over-reactive boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. The distinction doesn’t matter to him right now. He’ll do anything to stake his claim and make his priorities clear.

Scar watches him in the mellow evening light, not rising to the bait as much as surrendering to it.

“Why wouldn’t I, Grian?” he asks, low and calm. “What’s wrong with it?”

His neutrality is incendiary, burning up the inside of Grian’s chest until it hurts.

“Because I hate it.”

The words are out, reckless in a way that has Grian regretting them the moment they leave his lips. It’s stupid and insecure. So childish he might as well have been stomping his foot while he said it. Like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

From the stairs, Scar looks at him and says nothing. Grian feels the pressure of his attention like a weight. It wasn’t the right thing to say and it was the worst way to say it, but he doesn’t want to take it back. The trio don’t know Scar like he does. They haven’t spent years alongside him, through laughter and tears and everything in between. They aren’t friends; they aren’t close.

“They’re kids, Grian,” Scar eventually sighs, drawing upon a point he’s already made before.

It isn’t reassuring. Not when Grian’s insecurity is running rampant, and certainly not when he keeps catching them—Quackity—expressing interest in Scar in a way that makes his stomach tie itself in knots.

But he can’t say that, well aware he has no leg to stand on. If anything, pursuing it further will force a painful conversation about intent and boundaries that he doesn’t want to have.

The silence stretches, heavy, with no one around to break it for them. Even the trio are quiet inside, no muffled words or laughter filtering out to annoy him. Grian doesn’t know what to do, vulnerable and on the wrong side of rejection. He doesn’t want to hear Scar explain that he has no right to feel the way he does, as true as it may be.

“I’m going back in,” Scar says at last, and it’s detached in a way that throws Grian off. He’s unsure how to respond, so sure they were about to have a fight that he feels weirdly robbed now that it’s not about to happen. “Are you coming, or do you need a minute?”

In response Grian merely keeps his lips pursed, looking stubbornly towards the horizon, his hands crammed down into his pockets.

“Alright,” Scar says, exhaling the word with another sigh. “Suit yourself.”

The door whines open on its hinges and then closes again, and all at once Grian is left with only the sand and the stars.

The hot pressure of his emotions rises up in Grian’s cheeks and the tips of his ears. They twist inside of him, making him feel foolish and short-sighted as he rides out the petulance of his feelings.

It’s not his fault. None of this is his fault. It’s all Quackity, with his wandering eyes and open appreciation. It’s Karl and Sapnap, who let it happen with fond, besotted smiles. It’s Scar, who laughs politely and doesn’t take anything as seriously as he should.

And it’s the apocalypse, for putting them in this situation in the first place.

He tries to curb his emotions with those empty reassurances, repeating them over and over like a mantra in his head, but it still takes him some time to settle back down. Once the initial crest of his jealousy and anger passes, he’s left feeling increasingly ridiculous—a grown man throwing a fit that he now has to walk back inside and acknowledge. With a groan, he presses the heels of his palms against his eyelids. Already, he can imagine the snide grin mirrored across three smug little faces.

A part of him wishes he could simply hunker down on the steps and wait until dawn, but he knows nothing about that is logical. Pointlessly, he also wishes that Scar would come back out and get him.

When he finally pushes his embarrassment far enough away to step back into the house, he finds a domestic scene settled around the fire. Karl, Sapnap, and Quackity are sitting together on one of the pallet benches. Their arms are wrapped around one another, legs overlapped, and crisscrossed in a comfortable looking tangle. Across from them, Scar has one of his legs propped up on a makeshift footstool, looking at a glance like he’s been taken care of.

“Oh good,” Scar says as Grian deadbolts the front door behind him, his tone cheerful in the way he gets when he’s putting on a performance for people. “We got our soap opera dramatics out of the way just in time for dinner.”

Grian can see Sapnap whisper something to Quackity while they both sneak a look at him. It stings in a way that reminds him of secondary school, but rather than pushing back, he simply sits on the edge of the seat that’s been left for him. He makes sure to keep everyone in the room at a distance, uncertain of his place still.

Untangling himself from his partners, Quackity moves towards the fireplace, and Grian tracks his movements to a skillet and a saucepan sitting on the embers. The skillet holds some steadily cooking spaghetti and sauce, while the pan contains a slow, bubbling, white paste that Grian recognizes as grits. It’s not a great looking dinner, but it’s the best they have, and despite his behaviour, Grian’s far from turning his nose up at a hot meal.

“Looks good,” he says, a half-hearted attempt to bridge the gap formed by his outburst. His words are met with a thin smile from Quackity that Grian tries his best to believe is genuine.

They share the meal in relative civility, passing around cutlery and eating directly from the pans. After a time, their conversation returns—tentative at first, then relaxing as the truce extends. Karl seems to have no problem speaking whatever thought is on his mind and Scar, as always, is a natural conversationalist. Quackity keeps up easily with his quick wit and sense of humour, and once he gets going he continually elbows Sapnap, egging him into eventually joining in. Their banter is easy and natural, and by the time the meal is finished, their brightness and laughter has recovered almost as if it had never gone away.

If any of them notice that Grian is barely participating, they don’t mention it.

With dinner over and the fire smouldering down, the conversation tapers off peacefully. Quackity starts yawning, and despite his day spent sleeping, Scar echoes each and every yawn with one of his own. It prompts Karl to use the rim of the skillet to push the logs in the fire apart, distributing the low flames so that it will burn itself out faster.

“Who’s gonna be on first watch?” Quackity asks at last, and Grian knows the expectation will be on him to volunteer. Some penance for his little production.

“I’ll take it.”

Surprising him, it’s Sapnap who speaks up, stretching his arms above his head as he rises to his feet. He pops the joints in his wrists and shoulders then shakes them out, shifting his weight from foot to foot and glancing around the group. “I’m a late-night guy, so I don’t think I’d be able to sleep yet anyhow.”

“That’s mighty nice of you, Sapnap. Real nice, in fact,” Scar says, smiling in earnest. Grian can see the way he’s schooling his posture, bracing as he prepares to get to his feet. He knows that Scar is hoping his legs will take mercy on him and not buckle under the sudden change in posture—he’s mentioned as much during previous flare-ups. “I know I slept like a log today, but if I can be honest, I’m still beat. You know, all those health experts were right when they said it—all this outdoor air really does a number on you. Number two killer, after smoking.”

It’s a lie, and a pointless one, talking simply to hide any pain he might be feeling.

Grian frowns to himself, wondering what they’ll do upon waking up if Scar isn’t feeling any better. He doesn’t know if he can make it through another day like today. Doesn’t know how he’ll maintain Scar’s cover.

He’s about to lose himself in more convoluted thoughts, when he’s interrupted by Scar gallantly holding a hand out to him.

“Ready to call it a night?”

The chivalry catches something soft in Grian’s chest, even though he knows Scar is only doing it to disguise what he really needs. All the same, he reaches out automatically, letting Scar use his hand—not to hold, but as the leverage he needs to help get back on his feet.

“G’night fellas,” Karl says with a sleep-soft smile, looking tired himself as he leans into Quackity’s side.

Before they turn away, Grian makes eye contact with Quackity, who’s remained quiet as they say their goodnights. There’s no way he can make himself apologise, not when he still feels the incessant needling of his insecurity poking through his mind, but he knows that Scar needs him to be the bigger man right now.

He takes a breath, doing his best. “Sleep well, Big Q.”

The corners of Quackity’s mouth quirk, his expression carefully schooled but still a little wry. “Yeah. Same to you.”

Grian figures that’s as good as it’s going to get for now.

It’s a short walk down the hall, the door closing quiet behind them as they enter the room and feel their way into bed. It’s dark, and they move in silence, pulling off their shoes and maneuvering until Scar is laying on his side and Grian is spooned with his back settled against Scar’s chest. They don’t talk—no hushed conversation about the day, no low, admonishing, denouncements about Grian’s behaviour, and no questions about Scar’s pain. The quiet stretches, calm but unresolved between them, like there’s something they still have yet to do.

In its inescapable presence, hounded by the silence, Grian does the only thing he can think of.

He eases himself back by centimetres, feigning discomfort, but trying in truth to push for some physical reassurance.

“Small mattress,” he mumbles as an excuse, arms bent to serve as a pillow under his head.

A moment of stillness passes, Grian holding his breath, uncertain. Then, by way of answer, Scar shifts forward, his arm looping around Grian’s waist and pulling him back so their bodies fit snugly together. The contact is muffled through layers of clothing, neither of them having bothered to get undressed, but they’re still close enough that it makes Grian’s heart race.

Hopeful, thanks to Scar’s concession—and needy despite himself—Grian lets his spine uncurl. He flattens his shoulders out, pushing flush to Scar’s chest and pressing his hips back into Scar’s.

“I had fun this morning,” he whispers, thinking back to how well the day had started. The softness, the slow indulgence… It had felt so much like how they used to be.

He misses it more than he ever thought possible.

Behind him, Scar’s breath catches on a weary exhale, his voice low in the dark. “And you were a lot all night.”

The part of Grian falling back into how things used to be—playful, as long as he’s safe and warm in Scar’s arms—discounts the scolding tone of his words. He feels out the edge of a teasing grin, nudging himself back against Scar once more.

“Can you blame me?”

When only silence meets him as a response, Scar unyielding behind him, Grian deflates a little. It takes a few moments before he tries another approach, sighing intentionally as he lifts Scar’s hands and runs his fingertips over Scar’s knuckles. Cautious, he presses his lips to them, just barely short of a kiss.

“Scar…?” he prompts with a whisper.

He doesn’t hear the acknowledging hum, but he feels its implication rumbled through Scar’s chest where it’s pressed against his spine. Scar’s forearm flexes, his arm shifts around Grian with purpose. His palm presses flat to Grian’s abdomen, the bulk of his body moving as he rolls his hips forward with clear, obvious intent.

The burst of adrenaline that floods Grian’s system is like a firecracker lit in every one of his arteries. Grateful for the darkness that hides the victory in his smile, Grian arches his body fluidly to move with Scar. A selfish, haughty part of him feels vindicated—the trio can try all they like, but Scar is still his. He always has been. And as Scar pushes forward again, Grian lets himself moan aloud, clear and intentional in the poorly contained privacy of their room.

Leisurely, Scar’s hand shifts, tugging up the layers of Grian’s shirts to expose a sliver of his stomach. He strokes his thumb gently along the soft vulnerability of his belly, slow and soothing. The touch sends a shock through Grian—a tenderness he wasn’t expecting. He feels his body start to respond as Scar grinds against him again, his own heat unmistakable.

He’s giddy, ready to take whatever Scar gives him, craving the connection, his body on fire.

He thinks to the trio outside, close enough that they can definitely overhear. He doesn’t care. Let them listen and understand that, even if he and Scar aren’t together anymore, he’s still the one who gets to share his bed. He’s the one held tight in Scar’s arms. He’s the one who Scar follows out into the darkness.

Not them. Not Quackity. Not anyone else.

“Think you’ve proved your point?” Scar mumbles into the back of his neck, words flat and bereft of comfort. “Are you happy now?”

The sudden switch in mood catches Grian off guard. Blindsided.

Scar’s tone is cold, and the abrupt stillness that falls between them is colder still. Grian’s not prepared for the way Scar withdraws his hand, taking the warmth with him. He only pauses to smooth Grian’s shirt layers back down before all at once he distances himself. Scar rolls over to lay on his back, the space between them on the mattress yawning wide, and lets his breath out in a long, heavy sigh.

“Goodnight, Grian.”

It’s stated firm and final. No room for negotiation.

Grian doesn’t know what to do—doesn’t exactly know what’s just happened. Guilt crawls up inside him, feeling as if somehow Scar heard his thoughts and was disgusted by the notion. He’s humiliated, body hot and clammy with embarrassment. They fall into a silence that feels much worse than before, Grian laying stiff and uncomfortable, rejected at Scar’s side.

In time, Scar’s breathing slows and evens out. He falls asleep, no doubt exhausted. Beside him, Grian lays wide awake. He stares at the far wall, murky and indistinct in the dark, not knowing what Scar wants, nor knowing what he needs either.

Notes:

If you haven't yet, please check out the art Lock did of what Karlnapity look like in TAMN!

Chapter 14: Chapter 14

Notes:

Hi it's Lock :3 Normally Key posts our chapters and responds to comments, but we agreed that if she were ever to be stolen away by a dragon I should probably learn how to format and queue a chapter just in case, so that's what I'm doing right now! Please be proud of me, I've never properly posted on AO3 before.

We got fanart this week! This moody drawing of a moody grian based on his outburst in chapter 12, drawn by konoisms!

On a personal note: chapter 14 has one of my favourite Vulnerable Grian Moments™ in the entire fic, so I'm really happy I get to post this one!

We hope you enjoy it!

“You’re being so fucking selfish.”

The words are shouted angrily, Sapnap’s expression sour with frustration. He glares at Grian across the makeshift living room, and all Grian can do is look back at him with forced neutrality.

It’s mid-morning and sunlight is streaming in through the gaps in the barricaded window. Sapnap is standing by the front door, shoulders squared and his arms folded tight across his chest. Meanwhile, Karl and Quackity sit together on one of the pallet seats, Karl eating a cold pop tart, the foil crinkling in his hand as he takes a cautious bite in the uneasy silence.

“Yesterday. Yesterday we said that we’d be moving on. And then we stayed another night ‘cause you threw a fucking tantrum, and now you’re saying we’re going to be staying a couple more?” Sapnap throws his arms out wide before he lets them fall to his sides, fingers curled into loose fists. “You’re just declaring this shit like you’re the one who gets to call the shots, and it’s pissing me off, man.”

“Sap, c’mon,” Quackity cautions from the sideline, clearly able to detect the anger mounting in his boyfriend’s tone. The expression on his face is empathetic to his mood, however, mouth twisted in disapproval as he eyes Grian from across the room. “Chill for minute.”

“No, this is bullshit!” Sapnap insists, looking towards Karl for support before he quickly redirects his attention back to Grian. “You’re not the boss here,” he adds, forceful, and it rankles Grian just as much as it intimidates him. For all that Sapnap is on the short side himself, barely half a head taller than him, he’s still a force to be reckoned with when he gets fired up.

“He never said he was the boss,” Karl remarks, keeping his tone neutral and taking another bite of his breakfast. “All the same, it is a pretty strong suggestion you’ve made, Grian.”

Despite presenting himself as almost frustratingly uninvested in the scene Sapnap is causing, Karl has his attention fully on Grian, sleepy eyes belaying an intense focus. Grian can feel himself being pressed into a corner, slinking back one metaphorical step at a time. His declaration that they’d be staying in the house another few days met with an immediate resistance that he’d somewhat anticipated, but hadn’t expected to stir up quite so much contention.

It’s not like he really had a choice, however.

Scar’s symptoms had worsened overnight. He’s been in an awful state, especially since Grian had woken him this morning. It’s to the point where his joints are so badly inflamed that he hadn’t been able to sit upright or roll onto his side without wincing through pained breaths.

It had Grian’s hands twitching, itching to pass him his medications, hating that he had nothing to offer him. Not for the first time, he’d felt sick and guilty about the situation surrounding their departure from Scar’s apartment. Maybe, if things had been different, Scar would’ve had time to properly pack. Would’ve had time to deliberate over the best items to bring along to cope with his health.

It’s that heavy sense of responsibility and guilt that had Grian volunteering to go speak to the trio on Scar’s behalf. He’d assuaged Scar’s concerns, assuring him that he’d handle it calmly and maturely, and then broke the decision to the boys face-to-face. A statement. A declaration. No room for argument or debate.

“I’m not making a suggestion,” Grian says flatly, watching as Karl balls up the foil wrapping from his breakfast and tosses it into the ashy fireplace. “We’re going to stay here another day or two. It doesn’t make sense to move yet.”

“It doesn’t make sense to stay!” Sapnap exclaims, pressing one hand to his chest, with the other spreading wide as he looks angrily at Grian and then turns towards his two partners. “We’ll just be sitting here wasting rations until desperation drives us out. I’m telling you guys, he’s up to something. No fucking way this dick genuinely thinks sitting here indefinitely is the right call.”

Grian scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Right, my insidious plan is to keep us in a safe, googlie-free location, with beds to sleep in and a roof over our heads. How dastardly.”

Despite his dismissal, it’s clear that Sapnap’s tirade has gotten to his companions, both of them looking torn with indecision over the situation. It sets Grian on edge, unsure how much he can withhold without making things worse.

The last thing he wants to do is reveal that it’s Scar he’s covering for. If nothing else, then for the sake of Scar’s dignity.

He owes him that much, at least.

“Is there something here?” Karl asks, addressing Grian with what appears to be earnest curiosity. “Are you looking around for it? Is that why we’re staying?”

“Karl, c’mon. That’s not it. There’s nothing in this shithole—we’ve explored enough to know that much,” Quackity waves off, shaking his head as he rejects the question on Grian’s behalf.

For a moment Grian nearly convinces himself that Quackity is on his side. That he has a single ally among the trio.

That hope is short-lived, however, his stomach twisting when Quackity looks over at him with sharpness in his eyes and asks, blunt, “Who are you waiting for?”

The question takes Grian by surprise. Everything about it reeks of distrust and paranoia. How on earth would he and Scar communicate with anyone outside the group without attracting attention? And why the hell would they do it in the first place? The sheer absurdity of it pushes some deeply satisfied, bitter validation in Grian’s chest—all he needed to confirm that he isn’t the only one with apprehensions lurking in the back of his head.

“Who do you think?” Grian challenges, dodging the question.

“It just seems like you were really pushing to get us here as fast as possible, and now you’re in no hurry to move on,” Quackity deflects in turn, acting for whatever reason like he has the higher moral ground. “Put yourself in our shoes—how do you think that comes off?”

“I’m in an organ harvesting cult that’s in league with the zombies,” Grian scoffs, rolling his eyes at the ridiculousness of it all. “Is that what you want to hear?”

“You’re the one saying it,” Quackity pressures, relentless. “I just asked a question. You started making all these wild leaps.”

Grian doesn’t have time for this, resenting how he’s been pushed onto his back foot by Quackity’s needling questions. The validation of the trio’s mistrust doesn’t benefit him, and he still doesn’t want to out Scar to people who could not only be a threat, but have also just demonstrated that they don’t see them as equals.

“Are we in court?” Grian snaps. “Am I on trial? There’s no hidden meeting with some party of bandits waiting in the wings. We’re tired. It’s not a secret. And frankly, I’m sick of you three acting like we’re holding you back. I’ve said it before, but clearly it bears repeating—you can leave without us. Go ahead. No one’s going to stop you.”

It’s a bold ultimatum, one that Grian’s sure Scar wouldn’t appreciate.

Quackity gives Karl a loaded look. He then makes a gesture that communicates something that the others clearly understand, but Grian can’t decipher. It feels damning.

It feels like he’s been caught.

It’s something he’s been experiencing a lot lately.

“I think we should talk to Scar,” Karl says at last, gentle but firm in a way that makes it clear he wants to put an end to the argument.

“Scar’s going to agree with me,” Grian mutters regardless.

“Then checking in with him shouldn’t be a problem.”

The words sting. Grian can feel their ultimatum pressing down on him like a boot to his throat. It’s unfair—the social rules he used to know and understand no longer seem to apply, and he can’t yet parse the new ones.

He hates that Karl and Quackity seem to have adapted so quickly. He hates them all.

“We’re not hiding anything,” he insists, and it sounds guiltier than if he had simply stayed silent.

“I’m sure you’re not,” Karl agrees, though it’s painfully clear he doesn’t believe him.

Sapnap snorts in disbelief, shaking his head and turning away from the group. “I’m getting our things ready,” he tells Karl, his mind clearly made up as he begins to pack their belongings. He gathers the things they’ve strewn across the floor and on their various side tables. “We can head out when you’re done with this bullshit, Karl.”

Karl stands up, reaching out to rest a hand on Sapnap’s shoulder. He kisses his boyfriend’s cheek, a gesture Sapnap doesn’t return but does lean into, his forehead momentarily pressing against Karl’s. It’s a soft moment that Grian isn’t sure he’s supposed to see, and he directs his gaze before they can turn their eyes on him.

Envy settles in his chest. He wishes he could share a moment like that with Scar; something tender and gentle, just for them. He wishes he could have a chance to speak to him ahead of Karl. Just a moment, long enough to get across the half-truth he needs Scar to pick up and run with so their cover-up doesn’t fall apart in seconds.

Instead, all he can do is move just barely ahead of Karl and be the first to open the bedroom door. He begins speaking aloud even when it’s only an inch ajar, announcing, “We’ve got a visitor, Scar.”

Luckily, Scar is sitting up when Karl enters, looking less visibly pained than he did when Grian left him.

“Morning, gentlemen,” he says, cheerful to the point of strain. “Making quite a din out there! Hard for a man to get his beauty sleep.” He pauses, smiling as he teases, “You barging in here to ask me to settle where we go for breakfast?”

Karl looks a little surprised, Scar’s affable greeting clearly catching him off guard following his tense exchange with Grian.

“I’ve always been a Denny’s guy, myself,” Scar continues, undaunted. “But most of the folks I know are pretty passionate about IHOP. Grian’s a Waffle House guy though. Aren’t ya, Grian?”

“Scar,” Karl says at last, speaking carefully, with the tone of a professional mediator. “Can I talk with you about something?”

Scar’s eyebrows raise up but he replies with an easy smile, nodding as he motions Karl into the room. “Of course, of course. Come right on in.”

The moment sticks between them, silence permeating the air. Karl glances between Scar and Grian, his gaze lingering and his intention clear.

“In private,” he adds, and it rankles Grian like a scab rubbed wrong.

“In private, of course,” Scar echoes, magnanimous.

Scar’s clever eyes meet Grian’s, communicating volumes in a glance. Grian can read his confidence, and he wants to believe in him—wants to place his trust fully in Scar and walk away without concern. Scar’s never had a problem with words, never struggled to get his point across, or to convince people that he’s speaking rationally and with the best possible outcomes for everyone. If anyone can hold his own in a conversation, it’s him.

Grian still struggles to let go, though. Afraid that leaving Scar alone, even just for a second, will cause him to slip and fall without Grian there to catch him. Or worse—realise that he never needed Grian around in the first place.

“We’ll call you back in a minute,” Scar asserts, and the gentleness of it butts up against Grian’s resistance. The strength of his reaction surprises even Grian himself, his spine straightening as he plants his feet in place.

“We’re not doing this behind-doors bollocks, Scar,” he declares, firm, with a resolution that makes Karl shift uncomfortably in place. “Anything Karl can say in front of you, he can say in front of me. There’s nothing to hide.”

Karl’s expression is inscrutable, betrayed only by the way he momentarily bites his lower lip. There’s obvious consideration on his face, weighing the pros and cons of outing what Grian’s already said in front of him on the off-chance that he and Scar aren’t on the same page. Whatever conclusion he comes to though, he does so by exhaling heavily, shaking his hands out before he directs his attention back to Scar.

“We need to talk about where we go from here as a cohort,” he says, speaking frankly and without his usual, lighthearted mannerisms. His words are focused in a way Grian hasn’t heard from him before, eyes unusually sharp. “Because the problem is, from the way I see it—we all had a plan we agreed on. It was a good plan. We liked the plan. But now I’m hearing from Grian that the plan’s changed. And, listen, I’m not trying to make a scene, but I don’t remember us talking about changing the plan. So you can see why I’m eager to talk this out before we jump to any crazy conclusions about secrets and hidden agendas.”

He pauses, sighing as he pushes a hand back through his hair, sweeping loose curls out of his eyes. “Just… walk a mile in my shoes here, Scar. You can see why this is making an issue for me and the guys, right?”

To his credit, Scar nods, patient despite how painfully Karl has trod directly onto the crux of the matter. His smile is self-effacing and relaxed, charming in a way that begs to be trusted and understood.

Grian keeps his arms crossed and mouth shut.

“I understand your frustration, Karl. Believe me,” Scar sympathizes, and nothing about his words sound anything less than genuine. “It wasn’t our intention to upset you or your lovely boys, and I’m sure Grian didn’t intend to go out of his way to stomp all over you on my behalf.”

Grian would snap something in his own defense, but he’s immediately distracted by the way Scar pats the edge of the mattress, calmly motioning for Karl to come over.

Grian’s eyes go wide, mouth dry. He’s well aware of what Scar’s doing. What he’s about to admit.

“Take a seat, Karl.”

Without questioning him, Karl does as requested. Turning around, he sits down on the bed, landing heavy on the squeaking springs. He crosses his legs and settles his hands on his knees. Easy and comfortable.

“Alright,” Scar approves. “Now stand up. Can you do that?”

Karl hesitates, clearly confused by the inquiry, cocking his head to the side. “Well, yeah.”

When Scar simply watches him, waiting, Karl follows through. He rocks forward smoothly, hands moving to push himself up, and legs unfolding as he gets to his feet without a hint of effort.

Scar smiles, earnest as he looks up at him. “Right now, Karl. I can’t.”

Karl stands still for a moment, body stiff as he works through several complicated expressions. By the doorway, Grian bites the inside of his cheek hard. His hands are pressed tight into fists, hating himself, hating the situation, and hating how Scar has to reveal his vulnerabilities like this. He can see Karl processing the revelation bit by bit, and the whole thing sits sour in his stomach.

“You were walking fine yesterday,” Karl says at last. Quiet. Curious.

“It’s like that,” Scar explains. “I get good days and bad. Yesterday wasn’t great, but—”

“The bike…” Karl works out, reaching the conclusion faster than Scar has a chance to speak it. He lifts his hand, fingers pushing back through his hair again before he half-turns, sitting down on the edge of the mattress once more. “The fucking bike. You already—when you met us—”

Scar nods. There’s a patience in him that Grian has never been able to understand. The ability to calmly explain himself—to not lash out in frustration or irritation when faced with the abled assumptions of everyone around him. Grian knows for a fact that he’d never be able to conduct himself in the same way, no matter how hard he tried.

“Shit,” Karl breathes at length, tilting his head forward, the heels of his palms momentarily pressing against his eyelids. “So that explains Grian, then.”

He drops his hands into his lap and suddenly Grian might as well not even be there, Karl turning fully towards Scar as he says, sincere, “I’m sorry, man. He was trying to protect your privacy and—god, we really assumed the worst there.”

Scar laughs half-heartedly, shrugging with the easy nonchalance resultant of years of experience.

“That doesn’t really sound like Grian,” he excuses, eyes meeting Grian’s briefly, the corners creased with a smile that seems forced. “I don’t think he cares much either way.”

“Pff, are you kidding? He cares a lot, dude.” Karl’s reply is quick, sounding more like himself now that there’s an explanation for all the tension, his doubts assuaged. He looks back expectantly at Grian, his smile soft and encouraging as he insists, “Tell Scar how crazy you got trying to cover for him.”

Grian can feel Scar watching him, face kept carefully neutral but eyes intent and focused. It makes him feel like he’s been pinned into a position he can’t stomach or stand. It reminds him of moments back during their time together as a couple—loud exclamations from friends and colleagues encouraging a kiss, or a hug, or hands entwined. Demanding physical affection from Grian as if he had something to prove; not to Scar, but to them. He’d hated it then, when he and Scar had meant something to each other. He hates it even more now, when what they have is only a ghost of what it was.

“It doesn’t matter,” he dismisses, cutting his words with impatience. “You get it though, right? He can’t get up. We can’t make him move.”

“Yeah man, I get it,” Karl soothes, like everything’s become easy, their drama resolved without incident. A part of Grian recoils at it—distressed that all it took was the truth to defuse their situation. It’s an uncomfortable reminder of how his lying got him to where he is today, and how much easier honesty could have been, if only the vulnerability hadn’t clawed at him from the inside out.

Unaware of his turmoil, Karl stands back up, smoothing out the creases in his pants. “Don’t worry, I’ll talk to Sap and Q. They’ll understand.”

“You really think so? After all the commotion they made?” Grian mutters, unable to bite his tongue.

Karl pauses, considering. There’s determination in the way he squares his shoulders after a moment, his tone serious and words pointed as he reminds, “We’re not monsters, dude.”

Something about it rankles Grian, jangling like an alarm inside his head. It tugs at that apprehensive part of him that he can’t seem to let go, paranoia creeping up yet again. The hairs rise on the back of his neck, his heart setting an anxious pace that makes him want to run—unsure from what.

Instead, he forces himself to step away from the door, gesturing towards it impatiently. “So go defuse your bombs, then.”

The air is thick between them, Karl’s expression strangely hard. Then, miraculously, he bends.

“They’re a lot, but they mean well,” he insists, chuckling softly. “We had a rough start when all hell broke loose, and I know that means they can come across pretty strong now. Especially Sapnap. You’ll get used to them though, I promise.”

Grian doesn’t respond. He has nothing to say in return, wanting to keep the clear division between them. No tenderness bridging the gap. No attachments.

It isn’t worth the risk of an inevitable betrayal.

Seeing that Grian isn’t interested, Karl simply shrugs and walks past him, a hand patting his shoulder—just once—before he leaves him alone with Scar. The moment he’s gone, the room falls silent. Scar’s fixed grins falter at last as he lets out a long, slow breath.

“Grian…” he starts, weary, as if preparing for a well-rehearsed but exhausted apology.

“How many supplies do you think we have?” he cuts Scar off instead.

It’s silly, he knows, to continue avoiding to talk about the important things this far past the end of the world. Despite having been so desperate to talk to Scar alone, he now recoils from it like something vile. He’s afraid of how much a little honesty might open; a floodgate he won’t know how to shut.

He attempts to distract Scar by dragging him into his pondering instead. He imagines a hypothetical where he can heave Scar up to his feet, carrying him far away from these strangers who smile too wide, speak too earnestly, and share too enthusiastically.

“Supplies…?” Scar repeats, breaking his surprised silence with careful words, like cautious footsteps placed on ice too thin to support a person’s weight. “For all five of us?”

Grian shakes his head, sharpness in the motion. “Just two.”

It’s meant to be a thought experiment—more for Grian’s sake than Scar’s. Obviously Grian knows there’s no way they could leave right now, not with the amount of pain Scar is in. It’s a game, like the would-you-rathers they played earlier during their trek when it was just the two of them. However, something pained passes across Scar’s face that indicates he’s not on the same page; maybe not even the same chapter. It’s an emotion Grian doesn’t know how to read—deep-rooted, vulnerable, and raw.

“The water’s gonna run out quick, but the food will last, if you ration it.” Scar answers, voice dull and strangely lifeless.

“We’ll find water easy,” Grian reassures, trying to get Scar to warm back up to the idea. “We’re not that far from civilization.”

A wretched resignation spells itself upon Scar’s features. It’s a warning sign Grian doesn’t catch, too caught up in his own spiteful, self-righteous machinations. He’s daydreaming, planning out a future that will never come to fruition. No more polite sidelining to a trio he doesn’t like or trust. Just him and Scar. Nothing extra to worry about. No one he’ll need to protect Scar and his overly trusting nature from.

It’s the only kind of escapism that Grian can allow himself in a hellscape like this.

So Scar’s question strikes him like an open-palm slap across the face.

“Which of them are you leaving with then?”

The words hit him unexpectedly hard, tearing into a part of Grian that he hadn’t even known was vulnerably exposed. His eyes meet Scar’s only to find a hooded expression looking back at him, face schooled into careful indifference.

“What are you saying?” he hears himself ask, like he’s been removed from his own body. He feels unmoored and untethered, yanked out of his own skin by the implication that Scar would make such an assumption about him. “Scar…”

Scar’s eyes slant away, hands curled together loosely in his lap. Red-hot humiliation burns on his cheeks as he does his best to breathe through the emotions he’s clearly struggling with.

“I didn’t really see any of them as your type, but I guess you got closer to them than I thought,” he says, quiet. “It wouldn’t be the first time I haven’t noticed something like that,” he adds, sounding more disappointed in himself than in anyone else.

The words are a simple acceptance of the situation as Scar sees it, but they still cut into Grian, deep and accusing. It takes him a moment to collect himself, forced to fully reckon with the depth of the distrust he’s sown into Scar. The rot he’s infested into their foundation, deeper and far more catastrophic than he ever could have imagined when he first slipped into the warmth of a stranger’s bed.

“Is that really what you think of me?” he asks, words just a breath above silent.

In answer, Scar merely shrugs a heavy shoulder. “To be honest… nowadays, I feel like I barely know you.”

It’s a painful realisation, to recognize that Scar no longer feels attuned to him like he used to. That they’re no longer the pair that they once were. The hurt is made even worse by how much Grian had been trying to protect Scar only minutes before. He knows he has no one to blame for it but himself—he knows that—but that doesn’t stop it from hurting all the same.

His throat tightens with emotion, tongue swollen in his mouth. But he can’t let it linger like this. He can’t.

“I’m not going to leave you,” he says—promises, to the best of his ability. “I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t do that, Scar.”

Silence stretches between them, uncomfortable and incriminating.

“Okay,” Scar replies at last, lackluster.

There’s so much more Grian wants to say. A confession of some sort; an admittance; or maybe even something mean and spiteful. However, somehow, he feels like no matter what he says now it won’t make a difference. Scar’s made up his mind.

That’s all there is to it.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he repeats, but his reassurance falls flat, unable to muster up more than a timid voice to say it with.

This time, Scar says nothing at all.

Together, they descend into silence.

 

 

 

 

 

The rest of the morning and much of the afternoon pass, slow and uneventful. With the decision made to stay for at least another day, the tension between the party ebbs. A truce, Grian supposes, not wanting to dwell on which of them that makes the enemy.

Instead, the focus shifts to creating a more palatable temporary home for the five of them.

Karl spearheads the initiative, enthusiastic and outspoken about his vision for their space. He and Sapnap drift in and out of the house, pulling out the old counters and mildewed shelves from the kitchen and bringing in the few items of interest that they found in the surrounding homes. At one point, Karl carries in a large, framed painting of two horses standing in a field that he proudly puts up on the hearth above the fireplace. He and Sapnap giggle about it, daydreaming about another life where they meet as horse ranchers in the midwest.

Of the three, Quackity is gone the longest. Grian had watched as he smooth-talked Scar into borrowing his rifle, Scar’s eyes fond above a sharp, calculating smile. He’d handed his weapon over with ease, forcing Grian to bite his tongue from saying something about trust and future betrayals that he knew Scar wouldn’t appreciate, especially coming from him. Instead, he’d stood back and watched Quackity leave with the gun under his arm, Sapnap’s walkie clipped to his belt.

Quackity had checked in regularly over the radio until he’d finally returned late in the afternoon with his shadow stretching out long behind him. While he’d found no gear or supplies, he does come back with a plastic egg crate full of paperback novels and old magazines. These, he proudly dumps onto their pallet benches, which have been dressed with threadbare throw pillows and old curtain fabric that Sapnap and Karl found in the neighbouring homes while he was gone.

The set up looks nice. Cosy. The trio seem proud of it—they laugh and talk constantly, their enthusiasm and mirth filling the space.

Grian doesn’t contribute to it at all, instead alternating between sitting with Scar in moody silence, and pacing the hallway outside their bedroom door. He feels awkward, not so much unwelcome as he is a non-integral part to the dynamic the trio have established. Karl invites him into their conversation, but more often than not, Grian simply can’t keep up with their rapid-fire banter and loud, laughing voices. He feels like he’s back in his first years of university—too nervous to participate, and too worried about missing something important to completely check out.

Meanwhile, Scar sleeps on and off. It’s not unusual for him to pass the time napping while he waits for the ache in his legs to subside. At the start of their relationship, it had happened often—mostly on bad days, when Scar had forgotten to fill his prescriptions and would slip into his flare ups without warning.

It had gotten better once Grian had taken up getting them filled for him, since he’d always been more inclined at keeping track of minutiae like that.

Not that it matters now, when there’s not even a bottle of ibuprofen to their name.

If they were back at Scar’s apartment there would be medications he could be taking. He would be able to help himself with his grab-bars and lifts and stools set in places where he needed them… use his cane… his chair…

Grian tries not to dwell on it, but he feels powerless not being able to help him. He can’t even begin to imagine how much worse it must feel for Scar, to be without the aids he’d spent so much time and effort vetting and acclimating to.

The afternoon drags on, and eventually the sun begins to set. Sapnap starts a fire, and they discuss rations for the night, eventually agreeing to let Quackity use a bit of their water to make dough out of flour they brought in large ziplock bags. He works industriously, using their skillet to cook unseasoned flatbreads—too thick to be proper tortillas—that they scoop canned chilli onto. Quackity narrates while he cooks, speaking like he’s entertaining a studio audience. Sitting together, Karl and Sapnap play along, encouraging him and making salacious comments that have Quackity laughing through his blush and batting them away with fond affection.

It twists something jealous in Grian’s guts, but try as he might he can’t look away. He wishes that he had the benefit of their naive youth to keep him as hopeful in the face of everything they’re up against.

Once the food is prepared, Scar manages to join them in the main room. With Grian and Sapnap supporting him on each side, he lets the two of them help him across the floor before they carefully sit him down. Karl fusses over making his seat comfortable, arranging their blankets around him for support.

It’s clear that the trio are trying their best to make up for the earlier assumptions they’d made and the hostilities that had arisen from it, but they’re overcompensating to the point of treating Scar like something fragile, which sets Grian on edge. It’s a tendency he’s used to seeing from well-meaning strangers but it’s a kindness that Grian knows Scar doesn’t appreciate. In this case, however, Scae swallows it down with civility.

There is a single moment when Scar catches Grian’s attention over the trio’s heads, raising his eyebrows at their antics. It leaves Grian trying hard not to read too much into the shared, secret second of commiseration, despite the way it warms him inside and out.

Unfortunately, the heady feeling doesn’t last long, because Quackity seems determined to win Scar over. He’s been talkative and friendly towards him from the start, but now he’s giggling excessively at every little thing that Scar says and hanging off his every word.

It shouldn’t make Grian insecure, but it does. Maybe that’s why Quackity does it, prodding at Grian’s childish outburst from the day before. The group sit together on their makeshift seats around the fireplace, eating dinner and chatting, and Grian feels a spike of resentment seizing his chest every time Quackity looks over at Scar; every time he offers him another serving; every time he smiles at him.

It makes him feel petty and territorial.

It makes him feel alone.

Once they finish eating, they all settle back to watch the fire burn. There’s a comfort that runs between the trio, who sit with their arms and legs layered on top of each other, leaning shoulder to shoulder to shoulder in a pile. Earlier in the day, Sapnap had found twist ties in one of the mildewed drawers, and Karl had inexpertly turned them into rings—engagement rings, he’d declared proudly. There’s one on each of their ring fingers now, child-like but profound. Sapnap keeps touching Karl’s over and over, and Karl smiles at him softly each time.

Grian wants to think it’s stupid—wants to roll his eyes at the whole performance—but some part of him knows how much it stems from his own longing. It’s not that he and Scar were ever on the road to marriage, not when Grian had waved away every conversation Scar had tried to start about commitment. But it tugs at a feeling he can’t smother. His desperate desire to have even a fraction of the open, undaunted affection that the trio share so easily between one another.

He’s about to open his mouth and say something he’ll regret—whether it be sentimental or mean—when Quackity abruptly gets to his feet, crossing the room and gathering up the pile of reading material he’d scavenged earlier that day.

He sits back down with the egg crate in tow, this time next to Scar, offering the collection to him like a kid at show and tell. The novels aren’t good—detective mysteries, some suspense thrillers, and a few syrupy romance novels—and the magazines are several years old; some of them torn and crumpled, but the majority intact.

The magazines turn out to all be aimed at women, boasting fashion trends, makeup tutorials, and modelling. Grian braces himself, preparing for the inevitable dismissive comment from at least one of the trio, but all he’s met with is unabashed enthusiasm from Karl. He pulls half the stack into his lap, easily folding back the glossy covers as he begins flipping through the pages.

“I think, out of everything, I’m going to miss dressing up nice most of all,” Karl remarks wistfully, eyes lingering on spreads of runway highlights from fashion weeks long past. He hums as he flips pages, admiring sheer, diaphanous, evening gowns; cropped, bolero jackets; and high-waisted, flared corduroys.

“Have you thought about that shit yet?” Quackity asks, elbowing Scar, conspiratorial in his query. “What you’re gonna miss most?”

It’s a macabre inquiry, and Scar raises his eyebrows at it. Yet again, he glances in Grian’s direction, as if to confirm they’re both on the same, dreary, page.

“I don’t know if we’ve thought that far ahead,” he admits after a pause, choosing his words carefully. There’s a deep well of sadness they’re all carefully skirting around, one Grian doesn’t think the other three are quite aware of yet. It’s a moment that makes him all too aware of their youth. The naivety of their questions. ‘Kids,’ Scar had called them.

“I’m gonna miss bagel bites,” Sapnap bemoans, arms crossed behind his head. He’s reclining, resting across Karl’s lap. Karl is unbothered, continuing to leaf through magazines, one hand absently combing Sapnap’s dark, tangled hair. “Hot pockets, pizza rolls… the whole frozen pizza spectrum, really.”

“The internet,” Karl offers, the expression in his eyes faraway and dreamy. “Spotify. Livestreams. Ten hour long YouTube playlists of people unboxing expensive, designer, advent calendars…”

“Dude, the internet’s not gonna go anywhere,” Sapnap insists, tilting his head back to look up at Karl.

“Are you crazy? Of course it will,” Quackity snickers, rolling his eyes in a fond way.

“No way,” Sapnap persists, dogged. “Nobody’s gonna flip a big ‘kill the internet’ switch right before they turn, dumbass. It’ll just keep… broadcasting, or whatever.”

“I think people need to be around to keep it running,” Scar muses, mildly matter-of-fact. “It’s not self… imposed…? Self-inferred…? Self—what’s the word, Grian?”

“Self-sustaining,” Grian supplies easily, innately knowing Scar’s intention. “And he’s right. If it’s not down already, it will be soon.”

“That’s nuts,” Sapnap mourns, regret kicking in instantly. “Shit. How are we gonna—? Oh my god… fuck, we’re never gonna see porn again.”

“That’s my boy,” Karl chuckles affectionately, dipping his head down as he smooths Sapnap’s hair back and kisses his forehead. “One track mind.”

“I’m serious,” Sapnap groans. “If I’d known—”

“You would’ve what? Jerked off more?” Quackity teases, just shy of cackling. “C’mon babe, don’t be like that in front of our new friends. They still have some respect for you.”

“This is fucking ludicrous,” Sapnap grumbles, huffing despite the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Like burning the Library of Alexandria.”

Karl shakes his head, overly indulgent of his boyfriend’s antics. He continues stroking Sapnap’s hair as he finishes one magazine and then reaches for the next, far more engrossed than Grian would’ve expected from him.

“I’m gonna miss nice spa days,” Karl adds after several minutes of silence have passed. “A long soak in the tub. Lo-fi beats. Doing my nails.” He turns his hands over, inspecting his fingertips, folding them flat against his palms. His nail polish, alternating bright blue and orange, is chipped—some of the paint flaked off completely.

Something about it stirs an emotion in Grian; a longing to sympathise without wanting to expose the vulnerability that it would force out of him. He looks away without saying a word, instead getting to his feet so he can stoke the fire.

“Did you always paint them?” The sound of Scar’s voice, deep and ponderous, startles him.

There’s a genuine curiosity in his question, and though Grian keeps his eyes resolutely on the fire, he can picture Scar leaning forward in his seat, studying Karl’s hands with interest.

“Mm,” Karl confirms, relaxed and at-ease. “Whenever I remembered. I’d forget a lot—but yeah, I loved it. Love it.”

“Huh…”

Karl laughs, unruffled. “No shade on you rough-and-tumble lads or anything. I love me a gritty guy, just… mans loves to feel pretty sometimes, y’know?”

Grian’s mouth feels dry. He keeps his head down, not sure why the conversation is upsetting him as much as it is. Something about Karl’s openness—the lack of concern in his tone, carefree and unafraid as he speaks. He’s so confident showing off something Grian has never allowed himself to look at as anything more than a fleeting glimpse caught in the corner of his eye.

There’s nothing wrong with it, he just…

“I always wanted to try it.”

Scar’s confession wrenches Grian’s head around with a twist so strong he feels a pinch in his shoulder. He tries not to look any particular way, but he’s sure he must come off like a fool, mouth parted in shock. He can’t help himself, riveted by the casual way Scar says the words.

Leaning across the space between their seats, Scar has Karl’s hand delicately cradled in his palm, turning his fingertips towards the fire to get a better look.

“Why didn’t you?” Karl asks, voicing the words before Grian can.

Scar shrugs a shoulder, letting Karl’s hand go and sitting back.

“Just never got around to it,” he admits. “Thought I had all the time in the world. And I mean, I didn’t really know where to get started.”

‘I could’ve told you,’ Grian wants to say. Fragile and sensitive. Another missed connection between them. Something that he no doubt fostered.

He thinks about a makeup bag pushed into the back of his bathroom cabinet. He thinks about kitten heels with rhinestones on the toes that he never wore outside. He thinks about drag nights at local bars he paid the cover for, only to hover just outside the entrance, too nervous to step all the way in.

He thinks about a piece of himself he never had the chance to properly explore, and how it’s now being brought up between Scar and a man who, just a few days ago, was a complete stranger.

He bites his tongue so hard it hurts.

With the slap of glossy pages flapping shut, Karl quickly sits up. He gets to his feet in a fluid motion, somehow managing not to jostle Sapnap as he moves. Grian turns to watch him leave the room, not knowing what’s happening. He looks to Scar, but Scar merely mirrors his confusion. The two of them simmer in uncertainty until Karl returns a moment later, his backpack held against his chest as he digs into one of its deepest pockets.

“Ain’t this your lucky night,” he announces cheerfully.

Without hesitation, he sits back down, tucking his backpack against his feet and holding out his hands. Several bottles of nail polish are cupped in his palms. When he’s met with silence, Karl scoots forward, moving to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of Scar. He holds up the colours for Scar to see—bright blue, purple, orange, pink, and something glossy flecked with glitter.

Grian feels a lump forming in his throat, something choked and asphyxiating as he watches the scene unfold like a pariah lurking on the sidelines.

Scar doesn’t try to hide his smile, letting Karl show off the bottles one by one. Leaning back, Karl yanks one of the cushions off his seat, tucking it under himself. He then digs into his backpack yet again and, after a moment of searching, he produces a nail file.

It’s the first time Grian truly realises that the trio must’ve had time to properly pack. Unlike him and Scar, who left with what Grian had shoved into his backseat, these three brought things with them—proper things. Items to make living bearable, beyond the essentials. Little creature comforts nostalgic and warm.

A feeling he can’t explain festers in his chest at the revelation. Another jab to stoke the fires.

“I don’t have black,” Karl apologises. “I know a lot of guys like to start with it… but I wasn’t thinking I’d be doing manicures in the apocalypse.”

Scar chuckles, rotating through the colours in his hands, the glass bottles clacking together pleasantly.

“Orange is my favourite,” he explains, pausing before he reconsiders. “Or should I go for blue…?”

“You can have both,” Quackity pipes up, semi-absorbed in one of the romance novels he’d found. He’s angled himself towards the fire to take better advantage of the light, legs stretched out on the seat. “Hot guy perks. Right, Karl?”

“That’s what people in the industry call it,” Karl quips in confirmation, taking the bottles back from Scar and setting the orange and blue aside.

He looks gentle, almost reverent, as he takes Scar’s right hand in his. Karl smooths his thumbs over Scar’s knuckles, briefly massaging his palm and then flattening Scar’s fingers out. He begins tending to Scar’s nails with the rasp of the file. He’s not diminutive and doesn’t have small hands by any means, but Scar’s hand dwarfs his all the same.

“The boys don’t let me paint their nails,” he says conversationally as he moves from one nail to the next. It must be easier work than he expects, Grian thinks. Scar wasn’t ever fastidious, but he took care of himself prior to the apocalypse. He has nice hands—or, at least, Grian had always thought so.

If Karl compliments them, he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

“I let you! Once,” Sapnap insists. In Karl’s absence, he’s spread out on the pallet seat, laying on his back as he pages through the magazines himself and holds them up to catch the firelight.

“For our very first date,” Karl confirms, confiding in Scar like it’s tantalising gossip. “And he’d picked all the paint off by the next time I saw him.”

“Not a nail polish guy, what can I say?” Sapnap shrugs, dismissive of the fact.

The trio titter, and Grian finds himself phasing their conversation out as he stares at Scar’s bright smile. His enthusiasm is clear in how patiently he watches Karl work. It’s obvious that they’re sharing a good moment, something everyone is enjoying.

Grian doesn’t want to be the wet blanket. He doesn’t want to bring the collective mood down.

He turns to poke another wedge of wood into the fire, wishing he was anywhere else in the world but here, with a stranger painting his boyfriend’s—ex-boyfriend’s—nails.

In another world, this could’ve been something he and Scar shared together. Something Grian could introduce Scar to and teach him about. Instead, the whole situation sits sour in his stomach; hopeless nostalgia for a life that never existed.

As the painting session drags on, Grian tries—again and again—to involve himself. He opens his mouth, hesitating over a compliment or commiseration, but every time he makes an attempt, he can’t get his voice out. What’s the use when none of them seem to care that he’s been silent all this time? When not even Scar has looked his way once since Karl began gracing his attention on him.

By the time Scar’s nails are dry and it’s time for bed, Grian is completely lost in his own misery. It’s unfair. It’s stupid. He knows the way he’s reacting is irrational, and yet…

When they finally retire to their room, he makes every effort not to speak. He’s quiet as he shrugs off his sweater and pulls his feet out of his shoes. He pads forward in socked feet to their bed, laying down with ample distance between Scar and himself.

If Scar notices, he makes no comment on it—appreciating the amiability of the moment as if everything is fine. Scar lays on his back, one hand resting on his chest and the other raised as he admires the daubs of colour on his nails in the dim moonlight sifting in through the window. Even Grian can admit that Karl did a good job, the paint neat and even, with nothing spilled over onto Scar’s cuticles.

“Can’t believe it took me until the apocalypse to try this,” Scar muses after a lengthy pause, letting his hand drop to his side and half-chuckling in the darkness.

Grian says nothing, tangled in his own emotions, caught like a flower petal pressed between heavy pages; compressed flat and frozen. He doesn’t know how to sort himself out. Doesn’t know how to reorient so that he’s the him he used to be—or, at least, always wanted to be.

The one he knows that Scar fell in love with.

Resolutely he keeps his eyes closed, feigning sleep.

He knows full well Scar won’t buy it.

“They’re nice boys,” Scar adds, low and conversational in the deep, rumbling tone that Grian’s familiar with from a hundred nights of past pillow talk. “We really lucked out with them, I think.”

“I still feel like they’re up to something.”

The words are out of him before he can help himself, and even as he says them, he knows he’s fucked up. It’s a stupid thing to say, after so long in silence, with no grounds except jealousy with which to say it.

“You still want to pick at this?” Scar asks, sombre in the darkness. “Really?”

Grian says nothing, knowing any word will incite an argument—wishing, too late, that he’d just kept pretending to sleep.

“Do you honestly think they’re suspicious, or do you just not like it when I have friends?” Scar asks after enough silence has passed. “Because I know what this feels like, Grian, and I’m not sure you’re going to like the answer.”

His words burn, incriminating and hot on the back of Grian’s neck. It makes him feel wretched, tugging at memories of too many arguments about the amount of time Scar would spend with Cub, or about his easy affection for Pearl. Memories of the way his openly fond nature would pick at Grian. How, the more distance Grian had put between them, the more paradoxically possessive he’d gotten over Scar’s affections. A cover-up for the way he’d been going around behind Scar’s back—thinking the worst of him because he’d been doing the worst himself.

Grian bites his tongue, hands clasped into fists, body tense, waiting for the emotion to pass.

Eventually Scar sighs, surrendering to the futility of the moment.

“G’night, Grian,” he relents, curt—not angry, but close enough to it to feel damning.

Without another word, Scar turns over. The mattress springs squeak as he moves to face away, looking out towards the stained, empty floor of the room.

Sooner than Grian would’ve guessed, his breathing evens out; slow, steady inhales and deep, heavy exhales. It’s a rhythm Grian is familiar with, but it offers him no comfort when they’ve gone to bed having solved nothing. He stares at the scuffed plaster of the wall in front of him as he lays awake, letting his mind rush through a hundred different scenarios instead.

On the one hand, he could attempt a quick fix. It wouldn’t take much to pretend like nothing is wrong. He could embrace the trio and at the very least act like he didn’t believe they were out to stab them in the back. Scar would like that, he thinks. And maybe it’d be easier that way… to lie and go about like everything is fine after all. He’s got plenty of practice with lying anyhow. A professional, really. All he’d have to do is bury his jealousy—hide it behind a smile and sweet words.

On the other hand… all it would take is one false move, one tiny mistake in the midst of this apocalypse, to lose everything that matters to him in an instant. Despite how much he knows Scar wants it, Grian can’t afford to place his trust in the wrong people.

He lies awake until even the boys outside are asleep, Sapnap’s snores shaking the thin walls between them.

He thinks about his options. He thinks about their future. He thinks about Scar, and himself, and the trio that has come between them.

He thinks, hard, about which road to take next.

Notes:

Phew we did it! Hopefully that formatted and posted right aaaaaaaa. Everyone thank Key for all the work she does getting this fic ready to post- I never want to do it again so PLEASE don't get kidnapped by a dragon, bestie. I cannot stress this enough.

xox Lock

Chapter 15

Notes:

HELLO AGAIN! Switching to Scar POV for this chapter, which happens to be one of my three faves for this arc >:D Here's hoping y'all enjoy it! 💜

Please skip to the end notes for spoiler-y CONTENT WARNINGS related to this chapter if you feel they may apply to you!

It takes another day before Scar is able to stand up and walk with minimal pain, and another before he feels confident enough to venture outside again.

The timing is as right as it is necessary. Though they’ve been careful, the group’s supplies have noticeably dwindled, their water especially. Without any creeks or rainwater basins in the town, there’s been nothing to replenish what they’ve used, and thirst isn’t something they can simply brush off.

Reluctantly, Grian had sat down with Karl the previous evening, the two working together with his creased bundle of maps to guesstimate their location. As near as they can tell, they’re about an hour and a half’s walk from the next nearest town. A straight road through open, empty desert.

Scar can tell it makes Grian nervous. As much as they’ve scouted around the dilapidated homes and leaning husks of buildings, they hadn’t found anything that could serve them for transportation. No bikes, no ATVs, no secret hidden motorcade… They have no choice but to walk, a decision that they came to warily, everyone uncertain about his endurance.

“I need you to stop treating me like I’m made of glass,” he says in the privacy of his and Grian’s room. He’s sitting on the edge of what’s become their bed as he packs the little he has into his bag. “I know my body. I know what I’m capable of. Trust me Grian, these babies can go for miles.” He says it alongside a grin, patting his thigh with confidence he hopes is believable.

“What if you can’t, though?” Grian asks, arms clutched around himself and saying what they’re both unfortunately thinking.

“Then you leave me next to a cactus to die,” Scar replies, flat. “And you hope that the next time we meet, we’re in a world with magic so I can wizard my legs better with a healing crystal or something.”

His words catch Grian’s attention, a strange sort of hesitant fondness on his face. Scar allows it—if nothing else, then for the way Grian’s somehow managed to wrangle all his misgivings and neatly set them aside the past two days. A necessary part of nurturing the civility they’ve enjoyed.

“You think we’d meet in another life?” He asks, gentler than Scar would’ve expected.

It’s a concept Grian would’ve shrugged off before the apocalypse. Now Scar finds him clinging to it with eager curiosity.

He gives Grian a look, caught somewhere between endeared and annoyed by Grian’s priorities. Instead of answering, he braces his hands on his knees, leveraging himself up with a wince that he manages to almost hide.

“Let’s get going.”

Grian moves to join him without complaint, agreeable in the way he’s been for the last couple days. Scar doesn’t know how, or when, or why he had a change of heart, but it’s been good for morale so he hasn’t made an effort to question it.

When they leave and find the trio waiting for them, there’s no stiff grins or forced politeness. Karl’s smile is bright as he turns to meet them, and Quackity is quick to move over to Grian’s side, shepherding him in so that he’s part of the group.

It’s not perfect—it couldn’t be, not in such a short amount of time—but it’s enough to spark hope in Scar’s chest. The thought that maybe, maybe, the worst of their group’s tensions are behind them.

He’s not naive enough to believe that Grian is fully back to who he used to be; the person Scar knew before things went so wrong between them. Still, Scar can see that he’s trying, and something about that makes his heart ache. He appreciates the gesture, as difficult as it’s been to arrive at. Even if he wishes it had come sooner.

Unsurprisingly, the trio are still somewhat cautious around Grian. Like skittish animals, once bitten and now twice shy. In return, Grian has adopted a bit of forced sincerity to his smiles, but it’s progress nonetheless, and Scar’s glad for it.

“I’m so fuckin’ ready to leave this place, holy shit,” Sapnap remarks, stooped just behind Quackity. He has his chest pressed to Quackity’s back, with his arms around his waist, and resting his chin on Quackity’s shoulder as he speaks. “Let’s break into a hotel and set up camp there next. Get ourselves some proper five-star treatment for a change.”

Quackity snorts, turning his head towards his boyfriend with a raised brow and then nuzzling into him affectionately. “You’re wanting room service in the apocalypse? My mans is still asleep and dreaming.”

“I’ll show you room service,” Sapnap teases, grinning wide and pressing a kiss to the edge of Quackity’s jaw before he drags his tongue up his cheek. It makes Quackity squawk, laughing and cursing as he pushes Sapnap away.

The display puts a smile on Scar’s face, warm and happy. Watching the trio fondly bicker back and forth reminds him of how he and Grian used to be. Upon the thought, he can’t help himself from glancing in Grian’s direction. To his surprise, there’s a barely contained smile on Grian’s face as well, eyes bright as he watches the pair.

It makes Scar’s stomach flip-flop, not sure whether to trust his feelings or second-guess them.

It’s hard to put his faith in Grian when his trust has been mangled by him before. Still, for the first time since he stood at the threshold of Grian’s front door—with all the proof laid out in front of him, knowing he could no longer deny what was happening—Scar finds himself wanting to believe in him.

“C’mon fellas,” Karl calls over his shoulder. He heads down the driveway, steps jaunty as they finally move to leave the ghost town. “It’s gonna be a couple hours of walking with breaks, so let’s put some distance behind us.”

Quackity and Sapnap immediately fall into step, trotting after Karl and leaving Grian to hang back with Scar. There’s a moment of carefully held-breath as Scar descends the front steps, but there’s no splitting agony, no pain flaring in his joints that he can’t handle. He casts a reassuring grin in Grian’s direction.

“All good.”

Scar grips the head of the hoe, keeping it as a makeshift walking stick just in case, but as he starts after the trio, he finds his pain is truly not that bad.

It’s a relief, to say the least.

“You never told me you had a side hoe, Scar,” Quackity quips, looking back at him from over his shoulder, his hands caught in Sapnap and Karl’s each as he walks between them, their fingers entwined.

“Well, this hoe’s been a big support to me,” Scar teases back.

Beside him Grian groans, making a show of rolling his eyes.

It should rankle at him that Grian is joining in on the joke, rather than remaining locked in guilty silence. Scar wants to pick at it spitefully; wants to ask if Grian’s decided to absolve himself of the shame of his actions so quickly. But he doesn’t want to be the one to break their peace by causing an argument, so he leaves it.

He’s caused them all enough setbacks already.

It’s early enough that Scar still feels the chill of night as they walk, the air cool in his lungs when he takes a deep breath. It feels good to be outside again, and even better to be leaving the open grave of the ghost town behind. They pause momentarily at the intersection that feeds onto the old highway, Grian and Karl consulting their maps. Once sorted, together they turn and head northeast, starting down the long stretch of road that runs straight until it disappears into the haze clinging to the horizon line.

Despite everything, their collective mood is good. The trio walk ahead, and Scar and Grian trail behind. He’s become immensely fond of the three over the last few days they’ve spent in each other’s company. He still doesn’t quite understand them—can’t make sense of the way they divide their love and affections between one another—but he can tell that it works for them. They’re happy; Quackity walking between Sapnap and Karl, the three of them giddy with a honeymoon glow that has yet to wane. It’s sweet to observe the contagious affection they share for one another.

In a weird way, it makes him think more fondly of Grian.

It’s not that Scar forgives him. Not that he isn’t still angry with him—bruised and battered and broken-hearted. They’re barely two weeks from the day he caught Grian with another man—from the moment that betrayal tore his world apart worse than the actual end of the world—and maybe it’s the immensity of everything they’ve endured since, but… some days… he’s not as angry as he knows he should be. He still wishes he had some distance, and for an appropriate amount of time to properly grieve and recover, but every moment of joy shared between the trio makes him nostalgic for his own history with Grian. For better times. Sweeter times. Moments of shared love, affection, and open, unbridled adoration.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

The question is asked casually, conversational versus surreptitiously needling or unpleasant. Grian glances up at him as they walk side by side, breaking a silence Scar hadn’t realised they’d fallen into.

“Just thinking,” Scar supplies, trying to determine how long he’s been daydreaming.

“About?” Grian muses further.

“About us.”

He can’t help but notice the way Grian’s small grin immediately falters.

“Oh.”

“About the good times,” Scar offers, kinder than he has any reason to be.

There’s a pause at that as Grian turns his gaze back towards the trio. It’s clear that Grian wants to say something, and Scar is willing to give him the space to say it. There’s no reason to push, not when they’ve got hours to fill and relative privacy to discuss it. He waits, watching as Sapnap reaches out to ruffle Quackity’s beanie. Quackity shouts something in response, clearly disparaging, while the blush on his face betrays his real feelings. It makes Scar smile, seeing them so enamoured with one another.

“Do you remember,” Grian says at last, halting, like he’s worried Scar won’t want to hear it. “The time you invited me to your workplace?”

Scar does. It was a few years ago, before they’d even started dating. A handful of months before he’d had to quit, in fact.

He smiles. “The Halloween party?”

“I was so nervous,” Grian continues, encouraged now that Scar has prompted him further. “When you asked me to go, I wasn’t sure I even should. I didn’t have a costume… I wasn’t prepared.”

“I made you one,” Scar says.

“‘Made’ is a strong word,” Grains deflects. “Pretty sure you just grabbed a tablecloth from the caterers and cut some holes in it.”

Scar grins, flashing Grian his teeth. “I was thinking on my feet! You got to the place and looked like you were gonna be sick because you were the only one without a costume!”

“I know,” Grian laughs. “I thought, y’know, ‘well they’re all professionals.’ I was so scared of showing up overdressed. And then you took off your costume—”

“I was Indiana Jones that year,” Scar sighs wistfully.

“Handsome Indiana Jones, I remember. Really insistent on sticking that adjective in there,” Grian says, rolling his eyes, light-hearted but still managing to make Scar’s heart jump at the memory. “The point is: you took off your well thought-out, incredibly put-together costume, grabbed another tablecloth, and then we were both ridiculous.”

“A couple of grim grinning ghosts, one could say,” Scar teases. He’s pleased when Grian flushes, his cheeks turning pink.

“One could,” he allows, “And then we stood in the shadows all night, jumping out at people whenever they passed by.”

“God, remember when we spooked my boss and he spilled his punch all over his shirt? That was amazing.”

“It was,” Grian agrees, laughing aloud at the memory, eyes glimmering. It makes him look younger and happier—like the man Scar had fallen for in the first place.

They fall silent after that, both reminiscing about the past. Minutes go by before Grian speaks up again, quiet, like he’s making a confession. “More importantly… it was a lot of fun. I had a great night with you. By the end of it, I couldn’t remember why I’d been so nervous in the first place.”

“I’m glad,” Scar hums, meaning it. He should leave it there, he knows he should, but the trip down memory lane twists something melancholy inside of him. He can’t stop the words that slip from between his lips. “Though I wish you’d told me that back then.”

He’s not expecting for Grian to look up at him, eye-to-eye, expression open and honest.

“Me too.”

Scar’s heart skips a beat. Catching on something tender.

Oh.

He looks away before Grian does, turning his attention towards the trio. They’re oblivious to what’s happening behind them, carrying on with conversation that Scar can’t focus on enough to hear. His heart is still racing, the perfect moment of Grian’s sincerity playing and replaying in his mind’s eye.

Ahead of them, Sapnap finally stops pestering Quackity and reaches for his hand instead. He brings it to his lips and presses a kiss to his knuckles alongside a salacious waggle of his brows. Karl coos and fawns, knocking shoulders with Quackity and pushing him into Sapnap’s space. After a bit of token protesting, Quackity finally relents, tangling his fingers with Sapnap’s and letting their clasped hands fall between them as they walk.

Scar’s palm tingles as he watches them, longing for even just a fraction of that connection.

Slowly, without turning his face, he reaches out next to him, finding Grian’s hand and wrapping his fingers around it.

“Scar,” Grian starts. “What—”

“Don’t read into it,” Scar says, letting their fingers twine together.

He doesn’t know what’s come over him. It must be something about how the trio aren’t just surviving in this chaos. How, despite the wreckage of the world around them, their love is thriving. With nothing else to hang on to—nothing they can trust—they’ve chosen to cling tightly to one another.

They look so happy.

He needs that, Scar realises. He needs something concrete, something to ground him. And while it still hurts—while he still hasn’t forgiven Grian, and there are still tensions, and tears, and arguments, and agonies untold in their future—he needs something to hang on to as well.

So he clings to Grian, his hand small and familiar—but strange, too. Rougher, now. Calloused in ways that are entirely new.

Not the same hand Scar used to hold, but maybe close enough.

For nearly half an hour, they walk together, Grian’s fingers tangled with his, holding tight. The banter of the trio drifts back to them, raucous and ridiculous, but next to him Grian stays completely silent. Almost as though he’s afraid the moment will shatter if he does anything to disturb it.

Eventually the spell is forced to break. Karl tilts his head back, casting his attention over his shoulder, and calling to ask if they’re ready for a rest. When his eyes land on their clasped hands he spins around completely, walking backwards with ease as a smile splits his face in two.

“And what’s this?” he asks, delight in his tone.

Breaking his silence, Grian huffs, hand tightening around Scar’s in a defensive grip.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he replies, and Karl laughs. He mimes raising a camera to his face and snapping a photo before he spins back around, arms swinging at his sides.

It’s only when they’ve stopped to rest their legs that the exchange jogs Scar’s memory—jostled from one bag to another, and now tucked into the inside pocket of his jacket—the disposable camera. The one from the rest-stop on the outskirts of Roswell.

He works his hand around the edge of it in his pocket, feeling the smooth corners of the plastic with the pad of his thumb. It feels corny to ask the trio to pose, so he waits until they’ve resumed walking, ready for the perfect opportunity to arise.

He finds it when Sapnap pauses to shrug off his backpack, handing it off to Karl. It allows Sapnap to crouch down and let Quackity hop onto his back, his arms hugging around Sapnap’s shoulders as Karl laughs and eggs them on. It’s a candid, joyful moment. Without a second thought, Scar pulls the camera out of his pocket and snaps a photo of the three looking small in the lens as the desert stretches out around them on either side.

“Do you want to take one with them?” Grian asks, but Scar shakes his head. He puts the camera away before the trio notice, feeling a little silly now that he’s taken it.

What would he tell them if they asked? That he’s taking pictures for a future that they’ll never have? He knows the film won’t be developed; that there’s no real point to it. He just… did it for the sake of it. Some innate part of him wanting to know he’d at least tried to preserve these memories in a physical, tactile medium.

After he puts the camera away, Grian reaches for his hand again. It’s a subtle bumping, one that Scar could ignore, but doesn’t. He lets their hands clasp once more and smiles to himself when Grian audibly sighs in relief.

By the time they reach their destination it’s nearly noon. The chill of morning has evaporated, leaving behind a midday sun that, while bright, still isn’t very warm. The town they approach isn’t all that impressive, but after the dilapidation they’ve spent their last few days in, the signs of recent habitation make it seem metropolitan and palatial.

The majority of the buildings are clustered around a town square that’s surrounded on every side by one-way roads. It’s a tiny place, and Scar imagines there had to have been less than a few thousand people living here before the outbreak. It’s got a community feel to it though, like something nostalgic preserved in time. Classic Americana.

They skirt the civilized area cautiously, wary of a sudden ambush, either by corpses or marauders. Behind the town square, they can see glimpses of possible habitation—rows of single storey houses shaded beneath sparse, patchy desert trees—but it feels too risky to venture in when they don’t yet know if the area is infested or abandoned.

“We should set up a base camp,” Sapnap suggests, pragmatic and practical as they sit at the town limit and assess the area. He nods his head towards a motel they can see a couple dozen yards down the road. “If that place is empty, it could work. Lots of space, proper locks on the doors, plenty of beds if we need to stay for any reason.”

He’s deliberately vague, but his eyes linger on the broken hoe that Scar has been using for a cane all morning. Scar does his best not to feel singled out—to take it for the kind consideration that it is.

“Well what are we waiting for then, gents?” He asks, pushing himself forward so as to not appear thin-skinned in front of the trio.

When he turns around, he spots the way Grian’s jaw is clenched, doing everything in his power not to say something in Scar’s defence and upset the careful balance they’ve all found.

Scar’s grateful for it, and he hopes Grian knows that.

Moving together, they approach the motel with caution, keeping quiet as they creep in close. It, like everything else, looks sun-faded and worn in a vintage way that catches Scar’s attention. The large, neon sign set next to the parking lot reads ‘The Rancher Motel,’ and the mismatched letters on the marquee beneath it boast: POOL, LAUNDRY, WIFI.

“Sap, you wanted a hotel, right?” Karl says enthusiastically, jogging up to the sign and gesturing at it with both arms. “Try this on for size, dude. Definitely five stars.”

The parking lot of the motel is empty, but it’s impossible to tell how long it’s been like that. A kidney bean shaped pool in the courtyard looks like it’s in need of a cleaning, the water scummed over with bits of brush and a couple empty beer cans. The curtains of every room’s windows are drawn. Shuttered and quiet.

They inch in together, weapons at the ready.

The door to reception swings open without protest when Sapnap nudges it. There’s no sound from inside, no sudden rush of grotesque, grasping bodies, or horrible, too-human screams. The reception itself is small, containing only a single counter with an outdated computer monitor on it, two, brown, leather chairs set to the side, and a planter with a wilting ficus in it. There’s a large painting on the wood-panelled wall behind check-in; two cowboys on horseback surveying a range of grazing cattle, hung next to a door that’s labelled ‘Staff Only.’

“It’s all clear,” Sapnap announces, relaxing once they’ve had a chance to properly check out the space.

“Nice work,” Grian praises, and it does Scar’s heart good to see him accepting Sapnap’s assessment.

From beside them, Karl brandishes the map he and Grian have been relying on. “Our next stop is gonna take at least six hours to get to,” he explains, pointing to their location, smack dab in the middle of nowhere. “It’d be better if we could stay here for the night and head out tomorrow.” He winks, elbowing Grian. “Y’know, unless resting in the lap of luxury is no longer your style.”

“Hopefully their ‘dingy mattress on the floor’ suites aren’t fully booked,” Grian jokes, and Karl laughs brightly alongside him.

Scar tries not to stare, watching Grian contribute to the conversation without his normal bristling complaints. He’s not sure what’s brought about this change, but it seizes his ribs with genuine elation. Finally, finally, Grian is giving the trio a chance to enjoy his charm and charisma. The person Scar knows people would adore, if Grian just let them meet him at his level.

It’s with good spirits that they agree to split up, testing their walkie-talkies as the trio set off to scout the area surrounding the motel, while Scar and Grian secure the rooms.

“If everyone’s already turned, there’s gonna be loads of primo shit for us to help ourselves to,” Sapnap says, cheerful to the point of being almost too upbeat at the prospect. He’s taken off his backpack, leaving it on one of the sun-faded chairs. Without it he looks limber, stretching his arms above his head like he’s preparing to run a marathon.

“You sure you two are going to be okay on your own?” Karl asks, placing a hand on Grian’s shoulder that, surprisingly, Grian doesn’t brush away. Scar watches the exchange expecting a dismissal, but Grian merely smiles and nods.

“We know how to handle ourselves,” he reassures, and Karl accepts it without doubt, easily deferring to Grian’s confidence.

With a wave tossed over their shoulders and the promise to be back soon, the trio head out. It leaves Scar and Grian standing alone together in the reception office, unmoored as they’re left truly by themselves for the first time in days.

“I’ll get the master key. We can check the rooms and snag the best one for ourselves,” Grian says immediately. He ducks behind the reception desk to face a wall of room numbers and corresponding keys dangling on hooks, nearly all of them hanging in place. There’s a spring in his step; an enthusiasm that Scar hasn’t seen in days.

“What’s gotten into you?”

The question is asked without malice, but Grian still looks at him askance, an eyebrow quirked while a small, nervous smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“What do you mean?”

“C’mon, Grian,” Scar teases, gentle. “You know what I mean.”

There’s something loose unspooling between them—a familiar affection. Scar can feel it, like the ghost heat of Grian’s palm pressed against his all morning. A fondness. Flirtatious.

‘I like you this way,’ Scar wants to say. ‘This is the Grian I know.’

“I’m certain I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Grian insists, grabbing the master keyring from its hook on the wall.

Impulsively, Scar has the urge to kiss him.

The sentiment bubbles up, catching him off guard. But then Grian’s already out of the reception and walking towards the first of the motel rooms before he can act on it, forcing Scar to merely trail along in his footsteps.

“You’re in a good mood,” he continues as Grian listens in at the first door, before deeming it safe and cautiously unlocking it. Meanwhile, Scar doesn’t bother to smother the grin on his face. “You’re being nice.”

“I’m finding us the best room in the motel. And keeping us safe from googlies,” Grian answers evasively, but there’s a smile in his words as he says them.

The first room they investigate reveals two twin beds with more rancher-themed artwork on the walls. The second is more of the same, Grian checking the bathroom while Scar hangs back in the doorway. It’s like they’re playing hide-and-seek, unserious in a way that feels fun—relaxed, even.

“It’s a shame about the pool being in such a state,” Grian says, matter-of-fact as he uses the master key to unlock a third room. “Could’ve shown off your swimming skills again.”

They find a queen-sized bed in this one, as well as a TV that’s seen better days standing on a dresser.

Clearly unimpressed, Grian turns around to leave, and that’s when Scar makes his move.

He closes the door with a hand just as Grian reaches it, effectively trapping Grian between it and his body. Grian makes a confused noise, eyebrows shooting up, and Scar doesn’t try to stop the grin playing on his lips. When Grian turns to face him, his expression is utterly bewildered.

Scar wishes he could use the camera to capture it.

“Scar, what are you—?”

“Can I kiss you?” Scar interrupts, sharing the request quickly before he can second-guess himself.

The way Grian goes still, cheeks immediately flushing warm, makes Scar’s grin pull even wider. It’s been too long since he’s caught Grian off-guard like this—since he’s wanted to catch Grian off-guard—and it makes his stomach flutter in that same lovestruck way it used to.

He knows that things are different now. He’s not about to forget what Grian did, but at the same time, the nostalgia they’re caught in and his fondness for it is hard to ignore. Once upon a time, he fell hard for Grian, and seeing him act so much like the man Scar remembers has ignited a fire low in his belly that begs to be kindled further.

Boxed in by Scar’s bulk, Grian’s face goes through several emotions, too fast for Scar to read. He eventually settles on something that’s halfway neutral, but comes off as more than a little hurt when he speaks in a tremulous tone.

“Are you having a laugh? Because it’s not funny, Scar.”

“I’m not joking,” Scar insists, taking a step forward. It makes Grian take an instinctive step back, shoulders hitting the door behind him. He’s cornered, Scar looming over him in a way that feels loaded. “I’d like to kiss you right now… if that’s alright?”

Dark eyes study his face, Grian’s brows furrowed and mouth set. Scar lets him look, confident in what he’ll be able to see. Eventually, the redness on Grian’s cheeks darkens, his gaze flicking down to Scar’s mouth before he drags it back up again.

“It could—” Grian starts, before his voice cracks and he has to clear his throat and start again. “It could be dangerous, Scar. We don’t want to get caught unaware.”

“We’re okay for now,” Scar offers, soft. “We’ll lock the door. There’s no gogglers in here.”

“Googlies,” Grian corrects, still fixed on Scar, his words getting quieter by the moment.

“Mm,” Scar hums, shrugging a shoulder. “You know what I mean…”

Grian hesitates, looking away briefly before his gaze darts back. “What if the guys return soon…?”

Scar slides his hand down the wall, bringing it to a rest on Grian’s shoulder. Slowly, carefully, he reaches out to cup Grian’s cheek, stroking it with a thumb. It’s something he’s done a hundred times before… It’s something he thought he’d never want to do again.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to, Gri. Just say the word.”

The tenderness of the moment pulls the nickname out of him and, for once, Scar finds he doesn’t mind. It’s obvious Grian’s affected by it, a strangled sound working its way out between his lips. He stares up at Scar in disbelief, tentatively brushing his fingertips along the back of his hand. There’s an intensity stirring behind his eyes, one that Scar recognises well.

Slowly, Grian turns his head into Scar’s touch, pressing his lips to the curve of his palm. “I never said I didn’t want to…”

Scar dips his head down, leaning closer, and on instinct Grian’s eyelids flutter shut. There’s a choke of emotion in Scar’s throat, his excitement and anticipation mixing with his uncertainty—the fear that he’s rushing into something, that he’s about to make yet another mistake, struggling against how much he’s missed this. How much he wants this.

He hesitates, lingering in the apex of the moment a fraction too long. His trepidation causes Grian to draw a quick breath, mouth opening, clearly about to ask if everything’s alright. It threatens the fragility of whatever it is they’re sharing, all the careful build-up suddenly at risk of crumbling away…

Scar closes the distance in a breath, kissing Grian, and it feels like coming home.

Soft, gentle. Nothing like the haze of adrenaline and instinct when he kissed Grian back at the storage lockers, and nothing like the times when Grian had pressed in close, playing to Scar’s loneliness, arousing him to act on impulses he later regretted.

This time, when Scar kisses Grian, it feels good.

They adjust slowly, Grian finding the familiar angle for the tilt of his head. Small motions nudging into and against one another.

Grian lets out a faint noise and Scar feels his lips part, inviting more. He’s pressed small between the wall and Scar’s torso, but it’s Scar who feels nervous as he delves deeper, investigating his limits. Grian leans in, arms shifting up to wrap around his shoulders, familiar in a way he never thought he’d feel again—never thought he’d want to.

A low chuckle works out of his chest when he feels the tip of Grian’s tongue against his lips. Their kiss deepens, a slow slide, both leading and being lead until, at last, Scar eases back just far enough to draw a proper breath. He presses his forehead against Grian’s, smiling lip-to-lip.

“That was nice,” he murmurs, appreciative in a way he wasn’t sure he’d be. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me.” Grian’s voice is warm with his own smile, familiar but apprehensive—like they’re on their first date and he wants to make a good impression, rather than steeped in the familiarity of having spent years together. His fingers lift up, coaxing through Scar’s tousled hair and pressing a lingering kiss to his cheek. “I wish I could wash this,” Grian mourns quietly, pulling at a tangle until it tugs free.

“You don’t like me all rugged and grubby?” Scar teases. His arm tightens around Grian’s waist, nuzzling into him, the roughness of his stubble catching against Grian’s own and causing Grian to snicker. There’s a heat growing as he feels the weight of Grian’s body press in, igniting his desire to pursue more.

His lips seek out Grian’s, kissing him again.

The kiss is charged this time, the two meeting with purpose. Scar’s mouth falls open, and Grian’s tongue slips against his own. With the foresight of experience, Scar sucks on it gently, relishing the way it makes Grian moan, hands tightening where they’re twisted up in his hair.

There’s a part of him that questions what he’s doing, even now. Insistent that he’s making a mistake. It hasn’t been long enough to bury his hurt, and reconciliation is a far cry from where they stand right now. It’s stupid to be doing this when he and Grian still haven’t so much as talked about what happened.

But Scar is tired of being careful. He’s tired of feeling sorry for himself.

Besides—people hook up with their exes all the time, don’t they?

“Scar…” Grian sighs as he draws back from the kiss, eyes lidded and only half open. His lips are kissed red, shiny with spit. It coils something hot and hungry low in Scar’s belly.

He waits until Grian’s eyes are on him, a split second of hesitation warring against his good sense, before he asks, “Still got that lube on you?”

Grian’s surprise is palpable in the way his mouth parts and his eyes widen. It makes Scar grin, lazy and self-satisfied, winking while Grian plainly stares at him. It’s fun to watch the way the colour rises in his cheeks, second only to the way Scar can feel him getting hard against his thigh. He pushes his knee up slightly, insinuating himself properly between Grian’s legs, acknowledging in no uncertain terms that he’s felt the interest.

“I—” Grian starts, then pauses, searching Scar’s face. There’s a wariness to him that Scar wishes wasn’t there; not when he’s offering himself up so plainly. “Are—are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” Scar reassures him, ignoring the times before now when he’d goaded himself into participating.

It’s not that he hadn’t wanted to participate—it’s just that he’d been unable to fully commit himself to the moment. The first time, back at the shooting range, he hadn’t gotten hard at all. Despite how he’d willingly kissed Grian back, the hurt had been too fresh for him to entirely shake off. Even beyond the distress over Grian’s cheating, Scar hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the people he’d lost and the life he’d never be able to return to. Not exactly conducive to maintaining any sort of eagerness for intimacy.

Then the second time, in the ghost town, he’d been caught up in a sleep-warm haze. After the adrenaline of the day before, and struggling through the onset of a flare-up for even longer, crashing onto a mattress and waking up slowly into a pleasant morning had felt like a dream—or like he’d finally woken from a bad dream. He hadn’t been thinking about what he’d lost or where he was. He’d only focused on Grian’s mouth on his skin, and the feel of his hands on his body. It had been good—up until Sapnap’s voice had interrupted them and brought reality crashing back down. It had been impossible to stay aroused after that, Scar’s mind far too aware of their situation and the precarity of it.

Now, however… things are different.

Now it’s far enough out from the onset of the apocalypse that he’s had time to acclimate. To adjust. Scar doesn’t know if he’ll ever truly stop mourning, but he’s no longer in shock, haunted by the freshness of his grief.

Plus, Grian’s been so much nicer. Friendlier. These last few days, he’s really been making an effort, and despite the tension still lingering between them, Scar appreciates it.

Most importantly though, if he’s being entirely honest… Scar’s been lonely. It hasn’t been easy watching the trio be so obviously, ardently in love with one another, while knowing he only had a hole in his heart where that same devotion used to reside. He doesn’t feel like he should be blamed if Grian acting more like the person he loved before their relationship fell apart has ignited something in him.

“Scar…” Grian coaxes gently, pulling him out of his thoughts. Scar’s attention returns to the man in front of him, Grian smiling at him sweetly, if still a bit shy.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, ducking down again to nose against Grian’s cheek, feeling the gentle itch of his stubble, Grian’s facial hair so much finer than his own. “Just thinking.”

“You’re doing that an awful lot today,” Grian hums, kissing the side of his nose, his temple. His lips find their way to Scar’s ear, and Scar feels the hairs stand up along the back of his neck as Grian whispers, “Do you want to do this here? Or would you rather try the bed…?”

It’s a good suggestion, and it’s kind of Grian to offer it. Scar’s legs don’t feel particularly awful, but he knows in the future he’ll appreciate that he laid down when he had the chance to.

It feels like a big step, though. More planned out than the sudden urge for a romp might otherwise require. A certain degree of commitment. Of trust.

Scar doesn’t want to think about what it implies either. Doesn’t want to think about needing special accommodations that someone else might not. Not now, not here.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, hands working up the hem of Grian’s shirt, looking for some bare skin to explore.

“Scar…” Grian presses gently, with the familiarity of someone who’s been through this a hundred times before. “If it’s all the same… I’d like to lay down with you.”

It’s the push Scar needs—the initiative he wouldn’t have taken himself. He chuckles into the crook of Grian’s neck before he pulls away. Their hands remain tangled together as Scar tugs Grian towards the bed.

The rust-coloured duvet cover is starchy when he sits down on it, stiff in a way he only off-handedly notices, too busy with Grian’s lips already back against his. He’s greedy now, resting one knee on the mattress as he presses in, intent on angling into Scar’s personal space.

It feels cheeky, what they’re doing. Shameless. Like they’ve snuck away on a regular afternoon to have some fun. The room is quiet and warm and a little bit stuffy, dust particles filtering the afternoon sunlight that streams through the parted blinds.

It doesn’t feel like the world is dangerous. It doesn’t feel like there’s any risk at all.

Grian’s already pulling his flannel overshirt off, leaving himself in the loose button-up he wears underneath. Scar knows they don’t have enough time to get all the way undressed, but he decides he’ll take what he can get. His fingers work open the first few buttons near Grian’s collar before he pulls that shirt off, dragging the thin cotton of his undershirt with it as well.

It takes him a moment to catch his breath when he sees Grian shirtless. The smooth planes of his skin with the smattering of freckles along his collar bones. The sparse patch of sandy chest hair that trails down to his belly. He hasn’t seen Grian like this since before the apocalypse—a familiar-unfamiliar sight.

“What’s wrong?” Grian asks, evidently made self-conscious by the hold-up. Scar eases him towards the centre of the bed, rolling Grian onto his back and kissing him again as he settles himself between Grian’s legs.

“Nothing,” Scar assures, words caught between kisses, pulse picking up speed at the way Grian shifts beneath him. “Just admiring the view…”

A blush scatters down Grian’s body, rosy along his neck and shoulders. It’s not like him to be bashful like this—Scar’s more used to him laughing or rolling his eyes in the face of Scar’s relentless affections. Maybe their break-up has changed him, though. What was it they said about absence and fondness?

“Are you going to undress too?” Grian asks, voice hesitant, as if he’s afraid to cross a line.

Instead of responding, Scar leans back and shucks off his jacket, followed by the button-down he’s wearing underneath. The tension in Grian’s shoulders relaxes at that, some part of him clearly reassured. His hands come up to rove across Scar’s body, ghosting above his navel, and touching the firm muscle of his abdomen. When Scar leans down to kiss Grian again, licking easily into his mouth this time, Grian’s hands automatically travel up his chest and around to his back, exploring him with his palms.

To Scar’s relief, he can feel his jeans filling out as Grian touches him, zipper starting to strain a little. He moves his legs to make room, spreading Grian’s further apart in the process.

“In my bag,” Grian says between kisses, “Back pocket.”

Reluctantly, Scar pulls back from the kiss, reaching to grab Grian’s bag where he dropped it on the bed next to his discarded clothes. It takes a bit of fumbling to open the zip, but he manages with minimal struggle and pulls the lube out. He brandishes it like a prize, and Grian smiles at him, laughing a little shyly. It tugs at something in Scar’s chest, and he tries not to dwell on it as he uncaps the tube.

“You haven’t even taken my trousers off yet,” Grian remarks, teasing.

“I’m just getting it ready,” Scar assures, leaving the opened tube off to one side, within easy reach. He returns to his place, settled between Grian’s legs, his hands resting with purpose on either of his thighs.

He can see the way Grian swallows, but his voice is unwavering when he speaks, “We’re going to forget you uncapped it, end up rolling onto the bloody thing, and then lube will get everywhere.”

“That doesn’t sound like us,” Scar hums, even though it absolutely does.

“Scar.”

Even in his exasperation there’s a levity to Grian’s tone; a lightness Scar hasn’t heard for a long, long time. He cuts the rest of their repartee off, palms heavy on Grian’s legs as he pursues another kiss, and then another. More pecks—to Grian’s lips, to his jaw, down his neck—kissing his way down Grian’s chest, all the way to the waistband of his pants, enjoying the way Grian’s breathing quickens and how his body rapidly warms under him.

There’s a hasty, fumbling enthusiasm as Scar loosens Grian’s belt, his fingertips jittery and uncoordinated. Scar distracts from it by nipping at the soft skin of Grian’s navel, enjoying the way Grian gasps and squirms beneath him. Working fast, Scar reaches down, bending Grian’s knee to lift his foot and loosening the laces of his boot so he can tug it off. There’s not enough room, not enough time, to get Grian’s other shoe off in his eagerness, and he laughs as Scar tugs his jeans down, working his right leg free and leaving the rest to catch on his left ankle.

“In a rush?” he teases as Scar resettles, calloused thumbs rubbing into his hips near the prominent tent in his briefs.

“You know we are,” Scar replies, bending down to press another kiss to his stomach. His thumbs dip down, dragging along the length of Grian’s arousal, and Grian’s hips hitch forward on instinct, a tiny gasp catching in his throat.

“Scar,” he huffs, almost a moan, as Scar repeats the gesture. Long, slow touches along his length, until Grian is slowly rocking his hips up to follow each motion.

“Let’s get these off you,” Scar mumbles at last, dragging the elastic waistband down. Grian hisses softly as he’s exposed, a strained breath rushing between his teeth.

“Scar…” he repeats, like it’s the only word he knows.

“I know,” Scar assures him. He frees Grian’s leg again, bending his knee up as he gently, carefully, spreads him open, the whole of Grian exposed in a way that’s both beautiful and vulnerable.

“Can you—? Touch me, please,” Grian asks, a softer request than Scar is used to from him. There’s a moment of reluctance, a part of Scar wanting to see how long he can make Grian hunger for him… But then Grian looks at him, eyes full and dark and wanting, and Scar surrenders. His chest presses flush to Grian’s as he kisses him, letting his tongue fill his mouth. Grian’s leg wraps around his waist, hips rolling up, greedy as he grinds the fullness of his erection against Scar’s.

“Okay,” Scar says, moving steadily against him; strong, confident motions that make Grian choke out small sounds against his throat. The lube is back in his hand, cold liquid oozing onto his fingertips and collecting in the crease of his knuckles as he warms it. “Open up for me. We don’t have long.”

Grian relents, no longer rolling his hips and instead putting his legs back down, knees still parted. Scar backs up to make room as his hand slips between them, gently grazing the base of Grian’s dick and sack before seeking lower. Gently, he presses a finger to Grian’s rim, circling it and then rubbing the lube against it, slicking him up before he finally presses a finger in.

Instinctively, Grian hisses at the stretch. His legs tense and quake before he relaxes in practiced inches, moaning as Scar begins to tease the edge of his hole back and forth with shallow penetration.

It’s while Scar inserts the second finger that Grian gasps, face contorting. “C-careful Scar,” he mumbles, words fuzzy as he speaks. “It’s been a while… slower, please.”

Scar smooths a hand apologetically over Grian’s bare knee, pressing a kiss to the inside of his thigh.

“Sorry,” he offers, the apology handed over easily. “My bad.”

He endeavours not to think about what lies at the other end of Grian’s ‘a while.’ About who Grian’s last time had been with. They don’t have time for that.

Taking a breath, Scar focuses instead on slowing himself down, steeling against the rush of adrenaline that comes naturally from a situation like this. While their time is limited, and his emotions are high, there’s no reason to make something he should be enjoying so brusque and perfunctory.

Slowly, he eases his second finger back in, sinking halfway past his first knuckle. Not a lot, but just enough to get a stretching motion going inside of Grian, flexing the muscles and helping him unwind. It’s not long before Grian is sighing, loosening up as he melts into the feeling, and it’s only then that Scar adds his third finger. He works his digits in, bit by bit, watching with a growing desire deep in his belly as Grian’s hole takes him up to the second knuckle easily.

“Oh,” Grian moans, “Oh, god…”

“Ready?” Scar asks, and his voice comes out huskier than he expects. Before Grian can respond, he pushes his fingers in further, fucking Grian all the way up to the base of his long digits and watching him arch his back up at the motion.

“Yes,” Grian gasps, already panting. “Yes, god, Scar. Please—”

The desperation in his tone has Scar sitting up all at once—regretting it seconds later when the motion sends an electric jolt through his joint and right up into his hips. He must visibly wince, because he catches Grian’s expression folding into concern, his mouth twisting sideways.

“Do you want me to get on top instead?”

It’s a considerate offer, but even the thought of it makes Scar sick. He’s trying, really trying, not to reflect on the series of events that led them here. However it’s impossible not to think about Grian cheating with a suggestion like that. He remembers, too vividly, the condom in the backseat of his car. The implications of it—sex with someone who was able to satisfy Grian in ways Scar simply couldn’t.

His gut twists but he smiles through it, opting to rely on his charm. “Just sat up too fast, you know how it is,” he reassures, not entirely lying. “Lay back, Gri. Let me handle it.”

Easily, Grian lets himself fall back on the bedspread. It’s such a sight to see him spread out that way—chest rising and falling with small, panting breaths; dick hard and dripping pre onto his belly—that the hurt in Scar’s chest immediately smooths away. His legs are spread apart around where Scar’s fingers are buried inside him, muscles trembling just slightly from the stimulation.

Scar’s entire body aches for him.

“Okay,” he says, feeling a heady rush as he tugs his belt open with one hand, lifting himself up just enough to get his pants down around his thighs. “Okay.”

Grian’s brows pinch together as Scar slowly withdraws his fingers. He reapplies a careful amount of lube, not wanting to waste it, and takes his own erection in hand. It almost feels weird to touch himself and to want to, a strange bottleneck in his brain untwisting as his body responds positively to the sensation. It’s nice—familiar in a way he’d forgotten. He’s careful but eager as he strokes himself before angling in, pushing Grian’s legs just an inch further apart.

“Ready?” He barely recognizes himself when he asks, the low husk in his voice so startlingly unlike how he’s sounded lately.

Grian nods, head tilted back, and eyes closed as he waits. Then Scar is pushing in, the first nudge of the blunt head of his cock breaching Grian’s rim. Grian’s mouth falls open, expression tight as he breathes in, exhales, and breathes in again.

“Oh, Scar…”

He’s tight. Tighter than Scar’s used to. He braces his hand flat against the mattress and inches himself forward, watching as his cock presses in deeper and Grian’s body parts to accommodate him.

They usually talk more during sex, fond chatter and laughter. The silence of gasping breaths and stilted moans is new to them, but Scar finds he wouldn’t know what to say right now anyhow. He pushes further, taking his time, his own breathing slow and measured as he struggles to pace himself and not take Grian all at once.

He’s nearly bottomed out, easing back partway before he rocks forward with a slow first thrust, when Grian breaks the silence, voice reedy as he gasps, “You feel so good. So good, Scar. Oh my god, oh my god—”

It’s enough to break his careful control, Scar’s weight shifting forward as he covers Grian with his body. Automatically, Grian’s legs hitch up to hug each side of his hips and Scar thrusts forward, still cautious, but deep enough that he can feel Grian’s body quake beneath him. They move together, gently rocking and slowly getting reacquainted with one another.

“Kiss me,” Grian gasps, a moan pushing up out of his throat and his hands fumbling to find Scar’s cheeks. “Kiss me, Scar. Please—”

Scar obliges, leaning in for a kiss. He’s quiet as he does it, and it feels so strange. Normally, it’s all he can do to keep himself from waxing poetic when they’re together. A litany of Grian’s name mixed with praise and syrupy adoration. It embarrasses him now, to think of how he used to behave. He doesn’t know if it’s appropriate anymore.

At least while he’s kissing Grian he’s preoccupied—no reason to speak, or worry about not speaking. He drinks down Grian’s tiny moans, keeping a rhythm going with his thrusts. His cock throbs as Grian squeezes around him, and it makes him groan, kissing Grian harder.

It’s only when he’s found his rhythm that Scar realises Grian is trembling underneath him, shuddering vulnerably alongside Scar’s movements.

He stills his hips automatically, pulling back from the kiss.

“Grian,” he starts. “Are you alright—?”

Beneath him, cheeks flushed, Grian is crying.

Not full-on sobs—not anything so worrying as that—but on his face, Scar can see a gentle stream of tears, wetting his skin and trailing down his cheeks.

“Sorry,” Grian laughs, watery, unwinding an arm from around Scar’s neck and wiping his eyes quickly with the side of his hand. He clears his throat, self-conscious. “It’s just… been a while, you know?”

“Overwhelmed?” Scar asks, even though a part of him knows that can’t be it, knows there’s more to it than too much touch and too much sensation.

Grian stares up at him with something that a different man might call longing.

Scar’s heart aches at the sight of it.

“Yeah,” he whispers, so soft Scar barely hears it, the single syllable speaking volumes.

Slowly, gently, Scar reaches up to wipe the tears from Grian’s face, drying the streaks they’ve left behind. He follows with two delicate kisses, one to each eyelid, Grian’s lashes fluttering closed on contact. He lingers, for a moment, before brushing his lips against Grian’s forehead too. A sweet, chaste kiss.

Grian makes a strangled noise in his throat as Scar pulls away, eyes opening half-way just in time for Scar to smile at him.

His throat feels tight, voice too low, too rough, as he asks, “Are you close?”

Shyly, Grian nods, still apologetic. “Sorry, I know we barely got started—you’re… a lot. You’ve always been a lot, and I—” His voice breaks, and Scar politely chooses to ignore it. “I’m not used to it anymore, so…”

His words twist something in Scar’s chest, both petty and fond. The instinct to remind Grian that this—all of this—is a situation of his own making rises up like a noxious swell in his chest. Scar forces himself to ride out the impulse, bending to kiss Grian’s cheek instead as he resumes rocking into him with firm, timed thrusts.

“It’s okay,” he reassures, pressing another kiss, this time to Grian’s ear, as Grian arches beneath him and whines. “I’ve got you.”

“Scar,” Grian gasps, legs snug to the point of constriction around his waist. He hitches his hips up at every thrust, attempting to drag Scar closer; to feel him more. “Please—”

His dick is straining untouched between them, trapped between the heat of their abdomens. It can’t be the most comfortable sensation, with only the barely-there rub against his neglected arousal, so Scar takes pity on him. He pins Grian’s cock flush between their bodies as he bears down on him, and immediately, Grian keens under him. It’s a wonder to watch him, caught between pressing into Scar’s thrusts or attempting to get himself off by rutting into the slickness between them.

“Do you want me to touch you?” Scar asks, low, and Grian squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head in a quick back and forth.

“I’m so close,” he gasps, both a promise and an apology. “If you touch me I’m gonna—” his voice breaks off into a moan when Scar pushes into him at just the right angle, his hands flying up on instinct, fingers twisting into the short hairs on the back of Scar’s neck. “Oh fuck—Scar—”

“There?” The word is huffed against Grian’s throat, and all Scar can feel is his hasty nod, Grian clinging tight to him before he moans again.

“Please,” he pleads as Scar repeats the motion, sweat prickling along his scalp and down his spine. He strikes the same spot inside of Grian again and again, each rock of his hips tearing a choked cry from Grian’s throat. “Please.”

It’s not enough to get Scar off, but he can feel the tension winding tight in Grian. His quick, gasping breaths, panting against Scar’s shoulder as he pulls on Scar’s hair—too tight, almost painful—and then Scar feels Grian’s entire body clench, breath held for a moment before a sudden, sticky, warmth spreads against his belly.

He remains motionless for a second, letting Grian melt into his orgasm and enjoy the instant looseness of his limbs as his body relaxes all around him. His dick aches with every minute movement Grian makes, hands flexing against his hips. Grian murmurs something wordless, fingertips caressing circles into Scar’s scalp, but it only takes a moment longer before his legs are tightening around Scar’s waist again, encouraging him to proceed.

“It’s good,” Grian murmurs, softly assuring where his lips brush against Scar’s skin. “It’s good—keep going.”

Scar wastes no time, immediately sinking back into Grian with a deep thrust. He’s hovering over the precipice himself, and Grian’s quiet cries below him make a heat spread through his body. Where Scar had lost his words earlier, Grian seems to have gained them, clinging tight to him and whispering the kind of filth that turns the tips of his ears red.

“Fuck me,” Grian groans, pushing his hips down to meet Scar’s thrusts. “God, fuck me, I love it—you feel so good inside me, Scar.”

“Shit,” Scar curses, shuddering through a breath as he picks up his pace, his climax near. Grian’s heels dig into the small of his back, hands clawing at his shoulders like he can somehow drag Scar even further into him. It makes Scar moan, burying his face into the space between Grian’s shoulder and neck, kissing the skin by his lips fervently between each gasping breath.

“I need it—want you inside—” Grian continues between overstimulated breaths. “In me, Scar. All of you, please—”

As if he was only waiting for the words, Scar tips over right after Grian begs him for it. Finishing with short, staggered thrusts, he rides out his orgasm, groaning as he trembles from the force of his release. Like a man possessed, he presses kisses to Grian everywhere he can reach—nipping at his jaw, his lips, the hollow of his throat. Grian moans tenderly, stroking his back, gentle and slow through it all.

They rest like that for a moment, locked together in the afterglow while they catch their breaths.

“Wish we still had running water,” Scar mumbles at last, breaking their silence as he speaks into Grian’s collar bone.

Beneath him, Grian shakes with a little laugh. “A shower would be nice, yeah.”

With a sleepy murmur, Scar rolls off to the side, letting their bodies slip apart and giving Grian enough space to get comfortable. They don’t separate too far, legs still criss-crossing over one another. Normally, this is the part where Scar would hold Grian or be held in return. Pillow talk, while they wound down from the high of their intimacy together.

He used to love it.

Now, Scar feels a little awkward, not entirely sure what he’s meant to say after an encounter like that—especially with everything they’ve still left unsaid.

“Thanks,” he settles on after some thought. “That was fun.”

I missed this, he wants to add, unsure whether or not to share that vulnerability.

Grian is quiet, and when Scar turns his head to look at him, he’s staring back with a mournful expression on his face. It’s clear that he wants to say something, and Scar’s breath catches in his throat, wondering what it could be.

Finally, Grian parts his lips, but in the breath before speaking, they’re both interrupted by the sound of three gunshots firing in the distance.

They’re immediate, one following after the other. There’s no mistaking the sound; Scar would know it anywhere.

He sits up with a speed that he immediately regrets, a sharp burst of pain shooting up his pelvis with the movement. Next to him, Grian scrambles up as well, gathering his knees under him as looks around the room.

“What was—”

“Quiet,” Scar interrupts, raising a hand as he listens intently.

They wait, undressed and warm in the rosy glow of the afternoon, sweat still damp along their hairlines and the curve of their spines, but no further shots are taken.

“The boys don’t have a gun,” Grian says at last.

It’s true. They don’t.

Scar waits a moment longer, then shifts his weight towards the edge of the bed, slinging his legs over and planting his feet on the floor.

“We need to—” he stops as he looks back over his shoulder, arrested by the picture Grian makes sitting up on the bedspread; his hair dishevelled, pants tangled around his ankle, the flush of their exertion still bright on his cheeks and across his chest. He looks good, and a part of Scar that’s selfish and small wants nothing more than to fall back into bed with him. To close his eyes against the world, and forget about the horrors lurking around them.

It doesn’t work like that, though. And pretending it’s not happening won’t make the problems go away.

“We need to contact them,” Scar finishes, hitching his pants back up but leaving his fly hanging open as he gets to his feet.

He makes his way towards his backpack, rifling through the front pocket and grabbing the walkie talkie before returning to the bed. He takes a seat just near enough for Grian to huddle close, anxiously looking down at the device in his hands.

Scar takes a deep breath, a chorus of static greeting him before he holds down the PTT, “Pandas, this is Sparrow. I repeat: this is Sparrow. Do you copy? Over.”

They wait.

A minute passes. Then another.

“Try again,” Grian encourages.

“Pandas, this is Sparrow. Do you copy? Over.”

Again, no response. The silence sits heavy in Scar’s gut. An awful dread he can’t push down.

He’s about to reach out a third time when the walkie crackles and pops.

“Not now,” comes the hiss from the other line, spoken quick and fierce. Immediately after, the static returns. Scar’s thumb twitches over the PTT, but he doesn’t press down on it, instead heeding the words.

He looks at Grian, who’s mirroring his grim expression with one of his own.

“What do we do?” Grian asks, and it’s somehow pressed with the implication that they have options.

Scar looks at him, wondering if this is maybe the immediate consequence of his actions. The cosmic punishment for Scar’s good mood—for taking a foolish, short-sighted, risk to cling to something he should have already let go of.

“We hope that wasn’t what it sounded like,” he says at last, controlled. “And we wait.”

It’s clear Grian doesn’t like that answer, and if he’s being honest, Scar doesn’t either. Part of him wants to go looking for the trio, just in case they need backup. Another part knows it’s foolish to leave without any more knowledge of the situation. If they go out looking, they’re just as likely to meet danger as they are to circle around each other and never meet up again.

For lack of anything else to do, Scar gets up off the bed and heads towards the bathroom.

“I’ll grab you a towel,” he says over his shoulder, flatter than he perhaps intended.

The motel bathroom is tiny, scant sunlight making its way through the frosted slit of a window above the shower stall. Thankfully the towels are fresh, though without running water they’re a bit scratchy as Scar wipes himself off with them.

He makes a point of not looking at his reflection in the mirror. He doesn’t want to know what he looks like right now.

By the time he returns to the bed, Grian has smoothed his hair down and is wrestling his shirts back on. Scar hands him the towel before he carefully approaches the window, leaving the half-drawn blinds still as he peers out through the gap and into the motel courtyard.

There’s not a soul outside—survivor or otherwise.

Like a sentinel, he continues keeping guard until Grian dresses himself and comes to stand at his side. Cautiously, he puts a hand on Scar’s shoulder, leaning forward to glance out himself.

Despite everything, Scar is comforted by his presence.

“Looks clear,” Grian mumbles.

“I think, at the very least, we should make our way through the rest of the rooms,” Scar says. “Just to be sure.”

After a moment, Grian nods, and together they gather up their gear. It feels like a loss, after the moment of respite they’ve just shared, but Scar can’t come up with anything better to do. He’s restless, and it’s better to put that energy towards something productive rather than letting his mind spiral.

“Ready?” Grian asks, standing with his hand on the door. His small pack from the gun range is strapped across his chest, and the only trace of their actions still visible on him is the blush yet to fade on his cheeks, and the sweat in his hair.

With one last look at the motel bed—blankets cast off, sheets in disarray, pillows indented—Scar hums his acknowledgement and, together, they head out.

Notes:

(Click to reveal.)

[ SPOILERS ]

This chapter contains sexual content, so if you're a minor or would otherwise like to skip that section, please stop reading from, "His lips seek out" and continuing reading after, "They rest". We've provided a summary below that you can read in order to keep up with any plot details that might be relevant.

[ SUMMARY ]

They kiss again, more charged this time, and Scar grabs onto the impulsive desire, tired of feeling sorry for himself. He internally tries to justify his behaviour, calling it just a "hookup" in his mind. He asks Grian if he's still got lube and, for the first time, Grian is the one who's hesitant. Likely remembering how things ended before, he takes the time to make sure Scar is fully on board and asks him if he's sure he wants to do this. Scar reassures him that he does. He thinks to himself about how, the other two times they got intimate, there were extenuating circumstances (ie. losing everyone he cared about, being in pain, etc.) that made it difficult for him to stay aroused, but how this time around things feel better. He's had time to rest and the loss isn't as fresh--most importantly, Grian's been more like he used to be; kind and sweet and all of it makes Scar nostalgic in a lonely way that he wants to deal with.

Grian knocks him out of his thoughts and asks him if he wants to take things to the bed, out of consideration for Scar's disability. It backfires a little, because it makes Scar feel inadequate, bringing back memories of Grian cheating with a person who didn't need special accommodations like he does. He tries to brush it off and insist that he's fine, but Grian gently insists taking things to the bed anyways, and Scar agrees. There's a bit of banter as they undress and a lot of internal conflict for Scar as they kiss and touch and Scar preps Grian. Despite how into this he is, at the same time he can't help but be reminded repeatedly of Grian cheating and the things that lead them here.

This is especially poignant when Grian is ready, and Scar sits up to get into position and winces in pain because he stressed his joints by moving too quickly. Grian looks concerned and immediately offers to get on top in order to make things easier on Scar, but Scar only feels worse about it, yet again thinking about how Grian wouldn't have had to worry about any of this when sleeping with someone else. He doesn't share any of his feelings and instead charms Grian and waves his pain off, insisting that it's nothing to worry about.

They have sex, and it's good--it's almost like it used to be, except Scar is very aware of how little they're talking or laughing during. He feels really quiet, and also feels really embarrassed about how much he used to praise Grian before. It all feels silly and pointless now and he doesn't know how to get over the feeling. Thankfully the pleasure distracts him from his own reproachful thoughts for a bit, and he only stops in the middle once he realised that Grian is emotional beneath him. Scar asks if he's okay and Grian reassures him that he is, he's just a little overwhelmed, it's just been a long time and it's getting to him. Scar bites back the hurt part of him that wants to say it's Grian's fault in the first place, and settles on reassuring him instead.

Grian finishes first and then Scar climaxes shortly after him, finally in a place where he can enjoy himself without overthinking.

---

Lock added KSQ to our little Scarian TAMN banner! :D You check that out over here!

Chapter 16

Notes:

Starting off with some gorgeous new fanarts this week!

We've been spoiled with two pieces by THB this week! One is this sensual recap of Scarian's more intimate moments in Chapter 15, while the other is some Rancher's fanart in the form of one of the picture's the would've been up on the wall in the Rancher's Motel!

Next, we've got this absolutely beautiful rendition of Scar and Grian looking like they're on a book or movie cover by Jasombee!

And lastly, another gorgeous piece in Dizzovskey's incredible style!

Thank you three so much! 💜 As always, we're completely blown away by your love and kindness ;w; 💫

It takes four hours for the trio to return.

Grian hates it. Hates waiting. Hates watching Scar get more and more antsy as the minutes stretch on and on.

Scar doesn’t pace, to save his legs, so Grian paces for him, walking back and forth in the motel reception while they wait and wait and wait.

There’s been no correspondence through the walkie talkie since the first and only words they heard from the trio. Loose, garbled, static is the only thing coming in over the channel, every scheduled check-in passed without a sound.

“We’ll give them one more hour,” Grian states, finally breaking a silence thick with their collective nerves. “Then we’ll try to figure out where they’ve gone.”

He knows the best thing to do is to stay put and to wait. He knows that’s what’s rational.

He also knows that Scar’s patience is running out.

While he’d been the first one to suggest waiting, enough time has passed that being rational has gone out the window. Scar’s eyes continually dart towards the door over and over again, his knee jittering anxiously.

“Grian—” Scar starts, but the argument dies in his throat. His attention is caught over Grian’s shoulder, locked on something glimpsed through the large, reception lobby windows.

Instinctively, Grian turns to follow his gaze.

Sapnap is jogging up the driveway, Karl and Quackity trailing only a short distance behind him.

“Thank god,” Scar mutters under his breath, pushing himself to his feet.

At a glance, Sapnap doesn’t look much worse for wear. His expression betrays him, however, eyes narrowed and casting around too quickly, bruised deep by an exhaustion he wasn’t carrying when the three of them first set out.

The initial relief Grian felt upon seeing them fades in an instant. Instead, he’s put completely on edge by their somber attitudes.

“Who got hurt?” Scar asks, meeting Sapnap at the doorway. “Which of you—Quackity?”

“None of us,” Sapnap assures, but his tone is flat, posture tense and tired. He looks back over his shoulder as he waits for the other two, ushering them inside and then closing the door. He locks it immediately, herding them all as far away from the windowed front of the lobby as possible.

Scar allows himself to be moved, but Grian resists, planting his feet as he states, clipped, “We heard gunshots.”

It’s not meant to be an accusation—he’s been trying so, so hard to get along with everyone, pretending he’s put all his suspicions and anxiety behind him. He’s not trying to fall back into old habits, but when three guilty sets of eyes meet him, Grian can’t help but make note of it.

It takes a moment before Karl nods to confirm Grian’s statement, not offering anything else.

“I take it that wasn’t because you found a loot crate of handguns then,” Scar offers, grim.

Silence lingers, the trio hesitating in a way that feels damning.

Grian can’t make sense of it. Clearly there was trouble, clearly something happened—there’s no need to be secretive about it.

“We ran into some survivors,” Sapnap admits at last, the words reluctant as he looks towards the far wall, expression set. “They shot at us before they knew we weren’t… well, before we had a chance to talk to them. We tried to negotiate. Y’know, explain who we are, tell them that we were just passing through, but it’s—it got complicated.”

His eyes dart towards Scar, avoiding Grian entirely in a way Grian tries and fails not to take personally.

“They’re not looking to add people to their group, and they’re not keen on having neighbours,” he finishes, sounding like he’s admitting he cheated on a test. “They told us to be gone by sundown. We can’t stay here.”

It’s the last thing Grian wants to hear.

“What?” The word is out of him before he can think it through, temper sparking in a way he’s not entirely proud of, especially when he’s been trying so hard to be more patient with the trio. “What do you mean? How on earth did one conversation lead to an ultimatum like that?”

“Listen—” Sapnap starts, his mood abruptly turning far more defensive and sour, but he’s interrupted by Karl, who raises his voice ever-so-slightly to cut him off.

“We can’t do this right now,” he says, somehow making himself come off as the level-headed, rational one. “There’ll be time to point fingers and argue about who’s to blame for this later. Right now we need to get our things, and we need to get moving, alright?”

“What do you mean ‘who’s to blame’? What exactly went wrong? What did you say to them?” Grian demands, voice pitching up in frustration. “What about supplies? Finding us a place to stay? You’re telling me this whole town is off limits because someone took a few pot-shots at you? What are you not telling us?”

“Hey, fuck you,” Sapnap bites, bristling defensively. “You try getting shot at, tell me how fucking casual you are about it afterwards, pal.”

“Fellas—” Quackity starts, only to be immediately spoken over by Karl.

“We messed up and we’re sorry,” he says appeasingly, playing at their empathy in a manner Grian can’t stand. “Believe us, we’re not thrilled about this either.”

“We got out by the skin of our teeth,” Sapnap adds, brows furrowed. “It hasn’t been an easy few hours for us.”

“Hasn’t it been?” Grian asks, immediately on the offense. “You sure took your sweet time coming back for people on a time-limit.”

“Are you tryna imply something?” Sapnap presses, temper flaring. He straightens his spine, and though he’s not exactly tall, he cuts an imposing figure when he lifts himself up.

It would be more intimidating if Grian didn’t have Scar at his side, with his height and stature looming over everyone, brows drawn and expression stern.

“Scar,” Grian declares with bitter assurance, turning to look up at him. “Tell them this doesn’t add up.”

He’s expecting Scar to leap to his defense, the memory of a thousand ridiculous debates where Scar jumped to support him regardless of whether he was right or wrong giving him an arrogant degree of confidence.

He’s not expecting the way Scar folds his arms across his chest instead, his expression schooled.

“How many survivors were there?” he asks, speaking to Karl like nobody else in the room exists.

“Plenty,” Karl supplies readily. “At least twenty that we could see.”

“And they were armed?”

“Yeah. All of them.”

A pause. Then Scar asks, “If Grian and I were to go talk to them—”

“Absolutely not,” Karl interrupts, shaking his head. “The way things went with us, they’d shoot you dead before they’d hear a word out of your mouth.”

Scar nods; a quick, sharp motion.

“Alright,” he says, suddenly decided. “No choice but to leave then.”

It’s as though a rug has been pulled out from beneath Grian’s feet.

“I beg your pardon?”

“G,” Scar says, voice low as he finally looks at Grian, acknowledging his presence. “We’re outnumbered. If there’s a group of people out there, and they’ve got weapons, and aren’t looking to make friends, I’m not willing to take a risk.”

“You’re just gonna take their word for it?” Grian pushes. “It takes them four hours to come back, with no proof, and you just—”

“Grian,” Scar repeats, and there’s an authority in his tone that Grian hasn’t heard since the early days of the apocalypse. The deep, incriminating implication of ‘you owe me this.’ “I’m not happy about it either. In a perfect world, we could’ve negotiated before there were any gunshots. But if there’s no chance of talking things through, there’s nothing left for us here.”

Grian’s hands hurt, clenched into fists so tight that the meat of his palms ache. While what Scar is saying makes sense, it still doesn’t sit right with him that the trio haven’t explained what actually went wrong. What was so inexcusable that they have to leave the first real community of survivors they’ve come across? Why, on the cusp of something more than just barely surviving, are they being pushed back into isolation?

The air feels electric, the stalemate bristling between them only broken when Quackity speaks up, his words both delicate and careful.

“It took us a while to come back because we stopped to get you something, Scar.”

Grian feels his jaw clench, entirely not in the mood for this.

He doesn’t want gifts to enter into their dynamic. Doesn’t want them to be giving things to Scar, acting like that will smooth over everything else.

“Oh?” Scar asks, his natural curiosity getting the better of him.

Bile rises up into the back of Grian’s throat, ego stinging from the way Scar’s clearly being won over. Only a few hours ago, Grian had been the only thing on earth he’d been focused on.

It’s ridiculous. It’s unfair. How is he meant to pretend that things are better when the trio keep acting so clearly out of line?

“We passed a pharmacy,” Quackity explains, not making eye contact with either of them as he speaks. “And we thought… Listen, we weren’t trying to assume or anything...”

It’s clear he’s working around a tricky subject, something he has no experience talking about. With a shrug of his shoulder, he shifts his backpack under his arm, pulling it up against his chest. Quackity works his hand into one of its zippered pockets, pulling out a collapsible cane.

It’s the kind sold in drug stores, stocked next to one-size-fits-all knee braces and non-prescription reading glasses. Grian has seen them plenty of times before, and scoffs at it now. It’s fine, but it’s not the kind of cane Scar really needs when his mobility gets bad. He opens his mouth to deliver the news, but Scar speaks up instead.

“Oh, boys…” There’s a tenderness in his tone that catches Grian off guard, as though the tension of their argument has all but evaporated. “For me?”

Sapnap’s brow finally unpinches, arms coming down to his sides while his voice goes soft. “We know we were kinda shitty earlier—back at the house,” he explains. “Trying to make you move when you couldn’t and all. So we figured we should do something to make up for it, y’know? Or—make easier for it.”

“It’s not much,” Quackity adds apologetically, working his hand around the hard, plastic hand-grip of the cane. “We haven’t done a whole lot of cane shopping before, but uh… I hope this is something you can actually use.”

“You can tell us if it sucks,” Karl finishes, understanding. “It won’t hurt our feelings.”

With an encouraging smile, Scar holds out his hand. “May I see it?”

Eagerly, Quackity crosses the motel reception floor, standing close enough to Scar’s side that their shoulders bump against each other. It’s something Grian wishes he didn’t notice so pointedly, his palms itching as he keeps his hands gripped in tight, white-knuckled fists.

“Here,” Quackity says, passing the cane to Scar. “There were a couple different options, but most of them looked pretty bulky. We thought this one would at least be easier to store when you don’t need it.”

“A couple of them looked like those crooks they use to yank people off stage with in cartoons,” Kark giggles, semi-nervous as he explains it.

“A classic,” Scar laughs, a sparkle in his eye. He looks the gift over once before slowly unfolding it into its extended position. With practiced familiarity he holds it at his side, humming thoughtfully before he takes it back in hand to adjust the length.

The trio watch him with rapt attention, clearly anxious to know if they’ve brought him something he likes or not.

“We looked for one in orange,” Quackity specifies, speaking to fill the silence. “But there weren’t all that many options, and we were afraid of getting shot at again, so…”

Scar settles the cane back at his side and takes a few measured steps, testing it against his stride. “There’s a charm in personalizing your cane yourself,” he explains, sounding a little preoccupied as he moves. “I’ll get my hands on a couple stickers and fix this thing right up, don’t you boys worry.”

The trio exchange quick, hopeful glances.

“Does that mean you like it?” Karl asks.

“You can call me Cinderella ‘cause it’s a perfect fit,” Scar says, his smile warm and full of affection. “Thank you, boys.”

An awful, selfish, part of Grian wants to speak up. Wants to smugly inform them that a cheap, drugstore cane isn’t remotely close to what Scar needs. Grian’s seen him research and test dozens of different models of canes and walkers over the years—he’s more than familiar with the personal details of Scar’s disability. However, another part of him—the part that can’t help but feel a bit in awe at Scar’s kindness and gratitude for the trio’s gesture, despite how they’ve missed the mark—urges him to keep quiet and let Scar have this.

It shames him to see how good of a man Scar is.

A better one than Grian could ever hope to be.

For a moment, they all watch Scar as he continues testing his weight with the cane. He paces a slow circle around the back of the motel lobby before nodding his head approvingly. When he catches them all looking, Scar smiles a little self-consciously, a small slip in his normally confident demeanour.

“Well, the good news is that this motel was a bust anyway,” he offers, almost seamlessly redirecting the conversation, tapping the base of the cane on the side of his shoe. “Squeaky bed springs, musty towels… Not a single pillow-mint in sight, and believe me: Grian and I checked.”

“I mean, it’s a motel,” Sapnap offers with a shrug, a little confused by the segue. Luckily, Karl catches on immediately.

“Bed bugs too, I bet,” he remarks with a slight curl of his lip. “Mildew in the showers.”

“Skeletons in every closet,” Scar piles on, nodding. “You wouldn’t believe the things folks in hospitality think they can get away with these days.”

“Appalling,” Karl agrees, shaking his head. “Where’s the love, y’know?”

“Better off putting this place behind us,” Scar confirms, and it’s a visible relief to the trio when he uses the cane to walk towards his bag. “If we hurry, we can leave before they charge us the full day rate.”

It’s not remotely what he truly wants. Grian can tell from the way Scar hefts his bag back up onto his shoulders that he’s reluctant to do so. It would be so much better for him to spend the night here, in a proper bed with real privacy, resting and recharging.

Briefly, Grian regrets the way they spent their afternoon, wondering if it was a selfish use of Scar’s limited capacity. Then he remembers Scar backing him against the wall; the bright enthusiasm in his smile; the light in his eyes when he’d asked if he could kiss him; and he knows it wasn’t a mistake. That if he had the chance to do it all over, he’d do it the same way.

“Well,” Scar says, with no small measure of finality, slinging the rifle over his left shoulder. “Not sure how far we’re gonna get on foot with the daylight we’ve got left, but we’ll make an honest go of it. You boys done much camping before?”

“My dads used to take me,” Sapnap supplies, a hint of pride in his words, eager to show off his experience.

“Don’t know if you noticed, but I’m not what you’d call the ‘outdoorsy’ type,” Karl admits as he moves towards the door, a cheekiness in his smile when he says it.

“He’s pampered,” Sapnap explains, fondness in his tone, even though he’s teasing. “They both are.”

“I think the term is ‘indoor cat,’” Karl offers, and Sapnap chuckles, shaking his head fondly.

They’re all forcing their good moods and Grian hates it. Hates how easily they’ve collectively decided to pretend they’re fine. That this situation makes sense. That three gunshots and a story about some alleged survivors is enough to have them moving on without question, tails tucked between their legs.

“Spare me,” Grian mutters, passing the words under his breath like a curse, letting his impatience get the best of him. He moves resolutely towards the door. Grian knows this won’t look good if he wants to keep his amenable persona from earlier going—if he wants to keep Scar happy—but there’s no hiding how much this debacle has upset him.

They leave the motel together in single file, Sapnap taking the lead and Scar following at the rear. The trio keep quiet, as if a cut-throat, survivalist army is poised to swarm up and ambush them out of nowhere.

Their shadows cast long across the cracked pavement of the highway when they finally put the town fully behind them. The sun above makes its inevitable way towards early evening. They walk together in silence, and in the absence of their usual conversations, Grian starts to dwell, and begins to wonder. Doubt occupies his mind, inventing discrepancies in the trio’s story. With it, fresh anxiety arrives, flooding through his veins.

He wishes he’d pushed for them to stay at the motel for the night. Wishes he’d dug in his heels and called their bluff. They could be inside right now, with a roof over their head and rooms to themselves. He could have spent a full night in a proper bed and woken up rested and refreshed.

Instead, he’s walking into the desert with three people he trusts less and less, dusk gathering around them at a rapid pace, with no idea where they’re going to spend the night.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Scar asks at last, breaking the silence that had settled over them like a pall, his elbow knocking against Grian’s companionably.

Grian shakes his head. “Just trying to work some things out.”

“Mmm,” Scar muses, humming. “You’re looking a bit vexed.”

“It’s nothing really,” Grian starts. “It’s just—I’m sorry, did you say vexed?”

“It’s a good one, right?” Scar asks, preening with a grin, clearly proud of himself for his choice of vocabulary.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard it outside of a Regency novel,” Grian admits, and Scar chuckles in agreement.

“You know, I know a lot of words. Got a fine vocabulary—a swell vocabulary. I just can’t spit ‘em out when I need ‘em.”

Grian knows that this is his opportunity. Scar’s in a good mood and he’s purposefully seeking Grian out. This is his chance to talk to Scar and to encourage him to question the trio’s story—to point out the incriminating holes in it. It’s the best possible time to strike.

And yet, a part of him hesitates, worried about what he might find instead. That maybe Scar will reveal he’s put his trust in the trio over Grian, confirming that Grian is no longer someone he can rely on.

After the afternoon they just had, and the vulnerable place he found himself, it would be a devastating thing to hear.

He doesn’t know if he could handle it.

It’s safer, then, to pursue a casual conversation instead. Something they can effortlessly talk about for hours. As much as Grian wants to pry at the inconsistencies of what the trio have told him, he finds himself simply wanting the comfort of talking to Scar more. To immerse himself in the familiarity of their conversation, the way their words fit together and make him feel whole.

Finding out whether or not Scar trusts him can wait.

“Are you trying to impress me with how many pages of the thesaurus you memorised?” he teases, raising an eyebrow and offering Scar a coy grin.

“Depends,” Scar returns, and the glint in his eye ignites the same spark in Grian that lit up when Scar backed him up against the wall in the motel room earlier. “Is it working?”

Grian smothers a laugh with a fond roll of his eyes, ready to brush him off.

Then, miraculously, he feels Scar’s knuckles bump against his.

His heart leaps into his throat, grasping Scar’s hand automatically and hoping it doesn’t come off as desperate.

“It is,” he admits, letting a moment of silence settle between them before he adds, “So tell me what other words you know.”

Scar smiles, and he talks. And to his credit, Grian listens.

It’s another few hours before they finally stop to set up camp for the night, but at the very least, the time passes easily.

The spot they choose to make their camp is settled into the dip of a dry creek bed that winds its way parallel to the road. It’s a natural alcove, worn down into the land where water used to run, sheltered from anyone that might be trailing after them in the dark.

Together, they carefully pick their way down the bank, the dry earth cracked and dusty beneath their feet. They walk in the direction that leads them away from the highway and towards a natural curve of the waterway that, over decades, had piled silt up at its bend. It creates a blunt hill with a base of wind-worn sandstone that looms over them in the gathering dusk.

It’s picturesque but barren, though Grian supposes it’s as good a place to stop as any.

“Doesn’t it look like it should have a tower on it?” he asks, shielding his eyes as he peers up at the hill’s peak. The rise is the tallest thing around for miles, glowing red-gold in the light of the swiftly setting sun.

None of the others acknowledge his question, too busy clearing the ground of loose stones and brush so that they can set up a place to sleep. Karl lights the solar lamp, the glow sterile and pale against the fading amber of the sunset. To Grian’s surprise, the trio also pull a small hiking tent out of Sapnap’s backpack, assembling it with only a bit of fumbling as they wrestle the poles together.

“Scar,” Grian presses, looking back up at the hill. There’s something about it… a compulsion that pulls at his chest and makes him unable to take his eyes off it. “Don’t you think? A big tower.”

Scar pauses with his backpack in his hands, glancing up at the hill and shading his eyes as he studies it for a moment. Grian can tell that Scar can’t quite see what he can, but he smiles enough to humour him, nodding with an agreeable shrug.

“Why not a whole castle?” he asks, but the question is rhetoric, his attention immediately returning to the trio and their tent. It’s sleek, the polyester canvas a forestry green that stands out against the dry scrub of the creek bed.

“There’ll be room enough inside, since we sleep in shifts,” Sapnap explains. He tugs a rolled up sleeping mat out of his bag, loosening its straps with the familiarity of a person who’s had plenty of experience sleeping outdoors.

“It might be cold cans of beans for us tonight though, boys,” Karl says with a sigh as he casts his eyes around the area, hands on his hips. “I don’t know if we’ll be getting a fire going in these conditions.”

He’s right to say it. The scrub and dry brush around them will ignite easily, but it won’t be enough to properly stoke a fire for long, even a small one.

All the same, Quackity pesters.

“We gotta have more than that, Karl. C’mon, I’m starving.”

Admittedly he doesn’t look great. Exhausted from the long walk, features pallid in the fading daylight.

Karl glances at him before he looks back down at the contents of his bag, clearly weighing something in his mind.

“Well… if my baby wants a hot dinner, my baby gets a hot dinner,” he announces a moment later, clapping his hands together with finality. “Sap, come on. There’s bound to be something around here we can set on fire long enough to cook up something decent to eat.”

Obediently, Sapnap puts his things aside and gets to his feet. However, when Karl looks towards Scar to invite him along, he’s already shaking his head.

“I just sat down,” Scar explains, forcing a smile despite himself. “I’m not getting up until tomorrow, boys.”

“Q, you stay with him then,” Karl decides. “And G, do you—?”

“It’s Grian,” Grian corrects, arms folded tight across his chest. All his work towards being agreeable and polite is fading away right before his eyes after an afternoon of letting his mistrust seep in again. “And I’m gonna check out the top of that hill. Look around and see if there’s any googlies.”

It’s a flimsy thing to say. An obvious cover for something he wants to do that actually has very little benefit for the rest of them. All the same, Karl accepts it, nodding as he picks up one of their walkie talkies, clipping it to his back pocket.

“Stay on radio,” he says, and Grian’s not sure whether he’s speaking to him or to Scar.

He doesn’t really care either way.

“I’ll be right back,” he explains, and if Scar has an objection to it, Grian doesn’t wait long enough to hear it. There’s a compulsion within him that pulls him up the hill, and he follows the urge like a calling. He circles halfway around its base before he begins climbing its slope upwards.

At first, he can keep the campsite in his periphery, the higher he goes the more it slips away. Pretty soon, he can no longer hear Scar and Quackity chatting by the tent, nor see where Sapnap and Karl have wandered off to on their hunt for firewood. By all metrics, it’s not exactly a mountain that Grian is climbing, but it feels like an undertaking all the same. His heart pounds at the thought of reaching its summit and being able to survey out from the top.

It doesn’t take him long to reach the peak—a few minutes at most—but there’s a satisfaction to it anyhow. The top of the rise is flat and nearly level, almost as though it’s already been squared off in preparation for some sort of building. Again, Grian imagines it supporting the base of a tower—parapets running along its top, lanterns hanging from every corner. He sighs as he examines the area, a small smile playing about his lips as he stares out from his elevated vantage point, proud of his accomplishment.

There’s not much to see, the desert as unimpressive from above as it is at ground-level. Still, Grian watches for a while, feeling a strange sort of calm settle over him that he doesn’t know what to make of.

A part of him, small but persistent, begins thinking of all the times Scar made it clear that he wanted some distance from Grian. He thinks about how every instance instead made Grian cling to Scar even tighter, terrified that letting him go, even temporarily, would mean he’d be gone forever.

Now, looking at the view, alone with his thoughts, Grian wonders if this is what Scar has been craving.

A sudden, strange impulse tells him to take a step forward, and Grian does so cautiously, approaching the edge of the rise. The other side of the hill is steeper—more like a cliff than the gentle slope he ascended.

An odd, weightless feeling settles in his stomach—indescribable, like déjà vu.

Unprompted, he looks down and wonders if a fall from this height would kill him.

“Jesus,” he breathes, quickly pressing the heels of his palms against his eyelids and shaking his head to clear its morbid curiosity.

It takes him another few moments, peering out over the horizon and genuinely looking for anything that could be a danger—be it wandering clusters of undead, or a party of survivors looking to dispatch them in their sleep—but in the end, Grian concludes that there’s not a soul to be seen.

Finally he turns away from the ledge, releasing a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

It’s an easy enough walk back down to the bottom of the incline. He moves against a light breeze that’s stirred up as evening settles in. It makes him shiver a little as he goes, eager to get back to Scar and hopefully share in some warmth, either from his arms, or the fire Karl has promised to procure.

It’s while he’s wishing he’d taken his jumper with him that he hears it—Karl’s voice, carried to him on the wind.

“Would you keep it down?”

He can’t see Karl anywhere. Nor can he see Sapnap, who answers Karl with a mumbled, “Sorry.”

Intrigued by the hushed urgency in their voices, Grian slows down and edges towards the sound, their words made clearer as he draws near.

“I’m just worried about him, Karl,” Sapnap continues, picking up a conversation that’s clearly been going on since the two left the camp together. “He looks bad.”

Karl’s voice is lighter than Sapnap’s, and Grian has to strain to hear him. “I’m worried too, but there’s nothing we can do about it right now. We just need to be patient.”

“After what we went through in that town… Fuck, Q was really messed up afterwards.”

“I know, Pandas,” Karl allows, clearly holding back some emotion. “But there was nothing either of us could do. We were dealt a bad hand, but he didn’t hurt anyone, and at least we got out alive, right?”

Sapnap makes a sound, a scoff with something muttered underneath.

“I keep thinking…” he starts, trailing off for a moment before he tries again, continuing with more conviction. “I keep thinking, maybe if we’d had a gun. If we’d taken the rifle…”

“Maybe,” Karl agrees, but even Grian can hear that he sounds unconvinced.

“How long are we gonna keep this up for?” Sapnap presses.

They both fall silent, either whispering or contemplating, until at last Karl says, “I don’t know, Pandas. I just don’t.”

They continue speaking but their voices dip lower, soft murmurs that Grian can’t hear over the sound of his blood drumming loud in his ears. His heart feels like it’s in his throat, every instinct telling him he’s pushing his luck, but he tiptoes closer, trying to pick up more of their words. He’s certain that he’s on the cusp of something enormous.

“I feel shitty for lying,” Sapnap confesses, and there’s rustling—a foot kicking through dry sage. “They’re gonna be pissed when they find out. They’re not gonna want us around anymore, I just know it.”

“Hey, c’mon, it’s gonna be alright,” Karl coos with a confidence that sounds borrowed. “It’ll work out, you’ll see…” he assures, pausing before he adds, glib, “Or we’ll stab ‘em in the night and take their stuff. They’ll never see it coming.” His words are followed by the sound of a kiss, loud in the specific way that Karl is fond of.

“Don’t even joke,” Sapnap warns, but the words barely make it to Grian’s ears.

Alarm grips his chest tight, adrenaline screaming through every vein and ventricle of his body, begging him to run to safety. Now.

The panic is so potent that Grian doesn’t even have time to feel vindicated for having known they were hiding something. All he can hear is the rush of his own pulse, and Sapnap’s voice on repeat, confirming their duplicity. His mind races as he backs away from where he’d been crouched in the dry soil, giving himself some distance before he turns and flees back towards their camp.

He’s heard enough.

He needs to get to Scar, and they need to leave.

The soft silt of the creekbed slips under his feet as he attempts to run, heels sinking down and filling the soles of his shoes. Grian struggles to keep his footing, briefly wondering about quicksand. An imaginary threat, foolish, distracting him when he has an actual press of concern weighing him down.

The trio have always been cagey, Grian thought so from the start. He feels stupid now for all the allowances he made for them. How he’d let himself be mollified by their smiles, their quick wit, and their open, vulnerable façade. Every one of them, but especially Quackity. He hates how much he’d tried to believe the glimpses of himself that he saw in the younger man were something to build a mutual understanding on. How he was truly forcing a camaraderie that was never there to begin with.

He should’ve known they were up to something. He should’ve trusted his gut.

Bitterly, Grian can’t help but think about their afternoon; about the gunshots and the survivors he never once saw. The suspicious part of him wonders if the trio are in league with them. If this has all been a trap. If they meant for Grian and Scar to fall asleep so they could ransom them or take them hostage.

Paranoia grips Grian tightly, pulling him into a spiral of panicked conclusions. Karl’s threat repeats over and over in his mind, no matter how jokingly he implied it.

It’s easy now to see why the trio had pushed for them to leave the town with such fervor. No doubt this is what they were planning on—some sort of secret rendezvous at a predetermined location.

Grian doesn’t want to think about what’s in it for the trio. What could they possibly stand to gain from handing him and Scar over to some cutthroat cult of survivors? Trading the two of them away for their own safe passage, maybe. Trying to save their own pathetic hides.

How badly has society fallen apart already, if this is what it’s come to?

Grian can see the light of the solar lamp ahead, the camp itself still hidden by the natural curve of the creek bed. All he needs to do is grab Scar and get out of here, it doesn’t matter if they have to leave some of their things behind.

It’s as he’s opening his mouth to shout for Scar that he hears it—the unmistakable sounds of panted, gasping breaths.

For the second time in rapid succession, the world falls out from beneath him.

Instinctively, Grian falls into a crouch. Maybe to keep a low profile, or maybe because his legs can no longer support his full weight under the heaviness of his shock. Grian can assume, but he still doesn’t understand the context of what he’s hearing, confusion battling with his near overwhelming anxiety. He tries to calm himself, breathing slow and focusing on the muffled scraps that he can hear.

“Please…” It’s difficult to make out the enunciation of the word, but he knows it’s being said by Quackity, a whine caught between gasps.

The dragging lilt in his voice makes Grian sick to his stomach. His limbs are stiff and leaden as he crawls closer, straining to hear. His panic has yet to fade, and Grian is left feeling like he’s trying to contain too much in an altogether too-tiny space. His body feels like it might collapse in on itself from the sheer volume of emotions he’s being forced to experience at once; anxiety and fear, astonishment and utter disbelief.

Betrayal, in every sense of the word.

In front of him, he discovers something worse than Karl and Sapnap’s conversation: a taste of his own, awful medicine.

“Please,” Quackity repeats, and this time it’s followed by a low noise, one Grian wishes he didn’t immediately recognise as a moan. “Please. Please, Scar… I need this.”

Grian tries to parse it—tries to pry the incriminating sound of Quackity’s voice away from the dread that lodges itself in his chest. Because surely it couldn’t be—surely Scar wouldn’t—

The killing blow is Scar’s voice following immediately after Quackity’s moan, low and rough in a way that Grian thought only he knew.

“Easy,” Scar offers, so calm and familiar to Grian that it makes his stomach turn. “Take a deep breath, okay? Slow and steady.”

“I’m sorry,” Quackity all but sobs. “I’m sorry, I can’t, I can’t—I’m trying, but—”

“Shh, it’s alright. No rush. Take your time...”

Ice floods Grian’s veins, subduing the tempest of emotions raging within him in an instant. He feels cold all over, numb to what’s happening. It’s hard to breathe, hard to focus, and there’s a ringing like tinnitus in his ears, drowning out the distant sounds Quackity and Scar are making until they’re garbled and unrecognisable.

Realistically, it can’t be more than a few seconds that Grian sits dazed, but it still feels like he’s been out for hours when he comes back to himself, body heavy and mind slow. Still out of sight, Scar and Quackity continue to make hushed noises. Grian forces himself to listen, despite how every gentle reassurance from Scar makes him want to hurl.

“—can’t tell anyone. Please…”

Scar laughs, breathless in the same way he got with Grian back at the motel. “I know better than to tell Grian about something like this. Don’t worry.”

“Not just Grian—Karl and Sapnap too. They’ll be—” Quackity makes a strangled sound and Grian hears something squelch that he can’t quite place. He hopes it’s Quackity crying, but a part of him isn’t so sure. “They’ll be crushed.”

“I think, out of everyone, they’ll understand. They love you.”

“They wouldn’t. Not after finding out about this. They won’t like it, they’ll—”

“Quackity—”

“I know I can’t hide this forever. I know that,” Quackity hisses, words clipped between panted breaths. “But for now… Please pretend nothing happened, okay? I had a… a moment of weakness. I’ll tell them, just… not right now. Not yet. Please.”

The silence stretches out, interrupted only by Quackity’s ragged, broken breathing.

“Okay,” Scar relents at last. “If that’s what you really want.”

There’s a scoff from Quackity, choked like he’s ashamed of it, before he says, quiet, “Thanks, handsome.”

It feels like Grian is floating, detached from his body and reeling from the overload of information he’s being forced to process. It takes him a moment to realise his hands are shaking, bitterness and betrayal settling thick and amorphous in his gut, taking root deep within him.

Angrily, he imagines himself barging into camp and catching the two of them in their disgusting little act. The curl of satisfaction he’d feel when he announces that he always knew that Quackity’s flirtations were never merely the jokes he insisted they were. That every one of Scar’s reminders that Quackity was ‘just a kid’ was a blatant deflection.

He pictures the panic, the deception, the mortified words and rushed excuses as they struggle to separate themselves.

Then he thinks about his own experience. The way he’d felt something inside him turn over and die when he heard Scar walk in through his front door that night that feels like years ago. The way B had stilled against him; the whispered questions Grian had never answered.

He remembers how it had all felt inevitable.

He remembers hating himself.

Naively he’d thought maybe, given enough time, he and Scar would untangle that mess together. He’d known, of course, that there was a chance that Scar would never forgive him—that what they’d once had was well and truly lost—but to have it confirmed like this… in a situation where Scar himself is casting everything he once held above Grian’s head aside? Becoming the other man to—to what? To teach him a lesson?

He can’t bear to imagine the way Scar is going to sound when he asks Grian how the shoe feels on the other foot. The irony of it sits heavy on his chest, suffocating.

Crouched and quiet, Grian waits for Quackity or Scar to say more, but all that greets him is silence. At one point, he hears something like shuffling, and he tries not to imagine clothes being hastily rearranged; hair smoothed down; Quackity pulling his beanie back into place while Scar massages an ache out of his thigh.

He takes one, slow, deep breath, and then another, and at last… he stands up.

He still feels ill when he finally re-enters camp.

“There he is,” Scar says, words warm within a smile as he greets him.

The way he’s able to act like he’s fine and that nothing has happened makes Grian’s skin crawl.

“Finished building your sandcastle already?”

‘How dare you,’ Grian wants to say. To shout. ‘How dare you punish me over something you’re doing yourself?’

He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to be learning a lesson. If this is spite, or malice, or something else entirely. He wants to shout that he’s in on their little secret—to bitterly announce that he overheard the two of them together, and that there’s no point in pretending.

That he hopes they’re happy together. That he hopes they’re proud.

And yet, strangely, even more than that, he wants to put everything aside and warn Scar about Karl and Sapnap instead. He wants to say that his gut instinct not to trust the trio was right. That Scar needs to get up. That they need to go, now.

His thoughts battle against each other, pulling him every which way until he can’t say anything at all, his words bottling up inside of him, turning him mute.

He feels nauseous.

“Couldn’t see any googlies,” he manages eventually, sitting down heavily as far away as their ring of lantern-light allows. He can see the way Scar is watching him, beckoning Grian over with his eyes, but he resists. He pointedly ignores Quackity as well, who seems relieved to not be under any of Grian’s normal scrutiny. “We’re the only souls around for miles.”

Nothing much is said after that—Grian’s lost all energy and all drive. He feels exhausted in a bone-deep sort of way, the rage required to yell and accuse having bled out of him, replaced by a numb sort of surrender. He sits in silence while Scar and Quackity go on like nothing’s wrong. A few minutes later, he loses his chance to reveal what he’d overheard Karl and Sapnap saying when they return to camp, arms laden with branches from the sparse ground-cover, and hefty, dry chunks of saguaro cactus.

It doesn’t look like enough to keep a fire going for long, but the two of them make a go of it anyway. They chat and laugh amicably as they pull a haphazard dinner together, oblivious to the tension in the air around them.

Grian’s only comfort is that, through it all, Quackity looks just as uncomfortable as Grian feels. A vicious part of him considers casually spilling Quackity’s secret to his oblivious partners—but in doing so, knows he’ll have to contend with how Scar has now hurt him in the same way he’d so meticulously and intentionally hurt Scar in the first place.

Because what if Scar chooses Quackity in the fallout? What if Karl and Sapnap laugh and brush it off, and welcome Scar into their relationship with open arms?

What if, ultimately, Grian has nothing and no one left to hold on to?

He eats his portion of canned, baked beans in solitude, brooding.

At some point, Quackity finally moves—shifting to sit between Karl and Sapnap, knees pulled up to his chest, and compressed into something almost impossibly small. As if it’s on cue, the pair wrap their arms around him, and volunteer to take the first watch for the night. Grateful, Scar accepts. Without any additional conversation it’s decided, and like a divider has been drawn between them, the trio start talking quietly amongst themselves. Scar turns to Grian, his smile a little bashful as he holds out his hand.

“Help me up?” he asks, and though Grian is in turmoil, he knows refusing Scar is a line he can’t cross. Without hesitating, he grips Scar around the wrist and braces his other hand against his elbow, helping Scar to his feet.

“Can’t imagine what got me all sore and aching,” Scar jokes on the tail-end of a tired groan. He grins at Grian in a way that only a few hours ago would’ve made his heart race and his mood skyrocket.

It shocks him how well Scar takes to hiding things.

He wonders if it was something always latent in him, or if Scar only learned it from watching Grian do the same.

“I can think of a few things,” he responds stiffly, thinking of Quackity’s laboured breaths and Scar’s rough tones.

If Scar hears the terseness to his words, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

He laughs and dusts the sand off his legs, gesturing towards the tent. “Fancy enjoying these five star accommodations with me?”

‘No,’ Grian wants to say, his heart still fragile and aching. ‘I don’t fancy that at all.’

Instead, they wordlessly move into the tent, cramped and claustrophobic. Scar’s in high spirits, even though he has to bend over and curl up on his side just to get inside. They track sand and grit in with them, but it doesn’t seem to affect the pep in his step whatsoever. Scar only bothers to take his jacket off before he lays down on the thin mat under his sleeping bag, leaving everything else on, including his shoes.

Grian can tell that Scar’s waiting for him to curl in close before he gets properly comfortable, and there’s a strange disconnect between them when Grian doesn’t immediately rush to do so.

“Long day,” Scar deflects once it becomes clear there will be no cuddling.

Grian sighs, not knowing who to be more mad at. Not knowing if it matters at this point.

For a moment they lay in silence, listening to the ambient hum of the desert and the occasional crackle of the fire outside, the flames already burned down to embers.

“I’m glad you’re here, Grian,” Scar admits at last, and despite himself, despite everything, Grian feels his breath catch at the admission, his heartbeat fluttering.

“Goodnight, Scar,” he says, turning over and pulling the top of his sleeping bag snug up over the back of his head.

His mind is racing, putting together a plan, and knowing he’s the only one who can pull it off.

In the morning they’ll break camp, and then he’ll find a way to get one of the trio off on their own. Once isolated, he’ll confront them about what he heard, and after that he’ll let the chips fall where they may.

He won’t continue to turn a blind eye to what’s always been right in front of his face.

He won’t be made a fool of. Not by any of them.

Not anymore.

Notes:

Next week is another one of my most favourite chapters for this arc! Can't wait to share it with y'all! >:D

Chapter 17

Notes:

Little note that Lock and I will be away next week, so there won't be a new chapter 💔😔 To make up for it however, this chapter is extra long! So here's hoping y'all will have plenty to keep you engaged until we meet again two weeks from now! :3

Before we get into it, big shoutout to the newest fanart we received! 💞

First, a collection of the softest, funniest sketches by sun-cube (ft Pearl and Cub :D :D)!

And secondly, this phenomenal rendition of Grian overhearing Scar in Chapter 16 by hei-n1cky!

Enjoy the chapter! And please skip to the end notes for spoiler-y CONTENT WARNINGS! 💜

The day dawns cold and overcast, cloaked in a sallow grey that makes the world appear loose and dreamlike.

Grian has been awake for several hours, woken early by Karl, who had pushed the tent flap open in the gloom, murmuring it was time for him to take his turn on watch. The only thing that had moved Grian had been finding Scar curled close, arms tucked snug around him. It had gotten Grian up quickly, uncomfortable with the intimacy of Scar’s presence after the events of the previous night. He’d pulled on his coat and woken Scar, heading out of the tent without waiting for him.

The hours of their watch together had passed without incident. Still, try as he might, Grian couldn’t find it in himself to engage with Scar in any meaningful way, despite constant efforts on Scar’s part. He could tell that Scar was confused by it, uncertain why Grian was behaving in such a manner. Especially when only yesterday they’d been more affectionate than they had been since before the outbreak.

Even now, he feels sick and distressed, unable to handle how easily Scar smiles at him, unaware that Grian had caught him tangling up with someone else and promising to keep it a lurid secret.

He can’t help but wonder if it’s all some sort of cosmic punishment. A taste of his own rotten medicine. He tries not to think about it—how much it hurts to feel the consequence of what he so rashly did himself, not wanting to get bogged down in the quagmire of his own emotions.

He doesn’t know how long he can maintain his composure. Doesn’t know if he even wants to.

“Gonna be a long walk to our next stop fellas,” Karl announces, finishing off the last of his breakfast; a handful of trail mix fished out of a ziplock bag he has stuffed in his pocket. “Probably four or five hours, depending on how many breaks we take in between.”

“Jesus, why the fuck are all these places so god damn far apart?” Sapnap complains, to which Karl just laughs.

“Probably ‘cause most people used a car to get between them, baby.”

Sitting beside him, Scar lowers his voice into something intended for only Grian to hear. A little quip, judging by his tone. But Grian doesn’t register what he’s saying, too focused on watching Quackity from across their little camp.

He’s been quiet all morning, pale and exhausted. There’s a sleepless quality to his gaze, one that Grian recognises all too well from memories of his own reflection the day after he’d been caught cheating. He isn’t making eye contact with Grian or either of his two boyfriends.

He has, however, sent multiple furtive looks Scar’s way.

It’s as incriminating as it gets.

Abruptly, Grian crumples the wrapper of his protein bar, tossing it aside and taking a swig from his water bottle.

“We need supplies,” he announces, pushing himself to his feet.

“Uh, yeah dude.” Sapnap gives him a look, like he’s an idiot for even bringing it up. “Like Karl said, it’s gonna take us five hours to get to the next town.”

Undeterred, Grian continues, “There’s a place that’s closer.”

“What? No there isn’t.” Karl looks bewildered by Grian’s insistence. There’s a beat, and realisation dawns on him. “Unless you mean—”

“There’s a proper city.” Grian nods. “And it’s only a little out of our way.”

He’s not wrong. There is a detour forthcoming—a fork in the road, one direction leading to a thick tangle of civilization, while the other keeps them safely out of the way. He and Karl had studied the route earlier, weighing both options before deciding it was in their best interest to stay the course. Now, however, Grian has other motives in mind, driving him to behave in a manner that must appear reckless.

“Are you fucking crazy?” Sapnap scoffs, decidedly unimpressed by the suggestion. “You wanna go to a city? Now? Two weeks into this mess?”

Karl is more cautious in his rebuttal. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, G… I know you and Scar went through Anaheim and all, but like Q said—”

“And who exactly made Quackity the authority on zombies?” Grian asks at once, bitter. The aggressive, antagonistic persona he’d shown them all when the trio had first crashed into their lives resurfacing all at once. “Has he been in a lot of apocalypses before this one? Got a bunch of hands-on, real life experience with the undead? All he’s got is a theory. For all we know, there’s just going to be more of the same, slow, passive corpses we’ve already seen. Practically harmless so long as you give them a wide berth.”

“Why the fuck do you even want to test it?” Sapnap presses, hot-headed and impatient. “Do you have a death wish or something?”

“I really don’t think it’s worth the risk,” Scar offers in agreement, eyeing Grian with a look that very clearly asks, ‘What’s gotten into you?’ “Why rush into a place that could be swarming with infected when we could wait a little longer and get the things we need somewhere else?”

“Just like we did at the last place we stopped? And the place before that?” Grian counters, knowing full well that their hunt for supplies coming up empty hits a sour note for everyone. “We’ve been running on empty for a while now. I think it’s safe to say that, at this point, these little smudges on the map are not what we need. What do we do if the next small, run-down, barely-worth-its-name, shanty town doesn’t have any supplies either? Or has more survivors that don’t want to share? What then, hm? We can’t just tighten our belts forever.”

The group stares at him, speechless, and a part of Grian feels powerful because of it.

“I’m being realistic,” he continues, leveling his tone and pushing his narrative, gesturing emphatically with his hands as he speaks. “We need a place that once had a proper population; we need a place that had infrastructure. How long can we stretch out the rations we’ve got left? Isn’t it smarter to take risks now, when we have something to fall back on if things go wrong, instead of leaving it till we’re hungry and desperate and have no other choice?”

Karl hesitates, teeth snagging his bottom lip as he considers Grian’s point.

“I get what you’re saying, but…”

It’s the perfect opportunity for Grian to go for the jugular. Heroic and self-sacrificial.

“I’m not saying we all have to go,” he explains, taking a look at each of them, one by one. “I can go on my own, and I’ll catch up with you once I’m done.”

“Absolutely not. No way.” Scar’s tone is non-negotiable, so firm that it catches Grian off guard. “What are you saying, Grian? It’s way too dangerous for you to go off like that, zombies or not.”

Grian shoves down the tender part of him that’s touched Scar still cares enough to speak up, having to remind himself what’s at stake and why he’s doing this.

“I’ll be fine,” he insists, playing his part well. “It’s my idea. I wouldn’t feel right asking anyone else to go. We were unlucky getting chased out of the last stop—if we’d been able to stock up properly, I wouldn’t even be suggesting this.”

As if on cue he sees it. Three guilty flinches. Sapnap’s mouth turns down, and Quackity’s whole body shrinks in on itself. Remarkably, Karl hides it best, his face remaining neutral, betrayed only by something vulnerable that flashes in his eyes.

It’s exactly what Grian had hoped to see.

“No one wants to admit we’re on our back foot right now, so I’m just gonna say it: we need to take this chance while we have it,” he explains, plastering a pitiable smile on his face. “And I’m offering to take that risk. For all our sake.”

He lets his words sit, allowing the group to absorb them. He can see how antsy the trio are getting—whether it’s their consciences gnawing at them, or their need to keep their deception going. Frankly, Grian doesn’t care which it is, so long as it gets him the result he wants.

“Alright then,” Scar says at last, nodding. “I’ll go with you.”

His volunteering is met with immediate pushback, Sapnap and Karl speaking up in an attempt to talk him out of it. Scar’s words pull at something vulnerable buried deep within Grian. After everything they’ve been through, he hoped but… he didn’t dare presume Scar would choose to stay by his side.

Straightening his spine, he shakes his head, determined. “No, Scar. You can’t.”

Irritation flashes in Scar’s eyes, his voice frustrated when he speaks, clearly indignant. “Don’t give me that tone, Grian. You know I’m more than capable of—”

“It’s not about you being capable or not,” Grian interrupts. “If Quackity’s right, and there is a horde of hungry, aggressive, monsters out there, then we’re gonna need someone who can get in and out fast. You’re a big target. There’s less risk with someone of my stature.”

“Well, you can’t go alone,” Scar cries, making a sweeping motion with his hand. “That’s suicide!”

“I’ll go with him.”

Simultaneously, the group turns towards the source of the declaration, and Grian feels the satisfying snap of a noose pulling taut.

It’s Quackity. Hands clenched tight on either side of his body.

“I’ll go with you,” he repeats, speaking firm, dark eyes determined.

Grian resists the urge to let a victorious smile spread across his face.

Got him.

“Perfect,” he says with finality. “It’s settled then.”

“It’s absolutely not settled,” Scar insists, in sync with Karl and Sapnap’s frazzled objections.

“Scar,” Grian mutters, speaking with the clipped tone he used to use before the world fell apart. The one that always made Scar look broken-hearted. “Drop it.”

Green eyes meet his, angry and betrayed all at once. But Grian knows better than to allow himself to feel guilty.

“Quackity,” he says, clipped and to the point. “Get ready.”

The group breaks into halves as he and Quackity prepare. The trio clusters together, talking in hushed but urgent voices, Quackity clearly debating with them and trying to convince them to let him leave. For Scar’s part, he stands off to Grian’s side, giving him a look that Grian doesn’t want to acknowledge.

“Grian,” he says at last, and it’s clear he’s determined to try and talk him into changing his mind.

“It’ll only be a few hours, Scar,” Grian retorts, resolute. There’s something sour in his throat, words he knows he shouldn’t say out loud but finds himself muttering regardless. “Maybe it’ll be good for us to take a day apart. You could probably use it.”

It’s presented like a gift; bitter acknowledgement of the distance Scar has alluded to craving ever since they broke up.

In response, Scar merely looks at him, pushed into silence, his expression is inscrutable.

“If you—” Scar starts, and then pulls in a breath, quick. “If something happens…”

“Nothing’s going to happen,” Grian reassures, feeling, for the first time in a long time, like he has the upper hand on him. “Quackity and I are going to take a brief detour to get some food and fresh water, and then we’ll rendezvous with you on the other side.” He takes a deep breath, steeling himself for his last play. “And after that… maybe you and I can talk.”

It’s the final carrot, the only prize Grian knows he can dangle. A look flashes in Scar’s eyes that Grian wants to take for understanding, but then Scar swallows the expression away. His features wall off as he takes a step back.

“I don’t know what you want from me, Grian,” Scar says at last, his tone caught somewhere between frustration and loss. “I don’t know why you’re doing this.”

“I’ll see you in a bit,” Grian deflects, reaching out and squeezing his forearm gently.

They split up without fanfare, though it’s clear Karl and Sapnap are loath to let Quackity go. The plan is as simple as Grian described it: he and Quackity will take the detour to the east that will run them a couple miles out of their way. Once they find the outskirts of their destination, they’ll resupply, and then quickly leave. They’ll rejoin the others in the evening at the spot they’d originally decided to rest at, circled on the map in Karl’s jerky handwriting, well out of the way and secure.

For the first hour, Grian and Quackity walk in silence, barely looking at one another. Quackity says nothing, and Grian makes no effort to bridge the gap between them. The morning’s gloom has broken, the cloudy grey of dawn recanting into a clear afternoon. There’s no breeze, no birdsong, no distant groan of traffic—no living presence at all around them at all.

He finds himself missing Scar. Missing the efforts he made to talk and to ask questions. To fill their reticence with something. It’s a sentiment that sits vulnerable at the forefront of Grian’s mind, and he doesn’t know what to make of it.

At a certain point, when the heat of the day has climbed high enough to make itself uncomfortable, they stop so Grian can take off his jumper, tying it snug around his waist. Quackity scuffs the sole of his shoe against the cracked asphalt while he waits, hands shoved deep in his pockets, looking ahead for any signs of life.

“I’m ready,” Grian says when it feels like Quackity’s focus has drifted off.

“Huh?” Quackity looks at him, hands readjusting his beanie and scratching at his wristbands, both motions that Grian quickly discerns as nervous ticks. Quackity shakes his head, clearing his throat before he adds, “Sorry. Yeah, let’s go.”

They resume walking, and Grian prepares to entrench himself back in their mutual quietude.

They only manage to make it a few metres before Quackity stops and asks, his tone edged in nerves, “Do you know?”

Grian watches him over his shoulder and says nothing.

“You do,” Quackity confirms, huffing a small laugh before he shakes his head and looks away. “Fucking… that’s great.”

Grian’s heart is beating fast, anxious anticipation. He turns around carefully to face him.

“How long?” Quackity presses, but it’s not a resolute question, strained through the sound of his own nerves.

“Long enough,” Grian replies, careful and reserved.

“Grian—” Quackity begins, his distress so strong that Grian feels it like a vice. “Listen—”

“It’s fine,” Grian replies, interrupting him smoothly, content with the confirmation he needed and choosing instead to use the opportunity to show him up. “It’s none of my business.”

“I’m not a threat to you,” Quackity blurts out.

Grian’s eyes meet his, confident in having the upper hand.

“I should hope not,” Grain says dismissively, haughty and revelling in it. Scar was his first. And, at the end of all of this, once Grian lays the trio’s lies bare, Scar will be his again.

He resumes walking, feeling more invigorated than he has in days.

“Come on, Quackity,” he calls, casting the words over his shoulder. “We don’t have time for you to dawdle.”

The first signs of civilization they spot are the power lines. Utility poles appear at the side of the road, cables stretching between them, and disappearing off into the distance. They follow them, and it’s not long until they see what turns out to be a trailer park. It’s far enough away down a side road that neither feel inclined to investigate it, only marking it as notable because it’s the first sign of habitation they’ve seen since the day before.

They spot a semi-truck overturned on its side half a mile beyond that, its trailer bent at a jack-knifed angle. That’s when Grian knows they’re getting close.

He’s caught up in his own thoughts, abuzz with his own plans and motivations, when Quackity throws his arm out across Grian’s chest, blocking his path.

“Careful,” Quackity hisses, voice low. He puts a finger to his lips before pointing to the other side of the semi and what’s spread out across the ground.

It’s stomach turning.

Right there, bent over nearly in two, a zombie crouches and gnaws at the rotted, exposed insides of some poor soul. It makes moaning, wet noises as it feasts, guts and gore spilling from its grasp as it stuffs more than its hands can hold into its open maw.

Instinctively, Grian turns his gaze away. He wants to vomit, bile rising up into the back of his throat. The only thing that stops him is the sight of Quackity and the expression on his face. It’s not the revulsion he expected, his features merely sombre at best. Something about it screams, ‘we could still head back.’

Grian refuses to be led away, however. He’s got a job to do.

“Come on,” he hisses over the sounds of the beast feeding in front of them. “We’ll take the long way around.”

They continue onwards, cautious, with the scene becoming more and more grim as they go. As suspected from the map, it’s a sizable city, with enough of a population to afford itself a proper residential sprawl on its periphery. Unlike other places they’ve seen, this one looks like there was a proper push to evacuate before the infection fully set in. The roads leading into and out of the city are completely jammed with abandoned vehicles, some piled up from collisions, and others hastily formed into futile barricades. Grian and Quackity have to double back multiple times to avoid the vast numbers of undead stumbling through without purpose, gasping and groaning between the cars and trucks.

Grian is sweating, the stress of avoiding zombies putting him on edge. Nothing about this feels like the time he spent with Scar, wandering the empty streets in the ruins of Anaheim. Everything is different now.

It’s slow, tedious progress, struggling to keep themselves hidden as they pass one ruined street after another. For the first time in his life, Grian finds himself grateful for his relative smallness. He and Quackity are able to easily keep themselves out of the line of sight of undead ghouls simply by virtue of being short and fast on their feet.

“I don’t know what’s worse—when you see them, or when you don’t,” Quackity mutters, keeping his voice down as he sticks close to Grian’s side. They’re crouched in the entrance of what was once a discount shoe store, drinking water from their provisions while they catch their breath.

“It’s worse when you see them,” Grian replies, blunt and matter-of-fact.

They don’t linger, instead cutting down an alley, though the distance between the buildings offers them very little cover and zero protection. The businesses around them are useless—laundromats, dispensaries, insurance brokers, and divorce lawyers. Grian feels the same nagging futility he felt when he and Scar were walking through the wreckage of the city. For as built up as it all is, there’s very little of use to them in a survival situation.

He and Quackity pass another intersection clogged with abandoned vehicles. Some are driven up onto the sidewalks, and others overturned from the force of whatever collision they encountered. There are zombies everywhere, wandering in loose, disorganised clusters. Their numbers only seem to increase the further inwards they go.

It makes him long for Scar and the protection of the rifle tucked into the crook of his shoulder, finger always steady on the trigger.

It’s too late to wish he was here, though. And it’s not like it would’ve been safe to unload bullets in an area so densely populated by the undead anyhow, drawing their attention up in droves.

Grian forces himself not to think about it.

He doesn’t know how long they’re going to continue looking before they give up and turn around, but he can feel their window of opportunity closing. He tries to remind himself that it’s all pretense anyhow—the supplies aren’t as important as finally getting to interrogate his traveling partner properly.

He can feel Quackity looking at him—repeated, furtive glances. It makes the back of his hands itch, annoyed in a way that’s rapidly careening towards an outburst, whether he wants to or not.

“We’re close,” he says, determination forcing him into false confidence.

“Are we?” Quackity asks, skepticism strong.

Grian wants to snap at him, barely swallowing his frustration. Together, they leave the intersection, turning a corner and approaching a stripmall. They can see a salon, a bank, a dog groomer, and at the far end—

“There,” Grian says, gesturing towards it. “I told you.”

It’s a grocery store, with a large sign above its door boasting an in-house butcher and fresh, local produce. It’s what they’ve been hoping for, but even from a distance Grian can see the carnage. Some of the plate glass windows that make up the front of the building have already been smashed, and displays have been pushed out onto the parking lot, creating a mess of dented cans and broken bottles.

He hopes it at least means that whatever had besieged the place has already moved on, leaving it empty and safe enough to loot.

“Alright. Water, granola bars, anything you can find that’s canned,” Grian lists off, acting like he can’t see Quackity’s wariness from the corner of his eye.

“You don’t think this seems like a bad idea?” Quackity asks. “There’s definitely infected people still in there.”

“They’re not people, Quackity,” Grian snaps, surprised by how strongly he feels about the distinction. “We know what to do if we see one—we give it a wide berth. Worst case, we’ll make a run for it. Come on, we don’t have time for this.”

It looks like there’s more Quackity wants to say, but he bites his tongue. He nods, gripping his tire iron tight, and holding it at the ready. Grian does the same, keeping the broken handle of the hoe close to his chest as they approach. The immediate area seems clear, the parking lot still and deserted, but it’s impossible to even think of letting their guards down. They walk together in tight formation, bodies held within inches of one another, communicating wordlessly.

The doors into the grocery store have been pushed in, and glass crackles under their feet as they step inside, fragments from the shattered windows strewn everywhere. Immediately they pause, listening for anything that could be lurking between the aisles. Sure enough, there’s the telltale sound of a zombie—dragging its shoes across the floor—but it only sounds like one.

The numbers are in their favour.

Grian jerks his head towards the noise, wordlessly pointing in the direction he wants to go.

Pressing their bodies tight to the side of the aisle, they creep forward. Grian’s heart races as the stumbling footsteps draw closer. Garbled whining, too much like broken words, becomes clearer as the creature nears.

He knows their best, safest bet is to simply avoid it. That if they work together, they can stay low, grab what they need, and leave.

But he also knows he can’t trust Quackity to have his back in a situation like this. Not after the plans he and his partners have so gleefully kept hidden. Not after Quackity had his hands all over Scar while Sapnap and Karl stood aside and whispered their secrets to each other.

He catches Quackity’s eye and mouths ‘on three,’ ignoring the way his eyes widen in fear. Grian holds one finger up, then another, and finally the third.

They move in unison, Grian taking the lead as he rounds the end of the aisle. He raises the end of the broken hoe above his head, bringing it down in a sharp slice before he even gets a good look at the ghoul.

In the back of his mind, a part of him wonders what he would have done had they met with a survivor and not a zombie—if their paths had crossed with someone innocent and alive, desperately searching for supplies the same way they are. Then the blade of the hoe cracks down into a blistered skull, and the horrific, inhuman wail that greets him puts those worries to rest.

The zombie barely has time to react, arms still hanging limp at its side as Grian raises the hoe above his head and brings it down again. The strikes land, but don’t deal enough damage to put the creature out of its misery. In an instant, the ghoul is surging forward, mouth open and gnashing as it seeks to pin Grian back against the aisle of breakfast cereals.

It’s Quackity who finishes the thing off. The blunt end of his tire iron bears down first into the crook of the zombie’s neck, making it flinch and stumble backwards with a wail. Then he strikes it again, just above its ear, causing it to immediately collapse.

The silence afterwards feels incriminating, the two of them breathing hard, trying not to look at the all-too-human corpse at their feet.

“Alright,” Grian says at last, taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, even with adrenaline still humming in his veins. “Let’s try for water first.”

It’s clear that Quackity is left unsettled. Or maybe he’s just waiting for some sort of gratitude for his actions that will never come.

“We should make sure that’s all of them,” Quackity insists, but Grian ignores him, checking the signs hung above the aisles as he searches for what they’re after.

The grocery store shows abundant signs of looting, entire shelves pilfered and stripped of their contents. Mostly, though, it bears the marks of tragedy and violence. Carts sit half-full and abandoned, stacked displays tipped over and kicked across the ground. There are the echoes of struggle everywhere, blood streaks on the ground mixing with the contents of broken jars left to go sour on the linoleum floor.

The deeper they get into the store, the darker it gets. Light from the front windows struggles to reach the back quarters, like they’re descending into a deep cave.

There’s silence, but they don’t feel alone.

Turning down an aisle that seems promising, Grian takes a few steps before stopping abruptly. Walking into his back, Quackity hisses a curse at the sudden stillness, but his complaint dies when he takes in the scene in front of them.

Bodies.

Just three, but still too many. More than either of them wanted to find.

If they’re zombies, they’re not active ones, laying disemboweled and motionless on the floor. Their corpses are mutilated—badly—whole sections of flesh torn away, intestines spilling out from where their abdomens used to be. Each of their skulls are broken, congealed matter leaking from them in a way that looks far too fresh for Grian’s liking.

Quackity’s voice wavers, sounding for all the world like he’s about to throw up. “Jesus fucking christ.”

“Quiet,” Grian hisses, but the mangled bodies on the floor don’t stir.

He debates the merits of getting closer—of simply walking around or stepping over the corpses—but it feels like a needless risk when they have so many other options. He turns around, tapping Quackity’s shoulder as he leaves. “Come on… let’s try another aisle.”

Quackity hesitates, eyes fixed on the bodies.

“Don’t they look fresh?” he asks, the words sticking strangely in his throat. “It doesn’t look like they died weeks ago.”

Against his better judgement, Grian looks back down at the spectacle. Quackity has a point—despite their brutalised state, they don’t look like they’ve been left decomposing for days.

He doesn’t want to think about it, unnerved by what it implies.

“Better them than us,” he says, marking his last word on the subject.

Together they continue on, venturing deeper into the dim interior of the store. Grian’s anxiety has never been higher, but besides the sound of their feet on the floor, there are no other noises. He wishes that fact brought him relief—instead, all it does is make him feel like he’s arrived seconds before a catastrophe. Like he’s simply waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Overhead, some of the fluorescent bulb fixtures that once illuminated the store are hanging loose from their wires, dangling almost low enough to touch. Grian tries not to imagine a stampede of people desperately grabbing what they could to escape, trampling one another, before inevitably something horrible and infected ravaged them all.

“This way,” he whispers to Quackity, and side by side they turn down another path.

This one is better stocked than the aisles closer to the entrance of the store, which comes as a relief. It makes sense—few people would be foolhardy enough to venture this deep into something potentially dangerous when they could instead grab things from the front and go.

Grian stays focused, setting down the backpack he borrowed from Scar and unzipping it. Beside him, Quackity does the same. There’s a lot they can’t use—condiments, salad dressings, and various cooking oils—but there’s still enough to restock their low supplies. Cans of tuna and shredded chicken; jars of peanut butter; and boxes of granola bars once intended for school lunches.

It’s as he’s putting cans of chili and pasta with sauce in his bag that Quackity speaks up, his tone walled off and guarded.

“Did Scar tell you?”

The question sends more adrenaline through his body than their confrontation with the zombie. For a moment, Grian considers not replying, or simply acting like he has no idea what Quackity is talking about. Then he thinks better of it. Now is the perfect time to get this conversation going. Open things up bit by bit until Grian can drag the whole, ugly truth out of him.

“No,” he says simply, concentrating on putting more cans in his bag. “I overheard you two when I came back down off the hill.”

Quackity nods. “Figured it had to be something like that. Scar can keep a secret.”

Grian wants to snap back that Quackity doesn’t know Scar well enough to be able to say what he can or can’t do, but he pushes away his anger, zeroing in on the task at hand.

“There’s enough secrets going around as is,” he hedges, letting the words sink in and allowing Quackity to steep in his guilt.

A part of him knows better. Knows he doesn’t really have a leg to stand on when it comes to secrets. In some ways, his cheating was worse than what’s happening right now, being the catalyst that set off the calamities that followed—zombies notwithstanding.

He can’t help himself, however, spiteful and petty as he bitterly digs in deeper.

“I’m surprised you’d keep something like that from Karl and Sapnap. Weren’t you three supposed to be dating? What happened to your pretty little wedding plans?”

Quackity visibly winces, hand pausing where it’s poised to grab another item off the shelf. “I’m going to tell them when things are more stable around us,” he says at last, voice carefully schooled. “I don’t want to make an already bad situation worse.”

“Little too late for that, innit?”

“Yeah well… it’s not like I had much of a choice in the matter,” Quackity replies, an acidity in his tone that Grian bristles at.

Something about that statement isn’t connecting, a fracture in Quackity’s words that doesn’t add all the way up.

Grian bites his tongue, continuing to pull cans off the shelf. Baked beans; corn; fruit cocktail in syrup. It’s objectively a good haul. When he lifts his bag, he feels the weight of it, heavy on his shoulders. The straps dig into his tender muscles, sore from a night sleeping outdoors on the ground.

“Pretty selfish of you to do this to them when they’re keeping what happened with those survivors a secret for your sake,” he needles, sticking to the subject no matter how badly Quackity clearly wants to let it go.

He can feel Quackity staring at him, dark circles worn under his eyes. Without a word he gets back to his feet, dragging his bag up with him.

“Not much of a secret now, is it?” he says at last, and it feels like both a victory to have the duplicitous truth confirmed, and a curse to be offered such a cryptic response.

“I’m not sure I get what you mean,” Grian imparts, tossing the words over his shoulder as he turns to move further into the grocery store. “You still haven’t explained what happened back there.”

“I don’t know why you even care. There isn’t anything to tell,” comes Quackity’s petulant reply.

Grian lets it go while they wander deeper. No sense in pushing Quackity. Their excursion isn’t over yet—plenty of time to unravel the last bits of secrecy Quackity is guarding.

The further they delve, the better Grian finds that his eyes have adjusted to the darkness, able to pick out the aisles and shelves silhouetted in the gloom. The rear of the store is lined with refrigerated cases of dairy, frozen foods, and meats, all of them having sat without power for days. The smell they’re met with is overwhelming, rank with the reek of expired milk and cheese, and directly in front of them—

“Oh my god,” Grian says, the words escaping him on instinct as he takes in the state of the situation.

It’s the deli section. A small meat counter sits next to display cases where a butcher had clearly been in the middle of their shift when all hell broke loose. The meat that had been portioned out for sale is beyond rancid, and even from a distance Grian can hear the low buzz of countless flies.

It’s a revolting exhibition, one he can’t help but automatically take a step back from, gagging at the sight and smell.

“Nevermind,” he says, turning to retreat to the relative safety of the aisles, away from the spread of rotten, maggot-infected food.

“Hang on,” Quackity insists, and Grian is forced to watch as the dim shape of him creeps towards the meat counter. There’s something draped across it that Grian can’t make out, but Quackity is fixated on it. He extends his free hand and snags the edge—the corner of a thick drapery, like a tablecloth.

“What do you think you’re—?” Grian’s barely into the query when the whole thing slides off the counter, the canvas material slapping heavy against Quackity’s legs. Quackity hisses something, instinctively holding it up away from his body, and Grian can just make out the shape in the shadows.

A butcher’s apron. Left behind by someone as they hopefully fled to safety. Though, judging by the dark smears on it that Grian knows without examination are blood stains—probably not.

“Sick,” Quackity laughs, and Grian can clearly hear the curl of a grin pulling at the edge of his mouth.

“Quackity,” he hisses, reprimanding him against his better judgement. “Leave it alone.”

He can tell Quackity is gearing up for a smart rejoinder—some streak of twenty-something rebelliousness that will have him donning the apron just to spite him. Except he never gets to, the words dying in his throat as several screams interrupt them from just outside the store.

The two of them freeze and, on an instinct Grian didn’t know he had, both move to tuck themselves flat against the end cap of two aisles. Not even a second later, several gunshots ring out in the air, followed by another gut-wrenching scream and the sounds of running. Boots and trainers pound on the pavement, their chaos just out of sight.

Grian is frozen stiff, unable to move, barely able to breathe. He can’t see anything from where he is, but he can hear the sounds coming clear through the shattered windows. People. Uninfected people, running and shouting, and following close behind them, the unmistakable groaning of zombies. Too many to count.

“Fuck,” he hisses, looking around quickly in an effort to find the best path of escape. “Fuck.”

Shoes smack on the ground outside, deafening. There’s a yelp and a shout as a body stumbles and falls, hitting the pavement hard. A pained beat of silence follows, Grian holding his breath as he waits for the inevitable sound that he knows is about to follow.

Then, sure enough—a shriek. Loud, pained, and piercing.

It’s the worst sound he’s ever heard. One zombie descends, then more—countless others. A sick, wet noise escapes over the sounds of screams, words choked out in despair before abruptly the begging goes silent.

Grian was wrong.

Things have changed.

It was stupid to risk this.

The realisation breaks over Grian like a wave, and the panic that accompanies it makes him feel like he’s drowning. The gas station, the storage unit, walking blithely through Disneyland… crossing intersections and cutting corners to avoid shambling corpses, jogging a few blocks to outpace any who got too close...

He thinks about the time he left Scar sitting alone on a bench while he searched for a bike. He thinks about falling asleep in the lounge of the shooting range, open, unprotected, and vulnerable.

The number of close calls overwhelms him, pushing instinctive tears into the corner of his eyes, not from grief, but from terror.

He’s almost lost to the panic of blind fear when hears it—shuffled steps passing through the shattered doors, crunching broken glass underfoot.

Suddenly, the grocery store seems extremely small.

He doesn’t realise he’s sprung into action until he feels his arms straining as he hauls himself up, struggling to climb onto the top of the aisle shelf, products toppling and falling to the floor in his desperate scramble.

Maybe it’s the sounds he’s making, maybe it’s a natural, predatory energy, able to sense their presence from a distance and hone in. But the sound of one zombie quickly becomes more, their low noises, too much like words choked out of torn throats, sending him into a panic. Grian can see them advancing, the tops of their heads moving in from several aisles away, limping closer. He tries to tell himself that he’s relatively safe at his height, perched well above their reach, but it’s with a sinking feeling that he realises he can’t say the same for Quackity.

While Grian had scrambled up the shelves, Quackity had feinted back. When Grian’s eyes find him in the heavy shadows, he’s crouched on the top of the refrigerated display case that forms the front of the butcher counter, barely above chest-height and easily within grabbing reach.

A sitting duck.

“Grian!” Quackity hisses, panic choking the high register of his voice.

The zombies are getting closer—too close. In a matter of moments, they’ll both be swarmed, and then there will be nothing either of them can do.

“Get off of there!” Grian snaps, driven by instinct more than anything else.

“To where?!”

He’d be hyperventilating if he had the wherewithal to think about such things. Instead, Grian hastily shoves the content of the shelf onto the floor, clearing a space as best he can. He then holds out his arm, beckoning Quackity towards him by extending it as far as he can across the open gap between them.

“You’re out of your mind!” Quackity yells, not bothering to keep his voice down, recognizing the futility of it when the horde is approaching them regardless. He gathers himself up despite his protests, bending his knees as he prepares to make a desperate leap to join Grian in his relative safety.

He might as well not have bothered. By the time he gets his feet properly beneath him, it’s already too late.

With a low, guttural moan, something emerges from behind the butcher counter, misshapen to a degree that Grian’s panicked brain momentarily can’t parse, interpreting only a horrific, shapeless monster.

It’s the butcher. An adult in his forties, recognizable from the chest down; broad shouldered and barrel-chested. However his upper torso is obscured completely, engulfed by the rotting carcass of the pig he was mid-way through slicing up. His head is shoved deep into its ribcage, wearing it like an awful hood. Its loose limbs flop like grotesque appendages as it stumbles forward.

The image of it is horrific, pulling a blind, animal fear of the unknown from the dredges of Grian’s psyche.

“Quackity!” He shouts—screams. “Move it! Now!”

Maneuvering one step for momentum, Quackity jumps, launching himself towards Grian, only just barely managing to escape an uncoordinated swipe from the butcher. Miraculously, their hands meet, and Grian digs his heels in as Quackity’s weight threatens to pitch him over the edge of the shelving. The difference in elevation is too much, Grian’s upper body not strong enough to immediately haul him up. Quackity grasps hopelessly at his palms as he dangles over the edge, casting a fearful glance beyond his shoulders at the zombies now swarming them in earnest.

“Help me up!” He yells. “Fucking—hurry—!”

“I’m trying!” Grian shouts back, tugging hard but unable to lift Quackity at all. “Grab my arms! You have—we need to readjust!”

“How the fuck—” Quackity abruptly cuts off, his words drowned out by the shriek of the butcher as it charges forward, pushing other zombies out of its way. Voice high and frightened, Quackity cries out in a panic, “Grian!”

“Hang on!” It’s all Grian can manage, adjusting his own grip when it becomes clear that Quackity can’t. He manages to get a proper grasp around one of Quackity’s arms, hauling him up sideways. He struggles, digging deep into reserves he didn’t know he had, and yanks at the wristband Quackity always wears, using it as a hand-hold. Pulling with all his might, Grian wrenches Quackity up just in time to escape the horde below.

Bottles of vinegar and cooking oil fall off the shelf beneath them, smashing on the ground below. The aisle trembles as the zombies crowd in, but for the moment the structure holds fast, allowing Grian the chance to peer down in horror. It’s a crush of nearly a dozen rancid bodies, bloodied and disfigured, groaning mindlessly and reaching up in a futile effort to grab them. Their hands only just barely miss the top shelf.

“Holy shit,” Quackity gasps, crouched down on all fours, visibly shaking as he struggles to catch his breath. “Holy shit, dude.”

Grian can’t help but agree, panting hard from the exertion of jerking him up. He stares down at his hand, where Quackity’s wristband had pulled off from the tugging, and considers it lucky he hadn’t lost grip entirely.

Anxiously, he rubs the material between his fingers and turns his gaze towards the exit.

There are fewer undead congregating there now, and no new ghouls making their way in so far as he can tell. Whatever survivors had been fleeing by outside are long gone, and Grian can neither hear nor see any signs of them.

“We have to move,” he says, curt and matter-of-fact while he tries to figure out the best way to proceed. “We can go along the tops of the shelves and get close to the entrance. There’s still some googlies hanging at the front, but we can outrun them if we’re fast enough.”

He’s proud of how little his voice wavers and how optimistic he sounds—especially when he doesn’t feel that way at all. He faces Quackity once more, holding out his wristband to return it as he asks, blunt, “Ready?”

Slowly, Quackity gets to his feet, adjusting his beanie back down over his hair as he does so. He looks harrowed, reaching out to take the wristband from Grian and nodding. “As I’ll ever be.”

Grian doesn’t hear him.

It’s like he’s frozen, all his senses zeroed in on Quackity’s bare wrist, the one he now realises has always been conspicuously covered.

There’s a bite mark on it, scarred over but visible, plain as day.

“What—?” the word stumbles out of him like he’s shellshocked. The wound doesn’t look like it just happened. There’s no fresh blood seeping out, his skin scabbed over in a perfect, tattered, semi-circle. “When did—?”

With a confused frown, Quackity follows Grian’s gaze down to his wrist and then looks back up again. There’s no surprise. No shock or horror of discovery. He merely looks at Grian like he’s the one reacting strangely.

“I don’t understand…” Grian croaks, mostly to himself, but Quackity hears him and his eyes go suddenly wide.

“I thought you knew,” he says, and all at once, Grian pieces it together.

The town they stopped in the day before; the gunshots; the way the trio had insisted they had to leave immediately; overhearing Karl and Sapnap later that evening discussing how it was up to Quackity to share the truth. He’d been bitten back there. He’d been infected in some sort of scuffle, and when the survivors had no doubt insisted Quackity needed to be put down, the trio had fled instead.

And brought the virus right back to him and Scar.

It’s only a matter of time before Quackity turns. He’s a danger to them all, and all three of them had hidden it.

“You fucking prick. You motherfucking arsehole,” Grian shouts, fury burning hot in his veins, his body shaking with it. Quackity’s been infected and carrying on like nothing is wrong. He’s been infected and plastered himself all over Scar. He’s been infected and volunteered to come here with Grian. The two of them. Alone. “This whole time—this whole goddamn time—!”

“Grian, hang on a minute,” Quackity insists, raising his hands like a peace offering. “I need you to listen to me.”

“I knew you three couldn’t be trusted,” Grian seethes, angrier than he’s ever felt in his life. Terrified about what could’ve been. Unable to stop himself from thinking about what would’ve happened if Quackity had lost control of himself while cozied up next to Scar. If he’d attacked him and bitten him. If he’d infected him. “I knew it. I knew. But Scar wanted you to come along so fucking badly and I had to pretend like it was all okay—”

The horror of the zombies surrounding them seems trivial compared to this revelation, and Grian feels fit to burst from it all.

Quackity’s eyes are wide with panic and fear, struggling to explain himself. “You said you heard me and Scar last night. I thought—”

“—I knew in my gut that you were all up to something.” The anger is so potent that Grian feels it up in his throat, every inch of him, right down to his fingertips, searing hot with rage. “I can’t believe I was so stupid—”

Quackity is still babbling on, “I swear, if you just let me explain—”

But there’s no time for it, and no explanation comes.

There’s a sudden collision against the shelving they’re standing on top of, rocking them both where they stand. They curse in tandem, grappling for balance as the unit shudders under the strain. Looking over the edge, Grian sees the butcher jammed in close, broad shoulder pushed against the racks. It leans back and then shoves again, making a horrific groaning sound as it does so, shaking the structure forebodingly.

He doesn’t know if it’s a calculated move on the zombie’s part, or if it’s just raw instinct that has it ramming into the shelves over and over. While the implications of the first would be disastrous, at the moment, the outcome of either is clear.

If they want to make it out alive, they have to move. Now.

“Grian—” Quackity starts, but his words cut off as the shelving unit shudders again. Jars and cans tumble off on either side of the aisle, smashing onto the floor and adding to the cacophony. On instinct Grian reaches out to steady him when Quackity stumbles, catching his arm. They struggle to stay balanced and on their feet, the shelves continuing to rock, their bolts creaking and straining from the pressure, and Quackity standing precariously at the very edge through it all.

For a moment, they lock eyes and Grian’s grip tightens, Quackity’s entire support relying on where Grian’s hand is locked around his elbow.

“Did you lie to us?” Grian barks, shouting over the din of starving corpses at their feet.

“I don’t—”

“Did you lie to us?!” Grian repeats. There’s a fury in him, a fire that’s consuming him from the inside. Angry and so bitterly, furiously, vindicated.

“Yes!” Quackity blurts out, desperately clawing for Grian’s other hand, which Grian resolutely keeps out of his reach. “And I’m sorry! I swear we didn’t do it to—”

His excuse dies in his throat, turning from a yelp of surprise into a shout of terror as, all at once, Grian lets him go.

“Grian!”

The shelf is listing, tilting too far to one side to stay upright any longer.

“Grian!!”

Grian clambers away, undignified, moving sideways along with an avalanche of cereal boxes and cake mixes and only just barely avoiding getting crushed as the shelf crashes into the aisle next to it.

Behind him, unable to right himself in time, Quackity falls backwards into the horde.

The furor of the zombies reaches a frenzied peak, and above it—worse than them, worse than any sound Grian’s ever heard—Quackity screams.

The shelves domino into one another, creating chaos. Some of the zombies are crushed, and others are pinned. Grian barely manages to keep himself upright, skimming ahead over the tops as best he can before landing on the ground near the cash registers in a scramble of limbs. The moment he’s got his bearings, Grian rises to his knees and shoulders through what remains of the already smashed glass doors.

In the parking lot, the air feels too still and too open, the light bright on his squinting eyes. The survivors haven’t hung around, their fallen companion left torn to pieces, ribs split apart and spread across the asphalt.

Grian doesn’t look around. He doesn’t look back.

He doesn’t hesitate at all.

He runs, sprinting, each breath burning the back of his throat. His ears ring. He feels like he has blinders on, only able to see what’s directly ahead of him—the end of the parking lot; the corner of the curb; a weathered looking, squat, palm planted in a bed of loose pumice stone.

Fear pushes him on, and beneath it, fury. Seething hot and blistering as he repeats, ‘I knew it. I was right. I knew it,’ in his head over and over and over again.

The anger keeps him going as he flees the city, and it’s only when the outskirts fade back into the flat, featureless, terrain that what happened finally begins to sink in.

Despite himself, Grian feels hollow and empty.

He walks at a quick pace, a palm pressed against the stitch in his side. On the one hand, he logically knows that it was right to take care of Quackity, rather than waiting for him to succumb to the infection and turn. However, at the same time, the human part of him feels a sick pit in his stomach when he thinks of Quackity calling out his name, horror-struck and terrified. He grits his teeth and tries to forcibly shake the thought out, but it lingers, persistent—the image of Quackity falling backwards playing on repeat in his mind. His scream as the horde overwhelmed him ringing in Grian’s ears.

On his own, Grian’s forced to reorient, following the road to the rendezvous they’d planned on. He stays lost in his thoughts the entire way, haunted and shaken, but viscerally justified in his doubts as he treks onwards. It’s when the sun is past its zenith, leaning heavily towards sunset, that he sees the smudge of habitation in the distance, the periphery of the town only about a mile away.

There’s a swell of relief in his chest when he sees three figures set up beneath the shade of the town limit sign, all of them familiar.

The feeling is quickly dashed as two of them run up towards him, however. Grian belatedly realises that he hasn’t prepared for the onslaught of questions Karl and Sapnap are no doubt going to ask. As they get closer, he can see the fear on their faces, gazes jumping around as if Quackity will pop out from behind him or summersault out of his pocket.

He braces himself and takes a deep breath.

“Where’s Quackity?” The words are out of Sapnap’s mouth before he even comes to a stop in front of Grian, just barely holding back his panic.

“What happened?” Karl pleads a second later, looking for all the world like he’s about to break into tears.

Behind them, Grian can see Scar slowly making his way over as well, leaning on his cane, his expression equally as worried.

Grian straightens up, grasping for the truth inside the lie.

“There were a lot of them,” he explains slowly, keeping his voice as tender but steady as possible. “We found a grocery store. We thought—we were trying to make a run for it. But the zombies backed us in—we were overwhelmed.”

Karl’s expression turns stricken, instinctively grabbing the sleeve of Sapnap’s shirt for support.

Sapnap, if anything, only looks angry.

“Did you see him die?” he asks, voiced pitched into a shout. “Did you just leave him there?!”

“I barely got away!” Grian objects, defending himself and pressing a hand flat to his chest. “It wasn’t a tea party! I nearly got torn apart!”

He tries not to think about the terror in Quackity’s eyes.

He tries not to think about his scream as Grian let him fall.

“He’s not dead,” Karl insists, and there’s an intensity to his words that takes Grian by surprise.

“Karl,” Sapnap says—begs—turning to his partner with a frantic, beseeching expression.

Karl nods, a quick, sharp gesture, communicating something to Sapnap that Grian can’t discern. He wants to hurl an accusation at them, wants to say that Quackity was a goner anyway, with that bite on his wrist and the virus running rampant in his blood. He wants to call them out for their obvious collusion to cover for their third, but he can’t risk bringing up their betrayal, not when things are so volatile.

He’ll wait until he’s alone with Scar. Then he’ll explain everything. Then they can leave what’s left of the trio behind to succumb to their own miserable fate.

“We need to go,” Sapnap says, the words lowered almost into a growl. “If he’s still—if you didn’t see him die…”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” Grian bristles defensively, feeling a guilt he doesn’t want to own prickling down his spine. “I wasn’t thinking I’d need to bring you proof. I’m sorry.” The words are spit out like an afterthought, and Karl looks at him as he says them with an expression he’s never seen on a person’s face before.

For a second, Grian knows what it’s like to be reviled.

“Karl,” Sapnap presses, forcing Karl’s focus to break.

Karl nods again, reaching out and letting Sapnap take his hand.

“We’ll be back,” Karl explains, and it’s clear his words are intended for Scar. “We’ll just—we’ve gotta go.”

Without another word, the two of them take off in a sprint, running fast, unencumbered by their belongings, which sit in a pile back where they’d all been standing. An ugly part of Grian takes it as an additional success; more supplies they can claim for themselves now that they’re finally alone again.

He exhales a deep sigh, glad to be past the heat of the moment and able to explain the depravity of their situation to Scar. However, when he turns to face Scar, he isn’t met by worry, or concern, or even confusion—he’s met with a hard, focused, angry stare.

“Grian,” Scar says, words heavy with an already pronounced disappointment. “What did you do?”

Unable to help himself, Grian scoffs, folding his arms tight across his chest.

“What did I do?” he retorts, bitter. “Why don’t you start, Scar. What did you do?”

When Scar’s expression remains set, Grian jabs, his tone accusatory, “I heard you with Quackity last night.”

Scar’s expression shifts through several emotions at once, none of them guilty enough for Grian’s liking. When he speaks, his voice is neutral, but Grian hears judgement in it all the same.

“And that’s why you killed him?”

The allegation is striking, and it hits Grian at his core. For Scar to think he’d be capable of such a thing—it hurts. Even if it’s not all that far from the truth.

“I didn’t kill him,” Grian corrects, shaking his head vehemently. “But even if I did, you’ll thank me for it when you find out what he was hiding.”

There’s a flash of disgust in Scar’s eyes, directed so pointedly at him that it momentarily makes Grian feel like he really has done something wrong. Like he’s somehow not the hero of this story.

“You don’t get to pick and choose who lives and dies,” Scar says, harsh in a way that makes Grian’s entire body tense up.

“He was bitten, Scar,” he spits venomously, hating how the information is being forced out of him. He’d wanted to reveal it differently—to calmly lay out the facts to Scar; to explain how the trio has been keeping secrets from them, and how dangerous they are. To make Scar understand that they really are better off on their own. That they always have been. But their sudden argument pulls the words out of him, ugly and vulgar. “Bet you didn’t know that about your new boyfriend when you were fooling around with him yesterday.”

The way Scar recoils settles a low satisfaction in Grian’s stomach, glad to finally have a place for his righteous anger to settle. There’s a turmoil pushing through his body, a driving desire for Scar to just come back to him already. To apologise and to thank him. But Scar doesn’t look embarrassed in the slightest, no apology rushing forward.

“When I was… what?” Scar looks lost, completely taken aback by his accusation. “Grian, what are you talking about?”

Grian studies Scar’s eyes, his utter bewilderment, while a slow uncertainty begins seeping in from the back of his mind. He’d expected Scar to buckle. To look away. To mutter some excuse about them not being together anymore in a bid to justify his actions. Scar, however, stands firm.

And if Scar isn’t bluffing right now… if he truly doesn’t know what Grian’s accusing him of—

Scar’s eyes go wide, comprehension dawning on him at the same time it dawns on Grian.

“Don’t tell me you thought—Grian, don’t tell me you attacked him because you thought he and I slept together?”

“You…” Grian stares at him, a fresh kind of horror settling into his bones. He doesn’t even have it in him to deny attacking Quackity now, even though that’s not quite what happened. Grian’s too lost in the realisation that he missed an integral step somewhere along the way.

“Grian,” Scar says, serious and firm. “Quackity’s immune.”

It feels like the ground has opened up beneath him, Grian’s heart swooping with a fall in his chest. His mouth opens, arms falling limp to his sides, the fight going out of him in an instant. He keeps his eyes on Scar, hoping he’s making it up—that this has all been a misunderstanding on Scar’s part somehow and that he’s still in the right after all.

“He got bit two weeks ago, right at the start of the outbreak,” Scar explains, every word a damning mark cutting into Grian’s skin. “He hasn’t turned, but he gets… urges, I guess. Hunger pangs. Karl and Sapnap don’t know yet. Last night he got a little loopy, but when he came back to his senses he made me promise not to tell anyone until he was ready.”

Scar’s expression doesn’t soften. There isn’t a shred of kindness in him as he speaks.

“And you tried to kill him,” he states, harsh and critical, allowing no room for a rebuttal. “Because—why? You thought he’d made a move and you were jealous? And rather than speaking to me directly about it—like an adult—you baited him so you could take him off on his own… like he was a problem you could dispose of and claim it wasn’t your fault. Grian, are you out of your mind?”

Scar’s voice is rising, pitching into a volume Grian would be anxious about if anyone else was around to hear it. Scar runs his hand back through his hair, frustration evident in every line of his body.

“You had me thinking—you let me believe you were making an effort, Grian. I really thought you were trying, that you wanted to try. That maybe, just maybe, we could work on this—”

His words cut off and Grian is unable to break the sudden silence, his chest tight from the press of his own guilt. Everything he’d assumed as fact has tilted out from under his feet, making him feel like he’s back on top of the grocery store shelves as his world yet again slips out from underneath him.

“Grian,” Scar says at last, still harsh and angry. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Grian wants to say that he doesn’t know. He wants to say he made a mistake. But he can’t stomach the idea of forming an apology, not when he’d been so sure of himself only moments ago. He can only breathe in short, strained gasps, unable to pull enough air into his lungs. He can’t focus, knowing he’s having a panic attack but unable to communicate it. Unable to rationalise what he’s done based on an incorrect assumption, and unable to face the reality being presented to him.

There’s no vindictive validation here. No sigh of relief. No words of gratitude.

“Scar—” he starts, but it barely leaves his mouth before Scar shakes his head, shutting him down.

“Don’t you dare,” he forbids. “I don’t want to hear from you right now. Not a sound, do you understand?”

Grian can’t breathe. He thinks he might faint or throw up, but Scar isn’t looking at him; not paying attention at all. His focus is turned in the direction that Karl and Sapnap ran off in.

It’s a sick feeling, watching Scar worry about them, his expression drawn with concern.

“You’d better hope they come back,” he says at last, and there’s a threat in his tone that Grian doesn’t want to consider.

 

 

 

It takes four hours before they see them—tiny figures making their way up the road.

At first, they can only see the bobbing light of the camp lantern. It’s long past sunset, and though there’s more than enough illumination from the moon overhead to see by, it’s impossible to discern any details from a distance. They’re pressed so close together as they walk that, for a while, Grian can’t make out the difference between them. Then, gradually, Grian begins to pick out the distinctions—Karl’s mess of tousled hair, Sapnap’s dirty white bandanna, and, sandwiched between them, looking worse for wear but still managing to walk on his own two feet: Quackity.

“You have no idea how lucky you are,” Scar mutters, low, the first words he’s spoken to Grian in hours.

He gets to his feet, but it’s a struggle. Grian instinctively wants to help him, but he can’t make his body move, frozen where he’s sat with his knees pulled up to his chest. He wants to feel some relief that Quackity made it back, but his whole body feels numb with terror at what he let happen. He’d been so sure of his own version of the truth that he’s still struggling to accept what’s right in front of him. So he sits still, waiting for his sentencing.

The trio draw closer until Scar finally moves forward to receive them and Grian has no choice but to get up off the ground. They’re already talking when he approaches, their expressions plain and stern, lit up in the cold light of the lantern Sapnap carries.

Sapnap is the only one who truly looks at him as he approaches, rage writ on every line of his body. Karl glances at him once, dismissive, before he returns his attention to Scar.

Quackity doesn’t look at him at all, jaw tight, gaze pinned on the ground.

He’s in bad shape, clothes bloodied and torn. His beanie is gone, and in its place is a baseball cap that looks more like it would belong on Sapnap. A replacement, maybe, pulled off a corpse or out of the depths of Sapnap’s bag, preserving what little dignity Quackity has left.

The worst part is his face. His lip is split and swollen up badly, and when he opens his mouth to mumble some quiet words, Grian can see that there’s a tooth missing where his canine used to be. There’s a deep gouge over his left eye, cutting through his eyebrow and descending down his cheek. It’s still bleeding enough that Quackity occasionally has to staunch it with a rag he grips tight in his hand. While Grain doesn’t know enough to tell if the wound will affect his vision, even he can see that it’ll scar.

“—found him making his way back, wandering the street dazed,” Karl is explaining when Grian finally tunes into the conversation. “He told us everything.”

Scar nods, then turns towards Quackity, voice soft. “I’m glad you’re alive.”

“No thanks to him,” Sapnap spits, jabbing his chin towards Grian, shoulders pulled up aggressively, but Karl merely puts a hand out in front of him, keeping him back.

Quackity ignores them entirely, speaking only to Scar. “Yeah. Fucking same.”

“I’m sorry, Scar,” Karl says, his tone genuine and sincere in a way that makes Grian feel sick. “We’re gonna go our separate ways now. I’m sure you understand where we’re coming from.”

Grian stiffens, casting a furtive look back and forth between Karl and Scar. It’s funny, for all that this is exactly the outcome he’d been hoping for, the victory feels remarkably hollow. Especially when he can clearly see the heartbreak on Scar’s face. Hurt, yet again, by Grian’s selfish actions.

“That hardly seems fair,” Grian says before he can consider the ramifications of speaking up all the way through.

“Don’t you dare talk to us about fair, you goddamn fucking bastard,” Sapnap snaps, pushing Karl’s hand aside and taking a threatening step towards him.

Grian holds his hands up, unable to stop the words that spill from his mouth, defensive and stupid at the same time. “Let’s not forget that it’s all your damn secret keeping that landed us in this situation in the first place. Actions have consequences. If you three had told us earlier about Quackity’s… whole thing, we could’ve worked around it. Together. If I’d known he was immune, I never would’ve left him there.”

“‘Left’ him there?” Sapnap snarls, getting so heated that Grian instinctively ducks his head, readying himself for a blow. “You fucking pushed him into them, you motherfucker!”

“Sapnap!” Karl cuts in, sharp, and there’s a moment where they exchange looks, Sapnap only backing down when Quackity reaches out and pulls him in by the arm.

Quietly, Karl turns his attention to Grian, a cool indifference in his gaze that makes him feel unfathomably small.

“I understand what you’re trying to say, Grian,” he starts, and relief floods through him.

“Alright, good. Then—”

“Don’t mistake my understanding for agreement,” Karl interrupts, clipped. “We’re done here. Completely. There’s no way we can travel with someone who tried to kill one of us, are you crazy? It’s like you said: actions have consequences.”

For a moment Karl studies him, the calm façade of his expression breaking before he asks, quiet, “Why the hell did you do it, man? What did he ever do to you?”

There’s nothing Grian can say and he knows it. His jealousy, his insecurity, his fear of the unknown—all of it piled up and amounted to naught. The excuse doesn’t come, and Grian deflates, taking a half-step back and pulling himself out of the lantern’s light.

Scar doesn’t look at him even once, his attention fixed solely on the trio. They continue talking, but Grian can barely hear them over the noise in his own head, his thoughts loud and distracting.

It feels criminally unfair. The repercussion too severe for the action. There were mistakes made on both sides, surely. It can’t be up to him to take the full brunt of.

When he looks up again, the trio are saying their goodbyes.

“I wanna give you this,” Karl is saying, kneeling down and he unzips one of the side pockets of his backpack. He fishes around until he pulls out something he hides in his palm, then stands and holds his hand out to Scar.

With careful reverence, Scar offers his open palm and receives the gift. It’s a knotted bracelet of five interwoven colours, all tied around Karl’s bottle of orange nail polish.

“I was gonna wait until I’d made more, but… that doesn’t matter, now,” Karl explains, words quiet, closing Scar’s fingers around it. “Happy birthday, Merry Christmas, Eid Mubarak… all of those things.”

Emotion wells up in Scar’s eyes, along with a tremor in his lip. Still, he’s sporting a faint half-smile, no doubt caused by Karl’s specific manner of speaking, even in the midst of the worst of things. Scar grips the present tight, pressing it to his chest, unable to speak.

They take turns hugging him, one by one. Quackity is the last to let go, holding onto Scar tight before he steps back and reaches out to shake his hand for good measure.

“Thanks,” he says, his voice trembling and vulnerable. “For everything.”

When Scar finally speaks, his tone is upbeat, but his voice remains tellingly thick. “Wish I could give you boys my number, but… I don’t know if you’ve noticed, service isn’t so great these days.”

The trio chuckle, Karl making some comment about roaming rates and surcharges.

As always, Grian remains on the fringes of it. Alone.

With their final words shared, Karl and Sapnap crouch down to pick up their bags, hefting them up onto their shoulders as they prepare to part ways. It shocks Grian when Quackity turns towards him, his voice low and spiteful as he speaks, words bitter with anger.

“You’re so fucking lucky he puts up with you.”

Grian remains jammed in place, unable to even breathe a word in reply. There’s nothing he could say, anyway. No argument left to make.

“Let’s go, Grian,” Scar says, and if he heard Quackity’s parting words he doesn’t show it, still not looking at Grian as he turns away from the trio.

Grian turns with him, feeling the eyes of the three they’re leaving behind burning holes into him. He dares not meet their gazes. “Where are we going…?”

“Putting as much distance between them and us as we can manage,” Scar replies, matter-of-fact. “It wouldn’t be right to make them leave. Not when this is your fault.”

Grian flinches at the assessment, humiliation and shame simmering in his stomach. He offers no rebuttal, quietly trailing after Scar, following the road, and trudging listlessly in the dark.

It’s a dangerous way to travel, but Grian can’t risk saying they should stop before Scar says they’re ready, unwilling to face more of his irritation.

They walk for an hour or so before Scar finally slows, exhaustion catching up to him. It’s well into the night at this point—nearer to dawn than to sunset.

“We’ll stop here.”

There’s no settlement or town to speak of, so they move onto the hard shoulder of the road and set up their camp silently. It’s difficult to do with only the flimsy glow of Grian’s pocket torch, and he finds himself already missing the trio’s solar lamp. There’s no tent either, only their sleeping bags, with no further protection from the elements. It’s tedious work, and they do it without speaking. Horribly, Grian realises he’d gotten used to the laughter and the talking and the teasing of the trio. Things feel strange and dead without it.

When all is said and done, he and Scar lay down in their sleeping bags, side by side. Wordlessly, Grian assumes the first watch. Scar turns over, facing away from him as he settles down to sleep.

Above them, the night sky is overwhelming. The thick swath of the Milky Way—a countless expanse of stars—making Grian feel indescribably small when he tilts his head back and looks up at it.

He’s sure that Scar has drifted off when, all at once, Grian hears him speak, his words cutting in the dark.

“How am I supposed to forgive you when you haven’t changed at all?”

The question lays heavy on Grian’s shoulders, ugly and honest. He looks over at the outline of Scar in the dark, hurt. All he’d wanted to do was protect Scar. Everything he’d done, he’d done for him. Hadn’t he?

Tears he knows he doesn’t deserve bite at the corner of Grian’s eyes and he forces them back, blinking furiously. He wishes he wasn’t the way that he was. Wishes there was something he could do—about himself and about the world.

The minutes between them stretch, Scar not sleeping, and Grian not answering.

At a loss, Grian swallows Scar’s bitter words in silence.

Notes:

(Click to reveal.)

[ SPOILERS ]

I BET YOU THOUGHT IT WAS GONNA BE SEXUAL CONTENT AGAIN. SURPRISE! IT'S NOT!

Okay but for real: if sexual content was the only thing you needed a warning for, feel free to scroll back up. If not, please click the second Spoiler Bar for the content/trigger warning for this chapter.

[ SPOILERS ]

This chapter contains especially Graphic Depictions of Violence as well as (one of) the reasons we "Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings"--this is because this chapter also contains a version (AKA not directly a 1:1 match) of Character Death. Please be aware going forward if these topics are unpalatable or triggering to you.

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CONGRATS!! 🎉

YOU GUYS DID IT. YOU MADE IT. THIS WAS IT: GRIAN AT HIS WORST.

It's only up from here! :D (...right?)

Just another reminder that Lock and I won't be posting next week, so Chapter 18 will be out two weeks from now. (On the 17th)

That said, we've been working on a side fic that we might end up finishing and posting while we're away! We'll link it here in an edit if we do, but even if we don't, there's still plenty more to read if y'all are interested in other characters in this universe. You can read 15k of Karlnapity's zombie AU origins (and a little of their future) right over here if you're curious! :D

Annnd, I think that's all for now! 💫 Additional tags will be updated sometime in the next two weeks to reflect all the many spoiler-y changes :3 Once again, thank you all for reading and see you soon! 💜

Chapter 18

Notes:

WOW, your guy's comments on last chapter were SO good, hahaha! Lock and I had SUCH a blast discussing them as I answered :D Thank you guys so much, it's always a ton of fun chatting with y'all about the fic ;w; So grateful for the opportunity fr 💜

SPEAKING OF BEING GRATEFUL!!
We got this sensual, romantic, and completely GUT-WRENCHING comic of Chapter 15 by hei-n1cky, so please give that some love! (Warning that it's suggestive--though not explicit! 💫)

AND ON WE GO!

When the morning comes, it’s grey and miserable, mirroring Grian’s feelings precisely. He’s got no one to blame for it but himself, but knowing so doesn’t make it any easier to bear.

Grian has slept twenty minutes at most, cramped in his sleeping bag with the ground hard and unforgiving beneath him. There’s no comfort to it, no familiarity. No security of Scar’s arms wrapped around him, the rise and fall of his chest a comfort against his spine.

It feels stupid to already be missing the luxury that travelling with the trio had afforded him, but Grian misses it all the same. Having more people around meant not having to worry about being snuck up on, and also promised longer hours for sleep in between shifts. He’d come to enjoy the ability to dream deeply with Scar next to him, the peace of having his body warm at his side.

That’s all gone now.

When Grian sits up, he finds that Scar is already on his feet, all of his things packed, cane in hand.

He’s not looking at him.

Neither of them says a word.

Quietly, Grian crawls out of his sleeping bag and rolls it up.

Offhandedly, he makes note of the overflow of supplies stuffed into his borrowed bag from Scar. It’s difficult to fit his sleeping roll in amongst them, packed to the brim as it is with cans and various other non-perishables.

At the very least, the grocery run wasn’t for nothing.

There’s no effort to make any semblance of a meal. No bleary conversation on what to have, no fond commiseration over favourite snacks they once took for granted and now may never have again. No fake, cooking show banter. If Scar’s eaten something, he did so before Grian got up.

Or maybe he also doesn’t have an appetite.

It takes a couple more minutes before Grian straightens, hefting his backpack up, the weight of it settling heavy on his already sore shoulders.

“I picked up some of the Reese’s you like,” he offers, the words stilted in the grey light of pre-dawn. The sun hasn’t yet broken over the horizon, and there’s a lingering haze around them—not quite a mist, but something unfocused and arid, atomized in the stillness of the desert.

He used to lay in a bed with so many pillows it felt excessive. He used to sleep in until noon.

That world is gone now. Out of reach, like so many other luxuries from a time before that will never come back to him again.

Scar fails to give him any sort of reaction, refusing to look at him.

“Let’s get going,” he says, and it sounds like he’s talking to a stranger.

It’s worse than the way he sounded that evening he caught Grian in his affair. He sounds like he doesn’t even know him anymore. Like he has no respect for Grian left to lose.

Something tightens in the back of Grian’s throat, a fragility that curls up inside him, weak and vulnerable. He pushes it down with a tight nod, knowing it would be pointless and hypocritical to cry right now.

They walk together in silence, the highway stretching out endlessly long in front of them. Grian lags behind, and if Scar notices he doesn’t comment on it. In time the sun rises, a disinteresting brightness smearing across the horizon that brings light to the desert around them. Nothing changes, really. Nothing new. The same dry soil, the same low, brittle, ground-cover. The only thing of note is the line of mountains running parallel to the road, blue-grey in the distance.

Despite every atom of his body wanting nothing more than to isolate himself, Grian continues onwards, his gaze pinned to the back of Scar’s head. He stares at him as the first hour stretches into the next, willing a sentence, a word, anything out of him.

“He was bitten, Scar,” Grian says at last, meticulous with his words, breaking a reticence that he fears could have stretched on indefinitely. He doesn’t want to fight, but he knows the argument is inescapable. He might as well push them into it, his tone as controlled and neutral as possible. “What was I supposed to do?”

“You weren’t supposed to try and murder him,” Scar replies, and he sounds so tired and detached that Grain’s heart can’t help but ache. “I shouldn’t even have to say that.”

He won’t fight Scar on whether ‘murder’ is the right word here. It’s not like he’d shoved Quackity into the horde. Despite what the trio accused him of, Grian had merely let Quackity’s hand go. To him the difference is clear, but something tells him that debating over the point will only make things grow worse between them.

Trying not to be too pointed with it, Grian mumbles, “If you’d told me he was immune, I never would’ve had to make a snap decision like that.”

“When would I have told you? You never gave me the chance.”

Obstinate, Grian shakes his head. “I heard you. With Quackity. You told him you’d keep it from me, you said—”

“I was lying, Grian,” Scar sighs heavily, exasperated, “You’re not the only one capable of it. Not that it matters anyway, because the second you got back to camp, you did everything in your power to keep your distance from me. I kept trying to find a moment to talk to you, but you were suddenly so upset that I figured I’d hold off till morning. How was I to know you’d made up your own little scenarios by then?”

It’s embarrassing, being held accountable like this. The idea that if he’d just been patient—if he’d only trusted Scar and waited for him to share what he knew—then maybe all of this mess could’ve been avoided.

“He tried to attack you,” he counters instead, switching gears and struggling to keep himself out of the line of fire. “You said so yourself.”

“But he didn’t follow through with it,” Scar says deferentially. “Which is more than I can say about how you treated him.”

The accusation churns in Grian’s stomach, making him restless. Partially under his breath, he mutters, “He’s a zombie, Scar. He was all but dead anyway.”

It’s absolutely the wrong thing to say. He knows it before he’s even finished spitting out the words, but that doesn’t prepare him for the way Scar stops mid-step, nor the absolutely revolted look Scar shoots back at him. It’s wordless, expressed only in Scar’s eyes, but it makes Grian shrink in on himself regardless.

A breath later Scar resumes walking, faced firmly ahead, his knuckles tight where they grip the cane the trio gave him.

Grian doesn’t attempt to start a conversation again, trailing behind with his head down. Every second feels endless. Every minute might as well be an hour. The miles are interminable. There’s nothing to look at to keep him distracted, only the same expanse of dry, gritty earth, scrubby desert growth, and patched road.

The day passes, warm despite the cloud cover. Sunlight occasionally breaks through the gaps, casting skirting rays of light across the soil, but the overcast quickly swallows it back up every time. Near noon, Grian pauses, setting his pack down so he can pull his jumper off over his head.

Scar doesn’t stop and wait for him, barely throwing a glance over his shoulder to see what he’s doing. It twists an emotion in Grian’s gut, but he can’t bring himself to name it. Doesn’t know how to even begin to untangle the situation he’s gotten himself into.

He’d come to believe that the worst thing he could be in Scar’s eyes was unfaithful. But it turns out, he still had farther he could fall.

Knotting his jumper around his waist, he resumes walking, cloaked in their miserable, wretched silence.

The day crawls by as they progress—together but apart—the desert isolating to a degree that feels inhumane. At one point, Grian spots half a dozen deer grazing in the distance, their bodies camouflaged against the tawny terrain. The deer don’t turn to acknowledge them, and Scar fails to notice them either. It’s something Grian knows he would like to share, but he finds he can’t break the quietude that’s settled between them. Instead, he carries his awareness of the deer like a secret until they’ve long passed them by.

He knows he’s lagging, falling further and further behind as the hours drag on into the afternoon. A part of him wants Scar to notice. Wants Scar to care—to stop, even if only for a moment. To wait just long enough for Grian to catch up before he resumes walking again.

But he doesn’t, and Grian doesn’t dare ask him to.

It’s not that he feels tired, he just can’t make his body move fast enough. His head is mired in his own wretched feedback loop of messy thoughts, desperate impulses, and poorly managed feelings. His frustration bleeds into his guilt, and that in turn overflows into self-righteous indignation, before it all seeps inevitably back into regret. An endless loop, refilling over and over again that he doesn’t know what to do with.

Forced into the tangled mess he’d made, and with nothing else to distract him, Grian can see now how nothing he’s done exists in isolation. He can see the connections. Selfish rationalization and jealous justifications. However, he can’t seem to make sense of the patterns. His reasons feel right in the moment, but trapped by the limitations of his actions, he can’t see beyond the confines of his own behaviour.

It’s an endless stretch of senseless actions with selfish motivations, driven by a loneliness and a loathing he knows doesn’t make sense. He can’t say why he does the things he does, can’t grasp any of it firmly enough to find the root of his impulses. He only knows that he is the way he is, and the way he is—

“Grian.”

He’s not prepared for Scar’s voice. Not prepared for the way being addressed immediately jumbles up the thoughts he’d spent so long untangling. He looks ahead, trying not to appear guilty and knowing he’s failed.

Scar is watching him impassively, standing off to the side of the road, more out of habit than from any real concern for oncoming traffic. There’s no light in his expression. No strong emotion in him at all.

“We should take a break,” he says, and that’s the end of it, the words delivered with finality. Scar pushes his rifle and the chest-pack off, using his cane to brace himself as he bends down into a kneel and then sits fully on the ground.

There’s no camaraderie, no open invitation to join and make himself comfortable. Grian stands with his hands gripped tight around his backpack straps for what seems like an eternity, feeling invasive. When he finally relents to the instruction, he sits down far enough away from Scar so as not to be mistaken as assuming he’s welcome.

They rest in silence, catching their breaths and recouping. Grian doesn’t feel hungry. He hasn’t had any appetite all day, but he mindlessly digs into the supply bag anyway, finding a cereal bar and eating it, tasting nothing. While he sits, he looks at the horizon; at the cracks on the asphalt; at the laces of his shoes. Anywhere but at Scar, who he can feel watching him from the corner of his eye. His scrutiny gives Grian an innate disquiet that bristles the hairs up along the back of his neck.

He hates being watched like this.

For several minutes Grian sits, absently picking at the pieces of gravel on the ground near his heel. When he finally breaks the reticence it feels involuntary, the words pulled from his throat without his full permission.

“I think a lot of what I do is grounded in fear,” he admits, tone stilted, like he’s not sure how the words he’s saying are supposed to fit together. “I think… I think I’m afraid all the time.”

He takes a breath, able to feel Scar’s gaze directly on him now. His own head remains bowed as he rolls a pebble between his index finger and thumb.

“Not just the zombies. Not just the trio. I think… for everything, ever…. I’ve always been afraid. Just waiting and wondering when it’s all going to go wrong. Because it has to, right? It has to go wrong.”

He doesn’t know why he’s saying this. Doesn’t know what the confession will accomplish.

“I was afraid when I met you—afraid that you wouldn’t like me, that you wouldn’t see in me what I saw in you. I was afraid when we started spending time with one another. Afraid when we started dating. Afraid of calling you my boyfriend. Because I knew that no matter what, one day it’d all go wrong. Because my fear would make it go wrong.”

The words are coming out faster now, like a poison he has to get out of himself.

“Something scares me, and I’m afraid of it, so I do everything in my power to make it go away. I sabotage myself. I assume, I lash out, I do things I know I’m not proud of. It’s not an excuse. It doesn’t make it right. I just… I see that fear, and I know it makes me make so many thoughtless, stupid, selfish decisions.”

They sit in consideration, a breeze blowing between them, stirring Grian’s hair and eddying bits of sand across the asphalt.

“And I don’t like it,” he admits at last, knowing it’s not enough.

Sitting with his elbow resting on Grian’s pack and his knee bent so he can rub the tendons, Scar looks out towards the distant ridge of the mountains. The peaks are closer now that they’ve spent so many hours walking. Grian can feel him meditating on an answer, taking his time, thinking each word of it through until at last he speaks.

“You could’ve just broken up with me,” Scar offers, sparse and simple, letting the words sit between them. He then draws in a deep breath and slowly leverages himself back to his feet, disguising a wince as he moves. “Spared me the trouble.”

It’s what Grian deserves to hear, but it still hurts.

He tries to picture it. Tries to imagine a world where he’d broken up with Scar the first time his fear raised its ugly head. Ended things cleaner, and kinder. Scar would’ve still been heartbroken, but he wouldn’t have had the months of self-sabotaging deceit sullying their memories together. He’d have eventually had things he could look back on and smile about without wondering if Grian had been sneaking around with someone else the entire time.

Maybe in that world, somewhere down the road, they could’ve been friends again. Together in a different way. A gentler way. After time had done its part in helping Scar heal.

Except, when Grian really thinks on it—thinks of a reality where Scar gets over him and moves on, ending up with someone else… Laughing with them, kissing them, staring at them with that same, warm, fondness that lit Grian up inside…

He can’t stand it.

“I didn’t want to break up with you,” he mumbles, holding back the extra, ‘I don’t think I could bear to see you with anyone else,’ knowing it won’t help the situation.

“Grian, that doesn’t make sense,” Scar scoffs, half-hearted and listless. “What are you trying to say? You didn’t want to be with me, but were afraid of leaving me? So, what? Were you just keeping me around as a backup, in case things didn’t work out with the other guy you were seeing? Playing the odds?”

His tone is impatient but he doesn’t sound angry. There’s a weariness to him, a frustration that Grian wishes he wasn’t the cause of.

“I don’t get you, Grian,” Scar finishes at last, sighing heavily.

A part of Grian smarts at that. Wanting Scar to understand him; needing Scar to see his perspective.

“That’s—I don’t know how to explain it,” he admits. Feeling stupid. Feeling childish.

“Well, figure it out. Because nothing you’re saying right now makes any sense.”

“Okay,” Grian whispers, the apology that he knows should come afterwards sticking in his throat and dying unspoken. He still can’t bring himself to say it, no matter how much he recognises that it’s the one thing Scar is waiting to hear. He knows apologizing will make it all too real—that he’ll be buried alive under the shame if he begins acknowledging all that he did wrong.

He swallows, mouth dry, only able to manage a short, cynical laugh. “I really could’ve benefitted from seeing a therapist, I think.”

Scar doesn’t wait to respond, his words cold and unforgiving.

“Instead you tried to kill some teenager because you thought I did to you what you did to me.”

Against his better judgement, Grian bristles. “He wasn’t a teenager.”

He can’t meet his eyes, but he can feel Scar’s gaze on him.

“Which of you is turning thirty-two next year, and which of you was still worrying about midterm exams?” Scar asks, and Grian finds he has nothing to say to that.

He wonders, distantly, if he was offered another chance, would he have bothered to treat the trio any differently? Would he have changed at all if they had opted to stay?

He thinks about spirited conversations and idle chatter that he’d always been left on the fringes of. He thinks about the ease and comfort with which they shared their vulnerabilities with one another. The way they weren’t ashamed of themselves.

He thinks about Quackity and the way he smiled at Scar.

Despite it all, despite everything… Grian still doesn’t know if he would.

“They were all trying so hard to make you like them, Grian,” Scar sighs at last, shaking his head. “They weren’t monsters. They were nice people. And they were afraid too.”

Scar tilts his head back, looking up at the sky, his expression lined. Struggling.

“I just… I don’t know anymore...” he admits, perhaps more to himself than to Grian. “I don’t know where we go from here. I don’t see a way forward.”

They stay in a shared, unhappy silence for several minutes.

Then, without a word, Scar resumes walking.

Part of Grian wants to stay rooted to the spot. Wants to test and see how far Scar will go before he notices. And, when he does, whether or not he’ll turn around and wait for him.

Another part of him doesn’t want Scar to stop. Wants him to keep going until he disappears into the distance. Wants him to leave Grian behind and let him fester in the rot of his bad choices and selfish actions until there’s nothing left of him.

He feels tears prickle at the corners of his eyes and blinks them back aggressively. If the only way he can atone for everything he’s done is by forbidding himself from indulging his own misery, then so be it.

He wishes he knew what was wrong with him. What’s so misaligned in his psyche that he finds it best—safest—to behave this way. To see Scar, to have Scar, to care for Scar, and yet, to so meticulously mismanage his own choices and actions that the sum total of his poor decisions has landed him here.

At his core he knows that this is a bed of his own making.

All the same, his entire body aches from having to lay in it.

It takes Grian a few more minutes of wallowing before he pulls himself to his feet. He drags the bag back onto his shoulders and then slowly follows after Scar. He keeps his head down, walking with his eyes fixed on the cracked pavement directly in front of his feet, one mile slowly slipping into another. It feels like profound, cosmic punishment—to walk at the heels of a man he knows he cares about, yet can’t seem to articulate that affection to properly. The two of them move through the desert together, condemned to one another.

Interlocked within each other’s shackles.

As the hours ebb through the afternoon, the clouds above them finally break, large schisms of blue appearing splashed between the grey. At last the sun reveals itself, their shadows growing out beneath their feet, lengthening towards the east.

Grian’s soles start to ache, but he doesn’t remark on it.

If Scar can continue walking, so can he.

He doesn’t get to complain anymore.

It’s as much penance as he can offer.

With the sun out in full effect, the air grows warmer, then becomes hot. It makes the walk that much more draining. There’s miles left in their journey, with no real place to stop in between. The desert is bare and uncompromising, and the next town on Grian’s map won’t appear for ages. Grian readjusts the backpack straps, feeling gross, the place where the weight of it rests against his back damp with sweat.

Cautiously, he sneaks a look towards Scar.

If Grian’s feeling the toil of walking such a distance, Scar must be too. It worries him, thinking about how recently Scar had been laid up in bed, and how much he’d pushed himself to recover as quickly as possible. He hasn’t had adequate time to rest, and already he’s being forced back to testing his limits, walking without an end in sight.

‘And whose fault is that?’ A traitorous part of his mind asks, taunting. Grian struggles to bury it down as far as it’ll go, wishing he could smother it completely.

Their mutual silence continues.

It’s mind-numbing, until even dwelling in his guilt grows stale. He begins yawning, again and again, dozing despite the brightness of the sun above him. There isn’t a building or shack or so much as a billboard along the way to keep him engaged. A part of Grian starts longing for some catastrophe, welcoming a car crash, or some zombies shuffling towards them—anything to break up the tedium of this weary, perpetual monotony.

Ahead, Scar stumbles, a misstep he catches quickly.

Immediately, Grian makes up his mind.

They have to stop. Even if they aren’t anywhere close to their destination. There’s simply no way they can go on like this. It’s inhumane to try.

As Scar recovers, shaking his head and readjusting his grip on his cane, Grian takes the chance to pull out his map. He follows the long line of the highway, scanning the area ahead. While he knows full well there’s no town or outpost nearby for them to shelter at, he does spot a singular anomaly: a small lake, not all that far from where they currently are. It’s the kind of location that would’ve sported a rest stop once upon a time, before the introduction of the interstates made such a place unnecessary.

It’s not going to be hospitable—it’s not remotely ideal—but it’s what they’ve got, and so Grian focuses on it.

He keeps his decision to himself until he can see it in the distance. The body of water is smaller than he imagined, sunlight glittering on its surface just off the side of the road. It’s marked by a few wooden posts and a low, wire fence that bars a dirt road branching off towards the lakeshore. The area has very much returned to its natural state, untouched by human hands for years—maybe even decades.

“I think we should call it for the day,” Grian suggests, his voice rough after hours spent mute. “We can camp by that lake.”

He’s nervous that Scar will ignore him and keep going, but he must be in need of a rest more than Grian initially thought, because he stops almost immediately. Without a word, Scar looks in the direction of the lake, staring like he’s seeing it for the very first time.

“Okay,” he agrees, simple and to the point.

Grian tries not to be disappointed by the lack of any additional conversation. He tells himself that Scar’s agreement without an argument is exactly what he wanted. He needs to be happy with what he can get.

They move off the highway and step over the sagging fence, following the dirt road as it curves around the shoreline. It’s not a large lake by any estimation, but it’s impressive for a desert. Grian has to assume its existence has something to do with the mountain ridges on either side of them—the ones that had seemed so distant at the start of the day. The slopes now loom over them, casting them in shadow and creating a shallow valley with the lake at its centre. It must be fed from their runoff, gathering whatever meager precipitation they receive. The lake itself has an oasis quality, its shore hedged in tall reeds and grasses, fresh with a vibrant green the likes of which Grian hasn’t seen in days.

The dirt road ends about half a mile off the highway, pooling out into what was once a lookoff, boasting what is no doubt the best view of the lake. A weathered series of sunbleached plaques explain some points of local history, though all Grian can make out is a halo of ghostly photographs and a few barely discernible lines about desert fauna.

They stand at the lookoff, side by side, and gaze down at the water. Grian’s trousers are dust-stained around the cuffs, dirtied from the drudgery of their long walk. Everything he’s wearing feels filthy.

Briefly he considers the idea of washing his clothes in the lake, but ultimately swallows the suggestion when he turns to Scar and finds that his expression is entirely blank.

It’s like Scar doesn’t even see what’s ahead of him. Like he’s not present with Grian at all.

The mood continues to be unsociable as they set up camp. They lay their belongings out in the lee of the lookoff, their sleeping bags spaced almost comically far apart. Even while quietly eating, the distance between them yawns enormous, making Grian so anxious he feels sick with it.

‘Talk to me,’ he wants to say—to beg—desperate. ‘Please. You can’t stay silent forever.’

It’s an awful feeling, to be so shunned.

Do you really hate me this much? he wonders, not wanting to know the answer.

“Do you want to leave me?” he whispers instead, his heart racing, beating rapid-fire in his chest. He hadn’t planned to ask the question, the inquiry spilling out impulsively; something he regrets the second he speaks.

Scar doesn’t speak for a long time, his legs crossed, and his back to the lake as he chews on a granola bar.

“Don’t make me answer that,” he replies at last, his words settling like stones in Grian’s stomach.

Scar doesn’t look at him as he says it.

Grian takes a deep breath, feeling it tremble in his lungs despite his best efforts. He forces himself not to tear up, hurting in a way he knows he constructed all by himself.

Seeing no reason to continue their diatribe, Scar puts his wrappers away and grabs his backpack from where Grian left it off to the side. He digs around for a moment, eventually pulling out a puzzle-book that Grian remembers from the tourist trap all the way back in New Mexico.

It’s ironic. In many ways it feels like they’re right back there. Mired in that wretched place, fresh into the apocalypse with every emotion raw and visceral, and not a shred of common ground between them.

The conversation is clearly over. There’s nothing left for either of them to say.

With little else to do, Grian turns towards the lake. He watches the shadows of the mountains creep across the water, the sun slowly making its way west, and casting shimmering reflections across its placid surface.

Something’s got to change in him; he knows that. He’s known it for a while now.

All that’s left is finding out what, and figuring out how.

Notes:

Grian and Scar finally talk! ...sort of.

It's a start at least!

Check out the redraw Lock did of the "viking funeral" scene from Chapter 5! Time to update our icon on ao3 to match >;3

Chapter 19

Notes:

THB has showered us with two new fanart pieces (with some fantastic analyzation!) in the last week!

First, we've got this beautiful rendition of Grian staring up at a breathtaking sky, and secondly we've got this emotional comic of the ending scene in Chapter 17! (That mini-panel in the last image is SO funny 😂)

Thank you so much THB, and also to everyone reading, commenting, and discussing the fic with us ;w; 💜

Grian wakes up to a light drizzle and an ache in his neck that’s so painful it makes his eyes hurt.

It would be unfair to call the weather they’re stuck in rain. The scattered overcast has coalesced again, no doubt funnelled in by the low ridges of the mountains on either side of them. It’s as if air itself is leaking, heavy with a mist that’s already got him damp and miserable.

He sits up slowly, pushing his sleeping bag aside with a soft groan only to find that, yet again, Scar is already awake and waiting for him. They neglected to sleep in shifts, both of them too tired to even discuss it. Grian knew it was a risk, but with no one around for miles, living or dead, he couldn’t imagine there being any harm in it. Besides, it had been a fitful sleep anyhow, every slight whistle in the wind waking him. No chance of being caught unawares like that.

They don’t talk while Grian gets his things together, rolling up his drizzly sleeping bag and quietly packing it away in the clammy grey of the day.

He can’t tell if Scar is impatient to push on, or if he’s waiting for Grian to eat something before they resume walking. So it’s an impulse more than anything that finds Grian heading to the shore of the lake, stooping down to scoop up handfuls of water to wash his face.

It’s the first proper cleaning he’s had in days, and while he’s reluctantly adjusted to being filthy, he won’t pretend he doesn’t enjoy the feel of fresh water on his skin.

Predictably, Scar doesn’t join him. When Grian stands back up, it’s to see him waiting on the lip of the lookoff, cane in hand, ready to go.

“The water’s nice,” he offers, but if Scar hears him he doesn’t acknowledge it. Something bitter and juvenile makes Grian want to linger a minute longer because of it. It’s a pettiness he’s not proud of and endeavours to smother, getting to his feet and wiping his damp hands off on his shirt.

Leaving the lake’s edge, he rejoins Scar, and together they make their way back to the highway. Up ahead the road makes a slight bend, following the natural curve of the valley, the first change in its trajectory that they’ve seen in ages. The distance spread in front of them already makes him feel tired.

On autopilot he digs a granola bar out of a side pocket in his borrowed backpack, wishing he’d pressed for them to wait and have a proper breakfast.

“You should eat something,” he suggests, but again, Scar doesn’t acknowledge him.

He simply walks, not looking around and not looking back at Grian. After a breath of hesitation, Grian follows.

As they progress, the day stretches on, morning feeding into noon. The dampness in the air makes their progress agonizing, a slow slog through interminable wetness. Grian longs for the chance to commiserate about it. Instead, he’s locked into yet another round of endless cold shoulder until finally—finally—Scar speaks. The first words he’s said to Grian since he’s woken up.

“I’m going to ask you some questions.”

The statement curls dread in Grian’s stomach, instantly making him feel trapped. The vastness of the implications terrifies him. What, exactly, ‘questions’ could entail.

He simply nods quietly, acquiescing. “Okay.”

It takes Scar several minutes to get the words out, and Grian suffers every second he’s left waiting.

“Did you love him?”

Deep down, Grian knew there was no escaping this. That, no matter what, it was only a matter of time until they discussed it. This. His cheating.

Still, the inquiry makes his shoulders tense and his throat go tight all the same, defensive in a way he hasn’t earned.

His instinct is to bristle, to push back and insist he has a right to keep his business to himself. However, even he can acknowledge that he lost that luxury the moment he decided to start sleeping with someone else behind Scar’s back. The very first time Grian smiled at a stranger and leaned over to ask his name, he knew he was starting an inevitable countdown to having this exact conversation.

He has no choice but to answer and, for once, to speak the truth. His vulnerability and cowardice laid out in front of him, open and exposed.

“No.”

The word comes out small and pathetic sounding, even to him.

Scar nods, an imperceptible motion in the corner of Grian’s eye.

“Did he love you?”

Grian bites the inside of his cheek, forced to relive the frustrations he’d kept hidden from Scar. Time spent with a man he’d never really known, forever held at arm’s length, asking—begging—to be let in. To earn the chance to care.

“No,” he says, letting the admission linger before adding, “I don’t make it easy to fall in love with me.”

He can feel Scar’s eyes on him fully now, not hesitating before he replies, “Well, I did.”

The words hit Grian in a vulnerable spot in his chest, tears blooming hot at the corners of his eyes. He trudges on, forced to reckon with the extent of what he’s done. How the meticulous antagonism of his decisions lead him here.

It feels like a dam has been broken inside him, too many emotions pushed up at once. He sniffs, knowing it’s too loud, hating that Scar is seeing him cry when this—all of it—has been nothing but a mess of his own creation.

“Did you really think I was going behind your back with Quackity?” Scar continues, and Grian can only shrug his shoulders, defeated. How can he explain the paranoia that had gotten him to that point? The tension, the loneliness, the desperate need to prove himself right?

“I don’t know,” he answers, as weak as the words sound.

Scar allows the response, and they continue walking in silence, Grian awash in his own emotions. The tempest they’ve created makes him flounder until he feels like he’s drowning, caught under the tides of his memories.

He thinks of perfect days with Scar, back before the world unwound on its axis. He thinks about how he felt the need to punish himself afterwards, making poor decision after poor decision. He thinks about inviting another man into his life, knowing it would eventually sabotage everything he truly cared about and didn’t really want to let go of.

He thinks about meeting three strangers in a ruined world without any people left in it. Kind people; open and genuine. He thinks about keeping them at arm’s length until his body grew lethargic from the strain of it.

He thinks about his fear.

He thinks about all the times he wanted Scar to hate him, so he didn’t have to worry that one day he’d lose him.

“I don’t want to be here,” Scar says at last, exhausted.

The confession catches Grian off guard, pulling him out of his spiral.

“I want…” Scar stops and sighs, taking a breath before he shakes his head. “I want to spend a week on a beach in Mexico, talking about how horrible you are. I want to recover. I want to burn every picture we ever took together. I want you out of my life, and I want everyone around me to tell me I’m better off without you.”

He tilts his head back, hair damp in the drizzle, strands sticking to his forehead and nearly obscuring his eyes.

“But I can’t do that. You’re always here, Grian,” he continues, flat and factual. “And the part of me that wants nothing to do with you, can’t stand the part of me that still wants you around and is glad you’re here. And I thought—I kept thinking, y’know, that you were trying. And maybe I couldn’t get a break from you, but at least I could heal from this with you. And now I don’t even think you were doing that, and I feel so stupid, Grian. I feel so stupid for trusting you again. And I—I don’t know what to do with you. I feel like I don’t even know you.”

It’s the most words Scar has said since they parted ways with the trio, and they make Grian feel smaller than he ever thought he would.

“I don’t want you right now. And I don’t know if you ever wanted me, but that doesn’t really seem to matter,” Scar admits with another heavy sigh. “Because we’re all each other has in this wasteland. So… I don’t know. I don’t know what we’re doing. I don’t know where we go from here.”

He laughs with no humour. A dry, weary sound. “Maybe it’s ridiculous… but I feel like our relationship is like this road we’re on. Where we just have to keep walking, whether we want to or not, because there’s no other option for us.”

He lets the silence linger, his hand curling into a loose fist at his side.

Grian doesn’t dare disturb it.

“And call me cynical,” Scar adds at last, quiet. “But I just can’t help but feel that one of us is going to be able to walk a lot further than the other.”

Grian shudders as he breathes, the tears in his eyes making his vision swim.

He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know how to process the culmination of everything he’s done. Hopelessness wraps around his chest, squeezing tight until he feels like he can’t breathe. He keeps his jaw set, fearing the sob that might overtake him if he risks opening his mouth to speak.

In step beside him, Scar studies his face. Once upon a time, Grian knows he would’ve leaned in to brush the tears away. Now, he simply gives Grian a quiet, pitying look before he turns his attention away, and fixes his gaze back on the highway they’ve been following since they set off on their own.

Grian doesn’t know if this is catharsis. If this is satiating the part of himself that so desperately wanted to feel the consequences of his actions.

He doesn’t know anything anymore.

It takes time for him to pull himself back together, first minutes, and then hours slipping by. He tries not to focus on how Scar’s longer strides carry him ahead of Grian’s own struggling pace—that Scar is literally walking away from him in every sense of the word. He doesn’t like what that means for their future… if there’s even going to be one. He swallows down as many emotions as he can manage instead, willing back tears until a dull headache settles behind his eyes from the strain.

Thinking on the positives is near impossible, but distantly he figures at least they’ve finally placed their grievances out in the open. Maybe nothing is resolved, maybe there isn’t anything left to save, but at least they’re no longer carrying the rot of their relationship around in secret.

The remainder of their day passes uneventfully. They both stay reserved, stewing in their thoughts, prisoners of each other’s minds. Grian does his best to stop for snacks and water breaks whenever he sees Scar pushing himself harder than he should, but they don’t chat when they do, and they don’t linger.

He knows he has to do something to bridge the gap between them. At the very least he needs to try. He’s always been too stubborn and proud to make things up to Scar in the past, but things can’t continue on like that. He has to stop their slow atrophy into oblivion.

If there’s left anything between them that’s worth saving, it’s going to be up to him to make the first move.

When their destination finally appears on the horizon, Grian feels relief so palpably he could cry. It’s past noon, and though the light mist from the morning has dissipated, the sky remains cloudy, and the air is chilly enough that he’s put on his jumper. He’s hoping they’ll be able to find a place where they can properly rest and dry off.

It quickly becomes clear, however, that his hopes are going to go unfulfilled.

Their first warning is at the town limits, the welcome sign spray painted over in large, block letters, spelling out: ‘NO SURVIVORS HERE’

He and Scar pause, considering the words for a moment before they look at one another.

“That might be good for us,” Grian suggests, wary but optimistic. “No trigger-happy idiots to worry about.”

Scar shrugs a shoulder but doesn’t disagree.

It’s a different story entirely when they get near enough to the town to see it for themselves. Immediately it becomes clear that there are no survivors for a reason, and there will be no resting for them here, temporary or otherwise.

It’s infested.

Not just a handful of zombies, but dozens upon dozens of them. All aimlessly wandering the streets, shuffling around in an uncoordinated mass.

On an instinctual curiosity, Grian halts in his tracks, staring with growing horror at the sheer volume of them all. The town’s welcome sign had boasted a population of just over a thousand people, small enough that everyone living there would’ve known everyone else; friends, neighbours, colleagues, and family. All of them interconnected with one another.

They’re the outsiders here. Strangers blowing into a town lost to contagion.

“Stay here a minute,” Grian whispers to Scar. “I’m going to check if there’s a clear way around.”

He tries not to read too deeply into the way Scar’s mouth curves downwards in a frown.

“No you’re not,” he says, stating the words as simple as fact.

A part of Grian wants to push back and insist that he knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t need Scar to come along and put them both at risk. But if things are ever going to change between them, if there’s even a chance for them to get better, it has to be in these moments. Small adjustments that will build up over time.

If Scar wants to come along, all Grian can do is accept it and make room for him, which he does with a single, tight nod.

Together they follow the curved avenue that peels off the highway and leads straight into the tight cluster of buildings that makes up the town’s central hub. Scar keeps the rifle tucked under his arm as they move, ready in case they need it. Still, it’s clearly difficult to manage it with his cane, and Grian doesn’t know what will happen if Scar actually has to take aim and shoot something. It makes him feel self-conscious and useless, regretting the days he spent sitting in the abandoned house and seething over the trio while Scar was resting in bed. He could have been practising his aim instead.

The town’s centre doesn’t boast much: a hardware store, a grocer’s, a post office, two churches, and a nail salon. The buildings are weathered, nearly ramshackled, but quaint in a small-town sort of way. There are a few trees standing in dry patches of under-watered grass, a suggestion of landscaping, looking out of place in the otherwise inhospitable desert environment.

They creep in together, sticking tight to the walls of the buildings in order to attract as little attention as possible. It’s with wordless agreement that they clamber up the first fire escape they pass, wanting to get a better survey of the area to avoid the ever-present zombies.

The ladder feels rickety in Grian’s grip as he hauls himself up it, metal screeching and creaking. Thankfully, it doesn’t draw attention, and Grian walks in a crouch across the flat, tar paper roof. He steps around a large, leaky, air conditioner before he peers down at the intersection of the town’s two main roads; the place where all its commerce once took place.

It’s a bleak sight—one of an all too familiar tragedy. Zombies wander the sidewalks and across the avenue without purpose, pawing uselessly at the abandoned vehicles left parked on the sides of the road. As near as Grian can tell, it looks like the town was celebrating a local milestone—some sort of fair, with little kiosks and tables set up outside each of the businesses. The streamers and banners of the event overlap with the Halloween decorations still placed in the windows of the now deserted area.

Grian tries his best not to think about it—the vision of a party interrupted, everyone gathered together succumbing to the infection, friends and neighbours turning on one another in a scene of unmitigated violence and chaos. Instead he studies each and every one of the businesses, trying to judge whether any of them are viable to consider raiding.

It’s only from the corner of his eye that he catches it—something abnormal in the zombies’ aimless trawling. There’s a densely packed group of them, all crowded together in one area. He doesn’t know what’s drawn their attention, and doesn’t really want to waste his time trying to decipher the mystery. What’s important is that, just off to the right of the group, tipped over on its side, he sees something truly worthwhile.

A motor scooter. A Vespa.

Normally he wouldn’t care. He hasn’t really thought about a vehicle since he lost Ariana.

But this one’s different. It’s not parked or abandoned, with no keys and no fuel. It’s been thrown on its side in the middle of the street, a clear indication that whoever was last driving didn’t leave it by choice, no doubt dragged off by ghoulish hands.

We can use that, he thinks.

His heart is racing in his chest, excitement tingling through him as a grin spreads wide across his face. Without thinking he eagerly smacks the side of Scar’s arm to get his attention. When Scar looks his way, Grian points out the scooter with his finger, like Scar can read his mind.

Scar stares at it blankly.

“If it’s still got the keys, we can get it going in no time,” Grian explains, almost giddy. “We can use it, Scar!”

Uneasily, Scar throws a glance towards the mob of zombies not far from where the Vespa lays, clearly not convinced.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I mean, a fat lot of good it did for the last person who had it.” He leans around Grian, getting a proper survey of the horde. “Not to mention, it looks like it’s already got a few interested takers standing by.”

Grian blows out a breath, shaking his head.

“They’re distracted right now. I could go down and grab it.” He doesn’t know where this sudden confidence is coming from, but it feels right. It feels actionable. Something he’s sure he can do.

He knows—they both know—that Scar can’t keep going on foot forever. Even with his cane, it’s unrealistic for him to continue pushing his body like he has been. If Grian can do this for Scar, it’ll be a step in the right direction for them. Something selfless. Proof that he’s really trying this time.

He knows Scar can see the benefits in having the Vespa, watching keenly as he pauses to consider the proposal.

Sure enough, a second later Scar relents and asks, “What’s your plan?”

Grian grins, suddenly alive in his element and relieved to have Scar working with him instead of icing him out. It doesn’t feel normal, exactly—nothing about their life is normal anymore—but he does feel something close to it. A shadow of their former selves.

“I’ll climb down and loop around the building. If I go through the alley up at the corner there, I can come out from the side-street where the scooter is. It’s doubtful the googlies will see me then.”

Scar clearly doesn’t agree, judging by the frown on his face, but he nods all the same. “And coming back?”

“Right the same way I came.”

“Will the scooter fit through the alley?”

Grian leans back, looking over the edge of the building and trying to gauge the width of the alley from a distance.

“I mean… I think so.” Distracted, his eyes return to the zombies, their tight knot starting to disperse, spreading out like melting butter as they drift away from one another. “Regardless—if we wanna do this, we have to do it fast. Our window’s closing, Scar.”

“… Alright,” Scar says, clearly reluctant, but agreeing without any further pushback.

Getting immediately into action, Scar takes off the cross-body bag in order to pull the rifle forward. Perching himself properly on the edge of the building, using the air conditioner as a rest, he tucks the butt of the gun into the crook of his shoulder. Finally, he tilts his head slightly to stretch out the muscles of his neck before he says, blunt, “I’ll cover you.”

“You’re a sniper now?” Grian asks, teasing without meaning to.

Scar doesn’t laugh, his words simple and matter-of-fact when he speaks.

“I won’t miss.”

All at once, the easy smile slips from Grian’s lips. He realises, with sudden clarity, the dangerous situation he’s put himself in. Trying not to feel the nerves, Grian crouches down just long enough to shrug off the backpack he’d borrowed from Scar, untwisting the broken garden hoe from its strap so he can bring it with him.

He’s about to turn towards the fire escape when Scar stops him, taking hold of him by the arm, one hand wrapped around his bicep.

They make eye contact, Scar’s gaze pinning Grian in place.

“Be careful,” Scar says at last, the words serious and thick, and Grian feels his heart soar.

Despite the fact that Scar is still upset with him—heartbroken, and his trust shattered—he’s still worried for Grian’s well being. A terrible part of Grian is overjoyed about that. Gratified that, even at his worst, Scar still cares enough about him to wish him well.

“Thanks,” he says, overthinking his short reply immediately. He hopes he doesn’t sound ridiculous. Hopes the words don’t sound sarcastic or cruel.

He doesn’t know if that’s what Scar wants to hear; if he’s offering too much or not enough.

For a moment, neither of them moves. Scar’s grip lingers, holding Grian in place, looking as if there’s something more he wants to say. Unbidden, Grian thinks back to the storage units what feels like ages ago, and the way Scar had pulled him close in the heat of the moment.

Then, like a cloud passing over the sun, the opportunity slips by and Scar lets go.

Automatically, Grian turns, hopping back over the air conditioner as he makes his way towards the fire escape. His arm is warm where Scar held him, and his thoughts are dizzy as he tries hard to refocus on his plan.

The ladder feels even flimsier when he descends, the rungs rattling raucous and glaring until his feet finally land on hard ground. He winces as his knees absorb the shock, then readjusts his grip on the hoe. He feels the familiar heft of it in his palms and wishes—not for the first time—that he had something more deadly to defend himself with.

His heart is in his throat when he rounds the back of the building, putting himself as far away from the corpses as possible. All the same, the street feels painfully exposed when he steps out into the open, vulnerable in a way he hadn’t anticipated. Grian tries to keep himself low, moving with purpose, and making a beeline towards the Vespa. In his head, he pictures himself reaching the scooter, righting it, and speeding off without a single zombie noticing.

It’s a dream that falls apart almost immediately.

The moment he steps out, multiple zombies twist in his direction as though drawn by a magnetic force, their sounds haunting and wretched as they begin to lurch towards him.

It’s a race now.

Grian adjusts his grip, hefting the hoe up to shoulder height while continuing to jog. His feet sound too loud on the pavement, too conspicuous. Unexpectedly, a corpse lunges out from behind a parked car, catching him off guard. Without thinking, he swings the hoe like a bat, clipping it in the ear, part of its jaw shearing off from the force of the blow.

The shock of the impact jolts up Grian’s arm. A bloom of pain reverberates through the bone that will no doubt come back to haunt him when he wakes up with a sore shoulder tomorrow.

If he wakes up tomorrow.

He doesn’t waste time grappling with the undead thing any more than he has to, tugging the hoe back and slamming it down a second time. Grian manages to properly nail it in the skull, the ghoul immediately collapsing like a ragdoll. Putting his foot against its rotten shoulder to brace himself, he yanks the blade of the hoe out before turning back towards the Vespa, now only a few metres away.

It’s not as elegant a heist as he’d imagined, but Grian still manages to heave the scooter up into a standing position in quick time. He pushes the kickstand back with his foot, gropes for the keys—still blessedly jammed in the ignition—and squeezes the handbrake as the motor sputters to life.

That’s as far as he gets before a second, and then a third, zombie leaps forward and takes a swipe at him.

Grian feels his heart in his throat as he dodges back, trying to get enough space to swing the hoe without letting go of the scooter. It’s cumbersome, and he wishes he’d had the foresight to search for a better weapon back when he had the chance.

He’s able to take out the second zombie by luck more than anything else, but he’s already panting from exertion when he squares up for the next one, the rush of adrenaline not enough to keep him on the offensive.

The third zombie moving towards him is enormous, no doubt a linebacker back when it was still human and alive. Its bulk makes it harder for Grian to fend off, forcing him to hold the hoe up like a barrier to defend himself with. He pushes back against the monster until he fears the wooden handle will splinter from the strain. Sweat trickles down his temple, and with a final surge of strength he didn’t know he had in him, he thrusts out, pushing down and in with his shoulder as he nearly tackles the creature, setting it off-balance enough to make it stumble back. As it does, Grian lifts up the hoe and makes a clean blow through the top of its skull, ripping into its eye socket and killing it in an instant.

He staggers back against the Vespa, taking quick, gasping breaths, his heart pounding. Moving fast, he reaches to yank the hoe back from where it’s embedded in the creature’s skull, and that’s when a snarling from his left catches his attention. Grian darts a glance over in time to see that the horde has caught notice of him at last.

As their tight formation breaks open, Grian takes note of a body laying right in the centre, torn apart almost beyond recognition. Clothing ripped off, blood pooling onto the ground, flesh stripped to the bone wherever undead hands can reach—it’s more roadkill than human now. But none of that sends more of a chill up Grian’s spine than one particular detail.

A helmet, just next to the mangled remains of what was once a person.

The kind of helmet that looks like it would’ve fit right in with someone riding a Vespa.

“Shit,” he hisses, turning his attention back to the scooter, slinging one leg over the seat as he tries to kick it into motion. Behind him, the zombies are rapidly approaching, faster than Grian had gotten used to in past encounters. Gripped with panic, his hands shake as he tries to twist the throttle to no avail. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Grian!”

He hears Scar shout the warning from above an instant before he hears the gunshot.

The zombie closest in his periphery falls to the ground. Dead.

Another shot follows the first, and then another. All while Grian tries to figure out the Vespa, grabbing the clutch and letting it go while peering down at the vehicle hopelessly, his hysteria making it impossible to troubleshoot.

Scar shoots another two zombies, and while Grian is impressed by his aim and grateful for the backup, the cacophony only manages to attract even more attention. It seems like every living corpse in the area has been alerted to his presence now, lurching out of alleys and stumbling in from behind buildings, moving towards him. Grian takes a breath, measured, trying to calm himself down and trusting Scar to handle his safety while he focuses on what sits before him.

Then he sees it—the key, jostled off during the scuffle with the linebacker, now fallen onto the asphalt.

A smug grin spreads across Grian’s face, victory at hand. Reaching out, he scoops up the key from below and slams it back into the ignition, turning it quickly in the same motion. He grips the handbrake tight as the engine finally rattles to life.

“Get ready!” Grian shouts, turning to look up at Scar, a sudden, crazed, enthusiasm to his voice. “Meet you at the fire escape!”

Settling himself in place on the leather seat, Grian turns the Vespa around and speeds towards the alley. Not the smoothest exit, but it works.

It’s a tight squeeze, but he manages to push through, glad for the bottleneck the alley creates for the horde following behind him. He can see them in the small round rearview mirrors—dozens of monsters stumbling after him, decrepit, rotting arms stretching out and grabbing in his direction. The second he exits the alley, Grian guns the throttle. He goes as fast as he can around the building, the noise from his engine loud in the otherwise dead lull of the town.

Scar is waiting for him at the bottom of the fire escape, Grian’s pack strapped to his chest and a zombie dead at his feet. His rifle is still drawn and in-hand. Grian brakes and the wheels of the scooter skid slightly. He kicks a foot out just in time to catch himself, then raises his head and waggles his brows at Scar.

“Someone called for a lift?”

There’s a flicker of surprise in Scar’s expression, like he hadn’t expected Grian to arrive in such a manner. Grian knows he shouldn’t push his luck, having only just made it out by the skin of his teeth, but at the same time, he’s never felt more alive. A crooked grin catches Scar’s face, and he huffs a small laugh as he steps forward. Scar situates himself on the back of the Vespa, slinging his leg over the seat and settling his weight behind Grian.

Behind them, the zombies are still following, drawn to them by the single-minded fixation of the undead. Wordlessly, Scar raises the rifle, aimed and at the ready.

“How much ammo have we got left?” Grian asks.

With confidence, Scar answers, eyes trained down the barrel of the gun.

“Plenty.”

A burst of laughter erupts from within Grian, frenzied and intoxicated and almost manic from the adrenaline.

“Good,” he says, and kicks them into full gear.

Grian’s driven a scooter exactly once before, while on vacation in France with some friends back in his early twenties. Back then he’d managed it, at best; an afternoon navigating over uneven cobblestones and tight winding avenues with a too-large helmet clamped down on his head. It had constantly slipped down over his eyes, but he hadn’t cared, laughing loud at every corner and intersection.

There’s no time for nostalgia now. Not with so many zombies rushing towards them, their fetid, uncoordinated bodies clogging together, and forcing him to weave carefully on the scooter’s small wheels. Grian threads between the abandoned market tables on the sidewalk, tipping over colourful bunting, displays of local jam, and hand-made candles.

“Loud noise coming,” Scar warns, followed a breath later by the reverb of a shot being fired. The kickback from the rifle sends his elbow into Grian’s shoulder, and Grian tries not to react, hunkering down slightly to give Scar more space to manoeuvre.

“Sorry,” Scar mutters, the word almost an afterthought as he squares his posture and re-centres his aim.

They push through the thickest knot of corpses, their disfigured, rancid bodies lured out by the chaos he and Scar have created. Scar manages to pick off the few that lurch too close before Grian finally turns left onto a sidestreet. Instantly there are less to deal with, the road opening up, free from the horde and the tattered remnants of the town fair. As the street clears, Grian picks up speed, going faster than either of them have travelled since they parted ways with Ariana.

Moving no doubt entirely on instinct, Scar loops his arm around Grian’s waist, his other hand clutching the rifle against their legs, holding onto both tightly. It puts a weird feeling in Grian’s chest—something guilty, because he shouldn’t be enjoying this. It’s not about him.

“Nice shooting.” He casts the words over his shoulder, speaking loud as the air rushes past them. The outskirts of the town have already fallen back, receding behind them rapidly. The flat desert terrain returns like a welcoming home, leaving all of the community’s horrors behind.

“Nice driving,” Scar returns, leaning close enough so Grian can hear. “Didn’t know you knew how to handle one of these things.”

A memory dredges itself up in Grian’s mind—Scar swimming across a pond at the edge of the abandoned farm right at the start of their journey, surprising Grian with his strength and confidence as he moved effortlessly through the water. It was a skill Grian had never seen him exhibit before, and Scar had responded to his remark on it by tossing his reply over carelessly.

‘You don’t know everything about me.’

A part of Grian wants to turn the statement back on him now. Wants to be petty in a way he’s all too familiar with. Juvenile and spiteful.

Instead he swallows the words down. There’s no need for such things right now. It’d prove nothing, benefit no one, and only drive the wedge in between them deeper.

“Drove one around for a summer with my friends once,” he says instead, hair getting in his eyes when he tilts his head back to speak. “Lucky for us, eh?”

Scar’s arm squeezes him slightly. Maybe imagined, maybe out of appreciation for not lashing out when he easily could have.

“Lucky indeed,” he replies, and the warmth of his words lingers as they continue along the empty highway.

Driving feels like a luxury. A decadence Grian can’t believe he ever took for granted.

It’s been nearly two weeks since Scar set his car on fire, forcing them both to proceed on foot. Grian can’t get over the speed that they’re moving now, all without exhausting either of their weary bodies. Having a vehicle is a game changer, and while the Vespa is certainly slower and more exposed than a proper car, it’s leagues better than the days of walking they’re now condensing into mere hours of travel.

Everything feels different now. The same dry, patchy, terrain Grian has stared at and loathed suddenly appearing fresh and new. He’s captivated by each passing rock, each cactus, and each brittle, wind-swept bush. Behind him, Scar yawns, rolling his shoulders and then settling against Grian, leaning into his space. The motion is casual and familiar, sparking a tiny hope in Grian’s chest that maybe his stunt with the Vespa has bought him some of Scar’s forgiveness.

Nervous, but wanting to test the waters, he finally speaks up.

“Should only take us a couple hours to get to our next stop now. If the fuel holds up.”

“Mm,” Scar agrees, humming in acknowledgement. “I hope it’s someplace we can properly rest and resupply.”

It’s not exactly ground-breaking, but it’s more in the ways of conversation than Scar has offered since they parted ways with the trio.

Beggars can’t be choosers, so Grian takes what he can get.

“We’ll figure something out,” he promises, his shoulders squared and determined, settling in for the drive ahead.

After three hours of non-stop driving, they spot the periphery of another city ahead, with mid-afternoon listing heavily towards evening.

It’s not a huge sprawl—nothing like the one Grian visited with Quackity at his side—but they agree to stick to the outskirts anyhow, refusing to venture in any deeper than they need to.

It’s almost nostalgic when Grian stops them at a gas station just inside the city limits; reminiscent of their early days right after the outbreak. The place is quiet and deserted. There are plenty of vehicles left around, but tellingly, no bodies. Survivors or otherwise.

They disembark the scooter cautiously, doing a quick survey of the immediate area, followed by a cursory glance inside the gas station itself.

“All clear,” Grian calls when he confirms it’s empty. Scar throws him a thumbs-up from where he’s standing by the Vespa.

As Grian walks back from the gas pumps, Scar waves him over. “Take a look at this.”

Curious, Grian leans in next to Scar, following his pointed finger. On the rear crash guard of the Vespa is the cartoonish image of an animal—a llama, if Grian had to guess—holding up a large slice of pizza with a phone number written beneath it. It’s a comical discovery, something light-hearted and absurdly out of place in the midst of their terrifying new reality.

“Must’ve been a delivery scooter,” Grian muses.

There’s a certain glint in Scar’s eye that Grian recognises, the beginning of a grin teasing at the corners of his mouth.

“Y’know, being a delivery driver these days seems like more trouble than it’s worth. We should’ve tipped the poor guy better,” he says, the joke catching Grian completely off guard.

“Scar,” he gasps, scandalised and scolding all at once. It’s a darkly humorous comment, both of them well aware of what happened to the original owner of the scooter.

Deep down Grian knows they shouldn’t talk like this. Shouldn’t let themselves grow numb to the horror. And yet, he feels a little relieved all the same. Scar making jokes with him has to mean something. Has to imply some shred of common ground remains between them. It’s naive to believe Scar’s forgiven him, of course, but he hopes this at least means that the long stretches of silent treatment are going to remain behind them.

It’s a hope he has to cling to.

He doesn’t really have anything else.

“Why don’t you get the gas,” Grian suggests. “I’ll check out what the food situation is like inside. Reeses, right?”

Scar gives him a look, a complicated mix of emotions passing over his face.

“You don’t have to be this nice to me,” he says at last, guarded and careful.

His words feel wretched, plucking at a vulnerability that sits open and exposed in Grian’s chest. The fear that it’s already too late for them. That only now, after Grian’s admitted how much of a mess is twisted up inside of him, Scar isn’t even going to entertain letting him try to untangle it.

“I know,” he replies honestly, feeling defeated and sounding like it. Not knowing how else to say the words beyond simply admitting them outright. “Better late than never through, right?”

Scar lets the statement hang for a moment, considering it. At last, he nods, offering Grian a half-hearted shrug of his shoulder.

“I guess so.”

He straightens up with a clearing of his throat, turning towards the gas pumps, and Grian is left to venture into the gas station on his own.

The interior is warm and silent when Grian pushes the door open, the air stale and clammy. He breathes in deeply anyways, enjoying the faint smell of age and musk. It’s an old building, with an older interior; sun-faded and worn, a patchy drop ceiling made of mismatched panels, and a yellowed, linoleum floor. Just like everywhere else, the refrigerated cases that run along the walls are quiet, the lights dark.

It’s clear that the place has already been picked over by scavengers, most of the racks and shelves left bare, but there are no signs of outbreak or struggle to incriminate them. No displays turned over. No dried blood splattered across the floor.

Bending over to inspect the far depths of some lower shelves, Grian manages to find enough provisions to restock their reserves—individually packed snack cakes, some beef jerky, and warm cans of cold brew. It’s not an impressive spread, but it will keep them fed, and it’s better than going back empty-handed.

It’s only as Grian’s leaving that he spots them arranged along a shelf next to the register: chocolate bars. And there among them, Scar’s favourite.

Grian doesn’t stop. He doesn’t pause to consider the sweet-tooth needs of anyone following after them. Greedily, he fills his arms with as many of the chocolates as he can carry.

“Success!” he hails upon leaving the store, brandishing his discovery aloft. Scar smiles at him appreciatively, the expression small but earnest.

“Big win here, too,” he replies, motioning to the Vespa.

The seat’s been lifted up, revealing a storage compartment inside, large enough to fit some of their gear.

“We can strap stuff to the back too. I think this bracket was meant to hold pizza boxes, but we can use it for extra gas and at least one of our bags,” Scar explains, pointing out a metal brace on the back of the scooter, the perfect width to hold a jerry can.

“That’s smart, Scar. Good idea,” Grian says without thinking, and finds himself met with an almost incredulous look.

“And…?” Scar prompts.

“And what?”

They both fall silent, weirdly stilted until finally Scar relents.

“Just waiting for the other shoe to drop,” he admits, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s not often you say that to me and mean it.”

Grian wants to deny it; wants to insist that he’s complimented Scar many, many times before. But even just the thought rings false in his head. Too many memories flooding in of times where he was critical and impatient with Scar to a fault.

It rattles him to admit it, but the more Grian’s forced to face his past, the more the image of himself that emerges isn’t a pleasant one to look at.

He remembers Quackity’s final words to him.

‘You’re lucky he puts up with you.’

It’s a harsh reality.

“I’m working on that,” he acknowledges, and the openness of it clearly catches Scar’s attention.

“That… would be nice,” Scar offers at last, his words careful. A delicately placed olive branch.

Together, they begin loading the scooter. First they figure out what fits best in the storage beneath the seat, then they decide how to secure the rest to the back.

“You were a good shot back there today—in town,” Grian says as they work, a little stiff with the honesty, hoping his words sound as genuine as he feels. “You kept your cool. I—I’m lucky you had my back.”

He feels the heat of his blush burning his cheeks and rising all the way up to the tips of his ears. It’s ridiculous to be so nervous speaking like this to a man he’s been close to for so many years. And yet, Grian has to actively resist the impulse within him to strangle the moment by carelessly brushing his words aside.

“Well,” Scar says at last, and there’s an appreciative warmth in the word. “Thanks. That’s kind of you to say.”

Scar bends down, still focused, using a bungee cord from the Vespa’s storage compartment to properly anchor their new jerry can in place. He’s at Grian’s height as he does it, and it triggers a knee-jerk response in Grian—one he doesn’t have time to properly think through.

He leans forward and kisses Scar; a simple, clean peck placed at the corner of his mouth. Basically his cheek, really. Chaste, like they’re in primary school.

The moment the gesture registers, Scar pulls back, studying Grian with focused, silent concentration.

It feels awkward. A silly decision Grian immediately wishes he could take back.

He looks away quickly, busying himself with storing what he salvaged from the gas station inside his bag, and taking care to balance their gear so neither of them has to carry too much.

“Should we get going?” he asks at last, tightening and retightening the straps on his borrowed bag so he doesn’t have to look at Scar. He can feel Scar’s eyes on him though, deep and considering. Like he’s reading something significant between the lines, written in a language Grian knows he doesn’t understand.

“If that’s what you want,” Scar says at last, careful.

Perhaps taking Scar more literally than he should, Grian stops his anxious waffling and takes a moment to think—to ask himself what he really, truly wants.

He wants Scar to reassure him.

He wants to be told that there’s still hope. That there’s something they can nurture and regrow between them.

“We’ve still got a long way to go,” he says instead, far from the emotional admissions he craves.

Miraculously, it’s the right thing to say.

“Yeah,” Scar agrees, shading his eyes with the side of his hand as he looks out at the stretch of highway fading into the distance. “At least we’re getting there a little faster though, right?”

That rhetorical question is offered with a small smile, like Scar’s rationing out his tenderness. Sharing it in slivers. Still, the mere presence of his familiar, crooked, grin blooms something affectionate and warm inside of Grian, grateful to have even just that glimpse of it.

He tries not to get ahead of himself, merely nodding as he lets Scar clamp the seat of the scooter back in place.

“I’ll drive first, shall I?” He asks, and without waiting for an answer, slips back onto the scooter’s seat. He keeps one foot balanced on the pavement while he waits for Scar to maneuver himself into place behind him.

“I’m in your hands,” Scar concurs, and despite everything, Grian’s heart still races when he feels Scar’s hands settle on his hips.

For better or worse, he supposes as the Vespa’s motor kicks back to life, a familiar rattle now, and far more appealing than the dry crunch of their footsteps on the asphalt.

For better or for worse.

Notes:

In case you haven't noticed yet--TAMN is a series now! 🧟

The KSQ sidefic from before is already linked in there, but Lock and I also wrote a Rancher sidefic this Monday that y'all can check out for Tango, Jimmy, and the origins of the zombies in TAMN >;D Please give it a read if you haven't already and you're clambering for some worldbuilding and Lore™.

Chapter 20

Notes:

Chapter 20 brings us very, very close to the end of Arc 2, which means we'll be switching back to being heavily Scar POV in a couple chapters! As always, thanks for being along for the ride :D 💜

Please skip to the end notes for spoiler-y CONTENT WARNINGS!

Grian can see his breath in the crisp morning air, fending off the fog and the cold. He stands, rubbing his hands together for warmth, and squinting at the pine trees that loom up all around them. He wonders where they came from.

Somehow, without either of them noticing, the terrain has changed completely. Over the hundreds of miles they’ve now travelled, the endless flat of the desert and its distant, ever-present, rusted line of mountains has been replaced, supplanted by a forest that Grian doesn’t remember driving into. Tall, spindly, pine trees push up out of otherwise barren soil, pressing in tight on both sides of the highway. All the colours have shifted, the tan and tawny ochre of the desert replaced by a ragged greyish-green, browned in places and burnt sienna in others.

Their map puts them somewhere near the northern end of California, sidling up against true mountain ranges wreathed in enormous pine forests. There are inclines now, deep slopes they lace their way up on empty, two-lane, interstates. Grian’s never been here before—neither of them have. The landscape is as foreign to him as the surface of another planet.

He doesn’t know how they ever would’ve made this far without the Vespa.

He tries not to think about it.

They spent the night resting in another abandoned gas station, taking turns sleeping behind the cash register, their sleeping bags pulled up to their chins while they dozed fitfully. Morning had come eventually, bringing nothing compelling alongside it. The sky is grey and unremarkable as they pack their things without conversation, neither of them in the mood for it.

Grian sits back on the scooter, and without a word Scar settles in behind him. It already feels familiar, easy as they set off without a word.

The miles pass without interest, fog hugging the tips of the trees above them. At a certain point, Grian feels the weight of Scar’s forehead settle between his shoulders, a not-unpleasant sensation. He doesn’t know if Scar’s sleeping or merely avoiding the chill in the air that rips past them by pulling in close.

His skin tingles from the contact all the same.

They pass a highway sign for a small cabin community just shy of noon, the amenities listed boasting golf, horseback riding, and hiking trails. It’s become clear that they’re passing through vacation territory—cross-country skiing in the winter, and ATV off-roading in the summer. The kind of place yuppies would flock to from larger cities on the weekends in an effort to ‘get away from it all.’

While things have warmed a little from the morning, it’s rapidly becoming obvious that they’ll need to search out warmer clothes sooner rather than later. A cluster of holiday cottages aren’t their best bet, but it’s the only option they have.

“Dunno about this place,” Scar murmurs as they slowly ride through the town’s empty streets. The air is uncomfortably still and quiet, but it’s impossible to tell if the place is abandoned, or if they’ve simply yet to come across the bodies of the infected populace. Everything around them feels profoundly different and unsettling in a new, disquieting way. Until now, the towns they passed through were spread across wide, open desert, with a myriad of easy escape routes available to them. Now, with the forest crouched in close on all sides, and the knowledge that the mountains loom over them, hidden in the fog, makes things feel almost claustrophobic. Like they’re slowly being funnelled into a trap.

Grian’s about to suggest they keep going when he feels Scar’s body shift, his weight leaning to one side. He points towards a home sat on the corner of two streets named after trees.

“How ‘bout that one? Two storeys. Multi-generational kinda place—kids and grandparents. More chances for clothes that’ll fit us.”

Grian’s not sure about it, uncertainty prickling up the back of his neck. However, he knows they have a limited amount of time, so reluctantly he brings the Vespa to a rolling stop, eyeing the house in question.

Nothing immediately lurches out at them. No sudden explosion of ghouls. Everything simply rests, quiet in the lingering, uncomfortable calm.

“Alright,” he grunts, turning off the scooter and pocketing the keys. “But let’s make it quick.”

As it turns out, quick isn’t feasible when the house is infested from the get-go.

The second they break through the front door, two zombies are on them, snarling and grotesque as they rush at them from the home’s mudroom.

Unable to raise the rifle in the confined space, and unwilling to alert any undead neighbours with the sound of gunfire, Scar manages to keep the pair at bay with the butt of the gun while Grian cuts them down with the bladed end of the hoe. In short order, the zombies fall, a tangle of twisted, rotted limbs, and open, seeping wounds. With a wordless agreement, the two head for the kitchen next, intent on grabbing some sort of weapon Scar can use in the too-tight halls.

The kitchen itself is bright and open, and would be charming in any other context. Instead, blood in the shape of human handprints has been smeared across the countertop, things knocked off shelves and thrown to the floor in disarray. The clear signs of a horrific struggle having taken place.

Grian tries not to focus on it. Tries not to let the wreckage paint a picture of a family, sick and infected, slowly succumbing before ravenously turning on one another.

Next to the oven is a hefty, wooden, knife block, which Scar makes a direct line towards. He selects a large chef’s knife, brandishing it in front of himself like a sword and looking towards Grian, a little foolish for the sake of levity. Grian can’t help but grin at his antics, rolling his eyes but keeping any commentary to himself, careful not to disturb the house, nor the truce they’ve settled into.

There aren’t many other choices left, but Grian wraps a steak knife up in a kitchen towel and tucks it into his already overstuffed bag anyway. An investment for the future.

After that, it’s merely a matter of quietly and methodically working their way through the rest of the house together. Avoiding what dangers they can, and taking only what they need.

It isn’t easy by any means. Scar wasn’t wrong about the home looking like it housed a large family. It means the place is full of disfigured, plague-ridden corpses—multiple generations of them—mindless and stained with gore, lunging out of bedrooms and closet-spaces to attack without warning.

He doesn’t enjoy it, but something about taking on the undead with Scar at his side feels right in a way that Grian can’t explain. They read each other’s moves effortlessly, working in tandem, and taking out the monsters one after another. It’s horrifying but it’s also exhilarating, and Grian struggles at times not to laugh from the rush of adrenaline.

Being in tune with Scar like this feels good. It feels like it’s the way things are meant to be. For him. For them.

“That’s gotta be the last of ‘em,” Scar says at last, panting. His forehead is beaded with sweat as he pushes the limp body of a zombie back onto the already bloodstained mattress in the main bedroom. “Unless they’ve got cousins up in the attic or something.”

“Stay alert, just in case,” Grian replies, equally breathless. “But I think you’re right.”

They lock eyes, exchanging small, triumphant, smiles. It doesn’t feel right to say, ‘good job,’ but they’re both thinking it, clearly.

For his part, Grian already has an eye on a backpack he caught sight of while they were taking out the zombies that rushed at them from the mudroom. Anything they find will be an upgrade from the tiny, cross-body pack he picked up back at the gun range what feels like forever ago of course, but the one he saw at the entrance seemed like a proper hiking pack. The kind that’s properly large, with an aluminum frame, and wide straps that will finally give his shoulders some relief.

“What do you think?” He asks after they return to the main floor, taking off the pack he borrowed from Scar and hefting the hiking pack up instead. He slips it on, feeling the frame inside it, designed to properly distribute the weight of what he’s carrying across his shoulders and hips. It’s a relief. Finally, some proper gear.

“I can’t believe the apocalypse is all it took to get you acting all outdoorsy,” Scar teases, gentle as he ribs him.

Grian blushes at the words, guilty. He remembers how often Scar used to invite him out—weekend hikes and backpacking trips to cabins with plans to sleep under the stars. Grian had rarely taken him up on the offers, always ready with an excuse. Too busy, too tired, too disinterested. It had meant that, more often than not, Scar had gone with Cub or Pearl instead—until more recent years, when his disability had taken a toll on him and he’d rarely been able to go at all. Grian had been so jealous, hearing Scar’s stories once he’d come back, sunburnt, exhausted, and smiling. He’d been annoyed whenever Scar talked about the routes he and Pearl had taken, or the telescope Cub had brought and the meteor showers they’d seen together, knowing full well he’d had the opportunity to join and had declined.

One time, Scar had brought him back wildflowers, picked at a lookoff he’d hiked to with Pearl. Grian had fought with him about it, guilty at having nearly been caught with B in his living room hours before.

It all feels so stupid now. An unnecessary complication he’d made for himself. A pointless bed that he’d forced himself to lay in.

“I wish we’d gone camping more,” he admits regretfully, easing the backpack off his shoulders and setting it down in order to transfer over the supplies.

Scar watches him for a moment before he reaches up for a plastic bin in the mudroom closet, the words ‘Hats & Gloves’ written on it in sharpie.

“I wish that, too.”

There’s a mournful sting between them, bittersweet and lingering.

“I’d probably be better at all this… survival stuff,” Grian says at last, gesturing to himself, their gear… the entirety of the world around them. “I haven’t been doing a very good job at it, I don’t think.”

“You would’ve hated it just as much then as you do now,” Scar admits with a rueful smile, opening the bin with one hand, and revealing a variety of beanies and gloves in a mix of colours and sizes. “No showers, no wifi, no delivery.”

“Three of my favourite things,” Grian agrees.

“But I always wanted you there,” Scar finishes, his words nearly overlapping Grian’s.

They slip into a moment of inelegant reservation, Scar awkward with the confession and Grian overwhelmed by it.

“Cub used to—god, looking back, he must’ve hated it. Every time we saw a nice sunset, or some satellite passing, or a shooting star, I’d say, ‘I wish Grian was here to see this.’” Scar shakes his head, crouching down with the box of winter gear and starting to sort through it, pairing off the gloves to see what suits them best. “And he’d say, ‘Grian can look outside and see his own sunset.’ I thought it was kinda sweet at the time. Like he was showing me how close we still were. Under the same sky, y’know?” He scoffs absently, slipping his hands into a pair of fingerless gloves to test the fit. He curls his palm into a fist before seeking out its mate. “Now I get that he probably just wanted me to talk about literally anything else.”

Grian stands in silence, unable to articulate a response. The tenderness of Scar’s admission sits uneven within him, mixing with deep shame at the implication that perhaps Quackity wasn’t the first to imply that Scar deserved better in a partner.

“I wish I’d gotten to know Cub better,” he acknowledges at last, the words quiet, and not nearly what Scar deserves to hear right now. “I think I missed out.”

“You did,” Scar says, agreeing so easily that it feels sharp, even though Scar himself doesn’t seem bothered in the least, finding the pair to his glove and putting it on his other hand. “He was one of a kind.”

“I enjoyed the few times we hung out together…” Grian offers, embarrassed by himself and suddenly meek.

“Cub did too,” Scar hums, focused and unaffected by the conversation, like they’re discussing a shopping list or whose turn it is to do laundry. It makes Grian wonder how long he’s sat with these feelings so that he can speak them without any anger or resentment. “And so did Pearl—though she told me she always got the impression you felt uncomfortable around her.”

Grian shakes his head. “It wasn’t discomfort so much as… jealousy, maybe,” he admits, quiet. “She was weird and chaotic in the same ways you are, and sometimes it seemed like you two had this whole world of in-jokes and banter that I’d never be part of. I guess… I felt it was impossible to compete with someone like her.”

“There was nothing to compete with, Grian,” Scar replies quickly, looking up for the first time, his eyes sharp and focused. “You were the one I was dating. Not Pearl. Not Cub.”

“Yeah,” Grian sighs, “I see that now.”

There’s nothing more to add to that. They’re not in a place to have a deep heart-to-heart—physically or emotionally. All the same, Grian’s glad for getting this small piece out there. It feels good to clear the air, even if it’s awkward and embarrassing to go over years of miscommunication and jealous insecurity like this.

He means to leave the conversation and return to scavenging, but as he moves towards the pile of jackets Scar has pulled out from a closet, Scar speaks up again.

“For what it’s worth, you’re weird and chaotic too. When you let yourself be. I wouldn’t have fallen for you if you weren’t.”

The compliment is so absurdly Scar that it makes Grian laugh, which puts a small, pleased smile on Scar’s face in return.

“Thanks,” Grian replies, equal parts wry and sincere.

Together, they start sorting through coats.

It takes some time, and a lot of trying things on and fussing, but eventually they both manage to find enough warm layers to properly insulate themselves against the cold. Grian finds a double-breasted peacoat with a hood in his size, as well as a dark burgundy wrap that he can wear like a poncho on days when the coat is overkill. He sifts through gloves, taking a small but stretchy pair that are near enough to his size to work, and grabs a beanie as well, though he doesn’t know if he’ll actually use it.

Scar fares worse, overall. They’re unable to find a jacket big enough to fit his broad shoulders, but he insists he’ll just wear more layers beneath his aviator coat. He does manage to find a pair of thick, fur-lined gloves, and a long, warm, scarf, so Grian tries not to let his worrying get the best of him. Instead, he helps Scar go through the drawers in the main bedroom, finding which shirts would work best as layering for warmth before he glances over the offering of footwear.

There aren’t any snow boots—at least none that they can find in the hallway closets or in any of the bedrooms—and the rainboots are all either too big for Grian or too small for Scar, so ultimately they pass. It’s fine for the most part. The boots Grian has on are fairly sturdy, and Scar’s shoes have held up well. At the very least, they find new socks for the both of them. It’s not ideal, but Grian knows they’re lucky to have found as much as they have as is.

They pick through the rest of the house in tandem, but ultimately find very little of worth. It surprises Grian how quickly his focus and priorities have changed. Luxuries he once pined for no longer feel important, and he passes over them without a thought as he scans each room in search of practical items—gear and equipment that will help sustain their continued survival. He empties the medicine cabinets and first aid kits, and combs through the kitchen and pantry for non-perishables, but leaves the rest of the home largely undisturbed. It feels like a fundamental shift in how his brain works, and he wonders how long it will last. If it’s permanent. If he’ll ever care about things again.

“How about this?” Scar asks. They’re in the living room and he’s standing next to the fireplace. The mantle is crowded with photos and trinkets; generations of milestones and achievements commemorated in simple frames. The signs of a family well-loved.

Grian barely looks at them.

Scar is holding up a long piece of metal with a hooked, spear-headed tip—a wrought iron poker, designed for moving logs around in a fire. It has a proper wooden handle that fits comfortably in Grian’s hand when he takes it, and a leather loop on the end to secure it around his wrist.

“Better than the old hoe, I think,” Scar explains.

“I take offence to that,” Grian replies, raising his eyebrows when Scar gives him a look, a sliver of a grin tugging at his lips. “I’m not that old.”

Scar huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he leaves the fireplace, continuing to explore the room. Grian is left standing at the mantle. The fire poker has a decent heft to it, and makes a satisfying swoosh when he gives it a swing. He decides to bring it along.

It can’t hurt to be prepared.

“We should get going.”

It’s a mild suggestion, and one Scar agrees to easily. They’ve gone through the home and taken what they need, so there’s no point lingering. Not when they have plenty of hours of good daylight left and such a long way to go.

“Nippy though, isn’t it?” Grian remarks, tugging his new coat snug around himself when they step back outside, glad for his newfound layers.

“Awful inconsiderate of the world to end right before winter,” Scar agrees.

They spend a few minutes reorganising their gear onto the back of the Vespa, and then Grian gets in place on his seat, kicking the motor on like they’ve been travelling this way for years.

“Hang on tight,” he says, casting his words back over his shoulder to Scar.

His reminder is met with Scar’s hand coming to a rest on Grian’s shoulder, a perfunctory grip at best. It feels stupid to be disappointed by the missing grip around his waist, and Grian tries not to dwell on it, resuming their journey north.

They ride for hours, following the highway as it winds up the fog-wreathed slope of a mountain, and then slowly descends down the other side. Once past it, they’re met by a flat plain stretching out to the north and east, while the mountains run off to the west. The forest fades, stumbling out into short, hardy, pine trees that grow in clusters amidst the red and yellow wild grass covering the ground. It feels different from the dust of the desert they left behind—arid, still, but more alive.

It’s easier to keep the scooter fueled than it was his car. They stop where they can and fill the extra jerry cans they keep strapped to the back. It gives Grian a certain sense of competence to no longer struggle in this area, as if he’s adapting well to the new world they now live in.

It still feels shockingly empty though. Alienating and strange. Like they’re the only two left alive.

They pass the edge of cities and towns, skirting them carefully and not daring to venture in. They both fear what they might find—fear being singled out and overwhelmed. Fear meeting survivors. Fear being turned away.

The question creeps in by inches the further they progress, growing larger and larger until Grian can no longer avoid wondering: what is it all for? This entire time they’ve been ‘going north,’ but for what? Miles of endless highway and empty grassland dotted with small towns just as ravaged by the virus as the large cities? There’s no sign of containment, no sign of control—no sign of any sort of management or mitigation at all.

Grian tries not to let the thoughts settle too deep and spiral too dark inside his skull. He focuses instead on the immediates—on keeping his eyes on the road, on minding the fuel gauge, on making sure Scar’s not silently cramping up behind him. The hours bleed one into the next. Their initial enthusiasm for how fast they could move and how much ground they could cover is slowly replaced by the monotony of travel. They stop only for mandatory breaks, refuelling, and resuming.

Without saying a word, they cross a state line, slipping out of California and into Oregon. There’s no sign announcing their entrance, only one declaring their exit, which feels bittersweet to Grian for a reason he can’t place.

We’ll never come back here, he thinks, not knowing why it makes him emotional.

All the communities they pass through are small. A repeating ramshackle collection of homes that all share the same signs of having been abandoned in haste.

Grian wonders if maybe this state had a different approach to the infection. If earlier warnings, or better coordination, gave the residents a chance to leave before the hordes and disease overtook them. But even if they left, where did they all go?

For another hour they drive and he quietly ponders.

The terrain is still sparse, hemmed on both sides by lines of gentle hills, none of them large or steep enough to be considered mountains. The scenery is greener, and the ground beneath their feet clearly seismically active. Every community they pass boasts signs for geysers and mineral baths. Healing waters. Restorative day spas.

It’s while they’re passing through yet another small, abandoned town that Scar abruptly throws a hand out. He nearly knocks Grian off-balance as he points towards a sign, painted on plywood and posted next to a highway mile marker, declaring the nearby presence of a hot spring.

“Grian, we have to go,” he says, leaning over Grian’s shoulder to speak, words bright and excited.

Strangely, it reminds Grian of the early days of the apocalypse. Back when they first set out and Scar had been dead set on visiting Disneyland.

Much like then, Grian is still just as hesitant about indulging the idea.

“I don’t know, Scar… it might be safer to set up in one of the houses on the fringes of this place. We don’t have time for side-quests.”

“It’s not a side-quest, Grian,” Scar chides, both hands on his shoulders, speaking loud over the sound of the Vespa’s rumbly motor. “It’s a necessity! We haven’t had a real clean in weeks—and this is a naturally occurring hot spring! Hot water! Without electricity! Just think of how long we could soak!”

Grian has to admit that the idea is appealing. It’s been getting colder, and the biting rush of the air as they drive isn’t helping. The sky is overcast with low, heavy clouds, and the later it gets in the day, the chillier it feels. By Grian’s estimates, it’ll soon be near freezing, if not below it.

The thought of sinking into a pool of warm water is a welcome one. As if on cue, he feels his body begin to ache all over, like it’s reminding him of the extreme conditions he’s been putting himself through for days on end. Every muscle is desperate, pleading for a break.

“Alright,” he relents at last, dramatic even with his voice raised. “But we leave at the first sign of any trouble, and we don’t linger.”

Scar rewards him with an exclamation of delight, hands clapping Grian’s shoulders excitedly in a way that puts a secret smile on Grian’s face.

They follow the signs directing them where to go, taking an exit off the highway onto what quickly becomes a rutted dirt road. The hot springs themselves are about six miles off the interstate—not all that far when they have the scooter to take them there. It’s clearly a weekend destination, rustic and mostly catering to locals, but the location is beautiful. It’s centred in an open valley basin, hemmed on one side by a row of hills tinted jade by the haze of distance, with an impressive view of a large, shallow lake spread out magnificently before them.

At a first glance the place seems both secluded and empty. There are several small cabins set up where the dirt road ends, arranged around a large, central building with a low, sloped, aluminum roof that Grian assumes must be where the hot springs are located.

Sure enough, his suspicions are confirmed when they spot the signage posted above the door, ‘Main Baths’ painted in red and blue above two separate entrances. Outside the building, the springs seem to overflow, rock pools the size of hot tubs situated along the back wall. They face out towards the view of the lake, steam rising up from the surface of the water into the early evening sky.

“Oh, we have to use those ones,” Scar insists. “Soaking outside with the stars above us? Imagine how amazing that’ll look.”

“Stars?” Grian laughs, “It’s too cloudy, Scar.”

“It’ll clear up by the time we’re ready for a dip,” Scar assures him, confident in his imagined future.

Cutting the engine, Grian waits for Scar to hop off the back seat before he wheels the scooter up next to one of the darkened cabins. He hopes it won’t look too conspicuous if there are any survivors in the area.

Not that there are any signs of them. There are no other vehicles around that he can see. No signs of life or activity whatsoever. Despite his abundance of caution, they truly do seem to be alone.

All the same, Grian can’t shake his paranoia as he tucks the scooter away, wishing he had a tarp to properly disguise it.

“We’ll be back, Pizza,” Scar says reassuringly, lifting his bag off the back of the scooter and keeping his rifle loosely at the ready.

It takes Grian a moment to realise he’s talking to the Vespa.

“You named it?” He asks.

“I named him,” Scar corrects.

“Him?”

“Yeah,” Scar says, his smile bright. “I named him Pizza.”

There’s an absurdity to it, but Grian supposes no more so than naming a car Ariana. With a shake of his head he opts to simply go along with it, which pleases Scar immensely. He grins brightly with the rifle in hand, moving to better explore the location.

Aside from the scrappy cabins surrounding the main hot springs’ building, the area around them appears wide, open, and entirely empty. Some of the scrubby grass has been designated for RVs and camping as told by the signs left propped against boulders. The cabins themselves have a weathered, rustic look to them, and Scar stops to peer in the windows of the nearest one, shading his eyes with the curve of his hands.

“We can sleep here,” he says informatively. “There’s beds. That’ll be nice.”

Grian considers it, tugging his scarf up over his chin to keep out the chill.

“I suppose,” he relents at last, and Scar nods appreciatively.

Breaking into a cabin is easier than he expected. The screens on the windows are flimsy at best and wholly broken at worst. Once they pry them out, it’s a simple matter of jimmying the lock on the window and pushing it to the side. Scar’s able to do it in a breeze, and he automatically bends down, offering his palms with his fingers laced together in order to give Grian a leg up. There’s no way he’d be able to fit through the window frame on his own, so the second part is up to Grian.

He grabs hold of Scar’s shoulders, trying not to think about how close they are and how warm and solid Scar feels beneath his hands. When he’s ready, Scar lifts him, and Grian edges a knee in through the window before quickly bringing his other leg up after him, slipping through the gap and into the darkened cabin.

Though he knows Scar just peered in through the window to make sure it was clear, Grian’s heart still hammers with anxiety. His entire body is on alert, just in case something is lurking in the corners, waiting to attack. He doesn’t try to check the interior on his own, immediately crossing to the door and unfastening the deadbolt with hands that are steadier than he feels.

Luckily, Scar is already waiting outside with their things, relaxed and seemingly without any nerves. With a smile, he hefts up their bags and brings their supplies in with enthusiasm. It’s like they’re on a weekend getaway instead of grasping for survival.

It feels absurdly normal in the midst of the apocalypse, and deep down Grian appreciates the moment of reprieve it offers. He feels himself relax simply by dint of seeing Scar so calm.

“Still got that flashlight, Grian?” Scar asks, placing their gear down just inside the door. There’s enough light coming in near the windows, but it fades quickly into shadow further back into the cabin, leaving the remainder of the space in vague uncertainty.

Unclipping the small torch from the side of his backpack, Grian lifts it up. “Right here.”

He flicks the light on, casting it over the tiny interior.

It’s an alright place—not the kind that would be winning hospitality awards anytime soon, but comfortable and clean enough. The cabin is small, just one room overall, with a double bed pressed up against one wall and a rudimentary kitchenette on the opposite one. The place is furnished with odds and ends; a burgundy quilt folded nicely on the bed; some driftwood art on the wall; a few dog-eared books about bird watching on a shelf; and a hand-hooked rug in the shape of some sunflowers on the floor.

Scar’s whoop of delight distracts Grian from his observations.

“What?” Grian asks, glancing at him quickly and shining the light in his direction.

“Check this out!” Scar’s glee is abundant, crossing the floor to the kitchen. He picks an item up, brandishing it like a prize, and Grian’s own excitement immediately notches up to meet his.

It’s an oil lamp, old and well used. The kind of find Grian can’t believe they’ve been lucky enough to stumble across.

“Bet you they left it here for the aesthetic,” Scar says, handling it carefully as he brings it back towards the light of the window.

“I dunno, Scar,” Grian counters, unable to stop himself from being contrarian. “This place is a bit of a dump. It was probably left here because they couldn’t afford to keep the lights going.”

“It’s not a dump,” Scar objects, performatively aghast. “It’s just—y’know, off the beaten path! Folksy! Rustic!”

“Rustically dump-like, you mean.”

Scar brushes him off with a scoff and a wave of his hand, but Grian still catches him grinning. He watches as Scar begins checking the shallow drawers in the kitchenette, rooting around until he finds a box of matches.

“You won’t be calling it a dump when you get a load of this ambulance,” Scar insists, raising the glass cover of the lamp and striking a match. The momentary flare of sulphur sparks bright before he transfers the flame over to the lantern’s wick.

“Ambiance,” Grian corrects, second nature.

“That’s what I said.”

Sliding the glass cover back in place, Scar shakes out the match and then stands back, admiring the warm glow of the lantern light pooling out and filling the room. Grian has to admit it’s charming, the shadows that had clustered so close to them sinking back as the interior of the cabin is wrapped in brightness.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Scar preens, lifting the lantern and holding it up, taking the cabin in anew.

Grian can’t help but tease him. “You look like an old-timey prospector with that thing.”

It’s a statement that could land sour, but blessedly doesn’t. Scar smiles at him, winking. Then he’s turning towards the door, shadows moving around him at wild angles as he carries the lantern aloft.

“C’mon. Now that we’ve got this baby we’ve gotta check out those hot springs.”

“You don’t think we should sleep first?”

Scar pauses in the cabin doorway, raising an eyebrow as he glances back at Grian.

“Are you tired?”

“I mean—” Grian hesitates before shrugging his shoulders, feeling weirdly self-conscious about the question. “Yes? I’m exhausted, Scar.”

Scar’s grin is immediate, his smile radiant in the light of the lamp.

“Me too,” he agrees. “So c’mon. Let’s do it tired.”

Caution would be the best way to go about things. They should wait until it’s properly daylight out and not dipping steadily into evening. They should hold off until they’re not in danger of getting jumped in the night. But Scar is smiling at him… He’s cracking jokes and teasing, the way that Grian remembers he used to, and he knows he’d be a fool to shove away that suggestion of camaraderie.

A part of him is surprised that, after all his anger, Scar has moved back into forgiveness so quickly, but he’s not about to question it. Grian thinks back to earlier, at the gas station, when he’d pressed a kiss to the corner of Scar’s mouth and Scar hadn’t pushed him away. He thinks even further back to the motel, before it all went wrong, and how Scar had touched him and lain with him like he used to.

None of that would have been possible if Scar didn’t still have feelings for him.

With a burst of hope, Grian feels certain that this is Scar giving him another chance.

And, this time, he isn’t going to squander it.

They head out side by side, and though Scar is confident their things will be alright, Grian insists on bringing his new backpack along with them. It’s been nearly two weeks since they were caught unawares at the storage unit, but the sting of losing all his supplies hasn’t abated in the slightest. He refuses to let his guard down like that again, even if they seem alone.

Together they move across the large gravel driveway towards the hot springs. As they approach, the building looks eerie in the gathering darkness, one that has snuck in alarmingly fast. Shockingly however, Scar’s prediction has proven true: the clouds, at least, have begun to part. The early stars shine bright overhead, unhindered by any form of light pollution.

They don’t bother breaking into the main bath, instead making their way to the rocky basins outside, the steaming water inviting as the chill of the night air sets in.

Scar walks ahead, keeping the lantern held out in front of him to light their path. When they reach the biggest of the outdoor tubs, he places it down on the outer edge.

Grian shrugs off his backpack while Scar begins to strip, pulling his layers off one by one. He tries not to stare, but it’s difficult to keep his eyes to himself when Scar does this. It makes his mouth go dry, watching Scar standing at the precipice of the water in only his underwear. He feels unusually shy when he begins to divest himself of his own clothes.

Without waiting, Scar eagerly steps down into the hot springs, sighing out loud as he sinks down all the way up to his waist. Unlacing his shoes and shucking off his trousers, Grian watches Scar sit down, slouching until just the tops of his shoulders peek out above the steaming surface of the water.

“C’mon in,” Scar encourages, eyes closed and head tilted back. “The water’s fine.”

Pushing his nerves aside, Grian carefully toes one foot into the water. The bite of the cold air succumbs to the warmth wrapping around him as he follows Scar’s lead and sinks in up to his shoulders.

The initial plunge is almost too hot at first, feeling just shy of scalding. However, after Grian takes a breath and lets himself settle, his body quickly acclimates. The soak is absolutely amazing. His muscles feel like they’re loosening at an atomic level, and he relaxes gladly, settling down to Scar’s right.

“Wow,” he hums, letting the sound drag like it’s being pulled out through molasses.

Beside him, Scar laughs agreeably.

Grian lets himself go slack, floating and supported by the stone behind him. Sighing, he puts his head back and gazes up at the sky. Between the fleeting fingers of cloud, the stars look immaculate. They’re radiant against the great expanse of inky black, the thick arm of the milky way cutting in a wide arc above them. It makes something in Grian’s throat go tight, overwhelmed as he stares up at the beauty of it. It’s hard to believe a sight like this can still exist, untouched by the ravages of the world. Countless bright, beautiful pinpoints burning light-years away.

“I’ve never seen a sky like this before,” he admits, both awed and appreciative.

He knows Scar could pipe up. He could humbly brag and remind him that he has—plenty of times, in fact. He could launch into a whole story about Cub, about telescopes, about driving into the middle of nowhere to look at meteor showers and planet rings and comets. Instead, he merely nods in consensus, lifting his arms and slinging them over the edge of the rocky basin, and letting his eyes flutter open as he follows Grian’s gaze up to the sky.

“This is what the stars are going to look like from now on,” Grian says abruptly, the realisation sinking in all at once. Light pollution; the ever-present haze of city street lamps, fluorescent signs, office buildings. The ambient, acerbic, glow of civilization. All of that is behind them now, flickering out into darkness as the power grids shut down one by one.

He tries to imagine a future where the only sky he knows is the one above him. Clinging to the flimsy, brittle, surface of the earth as he looks up in wonder night after night.

It makes him feel like a speck. Infinitesimal in the vastness of it all.

Above them, a single, luminous dot catches his attention. A pinprick of light moving swiftly amongst the stars, cutting a straight line through the sky.

“Is that a comet?”

“A satellite,” Scar answers, the two of them tracking it as it moves. “No more use for those now, I guess,” he adds after a moment with a small, humourless laugh.

They sit in silence, watching until the satellite disappears.

Then Scar continues, speaking carefully, “Shooting stars are brief. A comet passing by takes days.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t feel admonished, but a sliver of embarrassment creeps up inside him anyhow. “I guess I didn’t know that.”

Scar merely chuckles. The tension in his shoulders relaxes as he lifts a hand out of the spring, warm water dripping back into the tub. He points upwards.

“If we watch long enough, we’ll see a shooting star. It’s just space junk burning up in the atmosphere—meteors and asteroids… little green men. Happens all the time.”

There’s a calmness in him, his body language trusting and open. Here, in the moonlight, Scar looks beautiful. He’s always been handsome, but there’s a softness to him right now, cast in the pale glow of a million glimmering stars in the obsidian sky. It twists something up in Grian’s chest, pulling, and pulling, and pulling.

Grian knows he should take a breath and let his emotions settle. He should look up again and let Scar continue to explain the features of the night to him. But another part of Grian feels the fragile bubble of his emotions pushing up and out of his body, encouraged by the way Scar is talking to him, easy and relaxed.

Impulsively he leans forward. Warm water shifts around him as Grian presses himself close to Scar’s side, skin against skin, catching Scar’s head at an angle and pressing his lips against Scar’s in a kiss.

It’s what he’d wanted to do earlier, but had compromised on by settling for kissing Scar’s cheek instead. He’s walking an edge here and he knows it. Doing this is a risk, reclaiming something that may not be ready to bear fruit yet. Scar could push him away and he’d be perfectly understandable in doing so.

But what better place to test the waters than while soaking up to their necks in it?

Grian would like to think that, despite everything, he and Scar have made progress. It had certainly felt that way at least, when he’d been caught underneath him, pressed into the motel sheets, and kissing Scar desperately. It had been the closest they’ve gotten to how they used to be, and Grian needs to know if he truly ruined all of that growth when he jumped the gun and assumed things with Quackity.

He’s braced for it—ready for the inevitable moment when Scar places a hand on his chest and eases him back. It’ll hurt, but at least he’ll know.

His lips play against Scar’s, wet from the water he’d wiped down over his face, pliant. There’s no return of the gesture. Every second that passes feels unbearably long. The heat that floods Grian’s cheeks has nothing to do with the hot springs and everything to do with the embarrassment of imminent rejection looming ever larger.

He’s about to pull back, cast his eyes downwards, and apologise, when slowly… carefully… Scar begins to kiss him back.

A sudden energy floods through Grian—as well as a not-insignificant amount of relief. He bites back a sigh, unwilling to break the fragility of the moment. Gently, Grian brings his hands up to grip Scar’s arms, using the leverage to rise up and kiss him better. Their lips press together timidly, like this is their first kiss ever, neither one of them daring to push things any further.

It’s only when Scar’s palms settle on his hips under the water that Grian takes the chance. With the reassurance that Scar wants this—is willing to hold Grian close as they kiss—Grian swipes his tongue against Scar’s lower lip. His heart goes tight with want as Scar’s mouth parts to let him in.

It settles a deep anxiety within him to be able to kiss Scar like this again; to know that he hasn’t taken a dozen steps backwards after only a few attempts at walking in the right direction. Encouraged, he licks into Scar’s mouth with avarice, craving more of the taste and feel of him, starved after so long going without.

Scar’s grip around him tightens, and when Grian’s next kiss comes, passionate and needy, Scar finally breaks. He drags Grian into his lap, chest to chest, water swishing loud around them as their bodies resettle. Scar’s hands pull up out of the water, cradling Grian’s face as he kisses him deeply. Scar runs his tongue over the roof of Grian’s mouth and then claims his lips once more, teasing the sensitive skin of his lower lip between his teeth. It rips a wanton noise from Grian’s throat, the familiar spark of arousal igniting low in his belly.

“Scar…” his voice is soft, whispered warm against Scar’s lips. There’s barely anything between them, just hot water and their underwear. Grian’s heart races, consoled by the thought of recapturing what they had before they split from the trio. A return to that new normal Scar had invited, finally.

Scar’s hands move from cradling his face to settling on his hips once more, wide palms resting flat against his skin, and thumbs rubbing into the muscle of Grian’s sides just beneath his ribs. Grian knows he should say something more. Should ask if they’re on the same page, should talk to him, about healing and forgiveness and what this all means for them going forward. But it’s difficult to interrupt the momentum when all Grian wants is the closeness of their connection, something deep inside him convinced that this is it, this is all they need to make things right. That deep down Scar understands and feels the same way.

They continue kissing, slow and languid, warm in the water and entirely alone in the dark.

“This is good, right?” The words slip out of Grian unbidden, his thoughts liquid as he speaks between kisses.

Their lips catch in another long, lingering kiss. Then Scar eases back enough to look at him, and something about his expression makes Grian’s heart ache. He’s heartbroken. And hurt. The look in his eyes is every bit as difficult to face as Grian had feared it would be. Betrayal caught up and tangled in the gentleness of his affection.

Anguish and guilt crawl up inside of Grian, unsettled and unresolved.

“It was always good,” Scar’s voice accuses in his head. “Until you ruined it.”

His hand makes ripples in the water as he lets it fall from Scar’s shoulder with a splash, disappearing beneath the surface. A moment later, he curls his grip around Scar’s wrist, careful, searching his gaze for any signs of aversion. Grian drags Scar’s palm from its place at his hip, down across his belly, and lower still, guiding Scar’s touch to the swell of his slow-forming arousal. Grian’s eyes don’t move from Scar’s as he directs him, letting his hips rise up in a gentle, encouraging push. Needing Scar to see, to feel—knowing it’ll all make sense when he does.

By unhurried inches, Scar’s thumb rubs a languid line along his length, running slowly back and forth, a gentle stroke beneath the surface of the water.

“Scar…” his name leaves Grian in a rush, punched out in a breathy exhale of relief.

Neither of them break eye contact, though Grian knows his own must go half-lidded as another wave of desire rolls over him. Scar’s touch is cursory at first, but becomes bolder when Grian moans and rocks his hips again. It’s with a low elation that Grian realises he can feel Scar getting hard as well, the shape of him filling out beneath Grian’s ass.

Confidently, he rolls his pelvis again, purposefully grinding down against Scar’s erection, wanting to make Scar feel just as good as he does.

“Easy does it,” Scar murmurs, and only then does he break eye contact, his gaze moving down to rest somewhere vague in between them. His fingers begin to work their way between the elastic of Grian’s briefs and his skin, patiently pulling them down, and Grian tries to help by shimmying his hips. The water hinders the motion more than it helps though, and eventually Scar settles for pushing them down just enough to work Grian’s dick free.

Wordlessly, Scar wraps his hand around it, the pressure a welcome addition to the warmth of the water around them. Grian shivers, moving his hands up to grip Scar’s shoulders, bracing himself. After a few cursory strokes, Scar settles his other hand on Grian’s thigh, rubbing relaxed circles against the meat of his muscle and working Grian until he’s fully hard.

The feeling of Scar’s hand curled around him is perfect, his touch sliding halfway down Grian’s length and then back up again, stroking over the head in that way he does so well. The repetitive motion has Grian instinctively bucking forward, eager for more. He pushes against Scar’s other hand, which remains heavy on him, keeping him in place. It almost makes Grian whine, and it’s only some fleeting thought of maintaining his dignity that has him holding it back, too nervous to come off as desperate or needy.

Scar works him over in long, tight strokes, until the heat from the hot springs suddenly seems like too much. Grian’s body burns up as Scar methodically brings him to the precipice of release. His pacing is perfectly even, with all the confidence and familiarity of a man who knows Grian’s tells inside and out.

When at last, Scar rubs the sensitive head of his cock, peeking out through his foreskin, it makes Grian bite into his bottom lip nearly hard enough to bleed. His grasp on Scar’s shoulders tightens, his nails leaving crescent indents in his skin.

“Are you close?” Scar asks, voice low in the way Grian loves.

“Yeah,” he manages, breathing stuttered, “Don’t—don’t stop, please—”

He leans in on instinct, pressing his lips to Scar’s with his eyes screwed shut. Scar’s lips move against his without hesitation, his mouth quickly parting and tongue slipping against Grian’s own. The hand on his hip moves up, up, tracing the line of his spine until it tangles in the hair at the back of Grian’s head, tugging just enough to make Grian moan into him.

Every pull of Scar’s hand speeds up after that, relentless as he works Grian’s dick in quick, rapid, pumps. He rubs his thumb over Grian’s glans repeatedly, no longer tempering his touch behind foreskin. He caresses Grian directly, over and over, until he feels the edge of overstimulation creeping up on him.

Legs spread wide across Scar’s lap, Grian breaks away from the kiss and knocks their foreheads together and panting against Scar’s lips. His breathing quickens into sharp, ragged gasps, his body tensing and tightening. Scar takes as a sign, pressing his thumb the sensitive slit of Grian’s dick, squeezing around him on the next downstroke of his hand, and capturing his mouth in another kiss, all at once.

It’s like that—with Scar’s hand in his hair, Scar’s tongue in his mouth, and Scar’s hand around his cock—that Grian comes. Crying out against Scar’s lips as he spends himself into the water of the hot spring.

The aftermath is like floating—literally, considering that they’re submerged. A distant part of himself, prim and scolding, recoils at the way they’ve dirtied the bath, but the majority of Grian can’t find it in himself to care. He feels utterly relaxed, his body flushed and muscles loose. All he wants is to fall slack against Scar’s chest, their skin wet and tacky where they press together, panting hard and shuddering with euphoria as he enjoys the afterglow of the moment.

He could fall asleep like this, he thinks. Warm and satisfied.

“You good…?” Scar asks once the electricity of the moment has begun to ebb. His hands are careful at Grian’s back, fingers running soothingly up and down his spine under the water.

“So good,” Grian half-laughs, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.

“Glad to hear it,” Scar replies, voice soft. Following gently with, “We should probably get out.”

“Mm, in a minute,” Grian sighs, hand wandering down past Scar’s shoulders and back into the heat of the pool. Beneath the water, he runs his palms over the shape of Scar’s cock, blessedly still hard, eager to share the pleasure he’s just enjoyed.

Without a word, Scar pushes his hands aside, and before Grian can even begin to compute the rejection, Scar is sliding him off his lap and getting up. Water sluices off his body as he stands, rivulets cascading down his chest and past his very obvious erection.

Grian stares up at him dumbly, cowing down into the water, feeling suddenly insignificant and small.

“I was thinking we could wash our clothes here tomorrow,” Scar says, speaking conversationally, like nothing is remotely out of the ordinary. “Maybe not in this pool, considering what we just did. But, you know—it might be nice to have clean things for a change.”

Grian doesn’t reply, the high from his orgasm crashing down in an instant. His heart feels like it’s stuck somewhere in his lungs, making it difficult for him to breathe. He watches distantly as Scar steps out of the rock basin, taking a moment to gather up his clothes.

Scar shoves his wet legs, one after the other, into his jeans and pulls them back up. “A hot bath, a cozy cabin, a clean mattress—we’ve really hit the jackpot here.”

“Did I mess something up?” Grian wants to ask. “What went wrong? Why did you change your mind?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he says instead, and it comes out so virulent he immediately wishes he hadn’t spoken at all.

Scar goes perfectly still, expression masked into neutrality. “What?”

Grian knows he should let it go. He knows he shouldn’t push this. Not now, when there’s still a chance of them going to bed and not having an argument. He’s already said something impulsive and stupid, but he can save this if he just brushes it aside and returns with Scar to the cabin. If he lets it go now, they can revisit it at another time, when they’re both properly rested and calm. It would be a piss-poor, shortsighted move to ruin this entire evening with a fight he knows neither of them wants to have.

And yet, in an instant, the embarrassment of rejection and the grief within him evolves into an indignation so fierce he can taste the bitter tang of it.

“You can’t keep doing this,” he spits, suddenly angrier than he’s maybe ever been. “You can’t keep—you’re always flip-flopping between emotions, Scar, and I can’t read you at all. Sometimes you’re so mad you won’t even speak to me, and then ten minutes later you’re making jokes like we’re best friends. Sometimes you won’t so much as look my way, but then you’ll sit beneath the stars with me and stare into my eyes!”

Scar watches him with a guarded expression, maintaining an infuriating silence that irritates Grian even further.

“If you hate me then just bloody say so, Scar! Make up your fucking mind and put us both out of our misery!”

“Grian,” Scar says, slow like he’s talking down a wild beast that’s been backed into a corner, or a toddler that’s throwing a fit in the midst of a crowded shopping mall. “I think you’re forgetting that you tried to kill someone. Someone we knew. Someone we—I—liked.”

Scoffing, Grian blows right past the reminder without correction or acknowledgement. “And yet you kissed me just now anyway.”

Scar flinches, taking half a step back, reacting the same way he might’ve had Grian simply struck him.

It doesn’t feel like the victory it should.

“Why did you kiss me then, Scar?” Grian presses, sick and angry and humiliated in equal parts. “If you didn’t want me, why didn’t you just turn me down from the start?”

Scar’s response comes hesitantly, the admission unsure and wholly unsatisfying. “I really wish I knew.”

His words only incense Grian further, indignation, guilt, and sorrow wrapping around him in a way he doesn’t know what to do with, and can’t calm himself down enough to make proper sense of.

“Well that’s not good enough,” he snaps. “You can’t just turn this all around on me when you never make an effort either, Scar! We wouldn’t be in this situation if you’d just be upfront about how you feel. Instead, you keep making me hope that there’s something worth salvaging here—something worth working towards—only to, what? Act like—like I’m the bad guy for wanting things to go back to normal between us? For trying?”

“Normal?” Scar asks with a scowl, humourless and almost mean. “Grian, you didn’t even wait for me to say anything before you started grinding up against me! You never do!”

Grian’s cheeks flare hot, shocked and horrified. It makes him queasy to think of the implications. Suddenly it’s like he can’t trust his judgement anymore, appalled by the suggestion Scar is making. “We’ve known each other for years, Scar! I know what it means when you’re kissing me back and touching me like that—don’t pretend I somehow had it wrong!”

In the back of his mind, Grian recognises that the argument needs to end here. He recognises that he can’t keep picking at this when it’s clear they’re going to keep butting heads. It’s all an impossible dream, now—that there will be no confessions tonight. No sweet words or whispered, soft regrets while they lay in bed together.

“This is the problem with you, Scar,” he says, digging in despite himself, projecting his own insecurities in a way he appreciates is underhanded and unfair. “It’s always someone else’s fault. You’re never the problem. It’s just poor, sad, lonely Scar.”

“God dammit, Grian. What do you want from me?!” Scar yells suddenly, voice cracking as it ratchets up in volume.

The hurt and the outrage radiating off of him makes Grian’s mouth snap shut, shocking him to his core. He’s never seen Scar like this, his entire steely façade crumbling with one angry exclamation. His nerves pulled taunt and frayed beyond belief, eyes glassy, and his expression twisted up in pain and mourning.

“You cheated on me, Grian!” He continues, gesturing wide with his hands, and though it’s been weeks, hearing Scar say it still stings in a way Grian doesn’t know how to deal with. “You cheated on me, and you lied! You made me catch you in the act and then you just… you just stood there. I think I’m allowed to be a little hot and cold with you sometimes!”

A hush follows, a loaded silence settling between them.

Then, unable to accept the truth being presented to him, Grian offers—hopes—

“But we’re past that. Aren’t we…?”

Scar stares at him, hands suddenly falling limp to his sides, like the strings holding them up have been cut.

“Grian…” he starts, utterly at a loss with his words. “I—What…?”

“I… you’re still here. You’re here with me. You didn’t leave.” Grian looks away, unable to maintain eye contact now that the words have been spoken. He flexes his hands helplessly, feeling the water warm against his palms, his fingertips nearly prunely. “You… we’re together, here. You slept with me, Scar. Back at the motel—it was like we used to be. If you were still upset with me, you wouldn’t—it wouldn’t have been like that. You—the way we were, you couldn’t have faked that.”

The silence resumes as soon as he finishes speaking, and the moment feels tense and ugly—choked with a pain he can’t push through.

He doesn’t dare look up.

“Is that really what you think…? You really…” Scar’s voice is feathered and dream-like, both incredulous and entirely lost. “Grian. We broke up. We’re broken up.”

The words skim Grian’s mind like a pebble skipped across flat water.

“That’s—”

Broken up.

It’s not new information, but it settles so uncomfortably inside him that it feels wrong. Like something cancerous has embedded itself within him, rigid and barbed and painful every time Grian tries to approach it.

“Sure, but we—”

Broken up. He knows it, he knows, but the reminder of it, again, after everything—after all that they’ve been through… it feels petty in a way he can’t describe. A sticking point that’s overwhelmingly irrelevant in the face of everything that’s come since.

The hurt of it calcifies quickly, Grian’s expression hardening. He glares up at Scar, letting embarrassment and assumption turn quickly to anger.

“Then what was all this? Why would you just—why did we just—if what you’re saying is true, then—?”

“Grian, please,” Scar says, sighing, and he sounds impatient more than anything. “A handjob isn’t a relationship. You more than anyone should know that.”

The burning heat of the argument dies in Grian’s throat, cold shame clotting inside him instead. It makes him want to fold up tight and disappear from the world entirely. A chill goes through Grian, the water no longer warm and accommodating. It leaves him feeling miserable, unwanted, and small.

Resolutely, Scar kneels down and picks up his shirt, tugging it on over his head despite the fact that he’s still damp from the hot spring. He’s looking away now, chewing something over as he works his jaw. The muscles in his body that had been so relaxed mere minutes before are already tense again.

“I don’t know how you can tell me that everything you did—everything you had with him was meaningless, and then turn around and expect me to believe that what we do now is somehow special and matters to you. I can’t—I don’t see the difference, Grian,” Scar admits at length, no longer loud but still so distant and so cold.

“It’s different because I care about you,” Grian wants to say. Dramatic, like he’s in a movie.

Instead, he chokes on the words, desolate in his silence.

“So that’s where that leaves us,” Scar finishes, when it becomes clear Grian isn’t going to speak. “Sometimes people just have sex. It happens, and it doesn’t have to mean anything.” He pauses, weighing his next words carefully. He looks down at Grian before he adds, remorseful despite himself, “And it doesn’t mean I forgive you.”

With his clothes back on, Scar kneels down again to pick up the rifle, but opts to leave the lantern at the water’s edge. Grian wants to tell him to take it; wants to say that it doesn’t matter, and that he doesn’t care anyway. That he’s just going to stay out here until he dissolves away into gunk and foam.

Still, he says nothing.

“I’m gonna go get the bed ready,” Scar explains, and he already sounds removed from the situation. Stiff and practical, like he’s offering instructions to a stranger. “Don’t stay out too much longer. You’ll catch a cold.”

I don’t care, Grian thinks, but doesn’t say aloud.

Walking through the dark, aided only by the ambient light of the stars and the sliver of crescent moon above them, Scar heads back towards the cabin, leaving Grian alone.

In the past few days, every curveball the world’s thrown at him has been met with tears. But this time, nothing comes.

For all that Grian thought he knew—for all that he thought he understood Scar, inside and out—he realises he still hasn’t come to terms with the depth of the rift between them. For a second, Grian wishes he could go back and undo the decisions he made, feeling like a child. But even with the consequences burning bright and sharp in his mind, he’s not sure he’d be able to stop himself from the same, deliberate string of choices that ultimately lead him here. Like someone caught in a death loop, able only to repeat it into infinity.

Minutes pass, stretching long, before Grian finally places his hands against the edge of the basin, pulling his body up out of the water. The night air is icy but he barely feels it. He gathers up his dirty clothes in his arms, not bothering to dress himself. There will be towels in the cabin to dry off with.

He slides his wet feet into his shoes, picking up the lantern in his free hand.

If this is forever, he thinks, hopeless under the weight of all that he’s created. Then I don’t know if I want it.

Notes:

(Click to reveal.)

[ SPOILERS ]

This chapter contains sexual content, so if you're a minor or would otherwise like to skip that section, please stop reading from, "Scar’s grip around him tightens" and continuing reading after, "Without hesitation". We've provided a summary below that you can read in order to keep up with any plot details that might be relevant.

[ SUMMARY ]

Scar pulls Grian into his lap and deepens the kiss, which changes the mood to something far more intimate. They continue kissing and Grian pulls back to ask Scar if he's enjoying things, to which Scar doesn't really respond but doesn't push Grian away either. Grian moves Scar's hand towards his arousal and encourages Scar to touch him. As Scar touches him, Grian can feel Scar start to get aroused as well, and that makes him feel relieved and excited, grinding up against Scar.

Scar ends up giving Grian a handjob, with his other hand in Grian hair, and kissing him through an orgasm. Once Grian finishes, Scar gently suggests that they get out of the water, which Grian brushes aside, putting a hand up against Scar. To his relief, Scar is definitely still aroused. But, surprising Grian, Scar pushes Grian's hand aside and gets out of the water without him.

---

Lock drew a gorgeous poster for TAMN a while back, ft. Pizza and now that everyone's favourite llama/vespa has made a proper appearance in the fic itself, Lock has posted it on our blog! Please feel free to check it out and give it some love! 💫

Chapter 21

Notes:

We got some totally gorgeous traditional art from lumyxluminous as fanart last week! :D We're so grateful for your lovely work! 💜

Congrats everyone--we have now finally reached the OFFICIAL HALFWAY POINT OF TAMN! 🎉🎉 It's time for the mid-season finale folks ;D

This was one of our most favourite chapters to write, so Lock and I really hope you'll all enjoy it! 💫

Please skip to the end notes for spoiler-y CONTENT WARNINGS!

When he’d returned to the cabin, after the disaster in the hot spring, Grian had found Scar already in bed, laying on his side and facing away from Grian, silent and still. He’d left space on the mattress for Grian, but sleeping beside him had felt entirely inappropriate after what had just transpired between them.

Rejected, and sick with nerves, Grian had taken an extra pillow and a few spare sheets from the cabin’s single closet, and laid down miserably on the floor. The cold had made it.hard to sleep, the floor hard and uncomfortable, but eventually his exhaustion had won over. He’d fallen into something deep and dreamless.

The advent of a new day is slow, as if the world itself is as reluctant to push into tomorrow as Grian is. Now, with dawn breaking over the horizon, Grian wakes with reluctance—though for the first time in a long time, he does so without an accompanying full body ache. Despite the sour note the night had ended on, the hot springs had done their job, relaxing his muscles and working out the majority of the tensions from his body. Grian still feels stiff from having slept on the floor, but overall he’s in far better shape—and cleaner than he’s been in days.

“You slept through most of the packing,” Scar informs him from the kitchenette. Grian carefully sits up, pushing his hair back with some relief. It’s been ages since he’s been able to run a hand through it without getting his fingers all tangled up. “Now that our little detour is over, we better get back on the road.”

Grian stays quiet, eyeing Scar warily from his miserable little spot on the floor. Scar’s tone is upbeat and his mood is chipper, like the previous night didn’t even happen. While Grian watches, he continues to pack up their gear and take it outside, presumably to load up the Vespa.

He doesn’t know how Scar can pretend so easily, or where all his anger disappeared off to. It seems impossible to him that Scar can hide everything under a smile without breaking a sweat. Has he always been like this? Charming on the surface and enraged underneath? How many times has Scar given him a grin and a laugh and not meant it? How many times has he put up with Grian, whether he deserved it or not?

And why is he only noticing it now?

“We didn’t have time to wash our clothes,” Scar remarks with a sigh. “But I suppose it’s for the best—there was no way we’d be able to get them dry in weather like this unless we wasted a whole other day here. Better luck next time, I suppose.”

Feeling like he should say something, Grian grunts an acknowledgement, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“What have we got for breakfast?” he husks out, voice low and gravelly, the way it always is right when he wakes up. If Scar doesn’t want to continue the conversation from the night before, then so be it. Grian won’t bring it up either. Pretending that they’re civil is better than arguing back and forth with one another.

“Why only the chef’s special! Canned peaches and the last of the beef jerky,” Scar offers, cheerful as ever. There’s something left prominently unsaid in the offering—the absence of Quackity’s rudimentary, but practical, cooking skills. Grian doesn’t want to admit it, but he misses the morning skillets of grits with cinnamon, and the hand-rolled balls of dough baked into flat discs of bread.

Unbidden, he thinks about the trio, wondering if they’re eating a breakfast of their own right now. Lazing around a campfire, laughing and chatting easily. Unafraid of the world and each other, planning a wedding that they all know will never happen.

It stings in a way Grian didn’t expect, and he forces himself to stop thinking about it.

Instead, he simply gets to his feet, leaving his humble nest of bedding where it is, knowing there’s no need to tidy up. They’ll be the last people to ever stop in this place, there’s no question about it. It’s already the domain of ghosts.

“Sounds good,” he mumbles, still not in the mood but forcing himself to continue the conversation anyway. “My compliments to the chef.”

Together, they sit at the little table in the cabin’s kitchenette and eat with a sombre sort of obligation. Neither of them look at the other, and they both pretend to be fine and unbothered by their situation.

Grian hates the silence, missing Scar’s usual chatter profoundly. His pointless ramblings; the distracted tangents that never found their conclusion; the impassioned rants about topics that only Scar could feel so strongly about—Grian yearns for it all. Scar’s current silence feels intentional, like he’s starving Grian, even while they share a meal.

“We’ve got about four hours until the next stop,” Grian says once they’ve finished eating. He reaches inside his coat, pulling out their map and spreading it on the small table. He tries not to get distracted by the notes and scribblings Karl had added to the margins, focusing on plotting their route for the day. “There’s a decently sized city we can cut through. If we skirt the suburbs, there’ll be big chains and strip malls and the like. We can get gas and maybe a few more substantial supplies.”

“Maple syrup, to prepare us for the Great White North,” Scar says as he gets to his feet, leveraging himself up with the help of his cane. He thumps a palm against the surface of the table. “Best get going then! The wormy bird gets the early worm and all.”

He smiles, and it’d be attractive if Grian wasn’t already feeling so numb.

“Yeah,” he manages, doing his best not to make it sound like a sigh. “Something like that, I suppose.”

They leave the cabin together, Scar waiting by the Vespa while Grian does a check to make sure they haven’t left anything behind. Idly, he circles back towards the rocky soaking pools. His heart aches as he thinks of the night before, trying to release the tangle of his emotions with a long, focused exhale. The area is clear of any clothes or belongings, the steaming water glassy and calm, reflecting streaks of pale yellow clouds in the sky above.

It would’ve been nice to stay longer, Grian thinks, even though he knows there’s no way to permanently set up in a place so remote and barren. There’s nothing left for them here—only a scattering of painful memories to abandon in their absence. Dawdling now, Grian crouches down next to one of the pools, dipping a hand into the water just to feel the heat.

There’s a sudden click to his left, and his whole world freezes.

Jolting up, Grian whirls around to face the sound, pulse racing, and nerves choked up into his throat. He feels stupid—so stupid—for letting his guard down. But—

It’s Scar. Standing a few metres away with the disposable camera in his hands.

“Did… did you just take a picture of me?” Grian asks, a little shaken by what he’d automatically assumed was the cock of a gun. He tries his best to stay calm, ignoring the voice in his head that sounds too much like Scar, saying he’s been shot, either way.

“Mm,” Scar hums, offering no clear answer either way, merely pocketing the camera with a shrug. “C’mon. We should head out, or there’ll be no beating the traffic.”

Wordlessly, Grian follows after Scar, watching him curiously. They both take a seat on Pizza, Scar in the driver’s position this time. Grian can’t work out what Scar hopes to gain from keeping himself upbeat and happy the way he is. He knows Scar’s covering up all his bitterness and resentment from the previous night, but he doesn’t get why.

The days after parting ways with the trio had been a nightmare—neither speaking much, and the friction between them rough and visceral. It had taught Grian that Scar was more than capable of icing him out in a way that not even their break-up had. After last night, Grian had been expecting more of the same, frigid treatment in the morning. However, if anything, Scar is even more amicable than usual, shifting his weight on the scooter’s seat and waiting for Grian to join him.

Hesitantly, Grian touches on the edge of the matter, taking a seat and settling his hands on Scar’s back. “You’re in a much better mood than I expected you to be this morning.”

“Oh, I’m furious,” Scar answers, forthright and matter-of-fact. He turns the key in the ignition, the Vespa immediately rattling to life. “But what does that really matter at this point?”

“How do you mean?” Grian doesn’t really want to hear the answer to his question, but he can’t help but pursue it all the same.

Scar sighs a little at that, obviously put upon by the inquiry. “You’re not going to change, Grian. I get that now, and I probably should have a long time ago. What’s the point in me getting upset with you over and over again when it won’t make a difference? Why should I keep making myself worse to try and teach you when it’s never going to get the reaction I need out of you?”

Grian winces, fingers pressing into the soft, leather shoulders of Scar’s jacket.

“Scar…”

“It’s better this way,” Scar insists, refusing to hear him out—though admittedly Grian doesn’t even know what he’d say. It feels like every atom of him is being constricted and rent apart at the same time. “I’m over it. We can travel together, and it doesn’t have to be complicated. It’ll be fine. We won’t have to fight or argue anymore. Everybody wins.”

Grian can implicitly hear what he isn’t saying, and it burns inside him, searing and guilty.

‘As long as I don’t expect anything from you anymore, I won’t be disappointed.’

“Scar,” he tries again, his voice small, but Scar merely shakes his head.

“I’ve got to focus on driving,” he explains, curt but calm at the same time. “You can tell me how bad I’m making you feel when we take a break.”

It’s as cutting as Scar’s ever been with him, and Grian has no choice but to accept it.

With nothing else to say, Scar inches Pizza forward. The motor growls beneath them as Scar steers the scooter back towards the road. Silently, they resume their journey.

It’s almost too painful, seeing the hot springs fade into the distance. So Grian closes his eyes, knowing full well they’re leaving a place they’ll never return to. In time, forgotten. Another opportunity wasted.

In the lull, Grian turns his thoughts over again and again, working them around the inside of his mind like a stone whose hard edges he can wear smooth by friction alone. It hurts, deeply, to see that Scar has given up on him. It hurts to know that he deems nothing of value left between them to save. That they can be companions, can maybe even be friends, but can’t ever reclaim what they had.

Grian understands that the fault rests on him. He appreciates that it’s his long line of actions that have made things so wrong and raw. That it’s because of him that the incremental accumulation of their disagreements is now insurmountable.

But he’s been trying, hasn’t he? He’s been making an effort since the moment Scar crossed out over the threshold of his home, leaving him without a single look back. It’s been difficult, letting himself be vulnerable in ways he hasn’t been in years. But it’s action over words, proof over promises. Surely that has to count for something?

He doesn’t even know what to say when sorry no longer feels like enough.

And he doesn’t know why he couldn’t simply bring himself to say the word in the first place.

The motor of the Vespa hums, monotonous and soothing, and gradually, Grian lets his forehead fall forward until it’s resting between Scar’s shoulders. There’s no stiffening in Scar’s reaction when he does it, no disgust or rejection. He simply accepts it without comment, and they continue pressing north.

Around them, the haziness of dawn pushes into another bright day. The gentle slope of the land with the large lake at its centre, curves around them like the palm of a giant hand, its fingertips distant mountains that draw closer in increments. For reasons he can’t discern, Grian passes the miles reminiscing about Karl, Sapnap, and Quackity. Their high spirits, their cheer in the face of overwhelmingly dire straits. All mannerisms that had never failed to bring a smile to Scar’s face.

Now that they’re gone, their absence feels profound. The quietude is particularly reticent, and the isolation more lonesome. Grian can tell that Scar thinks of them often—whenever he rubs his thumb over the top of his cane, or along the colourful threads of the bracelet Karl made for him. His heart aches seeing it. For all that Grian had resisted them, they’d been keen on Scar from the start, going out of their way to make his life lighter and easier.

Grian feels feckless to have been unable to do the same.

He’s so lost in his thoughts, his head tucked down and his eyes closed, that Grian fails to notice how much ground they’re covering. He hasn’t quite mentally adjusted to how much faster they travel now that they’re no longer on foot. As such, he’s shocked when he finally looks up and finds them no longer in an open valley, but drawn between the banks of a series of large foothills. They’re surrounded on both sides by the thick wood of tall-trunked pines, the forest floor lush with a carpeting of needles, and visible through the trunks—

Houses. Homes. Rows and rows of orderly, suburban, neighbourhood.

Dread grabs hold of his chest immediately.

They’re in a city. Deep in a city. Grian doesn’t know how he missed it, too busy with his own self loathing and commiserating to notice when they slipped past the outer limits and into the thick of civilization. Unbidden, memories of being swarmed by zombies, trapped in a tiny, rancid-smelling, grocery store shutter rapid-fire though his mind. Anxiety forces him to clutch tighter to the back of Scar’s coat. He tries to remind himself that this won’t be like last time—that they have a vehicle; that he’s with Scar, not Quackity—but the fear remains, sick and foreboding.

“Stressed?” Scar asks, something like amusement in his tone as he tosses the words at Grian from over his shoulder. It’s the first thing they’ve said to one another since they began their drive and it catches Grian off guard.

“Bigger place than we’re used to,” he calls back after taking a moment to work out his response, speaking over the rush of the air as they move. His mind works quickly, labouring through his instinctual terror of the place, needing to find an anchor. Something to level him out, breaking the pattern of his own determined self sabotage. He needs to reorient.

“We’ll be fine,” Scar assures him. “I would’ve stopped on the outskirts, but there was nothing for us. I’ll find a gas station with our name on it soon enough though, you’ll see.”

It’d be easy to agree. To simply let Scar steer them somewhere safe. A gas station at the end of an off-ramp, where they can stop without fear of a horde or a sudden ambush.

Unfortunately, Grian can’t simply let it be easy. Because his mind is in overdrive, prior thoughts of action over words, of self-worth, of changing himself, all overlapping one into the next. Because his nerves are no longer about where they are…

They’re about what he wants to do.

“Scar,” he says, tapping his shoulder to get his full attention. “I want to look for somewhere bigger. A—a department store maybe, or…”

“Are you serious?” Scar asks, incredulous, and for once it’s lucky they’re the only people on the road, the Vespa immediately drifting into the other lane as Scar loses his focus.

“The road, Scar!” Grian shouts, only for the scooter to automatically lose momentum. Scar lays on the break until they come to a stop, putting a leg out so they don’t tip over where they’re paused on the empty highway.

“Why in the world do you want to go someplace like that?” he asks, skeptical, and Grian has to fight to keep his hackles from automatically bristling.

“I just—you’re tired, right?” He’s struggling, wary of offering the truth of his motive for fear of rejection. Or worse. “Of eating the same things… of how little we’ve got… If we go somewhere big, we can get some proper first aid gear, and maybe a tent, and—”

“Grian,” Scar interrupts, his voice level and firm. “That’s a nice idea and all, but that’s way too risky for things we don’t need.”

“Well I—I have something I need,” Grian counters, embarrassed.

He can feel Scar waiting for it. An explanation that will make sense.

“It’s a—” The word ‘surprise’ sounds wrong, and he can’t choke out ‘secret,’ knowing the baggage it carries between them.

“Respectfully, there’s no way,” Scar says, sighing with a shake of his head when Grian stumbles into silence. “You can’t ask us to go somewhere as dangerous as that without a really good reason. I’m reckless, Grian, but I’m not crazy.”

It’s not that Scar doesn’t have a point, it’s just that Grian doesn’t know how to bring up what he wants to do without sounding like he’s trying to win brownie points. He understands now—too late, no doubt, but still—he sees how he needs to let go of the dynamic they’ve built. Not just while surviving together, but over the entire course of their relationship. This whole time, all he’s had to offer are excuses and deflection, but if he changes himself… if he takes a page out of the trio’s book and does something big to show Scar that he’s trying to be better…

Hesitantly, he finally explains his idea, his words uncharacteristically timid.

“A big store in a big city. They might have wheelchairs…”

The frustration on Scar’s face disappears in an instant, morphing into an expression Grian can’t quite parse. His leg stays kicked out to support the scooter, keeping them balanced, but Scar manages to turn around as much as he can while still maintaining that position, looking like he wants to ask Grian a hundred different questions at once.

“This place—on the map, anyway—it’s a pretty big city compared to everything else we’ve been through. Not like San Antonio or Anaheim but, you know… large enough to have the big chain stores.” He’s explaining himself on the fly, trying both to convince Scar that this is a good idea, and himself that this isn’t just a pipedream. “If it’s got even a fraction of what we had back home, I think we might be in luck. I’ve seen wheelchairs at the drug store and pharmacies we used to go to before and I—I mean obviously, I can’t be sure that they’ll have them here, it’s just—it might be worth a shot, you know?”

Pausing, he chooses his next words carefully, not wanting to come across as insensitive, but needing to be clear about his intentions. “I know our situation isn’t an if thing, Scar. The cane and the—and Pizza—are great right now. But we both know there’s a big when coming, and I know you could carry me in a pinch, but I’m… I’m not going to be able to carry you…” his words trail off, tacky in his throat. “I want us—want you—to be prepared.”

Silence meets him in response. There’s no reply from Scar, and Grian wonders if maybe he’s too annoyed to speak—too frustrated by Grian’s paltry suggestion. It makes him anxious, unable to hear Scar’s thoughts or read his mind. On the one hand, he’ll understand if Scar says it’s too dangerous and that they’d be fools to venture into what promises to be a heavily infested location for something that might not even be there. He thinks he could handle that kind of rebuke. But on the other hand, if Scar rolls his eyes and scoffs—if he says it’s obvious that Grian is only doing this to get on his good side, offering too little too late, not because he really cares…

The thought of that makes Grian sick to his stomach. He doesn’t think he could survive it, having his motives misjudged when he’s truly trying to make things right for once. To show that he’s capable of changing and thinking of someone other than himself.

They stay in place for what feels like an eternity, Pizza idling quietly beneath them. When Scar finally speaks, it’s methodical. Like he’s brainstorming an idea; almost entirely lost in thought.

“We’d need to find one that has detachable wheels… or is foldable, at the very least…”

A small, hopeful spark ignites within Grian in the midst of his catastrophizing. If Scar is considering it, then maybe all he needs is a little push.

“Remember the big superstore with the pharmacy? The one where we used to get your prescriptions filled? There were always loads of options there. I mean, that was ages ago, in a different city, in a different state, but… even if we don’t find the exact kind we need here, we could try and make it work, right?”

It’s a bold proposition. Especially when one false move could hurt them in ways they wouldn’t be able to simply shake off. The weight of Scar’s gaze bears down on him, his tired, green eyes studying Grian’s face as if trying to puzzle him out. It makes Grian nervous, laid bare under his scrutiny. He wants, desperately, to show Scar that he can turn over this new leaf, but months of keeping his own torrid secrets has left him wanting to shy away from the inspection, guilty and embarrassed.

Eventually, Scar settles on a tight nod, the ghost of a smile working its way onto his face. It’s not much, but it’s genuine, and Grian feels his throat tighten up at the sight of it.

“We always do.” Scar says, soft.

With fresh focus, they resume their journey, Grian gripping the back of Scar’s jacket as they drive on. He doesn’t want to pretend that things are magically fixed, but he can’t help the glimmer of optimism deep within himself. It’s as though a door he’d thought had been permanently shut tight has just been cracked open, hairline thin.

They don’t talk, heading deeper into more populated areas. The anticipation squeezes around them like something they can tangibly feel, tighter and tighter, until they finally spot a shopping centre. The building is large and imposing, sprawled on the end of an offramp. It has a tall sign near the street entrance, the name, ‘PINEWOOD PLAZA,’ above a list of anchor stores. The mall itself is settled amongst a collection of large retail chains, each building connected by an overlap of car parks ringed by tall street lights and sparse junipers.

It’s quiet as they roll across the asphalt. The now familiar feeling of treading into hostile territory prickles up the back of Grian’s neck as Scar parks the scooter, using his heel to flip out the kickstand.

“Are you allowed to park here without a permit?”

It takes Scar a moment to parse Grian’s comment, following his line of sight to the large, blue, handicapped symbol they’ve stopped on top of.

“What are you gonna do, arrest me?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow at Grian. He unhooks the rifle from where it’s stored amongst their supplies, hung off the back rack of their scooter.

“Maybe,” Grian presses, careful with the fragility of the joke. “Can’t go easy on bad apples like you, stopping yourselves wherever you please.”

“With everything I’ve done you’re gonna have to lock me away for a long time,” Scar warns, checking down sight of the gun and then rummaging through his bag, tucking additional ammo into his pockets. “You won’t believe some of the places I’ve parked.”

It feels good to make a joke, even if it does nothing to shed the tension in the air. The car park is large, littered with abandoned vehicles that they’ll be able to try syphoning off of after they’re done. There are no bodies that Grian can see, though. No zombies making their way out to greet them.

“I think we’ll be okay,” Grian says after a moment of studying the area, optimistic. “Have you noticed? They did a better job evacuating here. I think people had time to get out before it got really bad.”

The store in front of them is enormous—a big-box store, advertising everything from grocery, to pharmacy, to sporting, and homegoods and decor. The word ‘supercentre’ is posted above the line of entrance and exit doors. It’s with a chill that Grian notes they’ve all been left ajar, unable to tell if they were like that when the power went out, or have since been pried open.

There are no signs of violence, at least. No glass shattered. No corpses left half-devoured and rotting on the ground. Everything is in-tact as they approach, their senses on high-alert, peering into the darkness that opens up to swallow them inwards.

“While we’re here, we might as well grab some better torches,” Grian suggests, squinting into the gloom. There are some skylights staggered across the high ceiling of the store, but the light they let in diffuses almost immediately. It casts the interior in an anemic, grey, wash with far too many dark patches of shadow for Grian’s liking.

“Milk and eggs, too. Plus, a new shower curtain and maybe a bathmat,” Scar agrees with a small, teasing smile. “Don’t forget the bread.”

They step inside together, Scar with his rifle at the ready, and Grian holding his newly acquired fire-poker tight in hand, raised and ready to swing. Like most every other place they’ve explored, the interior is dead quiet. However, Grian barely has time for his eyes to adjust before he realises that the emptiness of the car park in no way prepared him for what awaits inside.

The signs of a massacre are everywhere. He can’t tell if it was zombies, hysteria, or just plain looting, but beyond the entrance, a disaster has been spread out to meet them—shelves toppled over, cash registers pulled open and thrown on the floor, and shopping carts piled up in a tangle of disarray. There are intermittent puddles of grey water on the ground; a sign, he assumes, of the sprinkler system having come on at some point.

“Looks like they really know how to throw a party,” Scar remarks, his voice hushed. He’s joking, but his eyes are sharp and focused, his movements cautious as they creep inwards.

Grian keeps close to his side.

They cross the empty expanse of the entrance as quickly as possible, unwilling to linger in such an open, unprotected space for any longer than is strictly necessary. It feels terrible, the hairs going up the back of Grian’s neck with every step. It’s easy to see now that there’s no way this place is deserted, not when Grian recalls so vividly what the last, much smaller store he’d been in had been like.

Moving quickly, they take a left through the clothing section, weaving their way between racks filled with impractical, useless outfits—summer t-shirts and tank tops and cargo shorts—careful not to get too close. Grian remembers hiding inside the displays as a child, giggling to himself while waiting to be found. There’s a non-zero chance that something could be lurking where they can’t see, and letting his guard down in such a foolish way is not a risk he’s willing to take.

In short order, the clothing racks give way to the grocery section, long aisles of packaged food and cans left in disarray. Out of the corner of his eye, Grian catches motion in the narrow gaps between the shelves. He taps Scar’s shoulder to get his attention, then presses a finger to his lips, signalling for quiet. Scar dips his head to show his understanding, and Grian points in the direction he saw movement. The two slowly advance together, never more than an arm’s length from one another.

The closer they get, the more noise they begin to hear. Not human sounds, but the uncoordinated shuffling of the undead and their grotesque snarling and gasping. Beside him, Scar keeps his weapon at the ready, patting the gun to remind Grian that, if all else fails, they can shoot their way out. Grian nods at that, bracing for the inevitability. Then, he takes a deep breath, pushing past his apprehensions in order to peer around the corner.

His stomach drops at the sight, and he feels a sudden, overwhelming nausea.

Zombies—dozens of them, more than he’s ever seen in one place thus far. They’re pushed together, shoulder to shoulder, gruesome and uncoordinated in a blind mess of rotten, decaying limbs. Grian throws a hand over his mouth to stifle a gasp of horror, rushing to tuck himself back behind the aisle before any of the creatures catch sight of him. Beside him, Scar offers a worried look, eyes wide and questioning, but Grian can only shake his head, pointing back towards the area they came from, needing to retreat before another second passes.

They creep back as quickly as they can, returning into the relative safety of the clothing section before Scar takes hold of him by the arm, pressing, “What happened?”

“There’s too many—” Grian gasps for air, his chest tight and lungs stiff, the magnitude of what they’re attempting—the monumental stupidity of what he’s asking Scar to do—resonating for the very first time. “There’s no way we can get around them without drawing attention to ourselves. Shit, this was such a ridiculous idea, Scar. I don’t know why I—”

“Shh, slow down,” Scar soothes, though Grian can see the panic creeping in on him as well. His fear is a contagious uncertainty that manifests as a waver in Scar’s voice that isn’t normally there. “Think for a second. There’s got to be something we can do. How did you manage this with Quackity?”

They make eye contact for a second and Grian knows they’re both thinking of how he’d abandoned Quackity to the horde in order to escape. How, when the pressure got to be too much, Grian had buckled under it immediately.

He looks away quickly, ashamed and embarrassed.

“I… we climbed to the top of the shelving. I was crossing from one to the next—but it wasn’t exactly quiet, Scar. They’ll be able to hear us if we start jumping about!”

Scar nods his head, considering. “Okay so, that’s a plan we’ll keep in our back pockets, just in case. For now I think we should take it easy. As long as we avoid that corner and try not to attract attention, we can make our rounds and head back out the same way we came in.”

His confidence bolsters Grian’s own somewhat. A sensible anchor amidst his panic, keeping Grian’s fears from dragging him out to sea. Grian tries to recalculate, swallowing back his terror.

“We… we’ll scope out the area,” he hears himself say, his voice steadier than he feels. “Grocery is a write-off, but once we figure out where everything else we want is, we can prioritise what we go for.”

“Sounds good,” Scar agrees. “Flashlights, tent, wheelchair… anything else?”

“Reese’s,” Grian says, glancing at Scar out of the corner of his eye. “There’ll be some by the cash registers.”

For a second, a smile appears on Scar’s face, pushed into the corners of his mouth. Then he’s brushing it away with a more serious expression, tensing his grip on his rifle and steadying himself.

“Let’s get a move on, then.”

They advance deeper into the store, creeping forward and hesitating at the end of every aisle. They hold their breaths each time, wary of every shadow and desperate to avoid any dead ends.

It is a profoundly and unrelentingly awful experience. There’s no rhyme or reason to the spread of the zombie infestation—they cluster up in some places, forming clots in certain aisles, while in others they drift around on their own, wandering in uncoordinated trajectories that are impossible to predict. A part of Grian wonders about their crowding behaviour. If it’s triggered by some lingering human desire for community, or if they’ve merely drifted together as one’s low groans and growls inevitably attracts others.

Either way, he doesn’t have time to think on it too deeply. By luck alone, they make it to the aisles of outdoor goods and camping gear, Scar keeping watch while Grian scans what’s left on the shelves.

It’s clear that the section has been well looted already. Not much remains—all the best, lightest, and most compact equipment long gone. Despite his scouring, Grian fails to find a tent, forced to settle on grabbing a tightly wrapped tarp and some spools of paracord, figuring that anything will be better than nothing.

The torches are abundant at least, and he finds himself spoiled for choice.

“These always look so dorky,” he mumbles as he grabs a pair of headlamps, along with a hefty torch that boasts the ability to charge via a solar panel packed into its handle.

“Survival isn’t very fashion forward,” Scar agrees, distracted as he stands guard, committed to looking out for any potential ambush.

You still look good, Grian wants to say, but keeps the thought to himself.

Packing their new goods into his hiking bag, Grian hefts it back onto his shoulders. He returns to Scar, patting his shoulder to signal that he’s ready.

“Aids and walkers should all be in the same place, right?” It’s a rhetorical question and he knows it, but Grian also knows better than to explain Scar’s mobility to him.

“Walkers?” Scar echoes, casting a quick glance Grian’s way. “My god, have I aged that badly?”

Grian just barely stops himself from apologizing, catching the wry edge of Scar’s smile.

“You know what I mean,” he says, smothering a grin of his own.

“I never do,” Scar dismisses. He’s preoccupied as he moves to the edge of the aisle, looking quickly in either direction to ensure they’re in the clear. “I’m just good at playing along.”

They move onwards, taking things slow, each step careful, calculated, and cautious. Repeatedly, they back-track to avoid any unnecessary exposure to the undead, going the long way around whenever necessary. It’s tedious and inefficient, but every time they see a zombie the same panic jumps up in Grian’s throat—the same wild instinct to turn around and flee—so it’s all they can do just to keep pressing forward.

Grian bites his tongue more than once, trying to keep every panicked yelp to himself as groups of corpses amble past them, kept away by nothing more than flimsy store shelving. It’s the kind of stress that makes his head hurt, the constant barrage of terror-induced adrenaline draining his body, making him frantic and light-headed all at once.

He doesn’t dare try to speak aloud with Scar, only communicating by way of nods and wordless gestures. They make their way towards the large, hanging sign that reads ‘Health,’ cutting through the neglected gardening section in order to bypass another wandering group of undead. It’s a bleak place, the few potted ferns and orchids on display between the bags of soil and bark mulch having gone brown and withered from neglect.

It’s when they pause next to a rack of weed killer to survey the area that Grian realises they’ve run up against a dismal, worse-case scenario.

In front of them, right in the line of where they need to go, is a congregation of corpses. A crowd of them, pushed together in a grotesque knot of limbs and mutilated bodies. Unavoidable, and directly in their path.

Leaning back, Grian grabs Scar by the arm, eyes wide. From the grim expression on Scar’s face, it’s clear he’s realised the position they’re in too.

Edging back together, just enough to speak without drawing attention, Grian whispers, distressed, “What now?”

For a moment, Scar looks torn, glancing towards the aisle and then back at Grian, searching his face for something Grian doesn’t know if he’s capable of offering him. “Should we leave?”

“No.” The word is out of Grian in an instant, not wasting a second to even consider the alternative. “We’re so close. There has to be something we can do to—to distract them. We just have to think.”

Scar’s expression softens momentarily before he refocuses, a renewed determination clear on his face.

“We’ve got weapons,” he suggests, firm and serious. “We can clear them out.”

Grian shakes his head just as adamantly. “That’s too risky. The gun is our last resort. Even if we try clubbing our way through, the noise they make is gonna alert the others. And that’s assuming this lot doesn’t immediately overwhelm us from the get-go.”

Scar frowns, looking back out at the horde before he wonders, grim.

“Do we set a trap?”

Grian can’t help but imagine some sort of sinkhole. A pit lined with explosives they could detonate at a distance. Or little sticks of dynamite that they could rain down from above. It’s foolish and not remotely feasible, especially not in a department store, but it gets his brain working all the same.

He doesn’t like what he’s coming up with, though.

“A distraction might work,” he suggests, careful. “One of us can pull the horde away while the other grabs what we need. We rendezvous at the front doors and make our escape together.”

“Grian,” Scar hisses sharply, shocked. “That’s insane! There’s way too many of them for that!”

“I can do it,” Grian insists, uncompromising. “I’m plenty fast enough. Besides, I don’t know the first thing about wheelchairs. You need to pick whichever one works best.” His voice doesn’t waver, but fear runs wild within him, anxiety making his palms slick with sweat, and his pulse racing hot through his body.

Scar stares at him long and hard, mouth pressed flat into a line. Though they don’t have time to waste, it’s clear he’s turning the idea over in his mind. Grian doesn’t want to press him, doesn’t want to rush—this is all for him, after all—but he can feel their window of opportunity closing, and it makes him sick with worry all the same.

“Scar—”

“Alright,” Scar interrupts, his voice overlapping Grian’s, resolved as he says it. He’s looking back towards the pharmacy, at an area set aside to the immediate right of the prescription counter. Grian can see sets of crutches, canes, and walkers on display. If there are any wheelchairs, they’ll be there, or at least in the aisle nearby.

He resists the urge to re-explain the gravity of their situation. How careful Scar needs to be. How little time they’re going to have. Instead, he bites his lower lip and nods once, firm.

“Alright then,” he says, and despite his best efforts he knows he sounds nervous.

He’s gathering his nerves, ready to spring on the word ‘go,’ when out of nowhere, Scar stops him.

“G.”

He’s put his hand out, heavy on Grian’s shoulder, and it takes Grian a moment to realise that Scar’s trying to have a moment with him. A part of him wonders, foolishly, if Scar is about to kiss him. The thought is dizzying and bold, like a scene from a romance novel. Any such fanciful notions are swept aside, however, when Scar gives his shoulder a firm, reassuring squeeze. The gesture is companionable and grounding more than anything else.

“Don’t take any stupid risks. Stay safe, okay?” he says, and then waits expectantly for Grian to respond.

“You too,” he offers, ducking his head. It’s not a kiss, not an embrace, not even a heartfelt token of affection, but he’s touched by it all the same. Scar could just as easily have sent him off with nothing and he knows it. Deep down, he knows Scar knows it too.

And maybe it’s wishful thinking, but Grian feels like Scar’s looking at him more clearly when he says it. Like he’s finding his own way to tell him, ‘I can see that you’re trying.’

“On three then,” Scar says, and Grian nods, heart pounding. He pulls himself into a crouch, ready to sprint. He doesn’t know if he’s too tense to hear the countdown; doesn’t know if he misunderstood Scar entirely. All he knows is, the next thing he hears is Scar hissing, “I said ‘three,’ Grian!”

The soles of his shoes squeak loud as Grian jumps forward, a shout escaping him more out of instinct than from any organised plan.

“Hey!!”

He sounds foolish, footfalls loud, slapping heavy on the floor as he moves in the opposite direction of the pharmacy. Already the zombies are turning, heads craning around and shoulders twisting as they gape in his direction and start taking awkward, uncoordinated steps towards him. They’re not racing by any means, but they’re still not moving as slow as he’s used to—far more limber than what he’s experienced in the past.

It’s too late to stop now, though. Both he and the ghouls are already on the move. Grian shouts again, waving his arms. He glances back over his shoulder, locked on the zombies lurching after him—a mistake, and a stupid one, because it means he doesn’t notice the corpse about to intercept him until he’s barrelled into its shoulder, the impact knocking him off balance and sending him sprawling onto the linoleum floor, his fire poker just barely missing his eye upon impact.

“Shit.”

The word slips out of him in a panic. He doesn’t know if Scar can see him—doesn’t know if he’s watching, or if he’s already carrying on with his half of their plan. All Grian knows is that he’s on the floor, winded and clutching his side. As he scrambles to get up, he can already hear at least three more zombies pushing in tight, so close they’re practically on top of him.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

I should yell for Scar, he thinks, distant and removed, like he’s narrating his own life from some omniscient third perspective. I’m going to die here if I don’t. I need him.

A hand—not Scar’s, but wretched and rotted and reeking of gangrenous flesh—grabs him by the hair, and it’s only by luck that Grian twists in the right direction, evading an uncoordinated, ravenous bite.

His chest is tight with panic, quick, gasping breaths hissing in and out of his lungs. His scalp burns, hair pulled taut, and then all at once, the hand holding him releases, torn loose by another zombie fighting with the first to get the best portion of Grian for itself.

In the split second of uncoordinated scuffling, a sudden survival instinct kicks up in Grian’s gut, wild and desperate. It’s a scorching, all-consuming, adamant refusal to die on the floor while wishing for someone else to come and save him. With a rough kick, he lifts his knee and shoves the heel of his shoe into the zombie directly above him, then flips over onto his stomach and army-crawls a few feet across the floor. The quick motions manage to put some distance between himself and his undead assailants, and Grian uses the leverage to finally get back up and resume sprinting. There’s a fresh verve coursing through his veins, proud of his escape, and giddily triumphant.

“That all you got?!” he shouts back over his shoulder, taunting, well aware the zombies can’t understand him.

Confident now, he rushes ahead, slowing only to make sure he’s being followed, still drawing the horde away from Scar. The horror from having stumbled into a life-threatening situation still jackrabbits his pulse, but it’s enough to keep Grian alert. His eyes stay sharp as he scans ahead for any upcoming obstacles, countless in their multitudes.

While he’d expected it, it’s terrifying how many zombies have crawled out of hiding at the sound of his commotion. His stomach churns at the sight of each new sunken, disfigured face. He can’t even pretend to count how many there are, focusing simply on how he needs to run, run, run.

He jogs through the kitchenware section with the horde in tow, passing shelves of blenders, stand mixers, and air fryers, trying to gauge how much time Scar will need to secure himself a proper wheelchair. He hopes he’s managed to draw enough of the zombies away. Hopes that Scar won’t be overwhelmed by the stragglers.

Rounding the end of the aisle, Grian half-trips over a collapsed display of electric frying pans, barely catching himself to keep from falling again. His panicked thoughts race, lungs drawing in quick, thready gasps.

We could both die here, he thinks, sweat cold on his neck and heart racing. He pictures Scar on the other side of the store, alone and hopelessly surrounded, the both of them victims of Grian’s stupid, risky, inelegant plan. Both of us, dead, and neither of us would ever know that the other didn’t make it out.

A blur moves in the corner of his vision, and it’s all the warning Grian gets before a zombie bodies him from the side.

“Fuck!”

The curse escapes him, loud, and Grian nearly bites his tongue as he’s pitched sideways and slammed into the floor, the corpse snapping at him with rotten gums and blackened teeth. Overpowered, but not helpless, Grian takes firm grasp of the fire poker in his hand and swings it up, jamming its sharpened end through the creature’s eye. He pushes deep as the monster screeches and claws at its own face, desperately attempting to dislodge the bevelled point.

With a grunt and a hard shove, Grian manages to push the zombie off him, the corpse thrashing wildly but no longer immediately interested in him. Grian gets back to his feet, only for another two ghouls to swarm in—one grabbing for his arm, and the other reaching for his head. He ducks down on instinct, sweeping at the legs of the first with his weapon, the wrought iron cleaving into the fetid flesh of its shins.

The force of his blow knocks the zombie away, tumbling back with a wail that sounds animal and human all at once. As it falls, it manages to drag down the ghoul that had attacked alongside it, the two turning to tear at each other in blind violence. It would be satisfying to watch from any other perspective, but Grian can’t waste time appreciating his skillful play. Instead, he turns around and keeps moving, feeling a sharp twist in his ankle that he knows he doesn’t have time to consider.

He’s winded, burnt out from the terror and the physical exhaustion of it all. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he split up from Scar, doesn’t even know where he is physically in relation to him. In Grian’s head, he thought he’d be able to maintain the distraction for longer, dragging the zombies further away. Perhaps deeper into the store, where they’d never be able to limp their way out again. But the reality of the situation is that he’s not sure how much longer he can keep this going.

“Time’s up, bud,” he pants to himself, knowing he has no choice but make his escape now or risk being overtaken.

There’s no elegance to his movements. No coordinated grace. He’s fumbling at best, barely managing to stay on his feet as he continues his mad scramble. At the very least, his efforts have partially succeeded—he’s managed to lure the horde in after him, their wretched, rotting bodies dragging their feet as they follow in his wake.

The only downside is, now that he has to make his way back to the entrance, he doesn’t know if he’s entirely capable of it. Breathless and disoriented as he is, with a countless number of ghouls dragging along after him—if he wants to survive, he’ll have to shake them off before his exit.

His only saving grace is the zombies’ inability to sprint. While they’re definitely faster than he expected, none of them can move as quickly as he can when he’s in a flat-out run. Grian barrels through a demolished electronics section—shelves still full of widescreen TVs and gaming consoles, useless now in their blackout world—and makes a hard left leading back towards what he thinks is the entrance of the store. He can’t tell how close the zombies are behind him—can’t tell if they’re doggedly following or have gotten lost in the disarray of their own disorganised limbs—judging distance only by how close their glottal voices sound.

When he finally approaches the checkout, he finds yet another scene of chaos; registers torn apart and thrown to the floor, unopened rolls of coins and crumpled bills slipping like confetti beneath his shoes. He risks one last look behind him and regrets it immediately, his shoulder connecting hard with the frame of the automatic door as he collides with it at full speed. The metal bites into the sensitive juncture between his neck and collarbone, and he’s forced to stifle a shout as the pain blooms there like a goring. He’s gasping and shaken, but still manages to drag himself out, hand clasped to the rapidly forming bruise running slantwise across the juncture of his shoulder, hoping he hasn’t done something stupid and broken anything.

It feels surreal to be back out in the car park. The sky is wide open above him, streaks of blue caught between the clouds in the placid calm of midday. His breath seems suddenly too loud, his ragged, desperate panting unsuitable to such a picturesque day. He can barely force himself to look back at the store, but when he finally does so, he’s comforted to see that no corpses are struggling to chase him out.

Satisfied, Grian turns his attention to his neck, rubbing a hand into the tender spot above his collarbone where he collided with the door. He’s relieved to confirm it unbroken, happy he’ll have nothing more than an ache and a wicked bruise to remember it by.

He’s ready to share the good news as he casts his gaze around for Scar, only for dread to settle in by inches when he realises that no one is waiting for him by the Vespa.

As a matter of fact, Scar is nowhere to be seen at all.

Fear, deep-seated and ugly, grips Grian like a vice.

All at once, he thinks back to the instructions he’d given Scar—the conversation they’d had. Grian can’t remember whether or not he’d clarified that they’d meet up outside, or if he’d said he’d circle back. What if Scar is still waiting for him in the depths of the store? What if he’s calling his name with increasing desperation, unwittingly making himself a target for all the zombies Grian left behind?

Suddenly, Grian can’t steady himself, vision swimming as he scans the area, spinning in a quick circle, and trying to see if Scar is simply crouched somewhere he didn’t immediately spot. Fear and regret threaten to swallow him whole, panic worse than he’s ever felt pulling his breath tight, bright spots blooming in front of his eyes as he clutches his chest, unable to breathe.

A wild part of him wonders if perhaps Scar is playing some sort of prank—that maybe if he calls out, scared and hysterical, Scar will jump up out and laugh at him.

I can’t be alone, he thinks, with such desperate urgency it makes him feel ill. You weren’t the one who was supposed to die first.

As the seconds bleed into minutes, Grian realises with growing certainty that he’s going to have to go back in. He’ll have to traverse the entire wretched length of the department store in search of Scar. Only this time, the corpses will be on alert, and he’ll be on his own.

And as far as stamina goes—they’ll have the advantage.

He’s never been particularly unfit, but he’s definitely not what anyone would call athletic. Grian’s strong when he needs to be, and faster than his peers, but none of that amounts to much when he’s already tired, hungry, and started this fool’s errand running on fumes.

A part of him is convinced that if he goes back in he’s unlikely to make it out again.

But he can’t leave Scar alone.

There are no other options.

With his heart still racing and the alkaline bite of bile pushed up into the back of his throat, Grian steels himself and begins jogging back towards the department store.

And immediately, as if on cue, something bursts out of the open doorway.

“Grian!” Scar shouts, a wide smile on his face, energetic and manic and alive, as he adds, somewhat frantic, “Incoming!”

He’s running, but it’s a struggle, movements hampered by a large box he has bear-hugged to his chest with both arms.

There’s no time for Grian to rejoice; barely even time to react at all. Following Scar are three zombies, and they’re moving fast.

Instinctively, Grian takes a moment to steady himself, feet spread apart, weapon raised and at the ready. As Scar rushes past him, depositing the box on the ground, Grian steps in to meet the nearest corpse, swinging the sharp edge of the fire poker directly into its forehead. The single blow isn’t enough to down it, so he yanks the poker free before piercing it again, the sharp, hooked end cleaving a divot into the zombie’s skull and pulling most of its cheek and right eye out with the motion.

Hands now free, Scar takes up position next to him, brandishing, not his gun, but the knife they’d acquired the day previously. He holds it out in preparation for the second and third ghoul racing to descend upon them.

There’s no quick conversation. No coordinated plan of attack. Working in tandem, they make easy work of the creatures, reading each other’s movements without needing to speak as they lay each zombie out with brutal, efficient strikes. Dead, now. Properly dead.

“We gotta go,” Grian pants, wiping corpse blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. “We can debrief later. There’s gonna be more coming.”

Scar nods, equally breathless, putting his knife away and hefting the big box back up as Grian takes his place on the driver’s seat of the scooter. Awkwardly, Scar manages to sit behind him, body facing towards the rear so he has room to hold the box without crushing Grian or overbalancing them too much on one side.

The moment he’s sure Scar is secure, Grian floors it, needing to get them as far away as they can. They don’t stop to syphon gas—they don’t even pause to discuss it. They’re leaving, and Grian is happy to watch the place shrink in Pizza’s small, rearview mirrors.

It’s an odd feeling, driving with Scar’s back pressed to his, knowing he’s trusting Grian completely to get them to safety. If he wasn’t so wild with fear and adrenaline he’d feel touched by it, but for the moment, all Grian can focus on is the road ahead of them and leaving the area as quickly as possible.

“That went well!” Scar shouts, loud over the air whipping past them. “I think we’re getting good at this!”

He sounds chipper. Relaxed, even. Grian says nothing, hands white-knuckle tight on the Vespa’s handlebars, his heart still trying to climb out through his throat as he pushes the scooter as fast as it can go.

It takes fifteen minutes of full-throttle driving before Grian’s fear subsides enough that he can slide his gaze around and look for somewhere they can pull off and recalibrate. They’re well past the city limits, now. Back in the unfamiliar forests of towering pines and the loamy earth beneath them. Still, everything looks suspicious. Every tree hiding an ambush, every knot of saplings a potential cover for a lurking horde.

“Feels like we’ve been driving for awhile,” Scar remarks, tipping his head back to speak in Grian’s ear. “This box is getting mighty heavy, G.”

It’s humiliating to admit that he’s still as shaken as he is, so it’s only with reluctance that Grian relents. Ahead, he can see a sign indicating an exit for a gas station, so he takes it, reasoning that they can refuel while Scar unpacks his prize. Two birds with one stone, and then back on the road for as many hours as it takes to make Grian feel like they’re secure.

The gas station itself is small, but it looks reasonably well kept, positioned on the edge of a large concrete pad that Grian assumes must have been used by truckers who needed a place to rest for the night. A dinged sign left out by the road advertises live bait by the bucket and nearby trail rides for both beginners and experts.

It’s fine, he tries to soothe himself. It’s safe.

They park by the pair of gas pumps and almost immediately Scar drops the box, letting it fall heavy to the ground with a thud. He shakes his arms out, hands visibly trembling from exertion. Grian feels a little guilty, not having realised how much he’d been asking of Scar to hold onto it for so long—but then Scar looks at him, smiling ear-to-ear, and it’s clear he isn’t nursing a grudge.

“Check this out, G,” Scar says, and Grian tries not to read too much into the repeated usage of his nickname. It’s obvious that Scar is just excited—this is less about Grian, and more about Scar having secured something useful in the end times.

Enthusiastic, Scar steps away from the scooter, taking a second to shrug off his jacket and roll up his shirt sleeves before crouching down by the box. “Turns out, they didn’t have very many options on display. Just three chairs. Real basic—no bells, not a single whistle.”

Grian tries not to feel disappointed by the lack of variety for Scar’s needs. “Oh…”

“They had a buncha signs that said something about using a QR code to look through their expid—expanded catalogue. Y’know, purchase whatever model you liked online, good luck with your insurance, and then pick it up from customer service. Obviously that wasn’t gonna work for us.”

While speaking, Scar begins opening the box, peeling off the tape with his nail and chipping off more of his polish instead of using his knife.

“So from that, and based on what I saw, I chose the one that I think will be the easiest to carry around.”

With a flourish, Scar rips open the top of the box, a wide grin on his face. Without any pomp, he pries out several pieces of styrofoam, tossing them aside, and reaching in to grab the wheelchair by its frame and pull it free. Gently, he sets it on the ground, then digs back into the packaging, rummaging around for a moment before he removes what look to be leg rests.

Grian’s a little surprised to see that the chair is already fully assembled—he’d always assumed they’d have to be painstakingly put together. But as he watches Scar slip the leg rests in place with a practiced hand, he supposes it makes sense to have assembly be as easy and accessible as possible.

It’s a nice looking chair—simple, streamlined, and not too bulky. As Scar mentioned however, it’s noticeably without a single bell or whistle, entirely plain and ordinary.

“And there we have it!” Scar crows, showing off the acquisition with a wave of his hand.

Grian mirrors the grin on Scar’s face, offering a polite clap, glad to see him so genuinely thrilled.

“What made you choose this one?” he asks, knowing something about it clearly caught Scar’s attention.

“It folds,” Scar enthuses, bending over and showing off the feature, a simple latch on the frame allowing the chair to collapse easily in on itself and fold flat. “I figured it would be useful to get something compact for all the moving and shaking we’ve been doing. It’s lightweight, too. Well—as light as a carrying around a metal chair can be, even if it is titanium instead of steel.”

“Too bad it doesn’t have removable wheels as well,” Grian muses, watching as Scar effortlessly unfolds the chair again.

“They definitely exist, but none of the ones on display had that feature.”

There’s a twinkle in Scar’s eye as he speaks that disquiets Grian. It’s the kind of look that says Scar’s about to do something that will make his blood pressure skyrocket.

“That said, I did consider removable wheels, and the thing is Grian… if you think about it—all wheels are removable with the right kind of tool.”

Before Grian can even begin to ask what he means, Scar is reaching into his backpack and pulling out a small, emergency toolkit, not much larger than the length and width of his hand. It’s something meant to be stored in a handbag or the glove box of a car. Grian can see through the clear plastic front, displaying a screwdriver, a wrench, a pair of pliers, and a variety of allen keys.

Scar is beaming at him, but Grian’s mouth feels dry.

“Scar… where did you get that?”

“Why, the same place we got the wheelchair, of course,” Scar replies, his voice honeyed.

“Was it in the same aisle…?” Grian’s mind is spinning, already knowing the answer and hating it.

“Well…” Scar chuckles, a little sheepish as he lets the word drag. “Maybe not exactly, but—”

“Scar!” He doesn’t get to finish, Grian shouting loud over him, knowing what’s done is done but still feeling the terrifying sting of cutting it far too close. “That’s so incredibly, stupidly reckless. You could’ve been killed!”

“I could’ve! But I wasn’t!” Scar counters proudly, doing nothing to ease the stress in Grian’s chest.

If Scar had died in there, mauled by zombies and torn to pieces in a dark corner of the store, Grian never would have known. He could’ve combed through the whole store to find even just the remnants of him, and come up empty. If Scar hadn’t made his way out exactly when he did—if Grian had gone in after him like he’d planned, they could’ve missed each other completely, the chances of ever meeting up again slim to none.

What would be the point, then? comes a sudden terrified thought. Why bother living in this nightmare if Scar was suddenly gone?’

“Grian?” Scar asks, and Grian realises he’s gotten lost in his thoughts. The expression on Scar’s face softens, something contrite bleeding in over his assurance. “Look, I promise I knew what I was doing. If I didn’t think it was possible, I never would’ve attempted it. And hey, it all worked out in the end, right? We’re still here. We’re safe. Not a scratch!”

He holds up his forearms, showing off his skin, bite-free, and for whatever reason it does soothe a part of the anxiety running ragged within Grian’s chest.

“Right,” Grian manages, letting his breath out in a shaky sigh. He meets Scar’s gaze, offering him a small, tight smile. “And I suppose… the kit’ll be useful, too. Good find, Scar.”

“Thanks.” It’s obvious that Scar sees the effort Grian is putting in for what it is, because his features go tender in a way Grian wasn’t sure he’d ever see again. They let the moment linger, enjoying it, and then Scar gestures back to the wheelchair with all the enthusiasm of a kid showing off a new toy. “Wanna see me test this puppy out?”

“Oh,” Grian beams, his smile achingly genuine, “Absolutely.”

Taking the rifle off his back and propping it against the scooter, Scar sits himself down in the chair and lets his weight settle. It takes him a moment of fiddling to get truly comfortable, and then he reaches down and grips the push rim of the wheels, nudging himself forward.

There’s a confidence in how he moves, rolling forward and making a tight turn before he immediately reverses and drifts backwards. He’s smiling wide, glancing at Grian to make sure he’s watching as he shifts his centre of gravity, tilting the chair back so its casters rise up in the air. He balances on the two big wheels for a moment, then rocks forward, reorienting safely on the ground.

Grian can’t help himself, laughing at Scar’s antics. It’s an undeniable win, something they can both celebrate despite the stress it caused them to procure it. He feels justified now, validated in his decision to take the risk in the first place. Scar is still smiling when he gets up out of the chair, turning around and picking it up to check its weight.

He looks at Grian, delighted. “This is gonna be great for us, G.”

‘For us,’ echoes around Grian’s head like something radiant. Proof of their connection, a link that will continue to tether them to one another going forward, no matter what.

“Once we find someplace where we can settle down, this is going to be so handy on bad days,” Scar continues cheerfully. He reaches beneath the seat of the chair, releasing the mechanism that allows it to fold in half, almost compact. He looks it over once, nodding in satisfaction before laying it on the seat of the Vespa, holding out a hand.

“Let’s get these wheels off ‘er, then. She’ll be smaller without it, and we can strap it to the back.”

“I’ve got that paracord,” Grian suggests, stepping up next to him, shoulder to shoulder. “We can use that to tie it down.”

“I always knew that G stands for Genius,” Scar adds offhandedly, and the compliment blooms warmth through Grian’s chest. He looks up at Scar with a flustered smile only to find Scar grinning back at him.

For a moment, it feels exactly like how they used to be.

“I’m glad you made it out safe,” he admits, impulsive, needing to act before the moment is gone. “You, uh… you scared me for a second. Back there.”

“Grian,” Scar dismisses with a drawl. “You know it’s gonna take more than a big box store full of hordes of ravenous undead to take me down.”

Grian huffs a laugh at that, reassured. He opens his hiking bag, pulling out the spool of paracord he’d snatched from the camping section. Crouching down, he starts to figure out how best to anchor the wheels to the scooter, while Scar uses the screwdriver from the toolkit to loosen the nuts keeping the wheels attached to the chair’s axle.

There’s a companionable efficiency to it, the kind of familiar ease neither of them has enjoyed in awhile.

So when it happens, for a second Grian doesn’t notice it at all.

One moment Scar is standing next to him, eyes intent as he focuses on his job.

And the next he’s on the ground, all the air leaving his lungs in a winded grunt as he’s pinned in place by a zombie—its awful, ragged, hands clenched tight around his throat.

“Scar!” It’s a blindsiding turn, and Grian stumbles back as Scar grapples with the creature, its rotted digits clawing at him, terrible and screeching. Instinctively, Grian goes to reach for their weapons, only to realise that he put them down behind the scooter—the bag now stuck on the opposite side of where the corpse is bent over Scar and gnashing its teeth. He stands frozen for a moment, paralysed, having been so sure that they’d gotten away from the threat—that they were finally safe—that he hadn’t even considered taking a proper look around before he set their things down.

Where did it come from?

His thoughts race, a sick sort of helplessness coiling up within him, looking for something, anything, he can use to save Scar.

The area was clear. Where—

His blood runs cold.

The double doors to the gas station are open.

They hadn’t been when he and Scar had first arrived.

Horror floods through him. They’d let their guard down. Grian had put his guard down, despite his instincts screaming otherwise. After the nightmare back at the department store, he’d thought they’d already gotten through the worst of it. Recovering here at a rest stop like so many others before it had felt like a familiar sanctuary; an oasis they’d retreated to. And Grian had let that distract him from the dangers still lurking.

How many gas stations have they stopped at? How many middle-of-nowhere blips on a map, deserted, good only for refueling and stale snacks? It was stupid to think their luck would hold up forever. Stupid not to check the inside of the building before laying down their weapons and drawing attention with loud conversation and laughter.

He’d grown complacent, and now Scar is suffering the consequences of it.

Grian’s hands shake, breath coming in quick gasps, and eyes wide as he desperately looks for something he can use to beat the creature back.

Scar’s hand slaps the ground, his palm flat on the pavement as gropes around in search of his gun. It’s not near enough for him to grab, and the zombie’s position is blocking it bodily from Grian. He thinks, panicked, that maybe if he circled around the Vespa he could get at it, but he’s still never learned to shoot it properly. What if he clips Scar with a shot in the scuffle?

“Fuck,” Scar wheezes out, strangled, no doubt realising there’s no way he can reach the rifle on his own.

Helplessly, Scar’s hands fly back to the zombie, arms visibly straining from the effort of keeping the creature off of him. From where he’s standing, Grian can see it—can picture it so clearly—

Scar is going to lose this fight.

He simply hasn’t got the leverage to overtake this beast, not with the zombie bearing its entire weight down on top of him. The corpse screeches, its jaw open far too wide, lips pulled all the way back. Snapping. Ravenous.

They’re out of time.

Without wasting another second, Grian launches himself into the fray, gripping the undead monstrosity under its arms and pulling it away from Scar with all his might. He puts everything he has into hauling it back, his upper body straining as he frees Scar from the creature’s grip around his throat. The moment Scar is released, he scrambles backwards, red-faced and gasping, but in the same second the zombie turns all its attention to Grian, screaming at him as its fingernails dig into the exposed flesh of his arms.

The burst of pain makes Grian wince, his hold on the ghoul loosening just enough for the corpse to fling itself around and face him. It snarls gutturally, head cocked at an inhuman angle, its teeth stained dark and bared. Panicking, Grian pushes at its chest, trying to put some distance between them, but the monster is focused now, hands clawing at him, ripping at his clothing. There’s a glottal wetness to its cries, spit and flecks of its own rotten skin hitting Grian’s face as it shrieks.

Grian can feel himself buckling as the beast pushes in closer, knowing in a moment he’ll be overwhelmed and thrown to the floor, the corpse looming over him. The zombie’s grip on his arm is vicious, and Grian hates how scared he sounds as he cries out, stumbling when the monster lurches ever closer.

Terribly, a brand new kind of pain blooms in his shoulder as the ghoul shoves itself against him, its mouth open wide, held in place for a moment before it finds flesh and bites down. Hard. Teeth raking back and forth, sinking in, tearing, and then adjusting with a shake only to dig down again, more and more.

Nearby, Scar is shouting something, but Grian can’t hear him, only able to focus on the zombie as it growls against him, inhuman and horrifying and then—

Gunshots.

Three of them.

The first two taken in quick succession. The third following after a pause.

In front of him, the corpse instantly stills, its bloodied mouth going slack with a wetness that sounds lurid. The side of its skull is blown out by the passage of a bullet in a way that would look comical if it wasn’t so grotesque.

Finally, it collapses, and unable to keep himself standing, Grian falls to his knees as well.

One shaking hand makes its way up to grip at his mangled shoulder as he stares unseeingly at the ground.

The sound of familiar boots rushes in his direction, and then Scar is crouched down next to him, warm hands on his body as he checks Grian over for injuries. He’s saying something frantic and dismayed, but his words simply blur together. It takes a minute for Grian to ground himself, and then another to turn his head and really listen. The panic in Scar’s voice is clear—he’s rambling—and if Grian could feel anything but numb right now, he knows he’d be fond.

“—shit, sorry, I’m so sorry, Gri. I couldn’t see properly—I hit my head when it threw me back—fuck, I can’t believe I got you in the line of fire. God, okay—we’re gonna need to make sure the bullet made a clean exit. Let’s get you to lay back—I’ll clean this up as best I can and—we’ve still got that first aid kit, right? Is it in your bag or mine? I’ll get this stitched right up—”

Grian’s mouth has gone dry and his whole head is throbbing, ears still ringing distantly.

He knows the blood seeping from his shoulder hasn’t come from a gunshot.

“Scar,” he rasps, and it’s all he needs to say.

Two, wide, terrified eyes meet his, and Grian can see the immediate understanding that passes through them. The sickening, soul-crushing, realisation.

“Grian…” There’s devastation in Scar’s tone, his name shaped around something far too large for either of them to handle.

“Scar,” Grian tries again, more insistent this time.

“No.” The word is out of Scar too quickly. He shakes his head, rough; violent in his refusal. “No. Grian, no.” Scar’s hands are on his shoulder, seeking out a bullet wound he’s never going to find, freezing when he discovers a jagged ring of bloody bite marks instead.

“You’re immune,” he chokes, desperate but resolute. “You are. Like Quackity. You have to be, it—it doesn’t work like this, Grian. You haven’t been—you can’t—”

A million kinds of regret push through Grian. A sudden, hopeless wish to have simply sat down and spoken to Quackity about this. To know the signs. To have had his immunity explained on the off chance, just in case…

But then…

Grian knows this isn’t immunity.

He feels sick. Something viscerally wrong taking shape inside of him.

He knows it’s the virus. Inescapable disease.

“Scar,” he tries again, serious. “I can feel it.”

“You don’t,” Scar insists, hands trembling where they grip his shirt too tight. “Not a chance.”

“Scar.”

“Grian!”

There’s something firm and fierce and angry in Scar’s tone, a determination Grian isn’t prepared for. It silences him, at a loss for what to say.

“We’re gonna figure something out,” Scar declares instead, undeterred. His voice is shaking, wavering along the edges, but surrender hasn’t yet set into his expression. He still looks resolved.

He looks handsome.

“I love you, Scar.” The confession leaves Grian in a rush, soft and broken as he finally admits what he’s refused to say for so long—out of cowardice, out of pride. Out of a stupid need to waste both of their time. “I know I was awful to you, but please believe me when I say I love you. Scar, I love you so much—”

“Stop it.” There’s true ire in Scar’s tone now as he snaps at him. His hands are on Grian’s upper arms, clasped to his biceps, steadfast, but his words falter as he says them.

Grian can see the tears already forming in the corners of his eyes.

It feels so inconsequential now. To have so many words left to say but so little time. They haven’t yet seen someone turn, and Grian doesn’t know how long he has, but he feels unwell already. His body feels wrong, somehow. Like it’s fallen out of alignment with itself on an atomic level.

“Scar,” he presses, refusing to let the words fail him. “I love—”

“Stop!” The word wrenches out of Scar with a sob and he finally buckles, grip going loose, no longer able to continue holding Grian tight when so much grief is coursing through him. “Gri, I can’t—fuck—”

It’s wretched, but it’s also completely serene. Everything has been pushed into sudden clarity, and Grian doesn’t have to struggle with himself anymore. The insecurities that made his life so difficult—how impossible it was to acknowledge how much it all mattered; how much Scar mattered—seem profoundly immaterial now. He suspects that maybe they were never really significant at all.

He can feel his blood seeping down his neck, wet and uncomfortable and invisibly rancid. Grian imagines foreign cells spreading inside of him, rotting him out from the inside. It feels filthy, like an infestation caught in the marrow of his bones, all seeping out at once.

He wishes he could’ve taken one last shower.

He wishes he didn’t have to let Scar go.

“I’m sorry,” Scar’s voice is broken, but the words come out of him loud and clear. His head is bowed, pressed into Grian’s clavicle, clutching him so close that Grian thinks he can feel his tears soaking through his shirt. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I held it all against you. I fucking—I was so angry and I wasted so much of our time. I’m sorry, Grian. I’m sorry, I—”

Grian’s reaction is sharp like a thunderclap, the calm serenity of acceptance evaporating in an instant, replaced by something brutal and hard.

“Why the hell are you apologising?” He asks—shouts—hands slamming up into Scar’s shoulder, pushing him away as fury envelopes him. “God dammit, why do you let me treat you this way, Scar?!”

Revulsion—for himself, for his situation, for the way he’s pushed his way through life, centering himself and dismissing everything else—makes him upset. Makes him livid.

His palms press flat against his own chest, digging in, tearing.

“I hurt you, Scar! I let you down! I’m the one who cheated on you—who…” he falters, self-loathing so deep crawling out to choke him with blame. Grian crumbles under the compounded selfishness of so many prior actions, too apprehensive to open up, too cowardly to admit he could ever love someone as much as he loved Scar. Seeing it as a vulnerability and a weakness, never a strength. Afraid of what he could stand to lose, afraid to express himself freely and punishing himself for it, over and over and over, only to ultimately go out of his way to hurt the one person who truly mattered to him, in the end. “You’re supposed to want accountability from me! You’re supposed to make me apologise! For everything I did—for everything I’m doing to you. And now you’re the one saying you’re sorry? I just—why, Scar?!”

Why don’t you hate me? hangs unasked between them, ugly no matter which way Grian looks at it. His self-contempt demanding consequence, inviting retribution—yearning for the heartbreak of an argument months in the making. But for Scar there’s no hesitation, no time spent considering his words before he answers, as honest and earnest as he’s ever been.

“Because I love you, Grian.”

It’s the last thing and the only thing that Grian wants to hear, and the fight bleeds out of him immediately. Confirmation—that Scar loves him. That Scar still loves him. Everything he knew but needed so desperately to hear again, and now can’t possibly do anything about.

I love you too, simmers in the back of his throat, dying to be said aloud.

“Scar, you’ve got to go,” comes out instead, brittle but with conviction all the same.

He’s not expecting Scar to shake his head. Not expecting the immediate surrender.

“What’s the point?” Scar asks, like it already doesn’t matter. Like he’s been bitten as well. “How far can I even get without you, Grian? Be honest.”

“Shut up,” Grian snaps, still just as angry. Infuriated. “Don’t talk like that. After all this? You’re just gonna let it go to waste? So we can—what? Turn together? Die hand in hand? Don’t be so stupid and melodramatic, it doesn’t suit you—”

“G,” Scar interrupts, and it’s tired but fond enough to catch Grian off guard, quieting him mid-rant. “Stop trying to make me hate you. It never worked before, and it’s not going to work now.”

A choke of emotion seizes Grian, silencing him.

For a moment neither of them says anything, hushed save for the rasp of Grian’s breath; small gasps rushing in and out, still panicked but steadier. Scar lets them both sit with his words, a confession, just as strong as the confirmation that he loves him. Imposing in a way Grian can’t possibly hope to overcome.

Finally, carefully, Scar’s large hands shift, trailing up Grian’s cheek and tenderly brushing his sweaty, matted hair away from his forehead.

“I really thought…” Scar starts, the admission slipping softly from his lips. “I thought I’d be the one to die first, y’know? I thought that would probably work out best for us… At least that way you—you’d be okay. I wouldn’t be holding you back anymore.”

It’s an assertion that hurts Grian in a way he can’t describe. The fact that Scar would think of himself that way—that this entire time he’s been harbouring the thought that Grian would be better off if he were dead. That he’d anticipated it…

Scar draws in a shaky breath, then he raises his eyes again, tear-rimmed. He asks, mournful, “How am I going to do this without you, Gri?”

It’s raw. Vulnerable in a way that normally makes Grian fidget, uncomfortable. Yet this time it sparks something inside of him, a determination he projects outwards, passing it on to Scar.

“You have to,” he says, unbending. “You have to keep going because you love me, and that’s what I want for you.”

“I love you,” Scar repeats, tears tracking down his cheeks. The words leave him easily now, and Grian only wishes he had more time to enjoy them.

“And if you love me, you’ll go.”

“Grian—”

“You’re not going to shoot me,” Grian presses on, stubborn to a fault. “You won’t. Because it’s dramatic, and you’re not going to waste a bullet. You’ll get on that—you’ll get on Pizza, and you’re going to go.” For a moment his confidence falters, his pulse spiking, painful. But his next words are gentler, fragile as he says them, “And you’ll think of me, right?” He raises a hand, pressing his bloody palm to Scar’s cheek, looking at him fondly, the way he’d always been so afraid to. “You’ll think of me, and you’ll survive for me, because you never stopped loving me, and this is what I want you to do.” He pauses, throat sticking as he swallows. “For me.”

The sob that escapes Scar is heartbreaking. His forehead tips forward until it’s pressed against Grian’s, hand slipping from his hair to wrap an arm around him tight, holding Grian close. However, even in his grief Grian can see the tide turning—can see Scar starting to accept what he’s said and the awful inevitability of it.

“You’re not allowed to die,” he adds, insistent. “Not after I put all that effort into keeping you alive.”

He wants to joke; wants to say, ‘I tried to kill a teenager for you.’ But he knows the words will land wrong. Now isn’t the time for it. It never will be again.

Hot tears land against his cheek as Scar cries. Grian’s head is aching—like it’s splitting itself in half. The worst headache he’s ever had, tearing him apart from the inside.

Minutes pass as Scar clings to him, clutching him close like he’s the only thing in life that matters. It’s selfish, but Grian lets himself enjoy it all the same. Lets the fragility of his heart linger in this moment, knowing it’s about to slip away forever.

“You’ve got to go, Scar,” he says after a lengthy interim, soft, hating the words even as he says them, wishing he could snatch them back the moment they leave his lips. “I love you,” he adds, and it feels so easy to say now that he wonders why he ever struggled with it before.

For the last time, he enjoys the scratch of Scar’s stubble against his cheek, and the pressure of Scar’s forehead where it rests pressed against his own.

For the last time, Scar holds him, tight and all-encompassing. And for the first time, Grian sees how it’s always been him—how there’s never been anyone for them but each other. That they’re part of the same whole.

Soulmates.

“I love you,” Scar says, his lips pressing against Grian’s forehead, and then again to his temple. He hesitates, and Grian prepares for another delay, another desperate denial. But instead Scar offers one final confession, soft and honest. “And you were good for me… even when you were bad to me. And I—” his voice cracks, breaking off into a shuddered breath. It gives Grian the chance to speak up, knowing that if he doesn’t, they’ll bend and repeat this same loop forever, until the virus takes over and he can’t control himself anymore.

“You have to go, Scar.” It’s building inside him, the infection, sick and rancid. He can feel it clotting up between his sinew, making it hard to move, to breathe.

He doesn’t want Scar to be here when it gets bad.

“I know,” Scar whispers, mournful. “But, fuck… I don’t want to.”

By fractions, his arms loosen, and Grian feels himself being let go reluctantly. A part of him wants to cling, wants to change his mind and beg, hopelessly, for Scar to stay. But then Scar is standing up, swaying on his feet for a moment before he moves to the Vespa. He stacks their bags into its basket, his new wheelchair wedged between them. It would be impossible to carry all their gear like that if there were two of them, but with only Scar there’s enough room to secure it easily.

Silver linings.

He’s left Grian sitting up, and Grian finds that he appreciates it, suddenly too woozy to manage it on his own. He’s tired more than anything, his vision blown out into silhouettes and murky shapes.

His head hurts.

“I’m leaving,” Scar says, but it’s worded gently, like a question.

“Good,” Grian answers, and he pushes himself so that he smiles as he says it.

“I love you,” Scar supplies, still soft.

“I love you too.”

Through bleary eyes, Grian sees Scar grip the handlebars of the Vespa, his breathing strained as he steadies himself, clearly summoning the strength to go.

The little kick of the motor coming to life is a wretched sound. Like a death knell. Inevitable.

“Scar,” Grian speaks out, wincing as the pain in his head changes from a headache to something more, the searing agony of it spidering out to each and every one of his extremities. He doesn’t want to go out like this, he decides, like his opinion has any sway in the matter. It feels torturous, and he grits his teeth until they ache, instinctively knowing that the burning isn’t going to subside.

He needs Scar to do something. He needs Scar to make it stop.

It takes him a moment, gasping through the pain until he finally cracks his eyes open, only to find there’s no Vespa waiting for him anymore.

Scar must not have heard him over the sound of the motor.

It hurts, and he feels the fragile tears of rejection immediately bite at the corner of his eyes.

Alone.

He hopes no one ever finds his body.

He hopes that when he dies from this, he’s left out here forever, and he hopes that when he turns, he’s granted the dignity of wandering off into the woods, never to be seen again.

Distantly, he thinks he hears the scooter, the trees catching the sound of its engine and bringing it back to Grian as a tinny echo. He thinks about Scar leaving; about him finding somewhere safe, and meeting others to get along with. There’s not a shadow of doubt in his mind that Scar is going to survive. Grian knows him well enough to know he’ll make it through.

He hopes whoever he meets finds him funny. He hopes that they’re charmed by him, and that he makes them laugh.

His heart is beating fast, gripped by something frantic, either in the swell of his emotions, or by the infection spreading through his veins.

I’ll close my eyes, he thinks. It won’t be such a bad way to go. At least it’s not out in the desert. At least there are trees.

His pulse is a rush inside his ears, and he can feel the pressure of it behind his eyes. He’s having a heart attack, maybe. Or a stroke. Maybe a combination of both.

With nothing else to do, and no strength left to struggle, Grian closes his eyes, knowing he won’t open them again.

He doesn’t cry. Not this time.

He thinks about Scar.

Around him, the woods are silent.

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

(Click to reveal.)

[ SPOILERS ]

If sexual content is the only thing that you needed a warning for, feel free to scroll back up. If not, please click the second Spoiler Bar for the content/trigger warning for this chapter.

[ SPOILERS ]

This chapter contains especially Graphic Depictions of Violence as well as a version of Character Death. Please be aware going forward if these topics are unpalatable or triggering to you.

---

Originally, Lock and I had planned to do our week-long break after this chapter (which is why it's such a girthy chapter 💦) but we ended up thinking that would be too cruel a cliffhanger to leave you guys with for more than a week 😂 Since we took our break earlier instead, we'll be back next week with the start of Arc 3 of the fic! :D And of course, we'll be switching back to Scar's POV for, uh... obvious reasons ^^;

Thank you all for sticking with us thus far, and I hope we've built enough trust with you that you'll continue to enjoy the chapters to come! 💜

[ Too soon? ]

Scar: I wish I could get some SPACE from you, Grian.
(Monkey's Paw Curls)

Chapter 22

Notes:

Some more beautiful fanart!!

The first is this gorgeous rendition of the boys drawn by hermit-haven!

Second, we have this incredible, two-page comic done by foxalotlposts!

Simply cannot get enough of how GOOD both of you did, tysm! 💜

We're back this week with a shorter transition chapter as Scar works through the trauma of the last one 💔 Good to be back in his POV but, god, at what cost?

 

The day is foggy and cold, and Scar doesn’t care.

He’s heard that Oregon is a temperate state with a mild climate, but the chill of the approaching winter has settled in, biting at every part of exposed skin that Scar hasn’t hidden behind a scarf or coat or gloves. It leaves his cheeks and nose red—not frostbitten, but cold and painful to the touch.

He can’t find it in himself to be bothered by it.

He can’t find it in himself to feel much at all.

He’s driving along the uphill incline of what he supposes has become a mountain, gently sloped but enormous all the same. Dense clouds surround him on every side as he putters along on Pizza, making it hard to see more than a couple feet ahead of himself at any given time. It would be wise for him to stop until the fog dissipates, or at least wait until it lifts enough for him to make out which direction he’s going in, but it’s impossible for him to think like that when his head feels like mush, every thought muddled and unclear.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been driving. Can’t remember when he last properly slept or ate. He thinks it’s been two days, maybe. But it’s impossible to know how much time has passed since—

Since…

His stomach rumbles, twisting in its hunger. He hasn’t been in the mood to eat, but he knows he can’t let himself starve. Not when he made a promise to keep going; to not simply lay down and die.

He pulls off to the side of the road and puts the scooter in park, careless in his actions, not wasting time in making sure the area is safe and secure. He should’ve learned this lesson, he should be more cautious, more vigilant, but he knows he won’t be stopping long.

He eats, automatic and joyless.

Everything tastes bland.

There’s nothing in it. No satisfaction.

It’s only when the dryness in his throat makes the food scratch on its way down that he opens up a bottle of water. The drink stings but he drains it all the same, crunching the plastic bottle in his hand before he tosses it off to the side.

There's no reason to keep it to refill it when he’s not going to go looking for a water source. No sense in worrying about littering at this point, either.

Nothing really matters now.

He stands next to Pizza, cold and alone, and eats until the growling of his stomach subsides. Once he’s done he settles back in place and starts the motor up again.

He feels like he’s dreaming, disconnected from everything happening around him.

Trapped in a nightmare.

The days continue to blur, smearing into one another. Scar can’t remember sleeping or waking, he can’t remember highway signs or distance travelled. All he can remember are hands held clasped together, a small palm soft and warm against his own. Living. Alive. He remembers the shape of a body he wishes he could still hold close. Stern words, crying, bitter apologies, I love you, and distance—so much distance, now. Nothing he could ever hope to traverse on his own, a length so great that just the thought of it makes his chest feel tight. He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe—

He wakes up, the dawn light a bitter grey glimpsed through the tree branches spread above him.

He packs up his things.

He gets on Pizza and he continues his journey.

Three days. He thinks it’s been three days, but he doesn’t know if he’s closer to his destination than when he first began. Surely it must be near enough. Surely he must be close. He can’t tell—not when the fog that’s swallowing him whole is reflected outwards onto the landscape, making every mile look the same.

He feels like he’s trapped in purgatory, paying for sins he was too naïve to realise he’d even committed in the first place.

He thinks he hates the Pacific Northwest. The endless overcast choke of clouds that lay thick over everything, the constant drizzle, the trees that hunker in too close to the side of the road, looming up like things malevolent and lurking. He thinks back to places distant and inaccessible; soaking in a hot spring beneath a sky thick with stars, walking hand-in-hand through Disneyland, sitting in an abandoned house in the desert with three strangers, sharing talk of an uncertain and foolishly optimistic future.

He didn’t think he’d look back on those moments and treasure them. He never thought he’d long to go back.

Everything feels so wearisome now.

He manages to keep Pizza’s fuel topped up by luck and force of habit alone, though every gas station he stops at leaves him breathing heavy and dry-heaving in a blind, grieving, panic less than a mile down the road later. The first time he runs out completely he refills the tank with the extra gas he’s been carrying. The second time he empties the extra completely and leaves the jerry can on the side of the road. It’s a foolish, short-sighted decision, but he can’t bring himself to care.

The third time, there’s no spare fuel on hand and nothing around to syphon off of. He leaves Pizza by the side of the road, mumbling some quiet words of gratitude before he continues on foot, and when walking becomes too much, he re-attaches the wheels to his chair, grateful for it and hating it more than he’s ever hated any of his aids before.

He could’ve been fine without it, he thinks, bitterly. He could’ve struggled but survived.

Without it, he’d still have Grian.

He finds himself stopping frequently, overwhelmed by a grief that seizes his chest like a vice, face pressing into his palms as he breathes deep through the ache and the pain.

He misses him to a degree he didn’t know he had the capacity to feel—that he didn’t even know was physically possible. He thought, surely, he’d experienced enough to understand it when he lost Cub and Pearl, but the hurt he’d felt then barely scratches the surface of what he feels now. It feels like he’s missing a part of himself, integral and fundamental. A wellspring of sadness overflowing within him.

Regret sits inside him and festers. Regret for time wasted, for carrying a grudge that feels so immaterial and petty now. For being so angry. For assuming he had more time.

It all seems so pointless. He doesn’t know why he’s still trying.

…

Except he does. It’s for Grian. He promised he wouldn’t stop, no matter how much he wanted to.

At some point the terrain shifts, the mountains descending back into plains until he finds himself back in an arid desert. It’s impossibly barren, like he’s somehow come full circle and never left the place he once started from. When he finally passes a city limit sign he pauses just long enough to pin his location on the map he’s kept shoved in his chest pocket.

He’s not been on a course firmly enough to have gotten lost, but he doesn’t know how he’s ended up here, not in any condition to be crossing through a place that boasts itself as being ‘The Palm Springs of Washington.’ He soldiers on anyway, following the main thoroughfare through the city, thinking he’ll pass through quickly.

He finds that he’s made a mistake almost immediately.

There are swarms of zombies, even at the outskirts, openly roaming in hordes and able to spot him at a distance. A voice in his head that sounds distressingly like Grian’s chides him for his irresponsible oversight. If he’d thought at all he’d have known to stay away from a city this big.

If Grian were here he’d have caught his mistake.

If Grian were here they’d be safe.

By the time he realises he’s in danger, he’s too far in to turn back, and not far enough through to make his way out the other side. Navigating in a wheelchair in the apocalypse is miserable, and he isn’t thinking straight, taking detours off the main highway and onto smaller commercial avenues, hoping to avoid the zombies he’s seen turn in his direction. He misses Pizza—he misses having the confidence to make a run for it.

He wants to stand up. He wants to lay down and surrender.

He’s so, so tired.

Through sheer grit and determination, he manages to secret himself down an alley wide enough for his chair but small enough to form a bottleneck for the horde he’s drawn after him. There’s an odd feeling in his chest—something caught between surprise and relief; strangely overjoyed by the fact that he can feel anything other than numbness at all. Fear still reigns supreme, clawing its way out of the indifference he’s been mired in, some base, animal instinct within him telling him to run, run, don’t die here, don’t stop yet, don’t give up. Go.

It’s impossible to fight the zombies off in close range when there are so many, so instead, Scar finds himself scouting for some sort of siege point. Anywhere at all where he can hole up and take aim with his rifle to thin down their numbers. His wheels skid over debris scattered over the streets, fallout from whatever violence and rioting had taken place here post-infection. His routes are limited, the high-pitched shrieks of undead behind him deafening as his blood pounds in his ears.

Somewhere in the distance he hears the sound of gunshots, several of them shot in rapid succession. He doesn’t know whether he should be hopeful or worried that there may be other survivors nearby. Doesn’t have any time to think about it at all.

By the time he sees the fenced off area ahead of him, Scar’s arms are aching and his chest feels tight. The building is a money transfer union, the kind that would offer cash advances and wire funds across countries—Useless at the end of the world, much like everything else. The parking lot is fenced in, the gate sealing it off with a simple loop of chain and a large bolt latch, which Scar reaches up to it even before he stops his wheelchair, scrambling to open it as fast as he can. The gate swings in, quiet on well-oiled hinges, and within seconds he’s beyond it, slamming it shut behind himself and yanking the chain tight before he slides the lock in place. Without hesitating, he turns and grabs his rifle, lining up a shot through the chain-links, aiming at the advancing horde.

He’s always been careful to keep his ammo easily accessible and he’s grateful for it now, taking his first shot and reloading the rifle, repeating it over and over, each bullet fired with a well practised aim. He’s quick and efficient. One bullet per zombie, nothing gone to waste.

“You’re not going to shoot me,” Grian had said, not wanting him to toss away the bullet. Scar wishes he had now. Wishes he’d managed to shoot them both. It would be better than this, he thinks. Trapped alone behind the flimsiness of a chain link fence with his back against a wall. Hungry and tired, with nothing left in the tank.

He doesn’t know what he believes in. An afterlife or an endless repeating cycle. Maybe something else entirely. Maybe an abrupt end with nothing on the other side.

Maybe a cosmic game he can never hope to win.

Another aim, another shot. Finger on the trigger, hands steady. Exhale, pull, shoot.

He hopes, if he’s lucky enough to get another chance, that he meets Grian sooner next time. He hopes he’s more confident. He hopes he makes the first move.

He hopes they build something good together. He hopes they’re happy.

Another round spent. Pause, reload. His fingers are cold, hands cramped and aching. There are shell casings in his lap and littering the ground. He settles the butt of the rifle back into the crook of his shoulder. He’s so hungry and exhausted that his hands tremble, but he still makes every shot.

There’s something happening, a strange reverb, the sounds of gunfire coming back to him, doubling in on itself. He doesn’t know if it’s an echo. It doesn’t sound like all the shots are his.

There’s no longer a safe distance between him and the horde, no room to breathe. The zombies are piling up against the fence, more of them than he can contend with, fingers prying between the gaps in the chain links, pushing forward, groaning, terrible. Sometimes it sounds like they laugh, sometimes it almost sounds like they’re making words.

He fires again, taking down another.

Maybe, if life continues on after this, he and Grian can start a business together. Or maybe they can shirk off every responsibility and spend their days building pointless towers hand-in-hand.

Sometimes when he thinks about him, or when he’s lost in a dream, Grian has wings. He doesn’t think he’s an angel. Doesn’t know if he believes in heaven that way.

He doesn’t know why he never told Grian about that.

He wishes he had.

The zombies haven’t stopped coming, their bodies piled up against the fence.

Scar’s counted his ammo out a hundred times already. He knows how much he has. He knows how many shots he’s made.

He knows he’s running out.

It’ll be okay to die here, he thinks. Embarrassing, maybe. But okay.

He’s tired, anyway.

If it’s time, it’s time.

There are too many zombies pressed against the fence, bodies twisted, faces contorted. They snarl and howl—low, guttural, monstrous sounds that instill a panicked instinct in the back of Scar’s mind. It’s hard to remember they were ever once people when they’re packed together like this, fetid and grotesque.

He remembers taking sympathy on them. He remembers feeling bad for them. It all feels so far away now.

He aims, he shoots.

The fence is bending, the chainlink distending out towards him, bulbous. He can hear it caving under the weight pressed against it. Knows it’ll give way soon.

Settled into his shoulder, the rifle clicks, trigger snapping back without firing a shot.

Something’s jammed.

This is it then.

The end.

Try as he might, it doesn’t feel like relief to give in. It’s bittersweet, guilt weighing his shoulders down. He’d promised Grian he’d live. He’d promised that he’d try. Is this really all he has to show for it? A few days alone, progressing aimlessly and consumed by sadness, eating little and sleeping even less?

I’m sorry, G, he thinks, closing his eyes even as the corpses in front of him clamour and moan. I let you down.

Metal creaks, and though Scar flinches, ready for the monsters to fold the fence in half and bear down on him like an awful oncoming wave, he doesn’t move. They shriek, pained, and he can picture the way they must be tearing themselves apart just to reach him.

It’s a strange way to feel wanted.

Suddenly, over the din, he hears another gunshot, this one so close he can’t help but snap his eyes open.

Almost as soon as he does, a loud voice calls out, nearly bellowing, “Hey buddy, you got a death wish or somethin’?”

There’s no chance to brace himself. He has no idea what’s in store. Out of nowhere a man jumps down from the roof of the building behind him, landing on his feet without so much as a grunt.

He’s large—broad, and tall in a way that Scar’s familiar with from a lifetime spent looking at his own reflection in the mirror. He’s bulkier though, and Scar gapes as the stranger presses forward, not sparing him a single sideways glance as he walks up to the fence and sticks the muzzle of his shotgun through the chainlinks. It takes him a second to line up the barrel between the eyes of the corpse in front of him. Then he fires.

The creature falls dead, its skull exploding out behind it from the buckshot, the others screeching as they’re rained in its spray. Again and again the man repeats the shot, firing point-blank every time. Everything about him looks prepared and sturdy, well-worn boots on his feet, every inch of him covered and reinforced, geared up like he’s been through an apocalypse before.

Another three corpses fall—the fence straining less under the pressure, righting back into its prior position—before the man turns around to face Scar. When he does, Scar is greeted by a rough, lopsided smile, and the most memorable facial hair he’s ever seen: mutton chops pulled down across his cheeks and a thick moustache that looks like it’s in need of a trim.

“Jesus, you’re in a fucking wheelchair?” The man asks, laughing as he walks up to Scar, approaching him like he’s meeting with an old friend. He slings his shotgun over his shoulder without a care, ignoring the groans of the few remaining zombies pushed up against the fence, so much less intimidating now, almost laughably so. “So what exactly was the plan here, man? Dramatic last stand? Suicide attempt? Or were you emptying shells and drawing in every undead in the state just for the hell of it?”

Opening his mouth to speak, Scar is surprised to find that his voice simply won’t come. His mouth and throat feel dry, gone hoarse from disuse. He hasn’t said a word since he left Grian behind, and there’s a sudden shock of panic in his chest as he thinks about breaking that silence, like any word he says will commit Grian’s passing to reality and make it impossible to take back.

As it turns out, there’s no room for conversation anyway, and he’s saved from having to try and speak by the arrival of more undead—aggressive, speedier zombies racing towards the fence, throwing themselves at it with their entire body weight, making the barrier tremble.

The man turns back to look at them, clicking his tongue with annoyance. “Hey! This is a private fucking conversation here!”

He aims his shotgun, then pauses, squinting one eye as he peers through the sight. With a sigh he turns away from the zombies, and Scar hears the click of the safety pushing back in place.

“Not worth the ammo,” the stranger explains dismissively. “These fuckers never learn.”

A sudden metallic snap splits the air, the chainlinks finally breaking away from the fence posts under the renewed assault of the undead bodies. Scar stares helplessly at their last line of defense coming undone, no longer sure how to feel. The stranger seems unbothered, taking his time to walk the long way around to the back of Scar’s chair before he grabs hold of each of its handles, forcibly pushing him away from the oncoming horde and around the side of the nearest building.

It’s so unexpected that Scar doesn’t know how to react. Can’t prioritise which emotion to feel, or which event to react to.

“Listen Wheels,” the stranger drawls conversationally, leaning in casually over his shoulder. “I know it’s pretty taboo to touch another guy’s piece, but you’ll forgive me if we continue this chat someplace where we’re not about to get tenderised like cheap steak, right?”

Scar doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t even know if he could move and take back control of his chair even if he wanted to. His mind can’t reconcile his calm surrender as he placidly accepted his death, with this sudden turn of events.

If Scar’s silence bothers him, the stranger doesn’t show it, laughing loud to himself before he asks, bright and eager. “Take your time, no rush on my end. Hey by the way, real quick—how do you feel about podcasts?”

 

 

Notes:

And so marks the start of Arc 3! 🎉 Grief is a lot to live around, and Scar's got a lot of it to unpack u_u But despite the gloom in this chapter, we promise things will pick up again soon. Our boy is out here doing his best!!

This chapter also introduces the last of our Weird, MCYT and MCYT-adjacent references! (The first two being KSQ and Charlie's 100 Days Series) For those of you unfamiliar with 'Pops,' that is the name of Schlatt's Day Z persona from his streams/VODs. Day Z is, of course, a multiplayer zombie survival game--very fitting for our landscape here ;) You can watch the videos that the fic will reference here and here. They are around 10 hours long combined however, and so we want to reassure anyone reading that you absolutely don't need to have watched them in order to understand what's going on!

Just like how Lock and I wrote KSQ, feel free to treat Pops as an OC if you're unfamiliar with him. Any necessary information will be provided within the text of the fic itself and, at most, you'd only be missing out on a couple of easter eggs here and there ;)

THAT SAID!! This means that, after Pops' cameo, that'll be it for our outside references and crossovers! (At least, as far as characters go.) It's all Life Series characters from there babyyy! >:D SO excited to share what the future chapters have in store!! 💜💜💜

Thank you guys for readinggg!

Chapter 23: Chapter 23

Notes:

Hi, it's Lock stepping in again, posting this week's chapter :3 We continue Scar's solo arc! His side-quest, if you will. Making new friends :')

As we said last week, it's not necessary to know Schlatt's Day-Z streams to follow the story of Pops in this arc, but if you want a really compelling zombie stream to watch in your spare time, our man's got you covered.

Enjoy! <3

“And here we are. Home sweet home!”

It’s late. The moon hangs large in the sky overhead, lingering heavy above the horizon, its light drowning out most of the stars.

‘Home sweet home’ is a diner, its parking lot fortified with abandoned vehicles arranged into something somewhat like a barrier wall that surrounds it on all four sides. It is by far the most apocalyptic thing Scar has seen since the world fell apart, and he doesn’t quite know what to make of it.

There were some logistical obstacles to getting them both inside, Scar having realised almost immediately that his companion was used to unceremoniously clambering through a small, barely-human-sized gap between the hoods of two precariously stacked cars. It had taken them both some circling to find a fissure between tailgates big enough to fit Scar’s wheelchair through, and even then they’d only just barely managed it after his saviour had pried off both bumpers with a crowbar he’d dug out of his backpack.

“No getting out now,” the man had joked after Scar wheeled himself in through the gap, offering him a smile showing way too many teeth.

Too much has happened in too short a time, leaving Scar overwhelmed on every level. He stops just inside the front entrance of the diner, which no longer looks like a diner at all—the tables and chairs removed and its windows blacked out and boarded up. His companion flips on a solar lamp hanging from one of the defunct light fixtures allowing the anemic glow fills the space. It gives Scar a chance to take in the makeshift camp built into the back corner of the room, furthest away from the windows, everything about it incredibly neat and organised in a way that takes him by surprise.

He doesn’t think he’s in any immediate danger, but his body is too exhausted and his mind too frazzled to know for sure. The reality of what’s happened hasn’t quite sunk in yet, and he can’t shake that he isn’t supposed to be here, a part of him insisting that he’d already accepted dying and this hasn’t gone according to plan.

“Make yourself at home. I’d tell you to wipe your feet before you come in, but I guess that doesn’t apply to you.”

If nothing else, his companion is cheerful, shrugging off his backpack and laying it on one of the diner’s empty booths before he starts unzipping its many pockets, unloading whatever prizes he’d clearly been in the process of provisioning when he crossed paths with Scar.

It’s been too long since Scar’s been part of a conversation, and he finds himself at an uncharacteristic loss for words, sitting and observing him mutely for what feels like an uncomfortable stretch of time. If it’s bothering his companion, though, he has yet to show it, chatting amicably to fill the air as he stacks up cans and dry packaged ingredients on the table.

“It’s good I heard you goin’ all Rambo with those ghouly motherfuckers when I did. I only pass through here when I have to. Any other day and you woulda been cooked, but I guess that’s fate for ya, eh buddy?”

There’s a pause in his conversation and Scar knows it’s his turn to speak, but he still can’t find a way to get the words out.

I wish Grian was here, he thinks—not for the first time and far from the last.

Grian would have no problem speaking up. He’d say something bristly and defensive and no doubt rude. Just the jumpstart Scar would’ve needed to sweep in and charismatically put the conversation right.

He’s lost without him.

It takes Scar a moment to realise that the other man has stopped his sorting, looking at him expectantly from across the checkered linoleum floor.

“Not a big talker?” he asks at last, a heavy eyebrow arched questioningly.

“Sorry,” Scar manages at last, his voice rough and foreign to his own ears. “It’s, uh… it’s been a while.”

Something passes over the stranger’s features, strangely sympathetic and at odds with the hardened, rough-and-tumble exterior he has on display.

“Well, I’ll drink to that,” the man concedes, and it defuses some of the tension Scar hadn’t even realised he was carrying.

His companion resumes his unpacking, reaching up only when the bag is empty to loosen the scarf wrapped around his neck. He then tugs his thick gloves off before he unzips the top third of his winter coat. He looks rugged in a way Scar’s never seen in person. Like he’s been living in the apocalypse for far longer than a handful of weeks. Like this is his normal.

“You got a name at least, stranger?” The question is asked casually, tossed almost too easily in his direction.

“Scar.”

He can see it only because he’s looking for it, the cusp of the inevitable, ‘And what’s your real name?’ However, for whatever reason the question never manifests itself, the stranger merely nodding once before he offers, “Call me Pops. You’re welcome for saving your ass back there, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Scar offers automatically, hands finally finding the pushrim of his wheels, carefully easing himself further into the space.

He tries not to gawk, not sure how much it will be appreciated. It’s abundantly clear he’s not with some amateur. That this guy, Pops, knows what he’s doing. Supplies, great quantities of them, are arranged in orderly stacks running along the inside wall of the diner. Food, water, camping gears, first aid, toiletries. It makes Scar feel strangely self-conscious about his own things, the dregs of what he sentimentally transferred over into Grian’s backpack—his burgundy sweater folded up and pressed into the bottom of the bag under the few things Scar has left to his name, hoping that doing so will keep Grian’s smell trapped in it for as long as possible.

“You’re damn lucky it was me who found you,” Pops says, his words almost performatively casual. “This place has become a real hotspot for assholes lately. Like shit’s not bad enough.”

Having emptied his bag of supplies he abruptly upends it, shaking the grit gathered in the bottom out onto the floor.

“I’ve had this one guy with a Mosin camped out and sniping anything that moves for days,” he continues, like he and Scar have known each other for years. “Woulda been like shooting fish in a barrel if he saw you. Maybe that’s why he let you pass.”

Dark, intelligent eyes meet Scar’s, words carefully clear as he asks, “You’ll forgive me for asking, but you didn’t end up in that chair from a bite or nothin’, did you, Wheels?”

“No. God, no,” Scar says, more forceful in his delivery than he intended. He doesn’t know what to make of the nickname, doesn’t know if he’s being challenged or spoken down to. He feels unbalanced, struggling without a partner to fall back on as he’s forced to navigate this on its own. “This chair and I go way back. Been sweethearts since my university days,” he adds, grasping at the ghost of his former self, knowing he should be able to handle this.

He doesn’t know how to parse the treatment he’s in the midst of receiving. Doesn’t know if he’s passing or failing this test. It’s clear that Pops has something in mind that he’s hoping to pry out of Scar, but Scar can’t even begin to guess what it might be.

“And you’re travelling alone?” the other man presses, intent on his answer.

“Yeah,” Scar admits, wretched from the weight of the word.

A moment of silence passes between them, pregnant with the expectation of an explanation that doesn’t come.

“Guess I’m just wondering how you managed to survive by yourself for so long,” Pops asks at last, idle but obvious, setting the empty bag down before he folds his arms across his broad chest, tilting his head ever so slightly to one side. “Can’t help but feel this isn’t the kind of world a person like you would thrive in. No offence.”

It feels humiliating to be cross-examined in the haze of his grief, with his loss so fresh, acutely aware of everything he’s now forced to go without.

Scar wishes he was meaner. Wishes he didn’t need this man to help him as badly as he does.

“Well you can credit it to my wily, can-do attitude, and the power of positive thinking,” he responds, unable to help the cynical bite creeping into the edge of his words. “Turns out the apocalypse didn’t take my handicap parking pass into consideration when people started biting one another to death. Imagine my surprise finding out the end of the world is ableist.”

He braces himself, ready for a harsh reaction—something bristling and self-righteous—only to have Pops break his shocked silence with a burst of loud, unexpected laughter.

“Shit, alright,” the man concedes, arms dropping to his sides, his body language immediately relaxing. “Point made. You got me there.”

The concession brings a bit of a smile to Scar’s face, the relief of a conflict avoided.

He’s ready to let the subject go and move when Pops continues, infinitely more sympathetic in his phrasing. “You really made it this far on your own?”

Scar hesitates, weighing the question carefully. He knows he could lie. Knows that there’s no one left who could prove him wrong. Try as he might, he can’t see the point to it however. There’s no appeal in deceit, so instead he mentally braces himself as he admits, “I was with some people I knew I could rely on for a while.” The words hang in the air for a moment before he adds, “Not anymore.”

There’s a longer pause at that, much more somber than the first. Scar can tell from the way Pops’ face falls that he gets what he isn’t saying. That he’d had people, and now he doesn’t. He’s lost them.

“Shit,” Pops says at last, tone heavy. “I’m sorry, man. That sucks.”

He walks close, clapping a heavy hand against Scar’s shoulder, empathetic in a way that catches Scar off guard. Scar offers a nod in return, choking up unexpectedly. He blinks back tears and Pops turns away to give him whatever privacy the confined space can afford, resuming sorting through his supplies while he lets Scar collect himself.

It’s going to take time for the absence not to hurt, Scar knows that. It’s just hard to contend with it all. It’s hard to even consider moving on, to act normal, when he feels he hasn’t even begun to grieve. Grian’s loss occupies an enormous space within him. A space already crowded by the loss of Cub and Pearl, countless coworkers and neighbours and acquaintances… He’s always been a social person, and it hurts to confront what that means within the new shape of the world. That the more people he’s close to, the more he stands to lose.

Despite it all, it doesn’t stop him from his growing interest in Pops—from wanting to know him more, not less. Forging a new connection, knowing full well how much it could come to hurt.

He can tell that beyond the bluster and bravado there’s something tender in the man. Sensitive in a way Scar is sure he’d deny. If there hadn’t been, there’s no way he would’ve gone out of his way to save Scar and bring him back to his safe house. He wouldn’t be offering Scar sympathy right now.

“So,” Scar says at last, feeling the crest of his emotion ebb, and clearing his throat in an attempt to move on. “You mentioned a podcast? What’s that about?”

Immediately, Pops turns back to face him with a fire in his eyes and a wide grin on his face.

“Oho, baby—it’s only the best fucking thing you’ve ever heard.”

As he speaks, he moves over to his bank of supplies, lifting up a small butane camp stove and setting it on one of the diner tables, adjusting it with a practice familiarity before he sets the single burner alight.

“So most places in the city are well secured, right? The initial wave of infection was rough, but we’d had enough forewarning that folks were able to keep big areas of town cordoned off. Let the infected on the outskirts tear each other to bits, and just weather it out until the worst had passed, y’know?”

“No offence,” Scar counters, “but it didn’t seem all that secure when I had that horde after me.”

“Well I’m saying that’s how it started, okay? ‘The best laid plans,’ you know how it goes,” Pops deflects, his voice rising, though nothing in his tone suggesting he’s truly upset. “And honestly it’s sorta on you for shooting shit up in the first place! Especially on the outskirts. Anyways, let me finish—one of the first places people secured was the hospital, right? Got the infected quarantined off, and all the regular patients situated as best they could. Now the hospital? It has a PA system.”

When Scar merely blinks at the flourish with which Pops reveals that tidbit of information, the man thumps a hand heavy on the table, nearly knocking over his camp stove.

“That PA system is loud enough to broadcast for miles! And with a bit of jury-rigging from yours truly,” Pops pauses, puffing his chest up for effect, “It has been saved from a lifetime of emergency broadcasts and boring earthquake drills, and is now a one of a kind post-apocalypse podcast studio.”

Preening and clearly proud of himself, Pops turns and grabs two of the smaller cans from his haul, using a can opener he pries out from the handle of the multitool hung on his belt to wedge them open before he places them both on the fire, letting the contents warm as he turns back towards Scar.

“Once I had that set up, I figured I’d put it to good use—some community service, if you will. God knows this hellhole needs the entertainment! So whenever I drop by for supplies, I stop in and put on a show for the good people in the area. Even had a guest one time—though it ended when we had a little difference of opinion and the motherfucker shot at me point-blank so, you know, might be a while before my next feature with a friend.”

The absurdity of it all is just short of mind boggling to Scar, who’s unable to help but laugh at the very idea. Nothing about it makes sense, not the podcast, not the PA system, not Pops’ outstandingly good mood in the face of it all.

“Is this place still on the grid then?” he asks, only to get an immediate scornful scoff from Pops as he shakes his head.

“The hospital’s got emergency generators that kicked in on day one. Not that it matters at this point—there’s nobody left alive in there.” He pauses, cynicism edging into his smile as he adds, “Works out great for me, though.”

The explanation doesn’t add up, Pops’ priorities too discordant, making Scar feel overwhelmed and confused.

“You just said it was the first place you all secured.”

“I didn’t secure shit,” Pops argues, holding up a hand defensively. “And I told you: it was a best-laid-plans situation, alright? Folks thought we’d weather this bullshit in a week!” He casts his eyes around the diner, waving a hand at it. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but things didn’t just blow over. Of course all the wait-it-out shit fell to pieces, it was never gonna work out in the first place. Just a bunch of idiots in denial, deluding themselves.”

Some part of Scar can’t accept that, rejecting it with a vehemence that surprises him. He’s spent too long moving forward at this point, convinced that in a few hundred miles they’ll push past the edge of this nightmare and find normalcy waiting for them on the other side. People living stable lives. Everyone safe and accounted for, and happy to see them.

The thought that there might be nothing to wait for—that there’s nothing better to work towards—feels anathema to him.

“So you’re just doing it… for fun?” he asks, sounding strangely lost in a way that feels unusual to him.

“For fun, yeah. And to piss off some of the locals.”

It still doesn’t make sense to Scar. It’s been too long since he had fun, and he struggles to recognise it when he sees it.

“I guess everyone needs a hobby,” he defers, defeated.

“Hobby?” Pops asks with a sharp snap of laughter. “Speak for yourself, bud. Talk radio is an art, and I’m a consummate professional.”

There’s a tipping point in front of him, a dangerous one where Scar could spiral into morose silence and alienate himself from his new companion. Or he could push through, pick up the threads Pops is offering him and weave a conversation from the scraps.

“Was that what you did?” He asks, pushing the curiosity into his voice. “Before the great, uh… unravelling?”

“Fuck no,” Pops admits, using a fork pulled from the diner’s dishware to poke at the heating contents of the cans. “My college didn’t have that kinda shit going on—only campus radio and whatnot. And I was too much of a dumbass at the time, fucking around with shit that didn’t matter, so I wouldn’t have bothered with it even if I could.”

The statement catches Scar off guard as he eases his chair forward across the diner’s floor, moving to join him at the table.

“College? Wait… how old are you?”

Pops meets his gaze, eyes creased in the corner from smiling. “Why Wheels,” he asks, like he’s been asked this many times before, “Whatever are you implying?”

The embarrassment sets in immediately, Scar shaking his head quickly as he holds up a hand in defence. “Okay, that’s—I’m not trying to imply anything.”

He doesn’t mean it to be mean. It’s just that Pops carries himself like a man nearer to a mid-life crisis than to midterms, with the creased features, and rough, weathered personality to back it all up.

“You saying I’m looking years beyond my wise? That I was rode hard and put away wet?” Pops presses, smiling too wide now, his humour so much more abrasive and confrontational than what Scar is used to. “That time’s not been kind to little ol’ me?”

“I’m thirty-four,” Scar admits in a rush, extending it like a peace offering.

“In your thirties? Damn,” Pops replies, like it’s something he needs to pity Scar for, folding the end of his shirt sleeve over his hand as he gingerly removes the cans from the open flame of the campstove. “Talk about having one foot in the grave.”

He pauses, eyes sliding over to Scar’s chair before he corrects, “One wheel.”

It’s the stupidest thing Scar’s ever heard, and he can’t help but laugh at it out of reflex.

Pops chuckles along with him, smiling wide as he tries to handle the heated cans and place them on the countertop. Scar watches as he digs around a plastic tupperware container from the diner, fishing out two metal spoons before he hands one over.

“Alright, now be careful, it’s hot,” Pops says as he slides one of the open cans Scar’s way. Scar receives it gingerly, tugging the end of his sleeve over his palm in a similar manner to how he’d seen Pops do moments earlier before he picks it up, blowing hot steam off the surface.

With gratitude in his chest and a stomach suddenly tight with hunger, Scar digs his spoon into the can, taking a large bite without bothering to test it for flavour.

And almost immediately he spits it back out.

“Oh my god,” he gags, eyes tearing up at the acidity overwhelming his taste buds. “That tastes like cat food.”

Pops meets his eyes and takes a bite himself, face deceptively clear aside from a knowing twinkle in his eye that betrays volumes. “Huh, is that so?”

Scar doesn’t want to know the answer, but he can’t help but ask.

“Is it cat food?”

“I don’t know what to tell ya, man,” Pops shrugs, still shoveling the same, foreign mess into his mouth. “The cans were unlabeled. But hey—food is food, right?”

Scar gapes at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“It’s not so bad once you get used to it, I promise. An acquired taste; like beer, or having your steak done medium rare. Which, by the way, is the only correct way to have it.”

Delicately, Scar sets the can down, pushing it away for emphasis as he admits, “Maybe I’m not that hungry after all.”

“It’s the end of the world and you’re gonna be a fuckin’ gourmand about it, Wheels?” Pops ribs, joking in a way that feels companionable rather than angry. It’s clear that, much like Scar, Pops is a social sort of person, one who’s been craving human interaction and is now extremely glad to have it.

Reluctantly, Scar can’t help but like him, even as he questions his taste.

“Look, I’ve got more shit back at my main base if you’re gonna be a fussy eater,” Pops continues, enjoying the melodrama. “I wasn’t really thinking I’d be taking in a stray, so I’m sorry this is the best I’ve got to offer. We’ll head out once we catch our breath, and you can have your pick when we get there, Gordon Ramsey.”

The sentence catches Scar off guard, finding himself snagged on it.

“I’m coming with you?”

“Well I sorta assumed,” Pops says, hitching his shoulders up defensively. “Unless you wanna stay here and try your luck with the guy with a Mosin? He’s not as good a host as I am, I can tell you that.”

It feels strange to Scar. As hostile as the world has become, the sustained kindness of strangers keeps surprising him. He can’t help but think of the trio, how effortlessly and eagerly they’d aligned themselves with Scar and Grian’s destination, and how happy they’d been to share what little they had. It feels out of place in such a bloodthirsty world, and a cynical part of Scar can’t help but wonder how long the camaraderie of unfamiliar people will last, or if it’s all doomed to fall apart in the long run.

“I just, uh… didn’t realise you were in the market for a tagalong,” Scar explains, rewarded with another sharp smile from Pops.

“So go ahead and call me generous,” he suggests, scraping his spoon around the rim of his can as he finishes off the last of its unappetising contents. He looks up once he’s done and winks in Scar’s direction. “Though between you and me, you're lucky I even bothered. Last guy I tried to help out lost his shit at me. Offered him an apple and he acted like I shot his dog. That sorta thanks would put anyone off of helping the poor and needy.”

Pops snickers at that, like he’s told a great joke. Scar still can’t tell quite what to make of him, but it’s clear he means well. He gets the feeling he would’ve given Pops a wide berth if they’d met before the apocalypse, but forced into close confines with him now, he has to admit doesn’t dislike him.

In his musing he must not reply fast enough because, all at once, part of Pops softens, words less blustery as he says, “Lemme at least help you get out of this shithole town. If the end of the world’s been lousy for me, I don’t wanna think how it’s been for a guy like you.” As he speaks his eyes move pointedly down to Scar’s wheelchair, Scar unable to help but feel the weight of the implication.

A part of him knows that he should speak up and explain himself. That this is his cue to slap his thighs and explain he’s more than capable of getting to his feet if he needs to. However, for whatever reason, the words don’t come—a part of him not prepared to disclose that at the moment. It feels incongruous, to be honest about his situation and lie about his mobility. As near as he can see it though, if he’s lucked into meeting a stranger who’s looking to lend him a hand out of sympathy for his situation, it’s his obligation to accept it.

There will be time to explain the fickleness of his mobility later.

It’s not a priority right now.

“It hasn’t been a stroll through the park, no,” he agrees.

“Roll through the park,” Pops corrects, and Scar can’t help but laugh along with him.

Grian would’ve hated you, he thinks, unable to fathom a world where Grian would’ve let a stranger talk to him like that. It doesn’t make Scar miss him any less, but a part of him is relieved he doesn’t have to mediate.

“I think you and I are gonna get along just fine,” he admits, relieved. “Though I am gonna have to find something else to eat, though. No offence to the chef.”

“Hey, more for me,” Pops says, like Scar is somehow missing out.

While Pops grabs the can of unknown origins and begins wolfing it down without a care, Scar grabs his pack from where he’d rested it against his wheelchair, searching through his own provisions. He’s looking for another protein bar or maybe some jerky, but the bright orange wrapper of a candybar catches his eye instead.

His throat feels a little thick as he grabs from where it had gotten tucked in the corner of his bag, lifting it out and slowly unwrapping it.

The Reese’s is rich and sweet, just the way he likes it. He remembers Grian handing the bar to him, one of several, in a miserable peace offering that Scar had resented at the time. As he chews it now, Scar thinks it may be the first thing he’s actually tasted in days. It surprises him how much of himself he’s lost along with Grian. He still can’t be sure of the amount of time that has passed since his death—unable to measure it in nights slept or water drank or food eaten. Even now, with some energy returning to him, dredged up by the hospitality of a companionable stranger, he can still feel the grey haze of grief and apathy lurking in the fringes of his mind, ever-present and not diminished at all.

Still, it’s a good sign, he thinks, to be able to taste something sweet and remember Grian during it. He knows he’ll never stop missing him— that the pain will never go away, but at least he can finally eat. At least, deep down, some part of him wants to stay alive.

“What’s your plan anyhow?” Pops asks him around a mouthful of not-cat food. “Can’t imagine you were looking to buy real estate in this dump.”

“Heading north,” Scar says, finishing the last of his chocolate and wiping his hands clean on his jeans. “That’s what the radios had been saying when we—I—first left home. Thought maybe it meant the infected couldn’t survive in the cold or something.”

Pops snorts at that, shaking his head. “Hate to be the one to tell you... I’ve been dealing with these fuckers for weeks. It’s been cold as shit, but that doesn’t phase ‘em in the slightest. Their bodies don’t work like they used to—it’s all twisted up in there, but they keep going. Most you can say is maybe the cold makes ‘em slower, but that means jack-shit if you’re dealing with a swarm of ‘em like we tend to.”

It’s more than a little disappointing to hear his only plan shot down, but even that feeling comes through muted. Shrugging, Scar rests an elbow on the edge of the table, tucking his chin into it. “Well that’s all I got,” he admits, more blasé than defeated. “What’s your plan of action, might I ask?”

“Me? Fuck, just survive till this all blows over,” Pops says, laughing and wiping his mouth on his sleeve as he finishes the last of the can before pressing a fist to his chest and letting out a belch. “After that, I figure I’ll settle down and raise chickens on a farm. Why not.”

Unbidden, Scar thinks back to Karl and Sapnap and Quackity. Their daydreams and plans for the future after the end of this nightmare. Love and engagement and marriage. Pops can’t be much older than them if his claims about being still in college are to be believed… It has Scar wondering whether the optimism for a brighter future is a feature of their youth.

He doesn’t like that his weariness makes him feel old and jaded.

When he looks ahead the only thing he can see is bleak.

“You know,” Scar says, conversational, his chin still resting level with the table. “I can’t tell whether you’re joking or being serious.”

All at once Pops is in motion, rocking forward and getting to his feet with a grin on his face as he slaps his hand against Scar’s shoulder. “And you never will,” he declares, dismissive. “Now c’mon, let’s get going.”

“Get going?” Scar asks, aghast, sitting up so quickly it makes his head rush. “You mean right now?”

The idea hits him sideways, distressing in a way he has difficulty quantifying. It doesn’t make sense to him, rushing to move on when they’re currently in relative safety. He fears returning to the dark, being out past midnight and forced to navigate a city he’s unfamiliar with. After days of pushing along on his own and sleeping on the side of the road, the inside of the diner seems downright palatial. It’s not something he’s keen to immediately put behind him.

Across the floor, Pops has crouched down next to his piles of supplies, sorting through his gear and carefully packing things into a proper camping backpack, the kind people use when they’re going to hike across mountains. He stops long enough to give Scar a look, like he’s asked a question with an obvious answer.

“I dunno if you’ve noticed pal, but it’s the zombie apocalypse,” he says, blunt and to the point. “You heard what I said about this place being overrun by assholes, right?” He shakes his head, returning to packing like he’s argued this point before and is bored of it. “We don’t stay in town any longer than we have to. Get in, resupply, get back out again. Leave these jackasses to snipe at each other, and hope they manage to blow each others’ brains out before the zombies get ‘em.”

“And where do we go?” Scar presses. He doesn’t want to sound ungrateful, doesn’t want to spurn Pops’ hospitality, but the thought of heading back out on the road fills him with an exhaustion greater than anything he’s ever experienced before.

Pops looks at him, pragmatic.

“You wanna head north, right? I got a place outside of town that I’ve been using to wait out this mess. We can go there together, and at least you’ll be heading in the right direction when we part ways.”

“Don’t you want to come with?” Scar asks, unable to help himself. “Why stay here if this place is as bad as you say?”

It’s a strange question, and Scar doesn’t know what compels him to ask it. Even stranger is the looks Pops gives him, like he’s said something unthinkable.

“Call me crazy, but I still believe in this country,” Pops explains, as if patriotism still needs to account for something. “I’ve never been one to cut and run, and I’m not about to start now. Besides, you really think they’re faring any better up in Canada, with their socialism and free health care?” He blows out a loud breath, shaking his head. “Not a chance.”

“... are we that close?” Scar asks, and Pops gives him an incredulous look, followed by a sharp snap of laughter.

“Brother, I cannot believe you’ve managed to last on your own this long. Yeah, we’re close. If you had a car you’d be there in like, eight hours tops.”

It’s almost impossible to fathom. Scar’s never been this far from home before. Never been this close to the Northern border. Never thought he’d be poised to cross it.

“Maybe they’ve made a vaccine already,” he suggests, knowing the idea is as ridiculous as it sounds. “Isn’t that how this sort of thing is normally treated?”

Pops smiles at him with a bemused expression, as if marvelled by what he’s hearing.

“You’re lucky you’re good looking,” he remarks, casual, like he’s commenting on the weather. “‘Cause you cannot be saying shit like that and meaning it with your whole chest.”

It takes Pops the better part of an hour to gather his things together, taking Scar into account as he provisions for them both. It’s clear that his generosity comes out of personal sacrifice—one he’s struggling to make—and he ends up in a constant debate with himself, muttering under his breath as he counts and re-counts rations before packing them into his bag.

It’s so different from the trio, who shared what they had with eager enthusiasm. Scar finds himself sitting at the sidelines, feeling guilty for the resources he’ll be taking. He rubs his thumb over the coloured threads of the friendship bracelet tied around his wrist, the one Karl gave him right before they split, wishing he could thank them for everything again.

“Alright,” Pops says at last, cramming his backpack shut and stashing the overflow in Scar’s bag. “This’ll get us where we need to go. The rest stays here. We barricade the door when we leave, and booby-trap both exits just to be sure. You ready to head out?”

“We can’t wait until morning?” Scar asks, a final desperate bid for the sake of his exhaustion.

“Relax,” Pops assures him, dismissing his concern. “We’re just heading down the road a ways—I got a surprise. You’re gonna like it.”

It’s hard to find his promise reassuring but Scar doesn’t have it in him to put up any resistance, allowing himself to be shepherded out of the diner as Pops busies himself closing it up behind them.

“You think maybe you’re helping contribute to the asshole-status of this place?” he asks, somewhat rhetorical as he waits outside the front door. His hands rest nervously on the pushrim of his wheels as Pops meticulously resets a series of traps that Scar hadn’t even realised were in place when he’d first been ushered in.

“Well, we all gotta do our part,” Pops drawls, giving him a grin that feels too sharp.

They leave the safety of the diner and its barricade of cars behind with heavy reluctance on Scar’s part, progressing together down dark, empty streets. It’s a slow but steady process, with several switch-backs as they’re forced to retrace their steps, even as Pops insists over and over that he knows the way.

They’re only taken by surprise once, caught while passing under a highway overpass near the edge of the city, neither of them noticing the clot of zombies lurking in the dark recesses until one lurches close enough to grab the back of Scar’s wheelchair.

Scar doesn’t even have time to react before Pops is shoving the zombie back, instinct overriding common sense as he presses the muzzle of his shotgun into its throat and blows its head clean off. The sound is deafening, caught in the echo chamber beneath the overpass, ricocheting around them as both their ears ring.

“Shit,” Pops mutters, regret hitting him immediately as he quietly curses himself out. “That was fucking stupid. God dammit. Put up a fucking beacon why don’t you.”

Scar doesn’t know whether to thank him or keep his mouth shut, adrenaline hitting him in an aftershock as he realises how much danger he was just in.

Instinctively, he misses Grian. At the very least Grian would’ve chewed him out for not noticing the zombie sooner. Pops’ staunch silence eats away at him, caught between reserved and scolded.

They push on, dogged now, Pops constantly checking over his shoulder as they slip through dead, abandoned suburbia. Eventually they pass a billboard advertising a residential neighbourhood—construction dates and parcels of land remaining for sale splashed on top of pictures of a park with an idyllic mountain background, the kind of place families with young children would go to picnic and play catch. The area beyond it is cleared of all greenery, the earth pressed flat by the tire treads of backhoes and dump trucks, the skeleton shape of houses framed in plywood and two-by-fours looming up in the darkness.

Finally, Pops begins to relax, going so far as to pull a flashlight out of his bag and using it to light their way. They follow new roads with wide sidewalks, but only a single completed building stands out to greet them: a model home built with a sod lawn, a sign set at the end of the driveway offering open houses on alternating weekends.

“Here, check this out,” Pops says, motioning for Scar to follow him as he heads towards the garage, crouching down and jimmying the lock open with a screwdriver jammed into the deadbolt.

With a click the door swings inwards, and Pops straightens up and steps back with pomp, motioning Scar inside with the beam of his flashlight.

Scar is barely in the garage, nudging his wheels over the sill, when he notices it—a truck. Boxy and outdated in appearance, but clearly loved and well-maintained. He’d be done with it at a glance, except that out of the corner of his eye he sees Pops watching him, clearly waiting for his reaction.

“Is this the surprise you mentioned?” Scar asks.

“You bet your ass it is,” Pops enthuses. “Old Land Cruiser—1980. Foreign market diesel engine too, so you know it’s gonna be way more fuckin’ fuel efficient than any of the shit we have here. Found this baby about a week ago and I knew I had to hide her away before she went to waste.

“I’ve been saving her for a special occasion…” Pops continues, trailing off somewhat as he speaks. The look in his eyes gets distant, as if he’s lost in a memory, but then he snaps back to himself with a smirk directed Scar’s way. “But we might as well use her now. No sense rolling your ass up a mountain when we’ve got better options at our disposal.”

While a part of Scar is relieved to hear it, another part of him feels like he’s being slighted. Like he’s an inconvenience Pops is now having to take into account. He can’t quite work out what it is with the other man—if he resents him or not. He’s clearly a decent guy, but his manner of speaking and general attitude leave something to be desired, like the thought of being vulnerable or genuine is repellent to him.

He decides to take the pragmatic approach, too tired to pick an argument. “Should shave off some traveling time too, assuming you really mean we’re going up a mountain.”

“I do, and you’re right,” Pops agrees, “Woulda taken us at least two days to get there on foot. Maybe three depending on your chair and the snow. This way, we’ll make it in a few hours, and we won’t have to camp out in the open.”

As they talk, Pops shuffles his way into the garage and around the parked truck, opening a door that leads from the garage into the model home. Scar follows him, tucking his shoulders in as he edges his way around the truck’s bumper. The inside of the house, lit by Pops’ flashlight, is both meticulously staged and impossibly disorganized. From where they stand in the mud room, Scar can see an untouched kitchen with pristine appliances, and a living room that looks like it was pulled from an interior design magazine piled, both of which are piled beneath heaps of stolen construction gear and equipment. All of the windows are boarded up from the inside, covered by large pieces of plywood.

It’s like an aesthetically designed bunker.

He’s not sure how to feel about it.

“Alright Wheels, make yourself comfy,” Pops says, shrugging off his backpack and letting it fall heavy to the ground. “It’s late, and I’m not about to draw attention by taking the cruiser out in the middle of the night. I’ll take first watch, and we’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

“Sounds good to me,” Scar agrees, catching himself on a yawn. Now that sleep’s been mentioned, an overwhelming exhaustion begs at the corner of his consciousness, eager for him to rest.

Together, he and Pops make their way into the living room, Pops moving ahead and pulling several coils of chicken wire off of the sofa, leaving enough space for Scar to lay down and offering it to him with a wave of his hands and a semi-sarcastic, ‘tada!’

Scar hesitates, once again debating whether or not to reveal his mobility, and in the silence Pops looks uncomfortably to the side before he asks, awkward, “So do you, uh… need a hand?”

On a normal day Scar would say no. He didn’t even accept when Grian used to offer, caught between his own determination and pride. But right now he’s tired and he’s weary.

He doesn’t want to pretend that he doesn’t need help.

It’s a whole new level of uncomfortable as Pops steps forward shuffles his arms around him, lifting him in a bridal carry as he shifts him from his chair to the sofa, getting him settled before he quickly steps back, avoiding making eye contact, like they’ve crossed into something far too intimate. Scar appreciates it—doubly so when it’s over.

“I wish we had a nice pillow and some blankets, but we don’t,” Pops says, mumbling the excuse like he’s embarrassed. “Anyway, get some rest. I’ll wake you up when I need you.”

Scar murmurs an agreement, his eyelids suddenly heavy with sleep, consciousness already slipping away. A voice in his head that sounds too much like Grian’s admonishes him for lowering his guard so quickly, but Scar reasons that if Pops had wanted to kill him, he’d have done so by now.

He sleeps heavily, the first solid rest he can remember since losing Grian. Despite the chaos and uncertainty around him, he feels like he could sleep indefinitely, not wanting to wake when Pops roughly shakes his shoulder hours later.

He opens his eyes to find the other man’s face looming large directly in his field of vision.

“My turn already?” he asks, words slurred with sleep as he speaks.

“No,” Pops says, simple and to the point. “Well, technically yes. But no.”

He pauses, and while it’s clear Scar is meant to press him about what’s going on, he finds he’s not awake enough yet to ask.

“It’s bad news,” Pops says at last, gruff, though the instinctual panic that words like that should wring out of Scar is lost to his sleep-rough disorientation. “We’re getting snow and it’s piling up. If we want to use the Cruiser, I’ve gotta clear the driveway.”

The problem seems so mundane that for a moment Scar can’t make sense of it. Groggily he manages to make a questioning noise, which Pops responds to in an instant.

“I need you out there with me,” he explains, nudging Scar’s rifle into his hands. “Make sure I don’t get jumped.”

Confused, Scar sits up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as Pops sits back on his heels and gives him space.

“Do you need to do it right now?” he mumbles, still struggling against the haze of sleep. “Why not wait ‘til morning?”

It’s still dark out, he can tell. Too early to trek out into the cold.

“Not sure how much experience you’ve got with snow, buddy, but it’ll build up too much if we don’t keep it clear,” Pops explains, simple and matter-of-fact. “Used to be we barely saw snow at all this time of year. Now we’re fielding blizzards? Give me a fucking break.”

“That’s climate change, I guess,” Scar yawns, slowly coming around.

“Yeah, if you believe that liberal bullshit,” Pops drawls with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “Anyway, listen: we’ve had a couple icy fronts already. I don’t know if it’s instinct or what, but these storms tend to push the undead into groups and get ‘em going door to door, Little Matchstick Girl-style.” He pauses, rubbing the stubble on his jaw before he continues. “The only thing worse than one or two of those motherfuckers showing up is them bringing all their rotting little friends along with ‘em. I don’t wanna get caught off guard, and neither should you.”

“So what are we supposed to do?” Scar asks, imagining himself forced to push his chair through a blizzard and dreading it, every muscle in his body aching preemptively at the thought.

“You don’t gotta do anything but keep watch,” Pops says, pointing a finger in Scar’s direction before he changes the gesture and jerks his thumb back at himself. “Leave all the shoveling to me.”

Scar scrubs a hand back through his hair, reluctantly nodding.. “Alright, I got it. Stay on Googly Watch.”

“The fuck’s a googly?” Pops asks, the gruff edge to his mood briefly breaking as he raises a brow at him. Scar smiles back in return, smoothing over the part of him that aches at the memory of Grian’s nonsense term.

“Like a ghoul,” he explains, talking like it’s extremely basic. “Ghoulies. Googlies.”

“Forget I asked,” Pops sighs, getting back to his feet before he stops, half-bent over as he makes a gesture with his arms. “Uh…”

It’s clear he’s offering to help Scar back into his chair, and while Scar thinks about turning him down, he ultimately relents. There’s no sound from Pops as he loops Scar’s arm over his shoulder, grasping around his waist with a thick, strong arm.

Slowly, Scar is putting a picture of the other man together. Pops is trying to be considerate, he gets it. He’s just clearly never directly interacted with someone disabled before, the sum total of his experience taken from cartoon specials and children’s shows, everything he does a touch on the side of infantilizing as a result.

He can’t help but miss how naturally things came with Grian. It was never like Scar was an inconvenience to him, even when Scar himself felt frustrated by his own limitations. They worked so well together. In sync so often. As easy as breathing.

It’s with a count to three that Pops heaves Scar up, taking a half-step to get Scar into his wheelchair. He settles into his seat as Pops steps back, just as quickly as the evening before, giving him space to adjust.

“Thanks,” Scar grunts, his words on autopilot. It feels strange to have hands helping him that aren’t Grian’s. Years of familiarity and routine pushed aside for someone he doesn’t know. He can’t help but bristle slightly, uncomfortable for reasons he can’t give proper shape to, everything about it a yawning reminder of the person he’s lost and has to go without.

He can feel Pops’ eyes on him, struggling against the urge to ask if he’s okay. To ask what’s wrong with him.

“I need a minute to get comfy,” he explains, forcing cheer into his tone despite how sleep-rough he sounds. “Why don’t you go ahead and I’ll be out in a minute. Give me a shout if it all goes wrong.”

He doesn’t mean to be curt, but it’s clear Pops feels a little admonished all the same— though he’s mature enough not to make it an issue. Instead, the other man slings the strap of his shotgun over his shoulder, tugging his scarf up to cover the bottom half of his face before he turns to go.

“I’ll holler,” he agrees, and then he’s making his way out the front door and Scar is alone, the hush of the empty house wrapping around him, abrupt and stifling.

Slowly, he lets out a breath he hadn’t meant to hold, casting his eyes around the space, washed in the ambient grey light off the snow that sneaks in through the gaps in the plywood window coverings.

The house is open-concept, meaning that everything is visible to him without him needing to go from one room to another. It reminds him of Grian—in the way that practically everything does these days. He remembers the one and only time they had looked at a place together, popping into an open house on a weekend afternoon. He remembers the way Grian had stalked around the space like a caged animal, frustrated with it from the get-go.

“You can’t have hobbies if the entire house is one big room,” he’d said, annoyed by the architecture and making it the realtor’s problem. “If one of us does something then the other one has to hear it. These aren’t houses for people with lives. People like us can’t live here.”

They hadn’t looked for a place together again after that. It had been mortifying at the time, Scar covering for a moodiness that he hadn’t understood. Now, the open echoes of the single, large room make Scar miss him more than ever.

“I know you’d hate me for throwing my lot in with a stranger like this,” he says out loud, imagining Grian hovering over him like some sort of unamused spectre, arms crossed, with a cynical look on his face. “But I think you’re really gonna thank me when we’ve got company on our way north.”

He knows that in reality no thanks will come. That even if Grian was still alive, at best he’d say Scar has only managed to invite along risks that they don’t have room to take. That they’d fight about it, stupidly going around in circles with Grian’s insecurity and jealousy at the centre.

It doesn’t stop him from wishing Grian was still here, all the same.

Shaking himself out of his melancholy and pressing the heel of his palm against his eyes, creating just enough pressure to ground himself, Scar finally centres enough to propel his chair out of the room. Instead of following out the front door he heads to the garage, where he finds that Pops has already pulled up the sectional garage door. He’s got a shovel in hand and is humming aloud as he clears snow out from in front of the Cruiser’s path, stopping only when he sees Scar approaching.

“How’s it going?” Scar asks by way of greeting. It’s clear from a glance that the situation is far from ideal. Large, fat flakes of snow are falling heavily, having already piled up in a thick drift that runs the length of the driveway, forming a natural berm that Pops is in the process of removing.

Pops offers him a one-shouldered shrug, breath billowing in a large cloud around his face. “It is what it is, and it’s a fuckin’ pain in the ass.”

“Well I’d offer to help,” Scar says, cheerfully magnanimous, his wheels halted at the edge of the garage. “But…”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t rub it in.” Pops rolls his eyes as Scar snickers, no true animosity lingering between them. He points out a cleared area for Scar to situate himself in before he wedges the blade of the shovel back under the snow. “You just sit there and keep watch. Lemme know if any unsavouries suss us out.”

“Can do,” Sca chirps, rolling himself over the space Pops has made for him.

It’s tedious work, boring in the kind of way that begs for a distraction. Scar’s never been the type of person to happily sit still in one place, and it makes him antsy to have to sit tight while Pops strains under the weight of his task.

The minutes pass, cold and dreary, neither of them talking as the snow continues to fall. Eventually Pops resumes humming, picking out a tune Scar has never heard before.

He’s about to ask him about it when he notices something further down the road, approaching slowly, nearly lost in the falling snow—a single shambling figure, its hazy silhouette rocking back and forth as it inches steadily towards them.

Scar can’t be sure it’s a zombie, but he whistles and points it out to Pops anyway. Together, the two observe the approaching body in uneasy silence until one figure becomes two, two become four, and four become too many to leave doubt as to their undead nature.

“Alright,” Pops says, setting the shovel aside, strangely calm in the face of the new development. “Let’s get back inside and gear up. We can shoot ‘em before they get too close.”

It’s an idea Scar’s not too sure about, watching as the horde approaches slowly.

“Won’t the gunshots just draw in more?”

Pops shakes his head, “Snow muffles the sound—normally it’s not a huge difference, but with a blizzard like this they’re not gonna be able to figure out where the shots are coming from even if they do hear it.”

Scar hums at that, thoughtful. He doesn’t know enough about winter weather to disagree. Has never seen this much snowfall before.

“You’re sure we don’t just want to hunker down and wait them out?” he asks, following Pops as he moves back inside, ducking his head as the other man yanks the garage door back down.

“Wait ‘em out how, Wheels?” Pops asks, flat and rhetoric. “We’re the only building around, and they got nowhere better to be. I told you: the cold doesn’t hurt ‘em the way you want it to. If we don’t deal with ‘em they’re just gonna pile up and attract more of their buddies until we’ve got no choice but to die in here, trapped like a pair of dumbass rats who shoulda shot ‘em when they had the chance.”

“Alright, alright,” Scar relents, not needing the argument. It’s only when they’re inside with the doors shut and locked that he finally asks the obvious question. “Where do we shoot from?”

The anxious tension disappears from Pops in an instant, replaced by a sharp smile, like he’s been waiting for this his whole life.

“You’re gonna love this,” he preens. “I got a whole sniper nest set up for us. Perfect vantage point, great sight lines, snacks and ammunition for days.”

Scar wants to get excited. Wants this to be some kind of dream come true. But he can feel the next question like a sixth sense, the immediate followup itching at the back of his mind.

“And where is it?” he presses.

“It’s right up—” Pops stops, his shoulders sagging as he gives Scar a quick once-over, revealing without words what Scar has already pieced together. “—stairs.”

Scar nods once, letting the revelation sit obvious between them. There’s no bitterness in it, no anger or resentment. It’s an obstacle, not their first and far from their last. Just something they’ll simply have to overcome, and fast.

“Okay,” Pops says at last, tensing his jaw as he moves towards the window to the left of the front door, reaching up to shove aside the plywood placed against it. “As I was saying, we set up right here. I take this window, you take that one.” He jerks his chin towards the right side of the door, which, by some miracle of engineering, is the right height for Scar to rest the barrel of his rifle from where he sits in his chair.

“Got it,” Scar says, simple and direct as he rolls forward and pushes his own plywood barrier aside.

After a moment of clearing both windows enough to see and shoot through, Pops steps back, bracing one hand on his hip as he observes their spot.

“If I’m going upstairs, it’s because I meant to leave some things up there for dramatic effect,” he explains, overloud and bullheaded with his excuse as he goes.

Scar pays him no mind, focusing on unlatching the hinged locks on his window and prying off the frost so he can tug it open.

There’s a fastidiousness to his focus as he works, easily slipping into his element. When Pops returns, feet loud on the stairs, Scar barely acknowledges him, busy dragging his own bag over and settling it against the wall as he rummages around to find his stash of ammunition.

Several minutes of silence pass before Pops finally speaks up.

“You can just tell me when I’ve done something insensitive.”

The comment catches Scar off guard, his head lifting up from sorting his bullets as he looks directly at Pops.

“Sure,” he agrees easily, unable to help but feel he’s missed something. “I’ll do that when it happens.”

“Don’t act like you’re not pissed,” Pops presses, and for the first time Scar sees the inexperience of his age. The insecurity as he tries to navigate resolving offended feelings he knows he’s at fault for. “About the stairs.”

“Stairs exist,” Scar explains as factually as he can manage. “I can’t keep a vendetta against every building with a second storey.”

Pops looks at him, equal parts gruff and wary.

“But I assumed just now.” It’s a stiff confession, one that allows the missing piece of their conversation to rattle into place immediately.

“You’ll think twice next time,” Scar dismisses, already moving on.

He can feel the cusp of a larger conversation brewing. The need to clarify and explain himself clearly burning Pops up inside. For a moment, Scar wonders if maybe his own attitude led to this. He knows he hasn’t been the same since Grian passed. Quieter and more reserved, a shadow of his former self. That doesn’t mean anything to Pops, though, who hasn’t known him long enough to notice the change.

Maybe he’s become just as abrasive as his companion, the two of them an unintentional bur in each other’s sides.

He doesn’t like the thought of that. Knows that isn’t the kind of person he wants to be.

There’s no time to discuss things any further, though. All other matters dissolving immediately the moment Scar sees the first silhouette stumble across the end of the driveway, approaching slowly through the snow.

“We’ve got company,” he warns, blunt and to the point, and Pops curses under his breath before he crouches down at the narrow gap he’s cleared in his own window.

It’s hard to make out the zombie’s exact shape through the flurries, but without hesitating, Scar raises his rifle, lining up along his sight and aiming where he thinks its head is, hanging tilted off to the side at a gruesome angle.

“You a competitive man?” Pops asks, and even without looking at him Scar can hear the smile in his tone. “Fancy keeping score?”

Without answering, Scar pulls the trigger, the recoil echoing loud in the open living space of the house. The zombie falls immediately, and without waiting Scar realigns his aim, seeking out his next target.

“Two,” he says absently, pinpointing the next murky shape emerging out of the snow and shooting again.

Out the corner of his vision, he can see Pops gaping for just a moment before he quickly gets into position himself, grumbling something under his breath as he adjusts his aim. Within seconds, he neatly takes out two of his own zombies, their bodies collapsing against one another as they fall. Scar gets the impression that Pops would turn to him and crow about it, chest puffed up pridefully, but he doesn’t get a chance before several more undead come into range.

He doesn’t know how long it takes them, the minutes feeling oddly quick and disturbingly long as the two of them take out the horde one by one. Pops whistles appreciatively at every monster Scar shoots down, clearly impressed by his aim, and if there’s a single bullet wasted between the two of them, Scar doesn’t notice. He loses himself in the methodical progression of it all—aim, shoot, count, aim, shoot, count—relishing the feeling of success as the horde gradually thins. They call out their tallies at spaced intervals, both neck in neck with the amount of corpses felled.

It’s a relief when it becomes clear the ghouls aren’t advancing towards them anymore, either completely dealt with, or having veered off in another direction. As the last stragglers approach, Scar evens out his breath, steadying his shot as he eyes down the last remaining targets. If he’s counted right he’s about to be ahead of Pops in their little competition. A nice win for him.

“Hey,” Pops whispers, quiet and contemplative from where he’s crouched at his window, “You ever think about how the zombies we’re shootin’ used to be real people? Living and breathing… Human beings with full lives and interests and families and shit?”

The question twists a conundrum in Scar’s chest, the words settling wrong in his stomach. His gaze wavers, the sudden heaviness catching him off-guard as he lowers his gun, expression pained. The thought of Grian being bitten pushes up to the forefront of his mind; sick with infection, turning rapidly and left all alone.

“Jeez…”

All at once Pops raises the muzzle of his shotgun, taking down the last remaining zombie with a single efficient headshot.

Scar stares at him in shock, gawking as Pops drops his gun to the side, turning to face him as he hollers with loud, victorious laughter.

“I fucking got you!” He crows, triumphant in a way that feels gloating. “Holy shit, I can’t believe you fell for it! ‘Real people with feelings.’ Jesus, Wheels, c’mon!”

“Oh,” Scar breathes, surprise ebbing into his conflict of emotions, catching him off guard, torn between appalled and delighted. “Oh, you cheat. You’re awful.”

“Damn right I am,” Pops agrees easy and unashamed. His laughter is infectious, taboo in a way Scar knows he shouldn’t encourage. However, the simple relief of having survived the horde makes him feel light, and Scar finds himself laughing alongside him, appreciative of his good mood if nothing else.

It’s as they’re calming down—revelling in their accomplishment and no longer looking out at the horizon—that the shot comes.

It rings out through the air, simultaneously loud and muffled by the snow, a bullet whizzing through Pops’ window and missing him by inches, hitting the ground as they instinctively scramble back.

“Take cover!” Pops shouts, tucking himself next to his window. Immediately Scar does the same, ducking down to stay out of the line of sight.

Heart pounding in his chest, Scar asks— shouts, “What the hell was that?”

“Oh, I’d know that fucking shot anywhere,” Pops growls, his good humour forgotten, sudden anger biting at his tone. “It’s that annoying goddamn asshole with the Mosin. Followed me out here, I fucking knew it. We can’t get out of this city fast enough, Wheels. That motherfucker’s getting too bold.”

“What do you mean, he followed you?” Scar presses, aghast. “Why would he do that?!”

Pops’ eyebrows raise in unison, disappearing in his shaggy hairline as he affects a self-righteous expression.

“Well maybe it was his buddy I had as a guest on my podcast,” he admits with an exaggerated drawl of his words. “And maybe after he took a shot at me, he took a tumble out of the seventh storey window.”

The admission shocks Scar, what was once very cut and dry suddenly devolving into a far more nuanced shifting of blame.

His conflicted expression must read plainly on his face because all at once Pops is grinning brightly at him, flashing the sharp edge of his canines as he admits, “I never said I wasn’t part of the problem here.”

There’s no further discussion after that, no lengthy debate on what to do. Sitting down just to the side of the window, Pops cocks his gun, angling the muzzle through the gap in the plywood as he squints into the dark.

“There’s good news, if you care,” he offers at length, his words casual as he keeps his attention fixed along the barrel of his shotgun. “He’s a coward, so I don’t expect him to come knocking down the door in the middle of the night… I’ll keep an eye out, all the same. You might as well get some rest in the meantime—no point in shoveling if he’s lurking around to take potshots at us.”

“If you think I’m going to be able to sleep after that, you’re crazy,” Scar dismisses, gripping his rifle in both hands, adrenaline humming in his veins.

He continues scanning the snowfall, but he can feel that Pops has turned to look at him, gaze level in the ambient half-light reflecting off the snow outside. If the other man has something further to say though, he doesn’t voice it, and ultimately Scar doesn’t press.

“I call shotgun in the cruiser,” Scar adds, offering the words like an olive branch, a sign of no permanent hard feelings.

Pops snorts, amused and clearly grateful for it. “Passenger seat’s all yours, big man.”

Together, with the frenetic energy of their encounter finally settled, they keep watch until dawn.

Notes:

It was really fun to read the comments last week reacting to Schlatt's appearance! Sorry to disappoint the Joel-and-Skizz Fans, but we promise there's still plenty more characters to come!

See you next week!

<3

Chapter 24

Notes:

Back at it again in Krispy Kreme Chuckle Sandwich Washington with Pops and Scar!

But before that, we got some beautiful, warm and glowy fanart of Grian by simmshine! Love, love, love the way you've lit this and done his hair especially, thank you sm! ;w; 💜

AND NOW, ONTO THE FIC!

“Alright Wheels. Up and at’em.”

Scar wakes up with a jerk, tumbling back into consciousness with a rough inelegance that shocks him like a splash of cold water. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, slouched down in his wheelchair at an inelegant angle. His awkward positioning makes it so that now he struggles through a stiff, cramped neck and sore back, his senses tacky as he opens his eyes. He feels only marginally better than he had before abruptly nodding off.

“G’moning.” The words leave him reluctantly, gravelled and slow.

He waits for the inevitable teasing at his impromptu slumber, but Pops is busy elsewhere, a small camping percolator warming on a butane burner sitting on the kitchen’s large, immaculate island. There’s an array of simple packaged truck-stop snacks arranged beside it. Scar’s stomach pangs with hunger at the reminder, grateful that Pops seems to have anticipated this.

“You a coffee guy?” Pops asks, more chipper than he has any right to be with circles worn as deep as they are under his eyes.

“Yeah,” Scar says, clearing his throat as he sits up, feeling a twinge in every muscle and nerve-ending as he does. “You?”

“Fuck no,” Pops admits, chuckling. “Just trying to impress you.”

They eat a small breakfast of beef jerky, protein bars, and cups of black coffee. Scar can feel the tension in the air—not between them, but from the need to move on as soon as possible. It makes him antsy, chewing and swallowing quick.

“Sorry I fell asleep… did we get any more snow while I was out?” he asks, mouth full, the coffee warm in his hands as he cups the tin mug Pops had handed him in his palms.

With a wave to dismiss his apology, Pops takes a sip of his own, presumably not-coffee, drink. “No more snow, thank fuck. Plus you’re damn lucky we got good tires on the Cruiser.”

Pops is standing near one of the front windows, careful as he peers through the slim gap between the plywood. Whatever he sees must be the right thing, because he grows more bold, downing the remainder of his tin mug and reaching for the doorknob, easing the door open.

They both wait for the span of an anxious breath, Scar frozen as he squints at the bright light flooding in, almost blinding against the comparative darkness of their blacked out interior.

They hear nothing. No shots from Pops’ hidden assailant. No sounds of advancing corpses.

“We gotta get going,” Pops explains, shutting the door again and turning the deadbolt in place before he begins gathering his things. “We got a big day ahead of us. No point dilly dallying here.”

Scar nods, draining his coffee and setting the mug aside before he steadies his hands on his wheels.

“Well, I’m always in the mood for a road trip.”

Across the room Pops pauses. A split second of hesitation, not long enough to make Scar worry, but long enough for him to notice.

“About that,” Pops says, hands clenching and unclenching in a nervous gesture. “There’s been a change in plans.”

The adrenaline barely has time to set in before Pops is speaking, explaining himself in a way that he’s clearly been rehearsing while Scar was asleep.

“The thing is: if we’re taking the car, I want to take a detour. We wouldn’t risk it if we were on foot, but with the Cruiser it’s a good opportunity to bring more with me than I’d normally try to heft in on my own.” He trails off into the implication, like Scar is supposed to be able to read his mind and understand what he’s saying.

“What’s the detour?”

“I wanna swing by the hospital.”

The proposition hangs between them for a moment, and Scar finds he can’t help but hitch his shoulders up defensively.

“We don’t have to do that,” he says at last, feeling the sting even as he deflects the proposal. It’s not a surprise, really. No doubt well intentioned, but humiliating all the same. An unnecessary risk for a fool’s errand that won’t even benefit him in the long run. “I appreciate it, but they don’t keep spare legs in stock.”

The sound Pops makes is comical; a loud, overblown scoff as he rolls his eyes.

“It’s cute you think this is about you, but I got other irons in the fire,” he says dismissively, brushing Scar’s vulnerability aside.

Scar can’t help but feel chastened, sitting in silent surprise for a moment before he says, “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Pops chuckles, tending to his supplies as he gets them in order before shrugging his pack on and inspecting his shotgun. “‘Oh.’”

They move into the garage in preparation to leave. As they approach, Pops motions Scar over to his side, around the front bumper of the Cruiser, where a variety of hand tools pulled from the surrounding construction sites have been arranged. It takes him a minute, sifting through the odds and ends until he’s made his selection. He sets aside a length of hefty metal pipe, bent at one end to form a makeshift club, and a wood-chopping axe.

“Here,” Pops says, handing Scar the pipe. “Get a feel for the range on that. We have to make as little noise as possible and gunshots are gonna draw too much attention, so melees all we got.”

“I thought you said the hospital had been cleared out?” Scar muses, remembering their earlier conversation.

Pops gives him a look, like Scar has missed something incredibly obvious.

“What part of ‘zombies aren’t our only problem here’ are you missing, Wheels?” He asks, voice heavy with rhetoric. “You and I start shooting our guns off and suddenly we’ve got every jackass with too much time on their hands honing in on us.”

‘That could be avoided if we just don’t go to the hospital,’ a voice in his head that sounds like Grian says, cynical in a way he preemptively feels he should apologise for.

He’s about to speak up and find a more delicate way of phrasing that point when Pops continues, burying the admission under his breath as he heads towards the Cruiser. “Besides. The building was too big to secure the whole thing. They cleared out and secured the East Wing. We’re headed to the West Wing. It’s way worse in there.”

Scar stares at him, alarmed. “And why are we doing that?”

The smirk Pops gives him is devious, and Scar’s heart twists at it a little, reminded too much of Grian and the way he looked when he brought Scar in on his mischief.

“Because that’s where all the best loot is, sweetheart. Medicines, first aid, even some MREs if we get lucky.”

Scar is still struggling to understand him, wrestling against his point of view.

“You looking to set up your own little pharmacy in the apocalypse?” he asked, grasping at straws.

“I’m looking to come out of this in a better state than when I went in,” Pops says, frank and strangely pragmatic. “Capitalism isn’t to blame for this fucking shit show.”

Hauling open the back of the Cruiser, he swings his bags into the trunk—one heavy with his own supplies, the other an empty duffel—reaching out with a hand to take Scar’s gear. There’s no anger in him, merely an objective read on the situation. One person on his own, desperate to survive.

Relenting, Scar offers up his bag. Afterwards, with some finagling that’s beginning to feel familiar, Pops helps him up into the passenger seat, only swearing three or four times as he wrestles Scar’s wheelchair into the back seat.

“Anyway,” he continues once he’s pulled the garage door open, swinging himself up into the car and sitting heavily in the driver’s seat. “The West Wing is where my podcast is set up. Things go well for us and we can shoot the shit over the air. Give these miserable people some good, honest entertainment.”

Scar’s not sure why he reacts the way he does, like a kid who should know better being talked into a misdemeanor. It’s not a good use of their time, he knows this. The smartest thing for them would be to act quickly and get out while the window of good weather is still open to them. All the same, there’s something about Pops’ charismatic nihilism that sparks reciprocity in Scar’s chest. The desire to throw in along with him, because what else does he have to lose?

“You’re a real showman,” he says, dragging the seatbelt across his chest and buckling in, noting that Pops doesn’t follow suit. “I can appreciate that.”

There’s a sort of tempered down glee in Pops as he starts the vehicle up, the large engine of the land cruiser roaring to life.

“So you’re in?”

“Like a dirty shirt,” Scar says, nodding. “Take it away, boss.”

They leave the model home behind, stopping only once, at the end of the driveway, so Pops can get out and secure the home behind them, meticulous in a way that speaks to experience. Scar wants to ask how many caches he’s stored in the area and how on earth he’s managed it all on his own. It seems impossible for one person to be so well prepared—then again, Scar’s not sure if that merely speaks to his own lack of competence in the apocalypse.

Leaving the empty development feels equal parts surreal and unsettling. The snow hasn’t stuck on the streets, turning to slush against the curbs, but the ground, torn up by excavators and backhoes, is covered with a muffling layer of white. Stacks of timber and plywood, drywall and rolls of insulation have all been made into unfamiliar shapes by the snow cover. Everything feels simultaneously quiet and deserted, and also on the brink of erupting into chaos and violence at any moment.

Despite his bravado, Pops is a conscientious driver—one who seems to know the city like the back of his hand. He takes the two of them through plenty of side roads and alleys, well out of the way of main streets and more heavily compromised areas. All the same, they come across zombies everywhere, wandering through the streets in numbers that makes Scar’s anxiety rise like bile in the back of his throat. More than once Pops veers sharply out of his way, slamming the gas as he clips a zombie, the car rocking on its suspension as they narrowly avoid taking serious structural damage to the cruiser.

“Ten points,” he says every time, like he’s expecting Scar to keep score.

The hospital itself is a welcome sight when it finally comes into view, spread out in such a way that Scar can see the whole thing as they approach. Their trek by cruiser is cut short however, the road before them lain through with pile-ups of cars and seemingly deliberate blockades.

“Gonna put this baby into park in the shade of that hollowed out building over there,” Pops explains as he takes them over rocky, uneven ground. “We gotta go on foot the rest of the way. Too much mess to drive over.”

Scar wordlessly accepts Pops assessment, taking in the way he remains focused as he brings them to a stop in the deserted area. He angles the cruiser in the same way Grian would with his car. Poised so they could drive out it immediately if an emergency forced them to. Parked in place but ready for a getaway.

“I’ll get your chair,” Pops grunts, as he gets out through his door.

If anything, it’s easier for him to help Scar out of the truck than it was for him to lift him in. They manage it with an awkwardness that’s starting to feel familiar, and Scar waits patiently while Pops fishes his empty bag out of the trunk.

“Not far now,” Pops reassures, “But stay ready. This place is crawling with infected on the perimeter.”

“Got it.” Scar nods, testing his grip on the pipe before setting it wedged between his body and the back of his chair, leaving his hands free to propel himself forward.

Once again, Pops knowledge of the area pays off—keeping them low to the ground and away from any open space where they’d be visible to hostiles. Scar appreciates the safety, but it’s harder to navigate in those tight spaces, his wheelchair getting stuck in the debris over and over. It’s frustrating to have to wait for Pops to help him—clearing bricks, wood, and countless amounts of trash from his path as they continue along together.

While Pops himself doesn’t express any annoyance, Scar can tell each muttered, ‘Almost there,’ is as much for Scar as it is for himself, trying to keep the anxiety of slow progression from getting to him.

It’s almost a relief when he’s distracted from his own hyper-awareness, attention stolen by the rancid sight that greets them as Pops takes them around the corner of an alley.

Three corpses—right in the middle of a meal.

The smell is almost as overwhelming as the sight of it, rotted heads snapping in their direction as gore drips from their gaping maws. Scar’s stomach turns, but he pushes the nausea down, reaching instead for his weapon.

It’s not easy.

Fighting with a pipe while remaining in his chair is a level of difficulty he’s entirely unused to. Pops rushes into the fray with bold abandon while Scar keeps to the fringes, jeering at the ghoul that’s closest to him. It growls, bloodied spittle flying from his mouth, and Scar braces himself.

The idea of keeping an undead beast at a distance is all well and good, but in practice it proves a lot harder. Scar tries his best to stave the creature off, pushing it back in intervals to ram his pipe over its head and kill it dead. It takes longer than it would’ve with a gun—it takes longer than it would’ve if he’d been able to get up on both feet and leverage more of his body against it.

Though eventually he manages to fell the zombie—it’s skull cracking open with a crack that echoes in sympathetic harmony in Scar’s head—the effort of fighting back leaves him winded.

Panting with exertion, Scar looks up towards Pops, trying to figure out how on earth to help take down another when just one monster had brought him to his limits.

Another wave of frustration overtakes him as he looks down, taking in the corpse he’d just beat. Taking it out had left it collapsed at Scar’s feet, and in the tight space, there’s no room to maneuver his chair around it and even attempt to reach Pops and help. Instead, Scar is left watching helplessly as Pops wrestles with the final corpse.

Luckily, it quickly becomes evident that Pops is skilled with more than just a gun, driving his zombie back with a rough shove before finally getting enough distance to bring his axe down on its head. He’s breathing hard as he shoves the mangled thing aside, turning his gaze towards Scar and then flickering it down towards where the corpse has obstructed his path.

Wordlessly, Pops clears it to the side, allowing Scar to wheel himself forward. They don’t discuss it, trekking onwards, but Scar feels displaced over it anyhow.

“C’mon,” Pops says, interrupting his self-flagellation. “Just around the corner.”

His words hold true, and it’s with relief that Scar sees the face of the hospital once more.

At first glance it looks fine, relatively undisturbed by the chaos, but as they draw closer Scar begins to pick out the worrying signs—broken windows, gossamer white curtains billowing out in the breeze, and entire floors showing signs of fire damage, soot-streaks from smoke licking up the sides of the building. There are police lines set in place and abandoned, barriers and tape propped in place by cruisers and armoured vehicles, all of it pointless now.

“There’s a side entrance over this way,” Pops explains, voice tight.

Together they thread their way through the parked vehicles, heading towards a door labelled with a large STAFF ONLY sign. It’s as Pops braces himself to wrench it open that he bursts out, “Hey look at this though! We got us some ramps! Wheelchair accessibility! Now we’re talking, eh Wheels?”

Despite himself, the sentiment pulls a smile from Scar. “Imagine that,” he says, rocking his weight forward as he pushes his chair up the small incline. “At a hospital, of all places.”

Pops chuckles as he heads inside, Scar following close after him, glad to be out of the open air. It’s a false sense of security that only lasts for a moment, a new disquiet immediately settling in as the door closes loud behind them, leaving them in a dimly lit hallway, a single emergency lamp mounted in the corner their only source of light.

It surprises Scar how novel the sight of electricity is—more than he’s seen in weeks. He tries not to think of the fragility of the generators. How, at any moment, they could run out and plunge them into complete darkness.

“Should we work out a plan for the zombies?” he asks in a hush as they move forward together, their shadows sallow in the gloom.

Pops shakes his head, leading them with confidence. “There’ll be a couple here and there, but the first wave of responders cleared it out pretty fucking well. We’ll be alright so long as we keep an eye out and don’t go wandering off and opening doors that look like they were shut for a reason.”

His words aren’t the reassurance Scar had hoped to hear, but they’re already too far in for him to cast a vote of no-confidence. It’ll be worse to stay at the door and wait, so Scar tries to reassure himself, trusting the other man’s stalwart assurance in his own capabilities, reasoning that he’s survived too long on his own in this place not to know what he’s talking about.

Being inside the hospital is a surreal experience. The end of the hall empties into a wide corridor—one of the hospital’s main thoroughfares—and they find themselves in the aftermath of what looks like a massacre. No bodies have been left to greet them, but the marks of violence are everywhere. Dried blood is smeared across most surfaces, splashed in enormous stains and streaked in gruesome, awful handprints. Charts and paperwork have been upended and thrown across the floor, broken windows and computer monitors trashed, and everywhere around them is an unmistakable smell, deep and rotten.

Scar gags, unable to help himself, and beside him Pops chuckles reflexively.

“Yeah,” he admits, a little ashamed. “It gets better on the upper floors, but down here it’s all… well.” He shrugs, like the implication of the gesture speaks for itself.

Scar can’t cover his nose, needing both hands to propel himself forward, so he opts to hold his breath, taking deep gasps only when he needs to.

“Sorry,” Pops says at length, expression schooled as he ushers them forward. “Probably should’ve warned you.”

Smell aside, Pops leads them through the corridors with confidence, keeping several strides ahead of Scar with his axe in hand, prepared to take out any zombies they come across. There are several hallways they skirt around quickly, passing heavy fire-proof doors that are locked and barricaded shut.

Scar tries not to think about it—about the festering rot of rancid bodies locked away behind them. Of the writhing press of ghouls compacted back within those spaces, hopeless and helpless and rotting out from the inside.

He can’t help but think of Grian, glad that this wasn’t his fate. Glad he was left outside, and that at the very least he’ll always be able to see the stars, even if he no longer has the thought to look up at them.

It takes them several attempts to locate what Pops is after, the man making increasingly annoyed noises in the back of his throat at every door that fails to lead them where he wants to go. Some spaces they find have been stripped bare, while others have been mercilessly ransacked.

Finally, they stop outside an unmarked door, secured behind a keypad.

“Third time’s a charm,” Pops mutters, more to himself than to Scar. There’s a moment of hesitance—one where Scar wait for Pops to make quick work of the lock with his axe—when, curiously, Pops slowly punches in a sequence of numbers instead. There’s a pause, and then the keypad blinks green and the door clicks open.

Curiouser still, Pops releases a held breath, like even he hadn’t been certain whether the code would work. He shoulders the door open, revealing, at last, an untouched supply room, rows of shelves neat and organised in the midst of all the chaos.

“There you are,” Pops croons, triumphant and coddling all at once. “I was starting to worry I wasn’t gonna find you.”

Glancing at Scar he smiles, holding the door open for him to ease his chair through. The room is large, pristine, and well organised. Clearly someone’s pride and joy, though Scar is beginning to wonder if that ‘someone’ was ever Pops at all.

“Divide and conquer,” Pops explains, focused now that they’ve found what he was looking for. “This is a smash-and-grab, so take whatever you think is gonna be useful.” He pauses, debating his next sentence before he offers, “You’ve probably got more experience here than I do.”

It’s a strange feeling, equal parts a kid in a candy store and hopelessly overwhelmed. Scar slowly ventures between the shelves, angling towards the orderly rows of medications, eyes scanning over gibberish letters and numbers, his dyslexia blurring all the tiny text together. He seeks out the few familiar names he knows and, by some stroke of fate, he finds he’s in luck. He spots an organisation of letters he recognizes: medication he’s taken to manage pain for years.

“Jackpot,” he mutters, seizing the bottles and hastily loading them into his bag. On the other end of the room, Pops is busy with his own provisioning, stripping entire shelves and emptying them into his duffel bag, clearly working off a list he’s been carrying in his head. As Scar looks his way, he finds his eyes catching on several wheelchairs—the bulky, impractical kind, meant for temporary use within the hospital itself. He can’t help but notice their wheels, though: thick pneumatic tires, better suited to outdoor wear and tear.

“Thinking of a trade-up?” Pops asks over his shoulder, feet heavy on the floor as he approaches.

“You wouldn’t catch me dead in one of those jalopies,” Scar dimisses with a wave of his hand, memories of hospital stays where he’d been forced to chairs just like this sticking in his head. “They’ve got nice tires, though.”

“Hey, just say the word and nab a couple of ‘em for spare parts. Just so long as you’re the one carrying them all the way back to the cruiser, of course.” Pops remarks idly, half joking.

Nearly on instinct, Scar gives Pops a dashing smile and flexes his arms, his biceps and triceps shaping up. “Oh, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Damn, alright, hot guy,” Pops snorts, raising a brow dubiously despite the clear impression Scar’s made on him. “No need to show off. You never missed a day at the gym, I guess.”

“Oh, I definitely skipped,” Scar says, catching Pops’ eye and pausing for effect. “But only leg day.”

They both sit silent for a beat. Then Pops loses it.

His laughter is uproarious. Infectious in a way that has Scar laughing along as well, shoulders shaking with the mirth of it.

“Holy shit, Wheels,” Pops chuckles, clapping a hand against his shoulder with appraisal. “You’re a fuckin’ riot.”

A part of Scar can’t help but preen, glowing under the praise of being appreciated. It reminds him of afternoons sitting out on bar patios with Pearl, the two of them laughing until she had to wipe tears from her eyes, or evenings in Cub’s garage, his dry chuckle emerging out from behind tangles of electronics. It even reminds him of Grian; their moments alone, when Grian would let his guard down, how he’d brush Scar off but laugh at his jokes all the same. It’s a strange feeling, to enjoy something while feeling the bruise of what reminded him of it. The scope of his grief feels ever-expanding these days, mushrooming out with Grian at its centre.

“What else do we need?” He asks, clearing his throat to stave off the train of thought, knowing he can’t afford to lose focus right now.

“I’m all good,” Pops says, patting the bulging duffel bag slung over his shoulder, relaxed but somewhat cryptic.

It continues to strike Scar as odd that while Pops is clearly provisioning for something specific, he shows no interest in sharing his motivation. A part of him wonders if he failed to learn his lesson. From the trio… from Grian. If he’s simply going to continue to trust blindly and without question, never giving in to doubt until it one day inevitably catches up to him.

Then Pops is heading towards the door, and Scar can’t help but believe that trust is the only thing that’s going to save humanity in the end. That believing others know what to safeguard and what to share will be what allows them to reform bonds and forge new communities in the aftermath of this nightmare.

“Where to next?” He asks, only for Pops to give him an excited, cocksure smile.

“Only up from here, brother.”

It surprises Scar that they head for the elevator, but he supposes it makes sense. With the generators running the emergency lights, it follows reason that the elevators would still work. It’s still a novelty when the doors slide open though, the elevator interior well-lit and remarkably clear of horror and viscera. A tiny part of Scar can’t help but worry the generators will shut down while they’re on their way up, but he chooses not to voice his fears out loud.

When the doors slide open he keeps his sigh of relief quiet, following Pops as he strides boldly down the hall, the rooms budding off on either side of it clearly meant for accounting and administration, rather than for patients.

It’s obvious that Pops is fired-up, eager to show off his hideaway. The door he picks looks just as plain as the others, but he holds it open with a grand, sweeping gesture, ushering Scar in.

“Check this out,” he invites, bursting with pride.

The room on the other side of the door is almost more unremarkable than Scar could have ever prepared for. A corner desk, a shelf, several filing cabinets, and a pair of chairs sit, lit ambiently by light filtering in through some horizontal blinds. Scar doesn’t know if he’s seen anything as menial and bureaucratic in his life, the only mark of personalization in the entire space a single orchid that has dropped all its petals as it slowly withers.

To call Pops’ setup a podcast studio is an even more generous term than it deserves, and yet despite himself Scar can’t deny the charm of it. A single microphone sits wedged into a tissue box stood up on its end, the snake of its cable running along the table and into the grey aluminium box of a CB radio, with a thick tangle of wires threading out the window. It sparks a nostalgia in Scar that catches him off guard, like the excitement of running into an old friend in an unexpected part of town. He remembers Cub’s fascination with records and broadcasting, the dust-covered radios he picked up at garage sales and online, showing them off to Scar, who only ever half paid attention.

“The PA system was already in place, but it didn’t take much to feed it through the CB radio,” Pops explains, clearly proud of himself and excited to show off. “Anyone within earshot can hear it over the hospital’s loudspeaker, but folks further out can pick it up on AM without a problem.”

“I love it,” Scar says, honest, “Real nice setup you’ve got here, Pops.”

“Aw, stop, you’re making me blush,” Pop chuckles, sitting heavily in the chair directly in front of the radio and gesturing at the second seat before just as quickly retracting the motion. “Guess you don’t really need to take a seat, now do you?” He asks, and Scar chuckles despite himself.

Instead, he edges his wheelchair in close enough to be picked up by the mic. Yet again he’s struck by bittersweet nostalgia, thinking of countless afternoons laying on Cub’s couch and listening in while he exchanged messages with truckers passing by.

“What are we gonna talk about?” he asks, realising all at once that he doesn’t have a sweet clue what’s expected of him.

“I tell you what,” Pops says, reaching up first to turn the PA system on before he flips a switch on the side of the radio, a crackling whine of feedback seeping through the audio before he settles the CB on an appropriate channel. “I make it up every single time, and that hasn’t failed me yet.”

He looks over as Scar, his rugged face bright with enthusiasm.

“Ready?” he presses, and it feels stupid to say anything but ‘yes.’

“Let’s do this,” Scar replies, and the smile Pops gives him is beaming.

When he begins speaking into the mic, Scar doesn’t know what he’s hearing, the echo of his voice bursting large seemingly all around him. It takes him a moment to realise the sound is the loudspeakers attached to the outside of the hospital itself, booming like a megaphone across the hospital complex.

“Testing, one, two, three. This thing on?” Pops drawls, speaking in a manner that suggests he’s repeating an intro that he’s grown accustomed to. “Hey, residents of Yakima. How we doin’? It’s your good buddy Pops, the number one and only radio presenter since the end of the world as we know it, checking in and back at it with another End of Times Interview!”

“Today, I’m joined by one of the most handsome men I’ve ever had the pleasure of sleeping in shifts with,” he takes a breath, leaning back from the mic before he winks at Scar and mouths ‘that’s you.’ “I’d like you all to extend a warm welcome to our guest, Scar!”

The energy Pops is putting forth is contagious. With just a few words Scar is already leaning forward in his chair in anticipation, a smile wide across his face. He’s eager to join, angling towards the mic as he replies in his professional timbre, “Happy to be here, Pops. Thanks for inviting me onto the show.”

There’s a spark in Pops’ eye, the kind that says volumes about how delighted he is that Scar’s keen to play along. “Scar, it’s a pleasure to have you. I hope traffic wasn’t too bad on the way over?”

“Not at all,” Scar quips. “My driver really knows how to beat traffic. Quite literally, it turns out.”

Pops gives him a hardy laugh, nodding his agreement, “That’s how we do it. Humans number one, am I right? No infected googlies getting in the way on this fine Thursday morning.”

It surprises Scar to hear the name of an exact day said out loud, having not had the time to think about the specific passage of time since the outbreak first started. He almost wants to ask about it—to clarify if that’s really the day it is, or if Pops is bullshitting. Ultimately though, he finds himself feeling weirdly self-conscious about the question, not wanting to throw off the rhythm of the show Pops is putting on.

“Now, our guest comes to us all the way from a dead-end alley where I found him whispering sweet nothings down the barrel of his rifle into the ears of a whole horde of undead,” Pops explains, speaking to an audience that may be entirely imagined. “I saved his ass and we really hit it off—ain’t that right, Scar?”

Scar can’t help but grin at the way Pops describes their meeting. How pitiful and resigned to dying he remembers himself being, versus the rakish image Pops presents to the radio now.

“It’s been a whirlwind twenty-four hours,” he agrees, his smile a little rueful.

“Has it only been that long?” Pops continues conversationally, leaning his elbow against the desk and propping his chin up in the palm of his hand. “And yet I feel like I haven’t learned a single thing about you, Wheels. What’s your backstory? Who’s your favourite Beatle?” He pauses before abruptly sitting up straight, his eyes alight with a glint of mischief. “Actually, forget all that. Where are my manners? Scar, I have an important question for you.”

Scar can't help but brace himself, nodding politely. “Shoot,” he says, before quickly adding, “Not literally.”

Pops chuckles, winking before he clears his throat and asks, “Would you—all things being equal—prefer bacon and no games. Or games, an unlimited number of games, but no games?”

The dead air between them must be deafening, Scar managing a confused half laugh before he asks, “Say again?”

“It's about as black and white of a question as I can ask,” Pops counters, his grin pulling tight at the corners of his mouth as he leans back and folds his arms across his chest.

Scar can feel the edge of his dyslexia kicking in, struggling with the context of the question, unable to help but feel that he's been pulled into an in joke, the context of which he's not privy to.

“You're saying the games are... unlimited?”

“Unlimited games,” Pops agrees.

“But there's none of them.”

“No games whatsoever.”

“Or... bacon?”

“The bacon is an option, yes.”

“But then... no games.”

“No games with that one, either.”

They fall back into silence, Scar staring at Pops blankly.

“I feel like this is a game,” he admits at last, befuddled completely.

“Alright, alright,” Pops relents, pushing his hand back through his shaggy hair before he shakes his head. “Too esoteric for an opener, I hear you. We can't all be philosophers.”

He winks at Scar, a secret communication between them before he plants his elbows back, heavy, on the edge of the desk.

“Why don't we try this one instead: Where were you the day it all went to shit?”

After the completely nonsense of his first question, this one comes as a relief. An easy softball question, something that will establish their rapport. Scar knows he could answer honestly and easily, he knows that this far from where he started there’s no real reason to keep any of his life a secret. All the same, the hours immediately before the outbreak still stir up an ache in his chest, grief and betrayal and regret vying for precedence in his heart.

“Can’t say there’s all that much to tell, Popsy,” he admits, able to push the charm into his voice despite the tangle of emotions twisted up within him. “I was sat at home, as you do. Waiting for the world to end.”

“Aw c’mon man,” Pops objects, immediately calling his bluff. “There’s gotta be more to it than that. Nobody was sitting at home waiting for it.”

With perfect clarity Scar can see the two options branching out in front of him. He could lie, he knows he could. Effortlessly. He could spin a web of fictional people and falsified encounters, detailing an engaging and theatrical yarn and ultimately leave it up to Pops to decide whether he buys his story or not.

Or… he could lay the truth bare.

It takes him a second. Thinking about everything that lead him here. Grian’s lies and cheating, the trio’s avoidance and careful omissions, Pops quietly stocking up medical supplies for injuries neither he nor Scar are suffering from…

All those secrets, and for what?

“You caught me,” he confesses, the decision making itself clear in an instant. “I wasn’t home alone—not to be confused with Home Alone, the 1990 holiday classic. I was with someone.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Pops crows, delighted by the reveal. “Who was the lucky lady—or, gentleman? Themtleman?”

“It was my ex,” Scar confesses, leaning into the drama as Pops prompts him on. “He’d come over to get his things. We’d… well, we’d just broken up the day before, if you can believe it. So…” he chuckles, shrugging a shoulder despite knowing the gesture won’t transmit over the air. “Imagine our surprise, y’know?”

Pops whistles, low. “I can’t say I can imagine something worse than facing down the apocalypse side by side with an ex who hates my guts. Unless… did you two have one of those trendy, millennial, amicable breakups?”

The laugh Pops’ question startles out of Scar is abrupt and loud. “Oh, most definitely not.”

“Don’t leave us hanging,” Pops begs, his voice lilting into a comedic whine. “What’s the story there?”

For a moment Scar considers brushing the topic aside. To call it something it isn’t—casual, disinteresting, water under the bridge. However… a part of him feels good airing this out. Despite himself, despite how much he misses Grian, despite how much his heart aches as he thinks of him, there’s something almost therapeutic about laying out what happened, casting it out like throwing a stone into deep, cathartic water.

“He cheated on me,” Scar admits, the words spoken easily and without the heat of anger. “I caught him in the act. So I told him to come get his stuff or I was gonna toss it.”

“You caught him? Jesus christ dude, that’s fucked up. I hope that dick got what was coming to him.”

Immediately, Grian’s image flashes in Scar’s head—the sight of him bleeding from an open bite torn into the tender juncture between his neck and shoulder, paling in front of his eyes, telling Scar he loved him, telling him to go. Dying out by the side of the road, alone…

His mouth feels dry and his stomach twists.

All at once, it doesn’t feel as good to be talking about this anymore. Not when he’s still mourning the loss. Not when every part of him regrets not forgiving Grian sooner, wishing they’d made the most of the time they had left together instead of constant antagonism.

He hums to stall, acting detached as he casually diverts the subject. “And what about you, Pops? Where were you when it all went wrong?”

“Oh, I see how it is,” Pops teases, smiling as he leans into the mic. “The host has become the hostage.”

All the same he doesn’t resist, rubbing his jaw while he debates the question, the scruff of his stubble catching loud against the pop filter of the mic. Then he tilts his head to the side, dropping his hand heavy against the desk as he says, blandly, “I was just getting off work. Night shift at the grocery store stocking shelves, you know how it is. Riots broke out in my town faster than the outbreak did, so we—a buddy of mine and me—thought it was some sort of protest gone south at first.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “We decided to get drunk and watch it from the roof. Stupid fucking idea. Kids these days.”

A breath passes, a second of hesitation as Pops’ grin fades, going uncharacteristically serious as he adds, “If I could do it again I’d get the fuck out of Dodge the second we noticed shit wasn’t alright. Just… drive and drive, into the middle of nowhere. Take everything I could get my hands on and never look back.”

Scar can feel the cusp of a confession, a vulnerability lingering between the lines of Pops’ words. It’s obvious that the right question would pull more information out of him, but he doesn’t know what thread to pull, struggling to keep himself from thoughts of Grian. How different it could’ve gone for them too; how much he wishes—just like Pops—that he had a chance at a do-over.

His silence is clearly noticed, however, rather than commenting on it, Pops chooses to fill the air with his own easy banter.

“Y’know, back when this shit was all a hypothetical I used to say I’d be one of those people that would blow their brains out the second the world fell apart. Day one.”

It’s an alarming statement, jarring enough that it shocks Scar out of his reverie. His expression must show it, because Pops nods to confirm it.

“You can look at me like that all you like,” he chuckles. “But I was adamant! No way I’m living through hell on earth. Getting by day-to-day was bad enough before we threw zombies into the mix. I mean, we ate cat food and slept in an empty model home last night, Wheels. Which, by the way—” with a quick movement he leans in and grabs the mic, the audio crackling as he drags it close, words distorting as he presses his mouth against the pop filter. “—you and your fucking Mosin missed me last night, sweetheart. That’s right, I’m talking to you, asshole. Couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn, you cheap-shot amateur.”

The words leave him in a rush, forced to hang in their own gulf of silence afterwards, and Pops lets the mic go with no small amount of derision. He sits back, expression resolute, before he begins blinking like a man coming out of a trance, and asks, “Sorry. What was I saying?”

“You were talking about how you were gonna shoot yourself,” Scar reminds him.

“Ah, right. Well, turns out: I didn’t. Not much more to say there.”

Curious—maybe about Pops’ story, maybe about his own desire to find a reason to keep living—Scar leans in and asks, “What changed?”

“Dunno,” Pops shrugs. “Wish I could tell ya it was some big, beautiful, inherently human desire to keep on living. The miracle of life, the wonder of the world around us… but I think, in reality, I just got lucky. Or unlucky, I guess. Depending how you feel about living in this nightmare. Every time I thought, ‘This is it. This is the end of the line. No further now,’ something or someone came my way, and the momentum from that is what kept—keeps—me going.”

The explanation is nearly poetic, and Scar can’t help but think of Pops showing up right when he himself was ready to give in. In no uncertain terms, Scar owes Pops his life. And to know that was only possible because others before him had saved Pops’ life in turn—a long chain of coincidences and kindness-es spanning backwards with no certain origin, fills his chest with a warmth he hasn’t felt since he lost Grian.

There’s still hope for humanity. Deep down, people do still care for one another, and want those around them to survive.

“Jeez, Wheels, you got me yapping about emotional shit. This is supposed to be some light-hearted banter between pals!”

“Apologies,” Scar says, good natured. “We can change the subject if you like?”

Pops shakes his head. “Nah, that’s enough feel-good to leave the people happy for a while. Might as well wrap this up.”

“We can do a part two next time we’re in town,” Scar offers, and the look Pops gives him is a mixture between surprised and touched.

“Sounds like a plan,” Pops says, more to him than to the mic, before he shakes his head and puts on his charismatically abrasive performance vocals once more. “You hear that folks? We’re gonna love you and leave ya, but stay tuned and stay alive for part two in our not-so-distant future! As always, I’m Pops, and it’s been a pleasure! Signing off!”

His outro complete, Pops shuts off the radio and loudspeakers, sitting back in his seat with a satisfied sigh. The room seems deafeningly quiet in the aftermath, and for a moment, Scar and Pops simply sit in the silence, enjoying the lull. Then, Pops stands up and stretches, bending at his joints and popping his knuckles.

“So? How was it?” he asks, giving Scar what’s beginning to feel like a patented smirk.

“Fun,” Scar replies, honest. “I’ve never been on a podcast before. Ask me about theme parks next time, we’d never stop talking.”

Pops chuckles, “You’re a good guy, Wheels.”

It doesn’t take long for the two of them to gather up their equipment and supplies. Pops asks if there’s anything else he might need from the hospital, but with his pack heavy with medications he never thought he’d see again, Scar figures it’s best not to push his luck.

They make their way back out of the hospital with ease, cautious as they leave the building. Luckily the area seems clear, no zombies limping towards them, and no rogue shooters waiting to pick them off.

“C’mon,” Pops directs, “Our chariot awaits.”

They’re alert as they return to the Cruiser, scanning the streets ahead and to either side as they approach. After the confined silence of the hospital’s halls, being out in the open air feels weirdly vulnerable, even though their way back is decidedly less fraught with undead. Pops checks and rechecks their surroundings as he helps Scar back into the truck, grunting slightly as he lifts him up into the passenger seat.

He barely has Scar settled when a gunshot rings out through the air, ricocheting off one of the police cars abandoned next to them, shattering a window.

“Shit!” Pops shouts, pressing himself flush to the side of the truck, barely shielded by the open door as another shot just barely misses him.

Instinctively Scar ducks low in the passenger seat, his heartbeat drumming loud in his ears, adrenaline racing through his veins. They huddle in silence for several minutes, still and wordless, until eventually, Pops peeks his head up, uncurling from the crouch he’d compressed himself into. They hold their breath, waiting, but another shot never comes. After another minute Pops declares them safe, hastily loading Scar’s wheelchair into the back, not even bothering to collapse it before he hauls himself up into the driver’s seat. He turns the key in the ignition and floors the gas.

“Let me guess,” Scar says at last, speaking over the wail of squealing tires. “Your guy with the Mosin?”

“What can I say,” Pops admits, voice firm. “I’m hard to resist.”

With a sigh, Scar drags a hand down his face. He gets the feeling they’re safe, now. Safer, anyway. On the road, with only the aimless crowds of wandering zombies to contest with.

“Probably shouldn’t have antagonized him during the podcast,” he admonishes, relaxing as the adrenaline ebbs.

“And leave him without my little love note?” Pops asks, casting a quick grin at Scar, surprisingly unbothered for a man who was shot at more than once in twenty-four hours. “I put on my show and he always responds by firing a couple rounds at me when it’s done. Flirting, you know how it goes.”

“That’s horrifying.”

“That’s showbiz, baby!” Pops laughs, loud and boisterous. “C’mon, a die-hard fan in the apocalypse? Couldn’t ask for anything better than that.”

Scar can think of a list as long as his arm, easily, but before he can speak Pops is reaching over, opening the glove box above his knees as he keeps one eye on the road, fishing out a stack of CDs from bands Scar’s never heard of.

“Anyway, he’ll think about what he’s done and I’ll blow him a few kissy faces next time. In the meanwhile, you might as well get settled. We got a nice drive ahead of us.” As he speaks he flips open a jewel case with his thumb, prying out one of the discs and sliding it into the Cruiser’s CD tray. “Hope you like oldies.”

“Can’t say I’m particularly familiar with them, but I trust you know what’s good.”

“Oh, do I ever,” Pops enthuses, “We’ll start you off slow with some jazz.”

Almost immediately, the cruiser’s stereo crackles with the fuzz of an old recording. The music leads in smoothly to the first easy, low tones of a man singing while others hum in harmony to his words. Pops sways in his seat as he drives, clearly having played this number a good few times. It tugs a smile at Scar’s mouth, and he settles into his seat and stares out the window, watching as they leave the city landscape behind.

Notes:

If you're curious, the song Pops plays is 'I Don't Want to Set the World on Fire' by The Ink Spots! It's one of the songs Schlatt plays during his Day-Z streams (though you can't hear it on the YT Vods because of copyright) and is also a staple song if you've ever played the Fallout series! :D Very fitting for apocalypses tbh tbh 😌

Chapter 25

Notes:

Slowly, slowly picking up speed again ;)

Being back on the open road is a surreal experience, one Scar isn’t quite sure what to make of.

Leaving the city limits and its hordes of zombies behind, the road bends west. It slants them between low, tree-covered foothills that rise up in steps, looming larger and larger. Soon, the two of them are driving up switchbacks threading across the slopes of the first of many mountains.

Scar thinks the drive could be beautiful, if it weren’t for how much it makes him feel guilty. Memories of being in Grian’s car resurface, unbidden. Hours spent in frosty silence, stopping at rest stops, syphoning gas, the sound of Grian’s breathing as he slept in the passenger seat or curled up in the back. He misses it all, now. Regretting every time he could’ve reached out and held Grian’s hand, but resolutely didn’t.

As they continue, the tall pines on either side of the road frame perfect postcard views of the snow-covered mountains rising up on either side of them. Scar’s never seen anything so arrestingly beautiful before in his life, craning to look out the window, Pops grinning next to him as he drives, letting him admire it in peace.

The road thins as they go, from four lanes, to three, to two. The snow drifts in places, but never piles so thick they can’t drive through it. Predictably, they see no people as they progress. No tire tracks, no footprints. The fear of confrontation and the fear of the horde become less pressing the further they go, until finally the gates of a new anxiety swing open—the fear of animals; emboldened by weeks without sight or sound from the usual stream of outdoorsy tourists.

“It’s the bears and mountain lions we really gotta worry about,” Pops is saying, conversational, with one hand slung over the steering wheel and the other propped against the Cruiser’s centre console. “The deer and the elk are no big deal, but the predators in these woods are unpredictable bastards.”

At this point the road has thinned from two lanes to one. A single snake of pavement winding through the wilderness, with a gravel shoulder wide enough to pull onto to allow another car to pass. Pops had said they were taking a faster route—the original road that once pushed through the mountains, before the interstate went in, converted from an old logging trail. An endless slog of switchback inclines.

“So what do we do if we see one?” Scar asks. He’s never seen a mountain lion or a bear before—he’s positive he never wants to.

“You hope I look tastier to it than you do,” Pops says, shrugging dismissively.

It’s not a reassuring sentiment.

He’s collecting himself to press further when the conversation is abruptly derailed, Pops barking a sharp, triumphant snap of laughter as they round a final bend. In front of them, the thin road abruptly widens, spreading out into an almost comically large, jarringly out of place parking lot.

“No way,” Scar says, unable to help himself. Flabbergasted.

“Wheels, my good man,” Pops crows, satisfaction radiating in every word. “Welcome to Paradise.”

Not a simple shack, not even a modest cabin. In front of them sits a full Alpen lodge, three large well-weathered buildings arranged against the landscape, with a mountain peak framed perfectly behind them. The parking lot itself is empty, save for three large snow plough blades ready to be affixed to the front of pickup trucks. The whole area shows no signs of activity or movement, not a single tire track left on the slushy patches of snow covering the pavement.

“Paradise is certainly the name for it,” Scar says, voice low and appreciative.

“We’re pretty lucky there wasn’t much snowfall on the way up,” Pops says, enthusiastic from their arrival. “The closer we get to December, the more storms we get at this altitude. It would’ve been a ballache trying to take cover from a blizzard out here.”

“Maybe the universe figured we could use a break,” Scar muses, half-joking.

The suggestion gets a laugh out of Pops, driving across the empty lot to park close to the largest of the lodge buildings. “Maybe so, yeah.”

Still, a part of Scar can’t help but wish it had snowed more on the way up. Not out of any desire to make things more difficult for them, but because the prospect of seeing the already gorgeous views with a thick mantle of snow is enticing. He’s not sure how long Pops plans for them to linger here, but he hopes it’s at least long enough for the wet snowfall today to turn into something a little more permanent.

At least for a little while, anyhow.

“Alright, let’s get you out and head on in,” Pops says, stashing the keys back in the sun visor before he swings his door open. Getting his chair out of the back is easy without zombies or shooters breathing down their necks, and Pops lifts Scar into it before he gathers their bags out of the trunk.

“Check it out,” Pops says, the duffel slung up over his shoulder and both bags hanging off his arms as he trudges towards the main entrance of the lodge. “Mountain bikes.”

Scar stares at him for a moment, confused, until he follows the direction Pops is looking. Arranged outside the front of the lodge is a line of bike racks. There are plenty of them, clearly intended for visitors at the lodge to rent for day trips, with one large chain running through every single rear tire, locking them all together.

“You were lusting after wheels back at the hospital,” Pops explains, setting down one of the bags long enough to pull a carabiner of keys out of his pocket. A padlock the length of Scar’s forearm has been looped through the handles of the lodge door, and with practiced familiarity Pops unlocks it, yanking one of the doors open and kicking a doorstop in place. “Too bad you can't just ride one of those instead, huh?”

Scar barely hears him over the sound of his own thoughts. An idea forms, one Scar has only ever entertained in theory. He remembers watching videos about it in online forums where people claimed to have saved hundreds of dollars by not needing to order fancy all-terrain tires, prying off the existing rubber tubing and replacing it with the thicker tread. In this case, however, he’d have to replace the whole wheel itself—no pneumatic tires to take the tubing off of.

“Do you have measuring tape?” he asks, propelling closer to the bikes as he gauges the diameter of their wheels against his own.

Pops raised a brow at him. “I might.”

“Twenty-four inches,” Scar says, squeezing the give of one of the bike tires. “If we can find two of that size, then I could replace my wheels with these ones.”

“Never met a guy who can take twenty-four inches,” Pops remarks, laying their bags down as he moves over to join him.

His remark catches Scar off guard, startling a surprised scoff out of him.

“Well… you don’t know everything about me.” He’s joking, but he can’t help but notice the way his words catch Pops’ attention. It echoes back to an afternoon that feels so long ago, early in the outbreak, standing on the opposite shore of a pond at the edge of a farm and looking back at Grian—strangely small across the distance.

Getting the bike tires refitted onto his wheelchair is a process they grind through, made possible only by the assortment of tools they have between them. A part of Scar aches thinking about how he acquired them, taking risks during his last time out with Grian. Nevertheless, they come in handy now—even though they continue to struggle every step of the way.

Lacking any sort of bolt cutter to break the long chain lock, Pops ends up using his multi-tool to pry the front wheels off two different bikes, cursing the entire time as he fumbles with the frozen bolts. Together they move inside the lodge, shutting the heavy doors behind them and spreading their gear across the lobby floor as Pops takes on the task of switching out Scar’s wheels, while Scar sits to the side and guides him.

It’s arduous, Scar’s instructions more like suggestions than informed help, and by the time they’re done Pops has worn through his energy and patience. Exhausted, he lays flat on his back on the lobby’s thick, woven rug, while Scar carefully sidles his chair next to the sofa where he’d been sitting and eases himself back into his seat. The new wheels give his chair an entirely different feeling, one he knows he’ll have to get used to, but it feels like one less thing to worry about. An overall win amidst seemingly endless tribulations.

“You’ve got a real knack for this,” Scar compliments, rocking his chair back and forth as he tests its new suspension.

Slowly pulling himself to his feet, Pops offers him a shrug, pushing his hair back out of his eyes before he moves over to the lobby’s large stone fireplace.

“It’ll do me good in the long run,” he admits at last, dragging spare pieces of kindling out of the enormous woodpile stacked next to the hearth and beginning to assemble them to start a fire. “My old man’ll need one of those sooner or later. It’s worth it for me to figure the logistics out now, when I’ve got an experienced teacher to tell me when I’m fucking up. Or—” he pauses, casting a grin in Scar’s direction. “When I’m doing it right, he thinks, he wasn’t really paying attention to the video he watched about this at the time.”

He offers the joke as a distraction, but Scar only hears the confession, spinning around quick on his new tires as he faces Pops.

“Your old man?”

It’s a surprise admission, something he wasn’t expecting at all. The realisation that this entire time Pops has been the son, waiting out the apocalypse with his father. Suddenly the obvious skirting of his intentions and the out-of-the-way trips to restock on medical supplies make much more sense.

All this time he’s had his dad to worry about.

“I didn’t realise…” Scar starts, completely at a loss for words. “You’ve been out here with your father?”

The look on Pops’ face is comedic, horrified in a way Scar doesn’t immediately understand.

“No!” Pops insists, with a vehemence that takes Scar by surprise. “I haven’t been out here with my father. Jesus Christ, Wheels. I said my old man, okay?”

He’s striking a match as he says it, setting kindling alight and looking at him expectantly as the beginning of the fire catches quickly between his weathered hands.

Befuddled, Scar doesn’t get it.

With a heavy sigh—the kind born from an excruciatingly specific kind of long-suffering—Pops raises his hands, crudely miming out jamming his middle finger through a circle made by his thumb and pointer finger.

That catches, at least. The heat of embarrassment flushing into Scar’s cheeks.

“Oh,” he says, letting the revelation sit for a second before following it up with a far longer, “Ohhhhhhh.”

It feels like he’s blundered into something off-limits. Opening the door to an occupied room without knocking. Resolutely, Pops turns back to his fire, carefully leaning larger tinder on top of the kindling until he can add a proper log. The flames pick up bit by bit, growing in size as the heat pools out into the room.

All the same, Scar can’t help but feel curious, wanting to press Pops with a few more careful questions.

Pops has other things in mind however, resolutely dusting his hands before he steps back from the hearth, studying it for a second before he says, matter of factly, “This place has rooms to stay the night in the other building. Nothing fancy. Sink and a bed—for hikers and shit. But there’s no point using them, really. With the power out it’s too damn cold, and we’d just freeze to death. This lobby’s got the fireplace, so we can keep warm and sleep our shifts on the sofa.” He pauses, scratching the thick scruff of his facial hair before he adds, “But if you want I’ll drag a mattress down for you.”

It’s said brusquely. The words of someone trying to cover a vulnerability that’s been pried out in the open, voluntarily or not.

Understandably, Scar lets him have it, nodding as he casts his eyes around the lobby, fully taking it in for the first time. Its exposed beams and timbers are made cosy by a collection of warm, worn-in sofas and low coffee tables, with large windows against the back wall looking out at a view of the mountains. The more he looks around, the more clear it becomes that Pops has been using this place as his home base for a while now. Hotel linens and duvets are left rumpled up at the foot of an armchair, cups and dishes piled on the end-tables, and more supplies, arranged similar to the organisation Scar had seen back at the diner, left stacked against one of the far walls.

“I’ve stayed in worse places,” he admits—because he has—nodding his approval. “Certainly beats sleeping outside.”

Pops blows his breath out in a scoff, nodding once as he agrees easily, “You fuckin’ got that right.”

It’s with almost impeccable timing that Scar’s stomach starts to growl, loudly interrupting their conversation. It surprises Scar, part of him amazed his body still remembers to get hungry after having been starved for so long, and he rubs a hand sheepishly against his front. Acknowledging him, Pops snorts in amusement, immediately turning towards his big hiking bag.

“Let’s eat then,” he says, opening the large zippered front and picking through his supplies, pulling out various unmarked cans.

As kind as the offer is, Scar can’t help but grimace. “If that’s more cat food, I think maybe I’ll pass.”

“It’s not cat food, ya pansy,” Pops sighs, making a show of rolling his eyes. “It’s Spam. Plus, we’ve got dehydrated potatoes—and before you turn your nose up at it, at least let me cook it for you first. It’s not half bad if you season it right.”

Scar struggles not to immediately turn down the offer. “You saying you’re a big seasoning sort of guy?”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” Pops retorts with no real heat to his words. “We’re both two slices of white bread here, pal. And I’ll have you know that I’ve done my fair share of cooking over the years and never had any complaints. In fact, I’ve got a couple things packed away that’ll blow your mind—and I’m not talking about my gun.”

“Alright,” Scar concedes, unable to keep a grin off his face. “I guess I’ll have whatever the chef recommends.”

Cooking doesn’t take nearly as long as Scar expects. While there is a small restaurant within the lodge, every appliance in it is useless without electricity. Luckily, Pops has a selection of butane campfire cooktops, one of which he sets up on a coffee table, explaining his whole process to Scar as he rehydrates the dry packaged potatoes with a bit of water, and then slices the Spam into thick wedges, frying them using one of the lodge’s frying pans. It’s not something he has to do, but Scar gets the impression that he’s enjoying himself as he does it—a social person at heart, eager for an audience.

When at last the meal is complete, Pops serves them each on hard plastic camping plates, handing Scar a knife and fork to go with it, a simple gesture that feels luxurious after so long spent eating directly out of cans and plastic packaging.

Seeing his approval, Pops explains. “Nice to eat with something solid. Feels nice, you know? Human.”

Scar certainly can’t disagree. It feels like the most normal meal he’s had in a while, using a knife and fork on a proper plate to cut up his food. He wishes he had some bread, or maybe a vegetable that tastes fresh, but for what it’s worth, the spam is good on its own.

“I have to hand it to you. This isn’t half bad,” he admits, talking around a mouthful.

“See? What did I tell ya?” Pops asks, grinning as he chews, the question mostly rhetorical.

They continue eating together, the fire warm against their backs, feeling relaxed and comfortable. Sharing a meal makes Scar immeasurably nostalgic for the dinners he and Grian had with the trio. Quackity’s cooking, the ease and enthusiasm with which all three of them offered what they had, Sapnap’s rambling stories and Karl’s delighted laughter.

He hopes they’re okay. Hopes they’ve recovered from what happened to them. From what Grian did. From what he didn’t notice in time to stop.

Hopes they’re still laughing with one another and eating good food.

Scar’s almost finished eating when Pops clears his throat, dragging the edge of his fork across the flat of his plate, something clearly on his mind.

“We were travelling together. Me and my old man.”

The words are offered, cautious and carefully. An obvious test that Scar needs to pass if the conversation is going to continue.

Scar isn’t expecting it. Isn’t prepared. Had assumed, since the topic was dropped earlier, that it had been permanently moved off the table.

He risks a glance sideways, noting the way Pops is holding himself, tense but making every effort to appear relaxed.

Hedging his bets he continues to chew his food, merely nodding along mildly.

“It was me and him, and then another guy that, uh… that we got along pretty well with.” Pops says the words like he needs to get them out in a rush, not looking up from his plate, not looking anywhere at all. “And we—well, shit. You know the story. You know how bad it’s been just trying to get by. So we were doing our best, and… figuring things out. However you wanna say it.” He pauses, clearing his throat again before adding, “With feelings and shit.”

The confession forces a reaction out of Scar, a small noise in the back of his throat, instinctive and delighted.

“Something funny?” Pops asked, turning quick to look at him and bristling immediately.

“No, not at all. Not at all,” Scar replies, hasty in an effort to make his intent clear. “It’s just… turns out there’s a lot of throuples in the apocalypse, is all.”

“Oh yeah? You been meeting a lot of folks on apocalypse honeymoons?” Pops grumbles, still cautious, but at least the hostility is gone.

“Something like that,” Scar shrugs, agreeable but vague. He can tell from the way Pops is watching him that he wants to ask about it, but he staves off the question with another one of his own. “What happened to the two you were with? You split up on purpose, or…?”

Pops sets his plate aside and folds his arms across his chest, a distant look in his eye. It takes him a moment, but when he speaks his voice comes out soft, vulnerable and cloaked with his own regret. “We got separated. Bear attack.”

The muted noise of surprise Scar makes prompts Pops to sit up properly, tugging up the bottom edge of his sweater before he delicately eases up the bottom of his shirt, revealing a huge scar stretched across his abdomen. It’s red and angry, the kind of fresh that’s likely still tender and painful. There are stitches along the deeper ends where it curves around Pops’ belly, uneven and sloppily done, and thinking back to all the times Pops has been lifting him up and carrying him around, Scar isn’t sure how he hasn’t popped them open yet.

“It came up on us out of nowhere. Knocked me out, but I survived… probably ‘cause one of them distracted it and took the heat off.” Carefully Pops lowers his shirt back down, rubbing a hand against where Scar now knows the wound sits. “Don’t know how long I was out, but when I woke up it was quiet and dark and I’d bled out quite a bit. I was pretty disoriented and couldn’t see a trace of them, so I had to retreat. Lick my wounds, you know? I figured once I was healed up, I’d come back and look for them.” He pauses, hands curling into loose fists as he adds, remorseful under his breath. “Snowed a solid six inches overnight, though. Next morning I woke up and couldn’t see a thing. No idea where I’d come in from, or where they’d wandered off to.”

The confession sits terrible, guilt entrenched in every word of it.

It pains Scar to break the silence it brings up between them.

“How long ago was that?”

Pops looks away again and it suddenly strikes Scar how the two of them have spent days together, parading around one another with sarcasm and bravado while secretly nursing similar shades of grief. He wants to reach out and hug him, wants to tell him that he’s sorry, but he knows they’re not that close.

“I was laid up for about a week, holed up in here trying to stave off infection so… that, plus however long we’ve been together.” Pops snorts softly, nodding his head towards the untouched duffel bag of medical supplies left just inside the lodge door. “This was my first time heading back to the city since I was able to get on my feet again. Figured I’d need to resupply, since I pissed all our first aid gear away nearly bleeding out like a fucking baby.”

Hesitant and careful, Scar asks, “And you’re sure they’re still…?”

“Until I see bodies, they’re alive,” Pops replies, firm. It’s the most serious Scar has ever seen him, every line on his face stern. “Either I find them, or I find what’s left of them. It’s as simple as that.”

Silence unfurls around them, Scar not knowing what to say. In a way, he’s almost envious of Pops. That he still has his hope, that he believes his companions can be found.

He’d give anything to have that kind of light to sustain him.

Clearing his throat, Pops braces his hands on his knees and gets to his feet, reaching for his pack and dragging it over next to their spot by the fire. Opening a front pocket he digs out a small handheld radio and pragmatically holds it up for Scar to see.

“Every morning, afternoon, and night, I tune into 99.7. That’s how we agreed we’d stay in touch if we ever got separated. I just gotta wait. If they’re not dead, they’re gonna check in eventually.”

Heartfelt and earnest, Scar reaches over, his hand resting on Pops’ shoulder. “I hope you find them.”

Pops meets his gaze and holds it, inscrutable. Scar isn’t sure what he’s searching for, but whatever he sees must satisfy him, because he eventually nods and his posture relaxes. He puts the radio back into his backpack, tucked safely into its pocket.

“What about you?” Pops asks as he settles back in place, leaning back on one hand to support his weight. “When we first met, you said you had help getting this far. Did you guys get split up too?”

“Oh.” Scar blinks, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat. His chest feels tight with a mix of emotion, a well of feelings he’s yet to unpack. “No, uh… we were attacked and he—he got bit. So.”

It doesn’t feel like it’s enough, just leaving it at that, but Scar doesn’t know how else to address the painful reality without looking like he’s trying to overshadow Pops’ own grief.

Beside him, Pops blows out a long sigh, grimacing sympathetically. “Shit, man. I’m sorry.”

Scar nods on automatic and shrugs, laughing gently as he adds, “I promised him I’d keep going. It’s what he wanted, and he always liked telling me what to do, so… that’s how I ended up here, I guess.”

It’s clear Pops isn’t quite sure what to say, the two of them sitting for a moment in a quiet, commiserating silence.

“Okay.”

Before the melancholy has a chance to settle in, Pops is clearing his throat again, getting to his feet as he gathers up both their plates, bundling his emotions off with them.

“That’s enough of that,” he declares, putting their dishes aside. Not cleaning so much as clearing. A problem that will need to be dealt with later. “We can’t both start sobbing all over each other, that’s no good for either of us.”

He’s not wrong, Scar knows that, but the sentiment still feels strange to hear. Scar is used to letting his feelings marinade, allowing his emotions to take up whatever space they need to inhabit. Pops has a different approach—one so very much like Grian: resolutely pushing the unsightly things out of mind. Promising to deal with them on a tomorrow that will never come.

“The day’s still worthwhile, lots of light left,” Pops explains. As he speaks he begins fastening his jacket, giving the clear impression that he in no way plans to simply rest inside the lodge. “The canned stuff’s for emergencies, and for when things get dire. If we wanna eat more tonight, we’re gonna have to go out and get it.”

The revelation catches Scar off guard, trying to imagine what he could possibly contribute to such a goal.

“Do you know how to hunt?” Pops asks, and Scar has the unpleasant feeling of being put on the spot.

“I can shoot.”

Pops nods, unimpressed. “Right. So you’re a city boy at a shooting range, is that it?”

Scar shrugs. “If I’m a good shot I’m a good shot.”

With his jacket done up and scarf wrapped tight around his neck, Pops bends down and reaches for his shotgun, slinging the strap over his shoulder.

“Well? Wanna give those fancy new off-road treads a test drive?” he asks, and Scar feels the behest of the invitation. The reluctance to separate, not wanting to split up and leave either of them on their own.

“Lead the way,” he allows, following Pops’ example and gathering up his rifle. “Show me how it’s done.”

Once outside, Scar is quick to compare the treads of his new wheels to the old ones. There’s definitely a marked improvement on how he can handle himself over the crust of ice on the sidewalk, and it makes him grin, pleased with the results.

He can tell that Pops is watching him try out his wheels, but he politely directs his gaze away when Scar turns to face him, nervous about being caught staring. It’s equal parts endearing and exhausting—the clear desire to help him out however he can, and the staunch refusal to look at his disability directly. Part of Scar wonders if this should be where he explains what an ambulatory wheelchair user is, and that he doesn't need his chair all the time anyhow. But the exhaustion of having to teach someone when he's already running on fumes makes him back down again.

Besides, Grian wouldn't approve. It's better to keep some tricks up his sleeve when faced with a stranger. Even one who's been as helpful as Pops has.

“So the first step is to check the traps we set up,” Pops explains, nodding his head towards the rear of the lodge, where clear hiking trails have been carved into the woods. The ground is uneven but clear enough, the snow packed down and easy enough to maneuver over.

“We set up traps?” Scar asks, hanging back by necessity as Pops strides ahead.

“Not us,” Pops dismisses, like it should be obvious. “My old man. He did most of ‘em. Taught me and the other guy how to clear and reset them.”

There’s something that catches in his words, an admission he doesn’t realise he’s making.

“How much hunting have you done?” Scar asks, grinning sly as Pops finds himself snagged by the question.

“We may both be city boys,” Pops admits, making the deflection easily. “The difference is that I got the head start and get to lord it all over you.”

The first place they stop is barely any distance down the main hiking trail, the path still wide and open. Pops crouches down in the snow near the thin trunk of a pine tree, pointing out the thin line of a snare that’s been set in place and how the tree has helped to mask it. Scar tries to pay attention, but the flood of information is immediately too much for him and he finds himself simply staring at Pops, absorbing none of what he says as the man tries his best to teach him the various ways to catch and ensnare a wild animal.

“I’m not too good with cable restraints yet,” Pops sighs at the tail end of the one-sided discussion. “Supposedly they’re the easiest to maintain in snow like this, but I’ve managed to fuck up every single one I ever tried, so we’re gonna stick to snares for now. These I can do blindfolded.”

“Of course. Makes sense,” Scar says, lying.

Giving a nod of approval, Pops gets back up and dusts the snow off his pants. Together they venture further down the trail to another empty snare, and then a third, Pops forging off into the brush to check while Scar patiently waits. It’s as Pops is returning, empty handed and clearly ready with some excuse, that he suddenly freezes in place, making a motion for Scar to stay quiet.

“What’s happening?” Scar whispers, his entire body instantly on edge.

Holding a finger up to his lips, Pops points down at the ground near his feet. Scar following his gesture to see what looks to be a set of delicate cloven prints pressed into the loose dregs of snow.

“Deer,” Pops mouths, shifting his shotgun off his back and checking its sights before nodding his head in the direction the footprints lead. “Follow me.”

‘Follow me’ turns out to be an ambitious instruction. Pops remains in the brush, walking deeper into the woods as he follows the deer’s trail, slowly advancing one step at a time, intent and focused on his tack. It quickly becomes abundantly clear that there’s no point in trying to keep up, and eventually Scar surrenders to it, stuck awkwardly on the path, unsure whether to wait or return to the lodge. He knows he’s not meant to feel stranded, but he can’t feel somewhat abandoned. On his own the woods are enormous and silent, his breath wafting up around him in a cloud, every sound muffled, every tree abnormally still.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, but it’s a relief when Pops emerges back out of the woods, no deer to show for it, but a dead hare gripped in either hand.

“Dinner’s on me, Wheels,” he crows, cheeks pink from the cold and eyes bright with enthusiasm. “The trail went cold, but luckily these two got snagged about a half-mile up.”

“There’s traps there too?” Scar asks, not wanting to ask the state in which Pops found the poor creatures.

“The old man was pretty thorough,” Pops says with a smile, clearly fond.

He’s starting down the trail, heading back towards the lodge, feet heavy on the path and clearly in a good mood when all at once he drops both hares, pulling his shotgun into his hands and aiming into the forest, body tense and expression stern.

Scar barely has time to react, whipping his gaze around and trying to find the source of Pops’ agitation. “What is it?”

For a moment, Pops doesn’t answer him, gaze fixed on the undergrowth, bare limbs and dead leaves nearly impossible to hide behind. Then, slowly, his expression goes from fierce to confusion, as though bewildered by what he’s seen. He finally untenses completely, bending down to pick up the hares as he slings his gun back over his shoulder.

“I thought I saw…" He trails off a moment, staring deep into the distance. "Never mind. Part of me’s still hung up on that deer, I think.”

He nods his head once back towards the lodge, dangling the hares out invitingly as he motions for Scar to join him.

“You ever gutted an animal before?” He asks, and all Scar can do is respond with honesty.

“I’m squeamish.” There’s a cheerfulness in his tone, eager to opt himself out of the chore.

“So was I,” Pops admits, and together they start picking their way back towards their new base of operations. “You’d be surprised what killing a hundred zombies will make you insensitive to. This is gonna be a walk in the park, you’ll see.”

Scar doesn’t want to be proven wrong. Doesn’t want to let the memories flood in. Like that time he and Pearl went fishing and she’d gut the fish she’d caught while he’d thrown up over the side of the boat. Or back when Grian had mice in his walls and they’d both set up live traps, driving miles out of town to let them go, neither having the stomach to see a single one die.

Even in a world as inhospitable as this, he doesn’t want to lose that glimmer of compassion for life.

He needs it to be something about himself that hasn’t changed.

Ultimately, they spend several days in Paradise, living out of the abandoned lodge, giving Scar time to rest while Pops ekes out a living for them.

It’s obvious that Pops enjoys the role of being a provider, getting validation from it that he clearly desires. Every morning he wakes with the dawn and bundles up, promising to be back, returning several hours later with some sort of animal in hand. Hares and grouse are seemingly abundant in the woods, and Scar grows used to the taste of them; braised, roasted, or put in a stew.

They eat well. While Pops is stingy with the supplies he’s trucked in from town, he’s generous with whatever dry ingredients they find in the lodge’s cafeteria, seeing no reason to ration it. It’s not fine dining, but they never go to bed hungry, and for that Scar is exceedingly grateful.

It’s a nice atmosphere, the two of them getting along well, with Scar’s easygoing disposition fitting neatly under Pops’ rough exterior. Their banter flows almost effortlessly as they get used to living with one another, spending hours in conversations about nothing at all. Scar lets Pops share his opinions on movies and music, though their interests barely overlap, and Pops laughs at all of Scar’s jokes, their sense of humour easily aligning.

It’s an interesting case study. Pops is crass and he’s abrasive, but it only just barely covers a deep well of sensitivity and empathy that he takes every effort to hide. Every morning, afternoon, and evening he checks in with his radio—at first hiding it from Scar, but slowly relaxing, until at last he makes his calls while sitting near the fire next to him, casting his words out into a void that never once responds.

It’s clear he misses them—the two companions that he lost—staving off his grief with a resolute optimism that borders almost too close to denial. Scar doesn’t want to tell him it’s hopeless. Doesn’t want to cite statistics he’s not sure of, but every day that Pops fails to get an answer it’s clear his hope grows more strained, only held at bay by a desperation within him that refuses to admit defeat.

For his part, Scar does his best to keep his feelings to himself, though even with Pops’ company, he finds that one day bleeds easily into the other, making it feel like too much and nothing at all is happening. He does his best to keep his mind off things—off his loss, off Grian—but in the peace and quiet of the woods around the lodge his melancholy slips back in, a reluctant return he has no natural defence against.

He stays busy all the same, and there seems to be no shortage of chores to do. Firewood becomes his chief responsibility, Pops showing him the woodshed—a separate structure located around the side of the lodge. It becomes Scar’s job to keep them well stocked, traversing back and forth over the uneven ground, grateful for his new wheels and the traction they afford him.

Pops, meanwhile, has an endless list of tasks that he tends to with a rigid sort of authoritarianism. Winterising the lodge, organising and reorganising his supplies, checking traps, and making meals. At night he pours over maps and topography charts of the local area and mountains further north up the state. Looking, desperately, for places where two lost people might shelter themselves, never once planning for corpses, always intent on bringing them back alive.

When he rests, Scar sleeps heavily and dreams about Grian. He’d escape into it longer if he could, slip away into his subconscious for hours, living in the unconscious space where Grian smiles when he sees him, where they labour under the hot sun together, building something Scar can never see through the glare.

Where he laughs, sometimes manic, at explosions going off in the distance.

Where Grian’s hand is always warm where their fingers entwine together.

Pops, on the other hand, barely seems to doze at all.

It’s on the fourth or fifth day that he finally breaks.

“We gotta get going soon,” he says, stamping the frost off his boots as he walks back inside the lodge, moving quick across the floor towards the fire, hands already out to be warmed by the flames. “I don’t know what’s going on out there, but something ain’t right.”

Scar doesn’t know what to make of that, the illusion of safety pivoting wrong inside his head.

“Do you mean zombies?” he asks, trying to gauge the distance from town in his head, attempting to deduce how far a determined zombie could make it up the mountain.

“I dunno.” It’s a vague answer, Pops pulling his scarf loose around his neck as the heat begins to seep into his palms. “I feel like I’m being watched whenever I’m out there. Hairs up on the back of my neck and shit.”

“You're sure it’s not your, uh… your two?” Scar asks, asking the obvious for the sake of them both.

“Yeah, Wheels,” Pops says, deadpan as he scowls into the fire. “The two guys I was trusting with my life before I met you are definitely just setting up behind a big tree trunk to give me the heebie jeebies.”

It sounds stupid when Pops says it like that, and Scar can’t help but feel a little admonished for asking.

“So what do we do, then?”

“We get our shit and head out,” Pops declares, already with a plan in mind. “Another nice drive ahead of us.”

The idea sits sweet and sour on Scar, equal parts intriguing and repellent. An animal part of Scar doesn’t want to move in the slightest, determined to hunker down and wait out the winter from the warmth and security they’ve found. Another part of him doesn’t want to linger any longer than they have to—is, in fact, already itching to move along. Resume heading north. Following Grian’s words to the letter in a desperate desire to honour him in the only way Scar knows how to do properly.

“Was thinking we were overdue for a nice Sunday drive,” he agrees at last, and it’s settled as much as it’ll ever be.

 

 

Notes:

Hmm... being watched from a distance... what could it be? 🤔 Gosh, I sure hope Pops and Scar will be okay. 😔

Chapter 26

Notes:

We've got another TAMN playlist! :D This one's from 🌸 Anon and you can give it a listen here! TYSM Sakura Anon! ;w; We loved your choices! 💜

Please skip to the end notes for spoiler-y CONTENT WARNINGS!

What they’re not expecting is that the truck won’t even turn over.

“Shit.”

Pops is sitting in the driver’s seat, keys in the ignition, turning and turning them again as the cruiser’s engine gives single, draggy wheezes, stubbornly refusing to stumble back to life. It’s cold in the truck—it’s cold outside the truck. It hasn’t snowed more than half an inch, but that hasn’t made the area any warmer.

“Shit. Fuck, no way. Shit!”

“Is there a problem?” Scar asks, forced-cheerful, knowing the question will go over like a lead balloon.

“Big problem, yes,” Pops snaps, the engine groaning through another three slow turnovers that never quite catch. “Big fuckin’ problem, Wheels.”

With a sigh he sits back in his seat, arms dropping heavily to his sides as he glares in frustration at the truck’s dashboard.

“We’re fucked,” he declares at last, surrendering to the defeat of it. “Screwed. Battery’s dead. We’re not getting out of here in this piece of shit—” he emphasises the word with a sharp slam of his palms against the steering wheel “—until I can jump it.”

There are no jumper cables. Nothing to jump with. Scar sits at the sideline, first in the passenger seat, and then in his chair, as Pops works through a tantrum of frustration, shouting out a litany of creative curses until he’s finally worked through the bulk of it.

“So we go on foot,” Scar offers, pragmatic to a fault. “How far we gotta go? It can’t take us that long.”

 

 

 

 

 

It takes close to three days, all told, to get from the lodge to the base of the mountain, and by the end of it Scar swears to himself he’ll never be optimistic about travelling on foot ever again.

The road they take is a thin highway that connects hiking trails and campsites, closed during the off-season but not yet buried under snow. At first it’s not so bad, Pops showing the route on his map, making their way down from the lodge and descending into a valley, the road running parallel to a fast-running stream. They progress together easily, Scar able to keep pace with Pops without struggle, the downward incline working in his favour.

Their first night is spent in a clearing on the side of the road, in a space hewn into the forest just wide enough to accommodate four or five cars. They camp in the shelter of a large sign that shows the hiking trails spidering out from their location, the largest loop boasting a lookoff for some waterfalls neither he nor Pops has any interest in seeing. It’s not ideal but they make a pleasant enough camp, Pops building a fire and reheating the leftover rabbit they brought from the lodge with them.

The second night they’re not so lucky, stopping on the hard shoulder in the lee of a rock face carved open during the road’s construction. Pops never once complains, simply setting his gear down and using his hatchet to cut the dead branches off a snag tree before building fire they both huddle close to.

Scar ends up staying in his chair all three nights with Pops sitting on the ground next to him, his shoulders leaning back against Scar’s legs. The positioning isn’t great, and Scar nearly gets up out of his chair in protest, but finds his heart unwilling. He knows he could attempt to walk now—he’s got more energy for it than he’s had since Grian passed—but the idea of pushing on with a cane and neglecting Grian’s final token to him feels wrong. So he stays in place, and neither he nor Pops catches more than twenty or so minutes of sleep, the cold and the unease of something lurking making easy work of their nerves.

Their final day on the road begins with fog and rain. What starts as a drizzle doesn’t stay that way for long, rapidly turning into the kind of weather even an umbrella wouldn’t offer much protection against. It doesn’t do much for their already dour moods, patience worn thin by sleep deprivation and paranoia. They walk side by side and don’t talk to each other at all, slogging on as best they can.

It’s especially difficult for Scar, who now has both mud and ice to look out for. It makes him wish he’d spent more time looking for a proper winter coat when he was with Grian. The one he has now is warm enough, but not waterproof, and certainly not resistant to the mud that splatters up at him each time he rolls through a particularly wet patch or pothole.

The drifting thought of Grian seems forever stuck in his chest, and with a pang, Scar tries to count how long it’s been since his passing. Though he can’t be sure, he thinks it must be roughly two weeks since Grian— since they parted ways. The number sits bitter on his tongue. He’s spent almost as much time in the apocalypse with Pops as he had wandering through the desert with Grian. The reality of it feels wrong in almost every way. Jarring and unreal. It feels like just a handful of days ago that he’d been sitting with Grian under the stars.

Now he’s gone, and time keeps marching on without him. It’s unbearable. Unfair.

By the end of their trek, Scar feels weighed down by how drenched his clothes are, and exhausted by the slow drag of his thoughts. It’s a relief then, when Pops nudges him to the right, turning down a short driveway that leads them to a small, sturdy looking cabin. It’s far enough off the road that Scar wouldn’t have noticed it unless Pops pointed it out. It’s impressive to Scar that Pops even managed to bring them here—he knows he wouldn’t be able to do the same without satellite navigation and a GPS showing him the way.

The cabin, it turns out, is surrounded by a long, low wooden fence, and as they head in together Pops pauses, checking apparent failsafes he’s placed to make certain that no one’s been in the area while he was away. He nods and gives Scar the all-clear after a few minutes of close inspection, and then repeats the same process by the door to the cabin itself.

The waiting makes Scar a little tense, not sure what they’ll do if someone has been there. However his worries are ultimately set aside, Pops nodding before he unlocks the cabin door, ushering them both inwards.

Almost immediately, Pops begins shedding his soaked outer layers, dropping them in a dripping pile on the floor before he heads to a large fireplace in the cabin’s living room, wasting no time as he drags out logs and kindling from a pile in order to get a fire going, warmth and light flickering to life in the darkened space.

Finally comfortable, he begins to lay his wet clothes out to dry, glancing at Scar with a brow raised.

“You gonna strip? Or do you need me to get a lil’ handsy?”

“I’ll have you know I’m a competent stripper,” Scar says, attempting to brag, only hearing the words leave his mouth wrong a second too late to stop them. “I mean—that’s not what I meant.”

Pops’ eyes light up, a grin spreading across his face as Scar finds himself fumbling to set his statement straight.

“What I wanted to say is, I’ve stripped before—no. I know how to strip—no! I just mean—I can take my clothes off by myself, dang it!”

He’s prepared to feel humiliated, but Pops’ loud laughter doesn’t feel like being laughed at. It feels like they’re sharing something together, Pops genuinely appreciating Scar’s specific way with words.

“Can’t say I’m surprised to hear it,” Pops muses, sounding complementary and not at all mean. “I know a practiced stripper when I see one.”

Without needing to be asked he turns his back to Scar, affording him a shred of privacy. Scar eases his arms out of his sopping wet coat, pulling off his layers one at a time until he’s left in his t-shirt, the neckline damp from sweat instead of rain water.

Though it’s nice to be out of his wet things, the thought of not having anything to change into makes the act only a mild relief, in the end.

He misses his closet.

He wishes he was small enough to put on Grian’s sweater, still folded up and dry at the very bottom of his bag.

“If you wanna get those pants off, I won’t judge,” Pops offers, and while it’s a kind invitation, Scar can’t say he’s interested.

He still can’t shake the paranoia that’s clung to him since they left the lodge. The feeling that despite being safe and secure inside, not all is as well as it seems.

“You don’t think we got followed, do you?” He asks, changing the subject as Pops does him the favour of laying his clothes out in the radius of the fire’s heat.

“No one cares enough to trail us through that much rain and sleet, believe me,” Pops dismisses, grunting as he pulls one of the room’s heavy armchairs closer to the fire. “I know I’d blow my brains out if I had to do another hundred yards of that shit.”

The relief at his dismissal soothes something in Scar, his shoulders relaxing as he smiles, genuine and adds, “It’s about time we caught a break.”

Pops makes a noise of agreement, poking at the fire as he leans over it, not yet sitting down.

“Y’know… we used to say catching a break was something that deserved a little celebration,” he offers, conversational and casual.

It’s a startling idea in its own right. Celebrating in the apocalypse. Try as he might, Scar can’t even imagine what that might look like, raising an eyebrow as he looks in Pops’ direction.

“What do you have in mind?”

Grian had liked to celebrate milestones with fancy dinners. He’d like to be the centre of attention in that way.

Scar can’t remember the last time he’d celebrated anything he’d done for himself.

A light sparks in Pops’ eyes, clearly excited for what’s to come. He holds up a finger as if to say ‘one moment,’ taking off to where Scar imagines the kitchen must be.

While he waits for Pops to return, Scar wheels himself closer to the fire, warming himself up. His hair is wet from the miserable weather outside and his body still chilled. It’s as he’s leaning into the fire, rubbing his hands up and down his arms, that Pops returns, making a loud, triumphant sound.

“Check this out,” he crows, brandishing a half-full bottle of whiskey that he holds up by the neck. “If you’re cold, this’ll warm ya right up!”

With a flourish, Pops places two glass tumblers down on the coffee table in the centre of the room. He beckon Scar over with a wide grin and an open arm, drawing him near. Internally Scar grimaces, but complies all the same, wondering how best to turn him down without throwing water all over his well-intentioned efforts.

“You a whiskey man, Wheels?”

“Actually,” Scar starts, hesitant. “Not too keen on drinking… messes with my medications.”

Pops raises a brow at him, offering a lopsided grin. “And how many of those pills are you on right now?”

Scar opens his mouth and promptly shuts it again, his mind reeling. As it turns out, there are still things he’s forgotten are no longer a part of his post-apocalypse life. Pops is right—aside from the bottles of painkillers he’d picked up at the hospital, he has none of his usual prescriptions. He hasn’t been on them for weeks.

“... pour me a glass, then.”

“Atta boy!” Pops encourages, clapping a bracing hand against his shoulder in his usual manner before he sits down heavily in the armchair he’s pulled close to the fire, leaning forward as he unscrews the cap of the bottle and pours two generous shots into each of the glasses.

“You a big drinker?” Scar asks, casual and trying not to sound judgemental as he takes the glass Pops offers him, struggling to remember if he knows what whiskey tastes like.

“A raging alcoholic, yeah,” Pops says with a grin, lifting his glass and knocking the bottom of the tumbler against Scar’s.

Watching carefully, Scar studies Pops as he lifts the drink and indulges himself.

Embarrassingly, Pops catches on to him immediately, offering him a grin before he explains, “You sip. It’s a sipping drink.”

“Thanks,” Scar mumbles, raising the glass and taking a meagre draught for himself.

The first taste is strong, and then immediately gets worse. Despite his best efforts, Scar can’t hide the way his face seizes up, squinting as he struggles not to cough. He swallows the unfamiliar heat as it burns its way down his esophagus.

“Awful, right?” Pops asks, rhetorical as he takes another sip.

“Love it,” Scar lies, following Pops’ cue, not to be outdone. “Wish I could drink this instead of water.”

Pops laughs, loud and appreciative, and Scar would maybe feel embarrassed if they didn’t get along so well. It’s a strange thing to realise, considering their situation is so lousy, but sitting in the cabin with the other man, nursing a drink he can’t stand, Scar feels, for the first time in a long time, a sense of something normal.

“Good work today, by the way,” Pops says at last, forced casual, like the thought hasn’t clearly been on his mind for a while. “Getting all the way here, I mean. You didn’t complain even once.”

“I complained plenty,” Scar deflects, tapping a finger to his left temple. “The peanut gallery was going nonstop.”

Pops manages a small laugh at that, rubbing his thumb against the lip of his glass before he asks, feigning indifference, “You one of those keep-it-to-yourself guys, then?”

It’s an oddly vulnerable question, one Scar isn’t sure he should skirt around or treat with honesty.

“It depended,” he settles on, an answer midway to the truth. “Sometimes you have to be, y’know? If that’s the kind of person you’re with.”

Next to him Pops continues nursing his drink, studying the hopping tips of the flames in the fireplace with an intense degree of focus as he nods in agreement.

Unable to stop himself, Scar can’t help but think of Grian. Of the emotional minefields he’d surrounded himself with. How carefully Scar had navigated them at times, and how heedlessly he’d trod through them at others. How much they’d vacillated with one another. Always on the same page but not always reading the same language.

He’s formulating his thoughts, trying to figure out how best to express those feelings without dragging his whole messy history out into the open, when Pops speaks up.

“I shoulda opened up more,” he confesses, like there’s a weight on his chest he needs to get off. “That’s one thing I regret,” he continues, frank in a way Scar didn’t know he was capable of being. “Spent so much time skulking around, scared of being… I dunno, vulnerable. Stupid way to waste my time now that all I can do is look back.”

It’s a sentiment that hits far too close to home, reminding Scar of Grian in a way he’s not ready to admit.

He hasn’t had nearly enough to drink to blame it on the alcohol, but his empathy has him in a chokehold, offering up personal commiseration anyhow. “Lately that’s how I’ve been feeling too. So much wasted time, so much regret. I spent weeks being angry and upset, and for what?”

“Is this about the friend you lost?” Taking another sip from his glass, Pops eyes him over, non-judgemental. Scar gets the impression that, if he wanted to, he could shrug the question aside and Pops wouldn’t press. But something about the fire, the security of the cabin, and the companionship… it makes him want to bare his soul a bit.

“The guy I was travelling with,” Scar says, nodding, sipping again and letting the burn settle in the back of his throat. “The—the one that got bit. He, uh… he was also my ex. The one I talked about. That cheated on me.” Pops hisses through his teeth, a sympathetic sound, and Scar nods again, trying to articulate how it feels. “I wasn’t... I’m still not—ready to let go of… of all of that. I hated him for what he did to me, but I didn’t hate him, you know? And then he gets bitten and it’s like… so now what? What do I do with all those feelings? How do you love a person and be angry with them and lose them?” He pauses, drawing in a deep breath. “God. I’m rambling, sorry, I’m probably not making any sense.”

“Nah, I get it,” Pops says, leaning over to refill Scar’s glass as he drains the remainder of his in one go. “I’m sorry man. That fucking blows.”

The inelegant phrasing of it startles a laugh out of Scar, his head growing a little fuzzy as he takes a sip from his freshly filled glass. “Yeah. It fucking blows, alright.”

They sit in silence after that, slowly nursing their drinks. It lasts long enough that Scar begins to feel warm inside-out, both the fire and whiskey doing their jobs well. The clothes still on his body slowly dry, and the ones spread out seem to be getting there as well. His jacket will likely take until morning, but they have all the time in the world and nowhere in particular to be, so Scar doesn’t worry about it.

“I was with a buddy of mine, at the start of all this,” Pops says at last, breaking their comfortable silence, his voice low and serious. “Fuck, it feels like forever ago now, doesn’t it?” He shakes his head, taking a deep drink from his glass, far more than just a sip. “We were idiots. Weren’t taking this shit serious enough. Felt like a fuckin’ video game, you know? Just him, me, a couple of guns, and a campus full of zombies to shoot at.”

He trails off after that, staring into the fire with a distant look in his eye. The quiet returns, wood crackling in the fireplace in front of them, the light casting stark shadows across the floor and against the planes of their faces. It’s clear that Pops is working through something internally, not yet done marinating in his thoughts.

“What happened?” Scar prompts, hoping to help him push through it.

Pops’ answer is abrupt. Plain and dispassionate. He stares at the fire as he says it, eyes not fully focused, like he’s looking off into a memory.

“I shot him.”

The words hang heavy between them, a weighty admission. A simple fact.

“Was he bitten…?” Scar asks, trying to make sense of it.

“No. No, nothing like that. He was—he was fine, god I—” Pops shakes his head viciously, as if trying to push out the recollection of it, his voice cracking as he continues, “We were dicking around, standing on the roof of a building, looking down at all the zombies and I—I shot him. Fuck Wheels, I wasn’t paying attention and I fucking shot him.”

The distress radiating off of Pops is an obvious indicator that there’s more to this story, but Scar knows better than to push when it seems like the man’s about to cave in on himself.

Instead, he lets the admission settle between them. Lets Pops take his time, giving him room to breathe before he asks, gentle, “Why don’t you tell me about him.”

Pops glances at him, looking uncharacteristically small in the firelight. It strikes Scar that this may be the first time he’s ever told anyone about this. The compulsion to reach out and take his hand, to reassure him that he’s alright, overwhelms him, but resolutely he doesn’t dare move. He’s afraid to disturb the moment, gripping his glass tight as he waits for Pops to divulge further.

“We met the first week on campus, during orientation,” Pops offers at last, his words coming out slowly as he retreats back into his memories. “He was in polisci, like me, but he shouldn’ta been there. Shoulda been in the arts or something. Theatre. He was so loud and stupid and dramatic, one of those types you can just tell are made for the stage.”

He pauses to take a long breath, following it with a chaser from his glass.

“I don’t know what I did to catch his attention. He was so… outgoing and popular and funny. One of those international students that everyone always flocks to, with the attitude and the accent. I didn’t think we had anything in common but I’ve never met someone so determined to just… spend time with me.”

He huffs a laugh, rubbing the scruff of his facial hair and keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the fire.

“The whole time we knew each other, he kept begging me to take a gap year with him. Be adventurous, travel around Europe for the summer. Backpacks and youth hostels and shit. I kept avoiding giving him an answer. Just so fuckin’ scared of… I don’t even know what, now. Of living, I guess. And he’d say ‘take your time, but I don’t want to see it without you.’ And I just… shit. I shoulda fucking gone with him.”

His words stagger, blinking his eyes several times before he shakes his head to dislodge the emotion welling up within them.

“Instead, two days into this mess I killed him. Not a zombie, not some cut-throat survivor. Me. ‘Cause I was fuckin’ goofing around. Not taking shit seriously. Unable to believe a guy like him and a guy like me could be squaring off against the end of the world together.”

The confession sits heavy between them, weighed down by the immensity of the guilt Pops has been carrying.

“It was a mistake,” Scar says, breaking the silence as gently as he can. “I’m sure he would’ve known that.”

“He didn’t have a chance,” Pops deflects. “I shot him right between the eyes. Couldn’t’ve aimed it better if I tried. He was dead before he even knew what happened.”

There’s nothing Scar can say to that. No words capable of soothing away such a deep, irrevocable hurt.

“I’m sorry,” he settles on at last, knowing the words sound weak but not having any others he can offer.

A moment passes between them as Scar watches Pops grapple with himself, expression wracked with grief and remorse as he looks back into the fire. It takes a few beats before his features finally smooth out again, equal parts resolved and resigned. Sitting up straight, he drains the remainder of his glass before pouring himself one more, polishing that off as well before wiping his mouth on his wrist and putting his glass aside.

“What can ya do?” He shrugs. “It is what it is.”

“Well…” Scar waffles, not sure whether to pack the confession away so quickly. “That’s certainly one way to look at it.”

It’s clear a door is being shut, the vulnerability that was exposed being packed away like an unwanted guest.

“What’s done is done though, right? We’re all fucking sad and the world sucks. Pitying each other’s not gonna get us anywhere.”

It’s a predictable refrain, stalwart in a way that Scar has sought to distance himself from his entire life. The part of him that’s spent enough time with Pops to know he doesn’t truly believe that rhetoric wants to speak up and tell him that it doesn’t have to be this way. To let Pops know that he doesn’t have to quietly bear the guilt alone—that grief is a burden they can carry together. He wants to insist that companionship and community are more important now than ever before, precisely because the world is challenging in such new terrible ways.

However, the part of him still struggling with guilt himself—the part horrified at how much time he wasted with someone he loved so desperately and how profound and personal the grief feels in the absence—understands the desire to keep such vulnerabilities close to the chest. Appreciates that, with this single confession, Pops is demonstrating a measure of trust. He can’t just disregard it by trying to push healing and reconciliation when it’s not yet ready to happen.

For several minutes they sit in silence, each lost in his own complicated quagmire of thoughts.

“If I had another chance… I’d forgive him sooner,” Scar says at last, needing to say the words, to admit them out loud.

“We’d all do things differently,” Pops agrees, reaching over to refill Scar’s glass. He’s clearly in a somewhat better state of mind, whether from the drink or from pouring his heart out, Scar doesn’t know, but he chooses to believe that they’re both better off for the things they’ve decided to trust with one another. A mutual understanding.

A vulnerability shared.

The conversation turns to lighter things after that. Pops is a natural conversationalist and Scar finds himself following his lead easily. They talk aimlessly to pass the time, trading jokes and stories as their bodies warm and their clothing dries. By the time Pops stands up and stretches, Scar’s lids are feeling heavy and his mind is a pleasant kind of fuzziness he hasn’t felt in years. He wheels his chair next to one of the large sofas, near enough that he can shimmy himself from one to the other while Pops hovers around, ready to assist. Distantly he thinks about how he could probably afford to stand up and move around on his own, but a part of him doesn’t want to make that push yet, unwilling to move on from Grian’s final grand gesture before he’s fully ready.

On the other side of the room, Pops tosses a fresh log into the fire before he makes himself comfortable, dropping his weight heavily onto the other couch. It’s somewhat smaller than Scar’s and his legs hang off the end. He mumbles an inebriated goodnight before he almost immediately starts to snore. It occurs to Scar that they should probably still sleep in shifts, but the room is so warm and he feels so comfortable that, after a few minutes, he nods off himself, slipping into the most comfortable sleep he’s had in weeks.

 

 

 

 

 

When Scar wakes up several long, restful hours later, it’s not from the splitting headache and dry mouth of a hangover. It’s not even from the sounds of Pops moving around the cabin with his heavy, lumbering footfalls.

What he wakes up to is the muzzle of a bolt-action rifle shoved in his face, and a low, unpleasant voice jeering, “Well, well, well, look who decided to join us. Rise and shine, sleeping beauty.”

There’s a tackiness in Scar’s throat, a roughness he can’t easily swallow down as he struggles to sit up, freezing when the cool metal of the gun presses snug against his chin.

“Let’s not make any sudden movements, alright?”

Scar can’t see anything with the enormity of the rifle taking up his entire field of vision, but from the ambient noise in the room he can work out that there are other bodies shuffling around the space, standing to the side and observing him closely.

His heart is in his throat immediately, nerves singing loud in his ears, but he manages to crack a smile all the same, a prickle of anxiety beading droplets of sweat along his hairline.

“Well hello there. You should’ve woken me if everyone was showing up all at once. Don’t tell me I slept through introductions?”

The muzzle of the gun dips and Scar gets a quick glimpse of his assailant, the hard edge of an unamused smile settled beneath sharp, focused eyes. From what he can see through their layers of winter gear, the person’s cheeks are flushed and frost-bitten, standing in front of him, commanding the attention of everyone in the room, looking tired, determined, and pissed off.

“Not at all,” they croon, and the words sound sour to Scar’s ears. “In fact, you’re just in time.”

The words are clipped with impatience, and with the snap of a finger and a sharp jerk of the gun’s muzzle, Scar finds himself being set upon by a stranger. An underling, for lack of a better word, who unceremoniously grabs him under each arm and yanks him onto his feet.

It’s as disorienting as it is disarming. After so long in his chair, Scar’s feet don’t immediately move to support his weight, forcing him to hang awkwardly between them as they labour under his sudden and unexpected weight.

“Hey!” A familiar voice shouts, cutting through the tussle. Pops, loud and awake and—blessedly—alive, snarling from where he’s tied up and pitched over on the floor. “Be careful with him. He’s in a wheelchair, you fucking dicks!”

The man behind him murmurs something, unintelligible, interrupted by an impatient sigh from their ringleader.

“Worry less about your new friend and focus on your own damn self, ‘Pops’.” The name is spat with vitriol, the gun swinging around so that the barrel is pointed at Pops now, sight aimed squarely at the meat of his thigh. “Or should I give you both something in common to commiserate over?”

Pops sets his jaw but says nothing, scowling up at the stranger long enough for their assailant to crack a smile, looking harsh and merciless.

“That’s what I thought, tough guy. Not so brave without your little radio show and big bear of a boyfriend to hide behind, are ya?”

All at once the pieces connect. The podcast, the gunshots outside the hospital, the sense that they were being followed, the mosin. He gasps audibly, everyone in the room turning to him. “Oh my god. You’re the Mosin Man.”

The man cackles, rough and amused. “Is that what you’ve been calling me? Can’t say I hate it though. Got kind of a ring to it.”

The lackey holding Scar speaks up, somber. “We ought to finish up here and get going if we want to make it back to the city before the storm hits, boss.”

Almost instantly, the rifle is back in the Mosin Man’s hand, swung around to point at his flunky. Scar feels the man stiffen up behind him, his grip on Scar going tighter.

“Don’t fucking interrupt me,” he growls, voice low and threatening. Impatiently he tilts his head back in Pops’ direction, not taking his eyes off of the man he’s talking to. “Been wanting to get my hands on this slippery fucker since he started talking shit on the radio. It’s been a long goddamn hunt, and you know better than to interrupt a man about to celebrate a kill.”

The phrasing immediately catches Scar’s attention, the alarm bells that had already been going off in his head doubling their clamour. Scar shoots a look in Pops’ direction, only to see the other man looking back at him with the same horror mirrored on his face.

The Mosin Man notes the exchange and shakes his head, lowering his mosin while giving Scar a pitying look—the kind he remembers getting from doctors who thought they knew more about his condition than he did.

It sends a spark of rebellious disgust through Scar’s body that he has to bite down on, unwilling to start a fight he knows he can’t currently win.

“Now don’t you worry, buttercup. We’ll leave you be once we’re done with him. No fun killing someone who can’t even run away. No sport in it, am I right?”

He laughs, an unpleasant sound that’s picked up by the other member of his crew, their snickering jeers making Scar’s blood boil.

He struggles to keep his face as neutral as he can, trying his best not to give his defiance away.

His lack of reaction doesn’t seem to bother the Mosin Man, who looks at him with a condescending expression, shaking his head pityingly as he offers, “Besides… between you and me, I got sort of a soft spot for ya after that sad little interview you gave, even if you are one of those freaks. Lame legs and a good for nothing whore of a partner? The universe has really had it out for you, eh?”

The mention of Grian jars Scar, immediately putting him off balance. The idea that what he’s lost is being regarded as simply something to look down on him for is as repellent as it is offensive.

It’s not the time or place for it, but Scar can’t help but immediately regret sharing such personal details out over the air. He’d never wanted Grian’s memory disrespected like this. It wasn’t his intent at all.

The Mosin Man backs away with a self-satisfied smirk, readjusting his hold on his rifle before he spits on the ground next to Scar’s feet. “‘Course, a real man would’ve taken that situation into his own hands. God knows I did. Wasn’t a trace of my cheating bitch or her lover left after I was done with ‘em.”

It’s a chilling admission, one that disgusts and horrifies Scar to his core. Suddenly, he realises that this isn’t a man hardened and changed by the turning of the world—this is someone who’s always been bloodthirsty. Someone whose value of life begins and ends with their own.

This is a man who saw the apocalypse approach and was glad for it.

If he and Pops are to make it out of this situation, they’re going to have to be careful.

He’s never been great at playing it safe, but there’s no choice to do otherwise.

There’s a snag between the parties in the room, an uncertainty on whose turn it is to speak next. The Mosin Man is looking at Scar expectantly, and Scar is preparing to rally; to attempt to persuade them to listen to reason, to listen to him, when all at once the front door to the cabin swings in with a bang. A winded looking member of the Mosin Man’s group rushes in to meet them.

“Boss, we got company.”

There’s an acute implication in the word. Foreboding at best.

“Who?” The Mosin Man asks, demanding and sharp.

The man shifts from side to side, casting an uncertain look towards the captor currently holding Scar upright before he says, partway between careful and accusing, “You remember when Paul went all trigger happy earlier?”

“Hey,” the man holding Scar barks, suddenly defensive. “Fuck you!”

“I told you it’d attract ‘em!” The newcomer shouts back. “You put up a fucking flare for them, they’re filtering in from miles around!”

“What are?” The Mosin Man presses, a harsh shout that overrides them both.

The newcomer pauses, casting an uncertain look around the room before he confesses, “Corpses, boss. A lot of ‘em.”

“Motherfucker.” The curse is out before any of them have time to stop it, like the tinder-dry kindling of an argument that’s been stoked for days that has finally caught light. Two sets of shoulders rise up defensively, hackles baring before the Mosin Man snaps, angrily, “How many of them, Aubrey? Which direction?”

“No direction, boss,” Aubrey replies, careful of being accused and infuriatingly vague as a result. “They’re everywhere. Not just on the road, either—in the woods, too. I told you, Paul, you can’t just shoot everything that moves—”

“Would you lay the fuck off?!” Paul snaps, bristling. “You know I wouldn’t have to shoot so much if you just kept watch properly!”

“I keep watch fine! You want me to have eyes on the back of my head all of a sudden?!”

“Enough!”

The Mosin Man’s voice is loud and final in the confined space of the cabin, and the two quiet down immediately, casting quick furtive scowls at one another as the Mosin Man sighs, overloud, tilting his head back to stare up at the ceiling before he rolls his shoulders, making a show of working out the tension lodged within them.

“So what you’re saying,” he continues, words venomous and slow once they’ve both had a chance to settle, “Is that we’ve got corpses incoming from all directions, and you didn’t bother to stop a second and gather a rough headcount before you turned tail and ran the whole way here, leaving a nice trail for them to follow?”

At the door, Aubrey swallows, a guilty gesture that has the rest of the room groaning at the perceived admission.

“I’ll hog tie you myself and leave you dangling as a midnight snack for them, Aubrey,” the Mosin Man growls, stalking a quick line across the floor as he paces out his frustration.

“Why me?! Leave your little radio boy!” Aubrey objects, gesturing aggressively towards Pops. “That’s what we came all this way for, wasn’t it? Leave ‘em both! You were gonna kill ‘em anyway!”

“Like hell you were,” Pops shouts from the floor, piping up only to add more fuel to the already raging fire. “What the hell did I ever fucking do to you?!”

There’s a precipice they’re all poised on. A tipping point before the conversation devolves into bare fists, accusations, and gunshots. They don’t need the zombies to disturb them when they’re already prepared to go after one another, each hair-trigger temper wound impossibly tight.

There’s nowhere to go from here. A bottleneck of personalities, none of which are interested in budging.

“Gentleman,” Scar says, speaking loud enough to be heard with a cool confidence he hopes he can maintain. “You’ll forgive me for eavesdropping, but it sounds like you’re in a bit of a predicament…”

Three sets of eyes turn on him, impatient already.

“I just can’t help but think that maybe you could benefit from the knowledge of a local expert,” he continues, honey in his charm.

“Local expert, eh? And how do you reckon that?” The Mosin Man asks, very little tolerance and even less patience in his tone.

“Why, I was born and raised in these woods,” Scar offers, persuasive as he sells his lie. “You think a guy in a wheelchair is wandering in from out of state? Goodness me, no.”

There’s a silence between the Mosin Man and himself, their assailant not quite able to call Scar’s bluff.

“So what do you suggest, then?” The Mosin Man prompts, finger resting on his gun’s trigger.

“Well for starters, if you’re thinking of weathering an onslaught here, you’re—excuse my language—out of your mind. Waist high single-pane windows and not a single bit of board to cover them with, not to mention cheap plywood doors. Those ghoulies will make swiss cheese out of this place before you know it.” He pauses, waiting until he’s sure he’s being listened to before he suggests, casual, “On the other hand, I just so happen to know an actual safe house, shored up properly against this mutual problem of ours. It’s out of your way if you’re wanting to get back to the city in time for dinner, but…” he leans back, affecting a shrug as best he can while still held up by the two men at his sides. “Better than taking your chances going out aimless into the horde.”

The Mosin Man studies him for a moment, a long stare, wasting time they don’t have.

“And why would you do that?” he asks at last, his question cutting to the chase in a way Scar can’t help but respect.

“I’d like to say it’s out of the goodness of my heart, but let me speak to you as one ruthless opportunist to another—it’s in my best interest, isn’t it? I don’t want to be left here, and I certainly don’t want to be bait in a plan that, let’s be honest, is probably going to fail anyway.” Scar can’t help but laugh a little, shaking his head. He likes the way they’re all watching him, transfixed by his words. It makes him feel in his element, a master of his craft. He licks his lips, sweetening his voice as he adds, “Listen, Mo—can I call you Mo? I really think we can help each other out here. You already said you had a soft spot for me, so let me show you that sentiment wasn’t misplaced. I can help you out, and in exchange, get through this with my remaining limbs intact. What do you say to that? A little squid pro quo.”

Paul scoffs from behind Scar, entirely unimpressed. “This guy’s talking out his ass, boss. Even if he does have some kinda safe house up his sleeve, is it really worth it to wheel this deadweight around? No fucking way! This is a waste of our—”

“Shut the fuck up, Paul,” the Mosin Man barks, annoyance spiking in his outburst.

Paul shrinks back, cowed, before Mosin Man turns his eyes back towards Scar, musing.

“He’s got a point though. Seems more trouble than it’s worth dragging you along for the ride.”

“Well first of all, you won’t have to drag me anywhere. I can keep up by myself. I got this far at the end of the world, didn’t I?” Scar asks, trying not to let his annoyance show. “I’d like to see Aubrey over there do the same without two functioning legs.”

Across the room Aubrey hunches up his shoulders, unhappy with the sudden scrutiny from the rest of the group, and the Mosin Man snorts in amusement.

“You talk good, and I’m listening,” he allows at last, but the relief of the admission is short-lived as he jerks his chin towards where Pops is laying. “Though let me guess, you’ll be wanting him to come with?”

It’s the trickiest needle to thread. The one Scar is worried about selling the most.

“Well Mo,” he begins, pragmatic and inviting as he keeps his voice as nonchalant as he can manage. “If you’re gonna kill him anyway for all the slights he’s made against you, wouldn’t it be better to do it live on air?” The suggestion sits between them, bold in a way he’s certain the Mosin Man wasn’t expecting. “I say you haul him back to town, put him on his little radio show, and then let him have it. Make a real example out of him. Show everyone what happens to people who cross you.”

That has the Mosin Man brightening, shock and delighted surprise mixing on his face as he throws his head back and cackles with laughter. It’s disconcerting and terrifying, a kind of enthusiasm for violence Scar has never seen before.

His shoulders are still shaking with mirth when he finally speaks. “You’re right. You’re absolutely fucking right. No point in being shy when we could make an example out of ‘im instead!”

Then, all at once, he sobers up, eyes turning stern and dangerous. “I’m onto you. I get what you’re tryna do with your sales pitch. You think you’re clever, and damn if you don’t make a more compelling case than these two idiots I drag along with me. So, fine. I’ll play your game.”

Within the span of a second, he brings his mosin back up, jamming the muzzle against Scar’s temple and laughing when Scar flinches. He leans in close, speaking in a loud, almost theatrical stage-whisper. “But listen to me so closely, chair boy, I am going to kill your friend. And whether that’s back in the city, or while out on our little walk is up to you. Just know that if you get in my way, I’ll put you both down like the dogs you are. Do you hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” Scar says, voice remarkably chipper while his thoughts remain a screaming disarray.

The Mosin Man stands still for a moment, studying Scar keenly. Then, abruptly, he backs up, dropping the muzzle of his gun as he speaks, sharply addressing the others in the room.

“Show me where the fuckin’ corpses are,” he barks, long strides taking him towards the door of the cabin. “And you better not be crying wolf about this shit again, Aubrey. I’m sick of your dramatics.”

He pauses at the doorway, snapping a finger to catch Scar’s attention before he points to Paul, tone fierce and commanding.

“Put him down on the couch and leave him there. Don’t let him have his chair no matter what he says to you. I don’t trust that fuckin’ son of a bitch or his little radio boy. Either of them get too chatty and you gag ‘em, alright? Don’t let ‘em get in your head.”

Paul nods, a quick assertive motion before the Mosin Man turns back towards the door, grabbing Aubrey by the shoulder and shoving him roughly out ahead of him. There’s a protesting shout, some muffled words of complaint, and then the door slams shut behind them.

The silence that follows their exit is strange, coiled tensely around a collectively held breath. Scar can feel Pops’ eyes on him, quietly seeking some kind of reassurance after what no doubt feels like an act that borders far too close to a betrayal.

Shifting his gaze in his direction, Scar winks at him, a sliver of a grin curled at the edge of his lips.

“Fuck,” Pops breathes out, the word accompanied by a heavy exhale. “You’re the sexiest man I’ve ever met, Wheels.”

It’s a relief to be understood, the two of them keenly aware of the fragility of their situation. There’s nothing else they can say to one another though. Not when Paul is still in the room with them, on edge and looking for a weakness to exploit.

With a grunt, Paul lowers Scar back down onto the couch, shaking out his arms once he’s finally settled. It’s only once he’s seated again that Scar realises he’s shaking, a faint tremor racing through his entire body, a mix of fear and the rush of his own adrenaline.

“That went well, I think,” he says out loud, cheerfully optimistic.

He supposes, in due time, he’ll find out whether or not that’s entirely true.

Notes:

(Click to reveal.)

[ SPOILERS ]

This chapter contains instances of Homophobia, Ableism, and Misogyny. It's not so egregious as slurs being tossed around, but since it might be jarring considering the generally inclusive tone of the fic thus far, we figured we'd drop a warning just in case.

---

Closing in on a couple of our favourite chapters for this arc very, very soon :3 See y'all next week! 💫

Chapter 27

Notes:

HELLO HELLO EVERYONE!

Please check out this incredible animatic THB made for us!! The flashbacks are pretty much exactly how we pictured them aaaaa! Love it! TYSM! 💜

We've also got this sweet little TAMN playlist by ball/greedy grinner! Such fun, especially with the nostalgic older songs in between :"D

Thank you both again!

Enjoy the chapter, and please keep in mind all the same warnings as the previous one! 💫

It’s not nice outside, but it’s not as bad as it could be.

The sleet and rain that had made Pops and Scar so miserable during their trek the day before has dissipated, but Scar still eyes the sky warily as he wheels his chair out of the cabin. The cloud cover through the trees is a uniform grey, impenetrable and drab. His breath fogs out around him as he moves, too cold for his own comfort, but at the very least the roads are clear.

Aubrey follows right behind him, a pistol pushed snug against the back of his head in a manner that feels insulting. It’s not as if Scar’s going to be able to get far if he tries to take off. While he’d been contemplating moving about just last night, it’s one thing to walk around undisturbed, and another thing entirely to outrun three people with a gun. He’s not going to be able to do it on his feet, and definitely not in his chair.

It’s not like he’d want to run off either. He’s well aware of Pops’ situation, tied and kept at a distance from him, allowing them no chance to even attempt to come up with an escape plan.

It’s clear from the get-go that Paul hadn’t been exaggerating when he came into the room yelling about undead. Through the trees Scar can clearly see a horde approaching—not following any road, but filtering up out of the forest itself, dragging their twisted and mangled bodies towards them through the decaying undergrowth.

There must be a township nearby, he supposes. A small population that turned on each other as the infection took over, before inevitably they spilled out into the forest. While the lack of heavy snow is good news for Scar and his wheels, it’s bad news as far as the zombies’ progress goes, nothing impeding them as they approach with a slow, single-minded determination.

All the same, Scar stops at the end of the driveway and takes his sweet time, scanning in either direction before out of the corner of his eye he sees it: Pops, subtly nodding his head to the left. With that cue in mind, Scar confidently leads the group ahead, trusting in whatever hint Pops has given him.

The road itself sets off at a curve, but overall stays relatively level. All the same, Scar is acutely-aware of the strain on his arms as they progress, moving quickly to outpace the oncoming horde. On a normal day he knows this would be nothing, the equivalent of a light jog at most. However, under the stress of being guarded, hungry and dehydrated, with the knowledge of zombies limping at their heels, it feels like his body’s been compromised, working against him every inch of the way.

“Hurry up,” Aubrey grouses, knocking the muzzle of his pistol against the back of Scar’s head, as if he needs a reminder that it’s there.

“Can’t be too hasty,” Scar hums, trying to keep the annoyance out of his tone and settling on something condescending instead. “All your shooting earlier has made a mess of the area. We don’t want to get ambushed, now do we?”

Aubrey grumbles something unrepeatable under his breath, but Scar’s glad to have poked at him anyhow, well aware that there’s nothing Aubrey can do to him without the Mosin Man’s direction.

He’s not sure how long they march through the grey drudgery of the landscape, the mountains hemming them in on either side, near enough to make a stranger out of the horizon, but equally distant so that they’re not constantly struggling up and down too many inclines. As near as Scar can tell, they’re passing through a wide valley basin, hollowed out by glaciers thousands of years ago. It’s green—or, would be in summer—the open fields surrounded in places by tight knots of trees. There are listing pines, maples, and spindly poplars, some still boasting their rotten brown foliage from fall.

It’s a far cry from the narrow logging roads that he and Pops had traversed together, snaking through the gaps between mountainsides, far off the beaten track. When they finally meet another road he takes it, following another subtle cue from Pops, ending up on what he assumes was once a rail line, long abandoned and fallen into disuse. The steel tracks have been removed. There are ties buried under a berm of gravel, leaving a leisurely trail that he might have enjoyed properly exploring, were it not for the gun repeatedly nudging against the back of his skull.

Unprompted, he finds himself thinking back to the desert. Of the miles and miles of wide open expanse he and Grian had navigated together. Dry earth and the open sky. Dust and sage and fragile, brittle undergrowth.

It had felt interminable, then. A barren place they’d never escape.

He wishes he could go back to it, now. Wishes he and Grian could pick up right where they left off.

Grian would be furious with him if he could see where Scar is right now. A hostage, subjected to this treatment, equal parts aggravating and humiliating.

“Boss, my feet are killing me.”

The interruption comes from Paul, a complaint that borders into a whine, breaking a tense, miserable silence that has hung over the lot of them for what feels like hours.

“Just ’cause Wheelchair is superhuman and doesn’t need a break doesn’t mean we can just keep going like this. We gotta take five.”

There’s the illusion of safety, the zombies having fallen impossibly far behind them miles ago. There’s no shelter to speak of, though. No place for them to post a guard while the others take a load off. From several yards ahead the Mosin Man turns around and takes a long look at them, rolling his eyes before he motions towards Scar and Pops with the muzzle of his gun.

“Leave ’em on the trail. Do not let them wander off. You’ve got twenty minutes.”

No other words are said, no additional details discussed. Unceremoniously, Pops ends up dumped at Scar’s side, wrists still lashed together and expression tight from his manhandling. It takes him a moment to drag himself up into a sitting position, groaning from the struggle before he gives Scar a pained sliver of a smile.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

Scar can barely force a grin, attempting to adopt a kind of nonchalance that won’t attract attention. “It’s been a while. How’re the kids? The missus?”

Pops chuckles and then the two of them fall silent, well aware of their captors lingering nearby and listening in on their every word. The tension between them is palpable, both itching to discuss where they go from here. For all that he spearheaded the initiative, Scar is hoping it’s Pops who has some sort of plan for them—or at the very least an idea of where they’re headed. He’s not sure how much longer he can maintain his false promise of leading them somewhere safe, the ruse already beginning to pull thin.

The minutes pass tediously as Pops and Scar sit on the trail while the Mosin Man and his crew gather together just off the path, distributing food that they make no effort to offer to the two of them. It’s not the kind of distraction that could allow Scar and Pops to make a break for it, but it does allow them a chance to huddle in close to one another, whispering in short, furtive exchanges.

“So what’s the plan?” Scar finally asks, low.

Pops takes a breath, risking a single surreptitious look over his shoulder at their captors. “I didn’t have time to check the map, but I’m pretty sure this is my ol’ man’s stomping grounds. He told me he put up a load of traps in this area—zombie-proofing from when he was still roughing it on his own. Lotta repurposed gear that he’d originally been using to deal with the cougars and bears. If we play our cards right, we could lead these idiots right to ’em.”

The revelation is heartening and makes Scar glad he trusted Pops’ directions. He finds himself nodding along eagerly, trying not to think too deeply about the reality of catching a person in a leg-hold trap meant for a bear. He reminds himself that these are the same people who are planning to shoot Pops live on air when the time comes.

“We’re gonna have to catch ‘em by surprise,” Pops whispers, keeping his voice as low as possible. He pauses for a moment to consider it, clearly mulling something over in his head, his expression stern. “I think the best possible way will be for me to make a break for it. If I can run, I can trick ‘em into following me. They’ll be so busy tryna catch me, they won’t have time to look where they’re going.”

“They’ll shoot you the second you try it,” Scar reminds him, quietly pragmatic.

Pops nods, a glimmer of mischief in his eye.

“That’s where you come in—I’m gonna need a distraction. Something to get their eyes off me long enough that I can make it past the first few trees. Once I’m in the thick of it they’ll have no choice but to chase me instead.”

All at once Scar can see where Pops is going with this. He can picture it clearly, their assailants rushing through the forest, charging after Pops, so single-minded in their pursuit that they fail to see what he’s set them up for. It’s a risky plan, there’s no doubt about that, but the logic behind it is reasonable. Scar can envision it working, if they play their cards just right.

“What’s stopping you from running into one of his traps, though?” He can’t can’t help but ask, needing to point out the most major flaw in the plan.

“Wheels…” Pops all but croons. “You think I don’t know how to avoid a trap put up by the guy who was porking me?”

The insane rhetoric of the question catches Scar completely off guard, stunning him into silence in a way that has Pops grinning from ear to ear.

“Just trust me, alright?” He presses, snickering quietly around the hush of his words. “And believe me when I say I haven’t stepped in one yet.”

“Right. Yet,” Scar murmurs, but Pops is already moving on, looking back at their captors, who look to be getting ready to move on again.

“Don’t do anything too crazy,” Pops whispers, a request that Scar barely registers. Despite himself an odd sort of excitement is already coursing through his body, his concerns for their safety overshadowed by a chaotic thrill—an eagerness to give their aggressors a taste of their own medicine.

“How much further do we have to go?” he asks, peering down the road ahead, the nearest segment bending around a copse of tightly knotted pines.

“A mile or so, tops.”

Scar nods but there’s no further time to plan or converse. Without fanfare, the group finishes their break and are ordered back on the road with a sharp word from the Mosin Man. Together they resume their progress, moving at the same pace, just shy of rushing, gun pushed firm against the base of Scar’s skull as he effortlessly slips back into the role of someone held captive but gamely leading the way.

They’re passing through a wooded area, an overgrown pasture with an abandoned barn on one side and a thick press of foliage on the other, when Pops puts their plan into action. He pretends to stumble, the toe of his boot catching in a divot on the trail, cursing loud in a way that can’t be interpreted as anything other than a sign. The others shake it off with barely a glance, but Scar can see it for what it was meant to be.

“We’re getting close,” Scar announces, cheery and conversational. “How good is it gonna feel to give your legs a break when we get there, eh?”

He’s jovial, but he can see the tension in the other members of their group, everyone on high alert, wound tight by the unfamiliarity of the area, and the temper of their ringleader smouldering at their heels. His heart jumps up in his throat, equal parts excited and fearful for what’s to come.

“I know I’ve been enjoying it,” Scar finishes, more to himself than to any of his captors, as he abruptly wrenches his shoulder to one side.

The sharp motion immediately overbalances his chair to the left, tipping it sideways and sending his entire body pitching to the ground along with it.

It’s not an elegant fall. Uncoordinated and sprawling. He can feel the hard edge of his seat digging into his side, painful where it presses into him, while the gravel of the road shoves into his shoulder and cheek, gouging him painfully enough that he knows he’ll bleed.

Behind him, Paul yells in alarm, immediately grabbing the attention of the others. Collectively, every head turns in his direction, a mixture of reactions and expressions on their faces that he wishes he could enjoy.

The only problem is that Pops is one of them, rooted in place, looking at Scar with a mute sort of horror, torn between their agreed upon plan and the basic human instinct to help a person in need.

It’s all Scar can do to lift his head, making an exaggerated sound of pain to disguise the covert wink he sends Pops’ way.

“What the fuck is going on?” Aubrey shouts, and it’s clear a floodgate is about to tear open.

“Gopher hole,” Scar lies, chuckling as he pushes himself up onto his elbows, wincing in a way that he wishes was an act. “Would you believe that? Out in the open for anyone to stumble on.”

At the very least his words reassure Pops. He takes one last, hesitant look at him, and then in the next instant he’s off.

With all the attention still on Scar as he struggles to lift himself back into his chair, it takes a second for anyone to notice Pops’ departure.

The moment they do, however, all hell breaks loose.

Aubrey curses under his breath, the first to realise that Pops has booked it. He yells, alerting the others as he sprints into the woods after him, everyone turning to see what the commotion is about. None of them are worried about the disabled man on the floor.

It’s just the opportunity Scar needs.

With a grunt, he pushes himself up off the ground, knees bending before he rises to a crouch and stands up. It feels a little awkward to be out of his wheelchair after so long spent in it, but there’s no time to adjust. The moment he’s fully righted himself, Scar snaps his hands out towards Paul, yanking the pistol from his hands and immediately placing the man in a chokehold.

Paul manages a shout of surprise before he’s immobilised. Scar keeps him held in place as a shield, the Mosin Man turning towards them both with eyes going wild in shock.

“Surprise!” Scar exclaims, fake smile plastered on wide.

The Mosin Man growls, raising his rifle and aiming it at Scar. “You lying son of a bitch!”

Heart in his throat, Scar takes the stolen pistol and puts the muzzle snug against Paul’s temple. He tries his best to keep his voice forbidding, playing his part, knowing how desperately he needs to sell this role.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he warns, jamming the gun harder against the side of Paul’s head and making the man hiss in pain. “Lay down your weapons. Or else.”

“‘Or else’ what?” The Mosin Man scoffs. “You want me to believe your pansy ass is gonna shoot ‘im? It takes a man to make a kill, hot shot. You don’t have the balls for it.”

Scar breathes through the spike of his anger, reminding himself what’s at stake here. He needs to create a distraction just long enough for Pops to deal with Aubrey and circle back to help him.

He keeps his tone cool, entirely disaffected as he asks, “Are you willing to take that chance?”

“Boss, c’mon,” Paul whimpers, hands scrambling against Scar’s arm in an effort to break free, wincing when Scar tightens his chokehold.

It almost makes Scar pity him.

Silently, he and the Mosin Man stare each other down. There’s a tension in the air, both of them waiting to see who’ll bend first. The mosin stays trained on Scar, unwavering, and it takes all Scar has not to buckle under the threat of it. He wants some sign that Pops is coming back to save him. The single split second of distraction he needs to get himself out of this mess.

When it becomes clear that Scar isn’t about to budge, the Mosin Man merely smiles.

“What can I say?” He asks, grins with all his teeth, sending a shiver down Scar’s spine. “I’ve always been a risk taker.”

The warning bell goes off in Scar’s head and it’s all he can do to let Paul go and put some distance in between them as the Mosin Man lowers his aim and shoots Paul himself, gunning him clean between the eyes. Immediately, Paul’s body hits the floor and Scar doesn’t have to check to know he’s dead, stumbling back on legs that feel suddenly incapable of supporting his weight.

The horror of it feels like an explosion in his chest, his heart beating so fast he feels dizzy, but Scar has no time to process it properly. The Mosin Man immediately swings his aim back up, looking for Scar as he retreats, and it’s only his quick reflexes that allow Scar to narrowly avoid the shot that follows.

“Shit,” Scar curses as he rushes into the trees for cover, hoping he’s following Pops and not putting himself foot-first into a trap. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He feels incredibly ungainly as he moves, feet heavy as he dives into the undergrowth, bare branches scratching at his face and clothes as he struggles to make his way as far as possible off the trail.

This would be easier in summer, he thinks. The abundance of fresh growth and bright leaves would provide better cover. With the majority of the forest dead and diminished for winter, he knows he must stand out painfully against the tree trunks, leaving obvious tracks in the muddy earth beneath the treads of his boots.

From behind him, the Mosin Man fires into the trees, laughing between rounds.

“Now now, no need to be so shy,” he shouts as he follows, his threat lilting through the air. “Why don’t you come back and show us this marvel you’ve experienced? A man can’t walk and suddenly he’s back on his feet? That’s downright miraculous!”

He takes a shot with his mosin, aiming blind. It misses, the bullet embedding somewhere in the ground a dozen yards from Scar, but the fear he feels is in no way diminished. He flees without a set direction, ducking beneath branches and skirting around thickets, hoping he’ll be able to spot a trap in time to avoid it, when the ground abruptly dips out beneath him, causing him to tumble down a shallow bank.

He bites his tongue to stifle a sound of surprise, immediately tucking his shoulders back against the hollow, doing his best to make himself invisible and small. There’s silence all around him, but he can feel his own animal instinct tingling behind his eyes, keeping him alert, all too aware that he’s being hunted and followed.

He wishes he was better equipped, the pistol feeling flimsy and inadequate in his hand. Somewhere behind him the Mosin Man takes another shot, though even with the reverb caught amongst the trees, Scar can tell it wasn’t angled in his direction. It’s too soon to think he gave him the slip, though, and he knows he’s not yet deep enough in the woods to congratulate himself on evading pursuit.

There’s also the loose end of Aubrey to account for, having vanished into the trees as he’d run after Pops.

Another gunshot echoes, followed by a shout of frustration, distant, but still near enough to hear clearly.

Scar shrinks back, pressing himself as far under the withered foliage hanging over the bank as possible. For several minutes he doesn’t move, barely breathing at all. He waits until he hears another shout, even further off this time, before he ducks and runs, hoping he’s heading in the opposite direction.

The muscles in his legs ache as he moves, a strained protest he does his best to ignore. It used to be that even during longer periods where he was wheelchair bound, he’d keep up with exercises to prevent any atrophy in his muscles. However, ever since he lost Grian, he hasn’t bothered to do any of that, too busy struggling to survive. Now his legs are rubbery, weak in a way that feels like yet another betrayal in his life as he pushes himself through the forest.

The further he moves the less animosity he feels carried in the air, like the threat is slowly fading out with every step he takes. Scar’s not foolish enough to drop his guard completely, but he does slow his pace somewhat, taking his time as he moves around trees, constantly watching his feet for any hidden traps while also checking over his shoulder every so often to make sure he’s not being followed.

It’s as he’s looking behind, still walking forward, that he collides with something warm and solid.

A body.

A human body.

In a flurry of panic he steps back, yanking up the pistol, hoping it’s a zombie, not knowing if he could shoot Aubrey.

Only to find that it’s Pops standing in front of him, flush-faced and winded, his tied hands help up in surrender.

The relief floods in immediately.

“Pops,” Scar breathes, his entire body relaxing. “You’ve gotta be more careful—I almost shot you!”

“Oh don’t get me started,” Pops snaps, not participating in the emotional reunion Scar thought to expect. He lowers his hand, and on instinct Scar reaches out and begins tugging at the knots around his wrists— another thing Pops neglects to thank him for. “You fucking asshole—what are you doing waltzing around the forest?”

There’s a second of confusion as Scar lets the cords fall, not immediately processing why he seems so angry at him. Then, understanding dawns, following Pops’ eyes as he looks down at where Scar’s feet are planted firmly on the muddy ground.

“Oh. Right.”

“Yeah. Right,” Pops replies, tense. It’s clear he’s frustrated, annoyed at not being as in on the plan as he’d originally thought. “This conversation’s not over,” he continues, firm. “But first we gotta make our way back to the encampment and grab our shit.”

The sound of yelling interrupts them, filtering in through the trees and forcing them both silent. Scar and Pops stand still, bodies frozen, barely daring to breathe, and when there’s no further commotion Pops meets Scar’s eyes, nodding his head in the direction of what Scar trusts is the trail.

Wordlessly the two of them turn, making their way back in pursuit of their bags, their guns, and most importantly: Scar’s chair.

It’s easy to navigate the woods on foot, Scar realises, side-stepping tangled thickets and ducking beneath low-hanging branches in a way he hasn’t been able to for days. It’s a good feeling, exciting despite the adrenaline still coursing through him, and he’s opening his mouth to deliver the revelation when a sudden sound cuts through the silence.

Not a gunshot, not a bellowed threat—a scream. High pitched and in agony, piercing through the otherwise still air.

It’s easy to assume the worst; a zombie, wandering alone, lurching through the woods, and catching one of the Mosin Man’s crew unawares and tearing into them. It’s a painful reminder, too close to his own experience with Grian, a sore spot he has yet to let properly scab over. It immediately triggers a grief-riddled burst of fear in Scar, sickened at the thought.

Looking over at Pops though, he finds the other man grinning back with an edge to his smile, brutal and bloodthirsty.

“You hear that?” He asks, whispered, a clear note of pride in his tone. “That’s the sound of a leg-hold trap. I told you this was my old man’s woods.”

He ducks his head as he keeps moving, the trees ahead visibly thinning as they finally spot the familiar crest of the gravel road. They emerge not far from the place where they’d initially staged their escape.

“If one’s stuck that’ll buy us at least another half an hour, maybe more,” Pops explains, moving with confidence as he starts grabbing up what remains of his gear. “Though I don’t think we should sit around and test it.”

“We won’t,” Scar promises as he jogs up to his chair. It’s still on its side where he left it, looking forlorn in a way that has him wanting to apologise for how he treated it. It’s easy enough for him to right it however, hastily reaching beneath the seat and finding the latch. He folds it flat before he picks it up, tucking it under his arm.

He’s so focused on his chair that he doesn’t at first notice that Pops has efficiently gathered up his own gear and Scar’s, already reclaimed from the others’ packs. Pops takes some time putting the pack back on and strapping his shotgun to it, keeping Scar’s rifle in his grip alongside Scar’s bag in his hands.

“Oh!” He says, cheerfully surprised by the development. “My stuff!”

There’s more he wants to say—a teased, fond, confession that he thought he’d never see his things again—but the snap of a twig to their left has them both looking to the side just in time to see Aubrey emerging from the bracken, swatting at the leafless saplings as he stumbles back onto the road, looking winded from his exertion.

He doesn’t look good. He looks, in a word, terrible.

“Don’t you fucking run,” he warns, but it’s to deaf ears. Pops is already turning and taking off at a sprint, gear piled haphazardly on his shoulders, leaving Scar no choice but to follow at his heels.

They race off together, Scar clutching his wheelchair to his chest as Pops struggles next to him with both their bags. There’s no time to stop and level out their gear. From behind, they can hear Aubrey yelling, followed by a second louder, deeper voice.

The Mosin Man.

Sure enough, moments later a shot is fired into the air, reckless and loud and far too close for comfort. Scar’s not sure if it’s real or in his head, but he swears he can hear boots pounding the ground behind them, fast, like a predator approaching. Beside him, Pops stumbles, one of the bags slipping from his grasp, and Scar leans out to catch it before Pops can trip over it completely and crash to the ground. It takes a second for them to fumble things into place—a second they both know they don’t have—Scar putting his arms through the bag’s shoulder straps while Pops struggles to untangle himself from it all.

Another two shots are fired after them, accompanied by yelling that’s even louder than before.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Pops curses, already breathing hard. They don’t have the luxury of thick forest to cover them, but Pops leads them off the road anyway, the two of them keeping low to the ground as they zig-zag through the sparse trees.

Scar’s not certain how long they run for, but eventually sounds of pursuit fall silent behind them, even the gunshots halting. It’s the physical strain that forces them to stop, more than anything. Scar’s lungs ache, each gasp of cold air making something sour and acidic catch in the back of his throat.

At the very least, the area around them is shaded and quiet, the forest made of stout, shaggy pines that offer plenty of cover, enough so that Scar doesn’t immediately feel threatened when they take their break.

“Think we lost ‘em?” he pants, setting his chair down before gratefully taking the water Pops passes his way.

“Dunno,” Pops says simply, uncapping his bottle and draining it in one go. “Don’t fuckin’ care. We got our guns back. Next time we see that son of a bitch we blow his brains out.”

Scar nods as he finishes off his own drink, not about to debate him on the specifics of how he feels they should deal with their assailants.

The second he’s done drinking, Pops shoves him. Hard.

Scar stumbles back, managing to keep his footing just barely, immediately reaching up to rub his sternum. “What the heck was that for?” he asks, just shy of a whine.

“You fucking dick!” Pops yells, though not loud enough for his voice to carry. “We had to get your goddamn chair through so much sleet and muck and snow—I almost threw my back out lifting you up and down—and you’re telling me you could walk the entire fucking time?!”

It’s a fair thing to be mad about, and Scar finds himself laughing sheepishly. “Okay, so it sounds pretty bad when you put it like that.”

“When were you gonna tell me?!” Pops presses, and though some of his bluster is gone, it’s clear he’s genuinely upset with him, betrayed on a level that Scar does feel bad about.

“I was saving the big reveal for right before I stabbed you in the back,” Scar jokes, attempting a bit of levity, though Pops clearly isn’t impressed, the expression on his face a mix of exasperation and genuine annoyance.

It’s a bridge Scar knows he shouldn’t be joking about burning, and holds his hands up in surrender, showcasing his remorse as best he can. “Kidding! I’m just kidding.”

It takes Pops a second more of frustrated grumbling before he finally relents, dropping his aggressively crossed arms to his sides.

“You’re lucky your stunt saved our lives, or I’d be so fucking pissed for real right now,” he mutters, not forgiving Scar, but at least allowing them to move on as he yanks open his bag, rooting around for something to eat before they resume their trek.

Scar watches him for a moment—the man he’s spent weeks with, who’s shared so much with him, and who he still somehow managed to keep his distance from.

“I mean, for what it’s worth, I really do need this chair,” he says, offering the truth gently.

Without looking up, Pops continues to root around in his supplies and murmurs, “I don’t know what to believe from you at this point.”

With a sigh he finally digs out a package of beef jerky, tearing it open with his canines before he takes some and passes it over to Scar.

“How far back does this scam go?” He asks, blunt. “When I found you, you were in a wheelchair! Were you pretending then, too?”

For his part, Scar accepts the meal, taking one of the small pieces and settling back against a lichen-covered tree trunk. “I was never pretending,” he answers honestly. “When you found me I was in the middle of a flare up. A bad one. It was the worst I’d been in months, actually.”

“Flare up of what?” Pops demands, and while it’s rude, Scar supposes he’s earned it.

“Autoimmune disease,” he replies simply. “There’s different types, but what I’ve got in specific has a lot of different severities—I just happened to get the short end of the stick. Back in the day it had me on disability and I had to stop working at a job I loved. Eventually, my doctors and I found proper meds that helped, but I still needed a cane most days. The chair was for when flare-ups got unmanageable.” He thoughtfully chews through his piece of jerky, letting his words settle. “Obviously I’m not gonna be seeing my specialist again any time soon, so… it’s gonna be more bad days than good from now on.”

“Shit,” Pops breathes, making a face, torn between his grudge and basic, sympathetic decency. “That sucks, man. I’m sorry.”

There’s a part of Scar that wants to accept his words with humility and grace. To smile politely and say ‘thank you,’ before organically letting the conversation move on. He can’t help himself, however. A lifetime of shouldering the unwanted, unnecessary pity of others causing him to shrug as he tears off another bite of jerky.

“I told you because you asked me, not because I want you to feel sorry for me,” he replies. “You can be mad at me about keeping the truth from you if you wanna be mad.”

“Jesus, I’m not gonna stay pissed if you actually need the fucking chair,” Pops counters, like it should go without saying. “I’m not a fucking monster. And it’s not like you were lying lying.”

Scar shrugs a shoulder, adamant all the same. “Compared to living through a zombie apocalypse, needing a wheelchair’s nothing.”

Pops’ face twists up in an unconvinced expression, a respectful shade of disagreeing. “I mean, sure. But I’m pretty sure that the dead coming back to life tops everybody’s list.”

“You’re saying the zombies are too equal-opportunity to count?”

“So sue me for wanting a little variety in our trauma, I guess,” Pops gripes. He’s complaining, but there’s a growing brightness in his expression that comes as a comfort, helping to convince Scar that he’s not going to hold his grudge for very long.

“So it’s a diversity thing,” Scar presses, teasing.

“Well I’m sorry for being sympathetic to the specifics of your shitty situation!” Pops exclaims, throwing his hands up in surrender but laughing as he says it. “You’re right. Fuck me for not telling you to just walk it off.”

They both laugh at that and, for what it’s worth, it feels like a load has been lifted. It’s better knowing Scar’s no longer holding back his truth, and it’s good to have had Pops take the news so well, joking about it rather than seething.

Once the two of them have eaten enough to take the edge off their hunger, they begin properly dividing up their gear, Scar setting his wheelchair back on the ground as he loads his bag onto the seat, unfolding the handles recessed into its frame and getting ready to push it ahead of himself like a buggy.

“Where to?” he asks, ignoring the way Pops looks at him with a fondly bemused expression.

“Well,” Pops begins, rubbing his chin as he casts his gaze around, taking in the loose spread of the forest, sparse on either side of them. “Not gonna point fingers, but someone got us way the fuck off course with his little ‘trust me, I know where we’re going’ schtick…”

He pauses, rooting his compass and the crumpled mess of his map out of his pocket, taking a few minutes to estimate their location.

“I think so long as we find the river that’s supposed to be ahead of us, we’ll be okay,” he says at last, tapping the side of the compass against the map and its littering of red pen notations. “It’s not where I thought we’d be, but it won’t take us too much out of our way, in the long run. The campground we wanna eventually get to is still at least a couple days hike though, so we’ll wanna get moving sooner rather than later.”

Scar nods, motioning Pops ahead with a nod. “Lead the way, then.”

There’s a familiar camaraderie as they get ready to continue onwards, Scar pushing his chair ahead of himself while Pops walks beside him with his shotgun gripped loose in both hands. They’re still on edge, listening for any unusual sounds, and stopping at every point that feels too exposed to look for a more sheltered way around. But alongside the nerves is a shared trust in each other as they make their way forward. It feels nice, Scar thinks. Doggedly invested in each other’s survival, despite the fact that at any moment they might find themselves staring down the business end of a mosin.

“For what it’s worth,” Scar says after a few minutes of silence, conversational as he easily follows Pops. “Catching the love of my life cheating on me was way worse than the wheelchair. Or the zombies.”

“And?” Pops asks, casting a glance at him, an eyebrow raised.

“Just saying, if you’re looking for where to hand out pity points...” Scar lets the words hang, allowing Pops draw the conclusion of his implication before he pivots, grinning, “Actually, I want you to feel sorry for me for being this good looking and not having a single mirror in the apocalypse.”

Pops’ laughter comes out as a surprised guffaw, the sound bursting from his chest like it caught him off guard.

“Well, heavy hangs the crown,” he chuckles, shaking his head as he walks, dead leaves shuffling beneath his feet.

It’s only as they’re nearing the river that Pops finally pauses, casting his gaze around uneasily, like he’s looking for something. The trees are almost unnaturally still in the waning light of the afternoon.

“Shit, it’s been a long day,” Pops says at last, the words dragging out of him as he stares between the thin tree trunks. “Every little thing’s got the hairs standing up on the back of my neck.”

Brushing off his discomfort with a shrug, Pops continues on ahead, leaving Scar to hang back as he stares into the middle-distance of the woods.

A breeze moves through the trees at last. Subtle, like an exhale, rattling the few mangy brown leaves clinging to the higher branches.

Something about it makes Scar feel nostalgic. Makes him think of Grian.

“Let’s move,” Pops calls back, and in an instant the spell is broken, leaving Scar staring at empty undergrowth and feeling a bit foolish for it.

“Coming,” he replies, dragging the vowels into a sing-song as he turns to follow Pops, doing everything in his power to convince himself that peering out into the trees hasn’t invited something amongst the growth to intently stare back.

Notes:

This chapter was such fun to write fr! >:D

Next week though... next week in particular is gonna be great ;)

Chapter 28

Notes:

STARTING OFF WITH A QUICK ANNOUNCEMENT! Lock and I will be taking next week off from posting TAMN, so Chapter 29 will be out two weeks from now, on Aug. 9th! 💫

Secondly, we've got yet another playlist! :D This one's compiled by desertdu0s on tumblr! TYSM!! ;w; 💜

The journey to the campground takes about two days, and the route they’re on takes them uphill quite often.

It’s something that Scar should have perhaps paid better attention to when Pops was outlining their route. Instead, the hike seems incredibly long and exhausting at the best of times, and Scar finds that, although his flare-up has passed, he continues to use his aids more often than not.

Whenever they have to stop for the night, Pops automatically moves to help him out of his chair and then freezes, looking at him a little foolishly as he remembers that Scar is capable of doing it himself. Each time, Scar makes a point of asking him for a shoulder to lean on anyway, not only because it genuinely does make things easier, but because in the face of his newfound trust in Pops, he wants to show that his aid is appreciated.

It makes their time around camp easier, he thinks. Pops griping good naturedly but never leaving Scar to feel like a burden, while Scar is better able to pull his weight with the various tasks required to set them up for a safe and sheltered night.

It feels good to have found companionship again, Scar realises one evening while using Pops’ hatchet to split a fallen tree into firewood, the now familiar sound of Pops calling out on his radio filtering through the trees.

It feels good to be able to feel something other than numb.

The weather is a mix of rain and snow as they progress, neither ever seeming to stop. It’s a miserable process, cold and wet and tedious. They trudge along side by side, passing mile after mile without any sign of civilization, well aware that their only options are to reach their destination, or succumb to the elements.

It’s late in the afternoon on their third day of steady progress when they finally approach the campground. The weather has been good, a high ceiling of scattered overcast with no sign of rain or snow, and the ground has been level for miles. The road, however, is choked on both sides by thick, overbearing forest, making them both feel claustrophobic and on edge. Above them, glimpsed in the narrow wedge of visible sky, the underbellies of the clouds are filtering through shades of bright orange, magenta, and red as the sun begins to set.

The campsite itself is located down a side road that feeds off their main route, marked by a large sign emblazoned with the national parks logo. A barricade has been put in place across it, hung with a notice that says ‘CLOSED FOR THE SEASON.’

“Is this an enclosed area, like the lodge?” Scar asks as he waits for Pops to push the barricade aside, but Pops shakes his head before he’s even finished asking.

“It’s one of those public campgrounds. Open area, no cabins, just pitch your tents and weather out in the elements,” Pops explains as they set off down the dirt road, Scar standing up out of his chair to walk as his tires catch in the muck. A short distance around a bend in the road a clearing comes into view. It’s the proper entrance to the campground, and Pops points to it as he speaks. “We’re gonna have to stay cautious, just in case some other survivors thought to come here, but it’s a decent place. Should have restrooms, and there’s a river we can use to freshen up a little. A nice place to rest and recuperate before we get back on the road.”

The campground itself is folded into a bend of the river, the majority of the sites backing onto the riverbed itself. It has prominent, picturesque views of the valley as it curves up into the tree-covered mountainside, only a handful of the lots completely sheltered within the forest.

It’s an eerie feeling, walking along the road that winds through the location, imagining the place full of campers; pitched tents and vans, pickups towing trailers of ATVs with kayaks and mountain bikes thrown in the back. The place had no doubt closed for winter before the outbreak spread itself across the continent, but Scar can’t shake a profound sense of loss as they move through it, noting the lingering signs of human activity nearly everywhere he looks. Initials and dates carved into picnic tables, black coals and ashes left in fire pits, and small pillars of smooth river rocks arranged in cairn-like clusters along the shoreline.

The sense of sadness it instils in him is undeniable. Yet another place hollowed out in the wild, frequented once but abandoned now, soon to fade away as the moss and the saplings reclaim it.

Pops, on the other hand, seems to share none of Scar’s melancholy, ignoring the empty campsites completely as he leads Scar straight to a cedar plank structure near the centre of the campground. It’s a shed really, a seasonal residence meant for the forest ranger in charge of overseeing and maintaining the site. It’s boarded up but Pops makes quick work of it, stripping back the winterization of tarps and plywood in order to pry the door open, revealing a single room inside, large enough for a small desk, a wood stove, some shelves, and a cot.

“Now you can’t say I don’t take you anywhere nice,” Pops says, a teasing kind of pride in his tone as he ushers Scar inside. With their gear on the floor, and Scar’s chair folded up against the wall, it’s a tight fit, but after two days sleeping out in the open with the trees whispering and groaning all around them it’s a welcome reprieve. One that Scar accepts gratefully, happy to feel the security of a roof over his head and a relative sense of privacy.

It’s no secret that they’ve been feeling the increased sense of unease over the last two days. A disquiet from the woods that they can’t describe. There are times that Scar has wanted it to be their pursuers, hoping for a sign of them—the Mosin Man stepping out from behind a tree with his gun drawn—desperate to face a threat he at least knows the name of.

Being inside doesn’t make the discomfort go away, but it at least it gives them a buffer. A shelter from the forest and its invisible prying eyes.

“No running water, but we can scrub up in the river, and this baby’s gonna keep us warm,” Pops explains, crouching down next to the woodstove in an attempt to figure out the flue.

The cabin smells overwhelmingly of cedar; a clear, bracing scent, so different from the earthy musk of the dirt and pines outside. There are no decorations on any of the surfaces, the only thing worth noting left next to the desk. Where a cork board has been mounted to the planks, there’s a calendar pinned in place with a thumbtack, the last date crossed off marking the middle of September.

“I’ll get some wood,” Pops says, and Scar’s relief at not being sent out on the task is immeasurable. “You stay here and look pretty,” he adds as he sidles past him on his way to the door. “I know you can handle that.”

Scar snorts, shaking his head and waving Pops off as he leaves. Once alone, he takes a minute simply to stretch out, getting his stiffness out as best he can with a couple of easy muscle exercises. Following that, he begins peeling off his outer layers; the ones that haven’t had a chance to dry in days. He finds some thick wool blankets stowed away under the cot and wraps himself up, trying to keep himself warm as he lets his thoughts wander.

In quiet moments like this, where he’s left to his own devices, he can’t help but think of Grian, his idle thoughts returning to him naturally. It’s strange how his grief feels, sometimes heavy and other times distant. Painful but no longer overwhelming.

He doesn’t know if that’s normal. He’s never lost someone like this before.

Even with Cub and Pearl, a part of Scar is still hopeful that they were out there somewhere, fighting through the worst of it. He can still think of them, even if that faith feels a little rooted in denial.

Where Grian is concerned, no doubt remains. Scar saw the bite, he saw the way Grian’s skin paled and his eyes turned grey. He saw him succumbing to the infection, and he knew there was nothing he could do to save him.

Despite so long now spent struggling to survive and fearing for his life, he still feels cowed in the face of death. Small and inexperienced.

But maybe that’s just how it’s meant to be. Maybe death isn’t supposed to become familiar. Maybe it always remains a large, massless shadow hanging over the horizon, both forever out of reach and too close to become comfortable.

His thoughts are abruptly upended, the shack’s door swinging open, banging loud against the wall.

“Check this out,” Pops roars, lumbering back into the cabin with an armful of tinder, kindling and logs in various sizes.

Pushing his wandering thoughts out of his mind and pulling the blanket tighter around himself to stave off the cold Pops has allowed in, Scar greets him with a grin.

“That’s some impressive wood you’ve got there.”

“Baby, you ain’t seen nothing yet.” Pops says, winking at him as he carries the stack of timber over to the woodstove.

In short order he’s built an impressive fire, logs crackling loud inside the wood stove as heat pools out into the cabin, seeping into Scar in a way he can feel down to the marrow of his bones. It’s a welcome change from sitting cold at the side of the road, weathering the elements out in the open and wishing they were somewhere else. He didn’t know he would ever be grateful for something so simple, appreciating the profound comfort of something he once took for granted.

“Now this is living, eh?” Pops asks as he rocks back from the fire, grinning large at Scar with a fresh light in his eyes. It’s incredible how quickly both their moods have turned around, days of tense drudgery immediately bolstered by their stroke of luck. “Really makes me wish we’d brought that whiskey with us so we could celebrate.”

It’s a risky thing to joke about so soon after the indulgence had nearly cost them their lives, but Scar finds himself chuckling at it all the same.

“Speak for yourself,” he dismisses, keeping his hands out as he warms them by the fire. “I’m never drinking again.”

Something about the idea of a celebration nags at him all the same though. He takes a moment to retrace his rough grasp on the seasons, trying to figure out how much time has passed since he last knew the exact date.

“We’ve missed Thanksgiving, I think,” he remarks conversationally.

“And we’re gonna miss Christmas, I’m sorry to say,” Pops replies, unenthused, shrugging a shoulder dismissively.

“Never was much of a Christmas guy, myself.”

Pops offers him a mild grin, one eyebrow raised sceptically. “Really? Thanksgiving over Christmas?”

“Big fan of the cornucopia,” Scar insists, straddling the line between teasing and sincere. “No other holidays with one! You ever think about that?”

It’s nice to have someone to talk to in the way he used to banter before the world fell apart. He’s glad all it took was a little shelter and warmth to reignite it, his words met with a bemused smile.

“Alright. But by that logic, no other holiday’s focused on hanging stockings by the fire. So what now?” Pops counters.

“You’re not telling me you never celebrated Pippi Longstocking Day?” Scar gasps, affronted in a way that immediately has Pops looking at him in surprise.

“No shit. Is that real?”

Scar can’t help but grin, rakish as he shakes his head, leaning back comfortably in his wheelchair.

“No. But I had you going for a second,” he preens, laughing as Pops makes a show of rolling his eyes.

The rest of the evening passes comfortably without incident, the two of them drying their things and getting warm by the fire. They cook the first hearty meal they’ve had in days, dipping deep into their supplies to make up for the previous day spent eating nothing at all. It’s not a bad way to spend their time, and when it’s his turn to rest, Scar falls asleep almost immediately, grateful for Pops’ presence as he sits up to keep watch by the shack’s only window.

When morning comes it brings a heavy reluctance to move on with it. It’s clear from Pops that he feels the same way. After some humming and hawing, Pops ultimately decides another day of rest couldn’t hurt, and Scar sighs with relief, throwing himself back onto the cot and catching an extra few hours of rest, deep and dreamless.

When he finally wakes up properly and drags himself out of bed, it’s to a kind of calm that has Scar wishing things could always be like this. The woods outside are silent, save for the sound of water rushing in the river. The high slopes of the mountains are edged in white from the snow that fell on the peaks overnight, and the sky overhead the clearest blue he’s ever seen in his life. It’s beautiful, and Scar stands on the front step of the shack admiring it until Pops finally tells him to get them some firewood.

A part of him wishes they could linger. Set up and establish themselves properly in the area. It’s impossible though. Their supplies won’t last forever, and Scar knows that Pops can’t stay still for long, hoping, always, for the chance to reconnect with his missing companions.

The only problem they encounter is the feeling of being watched, which continues to linger, even through the light of day. Over and over Scar attempts to reassure himself that there’s simply no way the Mosin Man and his crew could’ve tracked them down over such a distance, with only one uninjured lackey to his name.

Still, it’s not easy to shake the feeling, especially when it’s clear that he’s not the only one who’s unsettled.

As their second day closes and they retire for the night, Pops turns to him, somewhat apologetic, and says, “We gotta move tomorrow no matter what. This place is starting to give me the creeps.”

It’s a reluctant admission, once again brushing up against something neither of them wants to discuss. Pops pauses, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks towards the single window in the cabin wall. “Shit. It makes me think we’re in some fucking ghost story.”

Despite the feeling, they both sleep well through the night, waking with the sun and packing their things, taking great pains as they leave to put the cabin back exactly as they found it.

It feels strange, like they’re coroners preserving a corpse, arranging everything just-so for a funeral that will never come to pass.

“Should we carve our initials together?” Scar asks, the idea coming to him impulsively as he waits for Pops to finish setting the shutters back in place against the cabin’s window. It’s still early and cold, the light overhead a glassy grey that could split into snow at any moment. They’re both wrapped in all their layers, though Scar still feels the chill as his breath fogs through his scarf, already missing the warmth of the shack’s woodstove.

“Why?” Pops asks over his shoulder, grunting as he sets the simple pin latches in place. “You in love with me? I told you I’m not on the market, Wheels.”

“Not like that,” Scar deflects, shaking his head. “I just mean, like…” he trails off, struggling to find the right words and willing Pops to innately understand him. “No one’s ever coming back here, are they? You and I… we’re the last people who are ever gonna see this place. The last people who’re gonna walk up that road and stay here.”

The emotion sneaks up on him out of nowhere, the same profound sense of grief and loss he’s been doing an otherwise good job of keeping smothered down over the last couple of days.

He hates how much everything makes him think of Grian. How permanent every step forward feels. How impossible it is to ever go back. The sadness of it so pervasive that it pops up everywhere.

“Sorry.” He feels embarrassed, ducking his head as he passes the pad of his thumb against his eyelids, wiping at the sting that hasn’t yet manifested as tears. “It’s just sad,” he explains after a moment of silence has passed. “Everything about this place… it makes me so sad.”

Pops gives him a long look before he finally reaches out towards him. Scar expects the same firm, bracing, clap against the shoulder that he’s gotten used to, but Pops surprises him, pulling Scar into a half hug instead.

When he speaks his tone is soft and genuine, tucked in close to his ear. “It sucks a lot, man. But hey, we’re still here right? And if we can find meaning in this mess, then that’s gotta count for something.”

He lets Scar go after a moment, patting him on the back before stepping back and digging into his pocket, pulling out his leatherman and thumbing open one of its blades.

“C’mon. Let’s carve this fucker up.”

It’s a surprisingly warm sentiment from Pops, a lot more vulnerable than his normal bluster. It tugs a smile out of Scar, grateful to have lucked upon a companion like him.

Digging into the planks, Pops makes quick work of carving his initials into the exterior wood of the cabin door—though what he writes has Scar frowning as Pops passes him the knife to put his own mark into the door.

“J.S.?” Scar reads aloud, confused. “Who’s that?”

“Who do you think?” Pops laughs.

When Scar doesn’t immediately answer, Pops gives him a somewhat incredulous smile.

“Dude, what’re you looking so shocked for. As if Scar is your real name?”

Scar blinks at him, earnest. “Well, yeah.”

Pops rolls his eyes at that, clearly unconvinced. “Alright, whatever you say, Gandalf,” he mutters. “Keep your secrets.” With his elbow he nudges Scar forwards, and Scar refocuses his attention on the door, carefully using the knife to scratch in his letters. It takes more effort than he expects, but when he finally stands back to appraise it, the final result sparks something warm in his chest.

It’s not quite satisfying, not quite enough closure, but it picks at a part of Scar's brain that reminds him of the disposable camera laying somewhere at the bottom of his bag. It's been a while since he's used it—a tug in his chest remembering his last picture of Grian at the hot springs—and a part of him panics at the idea of having possibly left it behind in his daze back in the city where he took off on his own. Thankfully, digging through his things produces the camera safe and unharmed, and Scar lets a soft smile spread on his face as he takes it into his hands. Maybe it's silly to have grown so attached to something he'll never be able to see through to the end product, but the idea of losing the last pictures he took with Grian at his side would've gutted him.

With a newfound reverence for the object in his hands, Scar slowly stands up and makes his way back to the door, intent on taking a picture of their engravings in this scrapbook that might never come to be. Angling it just right, he gets both his initials and Pops' in the frame, alongside the whole structure itself. There's a satisfaction that comes alongside the click of the camera, it's shutter going off loudly in the quiet.

"Whatcha got there?" Pops asks, coming up to him. Scar offers him the camera and Pops takes it smoothly, turning it over in his hands. "Disposable camera, huh? That's pretty sweet." 

Then, without missing a beat, Pops turns the camera around and holds it up, only a quick, 'Say cheese,' giving away his intentions before he snaps a photo of them both.

"Hope that turns out—a lot harder to take a selfie without a front-facing camera than I thought," Pops muses, passing the camera back to Scar without another word.

It leaves Scar a little flabbergasted, but it really does keep in line with Pops' whole aura of nonchalance. Whether it's carefully crafted or natural being another thing entirely. Scar shakes his head with a laugh, putting the camera carefully back into his bag. When he finally steps away from the door, he finds Pops consulting his map, gaze intense and focused as he explains the next leg of their journey.

“We’ll start by making our way back to the main road, then it’s about a seventeen mile walk East.” He points a finger on the map, indicating the thin lines of the highway surrounded by a network of hiking trails on all sides.

“And where will that get us?” Scar asks, unable to make heads or tails of what Pops is pointing to.

“Well, it was a ski hill for insufferable yuppies and outdoorsy tech bros, but I’m gonna assume business ain’t booming,” Pops explains with a dry chuckle. “But if you look—” he emphasises his words by tapping his finger on the map to a cluster of lines, indicating a convergence point already circled in red pen. “—it’s a hub for the majority of the hiking trails in the area.”

“That’s convenient.” All the same, Scar can’t help but wonder about the trails—thin routes forging out into the mountains, meant for true hiking and mountaineering. Nothing like the properly maintained roads they’ve been following thus-far. Concern creeps into him as he notes how many of them are named after mountain peaks and cliff-top points, gripped by a wariness he doesn’t want to fully admit to. “And what happens there?”

“We sleep, if we’re lucky,” Pops explains. “Then tomorrow we take a look around and see if any of the routes are clear.”

Clearing his throat he folds up the map, tucking it into the inside pocket of his jacket before he bundles himself up tight, pulling his scarf up over the bridge of his nose so that the only features Scar can see are the brights of his eyes.

“If we manage to catch a break, we’ll find one of the trails that make a shortcut through the pass. That’ll set you on the other side exactly where you need to be in order to go North like you wanted.”

It’s a sobering realisation, and not something that Scar is prepared to think about so early in the day. A reminder that their time together isn’t going to last forever. That Pops still has people anchoring him to the area.

That, sooner or later, they’re going to part ways.

“Right,” he says, tightening his jaw and swallowing down the emotion that struggles to make a vulnerable fool of him. “And if it’s already snowed in?”

“Fuck if I know,” Pops dismisses, shrugging as he shifts his bag on his shoulders, settling it properly in place. They’d made the decision to split up Scar’s wheelchair while in the cabin, a suggestion Pops had brought up and Scar had been grateful for. Pops now has the heavier, bulkier shape of the chair’s frame strapped to his pack, while Scar only has to contend with the wheels, an arrangement he’d only agreed to because Pops swore they’d swap next time they took a proper break. “We learn how to make an igloo and wait until spring.”

He pauses, hooking his thumbs into the wide shoulder straps of his bag as he debates something internally for a moment, finally confessing, “Dave said if we ever got separated, we’d rendezvous there. I’m hoping… maybe we’ll be lucky and have a nice welcome waiting for us.”

It’s the first time Pops has used a proper name for either of his companions. The trust and vulnerability of it don’t go unnoticed. Hope struggling against impossible odds.

Scar nods and together he and Pops set out, leaving the campground and heading back towards the highway that Pops had initially pointed out on the map. Their progress is easy enough, following the curve of the river, but it’s remarkable to Scar how much snow has begun to accumulate, piling up above their ankles without any local removal plows to clear it away.

The hours pass as they trudge along, the snow rising up more and more the further they go, shin-high drifts laying ahead that they’re forced to wade through. If it weren’t for the median barriers peeking out, marking the opposing lanes on the highway, Scar wonders if they’d know they were walking on a proper road at all.

Eventually, they reach the ski hill, an enormous operation built at the base of the mountain, the runs cut like enormous sigils into the tree line. They find several cars in the parking lot as they approach it, drifted under large humps of snow, not having been touched or moved in weeks. There are larger buildings set higher up the slopes, accessible via ski lifts that hang motionless in the air; likely lounges and terraces for skiers to take their breaks. However, with daylight fading and the cold creeping in, Pops ends up breaking the lock on the door to the first building they reach—a rental shop. Small and cramped, filled with rows of shelves lined with sets of skis, boots, and poles.

Everything about the place makes Scar anxious. Simultaneously too remote and too exposed. They set up camp as far back in the shop as possible, but Scar finds that even during Pops’ watch he repeatedly startles awake, body tense with the fear of being set upon. His own watch fares him no better, clutching tight to his rifle as he stares out into the night, the slopes made unnaturally bright as the moonlight reflects off the snow, trying and failing to shake off the feeling of being observed.

The morning dawns slowly, as if dredged up against its will, and Scar finds himself eager to eat their breakfast and leave.

“Where to next?” he asks, working his way through an energy bar that tastes like dirt.

Pops is studying his map, radio gripped in his free hand. He hasn’t made his check-in since they arrived, almost as if he’s afraid to.

“Same as before,” he explains, simple and matter of fact. “We survey the area to see which of the trails are clear. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Scar repeats, the words sounding hollow to them both.

‘Shouldn’t be a problem’ ends up being an understatement, and an enormous one at that. The amount of snow that stands to greet them outside the doors of the rental shop is not inconsiderable, halting them both in their tracks as they squint into the light and take it in.

It’s no longer a simple matter of pushing through, Scar realises. Neither of them are in a position to go anywhere.

“Shit,” Pops says, sounding impressed despite himself. “I guess that’s the fresh powder those bougie fucks are always talking about.”

It would be picturesque in any other situation. A perfect blanket of snow under an overcast sky, each pine tree bent beneath the weight of its mantle, every inch undisturbed and beautiful, like a flawless work of art.

“We can’t get through this,” Scar remarks, stating the obvious, using the side of his hand to shade his eyes.

“We don’t have a plan B, Wheels,” Pops states, and there’s a surrender to it that Scar doesn’t know what to make of. Without an alternative, they stand together staring at the impassable mess, both of them knowing that to persevere would be a risk they can’t in good conscience make.

It’s as Scar is about to take his first step and test the depth of the snow that Pops’ hand flies out, bracing flat against his chest and halting him in his tracks.

Expectantly, Scar looks his way, ready for a grin and a clever plan. A miracle conjured up out of nothing.

Instead he finds that Pops isn’t looking at him at all. His eyes anchored to the ground several yards away.

It takes Scar a second to recognize what he’s seeing, the sight so entirely unexpected that he can’t parse it at first.

Footprints. A line of them in the snow, evenly spaced and making their way in a wide circle all the way around the rental shack.

The two of them stand in silence for a moment, holding their breaths, frozen.

“It’s not the Mosin guy,” Scar says at last, breaking the quiet between them, his attempt at reassurance coming off almost laughably unconvinced.

“I know,” Pops agrees, every atom in his being wound tight.

The list of potential alternatives is frighteningly short. As much as Scar wants it to be a zombie, the tread looks too even, each stride too confidently spaced. Nothing about it suggesting the stumbling, uneven gait of the undead.

He swallows thickly, unsure what to do next.

“You don’t think…” his words hang in the air, uncertain as he tests them. “You don’t think it’s one of your two, do you…?”

It takes a second for his words to register, and when they do there’s an immediate resentment in Pops’ reaction as he shifts his shotgun off his shoulder, looking at Scar with an expression that belays something uncomfortably close to a betrayal.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” he asks, terse but unexpectedly vulnerable all the same. “Don’t you dare get my hopes up like that.”

“You haven’t radioed them,” Scar counters, not wanting to fight but needing the clarity all the same. “You never know… they could be—”

“They’re not,” Pops declares, flat and factual before he shrugs off his bag. He leaves it propped up against the stoop before he steps off the front step of the hutch, sinking into snow up to his ankles, inconvenient but not impassable. “If they were here we’d know,” he adds, the words cast rough back over his shoulder. “There’d be lights. There’d be signs. But they’re not, so let’s fucking get this over with because if I break down now I’m not getting back up again.”

Scar can hear the emotion in his voice, angry but raw and vulnerable. He thinks about how much hope and desperation it took to get Pops this far. The hell they’ve dragged themselves through only to arrive without a warm welcome to greet them.

It’s folly to push forward, he knows that. There’s too much risk, too much uncertainty. The best thing he could do is tell Pops to forget it. To head back the way they came. To find somewhere safe and to stay there.

To survive.

“So what are we doing?” Scar asks, hanging back, not yet ready to follow Pops so blindly into the unknown.

“We’re not in a ghost story,” Pops grunts. “If it’s alive enough to leave footprints, it’s alive enough to track down. We’ve been looking over our shoulders this entire time and I’ve had enough of it. I’m sick and fucking tired of being scared.”

He’s only a few yards away, but the distance between them feels immense. Pops’ patience at an all time low, surrendering to the fragility of their situation.

“Leave your shit and pick up your feet,” Pops instructs, barking the words back over his shoulder. Scar can see the sunk cost fallacy in him, the desperation to see one thing through, as failure after failure piles up around them. “I know you fucking can.”

It stings, but a part of Scar knows he doesn’t mean it. His feet sink into the snow as he follows, reluctantly trailing after Pops.

This will be a stupid way to die, he thinks, watching as Pops finds where the tracks lead off into the forest, shotgun cocked and at the ready.

The trail is easy enough to follow, cut straight through the snow with an apparent single-minded purpose. It sends a chill down Scar’s spine, and he exchanges a look with Pops who, despite his mood, seems just as disturbed by it. They follow it to the edge of the forest, where it bends sharply to one side and then abruptly disappears.

“I don’t get it,” Pops murmurs under his breath as he peers up at the trees, brows knit together and bewildered. “What’s the point of all this? Is this somebody tryna hunt us down, or are they running away?”

Before Scar can even entertain an answer, they hear the snap of a branch not far from them, buried deeper in the woods. Wordlessly both he and Pops hide themselves away, grateful for the cover provided by the large pines that loom up around them. Scar finds himself taking measured breaths, hands tight around his rifle, held close to his chest. He catches Pops’ eye from across the small gap between them, the other man frowning at something only visible from his angle.

After a moment Pops waves him over and Scar obliges, Pops’ voice a low whisper as he nods his head and points ahead.

“Zombies,” he breathes, low. “At least two of ‘em.”

It’s an unnerving discovery, but better than the alternative.

“How did they get all the way up here?” Scar asks, surprised.

“Must’ve come down from the ski resort.” Pops glances over his shoulder, back towards the slopes and the chairlifts beyond. It makes sense, Scar supposes, but it’s in no way comforting. “The poor suckers must’ve been on vacation…. had no clue what hit ‘em.”

“Do you think they’re the ones we’re tracking…?”

“Maybe…” Pops replies, but his tone is doubtful.

Scar takes a step back, lowering into a crouch, ready to make a retreat. “C’mon. Let’s head back before they see us.”

“You go on ahead,” Pops says, gaze fixed ahead where Scar can make out two distinct shapes shifting between the trees. “I’ll catch up.”

“What—” Scar starts, but can’t finish, shocked as Pops rushes forwards with no regard for the element of surprise, clearly gearing up for a face-to-face encounter.

Hissing Pops’ name under his breath, Scar lowers his rifle, thumbing the safety back in place, wishing he’d brought a different weapon with him. If Pops is right and there are corpses coming down from the resort, then the last thing either of them should do is make more noise than strictly necessary. A gunshot will draw them in like a beacon.

However, if Pops is aware of Scar and hears him, he doesn’t show it. He moves as though drawn by a supernatural force, attempting to intersect the ghouls.

It’s only when they get close enough for Pops to identify their individual features that he relaxes. He stands tall, his shoulders sagging and relief bleeding into his words as he announces, “It’s not them.”

It’s short-sighted. The clarity of the revelation gives way, the zombies immediately swinging towards them, drawn in by the sound of Pops’ voice.

They make low murmuring noises as they move, piquing some primal fear in the back of Scar’s brain as he instinctively begins to move back. It’s difficult not to think of them as a couple, both in matching parkas, the material torn and hanging loose off their bodies, hair matted from where it’s been twisted up and snagged by overhanging branches.

They lurch forward, feet dragging in the snow, and Pops’ momentary relief turns quickly to something else. An ugly emotion boiling up within him, equal parts desperate and frustrated.

“It’s not them!” he repeats, shouting the words louder than he has any need to. Angrily, he raises his shotgun, turning it around to wield the butt of it like a club. He slams it into the face of the closest zombie of the pair. The blow knocks it back so that it stumbles and falls while Pops re-adjusts his grip on his gun, swinging it like a baseball bat as he takes out the second with a single, violent strike.

It’s quick and brutally efficient, and Pops ends up standing haggard above them, breath coming in foggy bursts as he pants from the exertion.

Scar can understand his outburst. He’s sympathetic to Pops’ emotion after so long spent in dogged pursuit of two people Scar knows must’ve died alone in the woods several weeks ago. The foolhardiness of his exclamation makes itself apparent almost immediately however, branches snapping as new shapes begin moving between the trees. Scar realises, awfully, that there are more zombies in the woods than either of them had initially thought.

Way more.

“Pops, c’mon,” he entreats, raising his voice to be heard as he takes several steps back in the direction of the ski lodge. There are shapes moving on either side of them. Lumbering, lurching bodies, drawn in by their movements and the sound of their voices. “There’s too many. We gotta get out of these trees and back out in the open.”

Separated by several yards, Pops abruptly turns as if coming out of a daze. He curses under his breath, realising the predicament he’s put them both in.

“Shit,” he hisses once before he repeats again, louder, “Shit!”

There’s no time for logistics, any further conversation stymied as a new zombie lurches out from around the trunk of a large, half-toppled tree, nearly right on top of Scar.

With a yelp, Scar does his best within the restricted space between the trunks and branches. He swings his rifle around, attempting to connect the heavy end of it with the ghoul’s temple, but only managing to bludgeon the bridge of its nose. The zombie screams in a way that sounds too human and too alive.

“Scar!”

He can tell from the sound of Pops’ voice that he’s been beset by his own attackers, but when Scar lines his rifle up for another swing, he finds that he can’t immediately pinpoint Pops through the trees.

There are smarter ways to die, he thinks, reluctant to admit it. A hundred thousand less egregiously stupid ways to die. The thought sounds a lot like something Grian would say. A strange, sentimental reminder in a desperate situation.

He doesn’t want to go out like this. Can’t believe that yet again he’s been unable to offer more time to the person he’s travelling with.

What a miserable way to go, he thinks.

He doesn’t even like the snow.

From a distance, he can hear Pops yell, sounding farther away than Scar thinks should be possible. The zombie pursuing him has kept him on his back foot, forcing Scar to retreat one step at a time, stumbling as he ducks awkwardly under ill-placed limbs and branches. He doesn’t understand how he and Pops have managed to drift so far apart. He can’t try and close the gap either, busy swinging at the corpse in front of him. He attacks again and again until it finally collapses at his feet, leaving him breathing hard, all sense of direction lost as he stands disoriented in the snow.

“Pops!” He calls out, his voice too loud and too quiet in the confines between the trees.

Silence greets him in response, oppressive and isolating.

He doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know which way to go.

The only choice is to try turning around and retracing his steps.

He attempts to orient himself, but the corpse at his feet snaps a hand out. It’s not dead—of course it’s not dead—yowling like a kicked cat as its arm wraps around Scar’s leg. Before Scar can break its grasp, the monster pulls his foot out from under him in a nauseating turn of events. Scar yells, unable to help himself, and then the wind is knocked from his lungs.

He’s left sprawled with his back on the ground, the zombie dragging itself towards him with its one remaining arm.

Scar doesn’t have time to get up, doesn’t have time to brace himself at all. He’d shoot the creature if he could, but his rifle is pinned beneath his arm, and the pistol he stole is tucked away in the pack he left before following Pops out here. All his weapons, unreachable, leaving him at mercy to the corpse that sprawls itself on top of him.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see a shape approaching from snatches of movement glimpsed between the trees. He hopes, desperately, that it’s Pops. Scar calls out to grab his attention, but all at once the zombie is in his face, glottal noises forced up through the back of its throat as it claws at him with its mangled fingers.

Instinctively Scar grasps at its throat, trying to choke it back as it pushes down on him with all its might. The zombie shrieks in something that sounds close to frustration, thrashing in his grip as he struggles to maintain the distance between them.

He can feel the tension stacking up in his arm, muscles shaking as he pushes them to their limits. He can’t muster enough strength to wrestle the zombie back far enough to get up, and he can tell he’s running out of time.

A gunshot echoes between the trees.

While the boom of it is a relief—evidence that, at the very least, Pops is still alive—it sounds too far off to be coming to his aid.

He’s on his own here. Pinned down, struggling and breathless.

A broken finger snags at the collar of his jacket, tugging at it blindly as the zombie attempts to tear into him. Scar knows that if it succeeds to break through the little protection provided by his bulky, winter layers, he’s as good as dead. The terrible reality of it grips him like a vice.

He doesn’t want to get bitten. Doesn’t want to turn.

He promised Grian he’d survive.

When the branches to his left part he knows he’s out of time. All the racket has drawn in others, eager to tear into a felled target. He’s already losing the fight against the zombie on top of him—there’s no way he’ll be able to fend off an attack from multiple fronts. The new ghoul lurches forward, a blur of motion and violence, its body connecting with the zombie already overwhelming Scar—

Except, for whatever reason, it’s attacking it, not him.

The undead things snarl and groan, clawing at one another like feral animals. The first zombie is knocked back, only for its weight to be replaced by the second as it sprawls across Scar’s chest. This would be the time to run, his mind tells him, but Scar can’t imagine how to move with the weight pressing down on him. The newer of the decrepit things bites into the other, tearing out a chunk of rotted flesh that makes Scar sick just to look at it. Its mouth full, it turns momentarily towards Scar and their gazes lock—fierce and dark.

Not dead eyes, but intelligent ones.

Familiar.

Scar’s breath catches.

The creature turns back to the corpse, uninterested in him as it finalises its kill, but Scar doesn’t pay attention. Can’t, when all he can see now is a sharp silhouette and dirty blond hair, cropped short at the sides.

The newcomer aggressively pushes the now dead and dismembered zombie off of Scar’s chest, mouth bloody where it—he—bit into the thing.

He stays on top of Scar, legs straddling either side of him, and Scar’s mouth feels paper dry as he continues to stare. His body is cold all over. Frozen in a way that has nothing to do with the snow seeping into his back.

“Grian…?” he whispers.

Hopeful. Pleading.

“Scar!” Pops shouts, storming out from between two trees, shotgun in hand. He’s wild-eyed and frantic, breathing hard. His face pales when he sees Scar laid out on the ground, trapped by the body sitting on top of him, and the one mangled at his side.

Scar can tell what’s about to happen from the way Pops’ face hardens, instinct taking over when he raises his shotgun and aims.

“Wait!” He bellows, desperate, struggling to sit up as the body on his chest does everything in its power to keep him pinned down. “Don’t shoot!”

He says it just a second too late.

The shot rings out into the air, echoing through the trees around them.

 

 

 

Notes:

:)

:) :) :)

(:

Love us some cliffhangers~ See y'all in two weeks! >;)

Chapter 29

Notes:

Hi :)

Welcome back everyone :)

This was a fun one to write for sure :)

As always, please skip to the end notes for spoiler-y CONTENT WARNINGS!

 

 

 

 

 

The sky is grey and Grian is dying.

He can’t hear the sound of Scar leaving on the vespa anymore, the noise made by its tinny motor no longer rattling back to him through the trees.

He can’t hear anything over his pulse racing, beating thunder-loud in his ears.

He’s dying, and he’s all alone.

He feels simultaneously burning hot and freezing. The worst fever he’s ever had raging unchecked beneath his skin, an inferno crawling around inside of him, boiling him alive.

Killing him.

Minute spin by, spilling over, one into the other. He thinks he must have passed out at some point, waking up because he hears something, only to realise that his throat is raw from screaming. His vision swims into focus around blind spots the size of quarters, black holes burned into his vision. He’s soaked through with sweat. He’s dying. He’s…

He’s not alone.

Two zombies, stumbling out of the garage behind the gas station, are lurching towards him. Though as he watches their paths seem to meander, as if not quite sure what to make of him.

It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t want to be seen like this. Can’t handle that final humiliation on top of everything else.

Some of his supplies are scattered around him, things left or forgotten by Scar. Grian gathers them as best he can, feeling betrayed by it, insulted and devastated that Scar would leave pieces of him behind—leave him behind. Even if that’s what Grian ordered him to do.

With his arms full he drags himself, limping and staggered, to the gas station. The zombies watch him as he goes but make no attempt to stop him. He feels repulsed by his growing kinship with them, even as the very infection that’s rotted them from the inside festers beneath his skin.

The inside of the gas station reeks when he enters it. Rotten and rancid, filled with the sound of so many flies. A body is decomposing somewhere—either a survivor recently mauled, or an initial victim left moulding for days. A part of him, new and alien, craves it, and he finds himself sick from the thought, his fever scalding as he barricades himself within the single stall of the staff-only washroom.

He’s dying.

The sweat pouring off him makes him itch, and his vision keeps sinking into a blurry kaleidoscope as the room pivots and swims around him. He can’t swallow. He can barely breathe.

He cries—for himself. For Scar. He cries from the fear and anger and self-loathing that have already rotted him inside out.

It hurts. Everything hurts. Something is wrong inside of him and it’s turning him into a decrepit thing that’s no longer human. He screams, his vision pivoting sharply to one side as he pitches over, his body convulsing on the floor.

He’s dying.

He’s dying.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He’s dead.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Please…”

The word drifts to Grian out of a darkness he can’t make sense of, soft and surreal and distant.

“Please don’t do it. Please, I’m begging you. You got all the others, please. Please, please, don’t do this. Don’t let me die here. Please—”

Grian doesn’t know if he understands the words that are being said to him, but then… of course he does. Why wouldn’t he? He can’t see anything, can’t focus. His ears are ringing. Where is the bathroom stall? The gas station?

Where is Scar?

When did he stop screaming?

He hears sobs and whimpers and realises, distantly, that the sounds being made aren’t his own.

Slowly, he opens his eyes.

His vision swims, pierced in places by diaphanous bright spots that pinwheel and spiral. It takes him several seconds to parse what he’s looking at, struggling to make sense of the shapes and shadows before suddenly everything slots together perfectly with a clarity that takes him by surprise.

He’s in a train yard, swamped with browns and yellows and so much unappealing grey. Wires and cables crisscross above his head, tethered to lights and signals that no longer function. A high chain link fence blocks his immediate left, lines of track and railway cars stretching out to his right, piled with shipping containers that were once in the process of being unloaded onto flatbed trucks.

There’s a man sprawled out in front of him, shoulders wedged back tight against a concrete barrier. He’s a few years younger than Grian. Filthy and thin, with weeks of unshaved facial hair clinging to his jaw, and dark, sleepless circles bruised beneath his eyes. It’s clear at a glance that the apocalypse has not been kind to him.

He has his hands up, palms facing outwards, entreating, and suddenly Grian realises he’s begging—begging with him.

The man is terrified, and it’s Grian he’s afraid of.

Mutely Grian looks around, still trying to orient himself. He looks down at his hands, staring at them, fingers clenching into fists and relaxing as he struggles to make sense of what’s happening.

His hands are bloody, caked thick between his knuckles. It’s clotted and dried in places, and fresh in others, grime and gore streaked across his palms like he’s been manually shovelling his way through… something.

It goes all the way up to his elbows, disappearing into his sleeves. Covered in it.

He’s covered in blood.

Confusion muddles his brain, slow and weighty. There’s so much he doesn’t understand, and he can’t even begin to unpack it. He turns his gaze onto the man in front of him once more, hoping to ask for some sort of context, but the stranger flinches the second their eyes meet. Grian opens his mouth to speak, to reassure him, but the second he does, a wave of nausea seizes him and he slaps a hand over his mouth, gut churning.

Unwilling to make a scene and not wanting to be seen so vulnerably, Grian rushes away from the man, stumbling over his own feet as he ducks behind a railcar. It’s as far as he can make it before his stomach upends itself, all its partially digested matter forcing its way up and out of Grian’s mouth. He’s never been sick like this, shaky and dizzy as he heaves onto the hard packed gravel of the railyard.

Eventually his nausea passes, leaving him gagging on emptiness, tears leaking out the corner of his eyes from the force of his sickness.

He hates himself for staring at it, but try as he might he can’t look away. Can’t make sense of what he’s seeing.

The contents of his stomach, a mess of pink and brown and dark, crimson maroon. Chunks of… things, unrecognisable in their partially digested state, but nothing like what Grian knows regular food should look like.

When did he last eat?

What was his last meal?

Wasn’t he—didn’t he—?

How is he still alive…?

Grian rights himself shakily, dizzy in the way he tends to be after a bout of vomiting. He can only ever remember being sick like this from alcohol—overindulging at birthdays, celebrating graduation, and once after his very first breakup when he thought his life was over. This time, however, the pain in his stomach and the feverish state he finds himself in make him think of food poisoning.

There’s something wrong.

An increasing sense of foreboding in the back of his mind causes him to push aside any guess as to what could’ve caused this.

Instead, he takes a moment to gather himself, inspecting his surroundings with a cursory once-over. The area seems relatively clear of any true hordes, though further down the rail line, where the tracks converge in front of a large, vaulted freight terminal, Grian can spot the grotesque shapes of a few shambling zombies. As for the state of himself, there are no new wounds to be taken care of, so far as Grian can tell. Even the bite on his shoulder seems to have scabbed over, painful when he pushes on it, but otherwise infection free.

So to speak.

Carefully, he pats down his clothing, locating the knife he’d decided to carry on himself, the compass he’d always kept tucked beneath his shirt, and a half-eaten protein bar crammed down into the bottom of his pocket.

Fishing out the meagre meal almost immediately lights up a hunger in him, saliva pooling beneath Grian’s tongue. It surprises him—normally, he can’t stomach anything after a bout of nausea.

Right now, however, he feels ravenous. A gnawing pit in his stomach yawns open wide, urging him to eat—and yet, despite his appetite, the protein bar in his hand is all at once unappealing.

Demandingly, his stomach begs. He needs to eat something. Now. And it’s as he contemplates this that he finds his feet have him trailing back to the corner of the rail yard, returning to where he’d left the stranger.

When he finds the area empty, a gate he’d previously ignored left ajar, he feels the loss with a burning intensity. Anger ignites, on fire within him, feeling cheated out of something he can’t even name—something that shocks and disgusts him when he tries to give it shape.

He paces the ground for a moment, caged like an animal within his own internal conflict.

The gate hangs open the entire time, formerly alarmed, but useless now. A tempting invitation. His eyes continue to draw back to it as he paces, and at last he finds that he can’t look away.

Finally surrendering to it, propelled by a hunger he can’t contain, Grian turns towards the gate.

Without a word, he gives chase.

 

 

 

 

 

Sometime later Grian stutters back into himself to find that he’s in a public restroom, partway through trying every tap in a long bank of sinks. Thirsty, miserable, and wretched.

It’s a nice bathroom, a high line of frosted glass windows near the ceiling letting light into the space. The mirrors have been arranged along either wall to face each other, so that as he stares at his reflection a thousand perfect copies of himself stare back, dipping up as they eventually vanish into an infinite distance.

He knows what’s the matter with him now. Has pieced it together at this point, after who knows how many days or weeks spent in this state. Small stolen snatches of lucidity form a perfectly imperfect image in his mind.

Not infected, not completely, but not immune either. Something awful, straddling the line.

Something more.

He doesn’t look like them—the other zombies. His face hasn’t sunken in, and his body hasn’t started wasting away into itself. He looks… fine. Better than fine, even. His matted hair and the circles under his eyes, the filthy raggedness of his appearance, all seem trivial compared to how strong he feels, and the bright light that's ignited in his eyes. Sharp, like he could cut himself on it.

When he’s lucid, he’s himself. Thoughts disoriented and confused, but undeniably his own. There are large gaps in his timeline, though. Greyed out and indistinct, like half-remembered portions of fevered, sweat-slick dreams.

And he’s hungry.

He’s hungry all the time.

It’s an inescapable kind of gnawing, deeply entrenched, like a craving. When he’s waking, when he’s aware, nothing sates him. Then he slips away inside himself and reorients later to find that he’s so miserably full he feels like he might die.

He wishes he’d talked to Quackity more, now. Wishes he’d taken the time to find out what immunity meant and if he also experienced these same cravings. A distant memory makes him think that maybe Scar had said something to that effect, but he has no one to turn to now. No one to confirm those scattered recollections with.

He thinks back to nights in the gutted out house in the desert. Quackity laughing and making meals, sharing his food with them generously. Grian can’t remember if he ever saw him saving any for himself. Did he eat at all? Was he satisfied?

Did he ever look at them from across the room, eyeing them up like prey?

Time bleeds out into a haze he can’t discern, and he drags back up into himself sometime later to find that he’s wandering the outskirts of a ragged city. The suburbs have been left to ruin, the centre a fortification of hastily built, cobbled-together barriers—plywood sheets mounted against the sides of vehicles, curls of barbed wire strung between metal pipes erected like pikes, and stacks of heavy concrete barriers.

He can’t get in, but it doesn’t bother him.

He can wait.

The zombies don’t care for him much, he’s noticed. He thinks that whatever it is about humans that draws zombies in has become repellent in him. They keep him at a distance from the loose coordination of their hordes and he feels the separation accutely, strangely lonely as he wanders the outskirts of both encampments. Wanted in none; welcome in neither.

He misses Scar.

He’s hungry.

 

 

 

 

 

there's blood. all around him, encompassing, overwhelming. he's drowning in it. he's drowning, choked up to his lungs, bubbling up out of his mouth and tearing through his eyes. he's blind, blinded, everything is red, he can't see he can't speak he can't he can't he can't stop himself, he's starving he'll never make it out he's stuck in this spiral forever and this is it. this is it this time, he'll never make his way back to the surface, he won't be able to rip away from the rot closing in on him from all sides. he'll never make it back and he's sorry he's so so sorry it wasn't supposed to be like this it was never supposed to go this way he doesn't mean it please please no he doesn't want to do this anymore please

 

 

 

 

 

He focuses again and finds that he’s on the hunt. Stalking like some kind of apex predator. There are three people he’s trailing, but he knows he only needs to outrun one of them. There’s a ruthless efficiency to it, brutal and uncompromising. He doesn’t even think of them like people, really. Not anymore. Too hungry to care.

A simple means to an end.

“It’s nothing personal,” he explains. He’s breathing hard and fast, having cornered a body up against a wall. They’re pleading something, begging and desperate, but it’s all incomprehensible to him. He’s manic with the thrill of success, pulse hammering in his ears reminding him that at least some part of himself is still alive. “You’d do the same if you were me.”

He doesn’t hear the screams anymore. Sometimes, he wonders if they ever really bothered him in the first place.

Later, he reorients to find himself crouched around the remnants of a fire, hands sticky and stained with charcoal. He’s carrying camping gear—all the tools and equipment needed to survive alone in the elements, but he doesn’t know where he got it. He lost his own things ages ago, when Scar left him and he died.

Everything is sized too large to properly fit him.

For the moment though, he’s not overwhelmingly hungry.

He decides not to think about it.

His attention is caught by the sounds of struggling off to his side. Like an animal, Grian swivels his head around, zeroed in on the rustling. It’s a human—a man in his forties—bound by rope to the trunk of a tree. He shakes and convulses, gripped in the throes of a fatal fever.

Memory floods back to him, and Grian gets up from the fire, wiping his ashen, bloody hands on the fronts of his jeans. He takes easy steps towards the struggling man, watching curiously, taking in the stranger’s mouth, smeared with blood and frothy saliva, before he glances down at the fresh scab on his own wrist, the one he’d made when he’d cut himself open and pressed his infection to the man’s lips in the first place.

The man’s eyes are pushing back into his skull, showing the whites and the red lines of veins underneath, body shaking all over like a seizure. Grian doesn’t remember this part of the process. Isn’t sure he experienced it the same way.

The stranger gasps and screams, terrible half-formed words that ultimately amount to nothing as the convulsions reach their peak before, suddenly, his body goes completely still.

A minute passes, then several minutes more. All the while, Grian stands rooted in place, staring at the corpse bound to the tree. At last, his patience is finally rewarded when the body jerks in place, moving as if controlled by an unseen hand. A rattling noise starts up from within it, not unlike a sickly sort of breathing.

Before his eyes, the corpse reanimates, the zombie’s head lolling forward and its mouth opening to form a low, guttural growl.

“Interesting,” Grian says quietly, taking the information in and filing it away. He stops picking at his skin, raising his wrist up to his face to inspect his cut. Nothing about his blood looks any different—the same deep red colour, the same viscosity, the same scent—and yet, the qualities within it have no doubt changed.

The creature in front of him yanks against its restraints, giving into some base instinct to break away from what confines it.

Humming curiously, Grian reaches down to where he’s strapped his knife to the side of his boot, pulling it free from the sheath tucked against his shin. He steps forward, unflinching, twirling the blade with his approach. This close he can see that the zombie’s earlier wounds have congealed and already begun to rot, some internal process breaking its cells apart, whereas his rebuilt him even stronger.

Suddenly, the beast turns its head towards him, lunging as best it can from its restrained position, snapping at him with its teeth.

Without hesitating Grian stabs the knife directly through its eye, digging in until he feels the blade pierce the thin bone at the back of the socket. He twists the knife violently, and the wretched creature shrieks. Its scream sounds alarmingly human as it tries to pull away, but Grian grabs it from the back of its head, driving the knife in as far as it’ll go.

Slowly the zombie grows lethargic, its struggle abating, voice going low and its movements subsiding. Once it’s well and truly dead, Grian pulls his knife back out and cleans it on the denim of the zombie’s jacket before he re-holsters his weapon and stands back up with a sigh, stretching his arms out above his head.

He looks back to the fire and the wealth of supplies now in his possession.

There’s still a long way to go.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s an unexpected but welcome surprise when he comes across Pizza on the side of the road. The land isn’t inhospitable, but he hasn’t seen signs of civilization or any mark of human passage for what feels like ages. There’s a light layer of snow covering the vehicle, just like it covers everything else in the area, but Grian would recognise the llama logo on its side anywhere.

With more enthusiasm than he’s felt in days he races over to it, darting his gaze around for its owner.

The snow suggests that the vespa hasn’t been touched, at least not for a while. Nevertheless, Grian takes his time pouring over Pizza, trying to inspect whether it was left in an accident, or abandoned in haste.

In the end, he suspects it was neither of the two. The scooter, it seems, is simply out of gas. When he pops open the under-seat compartment, there are no supplies left either, which means Scar must’ve had time to gather his belongings before pressing onwards.

It makes an odd sort of hope light up inside of him. Maybe he’s not too far off.

While he’s refused to imagine a future where Scar is lost to him forever, Grian’s been unsure about how to find him again with so much time and distance now strung between them and no way to contact one another. Thus far he’s been travelling on gut instinct alone, following a strange pull in his chest and a remarkably clear image in his head.

When he closes his eyes, it’s almost as if he can see Scar frozen in a moment in time. Looking tired and ragged, but alive. There’s no sense to it—he knows it’s not really Scar, just a feeling—but sometimes Grian simply sits and watches for a bit, taking in the image of the man he’s so desperate to find, his form in Grian’s head caught amongst a shifting glaze of indigos and violets and soft lavenders.

The pictures in his mind’s eye insist that he carry on in the direction he’s been heading. No longer moving true North, but following a meandering side-route instead.

He hauls Pizza up, moving with a refreshed kind of vigour, and for the next dozen or so miles he pushes it with him along the centre line of the road, focused and determined. Innately he knows that Scar is alive—clinging to the mental images of him warming up by a fire, and trekking through the snow, onwards, further and further—unable to accept anything less.

He’s going to find him. They’re going to reunite, and then Grian will make things right.

It takes him half a day, but eventually he finds a place to stop and refuel—a tiny community with no survivors that he can see. Once he’s back on Pizza everything moves much faster, the miles slipping by as the desert pushes up into rolling hills, grassy and studded in orchards, which in turn give way to mountains. Individual at first, like outliers, and then more, running in long ranges that create deep valleys and narrow switchback on thin, thready roadways. It’s cold, but Grian finds he doesn’t mind the chill, properly insulated in his layers, his head tucked down into his collar as he presses ever-forward.

He thinks about his last moments with Scar nonstop, turning the memory over and over again in his mind like a stone whose hard edges he can smooth away with friction. He remembers tears. He remembers Scar saying he loves him. He remembers saying it back.

He remembers Scar apologising, and he remembers his own anger, furious in the moment. Incandescent with the audacity of him

He thinks about Scar now, alone—perhaps. Though sometimes he can almost picture someone else at his side, traveling together on foot.

Scar must be exhausted.

When Grian finds him, he’ll carry Scar on his back if he has to. He’ll carry him until they reach some place safe that they’ll never have to leave.

He’ll no longer be one of the obstacles that make Scar’s life difficult.

Never again.

 

 

 

 

 

slick. that's what it feels like. warm, hot, rubbing up against his hands, his face, the inside of his mouth, over and under his tongue and sliding down his throat. the texture is smoother than he expected, intestines slipping through his fingers. funny. he pushes down on the liver, the kidneys, watching his touch spring back up. fascinated. fascination. the lungs are soft and spongy, more air than anything else, disappointing when deflated like this, once the body is still, no longer moving, warmth rapidly dissipating into the air. his favourite is the brain. soft. a delicacy. it makes his mouth water. good. just enough. just what he needs. full. satisfied. 

 

 

 

 

 

Grian’s focus fades out and he slips back into himself again to find that he's standing under the awning of a visitor centre somewhere deep in the woods. It’s pouring and he has a headache, rain sluicing off the sloped eaves overhead. The windows and doors of the building are boarded up behind him, a sign posted reading ‘CLOSED FOR THE SEASON.’

He feels uncomfortably full and decides not to think about it, hunkering down and waiting out the deluge. When at last the rain ebbs and he ventures back out, retracing his steps to the road and passing a deserted camper van on the way, he continues not to think about it.

Its doors are thrown open, camping gear and supplies strewn out onto the forest floor.

Bloody handprints are smeared across the hood and down the side of the vehicle. Desperate, like someone was trying to grab it.

A few yards further down the road he finds Pizza, discarded in a brush, like he pushed it aside in haste. Carefully he wheels it back onto the road, not looking at the tragedy behind him.

He doesn’t think about it at all.

 

 

 

 

 

He continues following the pull in his chest further into the mountains, no longer bothering to try and track his progress on his maps. He relies on the flashing scenes in his head instead. Snapshots of Scar, reflections soaked through with a lilac hue so floral he can very nearly smell it. A tether of hope every time he closes his eyes.

Grian’s never seen so many trees before in his life. Tall, looming conifers with wide trunks and heavy hanging branches, their bases crowded with reedy saplings—maples and aspens, all stripped bare of their leaves, rigid and naked.

He finds a lodge at the end of a steep single-lane road, an impressive complex of three buildings. There is a red truck sitting in the otherwise empty parking lot, all four of its tires shot out. It sits on its rims, abandoned and Grian tries to make sense of it but can’t, his unease settling like bile in his stomach.

Something about it compels him to hide Pizza, putting it under a tarp that partially covers a row of mountain bikes, some of their tires stolen or missing, hoping the vespa will simply blend in if it turns out he’s not alone.

When Grian finds the lodge itself locked, he smashes one of its windows with a rock and crawls in through the broken glass. Inside it’s abandoned and quiet, but wandering through the lobby he finds signs of Scar everywhere. A crossword puzzle book filled in on a side table, its margins covered in doodles of cats. A pair of discarded wheelchair tires left on the floor.

He finds a makeshift bed on a sofa pulled up close to an enormous fireplace and he falls into it, curling up small, smelling Scar on the pillow, unwashed and awful but undeniably there. He wants to cry with relief. He wants to find him.

Scar’s been here. He’s still alive.

It’s funny, in a way, to be here now, infected and forever changed for the worse, but with more clarity than he’s ever felt before in his life. There’s a determination burning within Grian to set things right, now—a burning desire to not let this second chance he’s been given go to waste. Dying has stripped him of all the restrictions he’d once placed on himself; has let him see how things truly stand.

In a world where the apocalypse never happened, Grian would’ve lost Scar for good. He can see that now. They wouldn’t have seen each other after Grian came to collect his things, and Scar wouldn’t have called or texted hours, or days, or weeks later saying he’d changed his mind. In that world, Scar would’ve had neighbours and colleagues and friends—a whole community of support at his disposal. He’d have had everyone on his side to reassure him and tell him he was better off with the breakup behind him. No second chances. No going back.

There would’ve been a period of grief and mourning for both of them, surely. The only difference being that Scar would’ve gotten over it faster with the help of others, while Grian would have wallowed in his mistakes alone.

And he would have deserved it, Grian knows that now.

He always has.

It’s insanity to think this way, but a part of Grian can’t help but feel lucky about the opportunity he’s been given. Lucky that the apocalypse happened, lucky that he and Scar had been stuck together, lucky that the bite didn’t kill him, and lucky that he’s made it this far, tracking Scar on gut instinct alone.

He’s not going to squander his opportunities anymore. He’s not going to shrug off the good fortune that’s gotten him here. When—not if—he finds Scar, he’s going to do things right. He’s going to admit that it was his shortcomings that tore their relationship to shreds. He’s going to acknowledge all the hurt and pain he caused with his lies and his cheating. He’s going to apologise, truly and fully, no more talking circles around it.

And, most importantly, he’s going to let Scar decide where they go from here.

Whether Scar chooses to forgive him or not. Whether he wants to start over, to date again, or just wants to be friends. Whether he simply wants to be left alone—whatever his final decision, Grian is going to respect it.

It’s the least he can do.

Sleep isn’t something Grian finds himself doing particularly often these days. More often than not, every time he gives himself up to losing consciousness, he wakes up in places and circumstances beyond his understanding. Tonight is different, however. With the scent of Scar all around him, comforting and grounding, Grian sinks into a deep, dreamless sleep.

He’s awoken many hours later, not by the light of morning streaming in through the lodge’s windows, but by the sound of voices outside.

Instantly he’s on alert, scrambling to his feet and hiding behind the couch, keeping himself low to the floor and out of sight.

He stays stock still, heart pounding and ears tuned into the conversation as the words drift closer.

“Trust me,” a voice announces, bold and confident. “There’s gotta be a spare battery chucked in a corner somewhere inside.”

“This is a waste of time,” grumbles another gruffer, more-accented voice in reply. Australian, Grian thinks. Or maybe a Kiwi.

“Well, we’re already here! C’mon, what’s the harm? It’ll take five minutes to check, and then if we’re lucky we’ll finally have a functioning radio again.”

“We’d have a functioning radio already if you hadn’t dropping the fuckin’ thing halfway down a mountainside.”

“Hey!” The first voice replies with no real heat. “You try getting attacked by a bear and keeping hold of all your gear!”

“I did.”

“Well… we can’t all be as great and competent as you, now can we?”

The other man sighs, long-suffering. “Let’s just hurry it up, Dapper.”

Grian curses under his breath. It’s clear that the two mean to break into the lodge as well, and he’s in no mood to interact with survivors right now—especially since he hasn’t really talked to anyone since… well. His only interactions lately have been while on the hunt and in the grips of his hunger, and he’s not keen on losing his coherent self right now. Not when he’s come this far.

Not when he’s this close to Scar.

He has to get out without catching their attention, and he has to move fast.

“C’mon then, let’s take a look inside.”

The words set Grian into motion, pushing himself up on his feet with his gear on his back without a second of hesitation. He’s glad he fell asleep without getting comfortable. Glad he never thought to take his shoes off or unpack. There have to be other exits—a fire escape or a staff entrance that he can slip out through. He doubles back the way he came, hoping the strangers don’t have it in them to follow in pursuit when they realise they haven’t been alone this entire time.

Keeping low, Grian cuts across the lobby floor and ducks through the arched entryway to the cafeteria, finding himself in a large room cluttered with long tables and rows of chairs. Immediately he presses himself flat against the wall, praying that the shadows do their job and keep him hidden from sight.

He barely has time to cast his eyes around for an exit before he hears the sound of the lodge door opening, the formerly muffled voices coming in clear, accompanied by the sounds of footsteps over broken glass.

“Someone broke in,” the non-Australian remarks, careful and quiet.

“Someone might’ve been our someone,” the other replies. “Let’s not get hasty.”

Grian holds his breath, hoping they’re as preoccupied by the signs of recent habitation in the lobby as he was.

He wishes he had a gun. Wishes for two bullets to simply take care of this problem.

Wishes he were hungry enough to let himself go.

Instead, he waits as two figures walk into the lobby, moving opposite to where he’s hidden.

They’re two men, which he could’ve guessed from their voices, one noticeably taller and older than the other. They’re both well provisioned and equipped for the winter, but they each look markedly worse for wear, like they’ve been dealing with more than just the elements lately.

“He’s been here since we last were, at least,” the older man says, with no small degree of relief. “Look at this mess…”

There’s a hang of silence, a sliver of uncertainty threading into the younger’s voice as he asks, “He’s probably fine though, yeah? He’s—you don’t think he’s in trouble?”

The land cruiser with its tires shot out flashes vivid in Grian’s mind. His confidence that no one else was around for miles.

He hopes they don’t find Pizza.

“With that big stupid mouth of his I wouldn’t be surprised if he is,” the Australian replies with a heavy sigh, feet sounding heavy as he moves further into the lodge. “But whoever he came in here with didn’t trash the place, so I wanna believe he found a friend.”

There’s the sound of scuffed heels, boots kicking at the ground amidst impatient pacing.

“Dave,” the first asks, fragile. “What if he’s—?”

“We have a plan,” the deeper voice—Dave—insists. “We retraced our steps. He’s not here, so… we’ll give him until tomorrow to get back if he’s just gone out to take a piss, and then we’ll pick up the Pacific Crest trail and head to the rendezvous, just like we agreed. In the meantime, we keep an eye out for a god damn battery.”

There’s some movement, a gesture being made that Grian can’t see. Something gentle in the face of uncertainty.

“He’s a smart one,” Dave reassures, soft in a way Grian knows he’s not supposed to hear. “He’s gonna be fine. You’ll see.”

Grian can feel the window of escape closing. The noose of discovery tightening imperceptibly around his neck.

“The stairs are over here,” Dave explains, his voice getting further as he moves deeper into the lodge. “Let’s take a look up and see. Figures he went on ahead without leaving a note. It’s dangerous to be so bloody headstrong, that’s what I’ve been telling you both.”

Two pairs of feet thump on the stairs, the sound disappearing up into the second storey of the lodge.

Grian sees his opportunity for what it is.

He bolts.

Cutting across the lobby and bursting out the front door, Grian finds himself safely back outside. His impulse is to grab Pizza and leave, but he stops himself, canting his gaze upwards and noting the windows facing out towards the parking lot. If he tries to start Pizza up, they’re going to hear him. And with the windows to look through… all it would take is one good shot to kill him dead for real.

“Sorry, boy,” he whispers to the tarp-covered vespa, sending his gratitude towards whatever force led him to Pizza in the first place.

On foot now, he makes the decision to leave the road and darts into the trees instead, leaving the pair of strangers behind.

 

 

 

 

 

Several days pass, and a part of Grian regrets not killing the two men when he’d had the chance.

He’s been enduring the journey, following a road that seems to have no point or destination, but the hunger in his stomach now threatens to fold Grian in on himself. He hasn’t encountered a single person since the pair at the lodge, glimpsing only wild animals through the trees and, on one notable occasion, a human corpse shot dead only feet from a gutted out campfire.

At first he’d been afraid. Terrified that he was about to turn the body over and find Scar’s stiff face staring back at him. Luckily that wasn't the case. The person was a stranger, and the bullet hole looked clean. He wants to imagine it came from a rifle.

It gives him hope that he’s still on the right track. That Scar might be just up ahead.

Not that he knows what he’ll do about his hunger if he finds him.

Out of sheer luck, Grian comes across a rabbit caught in a snare as he tries to cross a shallow, frost-edged stream. He feels ravenous at the sight of it, and he lets the feeling overtake him, wishing he could feel sorry. Wishing he felt anything at all. The meal blunts the edge of his perpetual starvation somewhat, but it’s not nearly enough, his body crying out for something substantial.

Something more.

He shakes his head as he refocuses his thoughts, pushing the heels of his palms against his eyelids in an effort to remain in control of himself. It’s a struggle to stay lucid now, his consciousness threatening to drop out from under him the longer he goes without proper sustenance. He can’t give himself to the urge, however—not when he could end up hunting the very man he wants to reunite with. It’s too risky when his soul tells him that Scar is close, so he has no choice but to press on, placating himself on tiny offerings of meat; the voles and squirrels he scrounges up like an animal.

Days come and go as he marches onward. He’s convinced his body has become more resilient and less susceptible to the elements. The cold doesn’t gnaw at him the way it used to. In fact, he barely feels it now. Maybe it has something to do with his circulation. Running too hot or too cold. Blending into the environment.

There are only so many roads through the mountains, and he hazards a guess on which one to take using the maps of the survivor he now acknowledges he killed back at the rainy campground. If Scar’s on a trail there’s no hope to catch up to him, but in his wheelchair Grian knows he would’ve stuck to the roads, the uniformity of the asphalt easier for him to travel on.

He imagines himself seeing Scar in the distance, using it as an anchor-point to keep himself moving forward. In his mind he runs to meet him, falling to his knees beside him, relieved to the point of tears—only for Scar to look at him with pain and betrayal, a hand clutched to his shoulder as he pushes Grian back, the copper taste of blood filling his mouth, horrified and sated and starving all at once.

The horror of it shocks him back into himself, disgusted, upset, and angry in equal parts. He's better than that now. He has to be.

He’ll never hurt Scar again.

But he's so hungry...

He wakes up in the underbrush, not knowing how much time has passed. It’s obvious he blacked out, his hunger having taken control of him. Fear lodges in his throat, Scar’s face flashing in his mind’s eyes, crying out in pain. Hollow and paranoid, feeling the guilt tearing at him like a living, frantic, panicked thing, Grian pushing himself onto his hands and knees and sticks two fingers down his throat as far as they’ll go, making himself gag and throw up just to check and see—to make sure he hasn’t eaten.

The empty bile is a relief. Confirmation that he hasn’t succeeded in his hunt.

Back on his feet continues on, nearly delirious from his appetite and the waking nightmares where he can’t stop himself from tearing Scar apart. He knows he’s losing his fight against the fugue state of the virus living inside of him. However, the more he slips away, ceding himself by inches to the single-minded instinct of his hunger, the more he becomes convinced he’s on the right trail.

The more he’s convinced he’s getting close.

At times he can see it—a long line winding ahead of him. A clear tether drawing him in; sometimes poppy red and sometimes muted lilac. He follows a road next to a river until the mountains pull in close, hitching into steep switchbacks. They make him wish he could pick himself up and be carried to a place where he gets a nice meal, a warm bed, and Scar’s arms wrapped snug around him. He's never walked so much in his life. After this, he'll never want to walk again.

He nearly misses the sign for the ski hill, trudging on as he was with his head down, focused only on putting one foot ahead of the other.

It’s eighteen miles away.

He turns towards it.

The walk is hard, the road getting snowier the further he goes. He doesn’t dare think of how Scar has been pushing through it alone. In and out of his wheelchair, with only a cheap drug-store cane for balance.

He doesn’t realise he’s succumbed, yet again, to the instinct of his hunger until he stumbles back into himself post-black out, only to find that the day has plunged deep into night. He’s surrounded by buildings—the structures of a ski hill nestled comfortably into the foot of the mountain. There are lines of chair lifts running up into the darkness, strange and unearthly.

He paces, circling the same trailer marked with a sign that reads ‘SKI RENTAL’ over and over and over.

Grian knows he can’t stay here. Not like this, not with a hunger this strong and dangerous. With barely any light to see by, he forces himself into the forest, gagging on nothing, sickened by himself. He can feel the pull of the virus inside of him, the desire to spread and consume overriding all other thoughts.

He wishes he could pin himself beneath a rock. Tie himself up until this moment passes. It’s dark beneath the trees, and Grian’s feet sink deep into the uneven snow. He bites the heel of his palm to muffle a scream, wishing he were dead. Wishing he could control himself. If he lets go he’s going to kill Scar, he’s sure of it.

He can’t have come all this way for nothing.

He can’t see the depression in the ground until his foot catches in it; can’t control the way he trips sideways until his head cracks against the trunk of a tree. His vision spots into starbursts, swimming around him as he falls over, too disoriented to stop himself as he crumples into the snow.

As though sensing an opportunity, the rot of his hunger rises up within him like the tide returning to the shore, his consciousness slipping away helplessly as he drowns beneath it.

 

 

 

 

 

the urge is palpable. to claw to rend to tear to bite down hard harder hardest. but. not now. he can't move he can't move. what if he finds him what if he's nearby what if what if what if he's not careful enough and green eyes fade out, a hand touching his face, his cheek, blood-streaked, he can't let that happen please please he can't swallow him down whole, cracking his jaw open, unhinging like a snake, devouring, gasped breaths and pleading and begging and tears and soft soft soft skin so soft and warm and alive and it has to stay that way it has to

 

 

 

 

 

Grian wakes up with a gasp several hours later, no further into the woods than when he started. He supposes he must have truly passed out this time, laying sideways in the snow. Not even the virus inside his veins strong enough to move him until he was snapped awake by a sudden sound.

A gunshot, clear as day.

His heart leaps up into his throat, choked and nauseating. While he can’t be sure the sound is Scar, he isn’t about to simply sit and wonder. Ignoring his vertigo, Grian gets to his feet, rushing towards the sound as fast as he can. His lungs sting as he pushes himself through the frigid burn of the frosty air.

He winds up in something like a clearing, breathing hard as he darts his gaze around. There are signs of a scuffle everywhere, snow disturbed by multiple footprints, and branches snapped off of trees. Grian follows the trail pushed into the woods, believing the tug in his chest that promises him salvation lies on the other side of yearning.

A dozen feet brings a new sound to his ears—snarling and snapping, and the grunt of someone fighting back. Grian presses on, a couple paces more, another few steps, and there—

He catches something between the trees, feeling frantic, breathing hard. His gaze fixes on a zombie currently pinning a familiar brown coat to the ground.

It’s Scar.

Scar.

There’s not a moment to spare for joy. Before his eyes, Grian can imagine a repeat of that day at the gas station—the one he’s never once stopped thinking about. Scar, laid out on his back, struggling against a monster as it gnashes its teeth at him.

He’s not letting this happen again.

With a nearly animalistic growl, Grian launches himself into the fray, some rotted part of him high off the thrill of joining in. The creature notices him instantly, as does Scar, but Grian pays that no mind. He shoves at the zombie, hard, barely flinching as the festering thing claws at his arms and exposed face. It bares its teeth and screeches, spit flying from its fetid mouth, and Grian responds with a snarl of his own, some deep, bloodthirsty instinct rising up within him as he pins it in place, its throat fitting into the gape of his mouth.

The satisfaction when he bites down—when his teeth sink in and he pulls his head back, when he tears off a piece of the creature—is immeasurable. It satiates some foreign thing that now lives and breathes within his veins. The zombie screams, thrashing, but it’s weak compared to him. It’s nothing.

He makes quick work of it, effortless in his violence. The zombie shudders, writhes, dies, and Grian discards it carelessly. Tossing it aside like litter.

Breathing hard, he refocuses his attention, electric as he looks down at him. At Scar. Alive. Living and tangible beneath him.

“Grian…?”

For all his fear, for all his hunger. The instinct to bite, to swallow, to tear… all of it evaporates in a heartbeat, and instead Grian feels himself melting, falling. The ache that’s been burning a hole in his chest finally quenched. Tears flood his eyes, a deep well of emotion upended, overwhelming and raw.

He’s found him.

He’s found him.

“Scar!”

He’s not expecting the other voice, a snarl forcing its way up into his throat as he tenses on instinct, the violence reigniting within him in an instant.

“Wait!” The shouted warning catches him sideways, the rush of their reunion tilting sour as Scar struggles to sit up. Rejecting him, not wanting him. “Don’t shoot!”

The next seconds are a blur. Scar’s arm circles around his shoulder, all-encompassing, dragging Grian down as he rolls them both to one side. In the exact same moment a gun goes off. Loud. A ricochet of shrapnel explodes around them as the shot pulls wide at the last second, buckshot flaying the bark off a tree instead of burying into his back.

Beneath him Scar is panting, breathing hard. There are words being shouted, warnings and accusations and confirmations.

“It’s fine!” Scar says, arm tight around Grian, holding him close. Like he’s precious. Like he means something. “It’s fine, don’t shoot! It’s fine!”

“Fuck!” The other voice shouts, overlapping on top of Scar’s, thick and loud with a twang of an accent that sets Grian’s nerves on end. “What the hell is going on?!”

“I know him!”

“You—what…?”

Large hands are suddenly on Grian’s head, lifting his face, fingers carding back through his mangy, matted hair. Scar’s touch trembles as he stares at him, so overwhelmed he looks choked by it. Grian breaks away from his hold and shakes himself free, only to shove back down into Scar’s chest, squeezing so close he can feel the thump of Scar’s heart beating next to his.

I found you, he thinks.

More words are being exchanged, voices talking, still harried but calmer now.

He doesn’t bother to listen. He doesn't care. None of that matters.

All that’s important is that he’s here. He’s here and he’s found Scar.

And he’s never letting him down again.

A piece of him has settled at last. Like a jagged part that was put back wrong has finally found its place. For the first time since he died, Grian is able to feel something other than fatigue and remorse.

And yet... even as the emotion of their reunion overwhelms him, forcing him to cling tight to Scar, refusing to let him go…

His hunger…

His hunger persists.

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

(Click to reveal.)

[ SPOILERS ]

This chapter contains especially Graphic Depictions of Violence, multiple Graphic Depictions of Death, General Gore and Cannibalism. Please be aware going forward if these topics are unpalatable or triggering to you.

---

Grian's back! Hooray! Everything's going to work out after all!

...right?

In other news: you might've noticed the newly updated chapter count! :D Lock and I have known for a while what it is, but now that we're like... literally five chapters away from the end (on OUR side of things, writing-wise; YOU GUYS have clearly got a ways to go still ;3) we feel more confident putting a number on it 💫 That said, it might increase by a chapter or two if we feel the need to split anything or embellish, but you can take this as a pretty solid estimate of how much of the journey remains!

WE HOPE YOU'RE EXCITED, BECAUSE WE CERTAINLY ARE HAHAHA 💜

Chapter 30

Notes:

Hahaha, LOVED all the comments last chapter omg, thank you guys so much! They were a treat to read! 💜

This week, we've got not one, but TWO pieces of fanart to share with you guys if you haven't seen them already!

First piece is this incredible, traditional rendition of the ending to Ch. 29 by squishy--squish/Talinor!

Second is this jaw-dropping painting that captures this scene in Ch. 28/29 SO well, by archive-rat!

Thank you both!! We're incredibly humbled by all the love ;w; 💜💜💫

 

To say that Scar is experiencing disbelief is putting things lightly.

It’s well past midnight as the three of them retreat back to the rental shop, and Scar can’t stop staring at him. At Grian. He knows that this can’t be a dream, because he hasn’t had one in ages. The few snippets of unconscious visions he’s had have all been horrors that too closely mirrored his waking hours, and the simple reality is that this doesn’t match up to any of them.

Grian. Here. Right next to him—hand warm in his and eyes soft every time they catch his gaze.

If he were more of a spiritual man, Scar would call it a miracle.

He’s loath to let Grian out of his sight for even a moment, keeping a hand on him constantly. It’s lucky for him that Grian doesn’t seem to mind it at all. There had been a time where Grian wouldn’t so much as knock hips with him while walking together, but now Grian clings to him with something close to desperation. It makes Scar’s throat thick with emotion, to know he’s wanted and needed in the same way he aches for Grian.

There’s so much to discuss, so much to figure out—but Scar has no idea where to even begin. Words seem paltry in the face of the blessing they’ve been bestowed. Why ask about the details of Grian’s survival when what they’ve been given means that they can be together again?

A second chance. The ability to finally get things right.

Of course, Pops’ reaction is not as elated as Scar’s is. Even after hastily wiping Grian's mouth and face clean, there had been a considerable amount of blood all over his clothes. And so there's a hesitation to Pops, and its been there ever since Scar told him not to shoot, suspicious of the stranger suddenly in their midst.

Now, as they put their things away, Pops catches his eye from across the room and Scar knows he has to set things straight with him if they’re going to continue traveling together.

He untangles himself from Grian reluctantly, reassuring him with a quiet, “I’m gonna talk to Pops for a minute.”

It takes a bit of convincing to dislodge Grian’s grip, but Scar manages it with some finagling, pressing a kiss to the top of his head before he makes his way across the shack to where Pops has set down his things.

“What’s up?” he asks, affecting a tone that he hopes comes off as casual and not confrontational.

“‘What’s up?’” Pops repeats, incredulous. “What’s up with this guy, Wheels?”

Scar tries not to take it personally. Tries not to bristle too aggressively in response.

“I told you about him already—he’s the one I’d been traveling with.”

If anything, Pops does not look less reassured by that, the volume in his tone raising loud enough to be heard easily across the room. “You mean your ex? The one you said cheated on you?”

Scar flinches, not daring to turn around and check what Grian’s reaction is. Instead, he steps closer to Pops, lowering his voice in the hopes that the other man will follow his lead. “Yeah, but we’re over that now. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Pops says, clearly not agreeing at all, his voice still loud and carrying. “Didn’t you say he got bit? That he fucking died?”

Scar struggles under the aggressive scrutiny of Pops’ question, casting his eyes over to where Grian is sitting, obviously listening in on them.

Silence hangs heavy and strangely guilty in the room until Grian finally bends to it.

“I did, yeah.”

Sitting up and shifting his shoulder he begins to unbutton his parka, freeing his right arm from its sleeve before he pulls down the collar of his shirt, showing off the ragged bite mark on his shoulder. The ring of teeth marks healed into an uneven, jagged scar.

It’s an awful confirmation, but strangely validating all the same. He’s bitten, yes, but he’s not infected. He hasn’t turned.

Looking at him, Scar’s heart aches, guilty in a way that feels impossible for him to overcome. He can’t help but think that if he’d just waited, if he’d simply been patient, he could’ve been there for Grian this entire time. That they could’ve been travelling together, safe together, rather than wretched and miserable on their own. Thinking back to that awful afternoon when he’d held Grian for what he thought was the last time, he feels sick to his stomach, unable to believe he had simply abandoned Grian on the side of the road without ever once stopping to look back. To check. To make sure.

He hopes that Grian doesn’t hate him for it. Hopes that Grian can forgive him, determined to do whatever it will take to earn his trust back.

“So…” Pops says, breaking the silence as he eyes Grian’s bite mark warily, like he’s expecting it to spring off Grian’s shoulder and launch itself at him instead.

“So. I’m immune,” Grian says, shifting his collar back in place before he shoves his arm back into his jacket sleeve.

Immune.

It’s a heavy word. Hearing it said out loud, Scar can’t help but think of Quackity. Of Karl and Sapnap and the way they’d kept it between them like a secret.

He can’t believe how lucky he is that Grian carries the same resistance, too.

For a long moment Pops stares at Grian, chewing the inside of his cheek as he works something out in his head.

“Well damn,” he says at last, blowing out a long breath, equal parts a sound of relief and a sigh. “That’s a stroke of luck, for sure.”

He gives Scar a look, familiar and companionable. “Maybe there’s hope for the human race after all, eh?”

Across the room from them Grian offers a thin smile, and anxiously Scar holds his breath. He remembers all too well Grian’s attitude towards the trio, the way he’d kept them at arm’s length while he nurtured his growing resentment for them. He doesn’t want it to repeat with Pops.

He won’t be able to handle it.

“You two parted ways—shit, way before Yakima even, right?” Pops asked, rubbing his chin as he looks towards the ceiling, clearly trying to work out the distance in his head. “That’s a hell of a lotta miles. How the fuck did you find us, man?”

It’s a good question, one Scar wants to know the answer to himself.

He looks towards Grian expectantly, waiting.

“I don’t know.” There’s an openness to Grian’s expression when he speaks, honest in his answer. “I went where I thought you’d be... I can't really explain it, I just—” His eyes meet Scar’s, earnest, begging him to believe him. “—Scar, I just knew.”

There’s a poignancy to it. An infinitely long line connecting them to one another, stretching over miles—over lifetimes. Inevitably leading them back into each other’s arms.

“I believe you,” Scar says, meaning every word of it.

Beside him, Pops keeps his hand on his chin, watching them both closely before heaving a sigh, turning his back on them as he starts gathering supplies together for a meal.

Eager to show Pops that they’re still a team, even if his loyalty lies with Grian first, Scar puts out a hand, helping Pops set things up.

They have meagre supplies, especially when split between three people, but working together they manage to make things work. There’s an awkward silence between them, stilted in a way Scar and Pops have never been as they struggle to adapt their duo into a trio. As they eat, Pops asks Grian a few polite, inoffensive questions, and in turn Scar fills Grian in on what he’s missed while they’ve been apart.

At least another hour passes before they finally decide to settle down for what remains of the night. However, while Grian picks up his things, moving towards the back of the shop to place them next to Scar’s, Pops pulls Scar aside once more.

This time, he commits to whispering. “What’s the plan, big man?”

It’s a blindsiding question. One Scar doesn’t have an answer to.

“What do you mean?”

“Are we splitting up in the morning?” Pops asks, blunt and straight to the point.

It takes Scar more than a little aback, though after a second of reflection he supposes he understands where Pops is coming from. “Well,” he begins, careful with his phrasing. “The plan was always to head North. Grian being here doesn’t change that. So I guess… everything is the same as it was before—you take us as far as the trailhead you mentioned, and then we say our goodbyes.”

When Pops nods, face blank and expression unreadable, Scar adds, carefully. “Though you know you’re always welcome to come along with us.”

There’s a moment of pause where Pops simply stares at him, seconds ticking past, and Scar begins to wonder if maybe he’s overstepped. However then the look in Pops’ eyes softens, and he squeezes Scar’s shoulder in that familiar way of his, giving him a halfhearted smile.

“I wanna find my boys again,” he explains simply. “And while third-wheeling you and blondie sounds nice, it ain’t gonna get me any closer to what I really want. So, I’m sorry, but I won’t be going with you.”

The honesty in Pops’ tone is sobering in a way that has a smile pulling at Scar’s mouth. He places a hand on Pops’ arm, offering the same open-palm grip that he knows the other man appreciates.

“I get it,” he says, “And I hope you find them, Pops. I really do.”

“Good man,” Pops laughs, quiet and light.

There’s a moment of hesitation, lingering long enough to border on sentimentality before Pops clears his throat, shaking his head as if to physically dislodge it.

“Lucky for you, all that climate change bullshit fucked the planet up just in time, eh?” He says, jerking his head towards the world outdoors, indicating the forest and the mountain beyond it. “Mild winter, barely any snowfall… you two are gonna have a cakewalk getting where you need to go. No bugs, either. Thank you, Big Oil.”

It’s exactly the kind of thing Scar would expect him to say, brash and controversial for the sake of it, and Scar finds himself laughing at it all the same.

“I’m gonna miss you,” he says, needing to admit it before it’s too late.

“No you’re not,” Pops dismisses, his gaze moving tellingly to Grian. “The second chance you’ve been pining for walks in through the front door and you say you’re sad ‘cause you’re not gonna have to look at my ugly mug anymore? Sweetheart, you’ll forget me in a week.”

Scar feels the edge of the rejection, sharp because it has to be. Because acknowledging how much they’ve come to mean to each other on the precipice of going their separate ways will spiral into something too vulnerable, and neither of them wants to face that right now. Scar’s never been great at goodbyes, and one with a friendship forged through fire isn’t going to be any different.

“Besides,” Pops continues, shrugging a shoulder in a loose, carefree kind of way. “You’re not done with me yet, right? I’ll walk you as far as I can tomorrow, make sure you’re heading the right way before I cut you loose.”

The unspoken question presents itself plainly, Scar forced to ask the obvious.

“And where will you go after that?”

“I’m gonna come back here,” Pops says, decided and brokering no argument. “And I’m gonna wait until my guys show up.” He cracks a grin, equal parts daring and smug. “Because if you get to pull that ‘I just knew I’d find you’ bullshit then I do, too.”

Scar chuckles, unable to help himself. Glad and mournful in equal measures.

“Why don’t you go be disgusting and sentimental while I take first watch,” Pops encourages, casting his eyes once again towards Grian. “Give me some time alone to brood.”

“You sure you don’t mind?”

“It’d be real shitty of me to offer if I minded,” Pops says, blunt in the way that Scar’s become so used to.

They part ways, and Scar retires to the back of the rental shop where Grian is already waiting for him. He looks awkward and flustered, unsure of where he should make a place for himself. It drags the memory of the last night they spent together back to the forefront of Scar’s mind. The hot springs, their argument, Grian sleeping on the floor instead of joining Scar in bed, Scar letting him sleep there, petty with his own miserable bitterness.

His chest aches from it.

Without wasting any time discussing it, Scar drags his feet out of his boots and kneels down on the floor, putting an arm out for Grian, beckoning him close. “C’mere, Gri.”

The relief in Grian’s expression is overwhelming, and he quickly shuffles in near, the two of them settlin down together with Grian laying his head on Scar’s offered arm. They stay like that for a while, the two of them, barely touching, just looking. Scar lets his eyes wander, tracing the shape of Grian’s silhouette in the dim light, still caught in a state of disbelief.

“Is this real…?” He asks at last, his voice a whisper, almost too soft. “Are you actually here?”

In response, Grian reaches out and takes Scar’s free hand in his own, his skin warm against Scar’s palm. Alive. He places that hand on his cheek, letting Scar touch the softness of his skin, the sparse scruff of his facial hair, rubbing his thumb over the expanse of it.

“I’m real,” Grian whispers back, leaning in and knocking his forehead against Scar’s.

Gratitude, adoration, and a deep painful ache rise up in Scar’s chest, and he finds himself unable to focus enough to pay attention to any one of them. Instead, he dips his head in further still, finally bridging the distance between them and capturing Grian’s lips with his own.

The kiss is soft and sweet, their lips lingering against one another. Grian tastes nostalgic, everything just like Scar remembers it. It feels overwhelming, like he just can’t get enough, and in short order Scar finds himself wrapping his arms around Grian’s body, desperate to bring him in closer.

When Scar finally manages to pull away, it’s with the sound of a laugh and a sob caught together in tandem. “I missed you,” he says, whispering the words like a secret. “Grian, I—fuck, I really thought you—”

Grian stops him with another kiss, lips pressed easy to his mouth. “I missed you too,” he says, effortlessly ending Scar’s spiral.

The warmth of it swells in Scar’s heart, so unused to having his affection towards Grian returned. It chokes him up for a moment, eyes welling with tears that he hastily blinks away. When he speaks again, his voice feels unsteady and tight, like he’s been crying.

“What happened?” Scar manages to get out, searching Grian’s eyes in the dark, trying to convey every worry he has in one short phrase. “The last time I saw you, you were… G, you were dying…”

He runs his fingers along the side of Grian’s face, tracing the curve of his jaw up to his temple, pushing his dirty blonde hair back. There’s a terrible feeling gnawing at him, a guilt that grows larger with every passing minute.

“Should I have stayed?” he asks at last, fragile. Afraid of the truth but needing to know for sure. “Was I wrong?”

“No.” Grian’s reply is resolute as he reaches up, threading his fingers with Scar’s and pressing his broad palm flat to his cheek. “You were right to go. You couldn’t have stayed. I wasn’t myself when I—after, when I woke up again. I was…”

There’s a sitch of hesitation, Grian’s eyes momentarily drifting over Scar’s shoulder, looking over towards the alcove entrance of the rental shop where Pops has posted for his watch, sitting contemplatively on his own, staring through the narrow window in the door out into the darkness.

“Scar…” he starts slowly, keeping his voice low, barely above a whisper. “I don’t know if ‘immune’ is the right word for this.”

The relief at having himself freed from his guilt of leaving Grian behind is immediately overshadowed by a new fear, Grian’s confession creating a fresh hollow in the pit of Scar’s stomach that he doesn’t have a name for.

He must show it on the expression on his face, because Grian continues speaking hastily, explaining himself in the same whispered tone.

“Do you remember when Quackity attacked you?”

It’s a raw question, one Scar acknowledges with a small, silent nod.

“It’s the same for me,” Grian breathes, shattering Scar’s heart with the brutal reality. “I’ve—I have these urges now, and I can’t control them. Not if I’m starving.” His eyes search Scar’s, pupils enormous in the darkness. “The bite didn’t turn me into one of them, but I don’t think—I’m not… I’m not human anymore, Scar. I’ve changed.”

“Grian…” Scar says, hearing his own voice as if from a million miles away. A nameless, all-encompassing emotion taking root in his stomach.

The joy of their reunion, the relief. The belief that the hardest part was behind them now. That no matter what, they’d gone through hell and come out the other side. That it would all get easier from here…

“I need to eat to survive,” Grian continues, his gaze never once wavering. “And the things we’ve been living on just aren’t going to cut it anymore.”

Scar’s mind stutters, Grian’s words hitting a wall that he can’t seem to parse.

In his silence, Grian darts his gaze around again, looking past Scar and towards Pops before he moves impossibly closer, speaking directly into Scar’s chest as he murmurs, “How much do you trust Pops?”

The question takes Scar aback, but he tries to answer as honestly as he can. “He’s been good to me. I’d trust him to watch our backs, if that’s what you’re asking. We’ve never exactly had a conversation about it, but I’d consider him a friend, you know?”

Far from looking reassured, Grian only looks pained, nodding along like that’s exactly what he expected to hear. Despite himself, an ugly fear rises up in Scar, unable to help but wonder if this is Grian’s jealousy pushing its way into the scene again.

“Scar,” Grian breathes, slow and quiet. “What I need to eat… it needs to be fresh. And I need a lot of it.”

There’s a dawning realization hanging over Scar’s head, and does his best to swallow it back, anxiety creeping along his spine. He throws his own look over to Pops, the other man intent on his watch and politely giving them their space.

He hates how every word he and Grian are sharing feels like betrayal.

“And…” he starts slowly, hating the way the words sound. “Have you… eaten before—?”

“I have,” Grian replies, honest and blunt. His eyes are impossibly dark, searching Scar’s face for a reaction. For judgement.

Scar can’t help himself—he laughs, startled and horrified. It makes Grian’s face fall, shoulders hunching up in self-concious tension, and Scar finds himself mumbling an apology as he smooths a hand down Grian’s arm.

They let their silence linger for a beat, Scar contemplating this reveal in quiet. Eventually, he exhales a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He tries to force himself calm, remove as much emotion as he can from his line of questioning while his mind still spirals over this newfound knowledge.

“How long can you go between, uh… between meals?”

Grian peeks up at him, hesitant as he chews his bottom lips between his teeth.

“It depends, really. The more energy I use, the hungrier I get. And if my last meal was large, I can go longer without. I’d say I average about a week or two, as far as I can remember.”

Scar frowns, hating that he has to press Grian with more questions. “And what happens if you don’t eat?”

“I black out,” Grian replies simply. “And when I regain consciousness, I usually find that I’ve eaten while I was… out of focus.”

It’s a harrowing thing to hear, and Scar can’t help the way he inhales, quick and sharp, his body tensing up even as he continues holding Grian in his arms.

It’s obvious that Grian takes note of it—it would be impossible not to—shrinking in on himself, the flash of something both guilty and hurt cutting across his features.

Scar hates himself for making Grian feel that way. Like anything he could do could ever make Scar truly hate him.

“When did you last eat?” He asks at last, trying to pull them away from the awkwardness.

“A while back,” Grian offers in a tiny voice. “Too long ago, now.”

It used to be that Scar loved raising hypotheticals. Grian had never really enjoyed them, but Cub had always been a fan. A favoured pastime of Scar’s had been trying to gauge what circumstances would push Cub to do things he might otherwise revile. On one memorable occasion, Scar had asked Cub what it would take for him to become a cannibal.

Cub had laughed at the time, shaking his head and sighing with his usual, ‘You’re a weird guy, Scar,’ but he’d been engaged in the hypothetical none-the-less. He’d mused over it, thinking things through before he eventually decided that he could do it if the meat was lab-grown.

‘Worried about the ethics of hunted human meat?’ Scar had teased.

‘More worried about the spread of disease in a free-range human,’ Cub shot back, good-natured.

‘Not me,’ Scar had bragged, eager for the chance to one-up Cub. ‘I’ll be ordering human steak the second it’s on the menu.’

They’d chuckled about it together. It had just been speculative then. A fun distraction. Something to puzzle out together in a way where no one would ever truly come to any harm.

Here, however, it’s suddenly much more sinister.

And yet.

And yet.

“What do you need me to do?” Scar hears himself say, the words much more confident than he feels.

In his arms, Grian leans back slightly, uncomprehending. “What?”

“Cub and I used to joke about… y’know, what would it take to get either of us to eat a person,” Scar offers, like that makes sense. Like that’s the crux of their issue. He tries not to think of anything else. Of what he's really throwing himself into. “He was always a bit more squeamish about it than I was.”

Grian’s gaze doesn’t waver, like he’s still not sure what Scar’s implying.

“How are we going to get you what you need?” Scar repeats, more certain now. Addressing the reality of their situation head on, refusing to shy away from it.

Immediately something wells up within Grian, a glassiness that makes Scar’s heart feel full. He looks vulnerable and appreciative in a way he always used to fight to keep down.

It makes Scar love him all the more. Makes all that he'll give up in doing this worth it.

It takes Grian a moment, struggling with the scale of his emotions before he finally takes a deep breath, grounding himself before he shakes his head.

“No,” he says at last, firm. “I’m not asking you to do that.”

“I’m offering,” Scar counters, smoothing the calloused pad of his thumb across the curve of Grian’s cheek.

“I’ve still got time,” Grian insists, quietly adamant. “I can hold off until… wherever the next place with people is.”

Scar can feel the weight of the implication. The fact that this isn’t simply a fun theoretical being batted back and forth while sitting around in Cub’s garage truly sinking in.

“G,” he says slowly, careful with his words. “I don’t know if that’s the option you think it is.”

He thinks of Pops’ map. Of the routes pencilled through the mountains, remote hiking trails cutting through isolated wilderness, miles and miles from civilization.

“This isn’t like how we travelled. We’re not close to anything right now.”

Grian’s silence is telling, elongating as the seconds tick by. Scar can feel the inevitability of what he’s working up to, terrible in a way that even his worst hypotheticals with Cub never were. He braces for it, waiting until finally Grian opens his mouth and speaks.

“How close did you say you are to Pops, again…?”

His breath catches.

It’s only when Scar notices the small smile at the corner of Grian’s mouth, that he clues into the joke. Grian’s brows inch together as his hand reaches up to stroke Scar’s cheek reassuringly.

“Kidding,” he says quietly. “I’m only kidding, Scar.”

He continues to caress Scar’s skin, following it with another soft, slow kiss. “We’ll figure it out,” he says at last, clearly intent on reassuring Scar. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and come across someone on our way up the mountain.”

“Mmm,” Scar hums noncommittally. “Maybe.”

They settle down to sleep after that, the two of them thoroughly entangled, legs interlocked as Scar holds Grian close to his chest. Their breaths intermingle effortlessly. Grian drifts off before Scar does, and Scar finds that he has to resist the urge to shake him awake, plagued by the irrational fear that he’s actually dead. Instead, he runs his fingers through Grian’s hai, and presses his palm flat to his back—subtle tactile reminders that Grian is safe and warm and real in his arms.

And that’s the most important thing, isn’t it?

He tries not to think about it, tries to tell himself it’s not going to be a problem. Yet, while Grian may have only been teasing, Scar can’t help but think about what’s going to change now that he’s back. Losing him once had opened Scar’s eyes to what was truly valuable, and Scar’s not about to risk losing him again. If that means taking sides… if it means putting Grian first, before anyone else…

Subtly, carefully, Scar shifts his gaze back over to Pops, picking out his silhouette leaning against a windowsill, mouth open wide as he yawns.

It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but Scar knows he’s learned his lesson. There’s no one more important to him than Grian. If it comes down to it, he’ll do what he has to.

The reality of it settles uncomfortably within him, leaving him restless and unable to fully fall asleep. He’s lethargic when Pops wakes him for his watch, unable to make eye contact, merely mumbling a low ‘good night’ as Pops lays himself down.

Scar doesn’t wake Grian, letting him sleep until dawn finally breaks. The sky turns from indigo to lavender streaked with gold before the sunrise is swallowed by a bank of grey clouds. It dips them into a day that feels as sombre as Scar feels while he prepares for the journey that lays ahead.

Breakfast is brief, Grian eating very little of it. They all sit together, and Pops complains about his back hurting, blaming the day’s previous zombie attack, good natured in his griping. He’s in a fine enough mood and, incredibly, Grian appears to be getting along with him, keeping up with his conversation and grinning every time Pops cracks a joke.

Scar can’t help but compare it to their time with the trio, and how determined Grian had been at the time to keep them all at arm’s length. He’s so different now. Engaged and present, asking Pops questions and listening politely to his answers.

It’s a relief that admittedly feels a bit sour. Why is Grian trying now? Now when a part of Scar can’t stop thinking about Grian’s question—about how much Pops does mean to him.

He thinks about their many days together and their hard-earned trust. He thinks about every time Pops went out of his way for him.

He thinks about how Pops saved his life the first day they met. How he wouldn’t be here now, reuniting with Grian without him.

At the same time, Scar thinks about how all he’s been wanting was one more chance with Grian. An opportunity to do things over. Do them right. He thinks of how desperate he’d been. How he’d have given anything to see Grian again.

He’s stuck, every option a betrayal.

“Hey. Earth to Wheels.”

The loud snap of Pops’ fingers drags Scar back into the moment. Scar shakes his head, refocusing his attention. He finds that while his mind was drifting, Pops had pulled out his map and started explaining parts of it to Grian.

“I’m listening,” he lies, causing Pops to roll his eyes at him without any real derision.

“You know if I looked up ‘attentive’ in the dictionary right now I’d see a picture of you spacing out,” he teases, immensely fond within his familiarity.

“Not a very good dictionary then,” Grian remarks mildly. He looks well rested, even while he’s pretending to chew on the corner of a protein bar.

For a moment Pops simply looks at him before he clues into the nonsense of his remark, laughing light-heartedly.

“Shit, you got a point,” he admits with a shake of his head. “It really isn’t.”

They finish eating, Scar enjoying the last of the instant coffee brewed on Pops’ campstove before Pops takes out his map, unfolding it to point out their location, the ski hill circled in red.

“Now, we were gonna head up here,” he explains, dragging his finger up along a trail that curves westward before it heads north. “But if this place is thick with zombies from the resort, I don’t like our odds in those woods.”

“If people came up here and turned… do you think there are any survivors?”

Grian’s question hangs in the air, thick with tension on both sides. Pops keeps his eyes fixed on the map, but his expression becomes complicated, no doubt grappling with the feeling of hope that his companions are still alive while struggling with his steadily flagging confidence. Scar, on the other hand, understands the true intent of Grian’s question.

On the lookout for any potential meals nearby. Isolated and alone. Easy picking.

“I want to find survivors more than anyone,” Pops settles on at last, working out the words with a tight expression. “But we’ve gotta stay realistic about this. A handful of yuppie tourists don’t make for good survival odds. Now—” focusing again, he taps the map, moving their attention away from the designated trail towards a blue line that runs slightly more to the east. “This is one of the old logging roads. No one’s using ‘em these days except kids with ATVs and shotguns—and us three. It’s gonna be a lot of uphill, but it meets the highway on the other side, and it’s better than getting our limbs gnawed off.”

He straightens up, folding his map before he tucks it back into the breast pocket of his parka.

“Get your shit together,” he says, cheerful albeit forced. “We got a big day ahead.”

The three of them pack up their things, leaving the relative safety of the ski hill behind them as they pick up the logging road where it forks off the edge of the lodge’s property. To call it a road is generous—while it may have been clear-cut once, decades of neglect have allowed the forest to encroach on it, peppering it with scrubby new growth, a mixture of pines and naked maples.

It’s a hard day of travel, and even Scar’s joy at having Grian by his side is muted by the effort required to trek higher up a mountain and through the patchy snow. There’s no room for him to use his wheelchair, so they compensate by taking numerous breaks instead, allowing Scar to stretch his limbs while the other two catch their breath.

Whenever they stop to eat, Scar notes that Grian passes more often than not, and what little he does eat he chews disinterestedly, handing it over to Scar before he finishes. Pops makes a joke about it—asks Grian why he’s dieting at the end of the world—and Grian politely laughs, adding that he’s always eaten like a bird.

It’s a lie, of course. Scar has seen firsthand how much Grian can put away when he’s hungry, and it makes him wonder how he can so effortlessly joke around with Pops when he’d so recently brought up the possibility of eating him.

As their trek progresses, Scar finds himself lost in his own thoughts more and more. He puts on a bright facade whenever Pops lobs a topic of conversation his way, but the guilt of it weighs him down heavily. The further they go, the more glazed Grian’s eyes become—the more weary each of his plodding steps. It makes it next to impossible for Scar to meet Pops’ usual energy, struggling with himself as he tries to be okay with the thought of cutting Pops off for good.

When they finally reach their stopping point for the day it’s well into dusk, the clouds overhead blocking out the waning sun and any chance of moonlight. It’s freezing, all of them feeling the chill, and Scar is only thankful that at least there was no rain or snowfall to leave him sopping wet.

They make camp in a small area hollowed into the woods, made by whoever first cleared the trail they’re travelling on. There are signs that the clearing once worked as a base of operations for whatever crew had been toiling here in a futile effort to push the forest back, but the few listing structures have been succumbing to the woods for decades now, barely recognisable as the sheds and cabins they once were.

Moss lays thick on every surface, forming a heavy carpet wherever Scar can glimpse it through the snow, ferns and saplings with trunks the thickness of his arm pushing up in tight clusters next to timbers that once formed the walls of the meagre outpost. There are several wood piles left, the logs mouldering under burlap tarps that long ago decomposed into nothing. Some forestry tools—long saw blades and large hooks—have been left leaning against one another, rusted into uselessness and slowly crumbling as time eats away at them.

Pops paces the area wordlessly, checking and re-checking the ground for any signs of life with the broad beam of his flashlight. Scar can only watch him helplessly as he searches, noting the way his free hand works in and out of a fist as he makes every effort not to show his ever-increasing disappointment.

There are no footprints that any of them can see, no burnt ring of ashes from a campfire, no place hollowed out beneath the overhang of a former cabin where a pair of survivors might have made camp.

No one has been here for years.

I’m sorry, Scar wants to say, but he can’t face the scope of what he’d be apologising for. Not just Pops’ loss, not just his heart ache, but the inevitable choice Scar feels looming ever-larger as Grian continues to flag in front of him.

“We’re all clear,” Pops says at last, acting as if he’d always simply been checking the area for potential threats. “Get your tent up, I’m gonna see if I can’t get us a fire going.”

“Hey,” Scar calls out, gripped by a sudden urgency. Whether motivated by his own guilt or merely empathy, he knows he needs to reassure Pops somehow. “They’re out there. They’ve got to be.”

There’s a lengthy pause, Pops tensing his jaw as his fists clench to his sides. Scar wonders if maybe he’s made things worse by saying anything at all, but then Pops sighs, forcing a wry smile onto his face, tired but grateful.

“You’re right. It’d be pretty stupid to give up on them right now, after everything,” he relents. “Thanks, man.”

He turns away, continuing to gather kindling for their fire, and somehow Scar feels like maybe he shouldn’t have said anything at all. The discomfort of the exchange sits heavy on his chest, and automatically Scar seeks out Grian to try and get his mind off things.

He finds him standing by their tent supplies, holding a metal stake and staring listlessly off into the darkness of the forest.

“Everything okay?” Scar asks, and Grian jolts where he stands.

“Oh,” he sighs, a small smile pressing forcefully to his lips. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

It’s not the truth. Not remotely. He’s obviously tired, sluggish in the way he moves and the pallor of his skin. It’s clear to both of them: the hunger is doing him in.

Scar swallows hard, thinking back to how Grian was forever changed because he’d tried to protect Scar. His condition—his ‘not-immunity’—is Scar’s responsibility. He shouldn’t have to suffer through it alone.

“What do you need me to do?” He whispers, stepping close and stroking the back of his knuckles down the side of Grian’s face.

The softness in Grian’s eyes nearly takes Scar’s breath away. More trust and devotion in them than Scar’s ever seen, even before the world went awry.

“I’ll be fine,” Grian insists. “Just a bit peckish. You know how it is.”

It’s a joke, of course it is, but it touches the very obvious issue directly and Scar can’t help but take it at face value.

“You talked about blacking out… about not knowing what happens when you’re no longer in control of your body—”

“I won’t hurt you,” Grian says, firm. There’s a resolute expression on his face, like even just the thought of it is impossible to consider. “I couldn’t do it. Not to you.”

Gentle as he can be, Scar leans in, brushing his lips against Grian’s forehead. “But you won’t be yourself then, will you?”

“Then we'll figure something out,” Grian instructs, determined. “If I start to fade, tie me to—to a tree or something. I—”

“Grian.” Scar says, stern. “I’m not going to do that.”

There’s a pause, the two of them staring at each other, neither budging from their positions, locked at an impasse.

“I’ll go out tonight.” Grian relents at last, meeting Scar’s concerned expression with his own exhausted one. “There must be something out here. An animal or straggler or—something.”

“And we’re sure we don’t want to tell Pops?” It’s been more than clear that Grian doesn’t, but Scar can’t help but ask the question anyway.

“No,” Grian replies, adamant. “We don’t. It’s too risky.”

The irony of it, especially after everything he held against the trio, clearly doesn’t escape Grian, and he tugs a hand anxiously back through his hair, looking guilty to one side.

“I know you trust him,” Grian admits. “But—”

I don’t, hangs between them, the words unspoken but clear.

“I’ll figure it out,” Grian insists, determined as he looks up to meet Scar’s gaze. “And I’ll do it without putting you in harm’s way.”

It’s not what Scar wants to hear. A poor solution to their problem.

“Grian—”

“In fact, I think I’ll leave right now,” Grian decides, abrupt, dropping the tent gear and turning away from him. “Back before you know it.”

Without a single look over his shoulder, Grian disappears into the woods, immediately swallowed up by the darkness. Scar’s mouth goes dry as he watches him go, the sudden separation filling him with the fear that this time they won’t be so lucky as to find one another again.

Resolutely he steels himself against that thought, attempting to redirect his anxiety towards productivity by picking up where Grian left off with their tent, setting it up slowly as he works through the mess in his mind.

“Where the hell is he scurrying off to?”

Scar can’t hide the way his shoulders hitch up instinctively when Pops approaches, stamping his feet and rubbing his hands together while he breathes warm air onto them. He hates how quickly Pops has become an obstacle to him. How the man he quite literally leaned on for weeks now has him reacting with a prickle of secrecy and guilt.

“Firewood,” Scar lies, knowing he sounds suspicious.

Without challenging him, Pops simply nods and moves to the other side of the tent, automatically helping him get the poles in place, far more competent at it than Scar will ever be.

“You’re positive there’s no one in the area?” Scar finds himself asking, disgustingly conspicuous with the question.

“Brother, if I so much as thought there was a shred of civilization nearby we wouldn’t be sleeping out here,” Pops insists, kneeling down to hammer the last of the stakes in place in order to keep the tent secure. “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

With the job done he stands back up, placing his hands on his hips as he surveys their meagre campsite. Their tents tucked together, the fire he’s built burning under an overhang created by the listing wall of one of the former structures, its thin trickle of smoke climbing up into the dark.

“You hungry?” Pops asked, conversational and calm.

“Not really,” Scar replies, finally able to say something true.

“Neither,” Pops agrees with a chuckle, smothering a yawn into the back of his hand.

“I can take first watch,” Scar offers, seeing his opportunity, and Pops nods like it’s what he expected to hear.

It’s clear there’s something on his mind, and Scar prepares for the pressure of the inevitable demand to know what he and Grian are up to. Instead, Pops merely pats his shoulder in a now familiar gesture before he pushes his tent flap aside and crawls in along with his gear, leaving Scar to take a seat by the fire alone.

It’s a miserable wait, slow minutes feeding into one another as he stares at the flames and wills Grian to return, fed and coherent. He knows what he wants is a miracle—for Grian to stumble across someone convenient. Someone isolated and alone. A stranded hiker, already on the verge of death. A nightmare he can deal with privately so that Scar won’t have to bear witness to it.

However, as the minutes stretch into hours, and Scar works his thoughts around in his head over and over, he slowly begins to understand that his real guilt rests not in the act itself, but in leaving Grian to suffer through the burden of it all on his own.

When Grian had first been bit, Scar knew he’d had the choice to stay but had chosen to leave him behind anyway. And while Grian still insists that it had been the right thing to do, some part of Scar can’t help but not believe it. Maybe, if he’d stayed with Grian, he’d have been able to keep him lucid. Maybe Grian would’ve never had to suffer through his blackouts. Maybe he’d never have had to blindly hunt all on his own.

Maybe he’d never have had to hunt at all.

This is on Scar just as much, if not more, than Grian. Grian had been the one going out of his way to prove to Scar that he was making an effort, all because Scar had been short with him and cruelly told him that he never expected him to change.

If he’d been kinder… if he’d been more forgiving… maybe things could’ve been different.

As the situation stands, Scar knows he’s hung over an uncomfortable precipice. He doesn’t want to sacrifice the friendship and trust he’s fostered with Pops. However, more importantly, he never wants to lose Grian again.

And as the minutes pass by and the night stretches on, it becomes increasingly clear to him where his priorities lie.

He’s made his choice, that much is clear. It will always be Grian for him, no matter what, but offering Pops up with his own two hands is a betrayal he doesn’t think he can stomach.

So instead, he seeks out a compromise.

If he cuts ties with Pops—if he explains how things stand, puts the fear of it in him, then maybe Pops can try to escape. Scar will send him into the wilderness, knowing that Grian is on the hunt somewhere amongst the trees, starving and barely lucid.

They might come across one another and Grian will have the upper hand, or maybe they’ll miss each other entirely.

Either way, it won’t be up to Scar what happens next.

He’ll have done what he can. For both of them.

With his flashlight in hand—the nice one he and Grian looted together—Scar moves towards Pops’ tent. For a second the zipper on the flap sticks, forcing Scar to wrestle with it before it finally slides open, the light in his hand illuminating Pops where he lays curled up tight in his sleeping bag, fast asleep.

“Pops.”

When Scar shakes him awake it’s gentle, his hand resting comfortably on Pops’ shoulder. He’s forcing himself to grin, his heart racing in his chest as Pops slowly opens his eyes, grimacing before he clears his throat, pulling his elbow under himself as he sits up.

“My watch already…?” He asks, the words croaked out, disoriented and sluggish.

“Grian isn’t back yet,” Scar explains, ignoring his words entirely. He keeps his voice low, watching the concern seep into Pops’ expression before he carries on quietly. “So I wanted to give you a head start.”

Silence hangs between them, confusion and sleepy befuddlement, before Pops asks, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You should’ve asked more questions,” Scar explains cryptically, no longer bothering to hide his voice beneath a whisper. “If you did you’d have realised he’s not immune the way you and I both want him to be.”

Realisation hasn’t yet set in, either nurtured by ignorance or disbelief. Regardless, Scar knows they’re on borrowed time, and he needs to get Pops up to speed quickly.

“He’s looking for something to eat,” he says mildly, bracing himself as he backs out of the tent and gets to his feet. “And if he doesn’t find anything, he’s gonna come back here, and then it’ll down to you or me.” He pauses, weighing his words before he adds, confident, “And I know it’s not gonna be me.”

Finally he sees the gradual widening of Pops’ eyes, the penny dropping at last.

“Holy shit,” Pops whispers, the word husked under his breath. A sudden panic sets in, causing him to scramble to his knees before he hastily climbs out of the tent. “Wheels—” he starts. “Scar.”

“You can consider this your head start,” Scar continues, barreling ahead, knowing it’s too late to turn back now. The bridge is already on fire, there would be no saving it anymore, even if he wanted to.

“I’m gonna tell him you went east,” Scar explains, moving his flashlight so that it casts its beam into the woods before he abruptly pushes it back into Pops’ face, winking at him as he squints against it. “So if I were you I’d go west.”

“This is a joke right?” Pops asks around a forced laugh, shaking off the last vestiges of sleep as true realisation—true horror—sinks in. “I’m in the middle of a fucking nightmare.”

Scar doesn’t say anything more, standing resolute and attempting to tower over Pops. He feels none of the confidence he’s been pushing into his words, his heart rate going a mile a minute, every part of him feeling wrong about what he’s doing.

“Scar. C’mon man, what the fuck is this?” Pops presses, sounding as irritated as he does afraid. “Did Grian put you up to this? A… a fucking prank or somethin’?”

The frustration is writ clear on every line of his body, and Scar can see the anger building up within him. In moments, it’ll overtake his fear, and that’s when Scar knows he’ll be in trouble.

“This is crazy!” Pops continues. “We’ve been together for weeks! Don’t tell me this makes sense to you?”

The desperation is clear in his tone, a final plea towards the person he thought Scar was. The person Scar thought he was.

“Your time’s running out, Pops,” he says, sounding as unemotional as he can manage, turning his attention to one side, feigning boredom. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the ire that sparks in the other man’s eyes. The betrayal. It convinces him to offer an olive branch, bargaining with Pops like he’s still on his side. “It was either this or dying in your sleep. For all those weeks together, I’m giving you the best chance that I can.” He pauses, deliberating for a second before he adds, brutally underhanded, “Don’t you want to see your boys again?”

Pops’ mouth curls, his entire attitude going sour. “You motherfucker,” he spits, coiling as if to strike. “How dare you—how fucking dare you bring them up when you—”

“Clock’s ticking,” Scar interrupts, hating himself as he does it.

There’s a pause, a second where it seems like Pops may pounce on him. His teeth are bared in a snarl, revulsion evident in the way he holds his body, fists clenched tight as his sides. Then, just as violently, Scar suddenly can’t read him at all, a wall coming down between them that makes Scar feel like he’s taken a blow all the same.

“Can I at least get my shit?” Pops snaps. “Or are you gonna feed that to your cheating little boyfriend too?”

Scar swallows back his knee-jerk reaction, scorn mixing with remorse, instead forcing out a stiff nod. “Take your things. Just hurry.” And then, after a pause. “Leave your gun…”

Pops stares at him, another flash of betrayal in his eyes. It feels wrong—feels vile—to do this, but Scar knows he has to. He can’t risk the chance of Pops shooting Grian during an encounter.

“If you make it till morning, it’ll be here waiting for you. I’ll shelter it by the nearest tree,” he offers in compromise. With a rifle in hand and Paul’s pistol in his pack, he’s not looking to carry another gun. More importantly, it’s not like he wants Pops exposed to dangers outside of Grian either.

It would be nice, he thinks, if both Grian and Pops could survive.

There’s no further conversation, Pops hastily dressing and gathering his gear. He doesn’t make eye contact with Scar. He doesn’t make any sounds at all. It chills Scar, making him feel rotten from the inside out. He tries to remind himself that this is necessary, that he has to do this, but somehow it still doesn’t numb the sting.

When at last Pops has all his possessions in order he stands, gripping his shotgun tight in his hands. For a moment Scar worries he might turn it on him, but then Pops simply moves past him, shoving the weapon into Scar’s hands as he aggressively knocks their shoulders together.

“Hope he’s worth it,” Pops mutters, gruff, and something about it doesn’t sound entirely condescending. Like a part of him is still wishing Scar well, despite everything.

Scar stands in silence. He doesn’t know what he’d say. Not now. Not after everything.

Instead, he simply stays there and watches as Pops heads into the darkness, not once turning back towards him.

Scar hopes he’ll live. Hopes he’ll reconnect with the two he’s looking for.

He hopes, guilty and ashamed, that Grian will find him and take his fill.

The hours after Pops’ departure pass slowly, a kind of purgatory Scar supposes he’s brought on himself. He sits by the fire, keeping it fed and waiting with a growing sense of disquiet, exhausting himself as he listens for any sound of distress, distant shouts, or desperate gunshots.

“Hey.”

He’s not expecting Grian to materialise out of the woods, crouched down at his side and completely taking him by surprise.

Scar jumps as his heart rate spikes, adrenaline racing. He doesn’t remember Grian being able to move so quietly.

Secretly, he hopes it means he was at least able to catch Pops unawares.

“Did I scare you?” There’s a fragile look in Grian’s eyes, afraid of judgement and rejection.

“A little,” Scar admits, soothing it by leaning in and pressing a kiss to Grian’s temple.

Wordlessly, Grian leans into him, tucking against his side as they both sit in silence for a moment.

“Is Pops asleep?” he asks at last, eyes on the tent, its flap left hanging open.

“Did you eat?” Scar counters instead.

He can feel Grian’s eyes on him, a struggle waging internally before he steadies himself with a deep breath and nods.

The sickness and relief that floods through Scar is overwhelming. He feels dizzy from it. Repulsed with himself, but grateful.

It was worth it, then.

“So you found him.”

The words hang like a statement, assured that they’re now on the same page. Grim but final.

He’s not expecting Grian’s sound of confusion.

“Found who?” Grian presses, slowly sitting up straight, a hand resting on Scar’s thigh.

“Pops.”

Scar doesn’t want to have to explain this. Needs them to simply understand one another. To work in tandem, like they have before.

He remembers how he felt when all this first started. The gutting pits of regret in his chest whenever they’ve been forced to take down a zombie, knowing every one of them had once been a person with a life and a story. A victim, tragically lost as they rotted out from the inside, helpless to stop the infection spreading inside them.

He doesn’t know why he still feels worse for them than he does for Pops. Doesn’t want to think about it too much.

“No, I—there was a deer…” Grian’s words are coming out slowly, struggling to understand what Scar feels is obvious.

It’s clear that the camp is empty. He should already know the reason why.

“Scar…” Grian says at last, his words slow within a growing dread. “What did you do?”

Like the first tumbling stones of an avalanche, Scar finds himself overwhelmed, too much needing to come out at once. He turns to look at Grian, finding his eyes large in the firelight, wide as he struggles against the reality of what he’s clearly already pieced together.

“It’s you,” Scar explains, like it’s self-evident. Like he shouldn’t even have to explain it. “No one else matters now, Gri. I’ll take care of what you need.”

There’s a life lesson Scar knows he’s not learning. His determination to never lose Grian yet again overwhelming what should otherwise be common sense.

“... he was your friend.” The words escape Grian in a whisper, both awed and afraid.

“I don’t need that,” Scar insists, adamant, knowing he needs that to be true. To believe it fully and to have Grian believe him too.

Fumbling, he finds Grian’s hands, dirty and blood-stained, knuckles scabbed and nails bitten short, taking them in his palms and holding them tight.

“All I need is you,” he insists, his gaze steady as he looks deep into Grian’s eyes.

Wordless, Grian simply stares back at him, a disquiet in his expression that Scar can’t quite identify.

He can’t tell if Grian’s pleased or not. Can’t tell if Grian believes him.

Scar hopes he did the right thing. He hopes he’s proved that he won’t waste their time together anymore. There will be no regrets going forward.

No matter what, from now on, his love for Grian trumps everything else.

They sit in silence until finally Scar leans forward, kissing Grian tenderly, not worrying about the fact that Grian doesn’t rush to kiss him back.

They’ve been lucky enough to get a second chance.

Scar’s not going to waste it.

 

 

 

Notes:

😬🙃

Just one more chapter left to this arc and then we'll make our jump to back to being solidly Grian POV for a good chunk of the last part of the fic! >:D Catch you all next week!

Chapter 31

Notes:

MOOORE FANART! :D 🎉🎉

First up is another absolutely haunting piece by THB of Scar's POV of the end of Ch. 28! Sends shivers up my spine fr

Secondly, we have a flashback to the past as we revisit Ch. 5 with metalkaloids art of the Viking Funeral scene 🔥 Gives me movie vibes, love, love it!

As always, we're SO thrilled y'all went out of your ways to make such gorgeous work based on our fic! 💜 Thank you so much, we'll be sighing fondly over 'em for months to come for sure 💞

 

There’s something wrong with Scar.

Not wrong wrong. Not wrong in the way that Grian is now wrong.

It’s subtle, only detectable because Grian is looking for it.

But deeply wrong, nonetheless.

It’s been about three days since they carried on alone. Since he—since Scar—betrayed Pops. And no attempt that Grian’s made to get Scar to talk about it has worked.

He doesn’t know what’s gone sideways. This is nothing like the Scar he’s always known—the one who’d always been eager to talk things through and air out their troubles. Who’d press for it to the point of nagging.

Once upon a time, his insistence to always talk and talk and talk had nearly driven Grian insane, choked in the grips of his secrecy and paranoid that any spare word would sell him out.

Now, he wishes he could get Scar to open up what happened.

It feels a little bit unfair. Since the moment Grian came back to himself he’s been single-mindedly pursuing Scar, seeking him out in order to set things right again. He’s had weeks alone to work out the mess in his head and finally make peace with everything he’s repressed over the years. A lifetime of self loathing, of insecurity, and of self sabotage, run over and over again in minutiae in order to identify each and every instance where he failed Scar and let him down.

All of it done in the hopes that Grian could find him and they could do things over. All just to see Scar again and tell him how he really, truly feels. How he’s always felt but never wanted to disclose.

Except now it seems impossible to bring it up at all.

They walk side by side through the narrow track cut through the woods, struggling occasionally but overall making good time. The snow has shrunk considerably, melted down in places to expose the rocky soil beneath, making their progress incredibly easier. Still, Grian notes every time he glances upwards that the sky overhead is a heavy, slate grey that carries the threat of inclement weather.

Next to him, Scar offers a smile whenever their eyes meet, reaching out as often as he can to squeeze Grian’s hand. Grian wishes it could reassure him more than it does. Wishes he could slip into the fantasy that this is simply their new normal. However, he can see clearly that Scar is grieving; still carrying the same hurt and merely repressing it. Grian’s no stranger to shoving his ugly thoughts into the darkest corners of his mind—he’s built his life around it—but he knows Scar doesn’t function like that. Can’t function like that.

He knows it’ll only hurt him in the long run. More than he’s been hurt already.

At the same time, coaxing the conversation out of Scar is a task beyond him. Grian’s never had practice doing it, and he finds himself at a loss when Scar simply shuts down his every attempt.

“Shouldn’t we talk about this?” He’d finally asked while they’d paused to catch their breaths, resting their backs against a tree stump so large that their arms combined can’t wrap around its base. He was doing what he’d always heard was the right thing—choosing to address the issue directly after every subtle attempt he’d made had failed.

He’d been expecting relief. For Scar’s eyes to go soft as his expression folded into a warm smile, acknowledging all his effort and growth. The fact that Grian was finally asking for this. The fact that he wanted it.

Instead, Scar had merely sighed in response, his gaze tired as he looked out through the gaps in the trees. He studied the distant rise of the opposite mountain slope, snow covered where its peak was lost in the cloud layer, the treeline stumbling back into the murky greens of the forest.

“I just got you back, Gri,” he’d said, quiet in a way Grian hadn’t expected. “Can’t we just enjoy things the way they are for a little bit? I don’t want to start fighting again. Not after all that.”

‘But I’ve changed,’ Grian had wanted to say. ‘For real this time.’

But Scar had looked at him then, hand reaching over to find Grian’s and fingers threading together as he’d held his hand tight.

“This is what I want right now,” Scar had explained, gentle but earnest. “Please.”

And what more could Grian do at that but swallow his words and nod his head in understanding? He’d squeezed Scar’s hand back, resolving to simply continue on in silence until a better opportunity offered itself up.

Their route continues, following the trail that Pops had mapped for them to the best of their abilities. They don’t have his map, nor the knowledge of his destination and what signs to look for, but there’s no other real direction for them to go, the old logging road cutting across the slope of the mountain, burying them deep beneath the tree line, forced to weave between the saplings that have begun to grow up in what was once ground clear cut right down to the soil.

It doesn’t escape Grian that he seems more focused on their progress than Scar, who barely seems to care at all. Grian tracks their progress on the maps they do have access to, orienting them by the compass he found in the bag of the hiker whose gear he stole. He decides their next goal, their next pitstop, their next campsite. The entire time, Scar follows his directions willingly, never stopping to question Grian’s decisions, easygoing to the point of seeming almost docile.

At times it feels like Grian’s walking beside another person entirely. A stranger who wears Scar’s smile and speaks with his voice, but carries none of his convictions and none of his attitude. Mild and pliant and simply happy to be there.

He doesn’t know what to make of it. Doesn’t know what to do.

On the second night they find a cabin tucked close to a creek that hasn’t yet frozen over in the cold. It’s another relic of the long discarded early logging industry, left abandoned for sixty years at least, its roof heavy with moss and pitted with enormous holes. The interior fares no better, half the floorboards rotted away, carpeted with old leaves and decades of pine needles.

Scar doesn’t try to hide his disappointment as he walks around its perimeter, the door having long ago fallen in on itself, letting them pass inside without needing to put in any effort at all.

“Would’ve been good if someone still lived here,” he says, tone conversational as he kicks his toe into the rotting slump of wood that might have once served as a doorstep. “Good for you, I mean.”

It doesn’t feel accusatory. If anything, it feels kind. A genuine consideration for the misshapen way that Grian has adapted to the new world in which they live.

It makes Grian’s skin crawl.

This isn’t what he wanted.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, for lack of anything else to say. Scar offers him a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Like he knows Grian is lying.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

And that’s just it, isn’t it? Over the years, Grian had grown comfortable embracing the worst version of himself, leaning heavily into that which felt easiest and safest for him, even if it was selfish and hurtful to those around him. That’s the only Grian that Scar has ever known. The one who kept secrets, the one who cheated, and the one who lied.

Of course Scar expects him to still be hiding things. Of course Scar expects him to not to have changed, choosing to make peace with that monster rather than trusting the new one who now stands before him.

A monster just the same, but different now. Different in the only way that matters.

The thing about dying is how much it changes a person’s perspective. How rapidly and effortlessly a lifetime of struggle resolves in an easy epiphany the moment before the lights go out for good. Looking back, it’s helped Grian understand exactly why Quackity was the way he was. So eager and openly affectionate, laughing loud and sharing his love unabashedly.

It had irritated him at the time, but Grian sees now the jealousy of it, and he understands how privileged his position is, in many ways.

He died, yes. And despite how he stands and walks and breathes, deep down he knows a part of him is still dead. Will always be dead. That he will never be fully human—fully alive—again. Never be that same person he was before, for better or for worse.

At the same time, he has insight now. Weeks worth of quiet introspection to look back on. Suddenly commitment doesn’t seem as monumental an ask. His old worries pale in comparison to what he’s become; to what he’ll have to face and accept if he plans to continue surviving. If he wants to live with himself. Admitting to Scar that he was wrong, that he was awful and cruel at times, and that he treated him the way he did out of fear of being true to himself feels like nothing next to that. Paltry in the grand scheme of things.

All his life, Grian has tried to repress himself, tried to keep himself compressed into something infinitesimal. Staying out of the way, following rules he didn’t care for, adhering to standards that bored and frustrated him. There’s a burgeoning need inside of him now—riotous and explosive—a symptom of his disease, or merely exacerbated by it. A desire to split himself open and to finally have some space to breathe.

It’s the same energy that had drawn him to Scar in the first place. The chaos of him, the fun. Scar was always a man who wasn’t afraid to be himself, doing things the way he pleased, as he pleased with no fear of repercussions or embarrassment along the way. Friendly and charismatic, outgoing, and a little devious; with just enough of a spark to keep things entertaining.

And despite how Grian had tried to box all those aspects of himself away, Scar had always seen the same in him, hadn’t he?

He’d said it once—mentioned how he’d first been attracted to Grian for fostering that same brand of chaos. Grian had laughed then, brushing him off, but it had been stuck in his head ever since. The thought that even after all his efforts, how hard he’d tried to bluff his way through his day to day, Scar had still seen through the cracks in his facade. He’d seen the truth of Grian—fragile, messy, and mean—and had chosen to love him for it, even when Grian himself couldn’t muster up the courage to.

And despite everything, Grian had loved Scar for it. Had loved Scar for the way he loved him, even when he couldn’t love himself.

He could say that now. Could admit it to both himself and Scar freely instead of letting it fester inside him like a corpse. He’s always loved Scar for cherishing the parts of him that he himself reviled. He loved Scar for seeing the best in him, even when he was at his worst. And, truth be told, he loved Scar without any of that. He loved Scar for him, nothing else, nothing more.

That more than anything is what’s made the sudden switch in Scar’s priorities so jarring. While Scar’s always given Grian more grace than he’s ever deserved, he’s never been one to simply brush Grian’s efforts to communicate aside. Normally, he was often the one picking up on the subtle hints Grian laid out, near invisibly, anticipating his concerns whether Grian wanted him to or not.

Grian wants to make things right, now. He wants to start anew. Wants to explain himself properly, finally. He wants a clean slate, one where he and Scar can exist in the same place, on the same page—with or without the romance, as painful as that might be.

But none of that is possible if Scar continues refusing to talk about their past.

Refuses to talk about anything that hurts at all.

The day passes into early evening without a single break in the cloud cover overhead. Under the overcast grey the daylight wanes quickly, and they find themselves in search of a place to settle as they trudge amidst the trees.

It’s near dusk when they finally approach it, the shadows deep purple where they’re gathered under the trees. It’s not luck or fortune that leads them to shelter— a clearing carved into the woods, similar to the logging camp they’d spent their last night with Pops in. The location had been circled on Pops’ map, marked out on the route he’d planned for them. A part of Grian knows he should feel guilty when sees the shape emerging out of the woods, but with aching feet and a sore back from a long day’s hike, the only strong emotion he feels is relief.

Together they set up their camp under what little shelter is provided by the remains of the lonely cabin. There’s a fireplace against the furthest wall, its stone chimney still standing tall, a testament to its craftsmanship after all these years, and automatically Grian moves to it and begins to build a fire. It feels second nature at this point, clearing old pinecones and tangled ivy out of the way, and using the loose mouldering floorboards littering the ground for fuel to get the spark of his lighter going.

He can’t help but reflect on how much easier the task comes to him after weeks spent surviving on his own. There’s no struggle now, no frustration with his inability to get the flames to catch. It’s a simple process, easy and natural, a testament to perseverance and practice.

He hopes it stands for something. He hopes it’s a good sign.

When the fire has grown large enough to keep them warm, Grian allows himself the space to sit back and take a rest. He finds himself settled next to Scar, who, as usual, seems reluctant to let them part from one another. The floor is damp but solid beneath his thighs, and he takes a moment to enjoy the fire’s heat, feeling warmth against his face. He pulls his gear close to his side, unpacking his sleeping bag before he begins digging through his supplies, trying to find something that would make a good meal for Scar.

“I miss your cooking,” he admits, breaking their strange but not uncomfortable silence. He knows full well that the last time Scar cooked for him was the same night Scar caught him in bed with another man.

He never ate that dinner. Didn’t have the stomach for it at the time. A part of him resented it, felt—immaturely—that everything had been its fault.

He wishes he had now. Wishes he’d taken the time to enjoy every single one of Scar’s gestures, from the big ones to the small. All the things he used to take so carelessly for granted, repeatedly brushing aside.

Beside him, Scar leans forward and puts his hands out, warming his fingers against the fire as he works its heat into his palms. His expression is inscrutable, like a mask has been lowered over his features while he stares silently into the embers.

Grian wonders if he’s reliving that evening. Wonders if the emotions will surge up, fresh and vulnerable, allowing them to finally address it now that he’s gone and dragged it all back out into the open.

He desperately wants that—wants to get them talking. Wants Scar to say anything to him at all.

“I was never very good at it,” Scar finally admits, disappointing Grian as he sidesteps the conversation completely.

“Scar…” Grian says, knowing he sounds weak. Not frustrated so much as pitiable. It feels like he’s in some kind of purgatory, finally reunited with the man he loves—the man he’s wronged—but not able to speak to him clearly.

Pitifully, he settles his hand on Scar’s knee, rubbing his thumb into the dirt-stained denim. Trying to reach him. Trying to find the traces of the man he knows.

“Why won’t you talk to me…?”

It’s a valid question, one he knows he has every right to ask. However the way Scar immediately dims puts an uncertain fear right through him. For as long as he struggled to pry this door open for himself, the fact that it’s Scar insistently keeping it closed feels heartbreaking in a way he knows he’ll never be able to put into words.

Several minutes pass in slow, lingering silence. Scar keeps his gaze fixed on the fire, expression walled off and inscrutable, until finally he reaches down and gently places his hand on top of Grian’s. His thumb rubs back and forth along the ridge of his knuckles.

“When you—” he starts before immediately stopping, closing his eyes as he steels himself, taking a deep breath. “When I left you… I was so devastated. I cried, Grian. For days. I couldn’t—there was nothing I could do without you. And I couldn’t help but wonder… what had I even been so upset about, y’know? What point had I been trying to make? Had I accomplished anything by being so spiteful? So angry?”

It hurts Grian to hear his words, ashamed by them—by the idea that Scar had spent his time alone finding ways to blame the consequence of Grian’s actions on himself. It’s not what he’d intended. It’s not how he wants things to be.

“And…” Scar continues, struggling through another deep breath, his voice tightening at the back of his throat. “I kept thinking to myself—if I ever got another chance with you… in a next life or… whatever. I told myself that I wasn’t going to waste it. I wasn’t going to continue being the person who needed to keep that grudge in order to make this relationship feel fair.”

It’s a revelation that troubles Grian deeply, the confession worming its way deep into his chest, filling him with entirely new and terrible kind of guilt.

“Scar…” he says, passing his name along softly, trying to face the enormity of what Scar is telling him. To process the fact that, despite it all, and after everything they’ve gone through, separately and together, Scar has decided the best and only way to resolve what had become so malformed between them—what Grian had so deliberately twisted and taken for granted—is to accept it as his personal shortcoming, and strive to move past it entirely.

Before he can properly formulate his thoughts and delve into what Scar is skirting around, Scar speaks up, abrupt and disjointed.

“Did you know Pops saved my life?”

Caught off guard by the sudden switch in topics, Grian blinks, confused by the question.

“No, I… I don’t recall either of you mentioning that.”

With his eyes resolutely fixed on the fire, Scar nods.

“After you got—” he pauses, drawing in a deep breath. “After all that, I wasn’t in a good place. I knew I’d made a promise to you… to keep pushing on, to keep living, but all of that seemed so… pointless. It didn’t seem worth it without you at my side.”

Grian’s mouth feels dry, not wanting to hear those words. Not wanting to think about a world where he never had a chance to find Scar again. Where it was all for naught.

Wordlessly, he leans into Scar’s side, close enough to offer both comfort and encouragement as he waits for him to continue speaking.

“I ended up in a city,” Scar continues at last, his thumb idly stroking the side of Grian’s palm, still resting warm on his knee. “In over my head. Completely unprepared. I was surrounded by a horde before I knew it, wasting bullets in a failing attempt to fight ‘em all off.” Scar pauses, laughing a little, the sound hollow. “There was no hope for me. No chance I could get out of there on my own. And then, all of a sudden, Pops jumps in out of nowhere and saves me. Helps me reorient. Gets me geared up and shows me the way.”

The confession weighs heavily on Grian. Thinking back to his time alone, disoriented while he faded in and out of himself. He’d been doggedly following the pull of that indescribable trail, knowing that no matter what it was going to lead him back to Scar. How much time had he spent hanging onto the hope in his chest that insisted they were going to reunite? That all he had to do was cross the distance and everything else would resolve itself? Only to hear that he’d nearly lost Scar anyway…

“I’d have been dead without him,” Scar continues, turning Grian’s hand over in order to thread their fingers together. “I’d accepted it too, you know? I felt guilty for letting you down, but a part of me was relieved because dying meant I wouldn’t have to do this alone anymore.” Scar pauses, taking a deep breath before letting it out slow, turning his head to look Grian, the corners of his eyes damp in the firelight. “To think that if it wasn’t for him… I’d never have seen you again.”

Grian knows what Scar is getting at—knows that he’s thinking about how things ended between him and Pops. How Scar had betrayed him, despite how much Pops had done to help him. About how much he owed the man, and how callously he’d turned him away in the end.

Grian doesn’t know what to say, ashamed of how selfish his gratitude for Pops makes him feel. He’s glad Pops was there for Scar when Scar needed him, and satisfied in an ugly way to know that, in the end, Scar still chose Grian anyway.

He struggles to find any words at all, knowing nothing he says will be the right thing. Settling at last on something paltry and meagre as he whispers, “It sounds like I owe Pops a lot for keeping you safe for me.”

It doesn’t feel like enough, and deep down he knows it isn’t, but he doesn’t know what else to say that can convey how sorry he is that things ended the way they did. He wishes Scar could’ve kept the bond he’d forged. He wishes that his presence wasn’t such a poison to Scar’s life that he only ever seemed to make things worse for him. He wishes he was better, and he wishes he could stop making Scar worse.

With a lump in his throat keeping him from saying anything else, he squeezes Scar’s hand, relieved when Scar squeezes back, leaning in to rest their foreheads together.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Grian confesses quietly, his words trembling around the edges, feeling vulnerable but for once not allowing himself to feel ashamed because of it.

For a moment they sit together in silence, Grian rubbing his thumb along the heel of Scar’s palm, able to feel his pulse beating, vibrant and alive, in the vulnerable divot of his wrist.

“I really am,” he continues when Scar doesn’t say anything in reply, feeling his emotion catch at the back of his throat, pulling his words tight. “I don’t know how I could’ve… what I would’ve done if I hadn’t been able to find you...”

In his mind he can picture the version of himself who never made it back to Scar. He sees himself alone on a mountain highway, lost to himself and to his hunger, with nothing left to tether him to the life he once lived and the person he once was. No longer human, barely living at all.

He wonders how long he could’ve held out for. If any of his sense—if any of his sanity—would’ve remained alive within him. Or if it all would’ve bled out of him one drop at a time, eventually leaving him a mindless, roving husk.

It doesn’t escape him that in their time apart Scar made a friend—the most unlikely companion in the world—while Grian attacked and dispatched every person he came across. He thinks about Scar’s gear, how it’s a careful patchwork of things shared and offered to him by people who trusted him enough to care, while his own things were stolen off the back of a dead man.

A man Grian had killed, in order to secure his own survival.

The knowledge that he’s going to continue to drag Scar down sits heavy on his shoulders, smothering him beneath it. There will be no unlikely friends in his future. Not anymore. Not as long as he keeps Grian and his hunger at his side.

He doesn’t want to think about how it may have been wrong for him to come back—that it was wrong for them to reunite. However a part of him can’t help but picture the world where Scar grieved and healed and grew the way he wanted to. The world where he lived his life without Grian at his side, and was better off for it.

“G…”

Grian doesn’t realise he’s begun to cry until Scar’s hand is gently cupping the side of his face, his expression heartbroken as the pad of his thumb gently strokes beneath his right eye, wiping his tears away.

“I’m here, G… I’m not going away,” he soothes, and Grian doesn’t want to dismiss his reassurance. Doesn’t want to admit the true nature of his tears.

Without another word Scar leans in and softly presses his lips against Grian’s own. It’s a gentle, almost timid kiss, but it warms Grian from the inside out, soothing him like a balm across his aching soul. Tilting his head to meet Scar’s caress, he kisses him back just as carefully, the two of them taking their time, easy and slow.

When they pull apart, it’s only to readjust and get closer to one another, Scar tucking Grian into the curve of his arm as he pulls him close to his side. They fit together perfectly, and Grian wishes he’d appreciated these things more back when life had been simpler.

‘I’m in love with you,’ he thinks, pressing himself as close to Scar’s side as he can, wrapping an arm around him and wishing they were laying down so he could meld even nearer. ‘I need you,’ he continues. ‘I never want to lose you again.’

And, strongest of all, ‘I’m sorry.’

In the darkness, lit only by the light of the fire, Scar smiles at him, tender. And just as it did the very first time he saw it, Grian’s heart skips a beat. Urgently, he tries to gather up his courage, feeling the opportunity in the vulnerability of the moment.

One more time. He needs to try and talk to Scar just one more time. For both their sakes.

“Scar,” he starts, tender but serious as he seeks out his eyes. “Back… you know, before I got bit… there were a lot of things I should’ve said to you. Things I should’ve explained—”

A finger appears, pressed firmly to his lips.

“No more looking back,” Scar says, shaking his head. “You did something that hurt me, but I don’t want it to be all we are to one another. I don’t want it to define us anymore. We’ve got our whole lives ahead of us, G. It’s only up from here.”

It’s not what Grian wants to hear.

Deep down, he knows it’s not right, that all their history can’t resolve like that. He hasn’t earned it, and Scar deserves better.

But soft and small, he merely nods, making peace that this is where they are for the moment. He tries to trust that they won’t remain here forever.

“Okay, Scar. Whatever you want.”

Without another word Scar leans in to kiss him again, this time pressing his lips to Grian’s temple. Then Scar’s arm is winding around his shoulders, warm and solid as he holds him close.

It would be easy to sink into the comfort of it completely. Grian knows that a month ago he’d have eagerly accepted such a thing—the ability to leave all his mistakes in the past, rotten but buried and no longer his problem.

He’d like to think he’s changed, though. That his love for Scar has changed him.

So he’ll wait until Scar is ready. And then, at last, he’ll lay himself bare and say everything he’s always needed to say.

Come what may.

 

Notes:

Shorter chapter than our usual, but a necessary one to wrap up Arc 3! Next week's chapter will jump start the 4th and final arc for TAMN! :'D Genuinely can't believe we're here already but aaaa, we're SO excited and we hope you are too! 🎉

Chapter 32

Notes:

WELCOME TO THE FOURTH AND FINAL ARC! 🎉🎉 AAAA I CAN'T BELIEVE WE'RE HERE AHAHAHA

Setting the arc up right, we've got warm, fuzzy feelings from dot-moth's rendition of Scarian's conversation in Ch. 31! 💞

Perfect lead-up to this chapter tbh ;w; There's plenty more where that came from 💜

Please skip to the end notes for spoiler-y CONTENT WARNINGS!

It takes two more days of slow progress for Grian to finally feel like they’re getting somewhere.

It’s early afternoon and they’ve just crested the edge of a gruelling ridge, the path steep beneath their feet, both of them breathing heavily as they pause at its apex. It’s a welcome sight when Grian gathers himself enough to look down and take in the scene in front of them, a relief after too many days trudging along the overgrown trail with no end to speak of.

“Finally.”

In front of them, the slopes of three mountains converge together to form a deep valley, like a bowl scooped into the earth. It’s tree-lined, the snow cover from the rugged peaks above them creeping far down into the basin, and at its centre sits a deep, aqua blue lake.

It’s beautiful, picturesque in a postcard kind of way. The hue of the water appears almost impossibly blue, no doubt fed by mineral runoff that has seeped out from the mountain stones over the course of thousands and thousands of years. The lake itself is shaped like a large, bulbous crescent, with a trio of small islands at its furthest edge and—most eye-catching to Grian—a plainly visible paved road that winds its way up to it, curving in from further up the valley.

“Grian,” Scar says at the exact same moment that Grian sees it too.

A single house.

Alone and enormous on the waterfront.

It’s clear that there’s no town associated with it—no formal community whatsoever. At the shoreline it has a pier, the dock protruding out into the water, but it’s difficult to make out any other details at a distance. It feels safe to assume that it’s a vacation property, though. No doubt for a rich family. Meant for hot summers, canoe trips, fishing, and cookouts.

They both stare down at the cabin for a moment, a nervous anticipation between them. It will be an easy walk downhill, that much is clear, the trail curving in such a way that it will intersect with the road they can both clearly see.

All the same, neither of them takes that first step forward.

“Do you think…” Grian’s sentence trails off unfinished, not yet willing to face the potential of what running into other survivors will mean.

Beside him, Scar flexes his hand around the grip of his cane, having been using it for the last several hours as they’ve struggled up the incline.

“We can go around,” he offers.

“We’re not doing that,” Grian declines, his eyes remaining fixed on the large lake-facing windows of the house. The matching shed for holding summer gear. The large deck cleared off for the season.

He hopes no one’s around. He hopes the entire area has been closed up and left alone since August.

Still. He can’t help the way his mouth waters at the thought of coming across someone holed up and alive inside all the same.

Cautiously they press onward, making their way down into the valley. It’s a tricky descent, made trickier when the sky above them finally breaks and snow begins to fall in thick flakes that immediately stick to the ground. It adds a sense of urgency to their progress, neither wanting to spend another night outdoors, both dreaming of a bed inside and a proper roof above their heads.

Eventually they reach level ground, the incline flattening just in time to meet the road, two lanes wide and blocked off by a large gate, locked and chained, with a fence vanishing into the woods on either side. It’s clear that the gate is meant to stave off uninvited guests arriving by car, because it’s fairly easily scalable for anyone willing to give it a real attempt. Without a word, Grian and Scar exchange glances, the two of them arriving at the same unspoken conclusion.

Effortlessly, needing only to raise their things shoulder-high, they toss their gear over the gate before Scar stoops down, cupping his hands together to offer Grian a foothold to start his climb with. Shaking out his limbs, Grian takes a breath and heaves himself up, using Scar’s hands as a launching point and finding purchase on the gate itself soon after. There’s a pang in his chest at the motion—a reminder of a time weeks and weeks ago, back in Anaheim at the gates of Disneyland.

If only he’d known then the things he knows now.

He lands with a huff on the other side, dusting himself off and quickly glancing around, checking to see if their approach has attracted any attention. When all is quiet, Grian turns to offer Scar a hand up through the gaps in the wrought-iron bars. However, to his surprise, Scar is already climbing, pulling himself up by the strength of his arms alone.

“Scar,” Grian hisses, going for stern but unable to keep the amusement from his tone.

“I’ve got it, G,” Scar insists. “Almost there!”

There’s a moment of struggle where Scar’s grip slips—something that could’ve easily been avoided if he'd simply let Grian help him—but he does eventually manage to make his way over the gate on his own. Having hefted himself over, his feet slam onto the ground, making an audible oof before he turns to Grian with a winning, radiant smile.

“Told you I could do it.”

“Yes, and we’re all very impressed.” Grian replies, shaking his head and making a show of pinching the bridge of his nose.

He knows that there’s no arguing with Scar when he gets like this, and there’d be no point in telling him that he shouldn’t be pushing himself unnecessarily. So Grian simply picks up Scar’s things, handing them over before he dons his own pack as well. He can’t help but notice a curious feeling though. Normally, he’d stew over Scar’s reckless behaviour, a mixture of worry and the obsessive need to have control over every situation. This time however, all he feels is worry tempered through with a fond sort of delight.

He’s never been one for bold proclamations of change, but he’s cautiously optimistic about what this could mean for them going forward. It may not be the sort of thing Scar will even notice, but Grian knows he feels lighter. Less weighed down by anger and bitterness and all the negativity he’d allowed to blanket over his softer, kinder thoughts, hiding them from view.

“Let’s press on,” he suggests, feeling the same hint of nervous excitement that had reluctantly stirred within him back when they’d wandered up the empty streets of Disneyland. He tries to lean into it this time, letting the potential that looms ahead inspire him.

It’ll be a short walk, he can see that already. Ahead of them, the shaded road curves along the edge of the lake, framed by the leafless trunks of maple trees and towering white barked alders. It’s pleasant. However, the closer they get to the structure, the more ‘cabin’ becomes an understatement.

Even from across the narrow split of water, Grian can see that it’s far larger than any house he’s ever lived in. It’s cosy looking, an A-frame with an extension to one side that creates a sheltered alcove for its patio. There are two adirondack chairs left out on its deck to weather the winter. The side facing the lake seems to be made entirely of glass, large floor to ceiling windows looking out over the water. The kind of fantasy summer home that people dream about.

It’s excessive, but he can’t help an inkling of excitement as he thinks about it—a safe place to spend the night. A roof over their heads and a proper bed.

Best of all, Grian can see solar panels on the roof. An entire bank of them.

“Imagine if we could have power,” he says, unable to help but get ahead of himself. “Use a stove, heat up some water, have a shower—”

“Let’s not put the donkey before the wagon,” Scar cautions, but there’s an eagerness on his own face, clearly keen on the idea.

The closer they get, the more careful they become, increasingly uneasy about the potential of finding themselves facing zombies or worse—survivors. At the end of the driveway they both pause, waiting for Scar to shift his rifle into his hands.

There are no vehicles that either of them can see. No tire tracks, no footprints, no incriminating slither of smoke winding up from the chimney.

“Do we split up?” Scar asks. The two of them are advancing single-file down the driveway, Grian following carefully in Scar’s footprints.

“No,” Grain insists, adamant. “Not a chance.”

He’d almost worry about being clingy, except that he can see the smile on Scar’s face as he looks towards the house. He’s not looking at Grian, his face in profile, making it an expression he means to keep to himself.

Grian knows he’s lucky to catch a sliver of it.

It makes him feel appreciated.

He feels loved.

“Good,” Scar says, nodding towards the side of the cabin, keeping them away from the large bank of windows. No sense in announcing themselves so blatantly on the offchance that someone is holed up inside. “Stick close, then.”

They do a quick sweep of the outside, making sure the place is secure before Scar nods and they edge towards the front door. There’s another burst of nostalgia in the soft part of Grian’s memories as Scar drops to his knees, ready to pick the door lock. There’s much less anxiety pressing in on them now than there was back in the storage unit in California, and Grian finds that he’s able to enjoy the focus on Scar’s face much better now.

There’s a muted exclamation of success from Scar when the lock finally gives under his skillful hands, Grian whispering a word of praise to him as they ready their weapons and slowly, cautiously step inside the home.

At first glance the immediate area is clear. The entrance greets them with an undisturbed silence. A shoe rack, coat hooks, and cheerful welcome mat. With a wordless exchange of glances they split up, Grian taking the stairs to scout the second floor while Scar proceeds further into the main floor.

Up a wooden staircase, Grian finds a lofted area with an open railing that looks down on the ground floor below. The floor-to-ceiling windows they saw from the road go all the way to the ceiling here, the room itself opening into a cozily furnished master bedroom with an ensuite bathroom towards the back. The plush comforter spread across the bed draws his attention immediately, beckoning him into its embrace, but Grian fights back the urge and simply checks under the frame and into the closet for any hostiles. Finding nothing, he makes his way into the ensuite, which yields even fewer hiding spaces, the room all glass, wood panelling and off-white tile. There are plenty of sleek modern fixtures, and a skylight overhead made ambient by the snow already covering it.

Propelled by curiosity he walks up to the sink, twisting the knob and expecting nothing but simply wanting to be sure.

To his complete surprise, water immediately flows from the tap, spitting a few times before it runs steady.

“Grian!”

In an instant, his excitement cuts short, panic seizing him at the sound of Scar’s cry. Grian turns around and rushes down the stairs, heart pushed up into his throat. Awkwardly, he pulls the pistol Scar gave him into his hands, gripping it tight, knowing his aim hasn’t improved and hoping he won’t have to use it.

“What’s happened?!” Grian yells, worry lumped up into his throat. “Scar?!”

He reaches the bottom step and rushes towards where he heard Scar’s voice. He enters the kitchen, tucked into the space beneath the stairs, with a large island and plenty of counter space. In front of him, Scar stands hunched over the sink. Grian’s stomach drops, all his curiosity about the place dissolving as he approaches Scar from behind, hoping they’ll at least have a chance to get out in time before whatever he’s discovered springs.

Only, the second he touches Scar’s back, the man turns to him with a wide grin splitting his face.

“Check this out!” Scar laughs, gesturing towards the open tap, water flowing freely from it. “We’ve got running water, Gri!”

A couple weeks ago, this sort of situation would’ve sent Grian through the roof. His own fears would’ve warped his concern into something impatient and scolding, turning his worry into anger. Now, he clings to the relief that floods through him, allowing himself to feel gratitude that Scar wasn’t in danger, and that he was merely just as excited as Grian himself had been.

“I know,” he says, offering his own smile along with a laugh. “I tried the tap in the upstairs ensuite and had the same reaction.”

“Do you think there’s a way to turn the electricity on?” Scar asks, eyes twinkling with excitement. “There’s solar panels on the roof, right? Surely they’re good for something.”

Hastily, Grian puts the pistol away, easily matching Scar’s eagerness with his own. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

It takes several minutes of searching for them to find the utility room, tucked into a closet next to the kitchen. It’s adjacent to a small pantry, where the water heater and breaker panels have all been sequestered. Scar doesn’t even pause to consider the bank of electronics, confidently flipping a switch on the main breaker marked in red with an experienced kind of familiarity.

“Cub was big on this stuff,” he explains when he catches Grian staring. Scar offers him a grin that gets Grian smiling back in return, too excited about the potential of having both power and running water to even consider dredging up his usual jealousy. “The panels on the roof charge these batteries, so we flip their breaker and—” Scar pauses for effect, the two of them listening as a series of beeps sound from the kitchen, the stove, microwave, and fridge all springing to life.

“Does this mean we’re gonna have hot water?” Grian asks, almost afraid to get his hopes up.

“We’re gonna have more hot water than we know what to do with,” Scar replies assuredly, laughing as Grian whoops and jumps up to impulsively throw his arms around Scar’s shoulders, pressing an enthusiastic kiss to his cheek.

“I want a shower,” Grian announces, hopping back and immediately beginning to unbutton his jacket, suddenly feeling the filth of several weeks caked into every pore of his body. “I want a shower that’s gonna take an hour. I want a shower, and then another shower. I want seven showers, Scar.”

He turns, leaving the utility room as he talks and shedding layers as he goes. Now that he knows a shower is at hand, he can’t get to it fast enough. What had moments before been a discomfort he could tolerate, now makes his entire body itch with an increasing intensity.

It’s only after he’s taken his jacket and jumper off—leaving them in a pile on the kitchen floor as he begins wrestling with his shirt buttons, getting enough of them open that he can yank it off over his head—that he feels Scar’s eyes on him.

Grian turns to look at him, feeling self-conscious as he freezes.

“What’s wrong?”

The somber concentration on Scar’s face is immediately replaced with something so soft and warm that it makes Grian want to shrink away. Scar shakes his head, voice verging on sounding too tender as he smiles.

“Nothing. I just never get tired of looking at you,” he offers simply, the words leaving him easily. “You take my breath away.”

If Grian hadn’t felt flustered before, he certainly does now. Heat floods his cheeks, and he’s certain the redness of it must be making its way down his neck to his shoulders, giving away his sudden bashfulness. Bashful, he holds the jumbled mess of his shirt in front of him, avoiding eye contact with Scar as he forces a laugh.

“Go on with you,” he says, trying to keep his voice sounding cool and collected, even as his heart races in his chest.

Scar chuckles, still smiling with the softness Grian is learning to cherish. Bearing the full brunt of his affections remains overwhelming however, so Grian quickly falls back. He retreats up the stairs, trying to refocus on the task at hand and not get distracted by thoughts of Scar and his words of praise.

This time, when Grian enters the bedroom, he’s able to give it a proper appraisal. The first thing he does is test a tall standing lamp set in the corner of the room, marvelling when it flickers on, casting the room in a warm, orange glow.

Giddy with the thrill of what’s in store, and no longer hunting for signs of a threat, Grian takes a moment to sit on the edge of the bed, feeling the mattress dip beneath him as it absorbs his weight. He runs his hands over the thick fur runner spread atop the downy comforter, fully enjoying the feel of the varied textiles under his touch. Standing up again, he shucks off his jeans and his long johns, taking in the picturesque scene beyond the large windows as he does so, snow falling heavily outside over the glass-calm lake.

He could stay here forever, he thinks. Taking in the beauty outside as the day turns slowly towards dusk, safe and hidden away, knowing that Scar is just within reach.

With a smile on his lips and a lightness to his steps that he hasn’t felt in days, Grian finally heads into the ensuite, wasting no time in turning on the water. Catching sight of the wide array of shampoos and soaps laid out neatly on the tiled shelf set within the shower itself elicits a small thrilled sound from him. It takes a few minutes for the water to warm, but when it does, Grian can’t step under the spray fast enough. The showerhead itself is the fancy rainfall sort, dispersing a wide area of blissfully hot water all over his body, coaxing a sigh that feels indulgent out from between his lips.

For a while, Grian simply stands there, eyes closed as he soaks in the steam and warmth. It’s an incredible feeling, one that he’d forgotten. Even the hot springs he and Scar had soaked in couldn’t compare to the simple luxury of a hot shower like this. He doesn’t know how many minutes pass, but when he finally moves again, his body feels like it’s been warmed from the inside out, his movements sluggish and sleepy, but immensely satisfied. Pleased, Grian hums to himself as he lathers a generous helping of soap all over his body and then does the same with the floral, expensive smelling shampoo, working it deep into the unbrushed, matted tangles of his hair.

Only once he’s good and scrubbed down, his fingertips well pruned from water, does Grian reluctantly step out of the shower. He grabs a fresh towel from where it rests in a stack on a squat wooden shelf just inside the bathroom door. He dries himself off, cursory at first, and then taking care to really wring out his hair. Suddenly curious, he looks over at himself in the large mirror set above the sink, fingering the edges of his shave. Now that he’s gone over a month without a barber, or even just a razorblade to call his own, his undercut is starting to grow out, shaggy beneath the longer overgrowth.

He doesn’t quite know how it makes him feel, remembering back to why he’d cut it in the first place. He’d been so desperate to get away from the same monotonous reflection he’d seen in the mirror day after day that he’d needed to make the change, impulsive and reckless and hating it at first. He could try and find some way to cut it back right now, but… the thought of keeping and maintaining a hairstyle like that in the apocalypse seems pointless. He doesn’t know the next time they’ll find a shelter like this again. He doesn’t know if it matters.

With a sigh he pushes the thought away, resolving to simply deal with the consequences of letting his hair be ugly for the time being. Even the ragged scruff of his facial hair doesn’t seem like an urgency at the moment. He’ll get to it when he gets to it, knowing with certainty that inevitably it’ll all grow back again.

It’s only as he’s turning away from the mirror, curious if any of the bathroom drawers hold deodorant or moisturiser, that Grian catches sight of it.

A jagged, angry line of scar tissue running along the side of his neck.

It’s not his bite—he’s more than familiar with what that looks like by now, having spent hours memorizing the shape of it with his fingertips alone. No, this is something new to him. Foreign and unfamiliar.

There’s a sudden thickness in his throat as he turns around in front of the mirror, craning his neck to try to see his back at the same time.

He almost wishes he hadn’t.

With his mouth dry and hands suddenly shaky, Grian looks at himself, bearing witness to a collection of ugly, pockmarked injuries that cover the expanse of his body. Some are pale and scarred over, long since healed, but others are red and raw, their freshness pulled forward by the hot water of the shower. Grian can’t help but think immediately to the zombies they’ve encountered along the way, their bodies grotesquely disfigured by the sheer volume of their wounds.

He feels sick.

With an increasing horror, he peers down at his arms and legs, poring over the body in front of him. His body. Now, with the dirt and grime removed, he can see he’s become covered in awful scratches and marks. They had been harder to see when he’d been covered in filth, but washing away the muck has revealed what lays beneath—his body a mismatch of injuries he’s obtained without even realising it.

‘It must’ve been when I was blacked out,’ he thinks. ‘I don’t heal the same as I did before. Every cut and scrape leaves a mark now.’

And then, nasty and traitorous, the thought is followed by a miserable realisation.

‘I used to be pretty,'  he thinks, mournful. '… I used to be cute.’

Stupidly, it chokes him up, his vision filling with tears. Instinctively he pulls in a sharp breath, roughly pushing the heels of his palms against his eyelids. He digs them in until he sees spots in his vision, taking one shuddering, shivery breath after another.

‘You’re not a little girl,’ he reminds himself, the thought mean and caustic; the way he used to chastise himself back before the world fell apart. ‘Pull yourself together.’

It takes several minutes until he manages to collect himself, evening out his breathing until he’s back from the edge of a panic attack. With his eyes fixed resolutely on the ground he paws at the door blindly and makes his way out of the bathroom, catching sight of his messy pile of clothes on the bedroom floor. It’s only his revulsion at the thought of pulling his dirty clothes back on after spending so long cleaning himself that keeps him from immediately covering up and trying to hide away his newfound marks.

It’s a relief when he opens the closet and finds a bathrobe hanging alongside the spare summer clothing, pulling it on gratefully and wrapping himself up in it tightly. It’s a size too big for him, the sleeves long and overhanging his wrists, but he feels far better with it on than with only a towel wrapped around his waist.

Slowly, still processing the magnitude of his revelation, he makes his way back down the stairs to where Scar is waiting. He finds him in the living room, the fireplace lit, sitting back in a comfortable looking armchair, with his legs up on a stool while he patiently works out the stiffness in his muscles.

He gets up immediately when he spots Grian, his face lighting up as though they haven’t seen each other in years.

“Wow, you look great!” He’s smiling as he steps forward to meet him, pressing a quick peck to the side of Grian’s temple. “Smell great too.”

Grian doesn’t say a word, still feeling numb as Scar enthusiastically guides him back to where he’d been sitting. Effortlessly, he pushes Grian down into the armchair, pointing out an array of snacks that are laid out on the coffee table right next to him. Pretzels and bugles and dried apple slices in matching bowls.

“I found these in the cupboards while you were showering,” he enthuses, clearly proud of himself. “They’re pretty good! Give ‘em a try while I freshen up. I’ll be right back.”

He presses another kiss to the top of Grian’s head, light and fleeting, as if afraid he’ll dirty him if he lingers too long, then retreats with a wave. Grian can’t find it in himself to muster an acknowledgement as he goes, staring mutely at the flames within the fireplace, feeling sad and numb.

It occurs to him that Scar must’ve seen the marks on his skin earlier. That when he’d stripped down in the utility room and Scar had begun to stare, that must have been what he’d seen.

The thought wrenches a sudden, ugly sob from Grian. His throat tightening as he fights to swallow it back down.

What must Scar have thought, seeing Grian like that? More monster than human now, in both diet and looks alike.

An ugly, miserable part of himself wants to leave. Wants to shove his feet into his boots and vanish into the swiftly approaching cover of evening. To find some place hollowed out into the earth where he can hide and never have to be perceived again.

Miserably, he scrubs the back of his hand across his eyelids, pushing his tears back, hating how wretched and vulnerable he feels. It’s too much for him. Too many emotions compounding at once, one on top of the other, crushing him beneath their combined weight.

He feels ugly and small.

He feels hideous.

“Gri?”

He doesn’t realise how long he’s spent mired in his own thoughts until Scar’s voice breaks through to him, a startling sound in the undisturbed quiet of the room. Grian looks up blearily, coming out of the daze of his sadness to find Scar standing at the bottom of the stairs, smiling at him hesitantly.

He’s clean.

He looks good, his hair tousled and sticking up at odd angles from being towelled dry, his cheeks still pink from the heat of the shower. He’s wearing a pair of flannel pants and a grey long-sleeved shirt. Pyjamas. Something Grian hasn’t seen him wearing in months.

It strikes him suddenly that the robe he’s currently wearing must’ve belonged to a man about Scar’s size. The person who owned this place. A stranger they’ll never know the name of.

“Found ‘em in a drawer,” Scar explains, smiling and looking a little guilty when he catches the curiosity in Grian’s stare.

A beat of silence passes between them, neither of them moving towards one another, awkwardly caught in their respective moments.

“Grian…” Scar asks finally, his voice soft in the stillness of the cabin. “Are you okay?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

The words break fragile between them, not so much an accusation as an admission, Grian fully accepting of the state he’s been reduced to.

Across the room Scar stares at him, uncomprehending until a quiet understanding creeps over him, forcing him to take a deep breath before he pads barefoot across the floor.

There’s no elegance, no careful words of discussion. Grian wants to tell him to go away, to argue that he doesn’t want to inflict himself on Scar, but the words choke in his throat and he finds himself too desperate for comfort to turn him away. Reluctantly, he lets Scar ease him to the far edge of the armchair, creating enough room to sit down before he immediately eases Grian into his lap.

A part of Grian feels like sobbing anew, freshly vulnerable as he tries to remember the last time he and Scar were able to sit like this. Warm and clean and safe, with no looming threat or terror looming over them. Wordlessly, he presses his forehead into the crook of Scar’s shoulder, hiding himself in the juncture of his collarbone as Scar’s arms settle warm and heavy around him.

Several minutes pass in loaded silence as Scar waits for Grian’s emotion to naturally ebb.

“Now…” Scar says at last, his lips pressing to the top of Grian’s head. “What’s this about?”

“You know what it’s about,” Grian croaks, barely able to get the words out. “I don’t look the same anymore. I’ve—” the word ‘changed’ sticks in his throat, his tongue twisting up around it. He’d been trying to change, that much is true, but he never meant for it to be like this.

“You don’t need to look the same to still be Grian,” Scar whispers, running a warm palm down his spine and back up again, enveloping Grian in his embrace. “No matter what you look like, I love you just the same.”

It’s all Grian can do to shake his head, fresh tears prickling at the corner of his eyes. He doesn’t know how to explain himself to Scar. Doesn’t know how to verbalise how awful it feels to look at himself in the mirror and feel completely disconnected from the image he sees reflected back at him. He’d worked so hard for so many years to find a balance between what made him happy and what kept him safe, only to have all that effort dashed by something entirely out of his control. He feels hopeless; helpless within his own body. Unlovable now. Moreso than ever before.

At the same time, the comfort of being in Scar’s arms is a relief to his overwhelmed mind. He clings to the safety it provides him. Quiet and thoughtful, Scar continues to reassure him while his hand strokes over his back. Grian imagines his fingertips soothing over every mark, every blemish, warm and loving and so much more than Grian has ever deserved.

It takes them both a moment until Scar speaks again. When he does, it’s along with a soft brandishing of his bare arm, bringing it prominently into Grian’s field of vision. They stare at it in tandem for a moment, before Scar says, “We match now.”

Grian feels a pang in his chest as he takes in the old, faded lines spread across on the planes of Scar’s skin. Marks that he knows are mapped all over the rest of his body. He remembers his initial curiosity, back when he first met Scar. The stories he told of reckless behaviour and stupid accidents in his early college days, the retellings never repeated the same way twice. Secrets Grian had never pressed twice about, even when the scars on his body were much older than just a few years.

While it doesn’t fix things, it does soothe a part of Grian’s soul, feeling a little less alone as he curls even closer to Scar, pressing his ear against the curve of his chest, right above his heart. There, he can hear the steadiness of his heartbeat, a rhythmic pattern that calms him.

They’re quiet after that, the two of them nestled close to each other in the warm, orange glow of the fire. Scar is patient with Grian through his silent tears, pressing lingering kisses to his damp hair. Neither of them move and neither of them speak, but by the time the sky outside has gone fully dark, Grian’s tears have finally begun to ebb and the mood has largely mellowed.

“How are we feeling?”

It’s strange to hear Scar’s voice in the silence that has settled between them, his words muffled quietly into Grian’s hair where his lips are still pressed against the crown of his head. Grian doesn’t know how much time has passed while he’s sat in Scar’s arms and struggled to adjust to yet another newness about himself. When he opens his eyes again he can see that the fire has burned low but is not yet out, the flames smouldering along the logs, gradually settling into rolling embers.

He feels a certain kind of catharsis. Not better, but exhumed. It was good to have been vulnerable, to have leaned on the support Scar was ready to offer him.

He feels safe. He feels cared for.

He wonders why he never thought to rely on Scar like that before.

Wordlessly, Grian shifts his head in response to Scar’s question, nuzzling into the soft cotton of his shirt, enjoying the sensation for a moment before he slowly moves his attention up, pressing a gentle kiss to the exposed skin of Scar’s throat in place of an answer.

He can feel Scar’s hand on his back as he lets his lips linger, Scar’s large palm slowly sliding up to cradle him between his shoulder blades, gently pressing him in closer. It’s all the encouragement Grian needs before he kisses Scar’s neck again, feeling something deep inside himself tingle as Scar’s pulse picks up beneath his skin.

A quiet moment passes before, without a word, Scar’s other hand reaches up, curling warm against Grian’s cheek before his fingertips slip tenderly back into his hair. Grian feels safe, the presence of Scar’s hands warming him protectively as he kisses Scar’s neck a third time, a fourth.

“Grian…” Scar whispers, exhaling slowly, the faintest tremor running along the edge of his breath.

“Scar,” Grian replies, lips ghosting against his skin as he finally asks, careful, “Will you take me to bed…?”

For a moment Scar sits, not moving, barely breathing. Then, carefully, Grian finds himself being eased back, faced with the openness of Scar’s expression in the soft glow of the firelight.

“Are you asking?” Scar clarifies, fingers slowly running once more through Grian’s hair.

Steadfast, Grian pushes down the old ghost of himself, railing against his immediate fear of rejection. There’s no condemnation in Scar’s behaviour, nothing that should have any cause to put him on edge.

Wordlessly he nods, biting the inside of his cheek as his eyes slant nervously to one side.

There’s no conversation after that. No enthusiastic acceptance or delicate rejection. Scar merely braces his hand against the small of Grian’s back, and a moment later Grian finds them both on their feet. He feels a simmering kind of rush, like the smoulder of the coals burning in the fireplace, as Scar’s hand encircles his own, leading him across the floor towards the stairs that lead to the loft bedroom.

Anticipation grows warm in Grian’s chest. A rapid fluttering in his heart. He can feel Scar’s thumb rubbing encouragingly over his knuckles as he climbs the last step—which makes the way he pulls to a halt only ever-so-slightly jarring.

Something is different. The bed is not quite as he remembers it, the covers and pillows visibly rearranged.

“Scar…?” he starts, not quite sure how to phrase the question. Not quite sure what he even wants to ask.

“I had to change the sheets,” Scar explains, giving Grian a small grin as he shrugs his shoulders. “Y’know, because… dead people.”

It’s a strange train of thought, the logic of it fastidious in a way that Grian can’t completely follow. All the same, he knows he understands. He’s unable to help the way he smiles, everything about the gesture so Scar that he can only be charmed by it.

“That makes sense,” he admits, though he knows it doesn’t. Nobody died here, no bodies ever lay on this bed. It feels nice, though, to sit on clean sheets and admire the fresh pillows as Scar pulls the comforter back for them.

With a nervously eager kind of anticipation, Grian pulls his knees up, perching on the edge of the mattress for a moment before he climbs all the way in. On the other side of the bed, Scar moves to join him, the two of them find themselves settling near the middle, poised on the threshold of what they both know is about to follow.

“Hi,” Grian says at last, smiling timidly, a prickle of nerves creeping up his spine.

“Hi,” Scar replies, looking calm. Looking handsome.

“Can I kiss you…?” He feels nervous—feels hopeful—rewarded by an immediate, almost desperate nod from Scar.

“Please.”

There’s no hesitation after that. No more time to waste. Their lips meet slowly as Grian leans in and closes the distance between them. Careful and just a little cautious. It’s familiar territory for them both, and yet Grian feels the thrill as though experiencing something entirely new, enjoying the warmth of Scar’s mouth against his.

It’s nice to be able to take their time with one another, lips moving slow and unhurried, with the promise of something more waiting just off to the wings. When they’ve finally grown accustomed to the feeling, Scar carefully swipes his tongue across Grian’s mouth, gentle and patient. There’s no part of Grian that doesn’t want to open up to him immediately.

He parts his lips with a soft breath, welcoming Scar’s tongue against his, moving his hand up into Scar’s hair as he does so, easy and unhurried.

Scar, for his part, places one firm hand to the small of his back, pulling Grian in closer and tilting his head as he deepens the kiss, teasing the roof of Grian’s mouth before playfully sucking on his tongue. When they pull apart, knocking foreheads together while they breathe, Grian continues to run his fingers through Scar’s hair, his fingernails dragging lightly against his scalp while Scar rubs circles with his thumb along the curve of his spine. There’s no need for a discussion, no exchanging of words. Together, they share a few more kisses, following the same slow, leisurely pattern. Trading off breaths. Pacing themselves.

It’s when Scar’s hand slips a little lower, curving over Grian’s rear as he nips at his bottom lip, that the mood heats up a little further. The action draws a sigh from Grian’s mouth, nearer to a moan than an exhalation. Scar takes the opportunity to press his free hand to Grian’s robe-covered chest, pushing him smoothly onto his back.

Grian goes easy, more than happy to be laid out on the sheets beneath him. Scar moves in closer, his arms on either side of Grian’s body, staring down at him with a tender expression. Wordlessly, he smiles, one hand reaching out to stroke Grian’s cheek, clearly enjoying the marvel of having him back again.

Tender, Grian turns his head to the side, kissing the swell of Scar’s palm, his face colouring with shy pleasure at the display.

When Scar makes a sound it’s low and affectionate; a wondrous quality to it, more reverent than anything else.

“I love you,” he whispers, effortless with his affection.

It takes Grian a moment, reorienting after a lifetime spent pushing away such statements, but he manages to claw himself back from the brink of closing off. Honest and firm, he replies, “I love you too.”

Scar dips down to kiss him again, a reward for his honesty, perhaps. Or maybe merely because he can’t help himself. Whatever the reason, Grian certainly doesn’t mind, enjoying the way Scar ensconcing him sends a spark down his spine.

When Scar pulls back, it’s only so that he can tug at the thick ties securing the front of Grian’s bathrobe, pulling them loose. Wordlessly, Scar pulls each side of the robe away from Grian’s torso, leaving him bare to the cool air of the bedroom, the heat from the fireplace not yet having wormed its way in. A little shamefully, Grian is already half-hard, his cock jumping at the sudden change in temperature as it nudges up towards his belly. His cheeks darken, resisting the urge to squirm under Scar’s eyes as he lavishes his gaze over his body.

Grian can feel the way Scar’s shrewd surveillance inspects every new mark on him, and it’s all he can do to keep himself from covering up again. Instead, he forces himself to lay still until Scar leans down, pressing a kiss to his topmost injury, a nick right beneath Grian’s collarbone. It makes him gasp in surprise, a hiss of air between his lips that lingers only as long as it takes for Scar to move down to the next mark, and then the next, slowly, carefully worshiping every new addition to Grian’s body.

Lower and lower he goes, each kiss soft and fleeting, until he reaches Grian’s navel. At that juncture, he presses a long, lengthy kiss to the edges of a cut that bisects the trail of coarse hair that rests there. He follows it with a toying lave of his tongue, suckling on the sensitive skin and teasing it between his teeth. With another gasp, Grian’s cock jumps, throbbing as blood rushes south, filling him out further.

But Scar’s not done, and before Grian can properly moan aloud, the other man is turning him over onto his front and kissing every ragged impression torn into his back.

“You’re perfect,” Scar insists, low, his words so tender it brings tears to the corners of Grian’s eyes.

It’s a struggle to lay still under the full weight of Scar’s devotion. A part of Grian still wants to curl away from it, wants to curve into himself until he’s compressed down into something so small that Scar won’t even be able to see him. He feels his flaws like enormous welts on his skin, the terrible ugliness that he used to carry inside now spread across him. Unavoidable blemishes making him hideous to the touch. Damaged goods.

And yet, as Scar’s kisses trail down his shoulder blades, following the curve of his spine, Grian can only feel appreciated and adored. Affection beyond measure infused into every single caress.

“Scar…” Blindly, Grian reaches back, fumbling for a point of connection. Scar’s breath ghosts along the subtle indent where his waist curves beneath his ribcage, more pronounced now than it’s ever been before.

“Just relax,” Scar whispers, his hands moving down to bracket his hips, thumbs rubbing slowly into the sensitive divot of his lower back. “Let me take care of you…”

Grian feels fragile, like he’s about to fall apart at any moment, weakened by Scar’s caresses. The minutes stretch, turning him to liquid as Scar trails his kisses further down his spine, massaging him tenderly all the while, his touch creeping lower by millimetres.

Grian can’t help but feel overworked already, his noises muffled into the bend of his elbow, stimulated almost to the point of needing to ask for a pause when Scar somehow seems to anticipate his needs. All at once, his kisses stop. It’s a respite that lasts a moment before Grian feels a weight moving—a shuffling of material and the soft sound of something being tossed aside—and then Scar is shifting forward to lay himself over Grian’s body. He’s careful to support his weight on his forearms, his now bare chest settling against Grian’s back.

“Oh…”

Scar’s still in his pyjama pants, Grian can feel the flannel soft against his thighs, but that does little to hide Scar’s arousal, which pushes up firmly against the cleft of his ass.

“Oh, Scar…”

“Yeah…” Scar’s voice is soft and breathy against the back of Grian’s head, nuzzling into his hair as he grinds once against him, a patient, slow roll of his hips.

It pulls at something incredibly tender and vulnerable in Grian’s chest, a fragility he knows he’s afraid of. Wordlessly he buries himself deeper into the crook of his elbow, silent as he lifts his hips to meet the next flex of Scar’s movement.

The gentle pressure of Scar bearing down on him is inescapable, grounding the part of Grian’s brain that wants to bolt. Slowly, by inches, he lets himself surrender to it. The first moan that escapes him is breathy, rewarded by Scar’s lips against the side of his neck, his hips rocking as he continues to grind against him.

It’s a slow build, tender in a way that sets every nerve in Grian’s body alight. Quickly, Grian finds himself at a crossroad, stimulated but in desperate need of more. Scar once again anticipates him, reaching up and grabbing one of the pillows from the head of the bed. He lifts Grian’s hips, settling him on his knees as he tucks it beneath him.

“Just relax…” Scar whispers while Grian struggles against the immediate push of stubborn reluctance in his chest. He’s exposed and vulnerable in a way that verges close to humiliation, but the fear is soothed by Scar’s kisses as he once again begin to descend down his spine.

Immediately, the intent behind his trajectory lights up a fresh part of Grian’s brain—the part that craves a physical connection with Scar more than anything else. The part that needs the confirmation of his touch to know that they understand one another. That they’re a united front.

“Go slow,” Grian husks out, his heart racing with anticipation at the knowledge of what’s to come, feeling his own arousal ache where it’s smothered into the pillow he’s now bent over.

“Don’t worry,” Scar assures him, words spoken directly against the muscle above his hip. “We have all the time we need…”

He presses a kiss against Grian’s skin, lips hot, his touch trailing down to his thighs. He squeezes them gently, just enough pressure for Grian to really feel it, before Scar’s palms settle on his ass. Patiently, Scar kneads over him, warm and slow. They’re both well past the point of being embarrassed by one another for something like this, but somehow the attention makes Grian’s face hot regardless. He resists the urge to wriggle his hips, settling on an encouraging moan instead as Scar dips his thumbs towards the cleft of Grian’s cheeks, carefully holding him open.

It’s with smooth, confident motions that Scar leans in, his breath a subtle tickle against Grian’s rear before he licks a stripe up the sensitive side of his hole, just barely edging past his rim. Before Grian can collect himself, Scar does it again, and again, every touch wet by the full width of his tongue, just shy of grazing him where he wants it. It’s a tease, meant to ramp up Grian’s anticipation, and it works well. His cock throbs, untouched between his legs, and Grian ruts once against the pillow beneath him, desperate for some kind of friction.

When Scar finally properly licks against his hole, the motion knocks a surprised gasp out of Grian, his fingers automatically twisting up in the sheets. Scar hums, pleased, and follows the motion with the tip of his tongue, circling around Grian’s rim with the barest hint of pressure. This time, Grian bucks his hips on automatic, his body eager for more. Behind him, Scar chuckles, leaning back as he runs his palms over Grian’s shaky thighs.

The next time his tongue returns, it’s to tease around Grian’s perineum, alternating between gentle kisses and wide, firm, strokes from his wet tongue. It has Grian vocalising loudly into his elbow, his cock starting to collect pre at the tip, pooling onto the robe bunched up beneath him. Scar keeps Grian guessing, withdrawing his tongue for a moment only to replace it with his fingers, slick with saliva as he rubs the sensitive skin between Grian’s balls and his hole. When his touch drifts backwards, wet fingers circling around his rim, Grian moans aloud, his eyes peeking out from his elbow, looking back at Scar with an expression he knows must look wrecked.

“Good boy,” Scar praises, his voice low, and it makes heat flush throughout Grian’s whole body.

As if offering him a reward for his behaviour, Scar leans in and presses his tongue back against Grian’s hole, focused now as he devotes his full attention to it. His hands continue to stroke Grian’s thighs, kneading over his ass in turn, while Scar licks slow and eager over him. The constant stimulation has Grian feeling gooey, his muscles relaxing as he melts into the bed. He can tell his reactions are exactly what Scar wants from him, one of his big palms smoothing down his side in encouragement as he gives himself over completely.

He doesn’t realise how much better he can be made to feel until the tip of Scar’s tongue presses into him, prying him those first few millimetres open in a way that has Grian gasping, the noise he makes high-pitched and wanting. It feels good—feels incredible—Scar’s first press followed by another, bolder touch, his stubble scratching pleasantly against the sensitive skin between his thighs as Scar tongues him deeper and deeper.

Grian can’t remember the last time they did this. The last time he allowed himself to enjoy something like this. It’s humbling to be the sole focus of Scar’s attention. To be the recipient of everything Scar has to give.

He feels loved.

He loses himself in Scar’s gentle ministrations, succumbing completely to the feelings washing over him. Scar slowly eases back, gently kissing the inside of his thigh before he shifts himself over on the mattress, jostling Grian slightly.

“Sorry,” he apologises, though Grian’s head feels too gummy to respond. He’s warm and feels satiated, enjoying the weight of Scar’s hands resting on the back of his leg, his thumb rubbing slow circles into his relaxed muscle.

Without thinking, Grian hums quietly, a gentle noise of acknowledgement. Behind him Scar is fussing with something, but Grian doesn’t pay it any notice until he feels himself being spread back open. He pulls in a quick breath to brace himself as he readies once more for the warmth of Scar’s tongue, startled when instead he feels the incredibly slick tip of Scar’s ring finger rubbing up against his hole.

He doesn’t mean to overreact, but something drips and all at once Grian is twisting as far onto his side as he can manage, starting to make a noise—caught between an objection and curiosity—when he spots a bottle of cooking oil laying on its side near the foot of the bed.

He barely has his mouth open to speak when Scar explains, his words carefully matter-of-fact, “I found it in the kitchen while you were in the shower.”

The mood teeters, precarious, balanced on the edge of breaking into absurdity. Wordlessly Grian gapes at him, not entirely sure how to react.

“We’re not eighteen,” Scar continues, a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’m not just gonna spit on you and call it a day.”

All of Grian’s air leaves his lungs in a rush, a heavy sigh bordering on a laugh. He hopes it sounds as fond as he feels, and he lets himself settle back down on the bed, burying his face once more into the bend of his arm.

“I read about it in a health magazine once,” Scar explains, and Grian can feel him settling back into place as well, one broad hand spreading Grian apart as the slick tip of his finger returns, feeling less alien now that Grian knows what he’s using. “It’s a good substitute, in a pinch.”

Scar’s ring finger rubs a slow circle, tracing Grian’s rim with practised familiarity before he presses it in, the first small stretch forcing a pleasant gasp out of Grian’s lungs.

“We could use coconut oil as well,” Scar offers, words gentle but informative as he slowly eases the tip of his finger back and forth, allowing Grian time to adjust. “Or shea butter, if we had it.”

“Scar,” Grian groans, his voice working its way out around the sound of a moan, “I care about this. Really, I do...” He gasps again, fighting the urge to squirm back into the slow pressure of Scar’s touch. “But tell me about it after,” he finishes, hearing Scar chuckle softly behind him.

“So you’re saying you don’t love and appreciate my thoughtfulness?” Scar teases.

A sudden flood of fond affection—for Scar’s typical distractible conversation, for his oddly timed rambling, for his attention to detail, all in order to make things good for Grian—tugs the words out of him. “I love everything about you,” Grian confesses, open and honest.

The second he says it, he’s embarrassed. While he’s been trying to be more open, this sort of vulnerability is unprecedented from him. He’s already exposed, spread open and entirely at Scar’s mercy—it’s not the kind of situation where he’d usually volunteer something so deeply personal. And yet, he can tell by the way Scar stills that he’s heard the adoration in his voice and been stunned by it.

“Yeah?” Scar asks after a moment, his voice low.

And it’s all Grian can do to swallow back his nerves, his voice smothered as he replies, “Yeah.”

There’s a beat, and then Scar is pressing a tender kiss to the small of Grian’s back, whispering something against his skin that Grian can’t hear. When he pulls back, it’s so that he can return to patiently stretching Grian out, slow and steady and agonising in his deliberation. Gradually, he adds a second finger alongside his first, curling it as he presses kisses to Grian’s hip and thigh. He scissors them inside him patiently, making Grian gasp and moan, soothing the motions with a gentle stroking of his perineum with his free hand.

His attentions have Grian shifting his hips back, trying to indicate that he’s more than ready for what’s next, however Scar simply adds a third finger, nearly bringing Grian to tears with his slow, relentless stretching. He needs more, he needs Scar deeper, in a way he knows even his talented fingers can’t reach. In his desperation, he must whine, because Scar shushes him gently and then pulls out all his fingers at the same time, leaving Grian wretchedly empty.

Grian tries not to work himself up over it—he knows Scar must just be prepping himself, but it’s hard to think with his body warm and well taken care of and now missing Scar’s familiar hands.

All at once he’s being manhandled, Scar turning him over again, laying him flat on his back as he arranges the pillow beneath his hips.

“Wanna see your face,” Scar whispers, rough, and Grian’s breath catches at how handsome he looks, his eyes hooded with desire.

He’s naked himself now too, having shucked off his pyjama pants sometime while he was working Grian over and opening him up. Kneeling on the bed, his thighs spread wide with one hand resting gentle on Grian’s knee, he looks just like Grian’s always remembered him—muscled but still soft to the touch, hair dark across his chest and trailing down below his navel. More beautiful than he has any right to be.

The sight of him makes Grian’s entire body ache.

His breath catches in his throat as Scar shuffles himself forward, slinging Grian’s legs around his hips as he carefully jostles their bodies closer together. Something about his actions makes Grian feel uncharacteristically shy, his face going warm as Scar’s dick lays heavy against his pelvis. It rubs teasingly against Grian’s own aching arousal as Scar rolls his hips, the movement forcing a whimper out of Grian’s throat.

Patiently, Scar flexes his body, waiting until Grian finally breaks, his voice pleading.

“Enough teasing…”

His eyes are closed but Grian can hear Scar chuckle. One hand hooks beneath Grian’s knee, spreading him wide as Scar readjusts how their bodies settle together. There’s no hurry in Scar’s movements, enjoying every subtle motion as though he’s experiencing it for the very first time and wants to impress it into his memory forever.

Reverent. A second chance neither of them thought they’d have.

It’s a relief when, finally, the head of Scar’s dick nudges up against Grian’s rear, pushing careful against his rim. Grian’s body is relaxed, pliant enough to take him without protest, and he sucks in a slow breath between his teeth as he feels Scar enter him at last.

His own dick jumps against his stomach, shameless as he arches his lower spine up off the pillow shoved beneath him. He can feel Scar, enormous inside of him, pushing in slow, slow. Hands soothing up and down his sides, running from his knees to just below the base of his ribcage before trailing back down again.

“Scar…” his name escapes Grian, wanton and needy, the back of his skull pressing firmly against the mattress, feeling both too much and not enough.

“Love you…” Scar’s voice is low, fully absorbed in the moment, his body pitching forward as he continues pushing himself deep, deeper, taking Grian inch by inch. The same words escape him again, lips finding Grian’s, kissing him desperate and hungry, their bodies settling together with his hips pushed snug against the underside of Grian’s thighs.

For a moment all either of them can do is kiss and hold one another. Grian feels breathless from penetration alone, panting against Scar’s lips as he chases his kisses. Scar’s tongue is hot and heavy in his mouth until Grian feels his thighs flex, Scar’s first small thrust pushing a moan out of his throat.

“I love you,” Scar repeats for the third time, like they’re the only words he knows.

“Love you too,” Grian finally replies, hands cradling each side of Scar’s face, holding him like he’s precious as he kisses him again and again, repeating the words once more while Scar steadies himself and finally thrusts into him properly.

Last time they’d done this, back at the motel all those weeks ago, Grian had marveled at how perfect everything felt. How, for the first time since they’d broken up, he had truly felt like Scar might still have feelings for him. Like he’d finally been forgiven.

Now, it seems laughable how he could have believed any of that. The sex had been good, and what they’d shared had been nice, but it was nothing compared to this. The feeling of being held, being cherished, being well and truly loved as they kiss slow, their bodies sliding together.

It used to be like this a long time ago too.

Grian doesn’t know how he could have ever forgotten. How he ever decided to start taking it for granted.

“You can move,” he encourages, arms wrapped around Scar’s neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the side of his neck.

“I want to take my time,” Scar counters, just a hint of a pout in his voice as it says it. It makes Grian laugh, his chest shaking from it. Scar grins at him, mischievous, and the two of them kiss again with smiles on their faces.

True to his word, Scar gives Grian ample time to acclimate to his size and the pressure of their bodies tucked up close together. He’s pushed all the way in, Grian’s hole stretched taut around him to accommodate, and Grian can feel his body relax bit by bit as he grows more comfortable. His arousal doesn’t diminish in the slightest—not when his dick is pressed between his stomach and Scar’s abs, and the rest of him feels so completely full. That pressure, along with the gentle way Scar continues to caress his body, has Grian moaning softly into every kiss as Scar minutely rocks against him.

Not one to be beat, Grian splays his hands flat against Scar’s back, lightly dragging his nails along his spine and enjoying the way Scar bites back a noise under his touch. When Grian’s patience is finally shot, the anticipation too much to simply remain still, he wraps his legs around Scar’s waist, digging his heels into the small of Scar’s back in an attempt to usher him forward.

“Fuck,” Scar groans softly, finally starting to move properly, a slow push and pull, fucking into Grian deeply only to draw back and immediately thrust in again. “Gri…”

“Yeah,” Grian gasps, fingers twisting into the hair at the nape of Scar’s neck, still damp from the shower and now so much longer. Longer than Grian’s ever seen him wear it. “You like it?”

He can feel Scar’s breath, hot into the crook of his neck as he continues moving, falling into a comfortable rhythm. Not so slow as to be teasing, but not fast to the point of feeling hurried and desperate. Scar’s lips kiss whatever skin they’re near, and Grian feels the way they press against the rough scar scabbed into his shoulder—the bite wound that permanently changed him.

“Like you,” Scar breathes, and it’s enough to make Grian’s entire body go tight with emotion, hands fumbling Scar’s head up so that he can kiss his lips, the two of them sharing each other’s air as Scar fucks him good and deep.

“Let me ride you,” Grian asks—offers. Sweat is already prickling along Scar’s hairline, and Grian wipes it away as he looks him in the eyes, admiring their deep, forest green in the sheltered ambiance of the room. “Please,” he continues, feeling the way Scar’s hips stutter against his. “I want to take care of you…”

Like so many things, Grian can’t remember the last time he made this effort. The last time he even bothered to try, even though he knew how much Scar enjoyed it when he took charge. Above him, Scar’s movements still, a careful expression on his face as his hand slips back, finding Grian’s ankles and gently unhooking them.

Grian can’t help but feel the loss immediately, letting out a breath he knows sounds miserable as Scar slips out of him.

“How ‘bout this,” Scar counters, nudging Grian onto his side while Scar takes his place in the centre of the bed, laying down beside him, his hands greedy on Grian’s body as he pulls his back snug up against his broad chest.

There’s a moment of strangeness to it, the arrangement not quite what Grian had in mind. A part of him worries—wonders what he did to have Scar counter him this way.

“Just relax,” Scar reassures him, hands rubbing up and down Grian’s side. “I’ve got you.”

It’s while Grian is caught between confusion and surrender that Scar reaches down to his legs lifting his knee and pulling Grian open again as he guides himself back in place. He moans in deep satisfaction as he presses into Grian, the sound vibrating off his skin where Scar’s mouth is pressed to it. All at once, it rushes back, Grian feeling incredible again—next to Scar, full of him, so incredibly in love with him…

“Scar,” Grian husks, sounding wrecked, just shy of pleading.

“Yeah,” Scar groans, letting Grian feel the way his length drags out of him before he pushes forward and fills him once more. “Just like that…”

Privately, Grian can’t help but wonder if maybe this compromise is because Scar isn’t ready to relinquish full control to him yet. That maybe the sting of Grian’s betrayal has made it difficult for Scar to trust him in all the ways he used to. Grian can understand that, he thinks, even if it hurts a little.

“I wanna…” he starts, choking on a moan before he tries again. “Let me…”

Reaching a hand back, the heel of his palm digging into Scar’s hip, Grian holds him still for a moment, preventing the other man from bucking his hips. Grian rocks his own forward and back in a rhythm that he knows full well is far too slow for either of them. Scar’s fingers flex against Grian’s skin where his hands are pressed into him, one palm spread across the softness of Grian’s stomach and the other covering the full part of his thigh. Scar murmurs little praises into Grian’s hair, struggling to remain still while Grian continues to push back against him, his words making his heart flutter, both shy and affectionate.

It’s as Grian is occupied with moving himself on Scar’s dick that Scar makes what feels like an impulsive move. He brushes his lips against Grian’s bite mark, the feeling causing Grian to immediately lose what little control he’d managed to gain. Instinctively, Grian gasps, the warmth of Scar’s lips overwhelming against the sensitive patch of scar tissue in the juncture of his shoulder.

Grian feels the jolt of the kiss through his whole body, still processing the first one as Scar presses several more to the tender area.

“Scar,” he rasps, suddenly winded.

“I’m sorry I left you,” Scar whispers against his skin, his breath making Grian shiver.

Before he can even begin to formulate a response in his head, Scar is gripping his hips tight as he retakes control, pushing himself back in deep as he sets a pace that has Grian seeing stars with every smack of their skin.

“I swear I’ll never leave you again,” Scar promises, his words searing hot against Grian’s ragged, ugly mark. “Not for anything.”

It’s an overwhelming feeling. Grian can’t help the noise that escapes his mouth as Scar fucks him, moving with deep thrusts that he can feel through his entire body. A little awkwardly, Scar’s left arm slips beneath his side to wrap around him, palm spreading flat against Grian’s chest to keep their bodies snug together. His right hand follows the line of Grian’s pelvis to palm at his erection.

“Love you,” Scar grunts, hips pistoning against Grian’s, finally getting his hand around him and stroking him in tandem with his movements. “Love you so much… exactly like this, Grian. Exactly as you are.”

Grian can feel a knot tightening low in his belly, the slow pull yanked suddenly taunt, leaving him gasping and crying out at every slick jostle of their bodies. He feels desired and he feels loved, desperate for it, wanting more, never wanting Scar to pull away.

“Love you, Scar,” he gasps, barely able to form the words. Against his chest, Scar’s thumb rubs over his nipple, a weak spot that has Grian crying out as he pushes his hips back, arching his chest into the tease of Scar’s touch. “Love you. Love you—aah, fuck!”

Desperately he turns his head to the side, twisting his body and seeking out Scar’s lips, kissing him with a blind passion as Scar increases the speed of his thrusts, hammering against the point of pleasure inside of him until all Grian can feel is Scar, Scar, Scar—

There’s no warning. Scar is breathing heavy and hard, pressed so close to Grian that he can feel the definition of their bodies blur. Then, the rhythm of Scar’s movements abruptly breaks, his hips jerking against the curve of Grian’s ass in a sharp, desperate motion as he comes. He moans into Grian’s shoulder, shameless and loud, his body shivering from the force of his release.

There’s something about it. About the knowledge that he’s finally managed to satisfy Scar first, that floods Grian with relief, a tension he hadn’t realised he’d been carrying dissolving as he lets himself relax. His own orgasm feels like an afterthought, only brought back to the forefront of his mind when, after a brief moment of relaxation, he feels Scar’s hips push snug up against his, still buried deep inside him as his hand resumes stroking Grian’s dick.

“Now you,” Scar mumbles, still panting for breath while Grian’s voice hitches around a cry, quaking under his touch as Scar’s thumb rubs firmly over his sensitive head with every upstroke of his hand.

Grian squirms against the sheets, both trying to pull away and to beg for more. As Scar continues to stroke him, firm and steady, Grian bucks his hips into the tight circle of his fist. There’s no teasing now—no lingering, trailing touches—Scar keeping the rhythm and pressure consistent.

Almost effortlessly, Grian finds himself dangling over the precipice of his release, desperate for the final push that will send him over the edge. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting—maybe for Scar to tighten his grip, or speed up until the knot in his belly snaps—but the final burst of stimulation comes from somewhere else completely.

Tenderly, carefully, Grian feels Scar’s mouth on his neck, opening wide as he presses his teeth against Grian’s bite mark.

There’s only the slightest hint of pressure, barely enough for Grian to even feel, but the mimicry of the action sets Grian’s nerves alight, all his senses overloading at once. The noise that’s punched out of him as he comes is near-animalistic, mindless and unrestrained as he claws at the sheets and spills into the curl of Scar’s palm.

When he finishes, his entire body trembling, Scar continues stroking him, gentler now, smoothing kisses over his bite. Grian can barely process it, his head swimming, running the last few moments around and around on repeat.

It takes him several minutes to come down from that high, his heartbeat slowing in increments. At some point, Scar pulls out of him, and Grian makes a pitiful noise in the back of his throat from the loss. Distantly, he’s glad for the bathrobe he’d been wearing—now rumpled up under him—catching the mess that would’ve otherwise stained the fresh sheets Scar had so meticulously taken the time out to place on the bed. It’s a disconnected, floaty thought, but Grian isn’t in any hurry to be coherent right now.

Slowly, he turns over onto his back, and Scar immediately curls up close, pressing a kiss to his bare shoulder. Still adrift, Grian turns his head to face Scar, and Scar grins at him. Without hesitation, Grian kisses him, so enamoured with the man in front of him that he feels woozy from it.

They lay together for several minutes, Scar’s head resting on Grian’s shoulder, with his arm thrown across Grian’s chest. Idly, his hand rubs at Grian’s hip, and eventually both of Grian’s hands find themselves carding through Scar’s hair, massaging his fingertips against his scalp.

‘I love this,’ Grian realises. Revelling in the small, perfect moment of intimacy.

He can barely reconcile the feeling with the person he used to be only a month ago. The one so scared of vulnerability that he burned his life down in order to avoid it.

Eventually, Scar begins to doze off against him, and though Grian is loath to disturb their peace, he nudges Scar gently until he wakes.

“Scar,” he whispers, waiting until he hears an acknowledging ‘Mm?’ before he continues. “We should at least clean up and eat before we turn in for the night. We want the best rest we can get before we leave.”

Groaning, Scar shakes his head, his eyes still firmly closed. “Don’t wanna get up…”

Grian chuckles, fond, and it’s with great reluctance that he finally pulls himself away, sitting up and hanging his legs over the side of the bed before he gets to his feet. With his soiled robe trapped beneath Scar’s hip and nothing else on hand, he grabs a throw from the armchair in the corner of the room, draping it around himself like a cloak.

He means to pad over to the ensuite to clean up, and then head back downstairs to see if he can fix something for Scar to eat, but the view outside catches his eye. A quick, flickering pattern passing rapidly outside the window.

Snowfall. Heavy snowfall.

Though it had been snowing all day, it seems that the snow has only increased in the subsequent hours that have passed since he and Scar found their way inside. Curious, Grian walks over to the large windows, peering out into the dark to take a good look at the scene that lays before him. At a glance, it’s beautiful, like something out of a nature magazine or calendar. An untouched blanket of snow, many centimetres deep, draping over the sharp edges of the landscape, smoothing them into something soft and unrecognizable.

From what he can see, Grian can tell that their footprints have already been entirely hidden, no sign of their approach remaining for anyone to trail. And as the snowfall continues to pile up, it becomes abundantly clear that there will be no hiking out in the morning for them.

They’re snowed in.

Grian bites his lip, deliberating for a moment before he returns to the bed, feeling comfort settle back into his chest as he presses up next to Scar again.

“What do you think about staying here for a couple of days?” He asks in a whisper, shifting closer as Scar automatically wraps his arms around him.

After the words register, Scar peeks an eye open, searching his face for a moment before he asks, “Are you being serious…?”

“There’s a lot of snow outside,” Grian explains, keeping his voice quiet, like they need to maintain a secret. “I think we’ll be safe here so long as it lasts… provided the food holds out.”

Both of Scar’s eyes open wide, suddenly awake, a smile on his face as he pulls Grian in close and hugs him tight.

Grian giggles, delighted as Scar presses kisses to his cheeks, and his nose. His forehead and mouth. “I take it that you’re on board.”

“On board for Round Two,” Scar teases, kissing along the line of Grian’s jaw as he shifts his hips forward. “If you’re up for it…”

Grian gasps at the feeling, Scar’s semi pressing firm against the softness of his thigh. His chest warm, and a smile on his lips, he wraps his arms around Scar’s shoulders, pressing their lips together.

They meet each other in a kiss, eager. Closed off from the riotous world outside, and better for it.

Notes:

(Click to reveal.)

[ SPOILERS ]

This chapter contains a descriptive scene of Body Dysmorphia as well as implied Gender Dysphoria within the same scene. Please be aware going forward if these topics are unpalatable or triggering to you.

The chapter also contains sexual content, so if you're a minor or would otherwise like to skip that section, please stop reading from, "There’s no hesitation after that." and continuing reading after, "Slowly, he turns over onto his back,". We've provided a summary below that you can read in order to keep up with any plot details that might be relevant.

[ SUMMARY ]

The two kiss, tender and sweet. It's obvious they're happy and relieved to be back together. Scar helps Grian out of his bathrobe and says that he loves him. Grian, for a change, is quick to reply with the same sentiment. Scar kisses him again, and then proceeds to pepper kisses all over this body, paying special attention to the new blemishes and marks left on them. All the while, Scar whispers reassurances to Grian and tells him he's perfect. The attention makes Grian melt.

After a while of this, Scar turns Grian over onto his front and repeats the same motions, eventually telling him to relax so he can take care of him. Grian feels warm and loved, giving into pleasure as Scar eventually makes his way all the way down and rims him.

They have a moment of levity when Grian gets startled by something dripping and Scar explains he found oil in the kitchen and figured it might come in handy. They joke back and forth for a bit, but when Scar asks teasingly whether Grian appreciates his thoughtfulness, Grian earnestly replies that he loves everything about Scar. This makes Scar go quiet, clearly really touched by the genuine sentiment. Everything between them is soft and sweet and loving.

Scar works Grian open with his fingers and then turns him over again onto his back because he wants to be able to Grian face to face. They have sex and it's much like it used to be, long before the apocalypse and the cheating. Scar continuously tells Grian how much he loves him during. Unlike back then, Grian actually responds.

Eventually, Grian offers to get on top and ride Scar. He wants to make Scar feel good and actually give more than he takes, since he knows he hadn't been focused on that for a while now. He's not expecting the way Scar hesitates, because normally he remembers that Scar enjoyed Grian taking charge. Instead, Scar offers a compromise and changes them into a spooning position in bed. Grian decides that maybe Scar doesn't feel ready to relinquish control because he's still not fully back to trusting Grian again. He makes his peace with it as best he can in the moment, and tries to find another way to pleasure Scar instead.

He settles for grinding back against Scar, while Scar presses kisses to the back of his head and the nape of his neck. Eventually, Scar's lips brush along Grian's bite mark and the sensitivity of it makes him gasp. Scar kisses the mangled injury and tells him he's sorry for ever leaving him, and that he'll never leave Grian again. When Scar says he loves him once more, Grian loses himself in the feeling of the moment, repeating over and over that he loves Scar. This gets Scar right to the edge and immediately over it, and Grian relishes in the fact that he finally got Scar to finish first, relieved.

As soon as Scar comes back to himself, he has a hand on Grian ready to go, stroking him to climax. Grian had already been close, but what puts him over into completion is Scar gently, carefully, putting his teeth to the bite on Grian's neck, pushing down with just enough pressure to stimulate the area. The daring of it and the mixture of surprise and pain-pleasure is all the Grian needs to finish into Scar's hand. They come down together, holding onto one another, Scar smoothing kisses over his bitemark.

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HONESTLY, I think this chapter and the next one are some of my favourites in the entire fic HAHAHA I'm biased ofc, but Lock and I had SUCH fun writing them, and I know they're in Lock's Top 10 as well. 💫 We hope y'all enjoy this brief reprieve with our boys before the plot picks up again ;)

Other than that! If you're interested in what the layout of TAMN looks like, and some behind-the-scenes on how we write the fic, I did a lil post on Tumblr going over our outline, which you can check out at the link! :D

CATCH YOU NEXT WEEK ⛄

Chapter 33

Notes:

We have not just one, but TWO fanarts from the incredible mishori-o this week! You can see the hilarious first one here and the second here!

We've also got some lovely crossover fanart from lumyxluminous! :D

Thank you two so much!! 💜💜💜

Please skip to the end notes for spoiler-y CONTENT WARNINGS!

Dawn breaks slow over the lake, unrolling at its leisure and greeting them with a calm, relaxed air that Grian can’t ever remember enjoying, even from before the end of the world.

They both sleep deeply, taking turns holding one another and waiting until late in the morning to finally drag themselves out of bed. The bathroom remains a novelty, and they wash their faces and brush their teeth with enthusiasm, using fresh toiletries they find stashed beneath the sink while sharing grins in the mirror. There’s an excitement to every element they encounter—the warm water, the fresh mint of the toothpaste, the lingering scent of the hand soap—and Grian shares the feelings enthusiastically with Scar, glad to have him there to enjoy it with.

When they finally move downstairs and look out the large floor to ceiling windows, peering out at the view towards the lake, they find themselves facing a world that has been utterly transformed. The snow hadn’t stopped after they went to bed, and the thick flakes now form a deep, heavy blanket. It covers the world in a muffling, insulating layer of white, every sharp edge smoothed and every definition obscured. The trees along the shoreline bend heavily under the weight of their fresh mantles, the ground beneath them pristine and undisturbed, making the teal water of the lake look vibrant and unreal.

There’s a strange sense of relief to it, along with an incredible feeling of luck. A mile different in either direction and they never would have made it here. Had the snow started even half an hour earlier they would’ve lost the trail in the woods, and who knows what would have happened to them then.

Grian never used to believe in fate, but he finds himself wondering about it more and more as he stares out of the cabin’s enormous windows, Scar’s arms wrapped comfortably around him, his broad chest pressed to Grian’s back.

Some sliver of it does feel too good to be true, he admits…

But maybe, just maybe, they’ve both earned it.

When they finally break away from the window and turn to properly investigate the kitchen, they find the cupboards full of nonperishable foodstuffs. There’s no rhyme or reason to the contents—cans of tomato sauce, boxes of mac and cheese, pancake mix, and pudding cups. The assorted odds and ends left by people who clearly intended to pick up where they left off the next time they visited. People who’d been here often enough that it made sense to keep their pantry reasonably well stocked. They revel in their good fortune, Scar especially thrilled about the potential of eating something other than protein bars and—by one horrifying account—cat food.

Grian does everything in his power not to try and put together a picture of the people who owned the place, avoiding every mark of their personalities that they left behind. Luckily there are no photos or family portraits on the walls, but there are still echoes of the people who once stayed here—board games kept in a cubby beside the fireplace, murder mystery novels with creased spines on a shelf, and stacks of CDs piled next to a stereo system arranged on a cabinet in the main room.

‘It’s alright that we’re here,’ he tells himself repeatedly. ‘We’re allowed to survive.’

There’s a relaxed intent to their day, taking stock of their newfound supplies, snowed in and grateful for it. The first thing Grian does is insist they empty their own bags, turning them both out onto the kitchen table before he gathers everything that can be washed. He loads it all into the machine they find in a closet next to the utility room with as much detergent as he can justify. It feels domestic in a way that’s always been a bit alien to their dynamic, but a part of Grian finds it oddly nice. Comforting in the way that he can control.

While Grian does the laundry, Scar putters around the main floor, relaying each and every discovery he makes to Grian with a sustained sense of enthusiasm. At one point, he puts on a CD of motown music, surprising Grian with how many songs he knows. He then moves to the fridge—empty, save for a variety of condiments that he reads out loud to Grian, excitable, as if they’ve never had a chance to try them before.

A part of Grian wants, desperately, to talk to Scar now that they finally have a chance. Now that the ear of a stranger isn’t pressed against the privacy of their history, and they aren’t facing off against a horde of zombies while they attempt to eke out some kind of survival in the wild. The peace and tranquillity of the cabin is offering them both something, and more than ever Grian wants to talk to Scar about who they are—about what they are, their breakup more prescient to him than it’s ever been before.

He boils water and stirs it into a package of instant oatmeal for Scar, the memory of their previous night lingering as a gentle ache he doesn’t regret. However, all he can think about is the time in the desert when Scar reminded him that he’d never forgiven him for what he did. That it has been just sex. That the act hadn’t mattered to him half as much as it had mattered to Grian.

A part of him knows that things are different now. That those same words no longer apply.

And yet…

At the same time, as much as Grian feels the pressure of their inevitable conversation mounting within him, Scar seems to have no interest in it whatsoever. It seems like he shares none of Grian’s lingering concerns from their time before they walked through the door of the cabin. Instead, he revels in each and every moment, unable to believe the good fortune they’ve found themselves enjoying.

He kisses Grian frequently—in the kitchen, by the fireplace, in the hall. Sometimes quick and fleeting, sometimes with patient intent, leaving Grian flushed and flustered when Scar pulls away with a self-satisfied smile and wink. A couple times they almost land back in bed, but at the last minute Scar pulls himself away, a new distraction taking his mind off their trajectory.

Sometime between Grian’s first load of laundry and his second, Scar untangles the pieces of his wheelchair from their gear and sits on the floor, patiently cleaning an entire forest worth of garbage out of the spokes of its wheels. He’s happy as he does it and they chat amicably while Grian folds their shirts, laughing and joking in a way that feels so different from the couple Grian remembers he had let them become.

It’s nice watching Scar work, his motions careful and methodical. When he notices Grian’s curiosity he’s eager to share what he knows, explaining what each part does and how best to clean and manage it. Grian loves this about him; Scar’s enthusiasm for learning what makes things tick and how they work the way they do. He knows his brain doesn’t work the same way—more than happy to simply use a tool for its purpose without learning the intricacies of it.

Once Scar is done, the two of them take the time to move the furniture around, spacing things out to give Scar ample room to move about in his wheelchair and removing the pieces that are hazardous at chair-level. It feels like a moment snatched out of a life they never lived, the two of them arranging the house to their liking, attempting one configuration at a time as they discuss the pros and cons. Warmth settles in Grian chest as they deliberate over the function versus aesthetic of things, so different from all the times he used to shut down whenever Scar broached the subject.

If only he’d known then what the future had in store for him. If only he’d been braver. If only he’d taken the chance, instead of shutting Scar out at every turn. Maybe then he could’ve enjoyed this when it was truly theirs, in a world where they could’ve lived out the rest of their days together in peace.

They celebrate once Scar finally takes a seat in his wheelchair, rolling around the cleared floor with pomp. Scar throws his hands up like an athlete cheering a win, and Grian laughs as he claps for his victory. Afterwards they make a quick lunch of pasta with a can of red sauce, and though Grian finds himself disinterested in the meal, he’s glad that it allows Scar to help himself to a second serving, revelling in their first warm meal in ages.

When they’re finished, Scar contentedly cleans up, washing the pots and bowls in the sink while Grian heads back to check on their laundry. He takes the first load out of the dryer and replaces it with the second, carrying the basket of freshly clean and dry clothes back downstairs. He begins to fold what they don’t immediately need, chatting with Scar as he works. Once Scar’s done with the dishes, he brings his chair over to where Grian sits on the floor next to the couch, helping him.

The utter domesticity of it all makes Grian ache in a way he didn’t know he could, nostalgic for a life he never lived because he’d always refused to let them share it.

He likes seeing Scar happy, he thinks—admits—to himself. He especially likes being the one who made Scar this happy in the first place. Scar is more himself than he’s been since the world fell apart around them. It makes Grian think back to those first few treacherous days after the end of the world. How it must have been a nightmare for Scar, dealing with the fallout Grian had foisted upon him, along with the upending of every support system he’d ever had.

Because while Scar has always boasted comedically about being strong, hamming it up for the sake of a joke, Grian thinks this is his real strength—to keep going in the face of unimaginable difficulties, both wrought by the world around him, as well as those unexpectedly brought on from the people he loves.

“What’s that look for?” Scar asks as they finish folding, his tone calm but curious as Grian pushes the laundry basket away.

“Just thinking,” Grian replies, knowingly cryptic as he pitches his weight to the side, letting his shoulders settle against Scar’s knees, leaning against him. There’s an easy comfort in his movements, and when he looks up he can see Scar smiling down at him. One large hand settles on Grian’s head, Scar running his fingers back through his hair, loose from its usual tie and hanging down around his face like a mane.

“Thinking about what?” There’s a soothing sensation to the movement of Scar’s fingers as they card slowly through Grian’s hair. It makes him feel appreciated and cared for.

“Thinking about how much I like seeing you happy,” Grian confesses, unable to help but feel his heart begin to beat a little faster with the admission. “I like… being happy with you.”

There’s a moment of silence between them, Scar contemplating his words as he continues stroking his hair. Then, without a word he slips a hand under Grian’s elbow, nudging him to his feet long enough to pull him into his lap.

“Can I kiss you?”

There’s a light in his eyes, keen and bright. It’s clear that this is a moment he wants to capitalise on, an eagerness in him to make a move now, before it has the chance to get away from either of them.

“On the couch,” Grian replies, squirming back, his hands twisting into the soft cotton of Scar’s sleep shirt, prompting him to follow. “In case we get carried away.”

Scar laughs, excited and relieved, and they move together, collapsing onto the couch with Scar reclining comfortably and Grian eagerly crawling into his personal space.

“Why, hello there,” Scar murmurs when he finally settles, both arms draped over the back of the couch, his back propped up by the armrest.

It feels like there’s no time to waste, like this is a moment they have no choice but to seize. Grian moves forward quickly, climbing into Scar’s lap with his hands steadied against Scar’s shoulders, ready to receive his affection.

“I love it when you’re like this,” Scar confesses, voice deep in his chest as one arm slips around Grian’s waist, encircling him completely as he drags him in close.

A part of Grian wants to freeze this moment. To cherish it as a watershed for them both, celebrating the easy transition between affection and intimacy that they’ve always been chasing but Grian’s own anxieties could never completely let him enjoy.

Another part of him wants to stop and to pick it apart. Halting Scar and refusing to let them continue until he’s explained exactly what he means by his words. What kind of love, exactly? What is it that Scar likes so much?

Instead, Scar finds a third direction for them to move in, his lips seeking Grian’s, pressing into him with a warm, enthusiastic kiss that Grian melts into immediately. Shameless in his satisfaction, his hands begin working to lift Scar’s shirt off over his head as the two of them become absorbed with one another, once more losing themselves to the world and all its problems.

There’s no question that they’re going to spend as much time at the cabin as they possibly can.

Their third day dawns with blue skies and an unusually warm sun overhead. The snow starts to melt, its heavy blanket slipping off of the tree branches and revealing the greenery beneath, lending some definition back to the world outside.

Scar had walked up the stairs easily the night before, but he returns to his chair when they finally leave what they’ve already begun to call their room. He makes no mention of pain, even when Grian asks, simply expressing that he’s grateful for a chance to cut his body some slack.

Unbidden, Grian thinks back to the abandoned house in the desert. Still so early in the apocalypse with Scar laid up in bed while Grian had spent all his time arguing with the trio and making it Scar’s problem. It’s easy now to see how hard that must have been for him—how scary. Besieged by pain and unable to know when or if his body would allow him the chance to move around again.

It reaffirms Grian’s commitment to making life easier for Scar now. To assist him whenever he can. To never again be a part of the burdens that weigh him down.

“I’m gonna make pancakes,” he announces, pulling the box of mix out of the kitchen’s pantry and rooting around for a bowl. “Then after that, I wanna check out the shed and the garage. See what else they’ve got stashed away in this place.”

“If only we had waffles,” Scar teases, and Grian plays along, sighing dramatically. It makes Scar chuckle, and Grian practically glows from the attention. He opens the box-mix and measures what looks to be enough into the bowl, adding water with a similar eyeballed measurement.

At some point, Scar fishes the disposable camera from way back at the gift shop out of his bag. Grian feels an odd self of nostalgia looking at it, just one of the many things he never thought he’d see again when he and Scar had been apart. Now, he laughs as Scar takes a picture of him cooking, watching with a genuine smile as Scar wheels around the house, taking careful photographs of the life they’ve made here.

The morning passes easy and slow, the sun soon hidden by large grey clouds that slow the melt as the temperature cools once more. They converse over pancakes with jam instead of syrup, and mugs of hot coffee. It feels good to be so casual, nothing strained or half-hearted about their interactions at all.

A part of Grian thinks he could do this forever. If Scar doesn’t want to try dating again, and just wanted more of this—talking and laughing and being friends with something extra—he thinks he’d be happy to play that part. He could hold back his stronger emotions. He could do it if it would keep Scar looking this happy.

It makes him want to broach the subject of where they stand with one another again. He’s well aware of Scar’s implied forgiveness, and that he’s insisted he wants to leave their past behind them, but it still doesn’t sit right with him. It feels like the same awful spinning that he used to do—shoving all his problems under a rug until they were impossible to ignore anymore.

But then he looks at Scar, his eyes bright and his smile worry-free for the first time in weeks, and he doesn’t have the heart to ruin things for him with his constant questions and prying. Not again.

“Time for some scavenging, then?” Scar asks at last, pushing his wheelchair away from the table with an eager sliver of a grin.

Grian helps him clear things up, leaving their dishes in the sink as they head towards the garage. There’s not much inside that indicates the place has ever been truly lived in. No lawn mower, no rake, no mismatch of assorted tools in a toolbox. It confirms Grian’s suspicions that the place was only ever a vacation home, visited seasonally and maintained by groundskeepers otherwise.

However, to both their surprise, Scar manages to find several boxes of winter gear left up on a high shelf. There’s a glimmer of hope—the robe and the sleep clothes from inside have been suggesting that someone of Scar’s stature had vacationed here once, so the prospect of finding something his size seems good.

“Jackpot!” Scar exclaims after a moment, holding up a grey and navy coat, large enough to fit his shoulders and insulated; perfect for the snowy weather outside. He pulls it on as Grian waits with bated breath, the two of them beaming at one another when it zips up without tugging at the front.

“How do I look?” Scar asks, and Grian fawns appreciatively, the word handsome nearly leaving his mouth, hesitating only at the last moment.

“Good,” he compromises, making peace with it. “You look good, Scar.”

“Hot?” Scar presses, his eyebrows lifting suggestively.

“Yes,” Grian relents at last, snickering as he swats Scar aside. “You’re a very hot guy.”

Scar grins, settling back in his wheelchair proudly, the jacket resting on his frame like it was made for him. It’s enough of a success that Grian could happily head back into the cabin and call it a day, however he finds himself compelled to complete their investigation of the garage. He moves through stacks of tupperware bins full of lawn games and swimming gear until all that’s left is a tall cabinet next to a door that leads out towards the lake.

He tugs it open absently, expecting to find nothing of interest and stunned when he’s presented with exactly the opposite.

“Oh my god.”

From across the garage he can hear the immediate concern in Scar’s voice, tension winding as he asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Scar,” Grian replies, face bright as he turns to face him. “Look.”

Throwing the cabinet door open wide he reveals its contents: hip waders, waterproof boots, a hefty looking tacklebox, and a long fishing pole.

There’s an excitement in Grian’s chest, giddy at the chance to indulge in a hobby he hasn’t tried his hand at since he was a teenager.

“Fishing?” Scar asks, dubious.

“Fishing,” Grian agrees excitedly, reaching down to grab the tacklebox and hefting it up before he snatches the rod.

He can feel Scar’s disbelief, the excitement he’s presenting incongruous with the persona Grian’s created over the years. It feels silly now to have safeguarded so much of himself from Scar over the years; pointless when the him of today bears little resemblance to who he used to be. Harmless anecdotes from his youth, stories of summers spent fishing on his own, his private school uniform soaked as he skulked back to his dormitory long past curfew, eternally empty handed.

“Since when do you fish?” Scar asks, not unkindly, a bemused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, I was never any good at it,” Grian admits, shrugging his shoulders expressively. “But I always had a dream, you see.”

He winks at Scar, buoyed by false confidence as he waves the pole at him.

“What do you say? Fancy a fish fry for supper?”

Stepping outside, the air is crisp but not unpleasantly cold. Grian has his scarf wrapped snug around his neck and a newly acquired wool cap crammed low over his head. His first step out of the door sinks him up to his knee in the snow, but the further out from the cabin he gets the less deep he finds that it’s drifted. By the time he gets to the dock jutting out into the lake, it’s only really as deep as his ankles.

The air is clear despite the overcast of the clouds hanging overhead, and Grian feels good—about the day, about his odds, about himself. It’s oddly invigorating, shoving the snow aside with the side of his boot and clearing out an area large enough to set up the folding chair he’s brought out with him.

Realistically, he’s not sure if this lake is even worth fishing in—doesn’t know how populated it is, or if he’s got the right lures to make this idea more than a pipe dream. All the same, he’s happy just to be out here, setting up to do something he hasn’t had the time or inclination for in years. It’s an odd feeling, to be doing something as mundane as this in the midst of an apocalypse, but at the same time this entire experience has felt like a dream.

If there was ever a time to indulge this way, it might as well be now.

The gear he’s got with him isn’t professional grade, but at the same time it’s obvious that whoever bought it was an avid fisher all the same. The rod itself is well constructed, with a beautiful frame and sturdy line. When he opens the tacklebox there are a variety of lures to pick from as well, making Grian wish he had proper bait to use with them.

It’s as he’s contemplating which one might be most eye-catching for the fish that he hears the sounds of Scar grumbling to himself not far off. Setting the tacklebox aside, Grian turns his attention back towards the show and finds Scar in his wheelchair, wheels stuck in a drift of snow.

“Scar,” Grian sighs, shaking his head. “What are you doing?”

“I didn’t do this on purpose!” Scar insists, smiling sheepishly as Grian walks back up the length of the pier to meet him. “It’s the dang snow’s fault, not mine!”

Grian can’t help the way he laughs, fond as he bends down to clear Scar’s wheels of snow, freeing up the area around them and allowing him the ability to move once more. “If you’re feeling up to it, it might be safer to just walk down the pier.”

“We can’t clear the path?”

“We can,” Grian concedes. “I’m just worried it’ll get icy and you’ll slip into the lake before I can stop you from rolling.”

“Don’t worry, Gri. I can swim,” Scar says, puffing up his chest with confidence before he winks at him. “I’ll tell ya what—let’s give the wheelchair a try, but if it’s too risky, I’ll take ‘er back in.”

Grian’s about to offer another compromise when he catches something odd in the corner of Scar’s smile. There’s a nervousness to him. A reservation that, for some reason, reminds Grian of the way Scar had gently redirected him from getting on top when in bed the first night they’d gotten here.

It’s an absurd connection to make, but it quietens Grian’s voice when he speaks, shrugging his shoulders as he agrees. “If you say you can handle it, I believe it. You know me, I’m just a little anxious, that’s all.”

For a moment, Scar only stares at him, his charismatic smile faltering. Then he’s all teeth, grinning wide and laughing as he nudges Grian with an elbow.

“Aww, I appreciate the concern, G. I’ll be real careful, don’t you worry!”

Together, the two of them make their way to the pier, Grian tamping the snow down beneath his boots while Scar carefully navigates the path he’s cleared with his chair. There’s an amusing absurdity to what they’re doing, lighthearted and fun for the sake of it. When they finally get to the dock the task becomes infinitely easier, Grian able to push the snow directly off the raised boards straight into the water.

It’s while he’s consumed with the task, his head down as he focuses, that a snowball flies in out of nowhere, hitting him in the shoulder.

His head snaps up, eyes fixing on Scar.

“Did you throw that?”

Stopped on the landward end of the pier, his lap incriminatingly covered in snow, Scar makes an exaggerated look to his left and then to his right.

“Who?” He asks, affecting a tone of complete innocence. “Me?”

“Oh, you are so in for it.”

The laugh that splits the air feels like a balm. Scooping up a handful of snow, Grian works quickly to pack it into a ball, only to find that Scar is already ahead of him with a second snowball in hand.

“Scar, don’t you dare—” he warns, but Scar has already launched it at him. A direct hit that connects squarely at the centre of Grian’s chest. “Scar!!”

“It wasn’t me!” Scar insists through laughter, already bending forward to grab another handful of snow. “I heard this lake was haunted!”

“With snowball throwing ghosts?” Grian presses, waiting until Scar sits up before he returns the throw, his aim veering wide, splattering on the ground a few feet off.

“Really, Grian?” Scar asks, looking at him with a teasing light in his eyes. “Aiming for the guy in the wheelchair?”

“Are you asking for a truce, then?” Grian asks, putting a hand up defensively in anticipation of the snowball he can tell Scar is about to throw.

“Truce,” Scar agrees, the word having barely left his mouth before he throws his final snowball, his aim off on purpose as it skims just over Grian’s head and lands harmlessly on the pier behind him.

“Scar, you—”

“My hand slipped!” Scar insists, a mock innocence in his voice that makes Grian laugh once more.

It feels good to joke like this. Feels normal. Human. Distantly though, a part of Grian pipes up, whispering that he doesn’t deserve these kinds of moments anymore. That no matter how hard he tries at this point, there’s something too wrong—too hungry—within him.

Before it can take root however, Scar is approaching him on the dock, still grinning brightly as he keeps his wheels trained on the very centre of the planks.

“So what kind of fish are we after?” He asks cheerfully, returning Grian to the moment. He shakes his head, stooping down next to the tacklebox, raising its lid, and digging into its compartments as he searches for the best lure.

“Trout, I think,” he explains as he sets up the rod, trying not to feel self-conscious. He fumbles his way through fixing a loop knot around the tip of a lure shaped like a tiny fish, a pair of hooks dangling off its end.

“Or maybe a basking shark,” Scar offers, so mild in his delivery that for a moment Grian nearly mistakes him for being serious.

“Or a thirty stone grouper,” he returns as he stands back up, feeding out a bit of line as he looks out over the water and prepares to make a cast.

“Always been more of a flesh grouper fan, myself. But we could try boiling a stone one, I guess.”

“Scar,” Grian sighs with a roll of his eyes, his tone so fond that he feels a little bit shameless with it.

“Love you, Gri,” Scar teases, watching attentively as Grian finally pulls the line back, flicking the pole over his shoulder before he casts it out over the water. The lure flies easily half a dozen metres, landing in the water with a ‘plop’ they both can hear.

Trying to embrace the feeling rather than run away from it, Grian’s cheeks feel warm as he mumbles back, “Love you too.”

He knows their words are merely teasing—that they’re joking, using the word ‘love’ in the way friends do—but his response makes Scar beam all the same. For the first time in a long time, Grian feels like he’s done something right for a change.

It’s a nice feeling. One he knows he could get used to.

Their chatting peters out as the minutes pass, both of them intently watching the end of the fishing line. Eventually Scar pulls a book out from within the confines of his jacket—one of the dog-eared detective novels from the shelf next to the fireplace—opening it to the first page and settling in for a read while he waits patiently at Grian’s side. It makes Grian smile, enjoying the chance to see him so relaxed and settled, reading quietly just past the end of the world.

This whole situation seems like something out of a mundane daydream; Grian with nothing to worry about but the fishing rod in his hands and the man sitting at his side. He could lose himself in this moment, he thinks. The feeling in his chest warming him despite the icy chill in the air.

If only he’d done this when he and Scar had the chance to enjoy it as a couple.

If only he’d have appreciated it more.

They sit side by side, the time between them feeding slowly into an hour. They share little in the way of conversation, but their silence doesn’t feel strained. It’s comfortable in a way Grian finds solace in. Enough so that when Scar finally makes a frustrated little grunt next to him, it startles Grian from his reverie.

“Is everything okay?” he asks.

Scar runs a hand through his hair, his expression exasperated. “The words keep swimming in front of my eyes,” he complains, giving the book a shake. “Who on earth decided it was a good idea to make the print so small? This is torture!”

“Want me to read to you?” Grian offers, only half-joking.

“No,” Scar sighs, flipping the cover shut, defeated. “I think I’m gonna head back inside and make some coffee. Warm up a little, y’know?”

“Mm,” Grian hums in reply, not wanting their talk to scare away any of the fish he might’ve managed to entice up off the bottom.

Scar waves as he leaves, carefully wheeling himself back up the path towards the house, avoiding the icy patches along the way, and in due time Grian finds himself alone.

Surprisingly, he finds himself oddly comfortable with it, safe in the knowledge that Scar isn’t that far away. His usual anxieties, normally such a tight knot in his chest, feel under control for the moment.

Around him the world is still, almost like a painting. Somewhere across the water a bird—a raven, maybe—croaks, making a low, guttural sound that drifts across the water. Something in Grian wants to capture this moment, retaining it to the best of his abilities. He wonders if Scar would be willing to bring the disposable camera back outside, though a part of him is too nervous to ask, not wanting to hear that Scar thinks this isn’t a moment worthy of memorizing.

It feels like no time at all has passed when suddenly Scar is back at his side again, breaking Grian from his reverie. This time he’s standing, walking down from the cabin without his wheelchair. Grian frowns, wondering why Scar’s forgone it when he seemed so comfortable earlier, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he focuses on how Scar’s got two hot mugs in his hand, steam rolling off the tops of them, and a plastic bag hanging from his elbow.

“Catch anything while I was gone?”

Grian shakes his head. “Not even a nibble.”

“Well, I’ve got snacks in this bag, and I found some hot chocolate mix,” Scar says, clearly proud of himself. “Care to take a break?”

Tucking his fishing rod under his thigh, Grian eagerly accepts one of the mugs from Scar’s hand. “Don’t mind if I do.”

There’s a sweetness to Scar’s preparedness, balancing his own mug in one hand while he reaches into the bag, taking out a thermos of soup and a couple packages of snack cakes—brownies with rainbow sprinkles on top. As usual, the food does very little for Grian, but he pretends to enjoy it anyway, sipping the soup along with Scar as they pass the thermos back and forth.

“How long do you plan to keep at this?” Scar asks mildly, looking out over the calm water, the question curious and not at all unkind.

“Fishing requires patience, Scar,” Grian replies, nudging the rod for effect, surprised when the line pulls taut.

Quickly the thermos and mug are pressed back into Scar’s hands. He makes excited sounds as Grian gathers the rod back into his hands, relieved that whatever is snagged on the line didn’t yank the entire thing into the water the moment it got hooked.

There’s a definite pull on the line as he tugs the reel, a weight on the other end dragging at the lure. Grian’s heart races with excitement as he lets the line take a little slack, feeding it out so that he can properly wheel in his prize. Beside him Scar asks an eager question, but Grian doesn’t hear him properly, too focused on whatever he might have caught, feeling the weight heavy on the lure.

“Get ready,” he says, feeling the tug nearing the surface of the water. “It’s gonna make a splash.”

There’s a breathless anticipation to it all, along with an immediate surge of pride. A display of competence that he hadn’t realised he’d wanted to demonstrate to Scar.

Which completely evaporates the second his prize breaks the surface of the water, the shape emerging murky out of the depths, comically snagged on one of the lure’s hooks.

A plastic flip-flop. Bright green with a pink strap across the toes, draped in a bit of lake weed.

There’s a breath of silence, the two of them staring at the trash as it dangles, dripping, just above the surface of the water.

“What kind of fish is that?” Scar asks, the end of the question curving up beneath the obvious joke.

“Maybe you should go back inside,” Grian grumbles, not too unkindly, Scar laughing at his side as he leans in to kiss his cheek.

Grian can’t help but feel a little bit silly. He reels the line the rest of the way in and tugs the sandal off the barb of the hook, before dropping it onto the dock and kicking it away with disdain.

“You’re a very good sandal fisher,” Scar teases fondly. He chuckles when Grian doesn’t respond, draining the last of his hot chocolate before he adds, “I think I’ll leave you to brood.”

It feels personal now. A stalemate between Grian and the lake. He can hear Scar returning back to the cabin, humming to himself as he goes, profoundly unbothered by the insult that the still water has paid to them. Double checking the lure, Grian spins the line between his fingers, staring at it with a grudge. He then flips the end of the rod back over his shoulder, jerking it forward and casting the line back out towards the lake, the lure dropping into the water with a distant splash.

The next couple hours pass slow and without incident, the sun slowly sinking towards the horizon behind the thick cover of clouds. The darkness of the late afternoon brings with it a drizzle of rain, but still Grian sits stubbornly in place. It’s only a matter of time now, surely. He’s spent long enough that his efforts will bear fruit any moment now. Definitely.

The next time Scar ventures out, it’s with a bright red umbrella in hand, once that he’s probably scrounged up from within a closet somewhere. The rain has been steadily picking up, no longer the light pitter-patter it was earlier, capable of fully soaking Grian through to the bone, even with his jacket’s hood now pulled up over his head.

“Okay, enough is enough,” Scar starts, his words firm before immediately breaking into more of a plea. “Come on, G. You’ve been out here all day!”

“Like I said before: Patience is key. I’m not leaving until I catch a fish,” Grian insists, determined.

The way Scar sighs nearly makes Grian crack a grin, unused to hearing him sounding so exasperated. He keeps any commentary to himself however, simply stepping close to Grian and protecting him from the rain with the umbrella. At some point, Scar shifts enough to pull something out of his pocket, and Grian is touched to see that it’s the disposable camera again. It tugs at a tender part of his heart, the idea that Scar could find meaning in this without Grian even asking.

He keeps quiet as his partner takes a few pictures, the flash blindingly bright in the growing dimness of the night. He poses for a picture or two when Scar asks, warming from the inside out as Scar takes a selfie of them side by side. Once the novelty of the moment has passed, together they stand in silence, staring out over the darkening lake and the mountains surrounding it. They watch the last vestiges of light reflecting off the glassy surface of the undisturbed water.

When several more minutes pass, Scar tries again. “You can’t seriously tell me you’re still having fun with the fishing.”

Stubborn to a fault, Grian shrugs a shoulder. “You just don’t understand the bond between a fisherman and his catch.”

“Alright, well let me try it then—maybe doing it myself will help me figure it out.”

“It’s not as easy as I’m making it look,” Grian warns, but Scar only rolls his eyes at him, holding a hand out for the fishing rod and brandishing the umbrella in exchange.

With their roles now reversed they settle in close, Scar taking a seat in Grian’s chair, which proclaims does wonders for the ache starting to grow in the arm he’d been holding the umbrella up with. Scar’s gaze focuses on the lake, and Grian’s heart beats a fond rhythm at the sight of him.

As the first few minutes drift past, his thoughts wander, catching on a humorous, ‘Wouldn’t it be funny if—?’

“Oh!” Scar gasps, leaning forward, his grip tight around the rod.

He shoots a glance up at Grian, wide-eyed, and Grian stares right back at him in utter disbelief. The line on the rod pulls taut.

Instinctively, Scar chuckles nervously. “It’s probably just more garbage.”

“Reel it in,” Grian replies, voice tight.

Tugging at the line and pulling it in slowly, Scar slowly starts to turn the reel, the end of the rod bending slightly under the resistance of whatever he’s caught.

Watching him intently, Grian’s hand flexes, fighting against the overwhelming urge to take the rod out of Scar’s control and do it for him. The childish, most immature part of him wants to insist that this was his catch in the first place—wants to make it clear that this isn’t fair actually—and he finds himself wrestling it down with all his might, telling himself that it’s okay to let Scar have this.

“Maybe it’s the other sandal,” Scar jokes, eyes fixed intently on the point where the line disappears beneath the surface of the water. “Imagine if we fish up the pair.”

“Just focus,” Grian instructs, lifting the umbrella as Scar gets to his feet, his concentration fully on the task at hand.

“I’m focused,” Scar assures him, pulling the line in steadily, both of them noting the way it bobs and tugs against the surface, a clear indication that there’s something more than trash attached to the other end.

“You’re doing great,” Grian encourages, absently resting his hand on Scar’s elbow. “Nice and steady, now.”

“It’s tuna,” Scar offers, words tight with excitement. “Or a whale shark, maybe.”

Beneath the murky surface of the water they both catch a quick flash of something bright, the shape darting upwards before immediately ducking back down into the gloom.

“Holy smokes, G,” Scar exclaims, nearly shouting as he pulls the line tighter, dragging it up the last few feet through the water. “It’s a fish!”

“It’s a fish!” Grian agrees, surprisingly more thrilled than he is frustrated that it was Scar who hooked it, after all his patience and waiting.

They can see it clearly now. A trout, most definitely. Maybe a foot in length, silvery in colour with dark speckles running down its sides. It struggles against the line, valiantly pulling against it, but it’s clear that the battle has been lost. Scar reels it up the rest of the way, finally heaving it up to break the surface of the water, its body glimmering in a spray of fine droplets as he drags it onto the dock.

“Bring it here!” Grian shouts, putting his hand out to grab the line, securing it in place so the trout doesn’t have a chance to wiggle and fall back into the water.

They’re both shouting, animated and enthused as the fish lands safely on the wood of the pier. Grian can’t remember either of them ever having had a moment like this before, swept up in the haze of the moment, overjoyed with their shared success.

“I caught it!” Scar crows.

“I can’t believe you!” Grian adds, directed at the fish, his words overlapping Scar’s.

Scar preens, smug in his satisfaction as Grian picks up the end of the line, lifting the fish up and holding it proudly for Scar to see in the dimming light.

“Where were you?” Grian asks the fish, humorously frustrated as it dangles in the air. “All day I’ve been after you, and you show up for him?”

“I’m a natural,” Scar gloats, comedic in his joy.

“I don’t wanna hear it.” Despite Grian’s groan, neither of them are able to stop smiling at one another.

“Does that mean we can go in?” Scar asks as the thrill of his catch begins to ebb, hope alight in his eyes. “Finally?”

Grian can’t help himself, laughing at Scar’s priorities. “Yes,” he agrees. “We can go in.”

Getting up from the chair, Scar takes the fishing line from Grian, raising it high to inspect his catch closer.

“Whaddya think?” he asks. “Should we fry this up tonight?”

Unbidden, there’s a sudden flash in Grian’s mind, his hunger rolling up all at once. Like an ambush, it claws at him, a twisting in his stomach that nearly wrenches a pained gasp from his mouth. He begins salivating on automatic, watching as the fish wriggles helplessly on the line, its gasping mouth opening and closing pitifully.

‘We could eat it just like this,’ he thinks. ‘Tear into it right now.’

He fights to swallow the thought back, mortified by his own hunger. His own weakness.

Oblivious, Scar continues smiling at him, entirely unaware of the true obscenity of Grian’s nature.

Slowly, Grian shakes his head, fighting back the bout of nausea that comes from pushing his hunger away. “Let’s release it.”

“Really?” Scar asks, surprised. “After all that, you just want to let it go?”

“I think we’ve had a lot of close calls with death already,” Grian offers, his words quiet. “Let’s let something live for once.”

He can feel Scar’s gaze, searching him over with concern. He can’t meet his eyes though, too afraid that Scar will see the extent of the rot hidden within him.

Eventually, Scar lets his shoulders relax, humming softly in consideration.

“Yeah,” he says at last, matching the quiet of Grian’s tone. “Y’know, that does sound nice.”

Without fanfare, Grian helps Scar unhook the fish, pulling the lure out of the soft flesh of its cheek. Together they return it to the lake, watching as it slips beneath the surface and zips off immediately, safe and free and alive. There’s a deep satisfaction in letting it go, even as Grian’s more base instincts recoil at what he’s done. Side by side, he and Scar continue standing at the edge of the peer, the umbrella long discarded as the rain soaks through their hair. They stare out at the lake, watching its surface ripple with the raindrops

Eventually, Scar reaches down and takes Grian’s hand. His touch is warm while Grian’s is cold. Grian startles at the gesture, but relaxes before his reflexes can make him pull away. He tightens his grip around Scar’s hand deliberately, fighting back the memory of every time he’d shrugged off even his simplest displays of affection.

It’s evident that Scar notices the effort he’s putting in, the smile on his face soft and affectionate, his eyes incredibly fond.

“C’mon,” he encourages. “Let’s head back inside.”

They return to the house, entirely soaked as they step through the back door. Without hesitating, Scar shakes off next to him like a wet dog, making Grian squawk as he tries to protect himself from the spray. When Scar merely laughs, Grian takes his revenge, peeling off his coat and tossing it in Scar’s direction, hitting him in the face with a wet thwap.

The mood is light, despite how Grian had ended up feeling about the fish. As much as he tries, he can’t think of a time like this to relate back to, having never felt this at ease with Scar before. He feels happy, allowing himself to enjoy the moment fully.

“Wanna help me make dinner?” Scar asks, the warmth in his invitation utterly radiant in a way that would normally make Grian shy away.

“Sure,” he starts, hesitating only after he says it, taking a good look at himself and the sopping wet state he’s in. “Give me a minute first though?” he continues. “I want to warm up in the shower and put on some dry clothes.”

Easily, Scar nods, already turning back towards the living room to relight the fire while he waits. “I’ll be right here once you’re done.”

Grian watches him as he moves, and suddenly the idea of being apart for even a moment feels wrong. It has his lips moving before his mind can think things through, his words bypassing all his usual insecurities.

“Do you want to join me?” He asks, the question tumbling out all at once. Across the floor Scar freezes in place, and when he turns around to face him again Grian can see the flicker of hesitation in his eyes. Again, he’s reminded of the other night, when Scar had turned down Grian’s request to take the lead.

Maybe he’s worried about Grian making another move like that. Too reminiscent of all the times Grian had crowded close to him and sought out his touch in the wake of the apocalypse. Disregarding the wreck of their breakup, and craving the confirmation of maintaining their physical intimacy above all else.

Or maybe he’s simply too tired, his muscles sore and joints stiff after a day spent standing out in the cold and the rain.

“We don’t have to do anything,” Grian reassures him, trying to make his motives clear. He just wants Scar to stay near to him. Nothing has to happen if Scar doesn’t feel up for it. “Just shower.”

Scar’s silence lasts another beat, uncertain. And then, the look in his eyes warms, growing into something so sweet that Grian wonders how it could ever possibly be meant for him to receive it.

“Okay,” Scar agrees, his voice soft. “Why not?”

“I’ll get the water going,” Grian offers, gentle but enthusiastic with his smile. “You can join me when you’re ready.”

It surprises him, as he climbs the stairs, just how much the cabin has already started to feel like home. He reaches the bedroom, excited by the sight of the bed—their bed—the sheets and comforter still rumpled up from when they’d gotten up that morning, their few things moved around haphazardly. It looks comfortable. Lived in. The idea of tucking back into bed in a few hours with Scar at his side makes Grian’s entire body feel good, enjoying that special sense of anticipation.

This time he tells himself that he’s going to avoid looking at himself in the bathroom mirror completely, focusing instead on turning the shower on, finding their towels, and sloughing off his soggy layers. All the same, despite his best efforts, he inevitably finds his eyes pulled to his reflection, the world going strangely silent as he stares at the stranger who looks back at him.

It’s not as jarring as it was the first time. Not as harsh or upsetting. This time he tries to see what Scar had said he saw. Tries to pick out what could still be attractive about him beneath the bruises and snags. The places where he’s become thinner, and the places where his muscles have bulked up.

Something about it feels impossible. Like he’s facing a reality he simply can’t make peace with.

“Am I interrupting?”

Grian startles when he hears Scar’s voice, unable to hide his small jump when he turns around. Scar is leaning against the frame of the bathroom door, like he may have been standing there for awhile. There’s a small smile on his face, his expression just shy of hesitant. It’s clear he knows that he’s intruding on a loaded moment and is approaching it with caution.

Something about it makes Grian feel like a wild animal. Like Scar knows he’s dangerous. Like maybe he should be caged.

It makes him sick to think of Scar being wary of him, so instead he welcomes him with a smile.

“I was just looking…” he admits, turning back to face himself in the mirror, able to see Scar approach him through its reflection.

“Your hair’s gotten long,” Scar remarks as he steps forward, his fingers raising to gently touch the sandy blonde strands that hang nearly even with Grian’s chin.

A part of Grian tenses, unsure if he likes the praise or not.

“Do you like it…?”

“I like it a lot,” Scar confirms, leaning in to press a kiss to the back of Grian’s head, smoothing his touch down the back of his neck. “It makes you look regal.”

Something inside Grian hesitates with the word, not sure how he feels about it. It’s different from how he’s always perceived himself, not a shape he’s used to fitting into.

It’s while he struggles with it that Scar takes a step back, nudging him towards the shower, not letting the solemnity of Grian’s mood overtake them both. “I think the water’s ready.”

It feels surreal; entirely dreamlike as Grian follows Scar’s lead. When he finally strips down completely and approaches the shower, Scar is waiting for him, already shirtless, with his belt undone. He offers Grian a hand, helping him step through the open shower door, moving slowly until he’s engulfed beneath the cascade of falling water.

Scar joins him only moments later, having stepped out of his trousers before he joins him under the spray. He smiles at Grian a little shyly as he slides in next to him, his hands on Grian’s hips, steadying himself against Grian’s body in order to keep his balance. Grian smiles, glad for the company. The water is warm over them both, the luxury of it still a novelty.

“Where do we start?” Scar finally murmurs, slipping around to stand behind him.

Grian sighs, relaxed in a way that he feels in his bones. “Honestly,” he admits, “I could just stand here and soak for hours.”

Scar chuckles in agreement and nods, his hands still anchored steady on Grian’s hips.

It’s nice. Intimate in a way that doesn’t have to become anything more if they don’t want it to be. Grian finds that he likes the closeness a lot more than he’d ever imagined he would.

There’s a part of him that feels a little self-conscious with Scar at his back, the entirety of his new map of injuries clearly visible to him. However, Scar seems far too busy playing with Grian’s hair, so that even that anxiety becomes muted in the face of his clear adoration.

Gradually, Grian wants to do the same—to turn around and take Scar in, returning the affection that Scar has always given him so easily.

With a slow, leisurely motion, Grian reaches out towards the body scrub resting on the shower’s shelf, pouring a generous portion of it into his palm. He recaps it and turns around boldly, catching Scar’s eyes and rubbing his palms together. Scar laughs as Grian splays his soapy digits across Scar’s chest, moving fluidly up to his shoulders and then down to his arms. His partner smiles at him all the while, his expression fond and gentle.

In their silence, broken only by the sound of falling water, Grian learns that he enjoys taking care of Scar like this, helping him clean off while Scar keeps one hand on his hip, the other resting on the shower wall for purchase.

Grian loses himself in the process a bit, scrubbing wherever he can reach and wishing he had something more than his hands to use. The sound of Scar’s pleasant sighs as Grian cleans him all over is satisfying. It feels good, getting the confirmation that Scar is well and truly relaxed under the touch of his hands.

Once he’s gotten Scar all sudsy, Grian takes a moment to pour out some more body wash, applying it to his own body. He’s only beginning a quick sweep over his chest and arms when Scar stops him.

“Here, let me,” he mumbles, his voice hazy and low.

“Okay,” Grian agrees, trying not to sound meek when Scar’s big palm slides over his skin.

Somehow, it had been one thing to wash Scar, but it becomes quite another to have Scar do the same for him. Grian can feel his face warm, and he’s glad for the heat of the water to hide the blush on his cheeks. Scar’s hands rove comfortably over his body, smoothing over various cuts and scrapes that have long since healed but left light marks across his skin. His fingertips are gentle when they stray up to Grian’s bite mark, washing over the ugly texture of it with tenderness. Grian feels sensitive all over, every nerve alight as Scar lovingly lathers his body.

When at last Scar pulls away, it comes as both a relief and as a disappointment, his body grateful for the release while still craving something more.

“Do you wanna get back under the water?” Scar asks, patient and soft. “Or should we scrub our hair first?”

“Duck down,” Grian instructs, raising his hands, and obediently Scar tilts his head forward, water sluicing off his hair as it obscures his face.

There’s a bottle of shampoo on the shelf built into the shower wall, and Grian places a dab of it in his hand before he reaches up to massage it into Scar’s hair, working his fingers through the little tangles he finds while he scrubs. Scar sighs pleasantly, leaning into Grian’s touch as he lets him work. There’s a tenderness to the moment that Grian can’t get over. Both of them exposed in a way Grian’s never felt.

‘Why have we never done this before?’ he wants to ask, though deep down he knows the answer.

Knows it was his own stubborn resistance that kept them from enjoying these moments. His labyrinth of barriers and sharp boundaries. His inability to be seen in such a vulnerable way. To settle down. To be comfortable. To feel safe.

He doesn’t realise how lost he’s become in his own thoughts, the seconds drifting into minutes, until he feels Scar’s hand flex on his hip. It’s a small squeeze he’d barely notice if it weren’t for the way Scar immediately follows it with a controlled exhale. It draws Grian back into the moment as well as into his own body, blinking as he refocuses to find Scar’s hair well lathered. The foam from the shampoo has built up over his hands, running down his wrists to drip off the point of his elbows.

The other thing he finds is Scar’s arousal, his erection filling out slowly, already more than half hard where it nudges up between his thighs.

Scar must feel the way Grian’s hands pause because he huffs out a small, apologetic laugh, sounding a bit embarrassed when he speaks.

“Sorry…”

“Don’t be,” Grian soothes, smoothing his fingers through Scar’s hair, the gesture comforting and non-judgemental. There’s something unspoken between them, an uncertainty Grian isn’t sure whether or not to act on.

He’s well familiar with the version of himself that would’ve jumped at a sign like this in the past. The one who linked every positive emotion to intimacy. Making it a confirmation of love and trust and desire. A physicality he needed time and time again to ensure that they were in each others’ corners.

He’s trying not to retread those old paths though. Trying to let them become something else, something more fair to them both.

So instead he carefully leads Scar forward a step, easing him under the full spray of the water. He continues stroking his fingers through Scar’s hair, patiently working out the shampoo until the water runs clear.

By the time he’s done, Scar is fully hard.

He tries not to focus on it. Tries not to let it distract him. By all accounts, it’s Scar’s turn to wash him now, and he patiently waits for the shift; for Scar to pick up where he left off.

He can feel Scar’s thumb where it rests just above the dip of his hip, slowly massaging a circle into his skin. His head is still bent forward, water running through his hair, and along the broad sloped planes of his shoulders before it cascades off his body.

“Grian…” Scar starts slowly. Carefully. Awkward with his words. “I—”

Grian doesn’t realise how close Scar has leaned until his other hand leaves the shower wall, trusting Grian to support him as his palm moves to cradle his jaw. Scar tilts his face up a fraction before he closes the gap, a rush going through Grian as their lips meet in a kiss.

It’s a patient, tender gesture. Something they’ve done hundreds of times before, but which feels entirely different and new in this context. Letting his eyelids flutter shut, Grian eases himself closer, until his body bumps up against Scar’s, feeling the line of Scar’s arousal hard against his thigh.

After a moment of simple enjoyment the kiss breaks. Scar eases back far enough to take a breath, his forehead pressed against Grian’s, and eyes closed against the rivulets of water running down his face. It’s clear he’s working through something, a complicated mix of emotions bundled up inside his chest.

Tenderly, Grian lets his hand ghost down over Scar’s hip, following the line of his waist, dipping down below his navel.

“Scar…” he whispers quietly, letting his palm hover at a distance, barely cupping against Scar’s length. “Do you want this…?”

There’s a heavy pause between them, cautious and considering, before at last Scar lets out his breath in another long, slow, shaky sigh. He nods, timid as he catches Grian’s lips in another kiss.

It doesn’t last long, a quick caress before he pulls away, speaking soft with a gentle, regretful tone. “I want this,” he admits, a balm to Grian’s nerves. “But… I don’t think I can do much in here. I’m not—it’s hard to—”

The struggle Scar has to explain himself—to apologise—makes Grian’s heart ache. He knows what Scar’s limitations are and he’s never once pushed him past them. To know that even after all this time, Scar feels—feels hesitant—about it cuts something deep within him.

He wants to tell Scar that he knows that already. That it doesn’t matter to him. That a few restrictions aren’t an impediment to them. That he loves Scar exactly as he is…

‘But then,’ a voice inside his head begins, ‘It took you until you died to even acknowledge that. Of course he doesn’t know.’

He shakes his head, pressing his hand more firmly to Scar’s arousal, listening to him pull in a quick inhalation of breath.

“You don’t have to do anything for me,” Grian assures him softly. “This can be just for you.”

It’s obvious that Scar feels conflicted about the offer, his face twisting up as he opens his mouth to speak. However Grian staves off the conversation completely by slowly lowering himself down to his knees, gripping one of Scar’s hands tightly for leverage as he goes. As he moves, he kisses his way down Scar’s body, pressing his wet lips to his pecs, his stomach, the swell of his hip, and then diagonally towards the inside of his thigh. All the while, he keeps a gentle hand on Scar’s erection, feeling it jump in his hand, precome slicked up by the water and dribbling from its tip.

The showerhead above continues blanketing them in its warmth, and Grian feels downright salacious as he flicks his gaze up at Scar from where he’s now knelt below. Scar’s eyes looking down at him are at once both hungry and tempered by something so tender it makes butterflies flutter in Grian’s stomach.

Lovingly, he presses his first kiss to the head of Scar’s cock, watching as Scar breathes in sharply, still staring down at him intently.

It’s too tempting not to, and Grian licks his lips, drinking the water off of them while he settles properly in place, his knees parted wide and his heels resting beneath the curve of his ass. He knows he’ll have to be quick—the tiles will be murder on his knees if he tries to make this last for too long—but he can’t help teasing a few more chaste kisses along the underside of Scar’s length. He flicks his tongue out at the end of the last kiss, drawing circles against Scar’s frenulum before he drags his tongue along Scar’s glans. Even under the spray of the water, Scar tastes of salt, and when Grian draws back and licks his lips again, he sees the way Scar shivers all over.

A sudden urge overtakes him then, with Scar’s attention fixed on him. A need to speak. To say the things he normally never would, even at his most vulnerable.

“I like touching you like this,” he confesses, trying to say what he needs before the nerves—the fear—gets to him. “I like the way you watch me. The way you sound. The way it feels like it’s just us here at the centre of the universe.”

“G—” Scar says, choked.

“I like making you feel good,” Grian continues, pausing to lick a wide, wet stripe up the length of Scar’s dick before taking the head into his mouth and sucking gently around it. Above him, Scar hisses through his teeth, his hand shooting out to tangle in Grian’s hair. He pulls, just once, and it makes Grian moan. His mouth goes slack as he releases Scar’s tip again, dragging in a greedy, gasping breath. “And I love the way you feel in my mouth.”

“Grian,” Scar gasps, sounding wrecked—sounding desperate—his cock jumping where it’s pressed up against Grian’s lips.

Grian takes the opportunity to rub Scar’s head more firmly against his face—his cheeks, his wet lips. He swirls his tongue around Scar’s tip again before drawing it into his mouth once more and quickly pulling it back out. Annoyingly, his knees begin to remind him that he’s getting carried away, but he hasn’t been able to tease Scar like this in a while, and it feels too good for him to stop just yet.

“I mean it,” he murmurs, lips still pressed against Scar’s length as he speaks. “I could do this forever, I think. So long as you wanted it from me.”

“I do,” Scar rasps, his fingers flexing in Grian’s hair. “I always do…”

Grian feels Scar’s words, his affirmation tender, against the neediest, most vulnerable part of himself. It has him delving back in, taking Scar’s dick into his mouth, laving the underside of it with his tongue as he sucks and swallows around him.

He’s never been an expert at this—never been able to take a partner as far as he wants, always struggling with the natural resistance at the back of his throat. Not that Scar seems to mind, his hand a firm presence against the back of Grian’s skull, grounding him but never pressuring, patient as Grian lavishes him with all the attention he deserves.

“Oh, Grian…”

Scar’s words escape him with a breathless sigh, groaning as his hips push forward; not thrusting, merely chasing the sensation of Grian’s mouth. It’s a satisfying sensation, one Grian wants to encourage. He moans around Scar’s length as he bobs his head forward and back, trying to take him in just that much more.

Everything about the moment feels heady and shameless. Grian feeling warm and safe as he offers his adoration up willingly, only wanting to make Scar feel good. He barely notices his body’s own response, no urgency in the need to satisfy himself at all. It’s a new experience, and liberating in its own way. All that matters is that Scar is happy.

“Gri…”

His name escapes Scar’s lips like a warning, and Grian understands implicitly that he must be getting close. Opening his eyes, he looks up through wet lashes, rewarded with a sight that makes him groans helplessly. Scar’s free hand is braced against the shower wall, leaning over him as he shields Grian’s body from the falling spray of the shower. His other hand is still twisted into the ends of Grian’s hair, and his eyes are closed, mouth open as he takes deep steady breaths, lost in the pleasure that Grian is giving him.

Lifting his hand and curling his fingers around the base of Scar’s dick, Grian eases him out of his mouth, feeling his own saliva mix with the shower water as he strokes him, panting as he asks, “Ready?”

He wishes he could keep a copy of the sound Scar makes in response. The way he moans, wordless, nodding his head with a quick, jerky motion. Unbidden, Scar’s hand fumbles forward, leaving Grian’s hair to instead tighten around Grian’s fingers where he’s gripping him, speeding up his hand, moving in quick strokes as the head of Scar’s dick presses snug against Grian’s lips.

Grian wants to say, ‘Take it.’ He wants to say, ‘Use me.’ He wants Scar’s desperation to overwhelm him, to feel needed and wanted and useful.

“Look at me,” he says instead, loud enough to be heard over the falling water.

Scar’s eyes flutter open obediently, pupils blown large enough to completely swallow the green of his irises. Grian feels drunk on it, wanting that to be the only way Scar ever looks at him. Wanting them to stay like this forever.

“I love you,” he breathes—even though it might mean something different for him than it does for Scar. Even though they’re not like that anymore—before he parts his lips and swallows Scar down.

“Oh—” Scar gasps, his hips rutting forward instinctively, chasing a peak that has clearly surged up out of nowhere. “Oh my god—”

Grian closes his eyes, taking him in as far as his throat will allow, hollowing out his cheeks and swallowing once, twice, before Scar finally comes with a cry, hot and messy against his tongue.

It’s a simple thing to swallow him down, Scar groaning as the motion overstimulates his spent cock. Grian barely tastes it for how back he’d gotten Scar in his throat at the end, and a small spark of triumph alights low in his belly, proud of his performance. Contentedly, he peeks up at Scar only to see the other man looking down at him with a soft sort of wonder on his face.

They stay in place for a moment, both of them catching their breaths. Then Scar is helping Grian to his feet, wrapping his arms around him and kissing him sweetly. Grian melts into it, completely encompassed in Scar’s adoration and warmth.

Gradually, in between kisses traded back and forth, Scar covertly nudges a thigh between Grian’s legs, gently putting pressure against his own neglected length. It comes as a surprise, Grian having completely forgotten about it himself, so consumed in making sure Scar had felt good. The gesture sends a ripple of excitement curling through him all the same, and Grian finds himself biting his lip to hold back a noise.

Scar’s lips never quite leave Grian’s, words mumbled quiet against his mouth as he asks. “What do you want me to do?”

Determined, Grian shakes his head, rubbing slow circles into Scar’s skin wherever his hands can touch.

“I’m fine,” he insists, words sneaking out between Scar’s kisses. “This was all for you.”

It’s easy to see the conflict playing across Scar’s face, cycling through emotions that Grian wishes he could read easier. Obviously, his words of reassurance fall short of convincing Scar that he truly means it. There’s a subtle calculation written across Scar’s face, his gaze flickering to the shower walls, the floor, before returning back to Grian again.

“Can you sit down for me?” he asks at last.

“On my knees again?”

Scar shakes his head. “In my lap, if that’s okay?”

Once again, Grian feels a burst of shyness, a sudden impulse inside of him wanting to turn away and shut things down. Forcing himself to be brave, he faces it head-on, nodding mutely and returning the fond smile Scar gives him as he braces a hand against the shower wall. Moving together, Scar slowly lowers the two of them down onto the tiled floor, stretching his long legs out in order to accommodate Grian settling between them. Grian adjusts as he sits, wrapping his legs around Scar’s waist, the two of them sitting chest to chest, Grian’s erection pressed snug between their stomachs.

“Wow,” Scar remarks, wriggling in place as he attempts to get comfortable against the hard flooring. “How did your knees handle this?”

He shrugs, choosing to be honest. “I don’t mind a little discomfort, so long as the results are worth it.”

“And were they?” Scar asks, somehow both teasing and earnest all at once.

Tenderly, Grian raises a hand, cupping the side of Scar’s face. He stares into his partner’s eyes, stroking a thumb along the stubble that’s grown on his cheeks before slowly, gently, he leans in to press a kiss to Scar’s lips. It doesn’t linger, soft in its arrival and quick in its departure.

“Yeah,” he agrees, smiling against Scar’s mouth. “So worth it.”

The way Scar grins is genuinely radiant in a way that Grian almost feels like he can taste it. As if the emotion behind the expression is seeping into the very atoms of his being,

‘Have we ever been this close?’ he wonders. ‘Can we stay like this forever?’

Beneath him, Scar’s legs shift, getting slightly more comfortable and better able to support Grian’s weight. Scar’s hand slowly rubs down his back, kneading into the muscle at Grian’s hips before he finally dips lower, playfully squeezing the curve of his ass. It makes Grian squeak, lifting up instinctively, his surprise trailing off into a small giggle as Scar noses appreciatively into the curve of his palm where it still rests against his cheek.

“Scar,” Grian sighs, breathing his name, soft and devoted, as Scar’s hands continue to press into his rear. The motion pushes his hips forward every time, which in turn rubs his dick into the muscle of Scar’s abdomen. It’s a nice sensation, made pleasant from the water raining down on them, though not nearly enough to begin pushing down the dominos stacked up inside his body. “Scar…”

With his hand still against Scar’s cheek, Grian tilts Scar’s head and kisses him, starving for him in a way that, for once, doesn’t make him feel dangerous. In a way that’s natural. In a way that the living are meant to hunger for one another. Their lips meet, and immediately so do their tongues, Scar licking into him before he lets Grian take over, allowing Grian to push him back by inches, until Scar’s shoulders meet the shower wall as Grian kisses him again and again and again.

Grian never wants to leave this place. This breath. This moment. His knees and the back of his throat feel tender, his arousal not yet satisfied, but he doesn’t feel like he’s ever been more at peace. More present in the moment.

“Show me where to touch you,” Scar says at last, his words panted into Grian’s open mouth. All too quickly, Grian is grabbing him by the wrist, dragging his hand between the press of their bodies, to the aching strain of his arousal.

“Here,” Grian gasps, pushing himself into Scar’s hand, everything between them slick and warm and wet. Too much and not yet enough. “Right here.”

He gasps, groaning as Scar palms him blindly, followed by a throaty moan when Scar finally curls his fist properly around him and shifts his wrist in a single, purposeful stroke.

Grian wants to duck against him, wants to hide himself inside how good Scar’s touch feels. Scar’s free hand presses flat against his chest to ease Grian back a few inches, allowing Scar’s fist the room to move properly, the head of Grian’s dick peeking out with every downward stroke of his hand.

“Scar…” Grian gasps, his breath catching, panting as he slips an arm around Scar’s shoulder, holding onto him tight. “Aah, Scar.”

“I’ve got you,” Scar promises, his words muffled into the tight grip of Grian’s arm. At this angle, with Grian slightly raised up on his thighs, they can’t properly kiss. Instead, Scar finds a compromise, nosing against Grian’s sternum for a moment before he turns his head to one side, kissing the small bud of Grian’s nipple before he laves over it with his tongue.

The way it feels, and the noise Grian makes, are shameless.

“Again,” Grian pleads, feeling the shock of the sensation go through his body like a livewire. “Please, Scar. Do that again…”

Willingly Scar complies, devoted in the way he worships Grian with his mouth, with his hands, with every whispered word against his skin. Grian closes his eyes, every sensation piling up within his core. He can hear himself whimpering, pitiful. Scar soothes him with a soft shush and another lingering kiss to his chest.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs again, lips playing against the small bud of Grian’s nipple, kissing it, sucking on it in a way that has Grian’s voice breaking into a high, throaty cry.

It doesn’t take much more before he’s tipping over the edge and spilling into Scar’s hand, clinging to him desperately as he comes. It feels good. It feels better than good, warm and full in a bone-deep sort of way. He’s left feeling gooey and malleable, folding over on Scar’s body as he rides out his final tremors while Scar rubs soothing circles along his spine.

At some point, Grian manages to angle himself down for a proper kiss, and Scar meets him in one that ambles along for more minutes than Grian cares to count.

He wishes he could just stay here forever, wrapped up in Scar’s embrace under the comforting spray of the showerhead.

“We really should be conserving the water,” he mumbles at last, a stray afterthought caught amongst all the good, good, warm, good feelings flooding through him.

Scar chuckles, nuzzling into his cheek. “What for? A rainy day?”

Carefully Scar begins moving him, turning Grian around in his lap until his back is to Scar’s chest. Grian wants to protest, but then he hears the click of a bottle and suddenly Scar’s hands are rubbing into his scalp, soaping up his hair with shampoo. Unable to help himself, his eyes fall closed, enjoying the massage.

Once Scar is done, Grian continues to sit as Scar shifts up slightly, reaching to grab the detachable showerhead from where it rests in its holder in the corner, separate from the one situated above and raining down on them. It’s a good idea—affording them both the benefit of continuing to sit on the tiles while Scar patiently rinses them both off properly.

By this point, Grian’s fingertips have begun to prune, and when Scar suggests they get out at last he can only murmur his agreement, still coming down off the high of his orgasm. He feels sleepy and sated, letting Scar lean into him as he shuts off the water and they both carefully stand up. The towels are waiting where they’d left them by the sink, and the two of them dry off briskly before donning the bathrobes hung on the hook behind the door.

“Still in the mood for dinner?” Scar asks, opening up the bathroom door, the steam wafting out into the bedrooms.

Contentedly, Grian wraps his arms around Scar while nosing into his chest. “I’ve certainly worked up an appetite,” he teases, though the words feel distant, like he’s still a hundred miles away.

Scar laughs all the same, leaning in to press a kiss to the top of Grian’s damp hair. They both politely ignore the knowledge that any meal they make will do nothing to satisfy Grian’s hunger, still enjoying the dreamlike bubble the last hour has afforded them.

Downstairs, the main floor awaits them, just as they left it. Humming, Scar heads into the kitchen, while Grian automatically pulls towards the fireplace, placing a pair of fresh logs on the embers they’ve let smoulder while they were busy in the shower. Outside the cabin windows, darkness has properly gathered in full, the sky a flat black as Grian peers out into the gloom. As near as he can tell, it’s still raining, a steady drizzle bogging down the snow, which has already soaked away in places on the deck, revealing the stained wood planks underneath. It bodes well for them, he supposes. As nice as their time snowed in has been, he knows they can’t stay here forever.

“Do you want music?” he asks, casting his attention over to Scar who’s busy rooting around in the cupboards, sorting through the ingredients they have in an effort to put together a meal.

“That’d be nice,” Scar replies, relaxed yet mildly distracted. It’s clear that he’s overthinking, counting things out on his fingers.

Grian sorts through the CDs, looking for something they can both enjoy. Something that will fit the mood, and allow them to continue living inside the fantasy they’ve constructed for themselves. When he finally finds a gentle soundtrack, he feeds it into the disc tray, adjusting the volume of the stereo to stay below their voices. He then moves to join Scar in the kitchen, letting himself gravitate towards his partner’s side, pleased when Scar’s arm naturally slips around him.

“What’s on your mind?” he asks at last, pressing a kiss to the soft material of Scar’s robe, just above his heart.

Beside him Scar shakes his head, reluctant, and Grian waits patiently until he’s ready to speak.

“Just trying to figure out how many days of food we have left,” he says at last, the illusion of their time together, safe and comfortable within the cabin, stretching thin with the admission.

It’s not something Grian wants to think about. Despite his earlier resignation, he’s not yet ready to leave. Not yet ready for reality to rush back in and swallow them whole.

“We can keep fishing,” he offers, a meagre suggestion, unrealistic in the grand scheme of things, when it’s not Scar’s hunger that’s on a timer.

In response, Scar kisses the top of his head, rubbing a hand up and down his arm, neither of them needing to hear the words to know a few fish won’t be enough to sustain them the way they both need.

“I wish we could just stay here,” Grian confesses at last, turning to face Scar fully. He wraps his arms around Scar properly, relieved when Scar returns the embrace.

“I’m glad we got to have even just this,” Scar admits, his words exhaled onto the crown of Grian’s head.

They linger together, holding one another, listening to the crackle of the fire and the soft music playing in the background. In time, Grian lets Scar guide him in a slow sway that isn’t not, but also isn’t quite dancing.

They’ll stay for as long as they’re able, be it one more day or several. Grian knows he’ll enjoy it for as long as he can.

Just him and Scar, alone together at the end of the world.

Exactly where he wants them to be.

Notes:

(Click to reveal.)

[ SPOILERS ]

This chapter contains sexual content, so if you're a minor or would otherwise like to skip that section, please stop reading from, "The other thing he finds" and continue reading after, "He wishes he could just stay here forever,". We've provided a summary below that you can read in order to keep up with any plot details that might be relevant.

[ SUMMARY ]

All the soft, slow intimacy in the shower makes Scar react physically. He apologises for it and Grian waves it off. They ignore it and try to continue showering but it soon becomes impossible to turn a blind eye to. Grian asks if this is something that Scar wants and while Scar definitely does, he expresses some hesitance that he won't be able to do much in the shower. It's not really the sort of place that works great for his disability in a context like this. Grian tries to reassure him and says this can be just for Scar--he'll handle it and make sure Scar feels good, he doesn't need anything in return.

With Scar's permission, Grian gets down on his knees and orally stimulates him. He makes a point to talk in between, saying things he usually held himself back from ever admitting. When Scar is close, Grian repeats that he loves him, and it's enough to send Scar over the edge. After catching their breaths, Scar pulls him to his feet and they trade kisses for a bit.

Scar asks Grian what he'd like in return, and though Grian insists that he's fine, Scar asks him to sit down again, this time in his lap. With the two of them sitting on the floor of the shower, face to face, it's easier for Scar to maneuver. They kiss as Scar gets his hand around Grian's arousal and quickly brings him to completion as well.

---

And so ends yet another chapter that Lock and I loved writing (though, I guess to some extent, that's the whole fic LMAO) ;w;

Things should pick up again next week! Hope you guys enjoyed the break--Scar and Grian sure did ;) 💫

Chapter 34

Notes:

Got two fantastic new fanarts from lumyxluminous, the first one features shippy Grians and the second one is a few hilarious doodles 😂 THANK YOU SM! 💫

We've also got an incredible animatic that left us absolutely speechless by Syneester! 😳 Genuinely never even dreamed of receiving something like this, tysm!! 💜

Please skip to the end notes for spoiler-y CONTENT WARNINGS!

Heavy rainfall fills the following day—morning, noon, and night—and Grian happily stays indoors with Scar, watching the scenery change outside.

Bit by bit, the rain melts away the snow, clearing up the ground around them until eventually even the driveway reaching up to the road begins to show itself once more. A part of Grian longs for it to snow again, to bury them once more and force them to linger here longer. He knows Scar shares the sentiment, the two of them tending the thought, unspoken, as they linger in front of the windows and watch the world return to the one they recognize.

At the same time, the cabin’s cupboards are emptying quickly—not to mention the hunger that sits ever-present in the pit of Grian’s stomach. They can’t stay here forever. Not the way they want to. Not when it’s just the two of them and Grian’s instincts and appetite run the risk of putting Scar in harm’s way.

In that sense, the melting snow is like a sign—a gentle nudge from the universe that it’s time for them to move on.

On an unspoken agreement, they decided to soak in that last rainy day to its fullest. They fill the cabin with music, singing loud at the top of their lungs, leaving the lights on from room to room, and taking long, soaking showers. They wash their clothes again for good measure, even if they’ve only been worn once since the last wash. Most of all, they sit together, spending every waking moment in each other’s company, within arm’s reach if not pressed together. In the comfort of each other’s company, they read a pulpy novel, attempt a couple of board games, and trade soft kisses alongside softer words. Warm, loving, and devoted.

On the morning of their fifth day at the cabin by the lake, the sun peeks over the mountain ridge, shining bright in a cloudless sky. It becomes clear to them that there will be no further snow, and no more rain to delay them.

It’s time for them to leave.

Knowing it doesn’t make them any less reluctant to mobilize though, the two of them dragging their feet as they pack their gear up. They’ve already sorted through their things, getting rid of tattered, unsalvageable garments and items they never used. The extra space they’ve filled with resources that the house has provided—the non-perishables, the toiletries, a few things from the tacklebox, and a couple of novels, just because.

It feels good to be properly prepared for the journey ahead, even when the idea of leaving pulls tension into Grian’s shoulders. It’s hard to ignore that the last few days have been the best ones that he’s had in years—more safe and comfortable and at peace with the world around him than he’s ever felt.

It doesn’t escape him that it’s all been made that much better by having Scar at his side.

He tries to remind himself what’s at stake. That Scar’s safety is paramount. That neither of them can risk Grian blacking out, and that he doesn’t want to test the limits of his hunger when there’s so much they stand to lose.

They’re close to the border now. A few days of hard hiking will get them there. They can reassess their goals once they’re safer up North. Once they’ve found other people, and once Grian’s done what he now has to do.

And if, after that, they find another secluded cabin… who’s to say that they can’t repeat all of this?

“Ready?” Grian asks as he stands by the door, shrugging on his hiking pack and adjusting the straps over his shoulders. It’s clear that Scar is loath to leave as well, his attention turning back over his shoulder as he takes one last look around the inside of the cabin.

He’s made every effort to leave it exactly as they found it, remaking the bed with fresh sheets, washing and drying the dishes they used, and restocking the wood pile in its basket next to the now dark and empty fireplace. The cabin no longer looks like theirs anymore, all the marks they’d made on it carefully scrubbed clean, returned to its unoccupied, waiting state.

“Yeah,” he agrees at last, looking sad as he says it.

Reluctantly, they leave together out the front door, having no way to lock it behind them.

“Bye, house,” Scar says quietly, patting a hand against the doorframe as he passes through it. It’s an incredibly sweet sentiment, something so completely, utterly Scar that Grian can’t help but smile at him fondly.

Scar’s wheelchair is waiting for him at the foot of the front step, and he squeezes Grian’s hand in passing as he walks towards it.

“That was a nice honeymoon.”

With that he sits down, ensuring his gear is securely strapped to the back of his chair before he settles his hands on the pushrims of his wheels and begins heading down the hard packed gravel of the driveway. Never once does he look back at the cabin, failing to see the way his words have affected Grian, and shocked him still. Grian, who finds himself overwhelmed by an emotion he can’t immediately find the name or shape of.

Scar is joking. Obviously. There’s no way he could really, truly mean it like that.

And yet, the words sink deep into the marrow of Grian’s bones all the same.

‘I love you,’ Grian thinks, feeling it so strongly that a part of him worries that Scar might be able to hear him through his thoughts.

They proceed down the driveway, retracing their steps along the road together until they find themselves at the gate. It’s easier to get it open from the inside, and they pass through it, returning to the thin highway that winds its way through the valley.

It feels good to be walking on a paved road again, so much easier than the hard hiking they had to do previously. More than ever it feels like they’ve left the worst of the world behind them, advancing towards something better.

Grian hopes that bodes well for them. He hopes it lasts.

The first day slips by, almost effortless in how quickly it passes. As much as they’d been hesitant to leave the cabin, they both find themselves admitting that it feels good to be on the move. Above them the weather holds, the sky a pale wintery blue, completely free of clouds where they can glimpse it through the towering red cedars and douglas firs. The forest is thick, even in winter, the undergrowth crowding close to the side of the road. It’s clear now that they’re approaching civilization, hand-painted ‘No Hunting’ and ‘No Camping’ signs affixed to posts in breaks between the trees, denoting some level of property ownership that they haven’t seen for hundreds of miles.

Grian had spent their last evening at the cabin plotting their route, pouring over the maps he’d found shoved into the bottom of Scar’s bag. He’d intentionally taken them through as many small townships and villages on their way north towards the border as possible, hoping that the more outposts of civilization they passed, the more chances he’d have to curb his hunger.

At first, they find very little, progressing down the empty highway. They spend the night sheltering in a weigh station—a hutch of a building on the side of the highway, intended for long distance truckers to ensure their cargo doesn’t surpass the weight limit of the road. There’s no need to break into the building, the door already unlocked. There’s nothing of note inside to greet them—a nonfunctioning intercom system, powerless computer monitors, well-used office chairs, and a few sun faded pinup posters tacked to the wall. Still, it’s nice to be inside, and they sleep on the floor together, neither bothering to break the time into shifts.

The second day brings them to a knot of civilization, passing a sign welcoming them to an unincorporated community; a township with a small enough population to feel like they’ve wandered into something personal. At first Grian holds out hope, thinking maybe a more isolated community will have fared better against the spread of the infection. But as they venture up the main street, they’re greeted only by roaming, listless corpses, the population having succumbed long before they ever drew near.

They’re at least well practiced at handling the undead, keeping their distance from larger groups and efficiently taking out the zombies that stray too close. Scar is unbothered through it all, keeping up steady conversation, remarking on the beautiful day and the scenery in between strikes of his hatchet—a new addition to his arsenal, found in the shed of the cabin. It would be disconcerting in any other world, but it’s become oddly normal in this one. Reassuring, in its own way.

Besides, Grian has more important things to worry about.

The further they progress without encountering any signs of survivors, the more Grian begins to space out. He’s been pulled back from the edge of his own miasma by Scar several times already, broken from his reverie with no judgement or accusations. It makes Grian uneasy all the same. Anxious about his own potential. He needs to feed soon, on something more substantial than game.

He’s not sure how much longer he can last.

“Scar.” His tone is serious but careful when he finally speaks. They’re taking their last break before crossing the border, sitting at a picnic table in an abandoned rest stop. “We’re going to have to make a detour.”

His partner looks up from where he’s stretching his legs, busy rubbing his fingertips into the areas that get the most sore. “What for?”

Unable to maintain eye contact, disgusted with himself and the disease rotten in his veins, Grian mutters, “We need to head towards a more populated area.” And then, as cut and dry as he can make it, “We have to find some people.”

A heavy silence descends between them, and Grian peeks over at Scar to find him frowning, an expression of consideration on his face. There’s no need to make things any plainer—Scar knows what Grian’s survival is going to cost now. And he’s made it clear it’s an ugliness he’s decided they’ll shoulder together.

“Is it that bad?” Scar asks at last, his voice matter-of-fact but clearly worried.

“Not yet,” Grian replies, offering him a half-truth. “But I don’t want to take any risks. Better to act now than leave it until it’s too late.”

“You could eat me if you needed to,” Scar offers, pragmatic in a way that catches Grian off guard. “I wouldn’t mind.”

His words are like a punch to the gut, and they leave Grian reeling, his eyes shooting up towards Scar’s face, desperate to find some sign of ill-timed humour. All he finds is Scar smiling, brushing the words off like they’re nothing. His expression is resolved. Every inch of him insisting that what he offered wasn’t a joke at all. That he’s being genuine.

“Scar,” Grian breathes, horrified.

Scar, however, merely shrugs. “It would be worth it to me, if I knew it would help you.”

‘It wouldn’t be worth it to me,’ Grian wants to say. ‘If I hurt you—if I turned you—I’d never be able to live with myself. If you were gone, there’d be no point in even trying anymore. I’m here because you’re here.’

“It’s not going to come to that,” he says instead, brusque and firmly determined, turning away to hide the swell of his emotions.

Sorting through his bag, pulling out a pack of gummy snacks they’d taken from the cabin—the kind meant to pack into school lunches—Scar muses, “Worse come to worst, I could always chop off an arm or something. Tide your hunger over for a bit.”

This time, it’s clear there’s an attempt at humour in Scar’s tone. He’s joking—trying to lighten the mood a little and bring them both back to a place of levity.

Grian takes a deep breath in an effort to level himself out.

“Let’s explore our other options first,” he manages, offering a half-hearted smile that feels strained.

They continue on, picking through the scattered abandoned houses that they come across, refilling some of their foodstuffs, but ultimately taking very little. At one point, Grian stops in the chintzy kitchen of a single-wide trailer they find in the back of an overgrown lot full of rusted-out car parts. Grian takes the time to spread his maps out on the formica table, studying the local routes and highways and comparing them to a book he took from the cabin; a summary of the best camping grounds and tourist destinations located in and around the Cascades.

Not surprisingly, there’s no communities large enough in their vicinity to satisfy his requirements. However, immediately across the thick line that denotes the border he notices something with potential: A proper town, noted as a tourist hotspot, boasting scenic hiking and an iconic waterfall.

“We should head here,” he says, pointing his finger at the map.

While he’s been researching, Scar has been wandering through the main room of the home. The place is decorated in a vintage cat theme, the sofas all with matching orange upholstery, and a thick shag carpet under his feet. Cat figurines and cartoonish paw prints clutter the crowded shelves.

“Bridal Falls?” Scar asks as he returns to the kitchen, leaning over Grian’s shoulder and reading the name of the place out loud.

“There’s a border crossing not too far, and a highway that leads there directly,” Grian explains, matter-of-fact. “There’s a chance it will have survivors. When I was on my own, there were towns that had put up walls and barricades and the like to keep survivors in. We could really use a place like that. Might be the chance we’re looking for.”

It’s a mortifying thing to talk about so frankly, and he feels the shame of his hunger acutely. If Scar even notices though, he doesn’t make a big deal of it. He chooses instead to wander away, removing two, metal, cat food bowls from the drying rack next to the kitchen sink.

“Bridal Falls it is then,” he says simply, handing the bowls to Grian. “Do you have room for these in your pack?”

It’s a genuine question—or a distraction manufactured to keep Grian from slipping into self-conscious paranoia. Either way it works, and Grian tucks the dishes into a side pocket of his bag along with his maps.

“When did we adopt a cat?” he asks, lifting his pack back onto his shoulders, the two of them leaving out the home’s side door.

“We haven’t yet,” Scar replies, casual as he sits back down in his chair before they continue on their way. There’s no impetus for them to stay the night, not when there’s still so many hours of daylight for them to use and the border is near enough for them to cross if they continue at their current pace. “But now we’ll be ready when we do.”

It’s a strangely sweet idea. Planning for a future where their lives are stable enough to support keeping an animal. Grian lets himself enjoy the sentimentality of it for a moment, leading the way as the two of them resume their progress north.

They’re barely a mile down the road when Scar makes it clear he’s working up to asking some kind of question, broaching the subject delicately as he tries very hard to make it seem natural.

“When we do find people…” he begins, measuring the words out carefully. “What are you going to need me to do… to help you?”

It’s a fair enough question. One Grian knew they’d have to broach eventually. He steels himself against his natural inclination to brush it off all the same, understanding that now, more than ever, he and Scar need to be on the same page.

“You’ll need to keep whoever we find alive,” he explains, speaking rotely, his eyes fixed on his feet. “There’s something about living tissue that I—that the virus needs to properly spread and to… help me digest what I eat.”

He thinks of the times he’s reoriented after a blackout to find himself so full he felt sick from it. The complete lack of hunger that lasted for days afterwards while his body slowly processed his feed.

“It doesn’t work if they’re dead.”

“No headshots then,” Scar answers simply, nodding. “Got it.”

The way Scar automatically accepts Grian’s explanation gives him pause, and he doesn’t quite know how he feels about it. On one hand, he had feared that Scar would be disgusted and reject him the moment he confessed his newfound nature. The fact that he hasn’t is a relief. On the other… seeing Scar like this—not only easily accepting what’s to come, but offering to help…

‘You’re bad for him,’ a voice whispers in his head, familiar from a lifetime of self-loathing. ‘You always have been.’

He swallows around the sudden lump in his throat, hesitant as he speaks, “Listen, Scar… you don’t have to get involved,” he offers, needing to get the words out, needing to be clear now, before it becomes too late. “I know this isn’t easy. I know it’s… awful, and disgusting, so just the fact that you’re willing to turn a blind eye to it, for me, is more than enough. You don’t have to get your hands dirty too.”

An unreadable expression crosses over Scar’s face, passing so quickly that Grian almost misses it entirely. In its place follows an emotion Grian is more familiar with—a guilt so potent it nearly takes his breath away. His throat goes tight, afraid that Scar might abruptly reject him after all, now that he’s been given leave to freely speak his thoughts.

“I’m sorry, Grian,” Scar starts, remorse weighing heavy in his voice. “I think somewhere along the way, you started thinking that I’m a better person than I really am…”

His eyes meet Grian’s, the same deep, familiar green he’s always known, now darkened by something Grian doesn’t want to put a name to.

“But that’s just not true.”

It’s not at all what Grian expected him to say, and he feels jarred by it. Silenced by Scar’s admission.

“I’m a selfish person,” Scar continues. “I’m not saying I don’t care about other people, because I do. But… when it comes down to a choice, I will always, always choose the one that protects what matters most to me.”

Grian doesn’t know what to say, his heart racing at Scar’s words. And yet, in a startling way, it feels like memories are being unlocked in Grian’s head. Every time Scar had ignored advice that contradicted an outcome he was in search of, every time he’d laughed off jabs from strangers, every time he refused to let structures or systems stand in the way of something he wanted…

“I get it,” Scar continues. “After everything that’s happened between us… you’re trying to make up for it. You want to be the bad guy by making me out to be better than I am. But Grian… I’ve never pretended to be anything that I’m not. I’m kind because I want to be. I’m polite because I’ve never had to act otherwise. But when push comes to shove, I’ll do whatever it takes to ensure everything I want and care about is safe.”

There’s a mood gathering in the air, electric and charged, Scar’s focus clear and sharp as a blade. There are no honeyed words to hide behind. Nothing but the shrewd calculation of Scar’s soul laid bare.

“At the end of the day, I’m as greedy and conceited as anyone else who’s made it this far,” Scar finishes, his posture relaxing while his tone becomes almost playful. “You’re worried about me getting my hands dirty, but I’m already in it up to my elbows, Gri. And over every other option, I’m always going to choose you.”

It says something dark about him, he knows that, but Grian’s heart leaps at Scar’s declaration all the same. His mind refuses to linger on the horrifying reality of what Scar is exposing to him, skipping ahead instead in order to focus on how romantic it is. The logical part of him that still exists—shoved back behind the infected, hungry, animal brain that’s taken over since he died—sounds an alarm but Grian pays it no mind. His vision swims instead, emotional and teary-eyed.

“Okay…” he begins, clearing his throat when it catches around his words. “If you’re… if you’re sure...”

“I am,” Scar insists, bracing his hands on his wheelchair as he leverages himself onto his feet. Grian’s not sure the kind of expression he must be making, but Scar shushes him softly anyway, leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to his lips. When Grian shuts his eyes to kiss him back, the tears slip down over his cheeks, and Scar brushes them away with ease.

That seals it then. A team. Together now; for better or worse.

With Scar settling back in his chair, they continue on together with a renewed sense of purpose. Scar seems enthusiastic—excited, even—and Grian finds he has to lengthen his strides to keep up with his pace.

They can both tell that they’re nearing the border when they start to see cars. Long lines of them, stretching out for miles, first on the highway lanes, then the gravel shoulders of the road, then pulled out onto the grassy medians that separate the two directions of the highway. There are hundreds of them, crammed bumper to bumper, many with their windows smashed and doors thrown open. Every single one of them abandoned.

It’s eerie in a way that unsettles both of them. The signs of struggle and violence are everywhere, and tragedy along with them. When the gap between vehicles becomes too tight they stop long enough for Scar to collapse his wheelchair, splitting the frame from the wheels so they can each carry half of it before they continue on foot. They weave between cars, trucks, and camper vans with their weapons in hand, each of them on high alert.

The silence is chilling, but for the first time Grian finds himself vehemently hoping they don’t run into anyone.

When they approach the border itself, they can tell that attempts had been made to close it completely. There are barriers and concrete barricades piled metres high, lines of armoured vehicles arranged into blockades, and coils of barbed wire and spike strips spread out along the pitted asphalt.

None of it has seemed to matter, though. None of it had done the job.

The bodies seem almost immaterial now, a detail they barely stop to take note of. Dozens, if not hundreds, of corpses piled up and strewn across the ground—human and zombie, both long fallen into rot and decay. It’s clear the conflict happened during the initial outbreak, and it’s obvious that no one had come back and tried to restore order since.

At one point, Scar makes a gagging noise, covering his mouth and nose with his hand as he squeezes his eyes shut. The smell momentarily overwhelms him. Grian barely notices it. A sick part of him realises that he almost enjoys it.

They keep their eyes open for movement—on guard for shambling figures lurching out at them, or survivors hiding out in secure vantage points—but it becomes clear that the area is deserted.

A memorial.

A tomb.

“I hate it here.”

The worst part are the lights. Every sign—warnings, declaring sudden lane closures and the institution of emergency measures—remains illuminated, flashing ambers and reds into the slow blue-indigo descent of the encroaching evening.

“There must be emergency generators somewhere,” Scar suggests, putting out his hand to help Grian over a cement block barricade, neither of them focusing on the dark bloodstains smeared across it, following a pattern of what looks to be the spray of machine gun fire. “Keeping our country safe.”

The irony of it is that they’re easily able to cross the border on foot without issue. Nothing stands in their way. No one steps out to stop them. No questions asked.

“Do you feel different?” Scar asks, the question momentarily catching Grian off guard until he sees Scar’s sly, mischievous smile. “Canada used to be England, right? Isn’t this like coming home?”

“America used to be England too,” Grian dismisses, though he can’t help a slight grin for the sake of Scar’s nonsense.

“Technically I’m banned from Canada,” Scar offers, a cryptic remark that he makes no effort to elaborate on despite the look that Grian gives him.

Once they’re passed the border gate itself, they find the situation much the same as it was on the opposite side. Ragged red and white Canadian flags replace the American ones, but the same wreckage of a military presence has been left in place, mauled and abandoned. The same hasty barriers and blockades. The same lines of vehicles stretching off into the distance. The same piles of desiccated bodies.

The impulse is to push onwards, but in a new environment, with night fast approaching, they decide to stay the night inside a duty free store. The signs outside the doors announce the cheapest prices on liquor and beauty fragrances in the province, an eerie disquiet falling over Grian as he thinks of the mundanity of its past. It’s easy enough to push the automatic sliding doors open, stepping into the quiet interior to find it thoroughly ransacked and already looted, most of the shelves empty, with the remainder smashed to pieces.

“It’s fine,” Scar declares dismissively, shrugging his bag off his shoulders once they’re sure the place is clear. “I’m never drinking again anyway.”

They barricade the doors as best they can and set up for the night, taking care to make sure one of them is always awake to take watch. It feels far too dangerous to let their guards down, even though the carnage seems long ended.

The hours Grian spends on watch pass slowly, and he stares out the window willing a survivor to walk by. Someone scared and alone, an easy target he could dispatch by himself and have had his fill long before Scar wakes up.

However, by the time the morning dawns, there’s been no change in the desertion beyond the store’s doors. Grian wakes Scar up to begin the new leg of their journey—heading towards the unincorporated community he’s circled on their map. While Scar yawns and picks himself up, rooting around in his pack for a quick breakfast, Grian scours over the route one last time. The anticipation of a potential hunt feels overwhelming, and he tries to keep himself focused instead of losing himself to the pressure of his hunger.

They head out together, both of them on their feet. Past the border, the highway continues much in the same way it had before—two lanes in either direction, with a spread of grass median between them. Mountains to the north and east, and wide swaths of fallow farmland to the west. The weather is on their side. No snow or rain, just snatches of sunlight in between heavy patches of clouds. It’s cold, but not freezing—nothing the two of them can’t handle after everything they’ve already pushed through.

Unfortunately, as they near their destination it becomes clear that this isn’t the sort of town Grian had been expecting from his map. While the area is a tourist attraction—with plenty of signage boasting as such—there is no city surrounding it. Instead, the highway they’re walking on seems to be the only real centre of civilization, lined with scattered motels, restaurants, and truck stops along the way.

It’s with a growing desperation that Grian leads Scar towards the small clusters of shops, with their signs for local ice cream and handmade dream catchers. He’s hoping to catch some survivors unawares, but they encounter only undead instead. It’s not difficult to dispatch them, working with the timed efficiency they’ve grown practiced with, but they do find themselves quickly wearing out. By the fourth location, Scar is panting hard and Grian knows they can’t keep doing this much longer.

“Okay,” he says, trying to reorient himself as he struggles to catch his own breath. They’re in a shop that sold handcrafted homegoods—cowichan sweaters and cedar planks for salmon. “Okay, let’s think for a minute.”

“Problem?” Scar asks, pushing his hair back out of his face with a grin as if it’s not obvious just how badly Grian’s plan has gone awry.

Grian ignores the question temporarily, dragging his map out of his pack and laying it out across the counter at the till. For a moment, he spaces out, coming to only when saliva drips down from his mouth. Mortified, he wipes his face, hoping that Scar’s too busy cleaning off his hatchet to have noticed him.

He can feel his hunger gnawing at the fringes of his consciousness, almost uncontrollable now. A reminder of what’s to come if he doesn’t eat a meal soon.

“No problem,” he lies, eyes focusing on the map while he recalculates. “Just a change of plans.”

He waves Scar over, pointing his finger not much further down the road than where they are.

“We’ll go a bit further. Here’s the Provincial Park for the area. Multiple hiking trails and campsites—definitely touristy. The main area is nice and forested. Anyone looking to survive a horde might use it for cover. If we head that way we’re bound to have better luck than sticking to this highway.”

“Sounds good,” Scar says, accommodating and amenable without hesitation. “Let’s not waste time.”

The walk is easy enough, but further than Grian anticipated, made longer still by the hunger ever-present in his belly. All the same, he knows they’re on the right track when they start to see signs.

There’s only one at first, a large construction sign propped up at the side of the road, its orange reflective surface sporting a message written with white spray paint in large, cursive letters.

‘SURVIVORS HERE’

Looking ahead they can see more, arranged down the side of the highway like a daisy chain for them to follow.

‘FRIENDLY. ALL WELCOME’ reads the next. ‘DON’T SHOOT, DON’T LOOT’ reads another.

It gets a sickly eager feeling thrumming in Grian’s veins, imagining a naive, idealistic clutch of people huddled together in some outpost, eagerly looking for others to join them. None of them smart or jaded enough to ask too many questions. Easy pickings.

They follow the signs for the better part of a mile, until they round a bend and it’s made abundantly clear that they’ve arrived by the sheer gaudiness that greets them.

At once, the forest gives way, widening into a massive cleared area fringed in parking lots and large, tacky billboards. Buildings crowd together with a rustic, roadside charm; an ice cream shop, a farmer’s market, the entrance to an RV park and, slightly further back but dominating the central view—

“This is amazing.”

It’s not a surprise to hear Scar’s reaction.

It’s a waterpark, the colourful twists of the blue and yellow slides rising up above the treeline. Welcoming them, and what has clearly snagged Scar’s attention, is an enormous fiberglass and plaster structure—a sculpture easily twenty feet high shaped like a cartoon duck perched atop a cresting wave.

“Grian,” Scar begins, immediately swept up by the sight, the excitement in his voice hinting back to a time that feels bygone now. The two of them standing together at the edge of Disneyland and looking in at the locked gates.

“Scar,” Grian responds, hoping his weariness carries in his tone alone.

They’re on borrowed time, and he needs Scar to focus.

“After,” Scar compromises, his grin remaining strong, like they merely have a simple errand to run.

Together they trudge up the feeder road leading off the highway, following it as it skirts the edge of the waterpark and threads between the first of the abandoned businesses. It’s hard to know what to look for. Hard to know what will lead them to what they need, and not give them away or put them smack dab in the centre of a horde they’ll be unable to outrun or control.

“We need to find somewhere to store our stuff,” Grian hears himself say, his voice distant, like he’s being elbowed outside his body while his hunger continues to grow. “I’ll move faster on my feet if I’m—”

“Not weighed down. That makes sense,” Scar says, anticipating his words without condemnation.

They approach one of the businesses to find the door unlocked, a whiteboard propped up inside resting on a chair, clearly meant to be noticed.

‘WAIT HERE’ it reads, written in the same cursive as the road signs. ‘WE’LL BE BACK SOON.’

It’s impossible to know how long the sign has been there for. How soon ‘soon’ really is. It sets a spark of hope off inside Grian all the same. There are people around. Survivors.

They’re near.

He shrugs his backpack off to leave inside the door, placing his jacket with it. He debates taking the pistol Scar had given him but ultimately decides against it, knowing he wouldn’t know how to aim it right even if he had to.

“Y’know,” Scar pipes up, ambling around the inside of the shop, which one sold souvenirs to tourists of the area. “I once read that humans are distance predators, and that the best way for them to hunt is to simply walk after their prey.” He pauses, shrugging a shoulder before he adds, “I guess that doesn’t work so well when you’re also hunting people, but…”

“Thanks for that, Scar,” Grian sighs, genuine but feeling weariness biting at the edge of his patience.

“I just thought it was interesting.”

Grian looks over at him, finding Scar looking back with more understanding than he deserves. It doesn’t escape him how committed his partner is to supporting him on what he’s about to embark on.

The love Grian feels for him is almost overwhelming.

“It is, Scar,” he relents, reaching out to take hold of his hand, squeezing it gently, relieved when Scar squeezes back. “Sorry, I just—”

The words, ‘I’m hungry,’ die on his tongue, unsaid between them but understood all the same.

Without hesitation Scar leans in, pressing a kiss to the top of Grian’s head.

“Don’t worry about it. Let’s just get this done, yeah?” He pulls back and looks at Grian with a wide grin. “Chow time.”

Where anyone else might be somber and reserved about what’s to come, Scar has a unique way of skipping over the uglier parts and looking forward with optimism. There had been a time where that attitude used to frustrate Grian, yet right now he finds it reassuring. His own smile spreads, the two of them preparing themselves for the hunt about to take place.

The plan is for Scar to play support. He’ll stay out of the way, hanging back in case the survivor returns—not because Grian doubts his usefulness, but because he’s afraid of what may happen in the face of what he knows is an overwhelming and all-consuming hunger. He can tell Scar wants to protest, wants to offer another alternative, but Grian refuses to hear him out.

If Scar gets caught in the crossfire of his appetite, if anything happens to him, Grian knows he’ll never be able to forgive himself.

Instead, with the details sorted, Grian straightens up, taking a moment to pull his hair back into a tight knot as he gives Scar one last instruction.

“If I turn on you…” he begins, wary but resolved. “I need you to shoot—”

“Grian,” Scar interrupts, shaking his head. “Let’s not have this conversation.”

There’s a plea in his words, just fragile enough that Grian drops it.

“I’ll be back,” Grian promises, letting Scar take hold of hands, feeling the squeeze as his partner grips his palms tight.

‘I love you,’ he thinks, and then heads towards the door.

Outside, behind the cluster of shops and the entrance to the waterpark, the forest looms, pushing up into a mountainside, green-blue in the drizzly haze. A large wooden sign at the start of some footpaths shows a map of the area, delineating the different trails, as well as the location of streams and other landmarks, including the waterfalls for which the area is named.

It’s odd being in the forest in such a way, the confines of the tree trunks closing in around him and the muffle of the pine needles underfoot touching some base, animal part of his brain. Grian’s hunted before—he knows what he’s doing. He’s been in railyards and cities and towns. He’s felt the thrill of it, the ambush, the chase, the rush of a kill meant to sate his hunger. He remembers both too much and not enough. Simultaneously less and more than he could ever want to.

This feels different, though.

He can tell there are a few zombies scattered throughout the woods, lost and ambling mindlessly along the paths. They feel like a side note, however—a parentheses to his focus—not worth his time and nothing to worry about.

When he finally manages to catch the smell of woodsmoke in the air, the sure sign of a survivor nearby, Grian can feel the saliva pool in his mouth immediately. Anticipatory.

Suddenly, it’s as if his senses zero in. The details of the woods around him sharpen, the colours of the mud and the trees and the moss amongst vivid. He snaps his gaze around, dismissing the scent of Scar in the distance, savoury and compelling but too far away to entice him. Instead, he strains his hearing, listening for the snap of a branch, the chatter of conversation, anything at all to signal that the prey he’s looking for is near.

There’s water nearby, something rushing, moving. Grian doesn’t stop and turn, doesn’t listen to it at all.

He’s not human right now.

There’s something comforting about surrendering, about relenting at last. He hadn’t realised how hard it’s been to keep himself in line. How much effort he’s been putting into maintaining control. Now, he simply moves and acts, obeying a deep, diseased part of himself that is somehow just as much an integral piece of him as anything else.

‘Maybe this is alright,’ he thinks, the words distant and foreign, like language itself is an unfamiliar stranger to him. ‘Maybe this is how I was meant to be.’

There’s a clearing ahead, he can see it through the trees. A tarp strung up to provide protection from the rain and snow. A tent pitched beneath it, gear spread out in a wide semicircle. An established campsite. A small fire. A survivor.

He feels himself slipping, lost deep beneath the pull of instinct and impulse. A voice is speaking to him, wary and indistinct. A stranger offering a cautious greeting he doesn’t reciprocate, couldn’t possibly return.

There’s no element of surprise. No one is caught off guard. The new voice repeats itself, tension winding as their tone lifts louder. A bark of instruction followed by a warning.

Grian’s not concerned about it. He doesn’t fear anything at all.

He advances, one step, then two. He’s not expecting the gunfire—a warning shot aimed upwards into the bristly pine canopy overhead, missing him by a mile.

It’s the distraction he hadn’t realised he needed.

All at once someone—Scar—is pushing out of the brush, taking them both by surprise as he manhandles the stranger, getting his arms around him in a chokehold. Something heavy is knocked aside—a gun tossed aside while the stranger’s arms are held back almost effortlessly, exposing stomach, chest, and jugular.

Scar’s shouting, either encouragement or a warning. Grian doesn’t have time to be angry at him, doesn’t have time to feel frustrated for Scar going against their plan.

He doesn’t make a sound.

There’s nothing stopping him. Nothing in his way. One moment he’s standing on the edge of the campsite, staring mutely at a man held in his partner’s arms, and the next there’s skin and muscle warm, warm, hot, under his fingers, taunt and tense and terrified.

His mouth is open. He isn’t speaking.

He’s biting down.

He’s feasting.

It’s a relief. An immediate, indescribable quenching, like a fire raging within him has been dipped beneath the calm, placid, waters of a lake. He doesn’t think, mindless within his actions as he eats and eats and eats, pushing cloth and useless body armour aside. He can feel a pulse beat against his tongue, manic at first but then slowly dropping off until it struggles, sluggish and slow against the weight of its inevitable decline.

Grian doesn’t know how long he gorges himself. At a certain point the body slips out of the hold it’s been propped up in, slumping to the ground in a heap that he chases with the eagerness of a wild animal, crouching on the ground with muddy earth soaking up through his knees.

He has the distinct impression that he’s been placed at a distance. That Scar has stepped back. He thinks he hears the sound of vomiting but he’s not sure.

At some point he tries to say Scar’s name, wanting reassurance, but finds he can’t get the words out.

He has to keep eating.

He’s starving.

More and more, he rips into the flesh, still-warm and at his mercy. There’s a desperation in him, an urge to tear into his meal, digging his fingertips into soft skin and pulling it apart to reveal what lies within. He refrains from it though, using only his mouth and tongue and teeth, taking large, greedy bites, one after the other. He can’t say why he holds himself back—maybe because Scar is close. Maybe because this is the first time he’s even been this lucid during a hunt and not completely subsumed beneath his own consciousness.

Whatever the case, his awareness makes him slower to fill his belly, taking his time with every bite and chew; every thick swallow down his throat. From somewhere behind him, he can hear rustling in the trees, but he’s not worried, he knows the noise must just be Scar—giving him space and keeping himself out of harm’s way, just in case.

Still, the idea of Scar watching him gorge himself is off-putting enough to slow Grian down even further. A sudden sense of shame washes over him, and he’s quick to clean his mouth, wiping it on his sleeve in an attempt to clear off the blood. He doesn’t want Scar to immortalise this image of him in his head—depraved, animalistic, and violent in his need. Some undead thing.

A monster.

He’s licking his teeth clean, picking out bits of flesh caught between them when the rustling gets louder. He turns to face it, blocking the body from view so that Scar isn’t overwhelmed by the carnage of what he’s done to it. Already, he’s calculating how much he’s had to eat, and how much more he’ll need in order to finally feel full.

When Scar finally bursts back in through the trees, Grian’s more level-headed, no longer in the throes of his hunger and ready to give him a proper run-down of the situation.

Only.

It’s not Scar that breaks through the underbrush.

It’s not him at all.

“Grian…?” asks a voice—a man. One that Grian never thought he’d hear ever again. “Is… oh my god. Is that really you?”

A fresh wash of horror sweeps through him, unimaginable in every possible way.

Grian can only stare.

“B…?”

 

 

Notes:

(Click to reveal.)

[ SPOILERS ]

If sexual content is the only thing that you needed a warning for, feel free to scroll back up. If not, please click the second Spoiler Bar for the content/trigger warning for this chapter.

[ SPOILERS ]

This chapter contains especially Graphic Depictions of Violence including but not limited to Gore, Murder, and Cannibalism. Please be aware going forward if these topics are unpalatable or triggering to you.

---

:)

We all knew the good times couldn't last forever >;)

See you next week! 😌💫

Chapter 35

Notes:

Starting off with this incredible spread with quotes from the fic done by gatorbitesart! I'm a sucker for traditional art and this was such a delight to receive! :D 💫

We've also got this sweet reunion scene by wunderiee! Grian looks so tender hugging Scar in it fr ;w; 💜

Been real excited to get to this week's chapter!! We hope you all enjoy it! >:3

 

The world is frozen, pushed alarmingly onto its side, everything skewed off-kilter and tilted out of place.

It’s impossible. It has to be.

“B…?”

Grian’s mind is racing, the deep animal satisfaction of feeding from only a moment before immediately pushed aside, crushed beneath a new, terrible sensation; guilty and gnawing in an entirely different way.

He doesn’t want to look at him, doesn’t want to believe it’s possible. However B’s face is right there. The same open, unguarded expression. The same warm, friendly eyes. His hair is pushed under a knitted cap, the tight scruff of facial hair that Grian remembers grown out into a full beard. Shockingly, he looks clean, well fed, and rested.

He looks happy.

“Oh my god, Grian! I can’t believe this!”

There’s a rush as B surges forward, overjoyed, forcing Grian to fight against his natural instinct to shrink back. All at once he’s being gathered up into incriminatingly familiar arms, held close in a tight embrace.

The animal urge to growl pushes its way up into his throat, his body still lingering within the instinct of his hunt, and Grian fights to shove it down.

B is laughing, babbling words Grian can’t focus on long enough to hear, his excitement overflowing as he holds him close. Behind them some branches shift, twigs snapping underfoot as Scar hastily returns to the campsite. His voice is edged in nerves when he calls out, stepping through the undergrowth.

“G, are you alright? I thought I heard—” the final syllables choke off, plunging Scar into silence as he takes in the scene set out to greet him.

Miserably, Grian squirms in B’s arms, pushing him off at last. It doesn’t seem to matter—B is already turning towards Scar, letting Grian go as his voice lights up with sustained enthusiasm.

“Scar! You’re here, too?! Oh my god, I never thought I’d see either of you again!”

Grian feels sick, his chest pulled tight as panic seizes his ribs. In every way, in every world, this is the worst thing that could have happened to him—to them. He turns and watches as B moves across the campsite to greet Scar, trying desperately to communicate with him, to confirm that they’re still on the same page—even if he doesn’t know what page that is—only to find that Scar’s face has become unreadable, blank in a way that makes him want to cry.

“How the hell did you get here? Have you been waiting long?” If B notices something’s wrong he doesn’t show it, smiling just as wide as he clasps Scar in a quick, unreciprocated hug. His hands remain anchored to Scar’s elbows, even after he turns back to Grian, his expression bright and open. It takes on only a slight haze of concern when he finally gets a proper look at him. “Geez that’s a lot of blood, are you okay?”

He looks from Grian to the corpse spread out on the ground, its body mutilated almost beyond recognition.

“Yeah,” Grian hears himself say, his voice coming as if from a hundred miles away.

“You just missed it,” Scar adds, filling in details where Grian’s words fail. “Zombie caught us all off guard. I just finished it off in the woods.”

“That must’ve been the shot I heard,” B supplies, nodding understandingly. “Poor guy, it tore him up pretty bad… did you know him?”

“Nope,” Scar says, his reply short and to the point, popping the ‘p’ at the end and still not looking at Grian.

There’s not a suspicious bone in B’s body, Grian knows that intimately. He takes Scar’s words at face value, equal parts understanding and mournful. “Wish we’d gotten here sooner. Maybe we could’ve saved him from getting mauled like that in the first place. What a way to go.”

“‘We’?” Grian asks, his voice rough in a way he wishes he was better at hiding.

B casts a smile at him, eager and earnest once more. “Yeah, ‘we.’ Wait until you see the set up we’ve got going here, man! There’s a whole camp of survivors about an hour and a half from here. We’ve been leaving signs up every place we visit, letting people know to wait for us to come and pick ‘em up—you had to have seen ‘em, right?” His smile slips for a moment, looking down at the body by Grian’s feet once more. “That must’ve been why he was here… can’t believe we just missed him.”

There’s nothing to say to that, Grian well aware that this man would’ve been just fine if he hadn’t just hunted him down. He shoots another glance Scar’s way, but Scar has his gaze fixed straight ahead, not catching Grian’s look even in his periphery.

“What’re you two doing here anyway?” B asks, the question popping up all at once, like an afterthought.

“Saw your signs,” Scar lies, the words coming as easily as breathing. It’s impressive, and a part of Grian is proud of how quick he is on the uptake. “Figured we’d camp out here until help came to us.”

“Well if you’re looking for a group to stay with, you’ve come to the right place!”

“We’re heading North,” Grian interrupts, feeling small when two sets of eyes turn to look at him in unison.

“Oh,” B says, making no effort to hide his disappointment. “That’s fine too, of course. There’s no pressure to stay.” There’s a pause, B clearly struggling internally before he turns to face Scar, something apologetic in his tone as he adds, “But, you know, it might still be nice to rest up with us for a night or two before you head on your way… It’s the least I can do for you.”

A muscle in Scar’s neck flexes, his jaw tightening around a knee-jerk response that would no doubt go over poorly. Instead, a cold smile carves across his face, painful to look at, though Grian doubts B would be able to tell the difference from his genuine one.

Grian's heart is pounding so anxiously in his chest that he feels like he might faint, breathless from the tension.

“Why, what a kind and considerate invitation. By all means, lead the way,” Scar drawls, motioning B on with a hand and tipping his head to him in deference.

Clearly relieved, B turns towards the forest, beckoning them along over his shoulder. “C’mon, I’ll take you back to meet the crew.”

They don’t immediately mobilise, Grian torn between following B and hanging back by Scar, who makes no movement to follow the other man.

When B finally notices, he pauses, turning back and giving them both an uncertain look.

It’s Scar who relents at last, though it’s not to follow in B’s direction. Instead, he moves towards the nearest tree, where the tarp has been secured with a snug bowline knot. Without a word he unties it, lowering the first corner to the ground.

It takes Grian a minute to realise what Scar is doing, but when he catches on, he quickly moves to help him, embarrassed by his own lack of action. In short order they have the tarp spread on the forest floor, working together to lift what remains of the man Grian had attacked onto it before they wrap the body up snugly to protect it against the elements.

“Someone just lost the world they thought they knew,” Scar says quietly, tying the rope that had held the tarp aloft around the corpse’s feet. His tone is telling in a way that makes Grian feel small. “This is the least we can do.”

“We’ll do a proper burial later,” B offers. “I’ll tell the others when we get back.”

With the body at least somewhat respectably put away, Scar finally moves to follow after B, taking his lead as they retrace the paths back through the forest. The thinness of the trail forces them to walk in single file, and they find themselves moving in silence, the beat of the waterfall in the distance the only sound in the air around them.

Repeatedly, Grian tries to get Scar’s attention, wanting to reassure him in the face of everything that’s gone wrong. However if Scar notices his attempts he makes no move to acknowledge them, flicking his wrist away every time Grian tries desperately to reach for his hand.

It’s a miserable feeling. Rotten in a way that’s worse than his infection. There’s no fairness to it, no cosmic logic that can connect their collective actions to this exact moment. On the cusp of everything settling in a way that finally felt right, it’s all gone completely wrong.

He plods along, eyes fixed on the broad line of Scar’s shoulders as his partner walks ahead of him, willing him to understand—to believe—that he never planned this. That this isn’t his fault. They pass in silence through the forest until at last they leave the cover of the tall, coniferous tree trunks, finding themselves back out on the wide open parking lot from before, the water park to their right and the empty RV campground to their left.

Everything is just as they left it, with one major addition: a pickup truck. Navy blue and smeared with mud along its side. It sits diagonally across several parking spaces, waiting to greet them.

“We have to get our things—” Grian begins to say, but before he can finish speaking, the passenger door is thrown open and a new face is jumping out to meet them.

He’s around Grian’s height, if Grian had to guess, but at least a little older judging by the creases on his forehead and the lines in the corner of his eyes. He's wearing a hunting jacket in a leafy green camo pattern that’s a size or two too large for him, making him look slightly smaller than Grian images he would appear without it, his unruly hair shoved under a trucker hat with a mesh back, white streaks shot through his otherwise dark mane speaking either to age or imperfect bleaching. 

Worryingly, his expressive features are fixed into a scowl.

“That is not who you came to find,” the man snaps, and there’s a peculiarity in his tone, like his voice wasn’t made to sound angry.

“There was no sign of them,” B explains, sympathetic in a way that speaks to a larger story, one that neither Grian nor Scar are privy to. “This is the best I got.”

The man sighs, pushing the brim of his hat back in an anxious gesture that shows off a red bandana underneath before he absently twists a dark band around his left ring finger.

“It’s fine,” he says, clearly in an effort to reassure himself more than anyone else. “Cleo will find ‘em. I’m sure of it.”

Silence settles between them, a loaded moment of awkwardness, before the stranger gives Grian and Scar a quick up and down. He assesses them with an efficiency that makes Grian feel vulnerable before asking, “Now—you’ll pardon me but, who are these fine gentlemen?”

Eager to explain, B gestures enthusiastically towards the pair. “This is Grian and Scar. I knew them before the, uh—before all the everything, if you can believe it.”

“I’ve believed crazier,” the man says with a smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he does so. Without hesitation he walks up to them, putting a hand out to shake. “I’m Bdubs. Nice to meet you—though I wish it was under better circumstances. No doubt you feel the same.”

Grian mumbles some sort of reply, shaking Bdubs’ hand without really hearing him. His attention is entirely on Scar, overanalyzing every shade of his expression and trying to find out just how bad things are between them. He needs them to bounce back from this. They have to.

“How do you three know each other, then?” Bdubs asks, innocently curious.

All three of them seize up at the question, incriminating in and of itself. Grian can feel B’s gaze dart towards him, but doesn’t dare make eye contact back—just in case Scar is watching for it and will use it as a mark to hold against him.

As it turns out, Scar’s the only one who bothers to speak up, his voice chipper, nearly making Grian wince at its blatant insincerity.

“Actually, it was Grian who introduced us, once upon a time. Colleagues, right? Or was it old friends from school?

“We, uh. We struck up a conversation at a bar. Exchanged numbers… like you do,” B awkwardly explains when Bdubs turns to him for detail.

“God, I miss bars,” Bdubs bemoans, oblivious to the ever-rising tension in the air. “What I’d give for a beer right now.”

There’s an awful aura of foreboding coming off Scar, one that Grian wishes he could do something about. He wants, desperately, to reach out, to apologise, but he knows he can’t right now. Can’t afford to make a scene—not when he’s already covered in a stranger’s blood and just barely clinging to lucidity.

He has to get Scar alone. It’s the only way to fix this.

“Crazy all the little things you miss, eh? A beer at a bar… outdoor concerts at the park, grocery stores… bingo nights at the community centre…” Bdubs shakes his head, clearing his throat before he claps his hands together, looking from face to face. “Anyway, no use crying about it. We’re alive and that’s what matters, right? Glad to add you two to the group.”

“Temporarily,” Grian insists. “We won’t be staying long.”

Bdubs looks taken aback for a moment, casting his eyes towards B for clarification but only getting a half-hearted shrug in response.

“Of course,” Bdubs allows, putting on a smile that at least appears polite. “Whatever you like.”

It’s clear that Bdubs has more questions in mind that he's eager to ask, however he’s interrupted by a rustle from the woods behind them. It makes Grian tense immediately, whirling around to face the new threat. Still standing at a distance from him, Scar does the same, adjusting the grip on his rifle. It becomes clear in a moment, though, that there’s no ghoul approaching, Bdubs’ shout of enthusiasm echoing across the parking lot as a figure steps out from amongst the trees.

They’re tall, maybe as tall as Scar. Large in every sense of the word, and incredibly imposing, moving across the parking lot with an intimidating confidence. Like they belong there. Like this world is theirs. Even from a distance, Grian can see that they’re ill dressed for the weather, wearing a brightly patterned windbreaker that stands out garishly against the earthy backdrop of the forest. That, alongside pink snowboots and shockingly copper-red hair tumbling out from under a teal knit cap, make for a striking picture.

“Cleo!” Bdubs calls, raising an arm to wave in an enthusiastic greeting.

Cleo responds with a tight smile, lifting a hand in response.

“That’s our friend,” Bdubs explains, glancing back towards Grian and Scar. “She’s the infamous Zombie Cleo—but you can just call them Cleo.”

There’s a specific emphasis on the way Bdubs delivers the information, like he’s passing covert instructions. Grian understands the cue, but can barely stay focused on it over the sudden rush in his ears, his heart rate spiking at the thought of coming in contact with someone who might share the same affliction as him.

“Zombie Cleo?” Scar asks, picking up on the same point Grian heard the loudest. “How does someone get a name like that?”

“You kill a helluva lot of zombies,” Cleo says, getting close enough to speak without raising her voice. She has a familiar accent, similar to Grian’s own. There’s a gruffness to her, curt but not unkind, their mind clearly preoccupied as they unhook a bow and quiver of arrows from over their shoulder, tossing them into the bed of the pickup along with a brace of rabbits she’d had clipped to her belt that Grian hadn’t noticed at first.

Traitorously, his interest momentarily piques. However, when it becomes clear that they’re long dead—each with an efficient arrow hole pierced through its throat—he immediately loses his enthusiasm.

“Cleo’s the best at it,” Bdubs enthuses, smiling brightly and clearly keen to show off his companion’s accomplishments. “She can read ‘em. Predict what they’re gonna do, get in their heads.”

“It’s not that complicated,” Cleo dismisses, though there’s a clear fondness in their voice as they speak. “The average zombie isn’t leading a rich and nuanced internal life, you don’t have to work very hard to figure ‘em out.”

“They’re being modest,” Bdubs explains affectionately. “No one here’s killed more of those virus riddled corpse munchers than our Zombie Cleo.”

The reality of it settles in, and Grian tries not to look disappointed. She doesn’t share the same condition as him, then. Not even close.

With her gear stashed away, Cleo finally turns towards the group, settling their hands on their hips as she gives Scar and Grian a quick once over.

“We weren’t meant to pick up people today,” she says, and it’s clear that Grian and Scar aren’t included in the address.

“Well it’s not like we’re gonna leave them here, for goodness sake,” Bdubs argues, his voice rising to a point almost immediately.

“I didn’t say that, love,” Cleo offers, her tone gentling somewhat. “I’m just wondering what kind of mood this will put Ren in when we bring them back.”

Two sets of eyes wordlessly turn towards B, who looks caught by the weight of an unspoken expectation. Taking a breath, he steels himself before speaking firmly, only Grian noticing the faint uncertainty in his eyes.

“I’ll talk to him, don’t worry. It won’t be a problem.”

The tension of a hundred unspoken questions peaks and passes, leaving Grian and Scar awkwardly on its fringes. At last, Cleo turns towards them, arms relaxing to her sides as she finally greets them with a smile that feels apologetic.

“Sorry,” she starts, and Grian wants to believe she means it. “We’ve been having a day.” Their tone is endlessly polite. “What did you say your names were?”

“We didn’t,” Grian answers, curt, before Scar has a chance to reply.

“This is Grian,” Bdubs enthuses, paying no mind to Grian’s haughty reply. “And that tall, handsome drink of water said his name is Scar.”

No further information is offered, B remaining remarkably silent.

“And whereabouts have you come from?” Cleo asks, trying her best to navigate their stilted answers. Despite the direct nature of the question, Grian gets the impression that she’s more interested in making smalltalk than cross-examining either of them. They’re the actions of a curious person, not an unkind one.

“We crossed the border yesterday,” Scar explains, his voice pre-emptively smoothing down whatever hackles Grian knows his own reply would have raised. “Before they went down, the emergency broadcasts were telling everyone to head North, so….”

“Americans, huh?” Bdubs muses, scratching the rough stubble on his chin and sighing. “I used to be one of those—before the wedding bell bug bit me.”

“How does a bug bite change your citizenship?” Scar asks, endearingly baffled in a way Grian wishes he could appreciate.

Cleo laughs, the sound light and airy, clearly amused by Scar’s question. “It’s not a literal bug bite. He’s saying that he got married.”

“That’s right!” Bdubs enthuses, holding out his left hand and showing off the ring he’d been anxiously turning earlier. “Moved up here with my beau to get hitched and almost never looked back!”

The phrasing of it catches Grian’s curiosity, and despite his reluctance to engage with any of these new people, he can’t help but ask. “Almost never?”

Dramatically Bdubs sighs, dropping his hands back down to his sides. “Not that it matters anymore, but they call ‘em loonies and toonies. It’s like the currency’s a joke to them, and with the exchange rate—”

“Right, well, if we’re ready to get a move on,” Cleo interrupts, firm but clearly deeply fond of whatever Bdubs had been saying. “We really ought to head back to camp.”

“Already?” Bdubs asks, the spark in him immediately dampening into something reluctant. “But what about—?”

“Bdubs, a moment, if you don’t mind.” Cleo puts a hand on his shoulder, leading him several metres away from the group. Grian watches as they speak to him, unable to catch her words but easily reading the apology and the resolution written on their face. On the receiving end of her verdict, Bdubs’ expression crumples, his hands finding Cleo’s as he grips them tight for reassurance.

It’s at that point that Grian looks away, unwilling to intrude any further on what’s clearly meant to be a private moment.

“Is everything okay?” Scar whispers aloud, directing the question towards B without looking at him.

Uneasily, B rubs at the back of his neck, an expression that looks conflicted lingering in the furrow of his brows. “I mean, we hope so…” he offers before giving the two of them a half-smile. “Two members of our party went out on an excursion and haven’t been back in a couple days. We came out here to look, since they said they’d be in the area, but… there’s been no sign of them.”

Grian thinks about the campsite set up in the woods. The stranger he had torn into without stopping to consider who they were or what it had taken for them to get to the area.

“I’m sorry,” Scar offers, genuine because he still has it in him to be.

“Yeah,” B agrees with a sigh. “Me too.”

“Everybody ready?” Cleo asks, loud and forced-cheerful as she makes her way back to the group. Bdubs trails behind her, looking at his feet. Unexpectedly, Grian feels an empathetic twinge in his chest at the sight of him.

“All set,” B agrees, nodding.

“We need to get our stuff,” Grian says, hoping that Cleo might wave him off and tell them to hurry back quickly, giving him a moment to talk to Scar alone.

Instead, she nods, making it clear that she intends to join them.

“Wouldn’t want you losing your way back,” they joke, their humour only mildly condescending.

Reluctantly, Grian tolerates her company, hating the way Scar seems relieved to have her along, hanging on their every word as they explain the encampment they’re meant to return to.

“We’re going to have to put you in the back of the pick-up for the drive. It’s more exposed than the inside, so you’ll need to stay on guard. The route’s generally pretty clear, but that doesn’t mean we haven’t had the occasional horde surprise us along the way.”

“How long have you had the place set up?” Scar asks, continuing to direct any and all conversation resolutely away from Grian.

Cleo thinks for a moment, following them into the empty gift shop where they’d stashed their things. Their bags are in a pile next to the white board, exactly where they’d left them. “Can’t give you an exact date—I don’t think any of us have really been keeping track, but… I’d say we got everything up and running a little over three weeks ago? Maybe four, if we’re being generous.”

“And it’s safe?” Grian asks, bending down to retrieve his gear, ignoring the low rumble in his stomach as he does—a reminder that he hadn’t gotten his fill before his meal had been so rudely interrupted.

“Safer than most places out there,” Cleo counters. “We haven’t had a single attack that a little regular patrolling hasn’t been able to handle.”

“Sounds a little too good to be true,” Grian quips, adjusting where his straps sit on his shoulders.

Cleo pauses, giving them both a long, hard stare. Grian can’t help but feel flustered, fighting the urge to fidget as he stands still under the intensity of their gaze. After a moment, she quirks a smile, though Grian notices how the expression doesn’t quite reach their eyes.

“You’re both a bit pessimistic, aren’t you?”

It’s an acute assessment for Grian, but a criminally unfair one to leverage against Scar.

Immediately, Grian wants to tell her off. To say that Scar is not like that. That she doesn't even know him. Instead, Scar speaks up before Grian has a chance to, effortlessly defanging the remark with a loose shrug of his shoulders.

“If you expect the worst then nothing surprises you,” he excuses, blasé in a way that makes Grian feel guilty. “We learned that lesson day one.”

Surprisingly, Cleo laughs at his words, nodding in agreeable deference. She then motions them out of the shop and back towards the truck where they know Bdubs and B are waiting.

“There’s still good in the world,” she offers, an obvious compromise as they shut the door behind them, taking a moment to adjust the signs outside to ensure they’re still prominently visible. “We’ll see how you feel after a warm meal and a good night’s sleep.”

“I’d love for you to change my mind,” Scar relents with a dry laugh, and Grian tries not to feel the subtle dig between his words.

It’s clear when they return to the pickup that the two men waiting for them are in the middle of a differing of opinions, Bdubs calling out to Cleo from across the parking lot when they’re near enough to hear his shout.

“Big B says he’s calling dibs on shotgun.”

Without even having to look at B, the motivation is immediately clear to Grian. He feels it like the stinging accusation it is—B already doing everything in his power to distance himself from them. From him.

“Since when do we call dibs?” Cleo asks, sounding somewhat befuddled, pulling down the tailgate of the pickup to help them load their gear in.

“I was just thinking maybe we should start,” B offers, his voice pitching into something comical rather than accusing. “Mix things up a bit.”

Whatever B’s intention, in the end it works. Without any argument, Cleo climbs into the flatbed of the pickup, putting out their hand to help Scar and Grian in after them.

It feels a bit rebellious, sitting in the open bed with their gear stashed in around them. It’s not something Grian’s ever done before, and a part of him thinks that in any other circumstance he’d enjoy it. As it is, however, he can’t help but feel somewhat trapped.

Beside him, Scar makes no effort to acknowledge his presence, sitting in silence with his pack firmly wedged between them, his rifle slung across his chest with his arms wrapped loose around it. Once they’re all settled and secure, Bdubs starts the engine, the truck roaring to life with a noise Grian hasn’t heard in ages.

There’s no grace in Bdubs’ driving, and Grian quickly realises how grateful he is that they have no other competition on the road. Grinding the clutch for a moment, Bdubs jerks the truck forward with a screech of tires before he pulls left out of the parking lot, the pickup’s centre of gravity sliding them all to one side while Grian instinctively braces himself against the sidewalls of the flatbed.

“Sorry!” Bdubs calls back over his shoulder, his voice muffled through the glass of the rear window. “It’s my first day.”

Enjoying it for the joke it is, Cleo chuckles fondly, settling back once they’re safely on the highway, hair tossing unruly in the wind and clearly enjoying themself.

There’s no rhyme or reason to Bdubs’ driving, slow in some places and fast in others. The highway is empty, but he changes lanes from time to time. Occasionally, he rides the rumble strip along the outside shoulder until he eventually snaps back to the centre.

Grian does his best to resign himself to it, choosing to take note of their progress instead.

Almost immediately the mountains recede behind them, following at a distance and leaving them in a wide basin of cultivated farmland. There’s a slow-moving, muddy-brown river to their right as they head vaguely northeast, but nothing truly interesting catches his attention for miles.

The signs of civilization creep up on them slowly, first in scattered suburbs that gradually grow into a more consistently built up sprawl. Somewhat shocked, Grian realises he wasn’t remotely aware of the size of the city they’re fast approaching, having greatly underestimated what he saw on the map.

It’s a noxious feeling when he finally cranes his head over his shoulder and sees what they have yet to pass through.

In so many ways, the city reminds him of the earliest days of his and Scar’s journey. Back when they stood halfway up a hillside and looked down over the ruin of Anaheim while catching their breath. This is worse, though, the city that’s spread in front of them much further into its atrophy and decay. Not freshly wounded, but long succumbed to its sickness, gutted and pitted and blackened like the remnants of a war zone.

Too quickly to notice, the highway becomes thick with vehicles, abandoned facing in both directions, all of them just as ruined as everywhere else he and Scar have been. Bdubs never once slows down however, following a path that’s been meticulously cleared through the chaos. It’s the work of dozens of hours of careful coordination, creating a checkerboard lane for them to weave their way through, rounding the edge of the city in a way that feels like a concession to necessity rather than a voluntary choice.

“Tunnel’s coming up,” Bdubs shouts back to them at one point, barely forty minutes into their journey. “Hold your breath.”

Grian barely has time to prepare, glancing over his shoulder one second before they’re plunged into darkness, gasping out of instinct as the world goes black around him.

The air is immediately foul, rank to a degree that has him gagging as he struggles to cover his nose and mouth. He tries not to think about it—about how many decomposing bodies would be necessary to create such a reek, closing his eyes tightly and hoping they pass through this part quickly.

Luckily, the tunnel ends as abruptly as it arrived, and almost immediately Grian finds they’re on a bridge, police barriers pushed aside, leaving their passage clear.

He thinks the place would be beautiful if the situation wasn’t what it is. Beneath them, the bridge spans an inlet, the blue-green water winding further inland to one side and passing out into the ocean on the other. Further up the coast, Grian can see another bridge. However this one is decimated, the support cables and struts that once held it up now supporting nothing, the road it formerly carried dangling in pieces over the water.

In front of them a fresh set of mountains rise up, snow capped and rugged, more beautiful than any of the peaks Grian has seen thus-far, utterly oblivious to the ruin they look down on.

“You can relax,” Cleo says at last, her voice loud to carry over the rush of air as they drive. “We’re through the worst of it.”

A part of Grian wants to tell her that the city wasn’t the problem. That the real problem is sitting in the passenger seat of the pickup, resolutely staring out the front window while Scar sits next to him scowling down at his own feet. Instead, Grian offers a nod in an attempt to seem grateful, sitting back with his shoulders wedged into the corner of the flatbed as the city abruptly vanishes behind a wall of trees. The wilderness draws back in around them like a curtain as they make their way up a steep incline that runs parallel to the new mountain range.

Grian estimates that they spend almost two hours on the road, driving through one of the most magnificent vistas he’s ever seen. The highway follows along the coast, picturesque in the most stunning of ways—a forested mountain slope on one side, and a sharp plunge down into the ocean on the other. In front of them the water stretches out flat like glass, littered with dark green lumps of islands that are covered in forest right down to their shorelines, mysterious and inviting in a way Grian’s never experienced before.

More than once he looks to Scar, attempting to communicate a shared sense of awe and wonder at the place. Scar, however, makes no effort to look at him, reserved in a way that feels determined.

It stings on a personal level, and Grian struggles with his partner’s absolute refusal to acknowledge him. To bridge even the tiniest gap between them.

Cleo doesn’t talk, and at one point even dozes off, her head tucked into her shoulder as they lean against the rear of the truck’s cab. Through the window, Grian can see Bdubs and B chatting, amicable but serious as they exchange words.

Grian’s about to make an effort to sleep himself when the pickup finally takes an exit off the highway, immediately slowing down and prompting Cleo to stir.

It’s clear that they’re near their destination, the road thinning into a shared two lanes with the forest gathering close on either side. All the same, Grian doesn’t even realise they’ve slipped into something fortified until he spies the gates in front of them, the forest pushed back, opening into a clearing with a series of walls—plywood, chainlink, and barbed wire—set up around a barred and barricaded entrance.

Their speed diminishes as they approach, coasting into a crawl. Then, all at once, the pickup jerks roughly to a halt, throwing all of them backwards—even B in the cab—as Bdubs lets out a yell and slams the brakes. The engine is still running when he throws the driver’s side door open, stumbling out of the cab with a haste that seems desperate.

Panic is just beginning to sit on Grian’s lungs when Cleo turns to look at the commotion, studying the scene for a second before they give a puff of laughter. At full tilt, Bdubs runs towards two men standing by a muddy off-road jeep that looks like it’s seen better days. While they all watch, he throws himself into the arms of the taller of the two men, almost immediately lifting his feet off the ground so that the taller man is forced to hold him up.

Grabbing her few things and getting to their feet, Cleo jumps out of the back of the pick-up, B filing out after her, a wide grin on his face. Both of them move quickly to catch up with Bdubs, their words overlapping one another into an enthusiastic kind of chaos. Uncertain, Grian tosses a look back at Scar and for once, Scar is watching him as well, the same curiosity mirrored on his own face.

“I’m guessing those two must be the ones they went out looking for,” Grian suggests, to which Scar hums a noncommittal reply, his attention on the crowd as he grabs his things and leverages himself over the side of the pick-up.

It hurts to be so completely dismissed. However, not keen on being the only one not participating, Grian follows along all the same, struggling with the drop that Scar’s longer legs handled easily.

As they approach he gets a better look at the two men. The one Bdubs is currently clinging to cuts a striking figure. He’s not particularly imposing, despite his height—but all the same, there’s an arresting look about him. His hair is so blonde it appears white, making Grian wonder if he dyed it that way, and, if so, how he’s managed to maintain it in the apocalypse. His eyes too, are hauntingly pale—an icy blue that appears almost red when they catch the light at just the right angle. The rest of his features are a mystery, hidden behind a respirator mask that covers the bottom half of his face, the filters laying flat against his cheeks rather than bulging out. Ironically, he looks more like a character from an apocalypse movie than any one Grian has seen in their journey thus-far.

In comparison, the other man looks almost shockingly nondescript. He’s not much taller than Grian, with dark brown hair and even darker eyes, with what looks to be several days of untended scruff clings to his chin. The most visually distinct thing about him is the streak of faded green dye shot through his hair, the roots growing out in a way that suggests he hasn’t touched it up since the world fell apart.

The moment he and Scar come to a stop at the edge of the group, Bdubs drops back to his own two feet, turning around to face them. Noticeably, he still keeps one hand around the waist of the white-haired man, who Grian can see is almost shockingly skinny, even under the heavy bulk of his fur-trimmed parka. “Grian, Scar, meet my husband, Etho!”

“Hello there,” Scar says, smiling politely in the way that comes so easily to him. “I suppose you’re the one that Bdubs was so worried about?”

“I wasn’t worried!” Bdubs denies, even as Cleo sighs and rolls their eyes next to him. “I always knew they’d be fine! It’s you people who wouldn’t cool it with the constant waterworks!”

With a fondness that seems as natural as breathing, Etho bends his head forward, leaning into Bdubs as he says in a quiet, soft voice, “I’m sorry for scaring you.”

“Yeah, well,” Bdubs grumbles, making a show of shrugging Etho off, though noticeably his arm doesn’t move from where it’s still clasped tight around his waist. “We’ll talk about that later.”

Quite suddenly, as though their gentle banter has crossed a line, the remaining stranger mutters something under his breath, turning as he moves away from the group. There’s a sourness in him, angry in a way Grian recognises from his own tantrums, returning to the jeep and climbing into the passenger seat before slamming the door shut, his arms folded tight across his chest.

It’s clear that they’re witnessing something that neither he nor Scar were meant to see. A personal drama caught in the middle of its third act, robbed of its context. It casts them in the role of voyeurs as Cleo steps forward, entering into a quiet conversation with Etho, her back squarely to them.

In the awkwardness of the moment, B makes a point of sidling closer without going so far as to stand immediately next to either Grian or Scar.

“That’s the longest those two have been apart in… maybe ever,” he explains, nodding his head towards Etho and Bdubs while pointedly ignoring the now absent stranger’s outburst entirely. For a moment B chews his bottom lip, clearly weighing out some internal options before he offers, “You caught us in the middle of an ongoing situation, I’m afraid. It’s not your fault ,and it’s not about you, so don’t take it personally.”

Grian doesn’t know what to say to that—isn’t socially competent enough to manage it with tact. Instead, his silence allows B to continue speaking, an earnesty creeping into his tone that Grian can’t bring himself to believe.

“I’m really glad you’re both here.”

It’s clear from his refusal to speak that Scar holds his own doubts, the three of them simmering in silence for a moment before, finally, B clears his throat.

“Why don’t you get your things and let me show you around?” he offers, friendlier than Grian deserves.

A part of Grian wants to say no. Wants to step back and take their things and march into the forest, not interested in being involved whatsoever.

The other part of him knows that, like it or not, Scar needs all the rest he can get. He’s been walking for miles, and even with his cane and wheelchair he must be exhausted. Sheltering in the company of someone who can vouch for them and extend a helping hand is objectively better than continuing to forge their way alone.

All the same, Grian can’t help but feel the way his hunger gnaws like a reminder in the pit of his belly, even more pronounced now that he had a taste to whet his appetite.

It’s an impossible decision, one he knows he can’t make— for them or for himself.

“Sure,” Scar says, unburdened by the conflicts Grian is experiencing. His tone sounds flat as he moves to join B, though, like some part of him has completely disengaged from the moment. “Why not?”

Offering a few words in parting to Cleo, B proceeds to motion them along, ushering them through the first gate. The three of them continue together on foot through a series of barricaded, heavily fortified checkpoints.

“We’ve been working hard on the perimeter,” B explains, a hint of pride in his tone. “Raising the walls and shoring them up. We’re lucky that this place has such a good location. There’s a river—you’ll see it in a minute. Fresh water for us and a good rear defence to boot.”

With a nod to a blonde haired woman in stripes stationed on guard, they pass the last of the gates, finding themselves entering what must have been a charming, somewhat rustic resort before the apocalypse brought it all down around its ears.

The dirt road they’re following branches, splitting in two opposite directions and forming a loop that Grian imagines must run the entire way around the property. Directly in front of them is a large central lodge built of cedar logs and overgrown mossy shingles. It reminds Grian of the summer camps he went to in his youth, though this one has clearly been adapted to suit their new world—more of a compound now, with reinforced bars bolted to the windows and doors, alongside solar panels and water-catchers retrofitted onto the roof.

Beside the lodge sit several vehicles, some armoured and some not, arranged along the edge of an open lawn that might once have been used for sports and recreation. It’s now in the process of being turned into raised vegetable beds, with several coops populated by chickens that look remarkably content. A handful of empty bee boxes sit to one side, ready to be used. Pallets of cinder blocks, lengths of rebar, and lumber lay around in piles, with saw horses set up intermittently, the project clearly preparing for an inevitable spring.

All around them tower tall, imposing trees, making the place seem both secluded and protected. Further down the gravel road, Grian can see the river B mentioned, a silvery line of rushing water glimpsed through the trees. Lined up along its banks are a dozen or so small cabins, each one built in the same halved-log and cedar shingle style as the main lodge.

“Normally we’d take you to see Ren first,” B explains as he leads them towards the cabins, moving in long strides with a slight spring in his step that Grian had always found a bit annoying. “He’s the leader around here. But… since Etho and Joel went missing, and then Bdubs insisted on going out to find them… he’s not gonna be in the mood to meet new people today.”

It’s a somewhat unnerving statement, but B delivers it like it’s nothing to be concerned about.

“I’ll talk to him tonight, and introduce you in the morning.”

Neither Grian nor Scar make more than a nod of acknowledgement, and it’s clear the quiet puts B on his backfoot. He gets a nervous look on his face as he laughs half-heartedly and continues leading them towards the cabins. Yet again, Grian’s gaze slides towards Scar, only to find his partner busy taking in the forest around them, eyes darting from the trees to the river to the cabins ahead.

“You know, I got real lucky meeting up with these folks when I did,” B continues conversationally, desperate to fill the silence. “They’re good people.”

“How’d you even end up here?” Grian asks, his curiosity becoming overwhelming. B is a lot of things, but a survival expert isn’t one of them. The thought of him trekking out from San Antonio on his own and ending up here, entirely unscathed… Grian can’t picture it at all.

“I, uh… I had a business meeting in Vancouver,” B says awkwardly, the words tumbling out without a chance for him to think them all the way through. “I flew out the night before the outbreak. Basically left for the airport right after we—um. I left after… uh… I mean—”

“After we all got acquainted at Grian’s place,” Scar supplies smoothly, not looking at either of them.

Grian winces. From the corner of his eye, he catches B do the same.

“Yeah...” There’s guilt in the acknowledgement; an elephant in the room that nobody wants to discuss. With a hurried focus, B leads them to the fourth cabin in the line, not saying anything else the rest of the way.

Up close, the cabins are even more appealing than Grian had initially thought. It’s clear that they’d all been well-maintained prior to the outbreak, the wooden porch and roofing all sturdy, without any weathering or wear. There are two, low, adirondack chairs set next to the door, underneath a wrought iron hook that holds an unlit lantern in place. As they approach, B reaches up and turns a switch on its side, bringing a small solar bulb to life.

“C’mon in,” he says, holding the screen door open as he motions the two to head inside.

The interior of the cabin is much more modern than Grian had expected—a single, spacious room for sleeping and lounging, with a small kitchenette and an adjacent bathroom. While the flooring, walls and ceiling are made up of the same wood as the raw logs of the exterior, it’s clear that they’ve been sanded and finished differently. The floors are smooth, and the walls without any large knots or splinters.

The main focal point as they look around the space is the large, stonework fireplace made of roughly hewn granite blocks. There’s a stocky coffee table and comfortable sofa set out in front of it, piled with plenty of cushions and throws. Towards the back of the cabin, on a more elevated foundation, is a queen-size bed with a wooden frame that looks handmade. There are plenty of windows all around them for natural light, but the lantern B has brought in off its hook brightens up the more shadowed corners. Grian can tell it’ll be essential for after the sun sets.

“They’re glorified tents right now,” B explains, sounding a little apologetic as he gestures around the room. “We have plans to get power and water going—the river’s right at our disposal, and there’s some wind turbines not far from here that we’re gonna tap into… But right now, all we’ve got is the solar on the main hall for cooking, so we gotta make-do in our own spaces.” He nods over his shoulder, directing his attention towards the end of the line of cabins. “There’s outhouses down that way, and we’ve got showers in the main lodge, as well as laundry. You can set your things down and rest up in the meantime. Home sweet home.” He smiles, clearly proud of what’s on offer.

“We’re sharing a cabin?” Scar asks, blunt.

Almost immediately, B’s gaze darts towards Grian, looking for answers. Grian’s ears go hot, resolutely avoiding making eye contact.

“I mean, I could talk to Cleo about getting you separate ones if you’d rather…?”

“It’s fine, B,” Grian interrupts before the situation has a chance to spiral out of control. “The cabin is perfect, thank you.”

“The sofa turns into a pullout, if you need it,” B offers to Scar apologetically. “I’ll, uh… give you two some time to settle in. It’ll be lunch pretty soon—you’ll hear the bell for it—and then you just gotta head up to the main building we passed on the way in.”

Grian offers a polite nod of acknowledgement, but Scar doesn’t speak at all, already shifting his gear off his back so that he can unpack his things.

There’s a tension simmering in the air that they’re all acutely aware of. B is quick to leave once given the chance, setting the lantern down on a shelf just inside the door as he goes. The silence in his absence is stifling, Grian standing still in the middle of the room while Scar remains focused on his possessions.

Grian can feel his blood thrumming with anxiety. Guilt and anger and fear choke the back of his throat, making it difficult to speak. He clenches and unclenches his fists, willing Scar to turn around and look at him. However, as the seconds pass and Scar continues to ignore him, it becomes more and more clear that he’ll have to make the first move.

“Scar,” Grian starts, his voice immediately coming out as a plea. “Can we talk about this?”

“Talk about what, Grian?” Scar replies, his words clipped with an almost aggressive lack of emotion. “I don’t think either of us has anything to say right now.”

He doesn’t so much as look up from his task as he speaks, and something about it sticks ugly in Grian’s craw. He knows that this is all his fault. He’s known it for months now, but surely Scar has seen that he’s been making an effort to move them on from the pain he caused? Surely, if nothing else, he remembers how he’d turned down Grian’s attempts to talk back on the mountain mere days ago.

“This isn’t fair, Scar,” Grian begins, more pitiful than he wants to sound.

The way Scar’s head snaps up to look at him, eyes harsh and cold and so, so angry, makes him wish he hadn’t spoken at all.

“Sorry, are you telling me about what’s fair right now, Grian?”

“I tried to talk to you about this,” Grian starts, unable to contain the words now that he’s begun. “I wanted to sort it all out the second I found you again, but you’re the one who—”

“You’re right,” Scar cuts him off, abrupt, a heated, unforgiving look on his face. “It’s always my stupid mistake, isn’t it? Poor, sad, lonely Scar." He throws the words back, quoting Grian's callous comment from back at the hot springs—an event that now feels like a lifetime ago, despite how the memory of it still makes Grian flinch. "What else is new?”

“Scar,” Grian begins, frustration overlapping his own misery. “You know that’s not what I—”

“Let’s just unpack, G. I’m tired. If we do this right now, you’re not going to like the way it ends.”

Grian’s heart sinks, the impossibility of the situation rising up at last and overwhelming him.

I didn’t mean for him to be here, he thinks, angry and guilty in equal measures. Feeling, miserably, like this is the punchline of a joke he has no control over. I’m not happy, either. I feel bad, too.

Without another word, Scar turns, putting his back towards him and effectively shutting down any further conversation. Grian knows he could push—could stomp up to Scar and demand his attention—but even as he thinks it, he can feel his courage failing.

It’s like he’s been transported back two months in time, standing once more at the foot of his stairs and breathing hard as he watches Scar’s trust in him shatter into pieces.

It leaves him feeling heavy all over, his throat too thick to say anything at all. He takes a shaky breath, weak and pathetic, trying to steady himself before he finally shifts his bag off his shoulders. With trembling hands, he makes himself focus on unpacking his things, forcing his mind not to wander.

He tries not to think about what B is doing now—about who he’s going to tell. About how long Scar intends to stay.

About whether or not Scar will want to leave without him.

About his hunger, still pronounced and inescapable. Riotous at being cut short of true fulfillment. Demanding a meal. Wanting him to eat, eat, eat…

The silence between the two of them is prominent and miserable.

Grian doesn’t know what he can do to broach it.

 

Notes:

AAAAA THERE THEY ARE!

THE LIFERS!! ❤️💛💚 SO MANY OF THEM ALL AT ONCE!! :D

We've been SUPER excited to get to these guys, and we can't WAIT to share more scenes with them in upcoming chapters! I know I say this all the time, but a few of the upcoming chapters are seriously some of Lock and my faves :') We really hope they hold up for those of you reading along! 💫

Chapter 36

Notes:

Yet ANOTHER incredible animatic done by syneester, this time picking from all the 'I love you' moments in the fic OTL 💜💫 Please check it out and join me in pausing every single frame in order to fully soak in the art and which scenes are being referred to. 10/10 experience, would recommend! ✨

In lesser news, character tags have been updated now to include everyone we've met along the way! :D Feels like a good time to do this, since we only have about six chapters left to go and not much left to spoil :")

Grian wakes into the haze of mid-morning to the sound of muffled voices and the cabin door opening and shutting again.

It takes him a moment to put together the pieces of where he is and what’s happening, his head foggy from the remnants of a fitful sleep as he stares up at the bare timbres of the cabin’s ceiling. The light filtering in through the windows is greyish in a way that tells him that the weather outside is overcast and drizzly, but at least for the moment he’s warm and comfortable.

Safe, he thinks as though testing the word out. Unsure if it fits with the reality of the situation he’s found himself in.

For now, he tacks on, closing his eyes again as he inhales deeply through his nose before letting his breath out in a rush.

His hunger is the first thing he properly takes account of, its presence making it hard for him to focus on anything else. While it’s not as bad as it had been the day before last—not the inescapable, all-encompassing craving—it remains ever-present and insistent all the same. He wants to eat. Badly. And he knows the gnawing in his belly is only going to get worse unless he does something about it, and that’s going to have to be soon.

As the minutes pass on, ebbing one into the next, he begins to realise that the sounds in the cabin are his and his alone, and that Scar is no longer sharing the space with him. It has him sitting up in a rush, looking around to confirm his suspicion, finding the other bed haphazardly made, and Scar’s jacket and cane gone.

Grian had slept on the pullout, comfortable and warm, but unambiguously not welcome in the bed laying next to Scar. The sting of rejection had bothered him at first, making him feel fragile while Scar had continued to refuse making eye contact—to speak with him or to even acknowledge that he was there at all. But now his sensitivity has worn off, leaving Grian’s emotions calcifying around a growing frustration, impatient with the misplaced irritation Scar is treating him with.

It’s not his fault that they’ve ended up in this situation. Grian knows this, and he knows that Scar should know it, too. Scar’s anger—his feeling of being betrayed—none of it is according to any nefarious, spiteful plan of Grian’s, and Grian resents the implication that he somehow had a hand in arranging this. That this was his idea.

What he’d like is a sympathetic partner. What he’d like is some mutual support in the face of these incredibly cruel, completely unfair odds.

Instead, he finds himself alone, taking in the clear signs that Scar has gone out and not bothered to tell him.

It sparks a bitterness in Grian, frustrated as he moves to the edge of the pullout, reaching for his jumper and pulling it on over the t-shirt he’d slept in and yanking his socks back onto his feet before he pushes them into his boots. His jacket has been left hanging on a hook by the door, and Grian grabs it as he goes, not bothering to bring anything else with him as he opens the door and steps outside.

He’s expecting an empty front step. He’s hoping, maybe, to find Scar waiting for him with a moody look on his face. He’s not ready to rush face first into B, who stumbles back a step from where he’d clearly been about to knock on the door.

“Oh. Hey, good morning,” B says smoothly, recovering quick. He helps to steady Grian by putting a hand out to catch him before he trips over himself. “I was just coming to check if you wanted breakfast.”

It’s obvious that they’re in no better place than they were the day before. Yesterday had been a mess, B retrieving them from the cabin to take them to a lunch they’d shared with the others, Grian keeping quiet while Scar had ignored him in favour of laughing along with the stories Bdubs had loudly told. For his part, B had kept trying to catch Grian’s eye, attempting to communicate with him while Grian had resolutely kept to himself.

Being alone with B now raises a pulse of anxiety in Grian’s chest that he tries desperately to brush aside, pulling himself back from B’s touch in a way that he knows will come across rude.

“Scar’s already gone ahead,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, I saw him at the dining hall with Bdubs. Early bird, is he?”

B laughs with a weak, forced chuckle, and Grian makes no comment. In his silence, the smile on B’s face wanes at the corners, and he does his best to cover for it.

“Well, there’s still plenty to be had. C’mon, we’ll go together.”

It’s the last thing Grian wants to do, but he knows he can’t say no, so together they head towards the dining hall—the central point of the camp.

The building lies a short way from the much smaller, individual cabins, an enormous structure that can easily hold several hundred people. From what Grian had seen the previous day, the hall is arranged like a community centre, divided in half neatly down the middle, with one side boasting couches and comfortable seating, and the other arranged with long rows of tables and chairs for eating meals. It’s a brightly lit space, with a bank of windows facing the open greenspace behind it, and a vaulted ceiling with exposed wood timbres overhead. Rustic wooden shelves lined the non-windowed walls, filled with board games and novels, the walls crowded with art—photos of mountains, waterfalls, and a distinctly northwest coast style of art done in blacks and reds that Grian presumes must belong to the indigenous people of the area.

It’s an oasis of community in the midst of the apocalypse. One that Grian wishes he could feel welcomed into, instead of hovering uncomfortably on the fringes of.

By the time they make it to the large double doors of the hall, Grian is already having second thoughts. B pauses, holding one of the doors open and waiting patiently for Grian to enter first, but Grian can’t stop thinking of how incriminating it will look when he walks in with B following right behind him, feeling guilty and miserable about it already. He can already picture the hurt in Scar’s eyes. The inevitable conclusion he’ll draw simply by seeing them together.

“You go on ahead,” he says at last, stilted and slow. “I have to—” he pauses, panicking. “—tie my shoelaces.”

B’s gaze drops down to Grian’s boots at the same time Grian’s do, both of them staring at his perfectly done up laces. When B looks back up at him his expression is unreadable but, blessedly, he doesn’t push for an explanation, giving him an inscrutable shrug before heading through the doors.

Grian’s cheeks burn, humiliated by every part of this. He feels like he’s in school again, doing stupid, regrettable things in an attempt to stay on the right side of people who have already made their minds up about him.

He wants to have outgrown this.

He doesn’t want things to be this way.

Nevertheless, he waits a minute or two while he stands outside the doors, giving B time to settle in before he finally makes his way inside, bracing himself for whatever is bound to come next.

The interior of the dining hall is much the same as it was the day before: bustling with people, a handful of them a little younger than Grian, but most of them squarely within his age—and his parent’s age—bracket.

The tables, in their long rows with a mixture of chairs and benches for seating, are crowded, but even with as many people as there are milling around, Grian can tell the space has more capacity than their current population requires. More than half of the seats are empty, and even accounting for those who have already eaten or have yet to start their day, Grian can tell the camp isn’t yet at a place where they’d turn away uninfected survivors for lack of room.

The entire space is warm and smells like breakfast, something Grian hadn’t realised he’d been missing until the scent rushes in to greet him, the air thick with the smell of toast, butter, and eggs. Most of the people present are strangers, but he recognises a few of the faces sitting and eating. At the edge of one of the table rows, Etho and the man he’d been with the day before are locked in deep conversation, their empty plates pushed aside, clearly not looking for company.

It’s easy enough to spot Scar, who’s sitting with two older men and a cheerful looking younger woman, who all look delighted by whatever story he’s is in the midst of telling them.

B, Grian notices, is nowhere to be seen.

He moves across the floor on uncertain feet, shuffling towards the buffet as he drifts on instinct. The meal itself is set up buffet style, with several large hot plates arranged on a table near the kitchen. Scrambled eggs, toast, and hashbrowns are in abundance, with large carafes of juice, water, and coffee to the side. Grian hasn’t seen this level of abundance since before the world fell to pieces, and a cynical part of him wonders how much of it goes to waste, and how long they’ll be able to maintain it.

The rest of him is simply glad that Scar will be able to eat a proper meal for a change. Even if they’re not eating it together.

As usual, none of the food on offer appeals to him, so instead Grian takes a single slice of toast on a large plate before turning to look out over the dining hall, feeling too much like he’s back in his teens as he prepares to sit and eat alone.

“Grian! Over here!”

The voice that calls out to him is familiar, and Grian looks over to find Bdubs sitting at a table next to Cleo, waving him over with open, friendly enthusiasm. With relief, he heads towards them, taking the seat across from the two, careful to keep Scar in the corner of his eye.

Bdubs greets him with a warm smile. He’s dressed much the same as he was the day before, his over-large jacket sleeves pushed up to his elbows to keep them out of his way while he eats. Cleo has swapped her windbreaker out for a dark teal sweatshirt, their hair pulled up into a lazy bun that sits lopsided on the top of their head, looking good natured but tired as she nurses a cup of coffee with both hands.

“How was the sleep?” Bdubs asks, overwhelmingly chipper as Grian gets himself situated. “Nice mattress, right? Turns out this place was a bit of a chichi establishment before the world went tits up, lucky for us.”

The question immediately digs into a sore spot, Grian remembering all too well the tension that had boiled over between him and Scar before they’d settled down for the night.

“I didn’t get much sleep,” he admits, the answer at least partially honest.

“That explains it,” Cleo speaks up, her accent rolling around her vowels as they smother a yawn with the back of their hand. “You do look at little—”

“Bad,” Bdubs interrupts with a monumental lack of tact. “We both thought so when you came in. I didn’t want to say anything, but…” he shrugs dramatically, like he’s somehow a victim of circumstance and not the one making a conscious decision to speak up, “Here we are.”

“It’s always rough sleeping in a new place,” Cleo offers, an olive branch in the face of Bdubs’ lack of grace. “Give it a couple nights—you’ll settle in.”

Grian wants to say that he doesn’t plan to be here for a couple nights. That if he had things his way they’d have left already. Instead, he merely takes a bite of the corner of his toast, quietly resenting its inability to nourish him the way it once had.

Bdubs and Cleo continue talking while he chews and doesn’t swallow, and it’s clear that they’re making an effort to include him in their conversation as much as possible, however Grian can’t find it in him to contribute more than the bare minimum of words. Time and time again his attention strays back towards Scar, resenting him for how he never seems to look Grian’s way, feeling pitiful over how much that hurts.

He’s lost in his thoughts, on the verge of moping, when a hand touches feather-light on his shoulder, causing him to jump when he feels it.

“Sorry to interrupt.”

It’s B, his voice carefully neutral, not making eye contact as he speaks. “When you’re done, Ren would like to have a word with you.”

Before Grian can reply, Bdubs is doing so for him, his expression hardening slightly, as though a very serious subject has come up.

“Have you warned them?” he asks, looking up at B in a way that feels pointed.

“He’s doing fine today,” B replies, his words stradling something between defensive and reassuring. “Nobody needs to be warned about anyone.”

“Warn me about what?” Grian asks, his question going unanswered by all three.

“Scar says he’s ready whenever you are,” B continues, his words quiet but definitive as he straightens back up, looking away and placing his hands on his hips, like he’s doing everything in his power to appear as uninvolved with Grian as possible.

Grian knows why he’s doing it, but the treatment still slides under his skin like a fishhook, snagging him and cutting deep.

Glancing across the dining hall, Grian finds Scar sitting back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. For a change, he’s looking squarely at him while the others at his table carry on their conversation, seemingly oblivious to the intensity of Scar’s focus.

“I’m ready now,” Grian mumbles, pushing his chair back and getting to his feet, leaving his uneaten bread behind.

He hopes they can forgive him for being wasteful. He hopes it won’t come back as a mark held against him.

“Grian, you’ve barely eaten,” Bdubs argues, looking up at him with concern.

“He’s not a big eater,” B explains, incriminating them both as he steps back before he catches Scar’s eye and nods, the three of them turning to make their uncomfortable exit from the lodge.

There’s a strange energy in the air as B takes them down the wide gravel path that leads back towards the cabins. A trepidation that comes from more than the mutual discomfort of their unresolved history. Grian knows he should say something—should break the silence and ask questions—but with Scar walking a pace behind them, keeping his eyes on them both, he feels pinned. Trapped in a way he despises.

Without explanation, it becomes clear relatively quickly where B is taking them; a larger cabin—more like a barracks—set slightly apart from the others and partially shielded by trees. Grian gets the feeling that it might have been the residence for the staff back when the resort was in operation, but like every other building on the property it’s been given a new purpose, sitting mildly fortified, with covers over the windows and several ATVs parked outside its single door.

“Alright,” B says at last, bracing himself with a deep breath before he stops and turns to face them. “Now, listen. Nothing bad is about to happen, but I do need to give you a few quick ground rules.”

Grian automatically turns to catch Scar’s gaze, eyebrows raised as he considers the tone of B’s voice juxtaposed with what he’s saying. Predictably, Scar isn’t looking at him, but he is frowning, that same concern playing across his face that Grian is sure B can see on his.

“You’re going to meet Ren, and he's going to give you shake down,” B continues, and if he sees the look on their faces he doesn’t remark on it. “Lots of detailed questions that you’ll want to give short, to-the-point answers to. Think of it like a job interview.” He pauses, taking another steadying breath. “Do not lie to him. Ren doesn’t take kindly to it. He sees it as a betrayal, and… well, betrayal is one of the few things dealt with very seriously here.”

“Are we in for a public execution?” Scar jokes, to which B simply gives him a somber look.

“Like I said…” B says, measuring his words out carefully. “Ren doesn’t like being lied to.”

“Jesus,” Grian mutters under breath, the urge to turn around and leave becoming almost overwhelming.

“Ren’s a good guy,” B stresses, turning to him with an expression that feels pleading. “He cares about his people. And everyone in this camp? They’re his. It’s just…” he pauses, a moment of conflict scrubbing its way across his features. “It’s been a rough couple of months. I’m sure you two can relate to that.”

The urge to look in Scar’s direction again returns, but Grian resists it, keeping his gaze fixed ahead and merely offering a nod in agreement.

“Another thing,” B continues. “Don’t try to get overly familiar and start asking him things in return. This isn’t a conversation. And keep your hands where Ren can see them at all times. No sudden movements, no reaching for anything without openly stating your intention first. And finally… please, please don’t mention it if you’ve lost anyone significant to you along the way.”

Following the rest of B’s instructions, the last one takes Grian aback somewhat. It must show on his face, because B’s expression twists into something complicated.

“Don’t ask,” he insists. “It’s not my story to share.”

“Alright, so no lying, no questions, no moving, and no talking about how shitty things have been,” Scar lists off, his tone verging on haughty as he counts things down on his fingers. “Anything else we should know about before our audience with his royal highness?”

A slight smile quirks at the corner of B’s mouth that he immediately smoothes away.

“No, I think that should cover most of it.”

“Sounds easy enough,” Scar says, casual with his dismissal. “Don't want him shouting ‘off with their heads’.”

Now properly briefed, Scar continues approaching the building, turning away too quickly to notice how the smile falls off B’s face, something haunted replacing it instead. 

As a trio they approach the door, B escorting them with a quiet nod and something approaching solemnity. Grian doesn’t know what he’s expecting as he steps inside, bracing himself for something medieval, maybe. Bare stone and a dirt floor. Wall sconces and a portcullis. A scene both torturous and barbaric.

Instead, he finds himself walking into exactly what he had first suspected from the outside—a barracks cabin; simplistic and serviceable. Designed to house maybe ten people, though currently clearly only inhabited by one.

It’s dim inside and quiet, but the most noticeable thing to Grian is the chill. The interior is just as cold as the outdoors, which seems impossible with the fire he can see roaring in the fireplace centred on the opposite wall.

Then he spots two of the cabin’s large windows, open and letting the cool morning breeze in while all the hot air rushes out.

The main room—clearly the barrack’s common room—is large and piled with a cacophony of clutter. One side is buried in books; manuals, guides, almanacs, and tutorials on a vast variety of subjects: farming and agriculture, medical science, home repair, and local history. The other corners are heaped with stores of ammo, battered riot shields and helmets, and an entire armoury of weapons. There’s a table to one side, covered in maps, graphs, and complicated looking tables. However strangest of all is the centre of the room; empty, save for a single armchair. Worn leather with a high back and four stout legs. It’s positioned like some kind of throne, a torn flag draped across it. Though Grian can’t quite tell exactly, he assumes it might be the Canadian flag, the fabric cut down its centre and ragged at its edges, making its design look like something bleeding from a row of mangled white teeth.

A short hall leads off either side of the room, opening into hostel-style bedrooms with stacked bunk beds. There’s also a tiny kitchen in one corner, the small alcove crammed with a fridge, a microwave and a sink. It’s the kind of space meant for cereal, toast, and bowls of popcorn. Serviceable for snacks but not much else.

It’s there that Grian sees him. A man in his mid-forties with long dark brown hair that’s begun greying at his temples, and a peppered beard that’s gone unkempt in the apocalypse. He’s standing at the small sliver of kitchen counter, steam from a kettle rising up around him as he pours hot water into a mug. He’s not tall, but the aura he puts off is intimidating, making him appear imposing. Something instinctive in Grian’s brain bristles at it, the impulse to scratch at the wall, to flee, winding its way up his spine. Nervously, he glances towards the exits, mapping them out in his mind as the man—Ren—turns to face them.

He’s wearing a parka, dark red, with a matted grey fur trim around the hood, over a red flannel shirt beneath. Everything else about him is heavy and dark. Even his skin has a pallour to it, dark circles bruised under his eyes speaking of too many sleepless nights under the heft of a responsibility he never expected or planned for.

Without a word he moves to the armchair, walking quietly across the floor and sitting down heavily. His legs are canted far apart with one heel kicked out, projecting an air of someone powerful and yet strangely disconnected from his surroundings.

It’s only when he raises his mug to his mouth to drink that Grian notices it—an axe; its long handle leaning within easy reach against the side of his seat. Its blade is different from the kind Grian is familiar with: curved on one side and pointed into a spike on the other. A breaching axe, meant for combat just as much as survival.

It’s bloody. Grotesquely so. Like it hasn’t been cleaned since its last kill. He hopes it's zombie blood, but can't tell for sure. 

He moves his eyes away from it quickly.

“And?”

Ren’s voice, when he speaks, comes out as a low growl. Theatrical in one way, and world-weary in another. He’s got an accent Grian can’t place, somewhat like his own and yet not remotely like it at all, as if his words are emerging out of another world entirely, old and forgotten to time.

Unclear and unanswered, the question hangs in the air between them. Instinctively, Grian’s eyes dart towards B, feeling guilt slide over him when he realises that his first impulse wasn’t to look at Scar.

“Ren…” B starts carefully, using the same kind of voice one might use when speaking to a wild animal. “We have two new arrivals.”

From across the floor, sharp grey eyes meet Grian’s, intelligent and calculating despite the tiredness held within them. 

They send a chill right through him, and abruptly, he realises how far they’ve wandered into this wolf’s den. How impossible it would be for them to simply turn and flee.

Panic makes his chest pull tight.

“Who are they?” Ren asks, preemptively silencing B before he can answer with a swift motion of his hand. His eyes remain fixed on Grian, inscrutable as he stipulates, “Let them speak for themselves.”

Under the intensity of his gaze, Grian feels compelled to answer, straight and to the point as he struggles to keep his tone from cracking. “I’m Grian, and that’s Scar.”

“Where are you from?”

The lighthearted part of Grian’s brain wants to joke, ‘Like, originally?’ before he lists off a tally of English cities he was dragged through during his youth. Luckily, his good sense keeps his mouth from running away from him.

“San Antonio, Texas.”

“Both of you?” Ren asks, turning his attention in Scar’s direction.

“Yes,” Scar replies, the single syllable response sending a shot of relief through Grian’s system, glad that Scar isn’t going to try and mess around where it wouldn’t be welcomed.

“And how did you make it all the way here from so far down South?”

It’s like the question triggers something in Grian’s head, the memories of the last few weeks playing out like a reel of film in his head. Nearly two months of travel, too much of it on foot. So many miles in between where they started and where they've ended up—in more ways than one.

“A lot of dodgy hiking,” he quips, unable to help himself. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Before he can even finish speaking, B’s head snaps in his direction. It feels damning—condemned once again by the parts of his personality that are simply ‘too much.’ Grian bites his tongue, watching as Ren narrows his eyes at him.

To his side though, he sees Scar’s shoulders hitch up, his mouth twisting as he tries his best to hold back a laugh.

It makes it worth the risk.

“Unless you started ‘hiking’ before the world ended, I don’t see how you could have made it here in the time you did,” Ren continues, stepping over Grian’s comment with something approaching an accusation, hard suspicion in his tone.

“We had a car at first,” Scar offers. “It didn’t get us all the way, but we covered the first few states like that.”

“And we had a vespa later,” Grian adds, more confident now that Scar is taking his side to corroborate the story.

Leaning back in his seat, looking for all the world like a king sat on his throne, with his arms placed wide on the thick armrests, Ren takes a long, considering look at the two of them. It feels as though he’s trying to judge their worth via the intensity of his stare alone. Grian knows they haven’t lied yet, but he finds himself nervous anyhow, more than a little afraid that one false move will have Ren setting his hounds on them.

As the pause lengthens, B finally coughs, interrupting the silence as he makes an effort to catch Ren’s eyes. Rapidly, Ren’s gaze flicks to him before it moves back, deliberating a moment longer before he finally continues.

“Big B says you’re good friends of his and that he can vouch for you,” he starts, which is only reassuring for a fraction of a second before he continues. “How long have you both known him?”

Almost immediately the chill in the room becomes far more pronounced. While they’d been asked something similar by Cleo the day before, Ren’s request for a time frame brushes up against something far more incriminating for all of them, and with the way Ren is staring at them, Grian wouldn’t be surprised if he already knows the answer and is only asking to test whether they respond truthfully or not.

It would be a simple matter to tell the truth—if not for the fact that Grian knows Scar doesn’t know the answer, and won't be happy when he hears it. It leaves Grian feeling like he’d rather sink down and disappear through the floor than suffer through this a moment longer. He bites the inside of his cheek, staring down at his feet.

Luckily, before the silence can drag on, Scar speaks up.

“Not very long.” His words are stiff and matter of fact, like he’s trying to get through the topic as quickly as possible. “I’d only known Big B for a day or so before the outbreak.”

Ren’s gaze flicks to B, frowning. “Doesn’t exactly sound like good friends.”

“I’ve known Grian for longer,” B answers quickly, and it looks like he’s about to say more before his eyes skip over to Scar and he snaps his mouth shut again.

An ugly, hateful emotion settles in Grian’s stomach, one he doesn’t know where to direct, only certain in how disgusted it makes him feel. The guilt crawls up his throat like bile, his cheeks aflame. If there was ever a time in his life where he felt more ashamed, he can’t think of it. It’s worse than the day Scar caught him by far. What had once felt private now, at last, dragged out into the open.

“How much longer?” Ren asks, directing the question back at Grian.

“I… I don’t know,” Grian mumbles, lying despite B’s warning not to. He’s well aware of how Scar’s head has finally turned towards him, attention fixed and watching him closely. Grian doesn’t dare make eye contact, too afraid of the look he’ll see staring back at him. “I can’t remember.”

“Big B?” Ren asks and, to his credit, B looks more than a little uncomfortable as he offers his response.

“Around six months I think. Give or take.”

Next to him, Scar inhales sharply. It sounds pained, and with sudden overwhelming intensity, a part of Grian wishes the infection that passed into his body through the zombie’s bite had killed him for real. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Scar push the heels of his palms against his eyelids, pressing in hard and shaking his head before dragging them down his face. Grian’s stomach churns, feeling sick in a way that’s unquantifiable.

Unaware of the tension playing out silently between the three in front of him, Ren nods. “So you can vouch for him at least.”

“For both of them,” B insists. “Grian’s known Scar for ages, and he’s always said good things about him whenever we met up.” B risks a glance over in Scar’s direction, offering him a reassuring smile, however Scar no longer seems to be looking at anything anymore. He’s got the expression of someone who’s fully checked out of the conversation, eyes set dead ahead, dim and unblinking.

Silence lingers between the four of them, protracted and awful.

“Did you travel here with any others?” Ren asks at last, allowing a fresh kind of guilt to make itself comfortable in the pit of Grian’s stomach. He longs for Scar to answer—to step in smoothly, the way Grian had grown accustomed to every time he became too prickly or sharp in a social situation.

Unsurprisingly, however, Scar remains resolutely silent.

“We were with a few people for a while,” Grian answers finally, the words stiff in his throat. “But they had different destinations in mind."

His deliberate half-honesty makes the truth taste vile.

Wordlessly, Ren’s gaze slants to the side, a hand pulling at his beard in a gesture that looks both contemplative and regal.

“That’s a pity,” he remarks at last, sounding slightly more empathetically human than he has thus far, regret potent in his words. “We’re not yet a self-sustaining population. We could’ve used the hands.”

Grian doesn’t know whether or not he should apologise. Doesn’t know if his bluff is being called, the truth of their betrayals already known to the man, who created these questions as a test that Grian is now causing them both to fail. He remains quiet, awkward with it, and eventually Ren sighs, his head tilting to one side as his questions resume.

“How have you been defending yourselves? What are your skills?”

In Scar’s silence, Grian feels himself put on the spot, self-loathing coiling up wretched within his ribcage. He can only think of Scar. Of the fresh pain he’s causing him. How, despite all their progress, nothing has been resolved, and no one has really healed.

How they’ve been pushed back to square one.

How this is all his fault.

“Scar’s a perfect shot,” he puts forth suddenly, feeling the need to make Scar’s worth abundantly clear, both to Ren and to Scar himself. “He’s a marksman, he hasn’t missed a target or wasted a single bullet this entire time. We’ve fought zombies hand-to-hand and he’s never been overwhelmed. He’s efficient, he’s competent, he doesn’t complain. He's a storyteller, he's funny. He’s kept morale up…” his words trail off, incomplete but with nothing else to say that won’t spill over too excessively into sentimentality. “He’s a good person,” he finishes lamely, acutely aware of how determined Scar is not to look at him, but feeling the necessity of speaking the words anyway.

“And you?” Ren presses, the question accompanied by a small lift to his right brow.

In the shadow of Scar’s many qualities, nothing commendable about himself comes to mind. Miserably, Grian remains silent.

“Ren,” B interrupts, his voice calm as he placates the situation. “They’re good people. Isn’t that enough?”

There’s a softness in his tone, something in it reminding Grian too much of the one B had used every time he’d tried to get Grian to open up to him. The way B had shared himself effortlessly and without question, and how gently he asked for a shred of that to be repaid in return, only for Grian to spurn him every time.

With a sigh Ren relents, which surprises Grian considering his mannerisms thus far. He closes his eyes and nods his head, the motion slow, as if the act of it pains him in some way.

“You’re right,” he continues after a pause, his words lighter and less judgemental. “You’ll forgive me for my ways. You are both welcome here, of course.”

“We won’t be staying long,” Grian offers, as if to lessen the strain of their burden.

“We’re not a package deal,” Scar adds, speaking up at last.

The sting of his words make Grian’s shoulders lift, shrinking in on himself imperceptibly, like a struck animal.

“Be that as it may,” Ren continues, waving Scar’s words off with a brush of his hand. “For as long as you wish it, you may have a place in our keep, provided you abide by our rules and contribute to the community.”

His eyes shift over to B, who speaks up on rote.

“Never go out alone, always operate in pairs, take only what you need, give back what you can, and report all contact—physical or otherwise—with the undead directly to Ren. No exceptions.”

It’s clear that they’re being offered a kindness that Grian should accept with gratitude, but the sting of his own lie by omission, the false immunity within him that he has neglected to share, makes him suspicious, unable to help but question the hospitality being extended to them.

“What do you want us to do in return?”

With a strange silence Ren’s eyes meet Grian’s again, his moment of warmth fading as the detached weariness seeps back into him, like a veil of cloud drifting in front of the sun.

“It’s not my job to give your life purpose,” he states at last, his words woefully frank. “I can only facilitate your ability to thrive.”

It feels like a riddle. Inscrutable in a way Grian doesn’t know how to trust or handle.

Luckily, it’s followed by another dismissive motion, Ren waving them away as he adds, “We’ll have Scar demonstrate his legendary aim to Cleo. We need people who can hit what they shoot at. The rest you may navigate on your own.”

It’s clear that Ren is marking the end of their conversation, B stepping forward automatically to usher them back outside and return them to the camp. However, before they can be moved, Ren speaks up again.

“Big B, I’d like to share a word with you. Will you stay?”

His tone when speaking to B is entirely different from the one he’d used mere moments before—something about it softer and somewhat sad.

More human, Grian thinks.

B’s expression smooths in an instant, nodding as he offers a quiet, “Of course, Ren,” that makes Grian wonder, for just a moment, how close the two of them really are. 

“Will you guys be alright to find your way back on your own?”

The question is posed rhetorically, B’s attention barely straying from Ren long enough to ask it.

Grian nods. “We’ll be fine.”

Without thinking, B clasps his shoulder briefly in a passing motion of gratitude, his touch making Grian stiffen up. The gesture is over almost as soon as it begins, though, B making his way over to Ren’s side as Scar pushes the door open and steps outside without waiting for Grian to follow. Grian spares a single moment, long enough to look back as Ren leans in towards B, something heavy clearly on his mind, before he turns and follows Scar out, his heart racing in his chest.

He's barely out the door when he finds that Scar is already well ahead of him, his long legs putting him at a distance even though he’s only walking. With a sigh Grian jogs to catch up to him, dreading the conversation that’s about to come, his back finally pushed flush against the inevitable.

When he’s only a few paces behind he calls out, desperate for Scar to stop and talk to him instead of retreating once more into his increasingly unbearable avoidance.

“Scar—”

“Fuck off,” Scar all but growls, his harsh tone making Grian hesitate, unused to seeing him angry enough to curse.

“Scar,” he pleads, jogging another step to close their distance, and despite his abundantly clear desire for Grian to give him some space, Scar abruptly stops in his tracks, whirling around to face him.

“Six months?” He shouts, drawing the attention of a couple residents busy carrying firewood nearby. Grian’s cheeks heat, embarrassed as the onlookers make eye contact with each other before turning away from them, whispering to one another as they go. “Half a year, Grian?”

“I wanted to tell you,” Grian tries, obstinate despite himself. “Back at—at the camp we made, on the mountain. After Pops. I wanted to come clean about everything but you—”

“Don’t you dare put this on me, I swear to god, G,” Scar warns, his eyes wild as they glare into him, as if trying to read every twitch in his expression.

“I’m not!” Grian insists, adamant. “I promise you, I’m not! I just think that if we want to talk about this, we should—”

“Talk about this?” Scar asks, laughing at the idea, the sound bitter and cynical. “What is there left to talk about now, Grian?” He pauses, his eyes sharp as he presses, “What else are you hiding?”

Defensively, Grian throws his hands up, pinned in place and panicking. “Nothing! Nothing, Scar. It’s not like that!”

“Then what—”

“Am I interrupting?”

The voice catches them both off guard, turning in unison towards the source of the intrusion.

A few feet away, Bdubs stands with his hands in his pockets, wearing his overly large camo coat and blending into the surroundings in such a way that neither of them saw him approach. There’s an expression on his face that implies his interruption was deliberate, but also suggests they all pretend he just happened upon them without knowing they were in the middle of a fight that was rapidly getting out of hand.

“Hi Bdubs,” Grian says, trying to summon friendliness into his tone and knowing he falls short. “Did you need something?”

“Oh goodness no. Not even a little bit,” Bdubs replies breezily, rubbing his hand along the scruffy line of his jaw. “But hey, since you two don’t seem all that busy, why don’t you come along with me and Cleo while we do our daily zombie patrol?”

Standing the furthest back, Scar makes a face before crossing his arms, giving the other man a dubious look. “Do we have a choice?”

“Oh, you always have a choice,” Bdubs insists, smiling brightly. “That’s the beauty of the world we live in. Anyways, follow me!”

Feeling trapped by the non-negotiation of his invitation, Grian looks towards Scar. There’s a specific set to Scar’s expression, all the tells of a frustration barely being kept at bay. Selfishly, Grian can’t help but feel grateful to Bdubs, knowing how much Scar has always hated arguing in public. He’d always been mortified whenever Grian had made them do it, opting to quietly capitulate every time rather than having the raw edge of his emotions put out on display. It makes the fact that Scar has just yelled at him all the more jarring. A clear indicator of how badly this has all gone.

“Wonderful,” Scar mutters finally, taking a deep breath to steel himself before he turns and begins following Bdubs, who’s already set off at a spritely pace.

A part of Grian knows that he could stay behind. He could retreat to the cabin, draw the blinds, shut the door, and steep in his own guilty misery for hours. The most insecure part of himself worries about what Scar may say when he’s not around, though. Fearing the others' judgement. Of the social rift that might occur—all the isolation and alienation he should’ve felt from his peers months ago, had the world not fallen to pieces the day he let his relationship shatter.

It has him following along at last, lagging behind like a dog that’s been scolded. Together, the three of them cut across the converted recreation field, the grass yellow under their feet, the patches of dirty snow that remain trod down by dozens of icy sets of overlapping footprints as they pass construction gear and unfinished garden beds marked off where a softball pitch used to sit.

“Now y’see, we’re working on a nice wall here,” Bdubs is saying conversationally, throwing the words back over his shoulder and gesturing towards the entrance gate to the compound. “But—as I’m certain our good king Ren must’ve told you—the fewer the hands, the slower the work.”

It's then that Grian notices that Cleo is waiting just to the side of the gate, leaning against one of the braced wooden poles driven into the ground to reinforce it. While it’s not freezing out, the day is far from warm, the flat light of the sun streaming down overhead just barely managing to keep the temperature above zero. All the same, Cleo's wearing the same sweatshirt Grian saw them in at breakfast, seeming to have forgone a jacket entirely.

“Honey, you’ll catch your death,” Bdubs sighs, exasperated as the three finally get within earshot.

“Our walk will get the blood moving,” they explain, cheerful as she steps out to join them, nodding to Scar and Grian in easy acknowledgement. There’s a brightness in their eyes, the genuine enthusiasm of looking forward to the upcoming task. “It’ll warm me up in no time.”

The mention of a walk jostles something in Grian; a concern for Scar’s condition that supersedes any argument they’re currently embroiled in.

“We’re going on foot?” he asks, carefully avoiding looking to see whether or not Scar is watching him.

“Just a quick perimeter patrol,” Cleo explains, their reassurance falling short of assuaging his concerns. “It’s about an hour to walk our portion. Nothing you can’t handle.”

The way she assumes his capacity prickles sharp along Grian’s hairline, an annoyance he’s never been good at smoothing down.

“Well,” he begins carefully, struggling to keep himself from snapping out of turn. “I don’t think—”

“I can’t wait to see the area,” Scar interrupts, making a show of stretching his arms above his head to pull a snap out of his spine, his movements effortless and easy, like his body isn’t something he has to be careful with. “This area is beautiful, if I do say so myself. Makes me wish I'd been born here.”

The bite of his action stings. A deliberate rebuke of Grian trying to be considerate for his sake. The temptation to be petulant is overwhelming, but Grian forces himself down into civility. He knows full well that, no matter what, Scar’s condition isn’t his to share or make a big deal about.

If Scar says he's eager to walk, then they'll walk.

“Well you’re about to get an eyeful,” Bdubs chirps, bright as he nudges his elbow into Cleo’s side, prompting her to laugh in a way that makes Grian feel like he’s on the outside of a joke.

It pushes uncomfortably against Grian’s pride, but Scar doesn’t seem to notice, rubbing his palms together eagerly. “Then by all means, lead the way.”

As a group they set off together, Cleo taking the lead and Scar sticking close to their side. His mood is amiable, as though he and Grian hadn’t both just been thrown back into the freshness of their feelings on the first the day of their breakup. Rather than a rifle or a shotgun, Cleo is carrying a bow, with a quiver of arrows slung over their shoulder, the same as they'd had the first day they’d all met, and Scar seems engaged and curious by her choice, asking questions that Grian doesn’t bother to eavesdrop on.

The hike follows the fence that they've put up along the camp’s perimeter— an impressively tall structure of chainlink and barbed wire— bending to the northeast and pushing up a small hill into the thick of the woods. They follow the path, surrounded by temperate rainforest on all sides beneath the thick canopy of tree boughs hanging heavy with stringy lichens, as the patchy snow thins to almost nothing, revealing a thick carpet of pine needles and moss that’s springy beneath their feet. Thick, gnarled roots push up through the earth on either side of their trail, interspersed by large moss-covered boulders.

It is truly a beautiful place. One that Grian is determined not to enjoy.

The walk itself isn’t strenuous, but he finds himself resenting it anyway. For almost a mile the fence they’re constructing follows the path—a converted deer trail that picks its way between the enormous trunks of towering trees. It feels strange, amidst the thick brown and mossy green of the undergrowth, to be walking alongside barbed wire and metal posts. Ahead of him, Grian can hear Cleo explaining plans for the implementation of an electric current along the fence in order to keep even the most determined zombie at bay.

He can’t help but wonder how long it will take himself to truly acclimate to the new world in which they live. Whether or not the need to deter zombies will ever feel normal. Then, the hunger pang in his stomach reminds him that he’s now a part of the problem, and he's forced to realise that normal will be forever out of reach.

When they’re about twenty minutes into the patrol—not far enough in to have the end in sight, but also deep enough that Grian knows his silence has grown uncomfortable—Bdubs finally speaks up. The two of them have been lagging behind together, not entirely by choice, united by having shorter legs and therefore naturally smaller strides as Cleo and Scar forge on ahead.

“I wanted to ask about the wheelchair,” Bdubs says, his voice low as he carefully keeps his words between Grian and himself. He’s moving half-step behind Grian, the path not wide enough to accommodate them walking side by side. “I noticed it when you boys came in. I hope I haven’t done something rude by dragging you along—I assume it’s for you?”

Grian doesn’t know what to make of Bdubs’ question, silent as he steps over a large root pushed up out of the ground.

“It’s not,” he replies clearly, not offering anything more than that.

He can sense the way Bdubs’ eyes size up Scar, running an internal calculation. The usual ‘he doesn’t look disabled,’ revelation most people have when they find out about Scar.

“Sorry,” Bdubs says at last, and it feels genuine in a way that Grian wishes he could be kinder about. “I didn’t mean to assume—”

“Don’t worry about it,” he responds, his gaze fixed ahead, watching Scar and the effortless way he chats with Cleo while he struggles through every word exchanged with Bdubs. “It’s fine.”

It's only once they're past the halfway point of the patrol that the frayed edge of Grian’s patience finally wears thin. They’ve long left the unfinished fence behind, walking through the forest, open and exposed and significantly more cautious without its protection. The last leg of the patrol requires them to navigate across a small stream, the water ankle-deep and running fast. A bridge of stepping stones have been placed across it that would be easy to hop across during summer, but which have become treacherous and slippery in winter.

Bdubs and Scar have already successfully crossed, and Grian is waiting for Cleo to take their last two steps when Bdubs says it, the words catching him like a strike across the face.

“Darling, be careful. Goodness knows I’ll hate it if you fall,” the older man blurts out, putting out a hand that Cleo resolutely ignores, a clear streak of stubbornness in her as they opt to make the crossing entirely on their own.

It’s not the first time Bdubs has spoken to them like this. In fact, the entire patrol he’s seemed to revel in it, a new pet name attached to her every time they speak to one another. With his paranoia steeped in guilt, the pressure mounts inside of Grian, pushing heavily on the very last shred of his nerves and making him finally lash out.

“I thought you said you're married,” he snaps, inching towards the edge of the stream himself.

“Who, me?” Bdubs asks, blinking owlishly at him with an innocence that feels contrived. “Because, yes, I am! Fifteen years, but who's counting.”

“To the guy we saw yesterday, right? Etho.”

Bdubs beams at him. “That’s right! The love of my life. Why do you ask?”

“I think he’s wondering about us but is too polite to ask directly,” Cleo surmises, giving Grian an amused look from where she stands on the other side of the creek.

Grian avoids looking back at them, his face heating a little at being called out so transparently. Instead, he focuses on crossing the stream without slipping, carefully putting one foot in front of the other on the stones. His boots have good traction, but a silly, vulnerable part of him wishes that Scar would put out an arm to catch him like Bdubs had tried for Cleo.

Scar seems determinedly resolved not to help him, however, and Grian is forced to finish crossing to the other side on his own.

“Oh, is that all?” Bdubs asks, laughing. “Well don’t worry your sweet little head, Grian. There’s nothing going on here that Etho doesn’t already know about.”

“Is it a… polynamorous relationship?” Scar asks from off to the side, his curiosity getting the better of him, no doubt stemming from their time spent with the trio so many weeks ago.

“Polyamorous,” Grian corrects automatically, trying not to notice the way Scar rolls his eyes.

“You know, I suppose that is what you’d call it,” Bdubs muses, stroking his chin in thought. “What do you say, Cleo?”

Standing off on her own, Cleo merely shrugs, clearly unbothered by the question. “We haven’t really put a name to it. Bdubs and I are involved, but Etho and I aren’t.” She smiles when Bdubs pointedly mutters a light-hearted, ‘so they say,’ shaking her head before they continue. “Everyone’s aware and willing, so if that counts… I guess we are?”

Immediately, Grian wishes he hadn’t asked at all, the same insecurity that had made its home within him while they were with the trio digging its teeth into him once more. He can almost see the calculations going on in Scar’s head—imagining a world where Grian had simply been up front and had two partners, while Scar and B had no requirement to be involved with each other. What the trio had offered had been innately unappealing, and Grian had taken comfort in the fact that neither he nor Scar had found anything enticing in it. What Cleo and Bdubs are illuminating is in every way worse, however. A dynamic Grian has no interest in, but that he knows Scar would have humoured for his sake.

It’s not what he wanted. It was never what he was looking for, but he knows Scar can’t know that. Not when Grian hasn’t explained anything to him at all.

“Sorry. It’s all new to us, too,” Bdubs says, laughing. “And it’s not like we can just search it up on the internet anymore, you know? We’re in the dark ages all over again, putting our little relationship scratches up on a cave wall.”

“New to you…?” Scar asks, curious despite himself.

Wordlessly Bdubs and Cleo exchange a look, clearly trying to communicate how much they feel comfortable sharing. Grian doesn’t feel offended by it. Keeping secrets is something he’s more than familiar with, and he doesn’t begrudge them for wanting to keep a few things between themselves while in conversation with practical strangers.

“Why don’t we keep walking?” Cleo offers, already turning back the trail as it leads away from the splashing water of the stream. “It’s a bit of a long story, and we’ve still got a ways to go.”

Collectively, they carry on together, Grian caught in the middle of the procession, with Cleo leading and Scar now the one trailing behind.

“We—Etho and I—got separated real early on, right when the infection broke out,” Bdubs says at last, sounding rueful as he speaks. “Etho saw this coming and I… guess I just didn’t want to. By the time I was ready to acknowledge that things were as bad as Etho had said they were gonna get, there was nothing left to save. Because of me, we were too late to get out unscathed, and we got separated on the run and I—I swore I saw him—” Bdubs' voice breaks off, swallowing thickly as he takes a deep, controlled breath. “Well I… I thought I’d lost him forever.”

For a moment they progress in silence, Grian glancing at Bdubs out of the corner of his eye to find a remorseful expression on his face.

“I had a real hard time after that,” Bdubs continues, his voice more sombre than Grian has heard from him thus-far. “Without Etho, I couldn’t get up, couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Didn’t want to. I was wandering listlessly. Practically zombie bait. But that’s when Cleo and Ren and M—” he stops, shaking his head imperceptibly before he continues, “—well, they found me. And they were the ones who got me back on my feet. Cleo was there for me. She…” he trails off, casting his gaze towards Cleo, a small, devoted smile on his face. “She saved me.”

Ahead of them, Cleo stoops beneath the drooping branches of a spruce tree, glancing back over their shoulder towards Bdubs with a smile. It’s a fond, tender expression, and jealously Grian can’t help but think about how Scar had been looking at him like that only a day ago.

“So you cheated,” he hears himself say, his words sharp beneath the projection of his own guilt.

“I thought my husband was dead,” Bdubs replies with an easy, unbothered honesty that makes Grian feel rotten. “Nothing about it was that simple.”

For a moment they trudge along in silence, Grian carrying the accusing sting of Scar’s stare heavy on his back.

“Anyway,” Bdubs continues at last, clearing his throat and barreling ahead with the ease of hindsight, all his messy pain and conflicted feelings resolved. “We didn’t do nothin’, I was grieving and the world was a mess around us. Not exactly conducive to exploring any feelings or new relationships. But... after a certain point, a couple weeks in, I knew I was falling for her… And then that damn Etho showed up out of the woods with Joel and it all got real confusing for a minute. Happiness, sure, but also a lot of guilt… When we finally all had a chance to, y’know, talk and acknowledge the gifts life gives us… it just made sense to—to try.”

“Bdubs has a lot of love inside of him,” Cleo explains kindly. “Maybe even more than two people can handle." They pause for a moment, their expression smug and tenaciously confident as they add, "Plus, I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”

The admission makes Grian’s jaw clench, too afraid to look back at Scar and see his reaction to her explanation.

In their collective silence Cleo continues, choosing their words delicately as they maneuver around an outcropping of moss-covered stones overhanging a dip in the trail. “People have always craved community, even before the world fell apart. We've lost a lot, but we’ve also been given a chance to redefine what community means—for ourselves and for each other.” She smiles at him over her shoulder, and Grian feels petty about how badly their happiness upsets him. “I’m enjoying being a part of something new, and Bdubs and Etho are, too.”

Now well past the stream, the four of them descend a short incline to a place where the path forks, a pair of wooden signs nailed up to a listing tree marking the split in the route. In one direction the trail leads deeper into the woods, while in the other, the sign points back towards the lodge and cabins, the marker reading just over half a kilometre to go.

They pause to check the area, Cleo scouring the ground for signs of tracks—human or otherwise. Bdubs, meanwhile, admires the winter foliage of the forest, pointing out a line of mushrooms growing out of a fallen log and saying they're seasonal.

It’s in the lull that Scar finally speaks.

“I suppose monogamists like me are gonna become a thing of the past,” he theorizes, and while his refusal to look at Grian stings, it at least makes his position abundantly clear.

“You might like the alternative,” Bdubs jokes with a smile, waggling his eyebrows in a way that has Scar chuckling and waving him off.

Grian tries not to let himself get too hung up over it. He knows it’s a joke. He knows Bdubs has his hands full with a husband and another partner right now. He’s not interested in Scar and, more importantly, Scar has made it clear he’s not interested in being with more than one person.

Still.

Sometimes it’s hard not to think about how easily Scar gets along with others. And how easily people have always been drawn to him.

It’s a stupid, self-flagellating thought, and Grian shakes his head to clear himself of it, biting his tongue to keep himself from saying anything he’ll regret. No matter how angry Scar is with him right now, Grian’s promise to him hasn’t changed—he isn’t the person he used to be anymore. He’s making an effort to change and stay changed, and a little spark of misplaced jealousy won’t get in the way of that resolve.

“Come on, let’s keep going,” Cleo calls out, leading the group on the final leg of their patrol, choosing the path that heads back towards the lodge. “Keep up and behave yourselves and we’ll be back in time for lunch.”

As they re-enter the campsite proper, Cleo stops next to a grassy clearing and motions them in with a wave, pointing out what seems to be a training ground of sorts—targets on stands set up on the far end of the space, with long log benches on either side for seating.

“You showed some interest in my bow earlier,” Cleo offers by way of explanation, addressing Scar directly.

He nods, standing with his hands on his hips as he surveys the space. “I’m a pretty good shot with a gun, but I’m not sure the skill translates.”

“Not always, but if you’ve got a steady enough hand and a good eye that’s a good foundation to start with,” she muses. “Here’s where we do all our long-range practicing—to make sure everyone’s sharp and that all our gear’s in order. You know how it is.”

“Sure,” Scar says, agreeable.

To Grian, his mood seems a lot better than it was immediately after they’d left Ren’s cabin. As he talks to Cleo, Scar’s eyes are bright with interest, listening intently and taking in the surroundings with a clear and earnest desire to learn. The tension and anger he’d been carrying has bled out of his shoulders somewhat, his body language no longer stiff and tight.

It’s a bit of a relief to Grian, knowing that Scar’s had a chance to cool off. He hopes it means that their inevitable argument will be less hostile. And ideally only occur back in the privacy of their own cabin.

“Well, you say Ren's officially given you the go-ahead,” Cleo speaks, oblivious to Grian’s inner turmoil. “So if you’re interested, we’ll start you on some basic bow training tomorrow. As long as you’re up for it.”

There’s a flash of excitement in Scar’s eyes, always eager for a chance to broaden his skillset. “Sounds good to me.”

“And you?” Bdubs asks, swinging around to face Grian with a grin. “What’s your weapon of choice in this here apocalypse?”

I eat people, Grian thinks, holding tight to his secret. I tore a man’s throat out yesterday with my teeth. I was hungry then. I’m hungry right now.

“I don’t have very good aim,” he deflects instead.

“A hider and a crier, eh? You and me both,” Bdubs agrees with a laugh, shaking his head with a fond kind of sympathy.

Grian almost can’t believe the other man’s complete lack of judgement towards everything he does and says. The easy way he acclimates to seemingly any information he’s given, his smile never faltering, his good mood remaining fixed in place.

The world doesn’t seem over for him.

Grian wonders what that’s like.

“I can’t help but think we’ll have an easier time finding your calling with a full stomach,” Bdubs continues, the suggestion kind and considerate and utterly asinine.

“Makes sense,” Grian hears himself say, agreeing despite the looming dread of another unpalatable plate set in front of him, knowing that nothing Bdubs could offer would ever truly satiate him.

Automatically, he throws a glance towards Scar, finding him engrossed in conversation with Cleo, her bow now in hand as she explains the finer details of its design to him.

“They’ll catch up,” Bdubs advises in a stage whisper, touching a hand to Grian’s elbow as he begins to steer him away.

It feels wrong to be pulled away from Scar. As much as the other man has made it abundantly clear that he wants nothing to do with Grian at the moment, it doesn’t mean that Grian wants to be separated from him. He can’t help but cast several looks back over his shoulder as Bdubs leads him away, waiting for Scar to notice his absence and hurt when it becomes clear he’s not going to.

Together, he and Bdubs trudge down the last of the path, emerging out onto the circle road that runs around the interior of the compound, right next to the dining hall where they’d had their breakfast. There are people all around them, working in teams and pairs, industrious and focused on whatever tasks they’ve determined for themselves. They create a cheerful, productive atmosphere as they build, refurbish, and fortify.

“Y’know,” Bdubs offers conversationally, something aggressively casual in his tone that suggests a very clear intent as he observes the people milling around them. “A lot of folks, after they arrive and get a chance to settle in… they realise maybe they’re not as alright as they thought they were before they showed up at our gates.”

There’s a heavy implication in his words, one Grian isn’t astute enough to immediately pick up on.

“I thought he was dead. I really did. And I was so damn glad that day Etho showed up, looking like dog puke and smelling just as bad,” Bdubs continues easily, sharing his personal information like Grian has every right to it. “I don’t think I’ve ever been happier. That night I told myself I wasn’t ever gonna be sad again, not after the world gave him back to me.”

He pauses, giving Grian a knowing look, offering sympathy Grian knows he doesn’t deserve.

“After we got him cleaned up and rested and fed, though. Well… we found out there were a lot of things we’d left unsaid between us, him and I, and they all came up pretty fast and ugly.” There’s something like regret in Bdubs’ tone; remorse he hasn’t fully made peace with. “We fought like cats and dogs for a while. About him. About us. About Cleo. About the way I never remembered to unload the dishrack. About how he'd called a guy cute over a decade ago, and I never mentioned it at the time, but it had always pissed me off. Big and small. And then he’d barely been back a week before he took off with Joel in the middle of the night and went missing again and—well… do you get what I’m trying to say, G?”

Grian doesn’t, and he doesn’t know how to say so. Bdubs’ tensions with his husband have no relevance to the situation he and Scar have found themselves in, despite the assumption Bdubs has made that they are one and the same.

“We weren’t the only ones with issues springing up,” Bdubs offers, continuing on undeterred. “And I’m no psychologist, but I think… once you sleep in a real bed again, and stop living non-stop with fear and the terror of trying to survive out there on your own… all that shit you’ve been holding back comes racing to the surface all at once. Whether you want it to or not. And sure, it’s ugly as hell, but it’s not your fault.”

They’re nearing the dining hall now, the aroma of cooked garlic and onions wafting out from the kitchen vents, making the air smell rich and vaguely putrid to Grian’s new sensibilities.

“So don’t worry about the fighting with Scar,” Bdubs adds with some finality, like he’s delivered a sage peptalk, to which Grian will be incredibly grateful. “It’s just another side effect of surviving. You two are gonna be fine.”

You don’t know what you’re talking about, Grian thinks, pushing his hands deep into the pockets of his coat to hide the way they’ve curled into fists.

Instead, he merely nods, polite in the face of the assumption that his and Scar’s problems could be resolved that easily.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he offers, courteous if nothing else.

“Atta boy,” Bdubs encourages, nudging his shoulder against Grian’s before he trots ahead, pulling the hall’s door open and holding it back for him.

“C’mon now,” he invites, waving Grian in. “I saw Joel’s name on the lunch menu, and that’s a man that can cook.”

Grian knows he won’t have an appetite for it. He knows that the best chef in the world couldn’t tempt him into a meal right now. All the same, he lets himself play along as best he can, despite the instinct that tells him a man Bdubs’ size could keep him fed for weeks, following Bdubs into the hall, the door sweeping shut behind them.

Notes:

WE'VE HIT 300K AHAHAHA 🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉 CONGRATS TO ALL OF YOU FOR READING THIS FAR OMG 🎉🎉🎉

Gosh, I feel excited for every chapter that's coming up, and this one was a lot of fun, but I'm REALLY excited for next week >:D Some characters and character-interactions are just sooo much fun to write, and I hope it'll come through when you guys are reading! FOR NOW, I HOPE THE TIMELINE OF GRIAN'S CHEATING DIDN'T HIT ANYONE AS HARD AS IT DID SCAR!

(I'm lying, I wanna hear how much it hurt so Lock and I can celebrate >;D)

SEE YOU GUYS NEXT FRIDAYYY 💜

Chapter 37

Notes:

We've got literally SO much fanart this week, I don't even know where to START! You guys are genuinely so good to us, I'm on my KNEES, thank you wtf I'm gonna get emotional over here 😭😭😭💜💜

Taking it from the top, we've got this hilarious 4-panel comic bagelsamndwich that still has us cracking up fr 😂

Next, we've got a gorgeous rendition of last chapter's angry Scar as well as some character studies from gatorbitesart in an excellent mix of digital and traditional work 😍

And then we've got an incredible look at Grian in his zombified, hunting state from Chapter 34 by Syneester! 🧟‍♂️

After that, we've got lumyxluminous' TAMN!Sona (which I absolutely adore the idea of omg) hanging out with Grian and Scar hehehe 💜

Finally, betareki's beautiful rendition of the reunion scene from Chapter 28/29 ties off all these amazing works, and we couldn't be more grateful! 💫

FIVE FANWORKS AAAAA Honestly don't even know what to say at this point, you're all so, SO very kind to us and Lock and I could've never imagined this outpouring of love and support when we first started writing TAMN :") If you haven't gotten an eyeful of the artworks yet, please do and share the good feelings around 💜💜💜

And now, on with the next chapter! :D

The lunch bustle is in full effect when Grian enters the dining hall, people chatting and laughing amicably as they crowd around the cluster of tables and form a loose line next to the buffet. It reminds him a little of the atmosphere at summer camp in the American movies he used to watch growing up. Bdubs waves at several people as they pass, the residents smiling widely and greeting him in return, cheerful, polite, and friendly.

It’s with a start that Grian realises he’s starting to recognise faces—the blonde woman with the sharp features who had opened the gate for them the day they arrived, the broad-shouldered man with a heavy beard walking in and out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on an apron as he finishes carrying out platters of hot food. His eyes meet theirs and they respond with easy half-nods of acknowledgement, both familiar and kind.

Something about it twists in his chest, settling uncomfortably in between his ribs. He doesn’t like the idea of getting attached to these people—of getting familiar enough with them to know them.

Not when he never even wanted to be here in the first place.

Not when each and every one of them holds potential to be a meal.

Already, he’s felt his hunger pull at him more than once. Surrounded by so many happy, healthy people, his mouth can’t help but water, saliva pooling disgustingly under his tongue. The urge to dig in, to feast, to let himself go and gorge himself in the way his new instincts tell him he must in order to survive. Even though he’s holding himself back remarkably well, he knows nobody here is safe around him. That it’s only a matter of time before his self-control becomes an afterthought, and his hunger demands more.

He wants to be long gone before it comes to that.

Preferably with Scar at his side.

“Oh, hang on,” Bdubs says suddenly, his eyeline tracking across the room to a man with shoulder-length brown hair and bright green glasses framing his face. “You go ahead without me, Grian. I’ve got to update the next patrol on the schedule real quick.”

Without waiting for Grian’s answer he steps away, leaving Grian standing awkwardly by himself in the centre of the room. Immediately he feels out of place, adrift without an anchor. There’s no real reason for him to be here—he can try to eat, but it won’t do anything to keep him full, and nothing on offer seems appetising anyway. Uncomfortable, he wipes his suddenly sweaty palms against his thighs, drying them on his trousers as he tries to keep himself from panicking and drawing too much attention to himself.

It’s fine, he reasons. He doesn’t need anybody to walk him though getting a meal, he’s not nine. He’ll simply head to the kitchen, grab a plate, and pretend to eat in order to keep up appearances. Easy.

“What’re you just hangin’ around for?” Inquires a loud voice, interrupting him from just off to his left.

Grian tries his best not to jump right out of his skin, alarmed by how close the stranger had gotten without him noticing. He backs up a step, taking in their brown eyes and scant, patchy facial hair before scanning up to the green streak running their ear-length haircut. It’s Joel, he thinks—though he’s not yet had a proper one-on-one introduction.

“Oh,” he starts, realising that Joel is waiting for an answer from him and he’s just been staring. “Just… grabbing some food.”

“In the middle of the room?” Joel shoots back, an eyebrow raised.

Something about his tone makes Grian bristle on instinct, a knee-jerk reaction to push back rather than fold. “Well, I was getting to it.”

The man gives him a long look before seemingly deciding that Grian has passed whatever internal test he’s set up, offering him a wide grin.

“C’mon then,” Joel says, slapping a hand to Grian’s shoulder and ushering him along. “Not to brag—except I am—but I’m an incredible cook and you’re missing out if you don’t get it while it’s hot.”

Aggressively, Joel steers Grian towards the table by the kitchen—the one that had formerly held all the breakfast food. Every dish has been switched out, the meal on offer for lunch entirely different from the one Grian had avoided several hours ago. There’s a couscous and a three bean salad in two large bowls, along with a tureen of tomato soup, and a basket of focaccia covered in slivers of sliced olives.

Under Joel’s watchful supervision, Grian politely serves himself a tablespoon of couscous and the smallest corner of focaccia he can find. Luckily, Joel doesn’t comment on the size of Grian’s portion as he fills a plate for himself.

“How do you manage to eat so well?” The question comes out of Grian almost impulsively, baffled by yet another meal of generously large portions with seemingly no thought to rationing.

“Jealous?” Joel asks, raising an eyebrow above his somewhat smug grin.

Grian’s not. Not really. He just can’t get over it—how normal their lives look amidst what he knows is a wretched wreck of a world.

“We’ve been surviving off energy bars and beef jerky for weeks, and you’re out here baking bread,” he explains, trying not to sound defensive. “I don’t understand how you’re pulling this off with so many mouths to feed.”

With both hands full, Joel nods towards one of the tables—one with benches instead of chairs. He motions for Grian to join him as he sits himself down, spreading his legs wide and making himself comfortable.

“We got the benefit of being one of the first encampments to set up shop in the area,” he explains casually, easygoing with his words. “Ren and Big B and them cornered the market, so to speak. Once you get enough competent people together, provisioning isn’t that big of a problem anymore.” Enthusiastically he tears off a corner of focaccia, dipping it in his soup and letting it soak in. “And we’re eating well ‘cause a lot of the stuff we got in storage now won’t last the year. Stupid to let it go to waste, lad.”

He pauses, chewing a mouthful of bread before he tears off another piece, dipping it again.

Jealously, Grian wishes he was hungry for what Joel’s eating. It looks good and Joel’s clearly enjoying it.

He hates that his last living meal was probably a granola bar in a flavour he didn’t even like.

“You keep people happy by keepin’ ‘em fed,” Joel continues, speaking around a mouthful that he has to spend a moment thoroughly chewing before he swallows. “That’s what good ol’ King Ren says, anyway.”

It’s embarrassing how much Grian finds himself agreeing with that sentiment, unable to help but think about how his own mood would certainly improve if he could simply get enough to eat. Still, all he can do is shrug a shoulder, pushing his food around on his plate to create the illusion of eating while Joel continues to tuck in. The silence they fall into isn’t terrible—merely the awkwardness of two strangers with too much going on to think about smalltalk.

“Were you living here?” Grian asks at last, feeling silly as he prompts Joel with the most basic of questions. “Before it all…”

“Went to shit?” Joel finishes, cracking a wry smile before shaking his head. “We were here on vacation. Couple of weeks—a bit of an anniversary thing. Then the outbreak started, and we were told to sit tight for a few days until things were under control and we could fly home. Like it wasn’t a blummin’ lost cause from the start.”

The word sticks out in Grian’s mind, piquing his interest.

“Anniversary for what?”

“‘Anniversary for what’?” Joel echoes, his voice pitching up as he repeats the question before he rolls his eyes. “For my wedding, obviously. What else would it be?”

Grian wants to bristle, and get his hackles up, lashing out in turn. Instead he merely presses, “There are other kinds of anniversaries.”

“Stupid anniversaries, maybe.”

He doesn’t know what he was expecting. Doesn’t know what to even make of this conversation. Everything about it slants askew, juvenile in a way he doesn’t know what to do with.

“Alright well,” Grian fumbles, hitching his shoulders forward defensively. “I’m sorry I even asked.”

Across from him Joel squints from holding back a grin, a strangled giggle escaping his tight lips. It’s all they need for the pressure of the moment to evaporate, both of them relaxing as Joel gives in to a laugh.

“I like you,” Joel offers, stuffing his mouth with another bite of bread and soup.

Grian stares at him, bewildered. Not understanding what could have brought out that reaction from the very little interaction they’ve had.

“You’ve got a nasty little mean streak, haven’t you?” Joel grins, licking some crumbs off his fingertips. “Don’t try to deny it—I can see it in your eyes. You’re only biting your tongue ‘cause you’re new. Otherwise, you’d be givin’ me a piece of your mind.”

Satisfied with his read on Grian, Joel settles back in his seat, arms folded snug across his chest. Grian doesn’t say a word, unwilling to prove Joel’s assessment one way or the other. There’s a tentative feeling in his chest, though—one he hasn’t felt in a long, long time. It reminds him a little of the first time he met Scar. Kinship, camaraderie, and something a little bit hopeful.

After secondary school, Grian hadn’t done much for himself in terms of seeking out friendship. He’d had a few friends in university, but he’d mostly kept to himself as much as possible, private in who he was and what he did. It’s strange to be here now, so far away from all that, and to have this stranger meet him at his level and read him at a glance. He doesn’t know Joel—don’t know if he’ll ever know Joel well—but he doesn’t hate his bullheaded approach to conversation, either.

“What did you say your name was again?” Joel asks.

“I didn’t say it,” Grian replies, short but without any of the heat that he would normally pack behind his words.

“Cheeky,” Joel grins, “Bit of a bad boy, are we?”

Huffing a laugh, Grian offers him a smile, “I’m Grian.”

“I’m Joel,” the other man replies, “Though I guess you must already know that, seein’ as my name’s up in lights.”

“Four letters on a blackboard menu for lunch isn’t exactly Hollywood, buddy.”

Joel hunches his shoulders, a competitive spark in his eye. “Hey, I earned that spot! Let’s see how humble you play it when it’s your turn for kitchen duty.”

Before Grian can open his mouth to say he won’t be here that long, another man comes over to their table. He’s tall and lean, bulked up only by the large, army green parka he’s got set over his frame. It’s the first time Grian’s been this close to Etho, and in his head he tries to connect the man he sees before him to the stories he’s heard from Bdubs thus far.

“Joel,” Etho says, low and directed singularly to him. It’s like he doesn’t realise Grian is there at all. “Can I sit?”

Joel rolls his eyes, “For goodness sake, I’m not your mother, Etho. You can do whatever you like.” And then, as Etho settles down beside him, Joel turns to Grian, holding up a hand as if to shield his words with a mock-whisper. “He’s obsessed with me. Can’t get enough. It’s sad, really.”

It’s only then that Etho seems to notice Grian at all, startling a little before he gives Grian a nod, the way his eyes pinch at the corners suggesting that he’s offering a polite smile. “Hey. Etho.”

“Grian,” he replies, holding back the urge to try and shake Etho’s hand.

Etho still has his face covered, however unlike the previous day he’s swapped the fancy respirator out for a simple mask, the kind Grian recognises from hospital dramas on TV, albeit in black versus white. His respirator remains clipped to his belt, easily accessible, alongside an incredibly severe looking hunting knife in a broad leather sheath.

From across the table, his almost frighteningly pale eyes hold Grian’s, watching him carefully for a moment before he finally raises a hand and begins packing up the lunch in his tray, not making any move to eat it in front of them.

“Don’t take it personally,” Joel explains, no doubt noticing the way Grian is staring. “He’s a hypochondriac, that one. Doesn’t want to take his mask off where he could catch something.”

“I’m cautious,” Etho offers mildly, “It’s a sensible thing to be.”

“The virus doesn’t travel through the air,” Grian says, knowing he sounds more critical than he needs to be.

From across the table both Etho and Joel look at him intently, Etho’s expression flat, while Joel raises his eyebrows in interest. Miserably, Grian gets the incriminating and humiliating feeling of having said the wrong thing, putting his eyes down onto his plate as he resumes pushing his food around.

“Just because it doesn’t, doesn’t mean other diseases and pathogens went away, lad,” Joel explains somewhat critically, speaking into the gap made by Etho’s silence.

The part of Grian humbled by the admonishment rankles against the part of him that’s stood by Scar’s side for years.

I know that, he wants to say, thinking back to everything Scar’s ever told him; all caution and considerations that went into periods of sickness.

I could infect you both in under a minute, a raw, ragged part of him thinks as well. Ugly and vicious and starving. You wouldn’t even have time to scream.

“Don’t fuss with this guy, Etho,” Joel dismisses with a shrug, though his sharp sliver of a smile remains. “He’s just another asshole. You’ve already got enough of those to deal with.”

His elbow pushes into Etho’s side, clearly looking to get a rise from him. Etho, however, barely acknowledges it, simply finishing off packing his bread up in napkins and carefully putting it into one overly large pocket of his coat.

“I wanted to talk about where we should check next,” Etho continues, picking up a conversation Grian has no context for. “Since we proved that rushing off without a plan gets us nowhere, I thought you might want to talk things through this time.”

Grian can feel the sting of an ongoing argument, one that clearly has yet to be resolved, and tries desperately not to feel awkward as it’s pulled up in front of him.

Just as he could’ve predicted, Joel’s expression immediately twists, not angry so much as sour and impatient.

“Alright,” he replies, his words clipped. “Why don’t you enlighten me, then? Oh wise and noble Etho.” There’s a snap to his words, crisp on the hard consonants. Oddly in conflict with his accent, which tends to smooth them down.

The tension between them feels terrible, winding sharp around a pressure point Grian still doesn’t understand.

“Should I go?” he asks, preemptively leaning back in his seat, ready to take his plate and leave in order to give the two of them some privacy.

At Grian’s words, the two of them exchange glances, something tired in the set of Joel’s expression that he quickly smooths away with a roll of his eyes.

“No, it’s fine,” he relents, affecting a long-suffering sigh. “Not like it’s a big secret or anythin’.”

“We were gone for a while. Rushed off without thinking things through and it worried a lot of people,” Etho explains.

Grian nods. “I think Scar and I arrived on the day you two came back. In fact, I think the only reason we only ran into everyone was because they were out looking for you.”

“That sounds about right,” Etho muses, “We’d only meant to search the area on a day trip but… it took us a little longer than originally expected.”

Etho tosses a look over in Joel’s direction at that, and Joel bristles like he’s been accused. “I had to make sure! Don’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same if it was Bdubs!”

“Were you looking for something…?” Grian asks, slowly pulling the picture together.

“Someone,” Joel explains, his whole face falling, looking much more like he had on the first day Grian had spotted him, pulling away from the group and slamming the door to the jeep. Regret, anger, helplessness—all feelings that Grian can read easily after being so familiar with them himself. “Like I said earlier, I was only here for my anniversary… when the outbreak happened, my wife and I made it a few weeks together before I lost her. Been trying to find her again ever since.”

Grian isn’t sure what to say to that. ‘I’m sorry,’ doesn't seem like enough, while at the same time comes off almost rude when it’s clear that Joel hasn’t given up on finding her. Across the table Etho braces a hand on Joel’s shoulder before sliding it comfortingly down Joel’s back, only for Joel to roughly shrug off the gesture, reaching into his pocket instead.

A little surprisingly he pulls out a smartphone, powering it on in front of Grian.

“When we’d gotten separated, the phone lines were mostly down or busy, but texts were still working. I wanted to reach out to her, but I’d smashed my screen trying to get away from those bloody corpses.” The screen flickers on, not a scratch on it, and Grian stares down in confusion. Joel catches his eye, nudging his head in Etho’s direction. “When I met Etho, he told me he could fix it. We just needed to find a spare phone with a working screen. So obviously, I stuck around with him and saved his neck in exchange for a little favour.”

Etho huffs a laugh, “Who saved who exactly?”

Joel ignores him, leaning forward to get closer to Grian as he opens up his texts. “Long story short, by the time we scavenged everything together, we’d also met up with Bdubs and the others.”

“It took me a bit to get situated here, but once things calmed down, I kept my promise,” Etho explains.

“And the second my screen turned back on, I was pelted with all the messages I’d missed while my phone was out of commission,” Joel says, his voice going quiet as he thumbs into a contact titled ‘Lizzie’ followed by a string of embarrassingly smitten emojis that Grian can’t ever imagine doing himself. The feeling is quickly replaced by a somber melancholy, his heart aching in sympathy as Joel scrolls through text after text after text. All one-sided, sent from his wife, with no reply on his end. “Her most recent text was sent about two days before communications in the area went down entirely, and I knew it was a longshot, I knew. But—”

Joel shows Grian the final text he’d received. An image, alongside a short caption that says, ‘We should retake our vows here someday.’

His eyes widen.

The image is of the waterfalls he and Scar had just been in the vicinity of. The same park. The same trees. The same foliage. But none of that grips Grian as hard as what he spots along the edges of the falls.

There’s a dog in the photograph, medium sized and pure white. It’s clambering up the side of the rocks, fur wet from the water, framed by the cascade of the falls, wearing a bright, yellow collar…

It looks exactly like a dog he’s seen over and over at Scar’s place, right at the heels of its owner.

It looks exactly like Tilly.

Pearl.

Grian’s heart rate quickens and he finds himself clenching his hands under the table to keep them from shaking. He’d never gotten along with Tilly. Never gotten along with Pearl. He’d always felt threatened by them both, in the way that everyone Scar knew and got along with threatened him.

His eyes scan the photo desperately, looking for more clues, something that will confirm it beyond a shadow of a doubt. In the bottom left corner he sees something, too blurry and out of focus to know for sure. The hood of a burgundy parka, not too dissimilar from his own. Flyaway strands of mousey brown hair.

Pearl and Tilly. Maybe.

Alive and together.

“—I had to go there,” Joel concludes, running a finger over the image. “Lizzie took this, even when I hadn’t responded for ages. She wanted me to see that she was alright. That she’s got company. That she’s safe and still looking for me. And I just thought… maybe if I turned up, she might still be there waiting.”

Grian knows he’s being shown an immense amount of trust. He knows Joel is offering him something vulnerable and important.

All the same, he can’t make himself focus on anything other than the dog in the photo.

“Can I see that?”

The question is out of him before he can properly think it through. One of his hands reaches out across the table as he speaks, causing Joel to instinctively draw his phone back, holding it closer to his chest in a protective gesture.

“Sorry,” Grian starts, not knowing how to explain himself. Not knowing how, or even if, he should divulge any information.

He remembers how much he used to resent Pearl. Remembers how every one of Scar’s stories about her made him bristle defensively, insecure and jealous no matter how many times Scar assured him there was nothing there to worry about. They’d fought about her more often than Grian would like to admit. He’d been so insecure, so afraid of what she could come to mean to Scar…

He needs to know it’s her. Needs to confirm it beyond a doubt. If there’s a chance to fix things, he has to take it.

“The dog in the picture,” he offers, attempting to explain. “Do you know who—?”

His words cut off, interrupted as Joel and Etho’s eyes quickly move in unison towards the sound of the dining hall door creaking open. The shift in their attention causes Grian to sit up, casting his attention over his shoulder and towards where Cleo has just stepped in, followed immediately by Scar.

It’s both a relief and a stress to see him.

Grian hates the way his heart aches.

“Oh, good.” Spotting them immediately, Cleo strides across the hall, clapping a hand on Grian’s shoulder as she directs her words at Etho and Joel. “I’ve got to go speak with Ren. I’m going to leave this man in your capable hands.”

There’s a controlled urgency in her words, motivated by some kind of haste.

Standing next to her, Scar is all smiles, expression bright with enthusiasm even as he continues to refuse to look in Grian’s direction.

“Scar,” Cleo continues. “You’re a natural. I’m going to get Ren out to see you shoot later, and then we’ll set you up with your own gear. A couple days of solid practice and you’ll be fit to go.”

There’s a shared excitement between them. A moment they’ve enjoyed that Grian missed out on. It stirs a familiar, old jealousy in his chest. A bitter part of himself flaring up that he doesn’t want to encourage anymore.

Childishly, he looks away, struggling with the complexity of his feelings, only to catch the last second of Joel covertly putting his phone away. Their eyes meet and it becomes clear from Joel’s expression that he’s let Grian in on something he’s not willing to share to any larger extent. That the phone and its messages—that the photo—are all precious in a way not everyone is privy to.

It doesn’t feel fair. Perched on the cusp of something monumental, with every party involved unwilling to make themselves any more vulnerable to one another than they already are.

But he supposes he should maybe be used to that by now.

“Man, it smells good in here,” Scar says, voice cheerful and almost intentionally oblivious amidst the brewing tension of so many secrets lingering amongst them. “Is that foccacy—foccy—focca—”

“Focaccia,” Grian pipes up, resigning himself to Scar’s dismissal even as he speaks.

“It is,” Joel speaks up, friendly but still somewhat guarded with his words. “Made it m’self.”

“Now that’s a talent,” Scar enthuses, effortlessly earnest in a way Grian’s never been. “Number one survival skill in the apocalypse is baking, and I’m not even joking. Do these people know how lucky they are to have you?”

A breath passes, a second of internal evaluation before Joel relaxes into a proper smile, a smug arrogance returning to his face as he jostles his shoulder into Etho’s side.

“That’s what I’ve been saying this whole time. Haven’t I, Etho?”

Beside him, Etho remains silent, still staring in the direction Cleo left in and apparently only just tuning back in when Joel speaks.

Scar points to his mouth and then in Etho’s direction, “I noticed you had a respirator on earlier—did you need us to wear masks too, or…?”

Etho’s eyes crinkle up once more, another smile, this one far easier offered than the one he gave to Grian. “Nah, it’s not so bad usually. Just helps for me to stay cautious.”

“Immunocompromised?” Scar asks.

Etho nods.

“Samesies. Though when my flare-ups get bad, it’s usually more of a wheelchair situation than a respiratory thing.” Scar offers the information with an easy grin, and Grian can’t help but marvel at how effortlessly he integrates himself into new social situations, no anxiety on display what-so-ever. “I’m Scar, by the way.”

“Etho,” the other man responds, reaching across the table to shake Scar’s hand.

“Etho…” Scar repeats, musing. “Now where have I heard that before?”

“Bdubs’ husband,” Grian explains, and Scar’s only acknowledgement of his words is a snap of his fingers, like he’s come to the same conclusion on his own.

“That’s right! Bdubs was telling us all about how you two got separated.” Scar’s smile falters for a second, something more serious making its way into his tone. “I’m glad you managed to find each other again. It’s not easy losing someone you love.”

Automatically, Grian’s shoulders hitch up a little. From across the table, Joel notices, raising a brow at him questioningly. Grian doesn’t want to make a scene—doesn’t want to draw attention to any of his and Scar’s personal issues. Instead, he resolutely keeps his focus on Scar and Etho’s conversation, trying not to be so presumptuous as to assume that Scar is speaking about what’s skewed wrong between the two of them.

Oblivious to Grian’s emotional turmoil, Etho merely nods. “We’ve been together for basically our whole lives. The day I first met Bdubs was the last time I was ever apart from him—until the apocalypse came down on us, and then suddenly I didn’t see him for weeks… it was the longest we’ve ever been without each other.” He pauses to think for a moment, drumming his fingertips on the tabletop before he adds, sounding far more vulnerable than Grian had ever expected him to be, “There wasn’t a second that went by where I wasn’t sick to my stomach… worrying about whether or not he was okay… worrying about if he was even alive…”

Scar makes a noise of soft commiseration before offering Etho a gentle smile. “It’s lucky he found people along the way to help him.”

“I’m gonna be in their debt for a long time,” Etho agrees, nodding his head. “I owe them everything. Ren and the others are good people.”

“Even Cleo?” Joel asks with a teasing drawl, his elbow planted on the table with his chin tucked into his palm.

It’s almost amusing how quickly Etho flusters, his cheeks turning bright red just above the line of his mask. “Of course! I didn’t—I never said anything bad about them!”

Biting down on his lip to smother a grin, Joel blinks at him, eyes enormous. “Never said you said anything bad,” he insists. “I was just askin’.”

“What’s wrong with Cleo?” Scar asks.

“Nothing!” Etho exclaims. “There’s nothing wrong with her! Cleo’s great!”

“Cleo’s dating his husband,” Joel reveals, mock-whispering as though sharing a secret. “It gets him all riled up.”

There’s a gleeful smile on Joel’s face, somewhat immature and delighting at the chance to expose a nugget of tantalising gossip. Next to him, Etho merely stares down at his plate with a determined kind of focus.

“They’re not dating,” he clarifies after a pause, making the distinction clear. “It’s just—we’re trying something out.”

“Oh, that’s right!” Scar exclaims, putting on a smile that only Grian knows is for show, eyes otherwise calculating. “Bdubs mentioned something about that when we were out together earlier.”

It’s a deliberate bending of the truth. Both Scar and Grian know that it was a protracted conversation, and that nothing was merely ‘mentioned’ in the slightest.

Across from them Etho feigns disinterest, though his gaze is keen when he speaks. “Yeah,” he offers, the word both unsatisfying and cryptic. “It’s a new development.”

“And how’s it working out for you?” Scar asks, affably conversational, like they’re discussing the weather, and not the fragile expansion of the other man’s marriage.

Around the table they’re all silent, everyone watching Etho closely as his drumming stops and he puts both his hands into his pockets.

“As I said,” he answers at last, his tone cool, expressing no strong emotion either way. “It’s a new development.”

It’s the kind of emotional control Grian wishes he could emulate—The ability to keep one’s true sentiments so close to the chest that everything reads as nothing more than passive acknowledgement.

Strangely, it’s Joel who begins to look conflicted, opening his mouth to speak before he appears to think better of it. On the table his hand flexes, almost as if he wants to reach out to Etho. Instead, he merely focuses on finishing his meal, his eyebrows knit together in deep concentration. Etho looks across the table at him, an emotion Grian can’t read in his eyes.

“I’m fine with it,” he continues, sounding like he’s convincing himself as much as he’s assuring them.

There’s no easy segue in their conversation. No natural progression for their words to take. In the face of seemingly endless relationship alternatives and permutations, Grian wants only for Scar to look over and reassure him. Craves the press of Scar’s hand squeezing his in solidarity beneath the table.

Scar, however, remains entirely unaffected by the subject matter, letting the conversation drift into easy, softball questions instead. Ones that Joel and Etho can answer without having to continue exposing anything too raw or vulnerable about themselves.

Through them, they learn about the make-up of Ren’s encampment and the truly impressive cross-section of society that have come to be a part of it. The camp, they discover, boasts experienced engineers, retired city planners, community outreach and organisers, and certified tradesmen, electricians, and plumbers—all of them contributing in a way that fits together like an efficient and economical puzzle. A community of their own making, people finding one another and building together despite the horrors just beyond their borders.

As much as Grian wants to discuss the photo on Joel’s phone—and to find a way to share it with Scar—the subject doesn’t come up again. It’s clear from Joel’s actions that it’s not something he’s keen on sharing with a group.

Eventually, they finish their meal, and Etho makes a polite excuse to leave, inviting Joel to come along with him so that they can speak in private. It feels like an opportunity, a chance for Grian to properly catch up with Scar as well, yet immediately Scar is getting to his feet, clearing his plate and seeking out new people to talk to as he continues to effortlessly navigate the community dynamic within the compound.

It’s as frustrating as it is predictable, the afternoon continuing on as Scar takes the lead with introductions and explanations, while Grian does nothing but see himself falling further and further behind.

He wishes he could appreciate the camp, wishes he could feel like he belonged here. There’s a sense of community to it that feels far more entrenched than the scant weeks they’ve had to establish it, like the people there truly care about and believe in what they’re building together. More and more, Grian can see Scar thriving in a place like this, surrounded by people who are eagerly willing to offer what they can, and are equally quick to accommodate wherever they find themselves lacking.

It’s impossible to keep up, and when Grian finally drifts off on his own, wandering towards the river to get a bit of distance and clear his head, it doesn’t surprise him that Scar doesn’t even notice his absence.

He doesn’t hate this place, he doesn’t.

He just knows he wouldn’t have ever belonged here. Not even without the infection that’s rotted him out from the inside.

Almost effortlessly, midday dips into evening. The dining hall bell sounds, but Grian opts to skip dinner, and doesn’t think he’s missed. He finds his way back to their cabin instead, and when Scar finally returns to join him, the world outside their windows has been dark for hours.

There’s no need to be petulant, and Grian tries not to act like he’s been jilted, but the air feels strange and tense when Scar opens the door. Grian hates how easily he feels like he could lash out.

Scar is quiet when he enters the cabin, not even looking towards him as he takes his shoes off by the door and shrugs his arms out of his coat. Grian pretends to keep reading the book he’d pulled out of his bag—taken from the cabin they left behind after what Scar had called their honeymoon—trying to bite his tongue while Scar wordlessly changes out of his day clothes.

Eventually, the silence drags too long for it to read as anything but hostile, and Grian decides to break it.

“It’s been a long day, mm?” he asks, glancing across the cabin floor at Scar.

Unsurprisingly, Scar acts as if he hasn’t heard Grian speak at all, folding up his clothes before he sits down next to his backpack, settling in to reorganise some of his things. It twists something anxious in Grian’s gut. While he wants nothing more than to leave this place, seeing Scar take off his clothes and set them neatly into drawers creates a sense of permanence that makes his stomach flip-flop nervously.

“Y’know, I was worried about Ren at first, but it seems like most people here really look up to him. Maybe that scary ‘betray me and I’ll kill you where you stand’ first impression is just an act?”

Once more, Scar doesn’t reply, his attention fixed pointedly on what he’s doing. It makes Grian clench his jaw, working hard to hold onto his anger. He doesn’t understand why Scar is doing this—it’s both pointless and immature. Grian knows he’s angry. He knows that his feelings are hurt. If Scar doesn’t want to talk about it, then he’s willing to play pretend, the same way they’ve always done, but Scar’s refusal to even acknowledge him treads heavily on his nerves.

Taking a deep breath, he waits for the feeling to pass, allowing the minutes to stretch out between them before he tries again.

“I think Joel might be around my age. Honestly, most of the people here can’t be younger than thirty—did you notice? I wonder why that is.”

Scar’s silence is deafening, and his small, half-hearted scoff becomes Grian’s last straw. Angrily he shuts his book with a loud snap, putting it aside and staring at Scar with narrowing eyes. He’s sure Scar can feel the heat of his gaze, if the way his head turns minutely away is any indicator.

“So what’s the play here?” Grian asks, his tone sharper than he knows it has any right to be. “Are you just going to give me the cold shoulder forever?”

As if on cue, Scar’s body stiffens up, a broad flex across his back muscles before he gruffly responds, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

It’s a bewildering sentiment. As confusing as it is infuriating.

“How about anything at all, Scar?” Grian bursts out, his impatience pushing itself up into a point. “You’ve been ignoring me for hours!”

“That’s because I’m trying really hard not to say something I’ll regret, Grian,” Scar snaps back, measured and cold. “I can’t just work through everything I’m feeling and spit out exactly what you want to hear in a day.”

Grian bristles at the implication that he’s the one who’s been forcing Scar to temper his words. That he’s the one Scar is doing this for, when everything currently points to Scar being petty in his behaviour.

“That sure didn’t seem to be an issue earlier when you started yelling in the middle of the whole god damn camp,” he bites, bitter and sensitive.

“So sue me for having an emotional reaction to learning that my partner of two years was cheating on me for a quarter of our relationship,” Scar shoots back. “We can’t all be made of stone, G.”

His words feel like a slap in the face. After all the work Grian has been putting into being vulnerable, being candid—to act like he hasn’t opened up at all feels almost intentionally unkind.

“I asked you,” Grian argues, refusing to be pushed into the wrong. “Over and over, Scar. I wanted to talk about things, but you—”

“When you got bit—when I lost you—you told me that I shouldn’t have let you treat me the way you always did. You said that, Grian,” Scar interrupts. Suddenly, their eyes are locked, Scar staring him down intently, making Grian wish he had the ability to shy away. “And now that I’m finally standing my ground, you have a problem with it?”

His phrasing makes Grian uncomfortable, makes him defensive, his back pushed hard against the wall.

“I said a lot of things back then, Scar. I was dying.”

“You said you loved me,” Scar offers, blunt. “Did you mean it? Or was that also because you thought you were dying?”

The accusation hurts, painful to the point of cruelty.

A shallow, immature part of Grian wants to pick something up and throw it. To hurl his book against the furthest wall. So offended by Scar’s words that he can feel the clench of his jaw down in the roots of his teeth.

It’s unbelievable. The idea that Scar would question Grian’s feelings, when he’s been nothing but devoted since the moment he woke up again and discovered he had a second chance to make things right. The hell he crossed and the distance he covered just for the chance to stand beside Scar once more. To show him. To prove himself. Waiting patiently, unobtrusively, content to be whatever Scar was going to allow him to be—a friend, a partner, a lover, or nothing at all.

He thinks of the times he’s said that he loves Scar. The times he pressed the words quietly into the hollow of Scar’s throat, despite the hunger burning inside of Grian screaming at him to bite Scar instead. Gentle with his words and his touch and his affections, no matter how much a part of him wanted to tear and devour.

And now to be questioned so callously…

He can see Scar staring at him from across the cabin floor, his mouth pulled into a thin, impatient line. Waiting expectantly for an answer.

Of course I love you, he thinks, his heart aching despite how insulted he feels. I’ve done nothing but love you. I am nothing but love for you.

His mouth opens, feeling the sting of his silence. However, despite how hard he tries to make himself speak, the words simply don’t come. As easy as it should be to say it, as much as he believes it, the words remain trapped in his throat, some stupid animal part of himself fearing the edge of a trap, invisible to the naked eye. A paranoia he knows is of his own creation, but is equally undeniable in how real it feels.

He’s blackmailing you. The thought whispers, a poison along the dark, uneven edge of his mind.

It’s not right. He knows that’s impossible.

He’s cornering you. He wants you to owe him this. He wants to make you say what he wants to hear, and if you don’t he’s going to tell them all the truth about you.

It’s the same rotten, ragged part of Grian that drove him out of Scar’s arms in the first place. Unable to believe that Scar cared as much as he said he did. Terrified and unable to let himself be vulnerable, made worse now by the clotted mess of his condition.

“What do you want me to say?” He asks at last, the question bitter in the thin air. “What would make you happy, Scar?”

The silence that descends between them is sickening, Scar’s expression devastatingly betrayed and disappointed.

“Alright.” The word breaks out of Scar after a moment with something akin to finality, making him sound almost aloof with it. “Alright, Grian. Fine. Forget it.”

He resumes reorganising his things, his gestures rough in a way that’s completely uncharacteristic, making it clear that his actions are a statement in and of itself.

“Do you think I planned this?” Grian asks, his own irritation rising—with himself, with Scar, with the ugly mess of secrets hampering them both. “Do you think I’m happy right now?”

“According to you, you’ve never been happy,” Scar replies, terse but not shouting. “I don’t think I’d know what happiness would look like if I saw it on you.”

His words sting. It’s a painful bed of Grian’s own making, pushing him into silence.

“I don’t know what we’re even arguing for at this point,” Scar continues, bitter. “We both know it’s just going to be more of this until I let you step all over me like I always do, and then we’ll go back to pretending nothing is wrong.”

Grian sucks in a breath, injured and vulnerable. “I don’t want to do that, Scar,” he insists. “I’m willing to change—I’ve been trying. Why are you acting like I’m not?”

“Because I don’t know if you really are, Grian!” Scar shouts at last, finally losing his temper.

“I’m doing everything that I possibly can!” Grian exclaims, finding himself at the end of his rope. “I’ve stuck by your side. I’m here for you. What more do you want from me, Scar?”

“How about a fucking apology, for one?” Scar shouts, standing up abruptly. As he does, the bag settled in his lap tumbles to the ground, several items clattering out of it. The noise is loud, causing something fragile within Grian to flinch on instinct. That reaction doubles twofold, his heart sinking when he catches sight of their disposable camera among the wreckage, having hit the ground hard enough that the back has popped wide open.

Together, he and Scar stare mutely at the exposed strip of undeveloped film laid bare to the light of the room. Right before them, the precious pictures they’d taken instantly bloom out of existence from over-exposure.

A sudden feeling of loss overwhelms Grian, incongruous when he knew they were never going to see those photos developed anyway. The memories rush in immediately: the two of them back in Anaheim sitting on the carousel in Disneyland; the trio walking ahead of them across the infinite sun-baked line of highway; Scar’s candid shot of him at the hot springs as he crouched down by the water; the few days they had spent alone on the mountains, where Grian had taken a picture of Scar standing in the cabin kitchen, and another while looking out over the still water of the lake…

It all combines together, curling around Grian’s heart and squeezing tight. He can see the shock and immediate regret on Scar’s face as well, clearly not having expected such a consequence from his outburst.

Grian doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know how to address the enormity of their unique, personal tragedy.

It’s only after what feels like minutes of silence that he finally speaks, his words cutting into the space between them.

“You know what I think?” He asks, equal parts upset and defeated. “I think an apology wouldn’t even satisfy you anymore, Scar. I think you trust me so little at this point that I could apologize from sunrise to sunset, and after I’d said it all, you’d still find a way to say that you don’t believe me.”

Slowly, Scar raises his eyes to meet Grian’s gaze. He looks tired, but no objection graces his lips. It makes Grian want to curl in on himself, nursing the open wound that his aching heart has become.

“What else is there, Scar? At this point, what can I even do to prove myself to you?” He shakes his head, feeling crazed by the circular way they both keep fighting with one another, retreading the same faults over and over and over again. “I’ve been avoiding B since we got here. I’ve made sure I’m never alone with him. I don’t want to see him. I’ve barely said two words to him, and that’s still not enough for you.”

They both stare at one other for a moment, angry and unmoving, and Grian fights the impulse to beg Scar to meet him halfway.

“Where does it end, Scar? How much more clear can I make it that I’m done with B? That I know I never should have started.” At his wit’s end, Grian runs a hand back through his hair, his entire body wired and tense.

Scar, however, remains unmoved, his lips pulled into a frown and his stare unyielding.

In the face of his expression, Grian’s next words come out bitter and accusing. “Do you want me to kill him? Would that be enough? Would that satisfy you?”

He doesn’t mean it, of course. The argument is bringing out the worst in him. He’s expecting Scar to roll his eyes—he’s expecting Scar to say something about how he always takes things too far.

What he’s not expecting is for Scar’s eyes to flash with something unfathomably dark and ugly.

Something Grian’s seen in his own reflection far too many times to not take it for exactly what it is.

Horror lodges in his throat, his mouth going slack as he stares at his partner.

“You can’t be serious…”

Scar says nothing, his expression closing off until Grian can’t read anything on him anymore.

“Scar!” he hisses, quickly casting his gaze around the room, as if someone might have been standing close enough to hear.

It’s impossible, it has to be. He refuses to believe that the man standing in front of him—the man tacitly asking Grian to kill for him—is the same man who had held compassion for the zombies they’d first killed together. The same man who had been furious at what Grian had tried to do to Quackity.

He wants to call him out. Wants to throw the revelation back in Scar’s face. But then, he remembers the mountain.

He remembers the crazed look on Scar’s face when he’d explained how he’d sent Pops off into the dark, hoping that Grian would come across him and take his fill. He remembers how Scar had taken his hands and squeezed them—had looked him in the eye and promised Grian that he’d always put him first. No matter what.

And now, he was asking for the same show of devotion in return.

A part of Grian doesn’t want to believe that it could happen—that Scar could have changed so much. But then… hadn’t Grian himself changed?

And hadn’t Scar welcomed that change with open arms?

He feels his mind racing, heart beating rabbit-fast in his chest. It’s all spinning out too quickly—the realisation that Scar hasn’t remained unaffected, that Grian has poisoned him. And that… if Scar has been so willing to pledge himself to Grian all the same, isn’t it only right for him to expect the same from Grian in turn?

“I need some air,” Grian gasps out, his voice rough, feeling both sick and claustrophobic.

He crosses the cabin floor, brushing past Scar. The other man doesn’t reach out to stop him. Grian refuses to look back as he crosses the threshold, his boots heavy on the steps, letting the door swing shut behind him with a bang that he knows will carry.

Outside, the night air is icy as it hits his face. For a moment he regrets not grabbing his coat. Then, his new instincts push that feeling away, the sense of cold receding with it, and he treks onwards resolutely, putting as much distance in between himself and Scar as he can manage as he seeks out the edge of the encampment.

He doesn’t know exactly where he’s going, too concerned and too conflicted to pay attention to where his feet are taking him. When he winds up by the river it’s a surprise, but not an unpleasant one. He makes his way down the winding path to the water’s edge, stopping beside an outcropping of large boulders with an overhang of narrow, spindly pine trees.

Finally somewhere that feels sheltered, he stops, taking a few deep, calming breaths. He lets the crisp air fill his lungs before exhaling in a rush. He’s not planning to stay long, just needing the minute it will take for him to gather his thoughts, but almost immediately someone calls out, disturbing the shred of reverie he’d been seeking.

“Gonna have to find your own hidey-hole to brood in,” says Joel from somewhere to Grian’s left, his figure entirely obscured by shadows. “This spot’s taken.”

“Joel…?” Grian turns as he says his name, trying to seek him out while still struggling with the spiraling thoughts ravaging in his head. “Where are you?”

“This way, lad. Just follow the sound of my voice.” The words are said with a snicker, and though Grian wants to roll his eyes, he does eventually find his way to where Joel is sat. He’s cross-legged on a large boulder stuck out into the water, almost entirely sheltered by the tilt of the outcropping leaning heavy overhead.

“Alright?” Joel asks, nodding at Grian as he arrives.

“What are you doing out here?” Grian replies, dubiously regarding what feels like the riverside equivalent of hiding out beneath the high school bleachers in an American movie.

“Bugger all, really,” Joel sighs. He has a small pile of river stones assembled in front of him, a cairn of idleness, and he reaches for one as he relaxes, turning it over again and again in his hand. “Etho fell asleep in my bed after five hundred hours of worrying, and it felt wrong to wake him up just so I could go to sleep, so I figured I’d take a walk and clear my head. Maybe if I kill enough time he’ll wake up by himself and I won’t have to fuss about it.”

It’s a strange situation, one Grian isn’t sure he entirely understands.

“I mean, if it’s really an issue, you could just get Bdubs to come and get him. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

Something flashes in Joel’s expression, moving too quickly across his features for Grian to catch.

“Wish I could,” he drawls, sounding only a little sly with it. “But the only reason Etho was in my cabin in the first place was ‘cause ol’ Bdubs was off in Cleo’s, and Etho, the poor sod, felt too lonely all by himself—Not that he said all that, mind. I’m just good at reading his god awful silences.” He snorts, amused with himself more than anything, though he must catch a look on Grian’s face because he adds, “Nothin’ untowards going on. S’just that Etho doesn’t like to disturb ‘em when they’re off alone, so he winds up bothering me instead.”

“Sounds complicated,” Grian allows, in a tone that’s as non-judgemental as he can manage.

Joel shrugs, his shoulders hitching up noncommittally. “Yeah, well. It’s not really my place to have an opinion on things like that, so…”

It seems like it kind of is your place to have an opinion, Grian wants to say, thinking back to every time he’s seen Etho anchored to Joel’s side, something strung between them that seems so much more intense than just companionship. Instead, he chooses to quietly keep it to himself, staring out at the river. The bank is picked out by the light of the almost full moon shining down from the deep indigo sky overhead, its light splintering across the surface of the rushing water in a million tiny pearls of white.

In Grian’s silence Joel quietly bristles, however, and Grian can sense him assuming an implication in a way that he imagines must feel incriminating.

“I’m not involved,” Joel insists at last, his words definitive in the darkness.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“And I don’t mind that they’re all involved with one another,” he continues, almost as if Grian hadn’t spoken at all.

A part of Grian wants to spit out that he has no interest in judging the checkerboard romance of a bunch of people he barely knows. To snap that he’s dealing with his own relationship problems. That his hands are full in excess, and he doesn’t care whether Joel’s are as well, or not.

“Alright,” he says instead, deferential in the darkness.

Surprisingly, Joel doesn’t snarl at him any further, and whatever had upset him slowly smoothes back down again as the minutes pass.

It’s an odd feeling. A certain gut instinct in him that promises that in another life, he and Joel would’ve been good friends. He can almost picture the two of them standing on a bridge together, sharing secret cigarettes and watching the sunset, bickering back and forth and never bothering to hold a grudge.

He doubts that things will work out that way here. In this life, he feels like his and Joel’s time together is doomed to be somewhat limited.

“Sorry,” Joel says at last, bowing his head as he taps the end of the rock he’s holding against the boulder he’s sat on. “I was rude to you the day I met you—throwing that tantrum because we’d come back empty handed after searching the waterfalls. And I’m being rude now. You shouldn’t have to put up with this.”

“It’s no big deal,” Grian dismisses almost instantly, brushing it off before he can think too deeply about how effortlessly Joel offers an apology, whereas the words have never seemed to come easy to him.

Together they slip into an amiable silence. The moon creeps up ever-higher above them, and Grian follows the pull of its slow progress through the night sky.

“He’s a light sleeper,” Joel offers after a few minutes have passed, confessing into the stillness between them, the only other sound the rushing of the river running over its bed of stones. “It was good for us when we were out—y’know, in the forest. Saved us a few times when I nodded off on my watch… but, if I hang around in the cabin while he’s sleeping, I’ll just blunder around and wake ‘im up fifty or sixty times. He doesn’t need that right now.”

Grian doesn’t think Joel is speaking to him, per say. Doesn’t think he realises how little Grian understands the nuance of his personal drama. There’s no harm in letting him talk though, he supposes. It’s abundantly clear that Joel wants to get something off his chest, and Grian figures his fate right now is to be the conduit through which he unloads it.

“How long were you two out alone together?”

“Dunno,” Joel responds, and his admission sounds weary but honest. “A few weeks, maybe. I wasn’t keeping track of days. And Etho—well, I mean, we were both in a state, really. Worried sick. Miserable.”

Grian wants to sympathise, but it’s a difficult thing to relate to. He was never on that side of the equation. Even when he’d been chasing after Scar, he’d known somewhere in the pull of his chest that he’d find him again with certainty.

If we’d been nearer, I would’ve hunted you. Light sleeper or not, he thinks, the realisation sour in the back of his throat.

“Then we found our way here,” Joel continues with a sigh, unaware of Grian’s musing. “And the person he’s been searching everywhere for is waiting for ‘im at the gate. So it’s a happy ending, right? Except then the love of his life says he found somebody new while Etho was gone, but also not really, y’know? And suddenly Etho’s not just married, is he? He’s married with a little bit extra. And everyone’s fine with it, everyone’s positive—even though I don’t know how you could be.”

His brows are furrowed, deep in his thoughts as he speaks. “It’s nobody’s business but theirs… but that’s not true either, is it? Because, for weeks, I sat up all night keeping watch while holding the hand of a devastated soul who thought he’d lost the only person who ever mattered to him. And, even now, I’m the one dealing with the repercussions of a married man in another person’s cabin, leaving a lonely man to sleep in mine.”

Grian doesn’t know exactly what strange mixture of feelings Joel has found himself mired in. What opinions he’s nurtured yet kept quietly to himself. He remembers, though—caught out under the hot desert sun—the way he’d looked at the trio’s relationship; Karl, Quackity, and Sapnap. How he’d watched them basking in the open, revelling in the easy affection that they shared effortlessly between one another.

He remembers how much he hadn’t trusted it. How it had all felt too easy.

He remembers how much he’d wanted Scar to distrust it, too.

Grian wants to hear Joel say the same, now. Wants the dissent to no longer be his and his alone.

“Sounds like you’re just as involved in it as they are,” he suggests, careful with the statement.

He can feel Joel’s eyes on him, calculating in the moonlight.

“Were you married? Y’know, before?” he asks, and immediately Grian finds himself wishing he’d simply offered a bland word of sympathy instead.

“No,” he replies, surprising himself with the softness of his answer.

With a nod like that of a confirmed suspicion, Joel flicks a pebble out towards the river. He exhales a heavy breath. It comes out as a billow of frosted air that halos him in the dark.

“I was,” he continues, and immediately Grian thinks back to Joel’s phone, and the texts, and the picture from the waterfall. “I still am,” he corrects, like that explains everything.

It takes another few minutes for Joel to meter out his words, meticulously choosing what to say.

“You get to be a certain way, when you commit to someone like that. Familiar, I guess. Comfortable in the trust you’ve built around one another. The life you’ve made…” He pauses, looking away before dragging in a deep, bracing breath. “The thought of doing something behind her back without her knowing… even just thinking it. It makes me sick to my stomach.”

It’s a humbling feeling. One that Grian does not enjoy.

“There’s nothing going on between me and Etho,” Joel adds with finality, pushing a hand back through his shaggy hair. “And there won’t be, even if I wasn’t so blumin’ confused about it that it keeps me awake at night.”

He tosses another rock towards the river, and then another, each stone landing with a heavy plunk in the water.

“Because my wife’s out there,” he finishes. “And I know she’d never do that to me.”

They both fall into silence after that, Joel having said his piece, and Grian feeling the weight of his words pressing heavy against the guilty throat of his own relationship history.

He can’t deny that Joel’s devotion to his marriage makes him feel pathetic in comparison. He thinks about what might have happened, in a world where he took the plunge and committed to Scar despite all his fears. Would a marriage have fixed him? Would it have prevented years of wretched self-sabotage? Or would he have woken up one morning with papers served and a divorce on the horizon, because things had played out exactly the same way except he’d cheated on his husband instead of his boyfriend?

He can’t answer that. Doesn’t know if he wants to. His wordlessness sticks out though, and he knows that Joel notices it.

“You know… it was weird, finding Etho at the end of the world,” Joel ventures at last, throwing another stone into the water as he allows them to go off on tangent. “When I look back now, it feels like there was no other way things could’ve gone. Like we were meant to find one another, him and me.” He laughs, shaking his head. “It sounds stupid, I know. But have you ever met someone and clicked with them like that?” He takes a moment, cold night wind brushing through his hair as he contemplates. “Sometimes, it feels like in any other world it’d be perfect. But in this one it’s like the universe is having a laugh at me.”

A shiver runs down Grian’s spine, the hairs prickling up along his arms and up the back of his neck.

He does know how that feels. He knows it exactly. He’d felt that way the first time he’d met Scar, a bright, inescapable pull drawing Grian to him from across the room. He’d felt it again while following the images in his head to find Scar again after dying. It’s not something he thinks he can explain—not in a way that doesn’t make him sound crazy. Regardless, whatever Joel sees on his face must make him shy away from the confession, because he laughs awkwardly a moment later, batting his hand in the air as though he can fan the conversation away.

“God, ignore me. I’m so tired I’ve gone mad—I’m just rambling.”

“It is pretty late,” Grian agrees, and Joel gives him a sideways smile.

“I suppose this is the part where I thank you for listening to me pour my heart out.”

His expression is wry, but he’s clearly already overthinking having opened up the way he has to a veritable stranger. While Grian knows he’d never put himself in Joel’s position, he finds that he’d rather assuage his fears rather than add to them. So he merely raises his brows, his voice light and unbothered.

“Oh, was I supposed to be listening? Sorry mate, let’s do it again from the top.”

His words get the exact reaction Grian was hoping for, startling a bright laugh out of Joel. The other man grins at him, and it makes Grian feel good knowing that he’s still capable of forging connections—that he’s not completely a lost cause.

“You’re not half-bad,” Joel teases, still smiling. Confidently, he swings his legs over to the same side of the rock, hopping clear of it before brushing off the seat of his pants. “I hope you’ll stick around,” he admits. “You and Scar.”

The mention of Scar touches a sore spot, but Grian keeps his tone steady. “Thanks.”

Standing with his hands on his hips, Joel turns his attention back over his shoulder, looking towards the path that leads up to the cabins. “Guess I’ll be going to check in on sleeping beauty, then,” he sighs, reluctant in a way Grian knows is contrived. “G’night, Grian,” he adds, giving him a wave as he starts climbing the path. “I’ll catch you at breakfast.”

He’s only a few paces away when he pauses, looking back towards Grian and warning, “Don’t stay out here by yourself too long, eh? Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there are monsters nearby.”

The irony isn’t lost on Grian, only too aware of how easy it would have been—would still be—for him to tear into Joel. He’d have been able to eat his fill and dispose of the evidence in the swiftly moving current long before daybreak.

“Goodnight, Joel,” he offers, waving him off and watching him leave until he can’t see the outline of his figure moving along the dark stones of the bank any longer.

Alone in the shadows, he leans against the boulder Joel had sat on, watching the moonlight reflect off the moving line of the river. His mind feels too full to even begin pulling anything apart. Thoughts of Joel and Etho, about commitment and forgiveness, and about the complexities of forging and preserving connections in a world that seems bent on stripping people from their humanity at every turn.

He thinks of Pops and how he’d kept Scar alive, maybe still roaming the mountains, maybe dead.

He thinks of the trio and their earnesty, and how they must have been forever changed by his actions, suspicious of any survivors they now come across.

Mostly, he thinks of Scar.

He thinks of the mess he’s made and of how, even now, it’s all he can do not to run from his problems. He knows there are concessions he has to make; knows that it’s unfair to ask Scar to simply let it all go when the presence of the man Grian cheated on him with throws both their relationship and their history into disarray.

He thinks about his stress and his exhaustion, and the looming threat of his hunger, growing larger and larger, bit by bit.

At some point, Grian knows he’ll have to make his way back to the cabin. He’ll have to face Scar and speak—truly speak—to him, no matter the consequence.

But for now he has the whole night ahead of him, the moon overhead and the rush of the water content to keep him company.

Maybe, by the time he’s gathered his thoughts just a little more, enough to wander his way back, Scar will already be fast asleep.

Notes:

THANK YOU GUYS FOR 300+ SUBSCRIPTIONS/BOOKMARKS, AS WELL AS 1000+ KUDOS ON TAMN!! 🎉🎉✨

 

It's unreal having gotten here omg :') Every comment, every reader, we appreciate each and every one of you fr 😭💜

To celebrate, Lock and I have created a discord server for TAMN! We generally keep to ourselves and have never really done something like this before, so we've got that good, good nervous-excitement-anxiousness as a mix going into this LOL But we'd be thrilled to chat with those of you who want to join (and happy to provide entertainment for those who'd rather just lurk ;3) ✨ If you're interested in dropping by, you can find the server here! 💫

And to everyone else, thank you again for all your support and see you next week!!

Chapter 38

Notes:

Another HUGE collection of fanart this week! Genuinely stunned by how you guys keep impressing us with more and more gorgeous work! 💜

Starting off a Scartober Day #3 done with TAMN as the AU by gtwscratch! Beautiful lines! 💎

Next, we have a flashback to the past with this moody rendition of Chapter 8 alongside a TAMN!Scar playlist by erestuuu! 🚨

Followed by yet another lovely comic by bagelsamndwich which definitely made us chuckle yet again 😂

Then we've got whereishoney with this haunting creation of an AU discussed on the TAMN discord server where Scar is the one who gets infected instead of Grian. 🧟‍♂️

And finally, these stunning studies of the boys done by mari-876 🎨

THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH!! 💫✨ Your works are all so good and we're humbled by your thoughtfulness in making such beautiful creations for our fic :') 💜 Here's to another chapter! We hope you'll enjoy it! :D

 

Scar is going blind.

His vision is fuzzy, bleeding out into a haze along the edge, his periphery fading into fog. It’s a disconcerting feeling, coupled closely with his discovery that he’s too large for the space he’s in. The ceiling is sinking down to meet him, shrinking everything along with it in a way that has become incredibly, alarmingly claustrophobic.

He’s standing in a kitchen, he realises, with a plate of leftovers warm in his hands. He can hear a sound upstairs, the banging of something rancid and rotten. Muffled thumps filter down through the ceiling that continues to descend closer and closer to the top of his head.

Grian is dying.

He’s upstairs, dying. Riddled with an infection that Scar can’t do anything about. That Scar couldn’t stop. Couldn’t prevent. Couldn’t protect him from.

He should’ve done something. He wishes he’d done something. Grian is dying, struggling wretchedly against himself, and it’s all Scar’s fault.

Except it’s not. It can’t be.

It’s not his fault at all.

He has to leave Grian. Scar knows this, deep down. Knows that staying with Grian will kill him in the end.

He can’t linger a moment longer. He has to get out right now.

Except…

There’s a man in the hall. Not Grian. Someone else. Scar can’t see him but he knows he’s there.

The man is infected also—or maybe he’s not. He’s tearing into Grian’s shoulder, or maybe Grian’s tearing into his. The leftovers are warm in Scar’s hand, the heat overflowing and running down his wrist in thin rivulets. Too hot. It reminds him of blood. It is blood. He’s never seen so much of it, and Grian doesn’t even seem to notice. Doesn’t seem to care. He’s dying but he deserves it, he wanted it to be this way, he chose it for himself.

“I’m punishing you, Scar.”

Scar doesn’t know why he’d say that. Doesn’t know where it went wrong. The man in the hall won’t move, and the ceiling is too low. The plaster is pressing down against the top of his skull and Scar can feel the rhythmic banging from above driving into his bones.

Grian is dying. He’s dying. Scar should’ve been the one to kill him. His hands are covered in blood and the blood is Grian’s, and Scar hopes Grian is finally satisfied when he devours him whole—

Scar wakes up to the sound of a gentle knock on the cabin door, yanked back into consciousness with a sharp jerk that twists the muscles in his shoulders and runs all the way down his spine.

It takes him a moment to remember where he is, his heart pushed up into his throat, panicked and disoriented by misplaced adrenaline.

He’s comfortable and safe, he realises, laying on his side in a bed large enough to hold another.

He’s laying in it alone, though.

He’s completely alone, actually.

Across the floor he can see that the pullout is set for morning, the pillow and comforter folded at the edge like Grian does first thing after he gets up. The bathroom door hangs open also, revealing nothing but the sink and shower and a glimpsed edge of the toilet.

Grian is nowhere to be seen.

The knock sounds again, slightly more insistent this time but in no way intrusive.

“Hey Scar?”

Scar’s stomach sinks, still too disoriented from his dream and the abruptness of his waking to take his unexpected guest’s arrival with any feeling other than dread.

Big B.

He sighs deeply as he sits up, reaching blindly for his shirt.

This isn’t how he wanted to start his day.

“Coming,” he calls as the door is knocked on again, pulling on his clothes with heavy reluctance.

After the disaster that was last night, followed by the awful nightmare this morning, Scar already feels exhausted beyond words. He knows that a good part of it is frustration with himself—that he’s going back on the promise he’d made when Grian came back to stop wasting time. He’d wanted to leave their past behind and move on, to let go of his pain. But where had that gotten him?

In truth, he’d never thought of Big B as more than an idea, really. Despite the fact that he knew he was a person, had seen him in the flesh on that awful day, Big B had always seemed more like a concept to him—made threatening by what he symbolised, rather than what Scar could see standing face-to-face with him. In the earliest days of the apocalypse, when the hurt had been at its freshest, he’d assumed that Big B must have died like so many countless others. Following that, he’d spared no thought for him outside of the pain that his role in Grian’s past caused him.

He hadn’t expected Big B to turn up again. Not in a million years. And seeing him now—walking and talking and occasionally acknowledging Grian—had reopened those old wounds with an ugly vengeance. Suddenly, it’s no longer possible to put Grian’s past indiscretions out of his mind. A renewed, unshakeable fear has settled over him, convinced that Grian will inevitably pick up with Big B right where he left off.

It’s stupid. Scar knows it’s stupid. His fear is doing nothing but creating more time-wasting, circular thinking—the kind he swore he was going to set aside. Yet, despite his resolution to trust Grian, every time Big B crossed his line of sight, his anxiety overwhelms everything else. It’s all Scar can think about, and every moment alone with Grian only pushes on his nerves as his stress turns to frustration.

He can’t escape the images from that day. Grian’s guilty face in the doorway of his kitchen, Big B standing silent on the stairs. The moment when it had all spilled out in front of him, impossible to deny any longer.

Arriving here, in this camp, with these people, everything’s come flooding right back. It’s all just just as raw and overwhelming, and Scar is drowning.

Pulling down on the creases in his clothes, Scar runs a hand through his hair, sorting it as best he can. He moves to pick his cane up out of the mess he’d made of his things last night, everything still left where he’d thrown it after his outburst at Grian. He tests out the feel of it in his hand and then uses it on his way to the front door, opening it with a smile plastered to his face. “Good morning!”

“Morning, Scar,” Big B says, voice warm and welcoming and everything Scar doesn’t want to deal with right now. “Sorry to bug you. I didn’t see you at breakfast…”

“Ah, I guess I slept in,” Scar says, forcing a laugh and feeling too much like he’s being monitored. “Grian’s not here, though. Sorry I can’t help you.”

It’s a mean assumption to make—the idea that Big B would only be here for Grian—but after everything that’s happened, Scar feels like he’s earned the right to say it.

In front of him, Big B flusters, shifting his weight from side to side as he averts his gaze in a way that Scar wishes came across more guilty. “It’s actually not Grian I was looking for,” he says, the words forming a pit in Scar’s stomach. “Can I come in?”

The only thing the question does is make Scar’s already tepid mood worse, the edge of his smile fraying before he pulls himself together again.

“Of course, of course,” he croons, playing up his enthusiasm and stepping aside as he motions for Big B to come in.

The moment Big B steps inside the cabin, his gaze drops to the mess left in the wake of Scar’s anger from the previous night. Scar hadn’t bothered to clean anything up after Grian had left, his limbs turning heavy and useless as he’d stiffly put himself to bed and forced his eyes closed, hoping sleep would cool his temper down. Now, with daylight streaming in through the windows, the disaster looks that much worse. Scar hates the curls of embarrassment that settles in his chest as Big B glances around the room.

“Sorry for the mess,” Scar half-laughs, “I was, uh, going through some things.”

Big B raises his hands and shakes his head, a charming smile appearing on his handsome face that only serves to make Scar feel worse. “No, no, don’t worry about it! Here, let me help you—”

Before Scar can stop him, Big B kneels down and picks up items Scar had left scattered on the floor. An old shirt in desperate need of a clean, his water filtration kit, the magnesium firestarter Pops had offered him that he’d never had a chance to return and—

“Oh.” An awful humiliation settles in Scar’s chest as Big B’s hand closes around the disposable camera, setting the other gear aside as he gingerly picks it up. “Seems like the back popped off.”

In Big B’s hands, Scar can see the damage clearly. The hard, black, plastic casing of the camera—scratched and worn from so many weeks spent jostling from one bag to another, shoved into his deepest pockets, and crushed beneath the weight of attacking zombies—has split open along its seam, revealing the half-used roll of film spooled within it.

There’ll be no saving it, Scar knows that. Knows that the moment the light rushed in, the photos delicately lined into the film had been lost. Memories irrevocably scrubbed away beneath the bloom of over-exposure.

It’s a silly thing to be upset about—the loss of photographs he always knew they’d never have a chance to see properly printed. It just feels like yet another sentiment he’s been forced to give up before he was ready. The emotional significance far outstrips its material worth.

Carefully, Big B turns the camera over in his hand, gently squeezing until the plastic clicks back in place. Broken still, and no doubt useless, but at least no longer hanging open like a clam shell.

“It’s fine,” Scar says, feigning an indifference he doesn’t feel. “Silly thing to be carrying around in the apocalypse. Who even uses film these days, eh?”

Still kneeling on the cabin floor, Big B glances up and gives him a look. His expression is pinched in a peculiar way, like he’s struggling with everything he wants to say while also being unable to find any words at all.

“Still a shame to lose those moments,” he offers at last. “Y’take any good pictures?”

No part of Scar wants to share that information; to talk about the photos he and Grian took. Memories of the trio, of him and Pops, Grian kneeling next to the hot spring, the carousel at Disneyland, the first photo during his and Grian’s bitter fight in the desert. Their blissful retreat in the mountains.

“Not much of a photographer myself,” he says dismissively, passing the words along with a shrug. He wants to put his hand out, take the camera from Big B, and then show him the door, but he can’t make himself move, struggling against his own inertia.

“Yeah.” There’s an awkwardness in Big B’s words, stilted and uncomfortable as he gets back to his feet. “Neither, really.”

They stand together in silence for a moment, the camera still in Big B’s hands.

Scar just wants him to go.

“Actually, Scar…” There’s no actually—no natural segue in Big B’s words to connect his two points together. He pushes the sentence out awkwardly, clearly struggling with a discomfort of his own. “If you’re not too busy, I was wondering if you and I could… have a chat?”

There’s not an atom in Scar’s body that wants to do that.

“Sure, sure. Absolutely,” Scar says despite his reluctance, forcing a cheer he doesn’t feel and motioning Big B towards the pullout with a wave of his hand. “Why don’t you come all the way in then. Take a seat, take a load off.”

It feels incriminating and uncomfortable to have to rearrange the pullout back into its couch position so that Big B has somewhere to sit. Scar doesn’t want him to know about his tension with Grian—he doesn’t want the separation between them to be misconstrued as an invitation. It’s even worse when Big B moves to help him, putting the cushions back in place while Scar backs away to sit on the armchair, keeping his distance out of necessity. The moment they both sit, the air in the room becomes even more awkward, a deeply uncomfortable silence filling the space between them.

There’s no question about what Big B wants to talk about, but as he sits on the sofa and stares at his hands, a part of Scar starts to wonder if maybe he’s lost his nerve. He’d much prefer that, he realises. He doesn’t want to hear Big B’s excuses and justifications. He doesn’t want to learn his biased perspective.

He’s about to suggest that maybe they should just head to breakfast when, abruptly, and with no lead-up at all, Big B ducks his head and says, quietly, “I’m sorry, Scar.”

It’s not at all what Scar expected to hear, and too quickly it sucks the air out of his lungs. Blood rushes to his face, the tips of his ears going hot with embarrassment. Something in him cringes, humiliated by being apologised to by a man he’s been hellbent on trying to ignore entirely.

“That’s—” He waves the apology off, not making eye contact with Big B. “You don’t have to say that.”

Big B shakes his head, adamant. “No, I do. I needed to do this. I needed to apologise. I had no idea what I was getting into it, and I messed up and did you dirty because of it. I’m so sorry. I was an idiot and I just—I didn’t realise…”

“What do you mean you didn’t realise?” Despite himself, and working against every instinct he has, Scar finds himself compelled to ask, “Did Grian not—did you not know we were together?”

It wouldn’t surprise him, he supposes. Grian had never made it a priority to put his relationship on display for others to admire.

Guilt crosses Big B’s features, his mouth turning downwards and his brows furrowed. “No, I knew,” he whispers, and Scar hates the way that information sparks a moment of complicated relief within him, complex in the ways it makes other emotions feel simultaneously worse. “I knew, it’s just… I guess I didn’t think you two were that serious. From the things Grian said, I just assumed…” he pauses with a sigh, rubbing a hand down his face. “Sorry. That makes it sound like I’m trying to pass the blame off to Grian. I’m not. It was my fault not asking for clarification. There were signs and I ignored them. That’s on me. I should’ve known better.”

Scar’s tongue feels dry, his heart pounding and his thoughts racing. “What did he say exactly?” He doesn’t really want to hear it—to learn that Grian wasn’t just cheating but was bad-mouthing him too… he doesn’t think he could take another betrayal, one compounded by the other.

“Just, you know, he talked about you a lot. Nothing bad,” Big B quickly explains, and Scar can only watch him for further clarity, not knowing what to say or think. “Grian was… a very private person. And so, when he talked about you, I just assumed you were a friend of his. I—that’s not to say that I didn’t—I mean, I knew you were probably sleeping together, but I didn’t think you were in a relationship, you know?”

“I don’t know,” Scar hears himself say, tone flat.

Big B flusters, embarrassed and contrite. “Grian just never seemed like the type to—to settle down. He was always kind of flighty. Making and cancelling plans, texting at odd hours, never… y’know, disclosing anything. But when you—that night you came over and then left… I asked who you were and he told me you were his boyfriend. That you were the same Scar he always mentioned. God, in hindsight, I should’ve realised he was the way he was because he was hiding something.”

“We were together for two years,” Scar whispers, not sure why he’s sharing that information when he knows it only humiliates him further. His head is crowded with visions of the past, reeling from the curdling irony of Grian calling Scar his boyfriend to someone he’d been cheating on him with, when he’d always refused on acknowledging it to Scar himself.

Big B winces where he sits with his head bowed, but Scar only feels numb.

“It’s my mistake. Again, I’m not trying to—to save face by putting this all on Grian. I should’ve looked into it more. I made stupid assumptions and…” Big B takes a deep breath, clearly trying to steady himself. “I never wanted to be that guy. That’s not who I am. I felt awful when I found out, and then the world went to hell and I’ve been carrying that guilt with me ever since.”

There’s another pause, Big B shaking his head while tempering his emotion. When he looks at Scar again, it’s with genuine remorse.

“I’m glad you’re here, Scar,” he says, so earnest that Scar’s instinct is to try and look away. “I’m so glad you’re alive. I’m glad to have the opportunity to look you in the eye and tell you how deeply, truly sorry I am.”

It’s a weird feeling, to be given an apology Scar never expected from someone he never thought he’d see again. It’s weirder still that some part of him appreciates it, like he’d craved it without even knowing.

He doesn’t know how to respond.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Big B continues, hasty in his reassurance. “I don’t expect any forgiveness. I just—I don’t know… I wanted you to know that I wasn’t some stranger trying to hurt you for the hell of it. I want you to know that I regret it.”

Stillness settles between them. It’s strange to get a better apology from Big B than he’s ever gotten from Grian. Somewhat upsetting in a way that’s difficult for him to quantify.

All the same, a part of Scar finds relief in the knowledge. The moment makes him realise just how long he’s been under the assumption that Grian might’ve spent the entire time he was cheating secretly laughing at him with another man. The fear that he’d been too naive, too trusting, and had spent months being mocked for it… to be assuaged of that fear is a load off that Scar hadn’t realised he’d been carrying.

It doesn’t make things better. It doesn’t make the situation hurt any less. But he can at least appreciate the complicated gift that is Big B’s honesty.

The moment drags on, and despite Scar’s silence, it’s clear that Big B has managed to draw some catharsis from their conversation, however one-sided it’s been. He looks better—relieved, like a load has been lifted off his shoulders as well.

“I gotta thank you,” he offers at last, chuckling awkwardly into the enormity of Scar’s silence. “I don’t know how to say it other than… I really needed this. I needed the chance to do right by you.”

The far too gracious, self-sacrificing part of Scar wants to reply that he’s glad for him; wants to say that it’s good that at least one of them can get the closure they need.

Instead he merely clears his throat, taking another second to himself before he nods. He braces his hands against his knees and leverages himself back to his feet.

“So, about that breakfast,” he says, and whatever reaction Big B has to his redirection he manages to smooth over easily.

“Not to spoil it, but I saw french toast on the menu,” he offers, changing subjects without an issue.

“Was always more of a pancakes man, myself,” Scar replies, conversational in his tone—however forced it feels— reaching for his cane as he allows Big B to lead him towards the door of the cabin.

It doesn’t feel good exactly, but at least it feels resolved. Enough so that walking alongside Big B doesn’t make him feel as sick to his stomach as the mere sight of him had before.

Outside the cabin, the day that greets them is overcast but not too cold. Frost crunches beneath their feet, the grass and gravel brittle under their heels.

“How ‘bout waffles?” Big B asks with the idle curiosity of a person doing everything in his power to make amends.

“Never been one for waffles. Too many little squares—way too complicated for a breakfast food. Save that nonsense for lunch when a man’s properly awake.”

Together they cross the field and make their way to the dining hall, pushing back the doors to find it even less full than it had been the day before. The breakfast rush is clearly on its way out, several now familiar faces passing them while heading back outside, the late risers and stragglers left sitting at the long tables in singles and pairs.

Big B holds the door open for him, and the gesture feels as polite as it does friendly. It’s clear that he’s putting an effort into getting on Scar’s good side now that the worst of their history has been discussed. While Scar appreciates it, he can’t help but think back to how desperately he’d wished for Grian to thoroughly dispose of the man only an evening ago.

It’s not like it had been his idea. It was Grian who had spat the thought out into the world in the first place. Hurled it at him out of frustration and faced with what had no doubt come across as Scar’s petty childishness. It makes Scar feel both guilty and embarrassed to think back on it—he knows that Big B’s death would solve nothing between him and Grian. He’d known that while staring Grian down last night too. He’d just been looking for catharsis anywhere he could find it—even if that meant it came through misplaced vengeance.

If nothing else, at least talking with Big B has reminded him that his issues are—and have always been—strictly between Grian and himself. Conveniently contained, in a manner of speaking. Their hands forever locked around each other’s throats, hearts pressed flush together.

Standing inside the hall, giving himself a moment to adjust to the scattered din, Scar notices just how easily he can immediately recognize several faces. People he knows now. People who he might, one day, get to call friends. A few of them catch his eye, nodding and smiling at him in greeting. It feels good; both familiar and welcoming. He walks towards the kitchen where the breakfast is still laid out for him to serve himself. The small tendrils of a growing community tug at his ankles and elbows, making him feel a part of the place, even if he knows that realistically he won’t be able to stay much longer.

With his plate full he can’t help but pick out Grian from the crowd. He’s sitting across a table from Joel, wearing the same clothes he’d been in when Scar saw him last. Despite the mood they left off with each other, Grian seems to be in at least a mildly good mood. He and Joel seem to be enjoying themselves, a rare grin on Grian’s face as Joel cracks up at something he’s said. Standing next to him, Big B follows the line of Scar’s gaze, spotting the duo and immediately moving in their direction, only stopping once to make sure that Scar is following.

Though he’s a little reluctant to face Grian after the previous night, Scar pushes himself forward all the same, knuckles gripping tight to the top of his cane as he lets Big B lead. It’s Grian who looks up first to see them, his smile immediately shrinking off his face. There’s a dawning recognition, a fear settled in the darks of his eyes as they dart back and forth between Scar to Big B, no doubt wondering what the two of them are doing walking over together.

“Morning,” Big B greets, taking a seat next to Joel without heed or introduction.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Mr. Scar. Look who decided to finally show up,” Joel drawls with a tease, tapping his fingertips on the table as Scar awkwardly seats himself to Grian’s left. He can feel the way Grian’s gone still next to him, unused to his proximity after the last few days of distance and reservation. “Slept in, did you?”

Scar laughs. “Just a little.”

Beside him Grian stays silent, pushing a pathetic amount of food around on his plate. There’s barely anything on it: a single slice of french toast cut into pieces to make it seem like it’s been worked on, but with no more than one bite taken. Scar’s throat feels thick with sympathy. He wants to ask, suddenly, how Grian is doing. If the hunger has gotten worse. If he’s been fighting blackouts creeping along the edge of his vision.

If he’s okay, and what Scar can do to help if he isn’t.

Scar swallows it all back.

Now’s not the time or the place.

“And how’s Ren been?” Joel asks, speaking to Big B at his side, completely unaware of the tension between the two sitting directly in across from him. “Haven’t seen His Radiance since I got back.”

Placing his hands on the table and threading the pronounced knuckles of his fingers together, Big B sighs heavily. “He’s… y’know, he’s managing,” he allows, using careful language. “It’s been hard coordinating things, I think. Plus, some of our scouts came back and said there are larger groups of zombies amassing in the town that might head in our direction if they can get across the highway.” Big B pauses, looking down at his hands, the pads of his thumbs pressing together. “It wears him out, I think,” he admits, vulnerable. “But he’s… he’s doing his best.”

Beside him, the nuance of Big B’s words sails over Joel’s head, who merely whistles low under his breath before he speaks.

“Sounds rough. Glad I’m not him.”

It’s not a sensitive response to what is clearly a delicate subject, and Scar notices how Big B’s expression becomes conflicted. A moment passes, heavy between them, and then he offers, cautious, “Well, we’re all making do.”

Carelessly unaware of the nerve he’s touched, Joel simply stretches his arms above his head, groaning under a yawn. He then drops his hands down, slapping his palms flat against the table.

“You don’t have to get so bloody morose about it, Big B,” he dismisses, grabbing up his coffee mug and draining the last of its content. “We’re all on Ren’s side and think he’s doing a bang-up job, you know that.”

“It’s an enormous responsibility,” Big B explains, his shoulder pushing up slightly. “It takes a lot out of a person.”

“I’m just making conversation.” Joel waves off, an easy smile on his lips. “I’m not coming for your man’s head. You can relax.”

There’s a bracing, Big B steeling himself against Joel’s words. Scar can’t tell if the tension is real or imagined—how far a line, if any, Joel has crossed.

Luckily, any further discussion is cut short by a draft of cold air that pushes its way into the hall, effectively distracting and silencing the lot of them. Turning his head towards the door, Scar spots Cleo. They’re wearing a proper winter jacket for a change, pausing with the door still propped open as she tugs a pair of fingerless, rainbow, wool gloves off their hands while surveying the room. Following in behind them, Etho takes a moment to ensure his mask is properly fixed in place before finally letting the double doors swing shut. He’s equally bundled up against the chill, the two of them looking as though they’re preparing to spend an extended amount of time outdoors.

“Ah,” Cleo says at last, a smile gracing her face as their eyes meet Scar’s. “There you are.”

‘Caught,’ isn’t the word Scar would use to describe how he feels, but he can’t deny the base instinct that creeps over him, like a prey animal seized in strong jaws. He doesn’t know what he’s done, but he can see similar expressions written across Big B and Joel’s faces. It’s only when Cleo approaches their table that her intent becomes clear, reaching into the pocket of their jacket and pulling out a pair of irregularly cut gloves—large enough to fit Scar’s hands—which she tosses down onto the table.

“What do you say to some proper archery practice today, Scar?”

It’s not quite an invitation. Still, Scar knows that he could deny it if he wanted, and Cleo would accept his decision without question. Reaching out to pick up the archery gloves he realises he’s eager for the distraction, as glad for the excuse to keep himself occupied as he is for the inclusion.

“Heard you’ve got a pretty good aim,” Etho pipes up. There’s a strange emphasis to his words, almost like he’s a father, calling Scar out to throw a ball around. It’s something Scar’s never experienced before in his life, but Etho seems genuine at least.

“We’ll be taking the jeep out,” Cleo explains, her eyes meeting Big B’s where he sits, looking up in curiosity. “Down to the main road for the regular sweep, and then make our way back up along the ridge. Target practice, and take out any roamers we come across.” They pause, lowering their voices in an effort to reassure him, “It was Ren’s idea. Nobody’s going rogue.”

There’s a strange air between them, one Scar can’t understand. Before it can metastasize, the feeling is swiftly pushed aside by Grian, who speaks up, only somewhat prickly when he asks, “Am I invited?”

“You’re with me today, mate,” Joel interrupts, sitting up straight and rubbing his palms together eagerly. “Y’know what peeling a hundred potatoes feels like?”

“No,” Grian replies, looking insulted by the question.

“Well you’re about to find out,” Joel all but cackles.

Grian looks so alarmed and affronted that it nearly makes Scar laugh, smothering his smile into the sleeve of his shirt as he pretends to cough.

Standing tall, Cleo grins down at Grian. “By all means, come along if you’re interested in learning a little archery. I’d have invited you from the get-go but, according to Ren, you’ve been insisting you ‘don’t have many useful qualities,’ so I didn’t want to waste your time.”

Grian doesn’t comment on the remark at all, his eyes darting towards Scar as his shoulders hunch up. While Scar isn’t against having him along for the ride, he’s also not about to make a show of extending a formal invitation. Between their argument yesterday, and the conversation Scar’s just had with Big B, Scar knows he has a lot to think about, and he wouldn’t mind the chance to wrap his head around where things stand.

“I guess I’ll stay here,” Grian relents at last, the colour on his face that he ducks his head to hide speaking to a degree of embarrassment.

“Atta boy,” Joel crows, heedless of his humiliation as he slaps Grian on the back.

“Suit yourself,” Cleo dismisses, turning their attention back to Scar. “Once you’re done with breakfast, why don’t you meet Etho and I outside. We’ll head out as soon as you’re ready.”

She turns away at that, nudging Etho with an elbow and nodding her head towards the door. As they stride away, Etho hesitates, staring after her as she goes.

Scar doesn’t know the man well enough to read his tells, but Joel doesn’t seem to have that issue.

“You gonna be alright?” he asks, his voice is surprisingly soft as he looks up towards Etho.

Without turning his head, Etho straightens out his shoulders, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles beneath his respirator mask. “Why, you worried about me? Aw, Joel.”

Big B chuckles, a quiet sound he attempts to bite back as soon as he makes it. It’s enough to snap Joel out of his concern though. He huffs and rolls his eyes, playing back into the dramatics he seems to live for.

“Right, well. Guess I’m the idiot for trying to look out for you. Sorry I worried, Etho.”

Etho continues smiling, his shoulder shaking with a soft laugh. He leans over the table and tousles Joel’s hair until it stands up in wispy chunks. “I’ll be fine, Joel. Back before you know it.”

“Not like I’ll be keeping track,” Joel dismisses, rolling his eyes. “Go tell your husband about your outing instead, or he’ll be in my ear all afternoon with his worrying.”

“That’s my Bdubs,” Etho agrees, fondness in every syllable of the word.

He leaves, following after Cleo. The group watch him go, Big B keeping his eyes on him until the doors close behind him. It’s only then that Joel sighs heavily, tucking his face into his palm and shaking his head.

“Downright painful watching those two,” he proclaims, dramatic, “Like divorcees.”

Shaking his head, Big B laughs, raising a hand to wave Joel’s theory away. “Nah, it’s pretty clear that Cleo likes him. You can tell.”

“How’d you figure that?” Scar asks, strangely invested in the conversation.

Something in Big B’s eyes glints. The excitement of having some truly good gossip to share.

“I know because I’ve seen her around their actual ex-husband. The first few days of the outbreak holed up with the two of them and Ren were really rough, and I can tell you it wasn’t because of the zombies.”

“Is that so…?” Joel asks with a low whistle, intrigued. “Who’s the ex? Have we met ‘em? Or are they one of the lot Ren sent over to work on the turbines?”

As easily as Big B had shared the first pieces of information, he abruptly stutters to a stop, looking immensely like a creature caught in swiftly approaching headlights.

“Oh,” he starts, before quickly shaking his head. “No. You wouldn’t have met—He’s, uh… he’s not with us anymore.” He fiddles with his hands, looking down at the table with his empty plate as he struggles to find the right words. “He passed around a week before you and Etho first arrived, actually.”

The mood over the table drags into something heavier, the feeling solemn as it settles amongst them.

“Oh,” Joel says, letting his breath out in a rush. “Well, shit. Remind me never to bring that up in front of Cleo.”

“They weren’t each other’s biggest fans,” Big B admits with a sigh. “But… I think he took a part of her when he left. I think he took a part of all of us, really.” There’s a peculiar weight to his words as he speaks, a distance in his eyes that makes Scar think he’s not talking about Cleo as he says it.

There’s no natural segue, no easy way to move from the melancholy of loss back into the previous patter of their conversation.

“Well,” Joel announces after the pause has lingered, slapping his hands on the table as he pushes himself to his feet. “Those potatoes aren’t going to peel themselves, right Grian?” A grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. He reaches across the table to snag Grian’s hand, tugging him to his feet. “C’mon lad, no time like the present.”

Scar can feel Grian’s eyes on him, a last desperate plea to invite him along—to connect with him.

This wasn’t the relationship Scar wanted them to have. When Grian had come back, he’d promised himself that he’d never waste another day with him. Not an hour. Not even a minute.

Right now, however… he just needs some time to clear his head. That’s all he’s asking for.

“I’ll see you at lunch,” he offers, a compromise that pleases neither of them.

It’s easier to leave once Grian is out of Scar’s sight, pulled into the kitchen with Joel delighting at his discomfort. After polishing off his meal, Scar exits the dining hall to find Cleo and Etho waiting for him outside, Cleo already in the driver seat while Etho leans against the open passenger side door of the mud-splattered jeep.

“Cleo says you’ve got natural aim,” Etho remarks conversationally, stepping out of the way in order to allow Scar to climb into the backseat. Obediently Scar ducks in, lowering his head to disguise the subtle twinge in his leg as he bends over to fit into the confined space.

“Cleo’s generous,” he dismisses mildly as he sits down with a heavy oof. The upholstery of the backseat is worn, the springs pushing up against his tailbone, belaying the age of the vehicle. There is a clutter of odds and ends shoved in alongside him—a shovel and a crowbar piled under his feet, a folded tarp, a dirty coil of rope, and two bows with quivers of arrows placed onto the seat next to him.

“I’m not,” Cleo declares firmly, turning the key in the ignition and bringing the jeep to life with a revving of the engine. “You’ll learn that about me.”

Scar catches Etho’s eyes in the rearview mirror, the other man raising his eyebrows in an expression of mock surprise, like this attitude is new to him. The feeling of being in the company of someone’s parents once again comes to mind, making Scar feel strangely juvenile as he sits in the back, his knees cramped against the passenger seat in front of him. Without additional conversation, Cleo shifts the jeep into gear and begins heading towards the main gate of the encampment, the jeep rumbling enthusiastically under their control.

The same blonde woman who had opened the gate for them when they first arrived, opens it once more to let them out. She’s wearing cover-alls today, her hair held back by a pair of goggles, busy with a project that has her welding a line of I-beams together as she waves them through. It’s not a particularly long drive, veering off the pavement almost immediately as Cleo takes them along a rotted dirt road, but Scar appreciates having the mode of travel at their disposal all the same. He marvels at how fast the forest whisks by, a smear of dark, russet leaves and pale tree trunks against the backdrop of deep, verdant evergreen.

“We’re here,” Cleo sing-songs, barely ten minutes into their journey, pulling off the road and into an open, park-like area. She cuts the motor and pops open their door.

Without waiting, Etho unbuckles his seatbelt and climbs out of the jeep, leaving Scar to clamber out after him, struggling to slide from behind the passenger seat with his cane in hand.

“And where is ‘here’ exactly?” he asks, forcing his tone into something lighthearted as he approaches the duo where they stand, Etho clearly deferring to Cleo’s presence as she scans the area.

“The north edge of our encampment,” Cleo explains, gesturing into the space. The clearing they’ve parked in isn’t particularly large. It’s hemmed on the far side by a natural dirt embankment with the forest rising up again behind it, the broad tree trunks speared by the shafts of yellow-gold sunlight filtering down from overhead. “We haven’t got any walls or fences up this far, but this whole area is still within our boundary. Ren’s pretty serious about making sure that we deal with the drifters when they’re here at the outskirts before they can work their way too far in. We can all rest easier that way.”

Scar nods. “Wouldn’t want any googlies creeping up on you while you’re asleep.”

Beside Cleo, Etho makes an amused sound, quietly repeating ‘googlies’ to himself while Cleo rolls their eyes.

“Yes, the googlies,” she repeats with the edge of a smile. “Exactly.”

With her now familiar confidence, Cleo walks to the back of the jeep and pops open the trunk, quickly pulling out a duffle bag that she slings over her shoulder, before moving to the seats to grab the bows. Wordlessly, Etho hovers at their side with clear intent to help, though he doesn’t do anything to offer, and eventually Cleo simply begins foisting things into his arms.

Neither of them ask Scar to carry anything, which he supposes he’s grateful for, and eventually Cleo slams the truck closed, nodding their head in the direction she’d like them to go.

“Come on. We’re not far.”

With their gear in-hand, the three of them cut away from the jeep, heading for the crest of the embankment that skirts the area, a short walk from where they’ve parked. The ground is soggy beneath their feet, just enough to feel like a hazard. A spark of anxiety winds around Scar’s heart, but he manages to huff out a small laugh of relief when ultimately it’s Etho who slips and not him.

“Careful,” Cleo warns, far too late to benefit Etho as he struggles to right his footing. “It’s slippy.”

When they reach the top of the embankment—Cleo first, Scar and Etho close behind—they collectively pause to take in the natural vantage point that the rise offers. While still forested, the opposite side of the crest slopes down in a way that’s slightly more open, giving a clear view of the outlying area surrounding the camp. The main road runs through it, without immediately giving away their position.

“The—uh, the googlies like to follow the roads when they can—you’ve probably noticed that,” Cleo explains, plucking the string of their bow idly as they peer toward the strip of asphalt.

Scar can’t say that he has, actually. In fact, in all his months of living among and under siege from them, he can’t say that he’s picked up anything concrete about the patterns or behaviours of the undead.

Grian chief among them, he thinks, before immediately regretting the thought. It isn’t fair, even if he only partially means it, motivated only by the bitterness and confused thoughts of the moment.

“They also don’t seem to like travelling alone,” Etho offers. He isn’t carrying a bow, only wearing a light daypack on his shoulders, but while his hands are free, the hunting knife he’s been carrying is still strapped to his leg. Scar also notices the addition of a pistol holstered at his hip; the rare gun he’s seen since crossing the border. “Loners move the slowest, and are the ones most likely to start going in circles—we’ve been saying it’s like they’re chasing their tails.”

“You sure know a lot about them,” Scar remarks, feeling incriminating even as he says the words but unable to help himself. “Got an informant on the inside that you’re not telling me about or something?”

“Spent a lotta time observing,” Etho answers honestly.

“Lots of trial and error too,” Cleo adds.

She glances off in one direction along the embankment, the one that leads back towards Ren’s camp. Then, with a nod that seems decided, they begin moving the opposite way. They take care to avoid stepping on the crunchy remnants of snow as much as possible, letting the soft loam and layering of old leaves absorb the sound of their feet wherever they can.

“This way,” she directs with the casual authority of a person who’s familiar with the task at hand. “And pick up your feet, Etho. Don’t drag ‘em.”

Etho makes a muffled noise of protest, tossing a look over in Scar’s direction, as if he can do anything to temper Cleo’s decision to pick on him.

“If it makes you feel better,” Scar whispers as he walks alongside Etho. “The consensus seems to be that she likes you.”

Etho sighs, the sound muffled behind his respirator, “If this is liking me, I’d hate to see what it’s like getting on their bad side.”

Scar chuckles, following after Cleo until she pauses at the edge of a mound raised inconspicuously on the embankment. The spot is vaguely reinforced, some wooden beams propping up a plywood screen that’s been covered in pine boughs. There are sight-holes cut into it, providing surveillance spots from within, but difficult to locate from the outside. It’s a hunting blind—one created with the intent to pick off wandering corpses rather than ducks or deer.

Scar doesn’t know how he feels about it.

Shifting the duffel bag off their shoulder, Cleo unzips it and begins to remove some of the things she’s brought along—targets, mostly. Some mounted on thick foam backing, and others needing short tripod stands. She motions Etho closer at one point, directing him towards an enormous tree with low hanging branches a few yards away. They hand him a coil of rope and instruct him to tie a target to it—a painted wood panel, already chipped and marked from dozens of practice shots.

Obedient, Etho diligently does as he’s told. Once the target is properly hung, Cleo inspects his work, pushing the painted panel and testing its swing before finding it satisfactory. The whole thing doesn’t take more than a handful of minutes to arrange, but Scar finds himself feeling restless anyway, caught between wanting to offer his help and knowing there isn’t much he could do.

At last, Cleo turns around to face him with a smile, gesturing at the setup like it’s a grand reveal.

“Since we’ve got time to kill today, we’re going to get you warmed up. Get your posture sorted on the static targets before graduating you up to some moving ones. If we’re lucky, we might even get a wanderer coming in. Then you can really show us your stuff.”

“Why are we doing all this practice out here?” Scar asks, bewildered. “Seems like a lot of effort to come all the way just to do the same kind of practice you showed me yesterday.”

“Oh, there’s a good reason for that,” Cleo enthuses, before nodding her head towards Etho. “Care to show him?”

“Sure,” Etho says, casually shuffling up the hem of his jacket as he reaches for his hip.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he’s about to do, grabbing hold of the pistol strapped to his leg, and easing it out of his holster before flicking off its safety. Without hesitating, Cleo swings the target hanging off the tree branch and quickly back. It gives Etho just enough room to line up the shot, steady himself, and fire.

His aim is good, making a clean shot into the swinging wood before he re-holsters his weapon. As the echo of the gunshot clears through the forest, Cleo moves back to the target, admiring Etho’s well-aimed hit before letting the block dangle once more.

“Out here, we don’t have to worry about noise,” they explain. “Back at camp, we don’t take out any guns unless there’s some sort of catastrophe. No sense drawing the undead in like that with a hundred shots going off. It’s safer for us all, but it also means we don’t exactly get a lot of firearm practice. But, seeing as most folks don’t take to archery as easily as they do to a gun, Ren and I agreed that it’s in the group’s best interest to do our shooting practice further out from our main base, just to be safe.”

A part of Scar—the practical part—can’t help but think about how good it will be for Grian to come out here. They’re too far into the apocalypse for him to have still had no target practice. It’s caused Scar more anxiety than he’d like to admit knowing that Grian’s been wandering around the world not knowing which end of a gun to shoot from.

“The bow’s quiet, though,” he muses.

“That it is,” Cleo replies with a grin, their smile just shy of condescending as she crouches back down by the duffel bag, pulling out the long muzzle of a shotgun. “Which is why you’re going to show us your shooting first.” Cleo stands and hands the gun over to Scar, taking his cane from him in return and setting it neatly aside. Then, they nod their head towards the nearest target.

“Show us what you can do,” she invites cooly, and Scar can’t tell how much of her is meant to be intimidating on purpose, and how much manifests by fluke. “Impress me.”

It feels strange to be holding a shotgun in his hand again. Scar hasn’t fired one recently—not since before the end of the world. He’s grown fond of his rifle. Used to the familiarity of it and the way it’s come to fit in his hands, like an extension of his own body. A shotgun feels unfamiliar now. A stranger.

Shotgun was Pops’ preference, he thinks, unbidden, the realisation striking him out of nowhere.

It hits him like a truck—a wave of guilt and the sudden nausea that goes along with it. A friendship tossed away more readily than he cares to admit, and for what?

Six months, he thinks again, hating the immensity of it. Six months.

A lifetime of smoothing over his reactions allows him to move with confidence. He fits the shotgun into the crook of his elbow and quickly checks it, trying not to think about the dozens of times Pops had casually handed over his only means of defence for Scar to safeguard when he needed both hands free. The vulnerability it had implied. The trust.

Scar hopes that he’s alright. He hopes that Pops is somewhere safe, cursing out his name.

“Now, I didn’t get a chance to really know my mother, but I like to think she would’ve raised me to be humble,” Scar begins, his tone ambling and conversational as he knocks the long barrel of the shotgun back up, hefting the stock up to fit against his shoulder.

The comb presses cool to his cheek as he aims down its sightline, his right canine snagging the inside of his lower lip as he exhales, finger resting comfortably against the trigger. There’s no need for precision, Scar knowing the buckshot will cover for any discrepancies of aim. It’s a smart gun for amateurs getting used to the world of shooting, the design of its ammo covering a wider range than a bullet.

The nearest target is an easy aim, and he hits it without needing to concentrate, the ricochet of the shot pushing the gun back into his shoulder while the crack of the ignition reverberates through the trees around them.

“It’s too bad she and I didn’t get enough time together for any of those lessons to stick,” he finishes, oozing confidence. He lets the shotgun drop, the safety pushed back into place as the butt thumps into the cold earth beside his feet. “Let’s not waste time and ammunition,” he continues. “I know I’m a good shot.”

The assurance feels strange but not bad. Like a tailored shirt that still needs the cuffs and buttons put in properly. It clearly catches Cleo’s attention, their eyebrows raising as they exchange a wordless look with Etho.

“That’s not really how we do things here, Scar—” She begins, but their next words are cut off as Scar puts his hand out, reaching towards Etho and his pistol.

Without an argument, Etho hands it over. The pistol feels different in Scar’s hand, though no less familiar than any other firearm he’s used. Without waiting to warm up or check its sights, Scar turns it towards the hanging target, still swinging from when Etho shot it.

The trigger pulls back and another shot echoes through the trees, disturbing a pair of steller’s jays that begin squawking at them from the upper branches.

The target continues its pendulum swing, boosted wildly by the energy of the bullet that collided with it. It takes a second for Cleo to catch it, having to nab it out of the air in order to study the result of his shot.

Scar doesn’t mean to brag, but he does feel a burst of pride when he sees it: the slug of his bullet, buried in the exact same niche that Etho’s shot had created.

Etho whistles low, chuckling right after, and Scar grins, beaming wide when Cleo looks his way. To their credit, they’re also smiling, shaking their head in a manner that reads more amused than anything else. Clicking the safety back into place, Scar extends the pistol back out to Etho, who takes it easily and places it back in his holster.

“Am I ready now?” Scar asks. He knows it’s cocky of him, but he can’t help but be a little bold, knowing he’s more than proved himself.

The sigh Cleo gives is largely theatric, but she does relent, moving over to retrieve a bow from her collection before handing it over to Scar. It’s different from the one he used the other day, when Cleo had allowed him to handle their bow and test out the feel of it in his hands. While that bow had looked about like Scar had imagined a modern archer might use—long and curved, with a well-waxed bowstring—this bow looks boxy, almost impractically so.

It’s much less elegantly curved, the posts on either end flaring out to give it a harsh bow shape. Strange too, are the wheel-like fixtures on its ends, the bowstrings winding through each oblong shape at least twice from what Scar can tell. He turns it over in his hands, a little confused by its construction.

“It’s different from the one you normally use.”

“That’s right.” Cleo confirms, nodding. “I favour a recurve bow most days, but I think you’d enjoy a compound bow instead.”

Scar watches her carefully, waiting for her to explain the difference, wary of the note that will mark this one as inferior somehow.

“The difference is in how the weight of your draw is distributed,” she explains, stepping in closer in order to point out parts of the bow, reminding Scar of a teacher trying to drill a point firmly home. “You might pull your bowstring back and be holding fifty pounds until release with a recurve, but the compound will let you pull that same fifty back and you’ll only actually be holding twenty-five. These round cams do the rest of the work for you.”

Digging into her pocket she fishes out an object, showing Scar a small black device that looks similar in shape to brass knuckles, just open-ended instead of closed off. “This is the release, and you’re going to wear it on your hand. It’ll help you reduce finger fatigue when you’re firing shot after shot for hours. Plus, it’s more precise and consistent than using your fingers anyhow, which is always a bonus.”

As easy as breathing, Cleo takes the bow from him and assumes a shooting stance, drawing an arrow from a side quiver that Scar hadn’t even noticed they’d put on, the leather strapped to her thigh and belt. Notching the arrow, the end snug up against the release, they hold their position steady, both hands loose from what Scar can visually gauge as they aim towards the nearest target. When at last she shoots, she waits until her shot has landed, thunking deep into the bullseye, before they drop the bow and turn back towards him.

“Both recurve bows and compound bows are fine choices for hunting, but there’s no beating the accuracy of a compound bow when you’re trying to get consistent results. And with an enemy like the undead who can overwhelm you in seconds if you’re not careful, consistency is key to survival.” As they speak they hand the bow back to him, letting it settle into his palms. “Of course, there’s a lot more maintenance to deal with if you’re using a compound bow, and they tend to run heavier than a recurve, so there’s pros and cons to both. At the end of the day, it’s up to you which one you’re more comfortable with, but I figured it was only right to let you practice with both.”

It’s impossible for Scar to tell whether or not he finds the bow heavy, incredibly aware of his inexperience as he tests the weight of it in his hands. It’s lighter than his rifle by far—lighter, too, than the shotgun he was just handling. Though, he supposes in the grander scheme of things that might not mean much.

“Been a maintenance man my whole life,” he offers absently, thinking about the countless hours he’s lost to upkeep—of his body, of his wheelchair, of his rifle, of his relationship—while he raises the bow to shoulder height. Arrowless, he pulls the string back, feeling the pull on his muscles running down his arms and along his chest as he lines his vision through the bow’s sight.

It feels complicated in the way that all new and unfamiliar things are, and the part of him that has always craved simplicity struggles not to immediately cast the entire thing aside.

“Can one of these things really kill a zombie?” he asks, more sceptical than he needs to be as he tests how far back he can pull the line, feeling a tiny tremble in his left arm as it supports the bow before he finally lowers it, letting the string go lax.

“A heavy enough stick can kill a zombie,” Etho offers mildly, holding out the other quiver to Scar and letting him take one of its arrows.

“A bow is quieter than a gun. You can pick ‘em off from a distance and they aren’t able to tell where the shots are coming from, and you can retrieve the ammunition afterwards,” Cleo explains, standing back to observe Scar as he does his best to follow the example they’d shown him, nocking the arrow before he once again raises the bow.

It’s not as effortlessly second-nature as handling a gun, but Scar reminds himself that confidence came from years of steady practice. The release feels awkward in his grip, familiar enough to remind him of a trigger, but not fitting the shape of his hand in the same way at all. All the same, he manages to line up a shot, aiming through the sight with the fletch of the arrow anchored against his cheek.

“Don’t forget to breathe,” Etho offers, his words helpfully unhelpful from over Scar’s shoulder.

“Let the man focus,” Cleo chides, her voice hissed out just above a whisper.

It takes Scar several more seconds to feel certain with his aim before he finally taps the release. The bowstring snaps silently as the arrow slices through the air and embeds noticeably off-centre from the target.

“Dang it,” he mutters, lowering the bow after a pause just like Cleo had shown him.

Behind him, Cleo reacts with praise.

“Pretty good for your first shot!” they exclaim, clapping their hands together with approval.

It’s not condescending, nothing about her words steeped in sarcasm, but it stirs something within Scar all the same. Without breaking his gaze from the target he reaches into Etho’s quiver for another arrow, nocking it and pulling the bow back with greater confidence this time. He only takes a moment to confirm his aim before he releases his shot.

The thunk is satisfying as the tip pierces the target, buried deep in its centre.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting from Cleo; maybe more clapping and praise. Instead they merely grin and nod, stepping back a pace as they say, “Now do it again.”

Determined to defend himself from possible calls of beginner’s luck, Scar selects another arrow and lines up the shot again, firing faster than his last and landing it nearly in the same position.

Before the bow is even fully down, Cleo continues, “And again.”

Scar tosses a look over in Etho’s direction, but the other man merely shrugs, taking the break in activity to retrieve the last couple of arrows from the target in order to reuse them for the next volley of hits.

Huffing a breath, Scar shoots; again and again and again.

Frustratingly, it quickly becomes clear what Cleo is trying to show him. While his precision and aim from handling a rifle carry over somewhat, archery is ultimately quite different from shooting. His arms quickly grow weary from being held in such an unfamiliar way, muscles aching as he keeps his bow straight and draws the line back to hold the weight of the shot. He can feel perspiration break out on the back of his neck and along his hairline. His aim wavers, his body growing more and more tired with each and every attempt.

It’s not long before Scar begins to miss more shots than he makes, never straying entirely off the target, but a poor show regardless. Partway through, Cleo directs him from the stationary targets back over to the moving one, and it frustrates Scar how much harder everything becomes. While his posture is good and needs very little correction from Cleo’s practiced hands, his aching muscles make the bow shake in his grip. It becomes increasingly difficult for him to create consistent anchor points, his aim drifting. More than once, he doesn’t bend his bow arm enough, the string slapping against his body and messing up his shot. A few times, he’s too exhausted to follow the release of his arrow all the way through, dropping the bow too soon and sending the arrow’s trajectory off at an unexpected angle.

When Cleo finally calls for a break, Scar is breathing hard, like he’s been running for miles. His arms are like jello as he puts the bow down, trembling from the exertion. As Cleo takes the bow from him, Scar hesitates before looking at his hands, finding them red where the bow had been applying pressure to his palms. He wonders, briefly, if archers get callouses.

“I’m impressed,” Cleo says, smiling and handing him a bottle of water. “You held up much better than I expected.”

Scar scoffs, “I was flailing at the end. The bow felt like it weighed a hundred pounds.”

“I’m serious,” Cleo insists, “Wasn’t he good, Etho?”

“He was good,” Etho agrees.

“Well… thanks.” Scar allows, feeling uncharacteristically adverse to the praise.

Scar drinks his water and they let him catch his breath in comfortable silence, the world quiet around them. Even now it still surprises Scar how different everything sounds. No planes overhead, no electricity, no cars. The very things Scar had come to associate with vibrant lives are forever silenced now, and in their absence everything else has become so much louder.

The winter birds, the small animals hidden amongst the forest floor. Even the rustling of the leaves through the trees seems far more pronounced. Each creak and rattle and sigh extremely crisp and clear.

“What do you say to practicing with the recurve next, after a little lunch break?” Cleo asks, drawing Scar back into the moment and out of his thoughts.

“Depends on how long the break is,” Scar laughs, “Ask me to shoot now and I’ll still be exhausted, but wait too long and you won’t get these arms moving again.”

Cleo snorts, shaking her head. “We’ll time it just right, Goldilocks. I just need to pop back to camp—I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting you to get this far, so I didn’t think to bring anything along. You wait here and keep watch with Etho while I get us all a bite, then we can continue.”

They’re smiling, but the expression brokers no room for disagreement.

“You’ll be fine, right Etho?”

Standing off to the side Etho startles slightly, looking over at them with an expression that belays a mind that had clearly been wandering.

“I mean—”

“Great! It’s settled, then!” Cleo finishes, clapping her hands together with finality. “Don’t wander off. Behave while I’m gone. Scar—if you get a second wind, Etho can show you what to do. Etho—show him what to do.”

Before either of them can reply she’s retreating, their boots thumping loud and heavy on the incline as she heads back towards where they’d left the jeep. It’s a little awkward, Scar and Etho left standing on their own, like two children at the cash register waiting for their parent to grab one final thing off a grocery store shelf.

“So,” Etho tries, breaking their ambiguous silence while scuffing the heel of his boot against a hard-packed patch of icy snow. “Come here often?”

The question gets Scar in the right place, causing him to huff a laugh as he glances around, properly taking in the woods and the isolation they’ve been left in. He doesn’t feel worried. If anything, being with Etho makes him feel strangely secure, confident that the man would be able to cover for them both if anything were to arise.

“Sorry about, uh… her,” Etho offers when Scar fails to reply to his joke, his eyes creasing with an uneasy smile as he pushes a hand back through his near-silver hair. “Lotta personality there, I know.”

“Who, Cleo?” Scar asks, playing up the question with an exaggerated raise of his eyebrows. “Y’know, I’d hardly noticed.”

That gets a quiet laugh out of Etho, the sound muffled through his respirator.

“You get used to it,” he explains, his tone friendly before he pauses. “At least… that’s what I’m hoping.”

It’s a specific turn of phrase, one Scar isn’t entirely sure he understands. He thinks back to his earlier patrol with Cleo and Bdubs, and how enthusiastically Bdubs had laid out the logistics of their relationship. The optimism Bdubs had shown feels incongruous with Etho’s almost timid reservation now. It piques Scar’s interest all the same, curious enough to pry without trying to invade a privacy he has no business in.

“They’re a real character,” he offers at last, neither condemning nor fully in praise. “It’s always fun to have that kind of person in your life.”

Pushing his hand against the hanging target and setting it spinning on its line, Etho merely shrugs his shoulders.

“She and Bdubs seem to get along, at least,” Scar continues, testing the thickness of the conversation’s ice with small, careful steps.

“They sure do,” Etho offers, almost as though speaking to himself, throwing up a flag Scar is wary of approaching.

“Trouble in paradise?”

“No,” Etho replies quickly, something firm behind the word before he immediately softens. “Sorry, uh… did you want to try the other bow?” It’s a redirection neither of them takes, Etho waffling for a moment before finally letting his shoulders slump in defeat, admitting, delicately, “I’m just struggling to make the adjustment.”

He steps away from the hanging target, leaving it to swing loosely under its own momentum.

“To the marriage, that is,” he continues. “Open marriage. It’s…” he pauses, his breath leaving him a sigh, the sound muffled through his mask. “I’m sure Bdubs told you… it’s been a crazy couple of weeks.”

“You know you can always say no.” The words are out of Scar before he has a chance to think them through. Etho’s brows furrow in response, a subtle frustration in his expression that immediately makes Scar backtrack. “I’m overstepping, sorry. I’m a stranger with no skin in the game. Just ignore me.”

A moment passes in which Etho doesn’t look any less tense, though he does eventually sigh.

“You’re fine. It’s just—ah… it’s complicated.”

“If it’s a listening ear you need, I’m more than happy to provide,” Scar offers. “Nothing better than a stranger intent on hitting the road soon to divulge all your secrets to, eh?”

Etho chuckles at that, sounding somewhat amused as he absently twists the wedding band on his ring finger, the habit echoing the way Bdubs constantly touches his. “Don’t have any real secrets, but I appreciate that. Just, y’know… been spinning a lot of things around in my head lately.”

Patiently, Scar gives Etho the minute he needs to collect himself, turning his gaze towards the empty road as he pretends to check for zombies while he waits.

“It’s not that I don’t want to do this,” Etho says at last, leaning back against the bark of a nearby tree, like he’s in need of its support. “I don’t know how to explain it. I’m not upset. Bdubs thought I was dead—I don’t blame him for finding comfort in someone else. When I came back, he was a wreck… relieved that I was alive, but guilty about all these things he shouldn’t have to feel bad for. Telling me he was sorry for not looking for me longer, for being too weak to make it on his own, disgusted with himself for ‘not grieving long enough.’ Just… hating himself for being human and trying to keep on living.”

A part of Scar can relate. He thinks back to the moment Grian returned to him, against all odds. He thinks of how, once the initial euphoric relief had passed, all he’d been left with was deep, smothering guilt. Blaming himself for leaving Grian in the first place, for letting him get bit at all, for not forgiving him sooner.

“I know I’m not going to lose him. I know he loves me just the same. But I think… I think it would’ve been different if they were sleeping together. Sorry to be crass. I just think that would’ve made me shut things down immediately,” Etho says, tilting his head up towards the sky like he’s trying to find answers through slivers of light glimpsed between the trees. “But I know they’ve been taking it slow too. They’ve both been really respectful of me and the time I need to adjust.”

Biting his tongue, Scar keeps his opinions on intimacy to himself, his own wounds still too freshly reopened for him to say a word on it. Instead, he focuses on the end of Etho’s admission, humming a thoughtful reply, “Just because they’re being respectful doesn’t mean you have to go along with it. If you don’t like it, you don’t like it.”

He stops himself before he can say anything else, worried he’ll let slip the tangled thread of his own relationship if he’s not more careful. Instead, he lets Etho process his words, surprised when he only looks more conflicted, a flash of something guilty and hesitant in his expression.

“I don’t not like it,” he forces out, and Scar blinks at him, confused by the double-negative.

Etho looks both nervous and weary, tired in a way that’s sunk into his spirit.

“If I tell you something, will you keep it between me and you?”

“Scout’s honour,” Scar agrees, offering a reassuring smile.

With a sigh Etho sinks fully down to the ground. His knees bend up at sharp angles and his palms press flat into the pineneedle-strewn dirt, contorting himself down like he’s hoping the earth will swallow him.

“When I found out about Bdubs and Cleo… a part of me was relieved.”

The confession makes Scar’s thoughts race, rapidly connecting dots in a way he knows he shouldn’t.

“I love Bdubs,” Etho continues, “I’ve always loved Bdubs. We’ve been together since we were teenagers. I… I’ve always been a pretty reserved person. An introvert, I guess. I don’t connect easily with others, and it’s always been… I’ve never liked that about myself.” He pauses, fingertips pushing into the dirt like anchor points. “With Bdubs it was different. Being with him has always been easy—like he’s the inhale to my exhale. He made an effort to get to know me, to get me out of my shell. I know I have him to thank for the person I am today.”

He pauses again, attention locked where his heels are dug into the forest floor, clearly searching for what he needs to say.

“About a week into this mess, Bdubs and I got separated. It was… bad. I don’t blame him for thinking I died. I haven’t told him this, but I almost did. I don’t know how I survived, how a hundred different dangers didn’t take me out… but after that I spent at least a week or two just… just wandering. Trying to keep myself alive. Trying to find Bdubs again. Knowing that I was on borrowed time…” He exhales heavily, lifting his hands to rub the heels of his palms into his knees. “That’s when I ran into Joel.”

His words stall at that, and there’s a glassy quality to his eyes, like he’s emotional in a way he can’t put into words.

“Have you ever met someone, and it’s like… déjà vu? A stranger that feels like someone you know—that you’ve always known?”

Scar does. He knows that feeling exactly. Remembering the first time he caught Grian’s eye from across a room, and the way he’d felt his soul relax within his chest. Something—a piece he’d always been searching for, even without being conscious of it—immediately settling into place.

He remembers the way Grian had looked at him when they first spoke too. The familiarity in his eyes. Like he felt it also.

‘There you are.’ Those had been the first words Scar ever spoke to him. A smooth line with the intention of making Grian laugh. It had felt too good to be true then. A feeling that even now never fully tapered off.

Etho’s question though, is rhetorical, and Scar keeps the answer to himself, giving him the space to continue.

“Joel and I… it was like that. So when I finally found my way back to Bdubs… when he told me about him and Cleo… I was okay with it. I was confused and… and jealous, and definitely a little upset, but… I knew I still loved him, and this one part of me was just. Relieved… Reassured, I guess. Because if Bdubs had fallen for someone else after all these years, then maybe…” he trails off, fingers curling into uneasy fists.

“You fell in love with Joel,” Scar says, the statement stark amidst Etho’s carefully vague descriptions.

Etho casts his eyes down, not making eye contact. “I don’t know if I’d go as far as to call it love,” he admits. “I don’t think I’ll ever love anyone other than Bdubs. I just know that Joel is… it’s different, but familiar.”

“And what has Joel said? Does he know…?”

“I haven’t told him,” Etho says, shaking his head, “He’s married. He’s been trying to find his wife since the moment we met. He doesn’t need me complicating things for him.”

It feels unfathomable. A webwork of overlapping impulses and feelings, with no one budging to act on any of them.

“What about Bdubs? Have you told him?”

Etho hesitates before slowly shaking his head. “There’s nothing to tell him. Not when I’m not going to act, and Joel will never reciprocate anyhow. But Bdubs… he’s always been able to read me like a book. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s been reading between the lines.”

Together, they descend into quiet contemplation. Scar finds himself struggling with nothing to say. Normally, he’d have a quick reassurance ready—he doesn’t know if it’s so long spent in near isolation, or how close the topic hits to home, that stunts his ability to offer a word. All he can think of is how things might have played out, if Grian had at any point told him that he’d fallen for Big B. That he still wanted to be with Scar, but didn’t want to break things off with his newfound partner either.

The thought digs into him wrong, bruising something deep in his very bones.

“Sorry,” Etho says at last, forcing a laugh that comes out self-deprecating. “I don’t normally talk so much. Don’t know what came over me.”

Finding his words at last, Scar waves away his deflection. “I’ve been told I’m as easy to talk to as I am on the eyes. My natural charm must’ve won you over.”

Luckily, his words appear to have their intended effect, and Etho chuckles softly as he shakes his head.

“Are you married—or, have you ever been?” he asks abruptly. It’s a mild question, curious and polite in the way that people are when they’re just getting to know one another. Scar can tell there’s no malice behind it—no secret judgement—and so he smiles in turn.

“Never been so lucky,” he admits, a bit rueful as he speaks. “Always thought I would, though. Then… well, you know.” He raises a hand, gesturing to the world around them, taking in the woods and the undead threat forever looming over them in the ongoing catastrophe that is their lives. “Have to assume it’s not really on the table anymore.”

Etho hums agreeably, nodding his head before he asks, “You and—uh, Grian? You aren’t…?”

“You’d be surprised,” Scar replies, intentionally vague in a way that Etho accepts without question. A part of him can’t help but feel a little remorseful, regretting the ambiguity he’s allowed himself and Grian to fall into. Neither together nor apart, anchored to one another and inescapable by design.

“You make a lot of concessions in a marriage,” Etho explains, offering his words as much to Scar as to himself. “Compromises, collaborating. Lotta give and take. Sometimes I hear myself say things, or find myself feeling things I never thought myself capable of. Both the good and the bad.”

It’s a complicated sentiment, neither positive nor negative. All the same, Scar finds himself empathising, able to effortlessly relate those same sentiments echoed in his feelings towards Grian.

“For better or for worse,” he offers with a small tug of a smile.

“‘Til death do we part,” Etho agrees, his words trailing off into a soft laugh.

Inescapably, Scar finds himself reflecting; the rift between Grian and himself; Grian’s attempts to bridge it.

As jealous and as hurt as Scar has been the last few days, it’s been clear that, of the two of them, Grian has made every effort to distance himself from Big B. Despite their tension, he’s unfailingly been the person that Scar had always wanted him to be: honest, determined, and consistent.

Privately, it begins to dawn on Scar that maybe, just maybe, it’s been him who’s been acting unfair.

They need to talk, that much he knows for sure. He’s put it off, desperate to avoid the pain he knows it’s going to cause them, but it’s clear that the infection they carry isn’t going to clear up on its own.

It’s while Scar ruminates on his thoughts that he picks up the sound of an engine in the distance, the now familiar growl of the Jeep’s motor, still some ways away but getting closer. Perking up in tandem, Etho begins to pull himself to his feet, clearing his throat as he reaches for the other bow in their arsenal, offering it to Scar with the haste of a child intent on avoiding a scolding.

“Here, take this. Quick,” Etho insists, stepping close to Scar as he pushes the bow into his hands and helps him lift it. He pulls an arrow out of the quiver and urgently offers it when it becomes clear that Scar has nothing to shoot with. “Make it look like we’ve been practising this entire time. They’ll like that.”

The audacity of the act surprises Scar, pushing a laugh up in his chest as he lets Etho guide his hands into place.

“Really looking to score those brownie points, eh?” he asks, teasing as his fingers hook into the line of the bow and ease it back.

“Yeah well, happy wife, happy life,” Etho mutters with a cheekiness that feels fond, the words a secret shared between them as Scar takes sight down the arrow and lets it fly.

 

Notes:

Some very interesting conversations this chapter :) Scar finally got an apology!! ...just, you know. Not from the one person he REALLY wanted it from. Ah, well. Better than nothing! :) :) :)

Chapter 39

Notes:

You guys continue to spoil us with fanworks, and we've got a truly mind-boggling amount of variety with it this week!

Kicking things off with the incredible theory into a post-TAMN scenario where Grian embraces some things he's been repressing by Syneester! 🌸

Next, we've got a sweet little playlist going through TAMN chronologically by mari-876! 🎶

This has been a GREAT week for fanfic, and Konoisms started us off strong with a look into Grian's gender exploration through clothing. 👗

Following that, erestuu has been on a ROLL with back-to-back TAMN related work! Starting with a collection of truly soft and sensual collection of drawings and then leading into not just one but TWO fanfics set in the TAMN universe! 🎨📝

Next, we have this warm, sweet rendition of how the, "There you are," scene mentioned in last chapter might've looked by sweetcandyholic 💝

And to tie things off for the week, we've got not just a delightful playlist for TAMN, but a playlist cover to go along with it by deputy-jude! 🎣🎵

As always, we are stunned and SO grateful for this outpouring of support from all of you, and we encourage anyone who hasn't seen these fantastic works already to please, PLEASE give them a look/read/listen! :D ✨

 

The feeling is like an itch he can’t scratch.

It builds up slowly, bit by bit by bit, crawling along his skin, seeking out where he’s most vulnerable before digging in deeper. It squirms down, down, passing through his flesh and delving into his bones, burying so deep within him that it becomes entirely out of reach. Atomic, almost. Wired into his DNA, no matter how viciously he claws into himself. He could pull his limbs apart, he could tear his body to pieces, but he knows the itch would remain, ever-present and persistent.

He’s hungry.

He’s starving.

The urgency of it fills Grian’s throat, mouth watering while a lurch of bile from somewhere within him rises up like heartburn, acid pooling in his esophagus. If he retches, what will his stomach turn up? Will he see the evidence of his monstrosity? Bits of liver and intestine, too large and too horrifying to mistake as anything but human?

that’s just the excuse scar would need to leave him. that would be the final straw. grian knows he can’t keep him forever despite how much he wants to, not when he’s this sick this hideous this revolting. not when everything he does only drags scar down with him, keeps him away from people, from places where he could build a life, form a community, find something meaningful instead of wasting away playing servant to a man who’s hurt him time and time, over and over and over, again

except

when he thinks of those eyes, green and bright and alive, and tries to imagine leaving them behind… when he thinks of scar taking his place by their side, not his, it makes grian worse. a rage surges up inside of him, his hunger unrestrained, the urge to bite and tear and devour anyone who so much as lays a hand on him, who lingers too long, who tries to take scar away, even if scar doesn’t want him anymore. and how could he? how could he when grian is the way he is. when he’s imperfect and disgusting and ugly ugly ugly ugly. when every facet of him down to his soul is tainted is infected is diseased is bad

But, with his back pressed up to a wall: what is the alternative?

They can’t stay forever. Grian knows they can’t. Every day they delay leaving is another where his secret risks being uncovered. At some point, Grian will have to eat, and the idea of somehow hiding it from the group indefinitely is foolhardy at best, and selfish at worst. Scar had said that he himself was selfish, but Grian knows that Scar would hate seeing these people hurt. He’d hate betraying those who have so carefully cultivated a place for themselves amongst the wreckage of the world, building on hopes and lighting torches for the sake of a still uncertain future.

But he can’t starve himself. It goes against his very nature. Normal meals don’t sustain him, and hunting the small, measly animals of the woods will never satiate him. It’s not simply a matter of refusal, either. If he goes too much longer without, then he only risks a greater loss of control—blacking out and turning against all good sense in order to attack whoever is nearest, regardless of allegiance.

what will that do to scar? to see grian at his most bestial, gorging himself on people he’s come to think of as friends. lying to their faces while leading them far enough into the woods to muffle the sound of their screams. stupid though. he’s so stupid. because the one most in danger is scar himself, stuck in close quarters with grian, trapped, sleeping soundly, his chest rising and falling with each careful breath, so vulnerable so unguarded so easy to tear into and take his fill from, spilling blood on the sheets, turning them red, red, red as he desecrates his lover, listening to scar’s screams slow into low moans, the life leaving his eyes, his face so so so sad, so lonely. the betrayal, at least, he’d recognise. it’s become familiar, like a friend. scar’s looked at him with those eyes so so so often. and when his corpse reanimates and he staggers up from the bed, all clotted with his body in ragged pieces, he’ll look betrayed forever. a reminder and a testament to the only thing grian can do with any real aptitude—destroy the person who matters most to him

dead dead eaten infected dead consumed dead

scar i love you dead i’m sorry dying

dead dying

Dead.

Grian wakes in a burst of panic, sweat drenching the back of his shirt, making his body stick to the sheets.

He sits upright, heart pounding in his chest as he looks around the darkened cabin. It’s still late, only the moonlight streaming in through sheer curtains and the distant spotlight on the dining hall offering any sort of illumination. His mouth feels dry, gulping a few desperate breaths of air, like that will somehow help him.

He trembles, stumbling out of bed and racing to the front door, unlocking it in the desperate hopes that Scar will be standing on the other side waiting for him, healthy and whole. That it won’t be too late. That he can stop him from leaving. That he can say what he needs to say to him. That he’s s—

Confusion pulses through his head, sharpened to a point behind his eyes, his brows furrowing, reality catching up to his staggered, sleep-jagged thoughts.

It’s night time. Night time at the compound. Ren’s survivor camp. An enclave within the apocalypse. The previous day had passed, the hours straddled between conversation with Joel and worrying over Scar’s return. They’d only seen each other at dinner, a quiet, muted affair during which they’d exchanged minimal words. Half-hearted at worst, neutral at best.

When they’d returned to their cabin, Scar had immediately settled in for bed, citing his exhaustion from a day spent working his body to the bone.

There’s no reason for him to be on the other side of the cabin door. He hasn’t just left Grian’s place in a rush, having caught him in bed with another man. He hasn’t narrowly escaped a mindless, fugue-state attack from the overwhelming hunger of Grian’s infected instincts.

He’s inside, asleep.

He’s fine.

Wearily, both relieved and exhausted, Grian drops his hand from the doorknob, turning around to fix his attention back towards where Scar is sleeping.

It takes him a moment to pick out the exact shape of him, but Grian can clearly see the line of a body there, laying still in the dark. A sudden fear seizes him all the same, the dredges of his nightmare returning. The sickening expectation settling into his bones, certain he’s about to find a corpse instead of his partner. Or worse—something brutalised beyond recognition that’s slowly shambling back to life.

He can’t bring himself to move, frozen in place.

“Scar…?” The question sounds plaintive in his throat, made rough by both sleep and horror.

By some miracle, the body on the mattress shifts. A breath passing out of tired lungs before Scar’s voice returns back to him, sleep-mumbled but clear. “C’mere, G…”

The wood floor of the cabin is cold against Grian’s bare feet as he pads silently across the floor, and when he reaches the bed he hesitates for only a moment before putting his knee up on the mattress, climbing in with a mix of relief and shame.

His impulse is to push as close to Scar as possible. To press his fingers to Scar’s pulse and drag him fully awake until he can get the reassurance he needs—that Scar is alright, that he’s safe, that he’s living. The fear of rejection holds him back, though, leaving him kneeling at the foot of the bed, uncertain how to progress further.

A minute passes, silence returning. Then, without a word, Scar lifts the blanket, inviting him in.

Grian feels a little bit silly, crawling in wearing only his undershirt and briefs. Beneath the covers Scar is shirtless, though still in his trousers, as if ready to get up at a moment’s notice, and without a word he turns over to lay on his back while Grian moves to lay beside him. While at first Grian doesn’t know how much distance to keep, his anxiety is put to rest when Scar’s arm finds him in the dark, drawing him near so that Grian can settle comfortably. Carefully, he lays his head on Scar’s chest, his body aligned against Scar’s side, their figures overlapping as their breaths naturally fall into sync.

For a moment nothing is said, Scar quiet in the darkness and Grian too scared to break their peace.

“I had a dream,” he admits at last, his voice trembling around its edge. “I dreamt—”

You died, hangs unsaid on his lips. I killed you, lingers not far behind, pushed up ugly against the barrier of his teeth.

“I lost you…” he finishes, making a compromise with the ugliest parts of himself. Still clinging to a reserve of humanity he knows he doesn’t deserve.

Silence greets him, no immediate rush of reassurance, but no rebuff either. Without reproach or judgement, Scar’s hand simply moves to find his shoulder. His touch soothing, a gentle stroke up and down his arm as he murmurs quietly into the dark, “You didn’t.”

His words are kind, caught in the dwoll-state of his exhaustion, not yet sleeping, yet not fully awake.

“I’m still right here,” he offers additionally after the slow drag of a minute has passed, the reassurance touching Grian deeper than it has any right to.

Grian wants to speak to him, wants to delve deep into that statement. To pick it up and pull it apart and crack into the centre of it. To find how much of Scar is with him, and in what context.

To beg for a forgiveness he knows he doesn’t deserve.

Beside him, Scar pulls a deep breath in through his nose, easing Grian closer by inches, so that their legs naturally intertwine. Comfortingly, Scar nuzzles into the mess of Grian’s sleep-mussed hair, clasping his arm around him properly, his voice slipping further towards sleep as he mumbles, “You can rest now, G…”

It’s clear that Scar isn’t entirely awake. That only a fragment of him is conscious enough to comfort him. It shouldn’t be possible, but like a grace has been granted, Grian feels his exhaustion settle heavy over him, drawing him down into a sleep that had felt impossible only minutes before.

The rest of the night passes, and Grian is carried through it effortlessly. He dreams again, in colours and shapes this time. Bright gold and sharp green against an impossibly blue expanse. Sand stretching all around him, and Scar ever-present at his side.

 

 

 

 

 

The knocking startles Grian awake, a trio of sharp raps on the cabin door.

“Hello in there! Anyone home?”

B’s voice is both cheerful and loud, throwing Grian out of place and time. For a moment, he’s in B’s bedroom again, pulled into consciousness against his will by an enthusiasm he never reciprocated.

Then, next to him, Scar stirs, a low, wordless sound working its way out of his throat as his arm reflexively tightens around Grian’s shoulders. Instinctively, he draws Grian in, and Grian finds himself tucked into a space where he’s protected and safe.

“Grian? Scar? I’m coming in!”

Without any additional warning, the door of the cabin swings open, a rush of cool air flowing in as Grian realises too late what’s happening.

His head jerks up, getting a glimpse of B standing framed in the doorway. The other man blinks slowly, nearly hilarious but not quite, from where he stands on the threshold, a bow and quiver in his arms.

“Oh. Oh my god.” It’s clear that B is mortified, his words stuttering out in panic. “The door was unlocked, so I assumed you were both up—I didn’t mean to barge in!”

Something about it makes Grian suddenly shy, well aware of how this must look to B as he stands there and gawks. It’s not like Grian’s never been walked in on before, but this isn’t a hook-up. He’s here with Scar, sharing a bed and being held through the night; something so much more intimate than Grian is comfortable having others see. Especially B.

Instinctively he sinks into Scar’s side, hiding himself between Scar’s torso and the covers. It’s a relief when Scar doesn’t push him away, instead absently brushing his tousled hair back away from his forehead, the action familiar and grounding.

Awkwardly, B diverts his gaze, pinning his focus to a spot somewhere high up on the cabin wall. “I, uh. Hope you had a nice sleep.”

Groaning with an overly exaggerated sound, Scar shifts in place as he moves to sit up. The motion reveals his bare chest as the comforter slips down and pools around his waist. From the single glance B risks, it’s clear he’s unprepared for the sight, his brows shooting upwards as he looks away again, Grian feeling his own face heat in response.

Scar, however, is unperturbed, yawning loudly. “Every bone in my body aches.”

A part of Grian winces, wondering if it’s because he’d been clinging to Scar all night, taking up space and preventing him from getting comfortable. As if reading his thoughts, Scar simply runs his touch down Grian’s arm under the covers, squeezing his hand in reassurance. It gives Grian the pause he needs to remember that Scar had spent the day training, something he’d already admitted had exhausted him, and his anxious mind reroutes itself into the more likely scenario instead.

Casually, Scar swings his legs over the side of the bed, leveraging one hand against the bedframe before he stands up. “Who’s on breakfast duty today?”

“Uh, not sure,” B answers, making every effort to keep his eyes to himself as Scar wanders around the cabin, freshening up for the day. “Haven’t been to the hall yet. I just—Ren wanted me to drop these off, and—”

“Well aren’t you kind,” Scar remarks, easygoing as he pulls his shirt on over his head and combs his fingers through his hair. Crossing the floor, he approaches B, taking the bow from him confidently, like the weapon is being returned to him, rather than given for the first time. “From His Majesty himself, eh?”

“He heard how well you did yesterday,” B explains, still flustered but relaxing the longer Scar treats the situation as nothing special. “He’s got his own way of showing it, but trust me: he’s thrilled.”

They fall into an uninteresting conversation, B explaining how weapons and ammunition are distributed amongst the compound. Hastily, Grian opts to use the distraction as an opportunity to disappear into the attached bathroom, seeking the privacy he desperately needs. Though none of the plumbing works, it’s the only place he can close a door and reorient himself.

For a moment the only thing he can do is face the mirror and stare, trying desperately not to judge himself as he sizes up his reflection.

He doesn’t look as gaunt as he feels, which he supposes is a kindness in disguise. The neckline of his undershirt covers the bite mark scarred into his shoulder, but he dreads the other scars and blemishes B might have seen on him when he glanced over from across the room.

Reluctantly, he finds his clothes, kicked into a pile where he left them on the floor the night before, pulling them on in a rush and pushing his fingers back through his lengthening hair in some attempt to tame it, before steeling himself and heading back out to rejoin the others.

However, by the time he opens the bathroom door, Scar is already gone, his new bow leaning against the wall and his jacket taken from its hook. Grian would hustle to follow him, hoping to catch up in time to have a few words before they enter the dining hall, except that B has, for some reason, stuck around. He stands awkwardly just inside the door, clearly waiting.

“Where’s Scar?” Grian asks, feeling his body tense on instinct, trapped by their proximity.

To his credit, B looks just as uncomfortable. “He left for breakfast—said he’d meet us there.”

“Oh,” Grian hears himself say, trying hard not to read into Scar’s actions.

Before he’d died and come back vowing to make a change, Grian would have simply assumed that Scar inviting him into bed had meant that they were okay now. That everything that had settled wrong had simply passed behind them. However, with the benefit of his memories of jumping the gun over and over still vivid in his mind, Grian is hesitant to believe that they could so easily and so suddenly be on better terms.

All the same, Scar had seemed so normal when they woke, and hadn’t hesitated when he invited Grian into bed…

Grian doesn’t want to assume that Scar is being deceptive, but by leaving him alone with B… is it supposed to be a show of trust? Or is Scar testing him, stepping back and waiting for Grian to fall into old, familiar habits?

It’s clear that both he and B are waiting on the other to speak, the silence growing uncomfortable between them, stagnating the air like something physical that they can both feel pressing up against them. It sets something crawling up the line of Grian’s spine—like he’s been caught trespassing, while simultaneously unable to escape the notion that B has intruded into something far too personal and private, never intended for his eyes.

Grian can see B’s mouth working around a question, trying and failing to find the appropriate words to address all that has metastasized and now lays rotten and fetid between them.

“You can tell me if I’m out of line,” B says at last, pinning his gaze on the far wall of the cabin, still unable to make eye contact. “But it seems like you and Scar are…”

‘Okay,’ hangs unsaid but implied at the end of his sentence.

‘Fine.’

‘Better now.’

Unable to help himself, Grian laughs awkwardly, a pressure release they both need as he shrugs his shoulders in a largely exaggerated gesture.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” he admits. “Maybe we are, maybe we aren’t. I never really know with Scar...”

Nervously, B glances towards him, their eyes catching before he looks away again. It’s abundantly clear that he’s here in search of something, seeking some kind of closure that Grian doesn’t know if he’s capable of giving him.

Deep down he knows what he has to do. Deep down he knows he needs to apologise to B for dragging him into his mess in the first place.

And yet, as usual, the apology sticks too far in the back of his throat for him to get it out. Choking him into guilty silence.

“Y’know…” B tries again, his tone still uncertain, hands working in and out of stiff, uncomfortable fists. “I spent some time with Scar yesterday. Just… catching up.”

Predictably, a part of Grian bristles at the admission. The thought of the two of them talking to one another making him feel simultaneously jealous and overwhelmingly ashamed.

“He’s a great guy, Grian,” B says at last, his eyes finally meeting Grian’s, deep and complex, belaying a person Grian never really let himself get to know. “Like, really great. I—”

His words cut off, confidence faltering as he bites his bottom lip, studying the floor once more. It’s not hard to hear the implication, however. The question, fair and justified.

‘Why did you do it?’

Why seek out something else—someone else—when he already had Scar?

Why intentionally, repeatedly sabotage himself? Hacking away at the foundation of his relationship, knowing it would only ever bring it all falling down on his head.

Why break his heart?

“He is,” Grian hears himself say, vulnerable with the admission. Exposed in a way he’s never been before. “He’s amazing.”

That, at least, garners an approving nod from B. Some common ground they can agree on.

“Yeah.” With a huff of breath some warmth enters B’s smile, and Grian realises it’s a look of relief, like he’s finally tapping into what he wanted to hear in the first place. “He really is.”

Their eyes meet again, Grian’s nerves still in his throat, while B looks oddly at peace.

“If I was dating a guy like that,” he offers at last, neither condemning nor in praise, “I’d never let him go.”

It’s funny—to hear such a thing from the mouth of the man he’d betrayed Scar with. Grian knows it’s true. He’s always known, deep down.

Maybe that’s what had always scared him so much.

When he looks back over the life he’s lived, there are so many moments he wishes he could try again. Different things he could have said, better choices he could have made. However… when he thinks about how the culmination of everything he ever did made him into the person who just so happened to meet Scar in the first place… Grian hesitates. To think that, despite all his inconsistencies—his insecurities, his failures, and his fuck-ups—he still found Scar. That despite it all, Scar still loved him. That out of everyone on earth, they found themselves, entangled together at the end of the world…

It means something. It has to.

While Grian knows it’s impossible to take back what he’s done, for the first time in his life, he can finally see how the only way out of his atrophy will come by pressing forward. And that in order to do that, he needs to resolve the things he’s been dragging along behind the both of them for far too long.

“I’m sorry I never gave you a clear picture of what was going on, B,” he says, the words rushing out of him before he has a chance to take them back. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

He can feel his heart racing, struggling against the terror of being open and vulnerable in such a way. The apology feels strange, the words unfamiliar in his throat. And yet, some part of him is grateful he has the chance to practice like this—to learn how it feels before he tries it with the person who needs to hear it most.

“I’m in love with Scar,” he declares, clear and without hesitation. “He’s the person I want to be with.” He pauses, long enough to manage a wry grin, barely meeting B’s eyes. “As long as he’ll still have me.”

The smile on B’s face widens, heartfelt amidst its relief. “Happy to hear it,” he says, and Grian can catch the genuine sentiment in his words. It warms his heart, emotion swelling within him, forcing him to blink it back. “Good luck, G.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles, hesitating for only a second when B puts out his hand to him, feeling the final brush of a test pushing up against his anxiety.

When B’s hand closes around his, tugging him near so that he can pat his shoulder, both friendly and encouraging, it doesn’t feel as awful as Grian thought it would. There’s no swoop in the pit of his stomach, no sudden desire to sneak around behind Scar’s back. It simply feels normal. Like maybe how a friendship ought to.

There’s a momentous relief in the feeling. A release, allowing a part of him to settle for good.

“You wanna get some breakfast?” B asks, and while Grian knows he doesn’t, he still nods in agreement.

Together, they head towards the dining hall, making light conversation as they cross the open greenspace, no doubt the last two to filter in to eat. Their words are trivial, saying nothing of real substance to one another, but somehow Grian still feels like they’ve exchanged more than they ever have before. All the same, Grian still quietens down as they approach the doors leading into the hall, wary of having Scar see him too close to B, even now.

“After you,” B offers, and Grian steps in on a cautious edge.

He’s surprised by the volume and commotion within the hall as B holds the door open. There are people— a lot of them— laughing and chatting and crowding in towards one corner of the hall, near where the dining tables give way to couches and armchairs. Grian cranes his neck, trying to gauge what might be the cause of the din, surprised when he spots Ren himself seated at the head of a table.

It’s the first time Grian’s seen him since their introduction and the intense interview they received from him. Instinctively, an uncertainty rises in his chest. The overwhelming fear that Ren is here because he knows. That this is an ambush. That behind his tired eyes, he can see right through him.

The expression on Ren’s face, however, is nothing like that of a calculating hunter. He looks just short of overwhelmed, crowded in on all sides by people eager to talk to him, forcing him to nod along to multiple conversations at once as he struggles to make everyone feel heard. Grian can see the fatigue in the lines of his face, alongside a tension in shoulders that speaks to his discomfort, his expression shadowed and tired.

“Oh, Ren,” B whispers from over Grian’s shoulder, speaking mostly to himself. He looks on with an expression stranded halfway between proud and worry, Ren’s presence clearly completely unexpected, even to him.

“Why don’t you go ahead, Grian?” He says quickly, barely casting his gaze aside. “I’m gonna check on Ren real quick.”

The relief on the weary leader’s face the moment he spies B moving towards him speaks to something that Grian tries not to read too far into. Like water parting, everyone gathered makes space for B, and Grian follows the scene only long enough to catch the way Ren’s eyes light up as B sits down beside him before he turns away, scanning the hall for Scar instead.

He spots him almost immediately, sitting off in a corner speaking to Joel. Mindful of maintaining his image, Grian decides to grab some breakfast before he approaches. Securing a slice of toast and some jam before he heads over in Scar’s direction.

“Do you mind if I join?”

It’s a strange question, one that has him feeling like he’s sixteen again. Fearing the judgement of his peers, but fearing their exclusion even more. In response, Joel’s eyes look up to meet him, his face brightening with a genuine enthusiasm that Grian wishes he could feel better about.

He wishes he knew how Quackity had felt, befriending the two of them under the burden of his secret. Had he also hated how every interaction carried the deception of a lie within it? Had he also felt sick with himself? Or had he been able to separate himself from his hunger entirely, living as two different pieces, each one divided and unaffected by the other?

“It’s a free post-society society,” Joel offers, cheerful as he pats the table across from him, inviting Grian to sit. To his credit, Scar’s smile doesn’t falter, assuaging Grian’s fear that he’s intruding upon something private as he allows himself to take a seat.

“How’d you sleep then, Grian?” Joel asks, mispronouncing his name so that it sounds like ‘green.’ He’s most of the way through his meal, taking large bites of scrambled egg mixed with sliced peppers and roasted potato, gregarious and outgoing despite the early hour of the day.

“Bad dreams to start,” Grian admits, using his knife to push jam around on his bread, once more wasting time rather than tucking in. “But it was alright once I got comfortable.”

He can feel Scar’s eyes on him, silent but not judgemental. Under the table, the toe of his boot nudges against the side of Grian’s foot. A small anchor in an overwhelming world.

He still doesn’t know what’s happened. Doesn’t understand the shift that’s had Scar turn gentle towards him, when just the day before they were barely speaking. He’s grateful, though. Determined not to take it for granted.

“Well that’s good. We’re gonna need you well rested today,” Joel chortles, taking a swig of coffee, almost manically bright with anticipation.

“More potatoes to peel?” Grian asks, offering a mild smile.

“There’s been an inflection of zombies,” Scar explains.

“Influx.”

“You missed it, sleepyhead. Ren made a whole announcement and everything. Said he wants everyone with good aim on the perimeter today, working it in shifts. Important to pick those ghouls off while they’re still scattered. Nobody wants a horde showing up and giving us grief,” Joel continues, unbothered or completely oblivious to Scar’s mispronunciation.

The phrasing of his statement sticks out to Grian, a particularity of it catching him off guard.

They all know he doesn’t have good aim.

Throughout the apocalypse, he’s yet to take a single shot.

He can feel Scar’s eyes on him, focused, and the implication twists in Grian’s belly, one he doesn’t know if he’s reading correctly. An influx of zombies in the woods and a whole day of survivors spread out in small groups along the perimeter… He can’t help but wonder if Scar insisted he come along, advocating for him in order to give him an opportunity to secure himself a meal amongst the thinned out, distracted population.

If he’s right, he doesn’t know how to feel about it. The gesture is oddly sweet, he supposes. Mindful in a morbid, deceptive kind of way. However he still can’t fully bridge the Scar of the previous days to the one facing him now. Especially when they’ve yet to resolve the terse terms they’ve been on since arriving at camp.

Whatever Scar’s reasoning is for bringing him along, Grian can only hope that it doesn’t backfire.

“You’re gonna have to eat more than that, mate. We’ve got a long day ahead,” Joel presses, singling out Grian’s lone slice of bread. “And don’t be telling me you’re on a diet at a time like this, I won’t have it. That’s absurd.”

“Man’s saving you rations and you’re out here taking his appetite for granted?” Scar jokes, seamlessly interrupting as he digs his elbow into Joel’s side.

“Alright, sure then,” Joel agrees, laughing as he drains the last of his coffee from his mug. “No crying when we’re out on patrol and you get snacky, though.”

“I’ll pack a sandwich,” Grian offers, a compromise he doesn’t intend to follow through on, hating how he’s already thinking about the potential for a meal, his mouth watering in a way he finds disgusting.

The others finish eating and the din within the hall begins to ebb. It becomes clear that the camp has started to prepare for the day’s sweep, tables splitting up and dividing into preset groups, some provisioning to go on foot while others head out towards vehicles that have been assigned to them. Ren has become noticeably absent, and B along with him, but Grian doesn’t have time to see where they may have gone, focusing instead on Joel who begins to rally them together.

“We’re on foot, unfortunately,” he explains, his voice loud as they get their equipment in order, Joel with a light pack on his back and a crossbow in his hands while they wait for Scar to return with his rifle and newly given bow. “Ren and his court have decided I can’t be trusted with the keys since I had my little joy ride.”

It’s an interesting admission on Joel’s part, equal parts begrudging and guilty.

“I don’t mind the walk,” Grian lies.

“Beautiful day for it,” Scar adds as he rejoins them, cheerful as he holds his new bow in his hands, looking eager at the chance to use it.

It’s Grian who finds himself with Scar’s rifle slung awkwardly across his shoulder. Ill-fitting and unwieldy where it bumps against his back.

The day is overcast as they set out together, the grey clouds hanging low and entangling in the treetops, creating a misty atmosphere around the compound. It feels foreboding in a way Grian is sure would have unsettled him if he didn’t already have a nauseating feeling of anticipation churning low in his belly. The idea that maybe, just maybe, he’ll be able to acquire a meal today. Something to eat, finally.

One of the strangers, he hopes.

A face he won’t recognize when he starts to gorge.

Joel takes the lead, setting the pace as he directs them towards the forest. He looks ready and prepared—enthusiastic, even—as he draws them towards the south end of the compound, taking them off the trail as they forge into the woods, stepping over fallen logs and low brambles tangled beneath the trees, the dead winter underbrush rustling beneath their feet.

It would be nice—if only Grian could stop scanning the woods for other survivors on similar patrols, trying to gauge who he could veer off and follow most easily.

Who would be missed the least.

“Right,” Joel announces when they finally come to a stop after twenty or so minutes spent moving in a direction that seems both intentional and aimless. There’s nothing of note to mark their position, save for a few reflective ribbons tied around the trunks of nearby saplings, their ends fluttering half-heartedly in the faint breeze. “This is about where Ren said we needed to watch for undead. There’s a highway up ahead, and they’ve been coming in from there.”

“It seems like you’re patrolling every single day,” Scar remarks, idly slipping the release for his bow into his hand, an arrow already nocked into it.

Joel shrugs, scratching at the scruff on his chin as he peers out into the forest. “I haven’t been here much longer than you lot, but Ren runs a pretty tight ship, yeah. Suppose he’s got to, though. Lotta people to keep safe, lotta responsibility. Better to have someone circling the border at all hours of the day than not.” He pauses, teeth snagging on his lower lip for a second before he adds, “Still, this is more urgent than usual, getting everyone in camp out like this. Me personally—I don’t think the horde’s as bad as all that, but I suppose you just never know…”

There’s an intentional pause, Joel’s eyes alight as both Grian and Scar look at him, uncertain about the implication he’s making.

“Never know what?” Grian finally asks, forced to reveal his curiosity, hoping his anxiety doesn’t come off in a way that incriminates him.

Motioning Grian closer, Joel leans in, his voice whisper-soft as he snaps, “Never know when one might sneak up behind you.”

Without warning, he lifts his crossbow, squinting down its sight before firing off a shot. The bolt hisses through the air, slicing right between Scar and Grian, causing them both to jump back in alarm. Panic floods Grian’s chest, automatically on alert for danger. Immediately he’s furious at himself, wondering how he could have possibly let his guard down and allowed a zombie to get the drop on them. Had he learned his lesson when Scar almost got bit? When he himself died?

Except—when he whirls around, there’s nothing unusual behind them, the crossbow bolt buried in the bark of a tree several metres off.

“Made you look!” Joel shouts, a broad, delighted smile splitting his face, like he’s told some incredible joke and not just terrified them both. “Oh, you shoulda seen the looks on your faces! Like I’d really let one get that close to us, eh?” He shakes his head, chuckling to himself. “Imagine if I had gotten one of those uglies right between the eyes, though. Etho would never hear the end of it, I can tell you that.”

Scar blinks from where he’s stumbled back, his brain clearly still processing. “What just happened?”

“Nothing, Scar. Don’t worry about it. Joel’s just being an idiot,” Grian responds flatly. He doesn’t see the humour in it, and he knows it’s not funny, but while he wants to be angry, it does feel like something close to friendship when Joel simply smiles wider, shouldering himself between them as he goes to retrieve his bolt.

“Alright then lads. No more goofing around,” he chides teasingly, winking at them over his shoulder. “We gotta take this seriously, now.”

It’s strange how different it feels to be out with Joel, who laughs and jokes so easily, like they’re pals out on a weekend stroll together. It’s nothing like the time Grian had spent out with Cleo and Bdubs, where he’d felt sure he was intruding upon something both deeply important and intimately personal.

He’s not completely at ease, like he knows he can be with Scar. But with Joel he feels comfortable, like he can relax his normally stringent grip on his personality. Like he can be himself, somewhat.

It’s something for him to think about as they head deeper into the forest, Joel humming to himself, picking out paths for them to follow and settling on a well-trod deer trail, fresh boot prints showing that it’s been travelled recently. It surprises Grian to find that he recognises the song Joel is reciting—a pop hit that had been playing on the radio and at the clubs he was always too afraid to enter. Something he would’ve vehemently denied recognising before the end of the world.

For some reason it feels less scary to be honest about it now, and he lets Joel get to the chorus before he offers, “I almost went to see her live.”

It feels daring. Vulnerable in a way he’s not used to being, always having safeguarded his interests and preferences before. Too afraid of judgement and criticism to be open about those parts of himself.

“Woulda seen me there then,” Joel replies easily, his words effortlessly casual. “Saw her three times, I think.”

He glances back over his shoulder at Grian, a touch morbid when he adds, “Pity the world had to end before her next big album, eh? I was really looking forward to that.”

Scar doesn’t join the conversation, letting Grian have this moment just for him without interruption. Surprisingly though, the knuckles of his hand brush against Grian’s as they continue walking, like a passing nod of support that Grian hadn’t realised he was even hoping for.

They’re nearly an hour into their scouting when the path makes a sharp dip, dropping down a short rocky incline that empties onto a single-lane dirt road, the limbs of the close-growing maple trees forming a tunnel around it through the woods. The change is a relief, something for Grian to focus on that pulls him away from the gnawing pressure in his belly. His hunger continually rising up within him, disappointed they haven’t come across anyone else yet, the urgency of it clouding the periphery of his vision with a haze that only wants him to hunt, eat, spread.

“We follow this a-ways, now. Until it meets the river,” Joel explains, oblivious to Grian’s internal struggle. He swings his crossbow at his side, utterly unconcerned. “Then it’s an easy wander back to the compound. Home again, home again, jiggity jig.”

A part of Grian wants to ask for a detour. Wants to lag behind in the hopes he can at least snag some small, pathetic animal. A mouse or a vole. Just enough to curb the edge off a hunger that feels like it’s growing out of control.

Luckily, a sound behind them pulls him back from that damning precipice. A guttural noise breaking through the otherwise gentle hush of the woods, conversational in intonation but frighteningly inhuman overall.

In unison they turn, instantly spotting a zombie stumbling towards them. It’s grotesque in its disfigurement, entrails tangled in loose loops around its knees and ankles, lurching towards them driven by an infected instinct that Grian feels an uncomfortable degree of kinship with.

“Ran into one way sooner than I thought we would,” Joel drawls, raising his crossbow with no great rush. “Last time Etho and I were out, it took us three hours before we came across anything. Guess Ren was right.”

The creature’s legs are broken, thin bone jutting out of its shins. Nevertheless, it continues towards them, driven by its undeniable craving for flesh. Grian can relate, saliva pooling in his mouth as his stomach twists in on itself—as if the proximity of this undead thing has pushed his own diseased impulses to the forefront of his mind.

Without hesitating Joel takes the zombie down with a single shot, waiting until it’s fallen still on the ground before he walks over to it and retrieves his ammunition.

“Suppose if we’re getting serious we should sort this out, then—Scar, you and I are gonna take first dibs when we see ‘em. No offence Grian, but we got the quieter weapons. You keep the safety off that rifle, though. Just in case we get jumped from behind.”

“Always good to have someone at your six,” Scar agrees, throwing a weighted look in Grian’s direction.

Terribly, Grian wonders if that’s a sign. If maybe Scar is signalling for Grian to tackle Joel to the ground and sink his teeth into him now, while they have the chance.

It’s a repellent, distressing thought.

He doesn’t want it to be Joel. He doesn’t.

“Sure,” he chokes out at last, tongue heavy in his mouth. “Makes sense. I’ll keep an eye out.”

Together, they continue along the road, more alert now that they’ve had an encounter. Even Joel quietens down, his constant chatter falling by the wayside as he holds his crossbow at the ready, casting his attention into the forest that surrounds them on both sides. The silence that descends upon them is somber, and Grian can feel the tension of it building behind his ribs. There’s no denying how remote they are. How easy it would be to grab Joel while he walks several strides ahead.

With every step Grian’s pulse picks up, the sound of it rushing loud in his ears. By the time they spot another zombie ahead, swaying in place but otherwise rooted to the spot, his whole body is thrumming with an energy he is struggling to contain. Desperate and ravenous and starving.

Unaware, Joel signals for Scar to line up his bow and make a clean kill, casting a look in Grian’s direction only after the corpse is downed.

“You alright?” he asks while Scar retrieves his arrow from where it protrudes out from the side of the zombie’s skull.

“They stress me out,” Grian manages, feeling choked and pekid.

Their next encounter brings three undead on them at once, scrambling at them with hasty, stumbled gaits. Joel swears at their approach, muttering something about being unlucky. He doesn’t seem to notice the way the corpses drift past Grian as though he’s invisible to them entirely. Grian doesn’t know what he would say if Joel did. He simply stands by and watches, keeping the rifle poised in case he needs to cover for either of them, and trying not to let the way his sickened instincts beg him to join the fray.

Joel is quick with his crossbow and Scar is even quicker with his bow, but it’s clear their weapons are still nothing compared to the destructive power of a bullet, each zombie requiring several arrows where Grian knows a single shot would do.

One arrow in a stranger’s back would be all I need though, Grian thinks, disconnected but practical as he once more finds himself focusing back on his hunger and his need to satiate it.

He hates it. Hates how easily he can imagine Scar’s bow adapting to his own horrible needs. An arrow shot from a distance would leave a person alive but immobilised long enough for Grian to get close. To open his mouth wide. To bite down and—

“Between the eyes, or behind the ear,” Joel offers, his words jostling Grian out of his thoughts, his tone tight as he fits another bolt into his crossbow. Not worried, exactly, but clear that he’s operating with urgency. The way the arrows stick out of the ghouls while they continue advancing would be comical, if their approach didn’t have Scar falling back a step, muttering something under his breath as he notches another arrow.

“Don’t be afraid to take a shot, by the way,” Joel calls back over his shoulder, singling Grian out, clearly expecting him to contribute as they’re near to becoming overwhelmed by the group of corpses. “No need to be shy.”

Grian can feel the weight of the rifle in his hand, heavier now that he’s been tasked to use it. Uselessly, he tries to remember how Scar has held it in the past. Where exactly he tucked it into his shoulder, and where his hands rested along its length.

It’s as he’s struggling to find the safety that another zombie pushes its way out of the forest, stumbling out of the mangy undergrowth and getting in between the three of them, effectively cutting Grian off from both Scar and Joel.

“Any time now, Grian!” Joel repeats, his voice rising into something pointed as he acknowledges the threat of the new intrusion. Together, he and Scar have taken two of the zombies down, but with the fresh addition there’s still two left to deal with.

Grian can’t figure the gun out. Can’t make sense of how to hold, aim, or shoot. Instead, he does the only thing he can do with confidence—he turns it around, gripping it by the muzzle and swinging it like a club, connecting the butt with the back of the nearest zombie’s skull.

The wretched thing reels back, screaming in a way that sounds betrayed as it spins to face him. Grian hates the noise it makes. Hates that a part of him feels like he should apologise to it. Resolutely he swallows the impulse down, gripping the rifle tighter and getting ready to take another swing.

Before he can move, an arrow slices through the air, piercing the weak spot behind the zombie’s ear. It forces its way through the front of the corpse’s skull, the sharp tip protruding out through the creature’s eye socket. For a moment the zombie hangs, frozen mid-step, then its legs give out, sending it tumbling forward and nearly knocking Grian over.

“Nice teamwork!” Joel shouts, his appreciation only slightly sarcastic.

“There’s more incoming,” Scar says—or, Grian thinks he hears Scar say. The world feels suddenly muffled, and Scar is already turning away, notching another arrow and pulling the bowline back.

Both his and Joels’ voices sound like they’re far away somehow. Like they’ve progressed on while Grian’s fallen behind.

‘Wait for me,’ he wants to say, bending down to pull Scar’s arrow out of the zombie’s skull.

It’s only then that he realises the assumption they’ve all made, barely having time to react before a grotesque hand wraps around his ankle. Groaned noises shaped like malformed words push through a rotten throat as the zombie— not dead. Terribly, horribly, not dead— grabs him, pulling his leg out from under him.

‘Scar,’ he tries to shout, too surprised to make a sound as he tips back. His foot slips off the edge of the asphalt, heel crunching on the gravel shoulder of the road as he stumbles back. ‘Scar, I need you.’

He kicks his leg free, but it comes at a loss as he tumbles over backwards, the woods closing in tight around him. A root grabs his ankle, twisting under his heel and he finally, finally falls, all the air escaping his lungs. He’s unable to even shout before his head connects with the ground, a sharp starburst of pain exploding across in his field of vision before his world goes immediately, aggressively dark.

 

 

 

 

 

When Grian comes to, his vision swims before him, colours muddy and blurred. He doesn’t think much time has passed, if any at all, the daylight still a bright but murky grey above him. Still, he’s conspicuously alone, neither Scar nor Joel anywhere in sight.

If anything, that should worry him. It should make him feel both nervous and terrified. Yet, somehow, the only thing Grian feels is an eerie sense of calm that settles placidly over him.

The forest is quiet all around him, pine bouts stirring faintly in the breeze as he gets to his feet. He’s wobbly at first, but quickly finds purchase, head throbbing where it hit the ground, and his clothing damp where it pressed into the muddy earth. Dead leaves stick to him, dirt smeared up his side, but none of that seems important.

He has better things to do.

He’s on the move before he knows it, eyes darting quickly between the trees, seeking out colours and shapes that don’t blend into the environment. People love bright colours, he knows this; vivid reds, vibrant yellows, and neon greens. The arrogance of a species that doesn’t expect to be hunted down.

he can feel it thrumming in his bones. the knowledge that someone is close. he’s hungry he’s starving and a heartbeat is echoing in his head that he knows is not his own. fast-paced, fresh, alive. his mouth waters, his whole body trembling in anticipation. how long has it been since he’s eaten? how long since he’s been able to enjoy a meal to the very end, until he can’t possibly fill himself any more?

Grian’s head snaps to the side, a branch breaking somewhere close by, snatching his attention. He follows it, letting the trees slip past him as he rushes towards his meal— his prey. Nothing will get in his way, single-minded as he pursues the noise. A grin pulls tight across his face when he finally spots the back of a coat and a shock of brown hair through the trees.

it’s the element of surprise. the element of attack. he can taste the softness of their flesh already, splitting like fresh fruit under his teeth, red welling up to flood his mouth and coat his tongue, the flavour strong and smell pungent as he gorges himself, satisfying his hunger, his hunger, he’s hungry he’s hungry he’s hungry. he needs this. he needs—

Grian rushes towards the person, attempting to ambush them, the growl that’s been building in his throat finally coming to life, slipping from his throat into the quiet of the forest. His prey doesn’t even turn to meet him, simply ducking and taking off with a muttered curse. It’s a smart choice, but infuriating—if they’d hesitated even a second, Grian would have had them.

saliva pools in his mouth, excitement making him giddy as he gives chase, tailing the foolish thing that thinks it can escape him. he watches it stumble over an overturned tangle of roots, panting hard as it weaves through trees and tries to load its weapon. useless. it’ll never be able to shoot him. he isn’t like the others, slow and rotten and stupid. he’s smarter, faster, better…

he’s close now, just a breath away, close enough that he can hear the way it’s panting, desperate and terrified, whispering something under its breath. a name, a prayer, a plea. he’d feel bad for it if he could. if there was any feeling left in him other than an overwhelming appetite that threatens to swallow his consciousness whole.

he’s closing in. he’s starving—

The arrow comes as a shock.

He barely has a chance to notice it—a blur on the fringe of his peripheral vision and then a sharp burst of pain. The arrow doesn’t lodge itself in his shoulder, but it does tear through both his clothes and the flesh underneath, making him hiss, twisting sideways and stumbling in his tracks.

Like a reset button has been pushed, Grian returns to his body, breathing hard as he gathers his scattered thoughts. Instinctively, his hand comes up to grip his shoulder, the pain doubling before he jerks his palm away. He winces, staring down at the blood smeared across the underside of his fingers as he attempts to process the overwhelming jumble of stimuli at once.

“Holy shit, Grian is that you?”

It takes him a moment to recognize the sound—Joel’s voice. Coming from somewhere up ahead. He doesn’t reply, still staring down at his bloodied hand while some infected, animal part of him rages at the meal he’s yet again been robbed of.

“Bloody hell—I thought you were a zombie! What were you stalkin’ around through the trees for? You should’ve said something!”

When Grian manages to drag his gaze up, it’s to find Joel standing just ahead of him, chest heaving as he struggles to gather his breath. In an instant he realises that Joel had been the one he was hunting. He’d been running away, fleeing instinctually and unable to tell Grian apart from any other corpse.

Grian’s mouth feels dry and his stomach churns. The knowledge is nauseating, twisting up inside him with a muted horror he doesn’t dare vocalise.

And yet, at the same time, he can’t help but feel relieved that at least it wasn’t Scar.

“Jesus, did Scar get you with an arrow? You’re damn lucky he’s still getting the hang of it—imagine if he’d landed a proper shot!”

At the mention of his partner, Grian slowly turns his head to the side, looking in the direction of where the arrow had come from. There, just a few feet away, Scar stands and watches him. His eyes dark and knowing.

His aim wasn’t an accident, Grian understands that implicitly.

Scar had ‘missed’ on purpose. A desperate, last-ditch shot.

Something inside Grian curdles. The mortifying realisation that this hadn’t been Scar’s plan all along. That he hadn’t been setting Grian up for a feast, giving him chances to sneak away and give into his hunger. Grian had misunderstood. He’d assumed catastrophically and put them both at risk, leaving Scar no choice but to shoot Grian in the hopes of jolting him out of the state he’d slipped into.

He doesn’t know whether to thank Scar or to shrivel up on the spot, horrified by his complete loss of control.

He wants to speak—knows that he should. However the words don’t come, pushed into silent revulsion at what he now knows he’s capable of. Pain continues lancing across his shoulder, a sharp, repetitive stab, hammering in time with his pulse.

Blessedly, Scar speaks up for him, a far better actor than Grian could ever dream to be.

“Oh my god, Grian.” His voice sounds horrified, truly devastated, breaking around each syllable, fragile in a way that even Grian falls for through the haze of how much he hurts. “I can’t believe I shot you. I thought—when I saw you running, I thought you were a– a—”

Grian can’t move, can barely function, his focus fixed on the blood he can feel hot against his fingertips. The sensation of it dripping down from his injury, soaking through his shirt and running down his chest, makes his body feel like it’s on fire. Something clatters from Scar’s direction—the sound of his bow being tossed aside, priorities abandoned as he rushes forward, the picture of concern, guilt, and regret.

“I’m so, so sorry.”

Head foggy through the pain, every thought feeling distant, Grian supposes that he’s lucky that Scar is so good at talking. He remembers before the world fell to pieces, evenings out alone together, flashing red and blue lights in Ariana’s rearview mirror as a police officer snagged them for driving a few miles over the speed limit. The sick tension in his stomach that had made it almost impossible to speak as he’d handed over his licence, hands shaking where they gripped the steering wheel. Scar had leaned over the middle console with flawless confidence, then. Endlessly affable as he’d talked and talked and talked, ending up getting Grian off with nothing more than a warning.

It had been funny then. A charming quirk of Scar’s personality. His innate ability to bend strangers into seeing his point of view; securing tables at completely booked restaurants, getting tickets for sold out shows. And now, taking the blame for a hunger that Grian knows is entirely his fault.

“I can’t believe—Grian, I swear—” Scar is in Grian’s personal space now. Hands fussing over him, not quite touching, but not keeping his distance either. The real selling point is the way his eyes fill up with tears, the tremble in his breath as he breathes, genuine, “I could’ve killed you.”

“It’s fine,” Grian hears himself say, distant and muted with shock. “It only grazed me.”

“Now, let’s not get carried away and start blubbering,” Joel interrupts, shocking Grian out of his reverie and back into the moment. “The arrow went through, so it can’t be that bad, but let’s get your coat off and we’ll take a look. ”

Joels’ approach triggers a marked change in them both, Grian retreating back a step as Scar’s broken expression immediately hardens. Fearful of Joel’s brash hands tugging his shirt collar down and revealing the ragged bite mark scabbed into his shoulder, Grian throws Scar a desperate look, and yet again, Scar is the only one capable of covering in time.

“Air it out any more and it’s gonna draw in every zombie in the area,” Scar deflects quickly. “We shouldn’t risk it.”

“Shit. You’re right.” Without question Joel pivots into accommodation, jogging the few feet to retrieve Scar’s bow before he turns back towards them. “Let’s get ‘im back home, then. We got proper first aid at the camp, Grian. You’ll be alright, I promise.”

As an afterthought he stoops down and picks up the arrow—the one that just grazed through Grian’s shoulder—and distantly Grian watches in horror as his infected blood smears across the lines of Joel’s palm.

He wonders just how many cuts are on Joel’s fingers from kitchen duty. How healed the scabs on his knuckles are.

By the time they make it back to the compound, returning by following along the inside of the high fence, it’s very nearly lunch. There’s a bustle of people congregating near the dining hall, some still geared up from their patrols, while others look more comfortable and at home. It makes Grian instinctively tighten his grip on his shoulder, afraid that any one of them might be able to sense the infection leaking out from within him, his deception moments away from being revealed.

As if sensing his fear, Scar sticks close to his side as they skirt around the crowd, heedless of the danger Grian presents to him. Leaving Grian feeling both grateful for him and deeply ashamed.

“What fresh hell is this?” Joel murmurs, surveying the crowd with a look of weary disdain.

As if on cue, Bdubs bursts out from amongst the assembly.

“Joel, thank mercy you’re here. It’s a disaster,” his voice is high and he looks harried, an apron tied tight around his waist and a hairnet pulled on over his head. “I know you said the kitchen was all pretty self explanatory, but let me tell you, it is not.”

“For goodness’ sake,” Joel groans, slinging his crossbow back over his shoulder as he plants an impatient hand on his hip. “I told you I wouldn’t be back until after the lunch rush, Bdubs. You said you could handle this on your own.”

“And yet you’re back early, like providence,” Bdubs enthuses. “C’mon now, the kitchen needs a hero and the good, hungry people are waiting!”

Wearily, Joel casts his gaze back to Scar and Grian, sparing them a look that at least seems apologetic.

“You two can make it to first aid, right?” He asks, like they’re being tasked to deal with a splinter. “They’ll get you sorted out, right as rain.”

“We will, Joel. Thank you,” Scar says, sweeping an arm around Grian to turn him away from the crowd in an almost too obvious motion to shield him, while at the same time he winks, his smile charming as he adds, “Save me a spot at the lunch table.”

“There’s no lunch left to save,” Bdubs bemoans, dramatic in a way that has Joel tutting in fond exasperation as he moves with him towards the dining hall.

The two of them stand still for a moment, waiting until Joel and Bdubs have disappeared into the crowd before Scar begins hustling Grian—not towards the first aid cabin, but towards their own.

“We should’ve taken the arrow from Joel,” Grian confesses the second they’re alone, feet moving quickly to keep up with Scar’s longer strides. “It touched his hand, Scar.”

Scar stays silent, ushering Grian into their cabin before he shuts the door behind them. The lock is loud as he slides it into place, and Scar’s jacket isn’t even off before he’s moving to retrieve their first aid kit, carrying it to the sofa while Grian pauses only long enough to drag his feet out of his boots.

“He’s got cuts on his hand from working in the kitchen,” Grian continues, knowing he’s babbling, sitting gingerly on the edge of the couch while his leg bounces restlessly. “What if they’re not healed? What if he cleans the arrow and my blood mixes in and I end up infecting him? What if—”

“Grian,” Scar interrupts, his voice both firm and grounding. It makes Grian startle back into the moment, realising that Scar’s been patiently unpacking the first aid kit onto the coffee table in front of them while all he did was worry and panic. “Joel will be fine.”

Grian doesn’t answer, refusing to find comfort in an assurance that Scar can’t possibly be certain of. Instead, he watches as Scar reaches out towards him, ready to pull the collar of his shirt away from his injury.

“Don’t,” he hisses, instinctively pulling back. “I don’t want you to get—”

“Grian,” Scar repeats, saying his name again, softer this time but just as insistent. “Let me see where I shot you. Please.”

Without the protection of worrying about Joel, the reality of their situation crowds back in, close and overwhelming. A lump of emotion lodges in Grian’s throat, impossible to swallow down as he’s thrown back into the state he was in the moment lucidity came back to greet him. He’d completely lost himself in the forest and Scar was right there. It could’ve been him Grian was chasing. It could’ve been him he was so desperate to tear into. To devour.

“Can you…” he starts, his voice hoarse. “Will you at least wear gloves?”

A complicated expression passes over Scar’s face, one that Grian doesn’t know what to make of. All the same, he reaches for the first aid kit without argument, picking out one of the individually wrapped packets that contains a pair of nitrile gloves and obediently slipping them on over his hands, the membrane spread thin across the widest part of his palms.

“I don’t think you’re dangerous,” he offers unprompted, his tone level and quiet, not making eye contact with Grian as he says it.

I do, Grian thinks, the feeling so strong it clearly reads on his face, if Scar’s frown is anything to go by. It forces them both to sit in silence for a moment, neither of them comfortable.

“Alright,” Scar starts at last, his concern edging over his patience. “Let me see what I did.”

Awkwardly, Grian begins shrugging his arms out of his jacket, before realising that it will be easier to simply take his shirt off rather than have Scar struggle with the collar of it. There’s no use keeping it on anyway—he can tell that his blood has stained through the material and it will need to be washed. The bright red seeping into a darker, more saturated carmine the nearer it gets to his wound.

It looks so much like any normal person’s blood that even Grian finds it hard to take the knowledge of the infection lurking within it seriously.

He manages to get his jacket and then his shirt off with only a mild hiss of pain. The removal leaves his torso bare, blood smudged unappealingly across his chest and down his arm, into his armpit. He’s no longer actively bleeding, but he can tell his injury is still tacky and raw as his diseased body attempts to repair him from the inside.

The place where the arrow pierced him is an angry jagged wound. A deep gash scraped directly to the side of the bite mark that’s already been scarred in such an ugly way into his shoulder.

“Grian—” Scar starts, sounding vulnerable, but Grian cuts him off immediately, shaking his head. Sharp.

“That was quick thinking,” he interrupts, refusing to let Scar wallow any longer. “You were smart to shoot me out of my stupor.”

There are anti-bacterial wipes in the kit, and Scar uses one to start cleaning the edge of the wound. As he does so he inches nearer on the couch, until Grian can feel their legs touch. A part of him can’t help but see the irony of it, Scar tending to him like he’s something fragile while he himself is nothing but a contaminated threat.

“How bad was it?” Scar asks, and it’s clear he’s asking about Grian’s hunger. About the fugue state he’d slipped into as he chased Joel through the woods. Against his shoulder, Scar’s touch is gentle, and he moves carefully as he cleans the area around the gash his arrow left, the edges already clotted enough that a part of Grian wants to dismiss Scar’s attention entirely. He can rinse it himself, surely. He’ll be fine.

“It wasn’t that bad,” he lies, knowing they both hear it. “I think we all overreacted.”

He knows that the one thing he should offer Scar right now is honesty. That Scar can’t help him unless he knows the truth of his situation—how far gone he’d been, and how Scar’s arrow was the only thing that could possibly have shocked him back into himself.

At the same time, he can’t make himself say the words. Can’t admit that he wasn’t himself. That he was overwhelmed. That he would’ve attacked Scar just as readily as he almost attacked Joel.

That he’s starving.

It’s immediately obvious that Scar doesn’t buy Grian’s dismissal, the brief pause in the motion of his hands loaded. However, he merely nods, accepting Grian’s answer without argument.

They sit quietly after that, Scar continuing to slowly, methodically, clean him with a focused attention to detail. Though it’s deeper than he originally thought, Grian can tell that the puncture is practically healed. Another sour benefit of his infection, hampered only by the fact that it will most certainly scar.

“I thought…” The confession begins to escape Grian before he can stop it. Prompted by their proximity, maybe. By how close Scar is. How focused. How caring. “I thought you brought me along to hunt. I… I misunderstood.”

He wants to look away. Wants to bury himself in his shame. Except that then Scar’s green eyes meet his, deep and uncharacteristically somber as he answers, quietly, “I did.”

It’s as if the floor has dropped out from under him. Grian staring at Scar as Scar struggles around an uncertain, hesitant breath.

“I thought… if we were going to be out there, in the chaos of multiple patrols…” he explains, no longer able to meet Grian’s eyes. “Maybe there’d be a chance you could… you know…”

Grian does know. Sometimes he thinks his hunger is now all he knows.

“But then, the groups were spread out more widely than I expected, and the person closest to us was Joel… I kept thinking about how well the two of you have been getting along. How much Joel is the kind of person I know you’d like to be friends with… And then I thought about how much he means to the people here…” Scar is rambling as his voice trails off, fading into an unknown that they both don’t dare look into.

It’s clear that Scar has convinced himself he let Grian down, but all Grian can feel is relief—bone deep, impressed into his atoms—that he hadn’t misunderstood his intentions. That, however far things had gotten off track, a hunt had been his initial aim.

Once more they slip into silence while Scar moves on to dressing the injury. It won’t need any stitches, but the cut is too long to simply hide under a plaster, so Grian waits while Scar carefully sizes gauze onto the wound, pressing around it to ensure blood won’t soak through before securing it in place with a roll of adhesive. It’s overkill, but a part of Grian likes the tenderness of Scar’s attention, soaking it up gladly.

He expects Scar to sit back and put some space between them once he’s done, however with the first aid kit pushed aside, he doesn’t move away in the slightest. His hands linger instead, fingers trailing down from Grian’s shoulder to his chest, careful and delicate. It takes everything Grian has to resist the urge to shiver, his face heating a little, regardless.

He scolds the part of himself that craves physical reassurance. That wants Scar to kiss it better. Forced once again to remind himself that he’s moved past that, and he’s not going to push where it’s not wanted.

When he finally drags his eyes back up to look at Scar, it’s clear that his partner is mulling something over, his brows furrowed in quiet contemplation.

There’s a look on his face, like he’s working up the nerve to say something, and Grian wonders if it’s going to be about whatever happened to temper his anger.

Or maybe he’s about to say that he can’t stand by while Grian hunts people to eat.

Whatever the case, Grian can only wait quietly for him to speak.

“We should leave soon.”

The words twist horribly inside of Grian, complicated in the highs and lows they bring about, twisting his emotions tight within him. He wants to leave, he does. He knows he can’t stay here; that he’s a danger to these people, and these people are a danger to him. In tandem, it’s a relief to hear that Scar wants to leave with him. The reassurance assuaging his earlier concerns about Scar sending him off on his own.

Still, a part of him hates the idea of leaving. Of pulling Scar away from these people. Of severing the bonds he’s begun to make. The friendships Grian has only just barely begun to enjoy.

But maybe that’s not what Scar is talking about at all. Maybe, as he’s been prone to do, Grian is simply skipping a dozen steps ahead, projecting himself into a future that Scar doesn’t see himself a part of.

Forcing himself not to assume, Grian simply nods agreeably. “Time to check in on the chaos that will be lunch…”

“No, G,” Scar corrects, shaking his head. “I mean that we should leave the camp. For good.”

Grian’s throat feels tight, crushed beneath the confirmation that they’d been thinking of the same future. It feels like he’s soaring and crashing all at once. The scenario impossible to contend with, knowing that as long as he’s in Scar’s life— that as long as he is the way that he is— neither he nor Scar will ever be able to find community ever again.

“You may be alright for now, but we both know this isn’t going to last,” Scar adds. Non-accusing, simply factual.

Grian knows he should offer a compromise. He should tell Scar that he doesn’t have to leave if he doesn’t want to. That they can find another way, with Grian sneaking his meals elsewhere and returning once his hunger has been satiated into silence and he’s safe to be around once more.

But the words don’t come, the two of them forced to let the reality of Scar’s statement linger between them.

“We’ll figure something out,” he manages at last, noncommittal, and Scar doesn’t reply, simply moving to piece the first aid kit back together and return it from where he got it.

Absently, Grian puts his hand to his shoulder, squeezing just to feel the ache blooming beneath the spread of his palm. He lets his thoughts wander, going through their increasingly limited options and the ticking down of what little time they have left in the camp.

He can’t help but wonder, quietly, how much longer he can hang on before he slips past the point of no return.

 

Notes:

The closer and closer we get to the end, the more zipped lip I get for fear of giving anything away 🤐

THAT SAID... I'm very, VERY excited for next week's chapter. >:) I hope you guys will feel the same way, hehehe 💜

Chapter 40

Notes:

Jumping into this chapter with these cute little emojis that galaxy-lilies made for the TAMN server! We've been getting a lot of use out of them fr fr 🧟

Right after that, we have a nostalgic throwback to Arc 1 as WELL as a second piece capturing the soft, cabin vibes from Chapter 32/33 by deputy-jude! 👽❄️

Next up, we've recieved this absolutely gorgeous composition of Scar and Grian arriving at the mountain cabin in Chapter 32 by mari-876! ⛰️

And finally, wingsofeternalflame has shared with us our very first TAMN!Grian cosplay! So exciting! :D 🎭

Please take a moment to check out everyone's fantastic contributions to the growing collection of TAMN related works if you haven't already! We promise, they're all SO worth the engagement ;w; 💜

All that said, we're VERY excited to share this chapter! Can't wait to hear your responses on it! 💫

 

It’s a struggle for Scar to wake up.

Reluctant to greet a fresh day. Uncertain of what it will bring.

He’s tired. Exhausted from the previous day, forcing himself to smile and entertain conversations over lunch and well into the evening. Preoccupied, the guilty knowledge of Grian’s hunger eclipsing every other thought on his mind.

He never used to get this tired from socializing. Never felt it weigh so heavy on him that he longed to find an empty room and shut the door. To be left on his own.

To simply leave.

Reluctantly, he pulls himself out of the thready morass of unconsciousness, his mind sluggish and his joints aching. The warm, grounding weight of Grian lays across him, his smaller body wedged between Scar’s side and the back of the sofa, draped heavy across his chest as he breathes in and out, deep and even.

Scar hadn’t planned to fall asleep like this, and a part of him aches at how unfamiliar it feels.

This used to be their normal, sleeping side by side. This used to be something he’d look forward to every night, eagerly anticipating crawling into bed to lay beside Grian. Instead, they’ve found themselves here entirely unplanned, prompted only by exhaustion. After their long evening of keeping up appearances, they’d returned to their cabin and Scar had insisted on checking Grian’s injuries before he’d let him turn in. While doing so, Grian had nodded off, his head tipping forward to rest against Scar’s chest.

Scar hadn’t been able to move then, pinned in place like there was a cat on his lap. Instead, he’d simply lain back and let his own eyes shut, waiting for sleep to find him.

It hadn’t. Not immediately. Not when the events of the day kept repeating in his head—Grian’s hunger, the failed hunt, Scar’s disappointment in being unable to give his partner what he truly needed.

A part of him, fragile and self-sacrificial, had lain there hoping that maybe, just maybe, Grian would let his hunger take over while they both slept. That maybe in his complete surrender, he could finally do something to help Grian, rather than continuing to carry around old pains he can’t seem to put to rest no matter how hard he tries.

It would’ve been easier that way, he’d thought. No more spiraling through pain and frustrated emotions. Grian could consume him in body, mirroring the way he already consumed every single one of Scar’s waking thoughts.

Poetic.

“I wish you’d eaten me,” he whispers, the words spoken thoughtlessly into the morning air, the sound of them barely louder than a breath.

He watches his own chest rise and fall as he breathes, Grian’s body moving along with it. Grian has his shirt off, tossed to the side when Scar had been looking him over, and even from his awkward, immobilised angle, Scar can see the pattern of scabs and lines criss-crossed over his back and shoulders. Too many are clearly the result of recent violence. Conflicts Scar will never know anything about, because Grian doesn’t remember enough about them to tell.

He thinks about his own scars and the differences between the marks on their skin. His, born from an accident and the strange, morbid luck that ultimately gave his life purpose, while Grian’s have been scoured into him while he struggled desperately to stay alive and not completely lose himself.

It’s only when Scar shifts his hand, wanting to brush his fingers back through Grian’s hair, that he realises Grian is already awake. His dark eyes look up at Scar through his tousled bangs, his gaze nearly completely overshadowed.

Scar freezes, their eyes locked in silence.

“Did I wake you?” he asks at last, his voice rumbling low in his throat, rough from sleep.

Wordlessly, Grian shakes his head.

“… have you been awake long?”

A hand lifts—Grian’s slim palm, slender compared to his own—and a single finger presses against Scar’s lips, shushing him. Then, without a word, Grian moves closer, resting his head more centrally on Scar’s chest where he presses his ear to Scar’s sternum, listening, silent, to the beat of his heart.

A shiver runs down Scar’s spine.

It’s an eerie feeling, one that doesn’t feel entirely tangible, like maybe Scar is still stranded somewhere along the edge of a dream. Grian feels too solid under his fingertips, however. The walls of the cabin too crisp. Deep down, Scar knows he’s awake. Knows he’d never be able to dream something this hauntingly calm.

For several minutes they lay together in complete quiet, Grian content to simply absorb him. Then, finally, a sound outside interrupts them; the loud clanging of the wrought-iron triangle hanging just beyond the door of the dining hall, signalling to everyone that breakfast is ready and available.

Like a veil has been lifted, Grian inhales sharply— like he’s only just truly coming to life. He sits up as he manages a half cough, groggily rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his palm.

Unintentionally, his actions send a chill through Scar, so different from the quiet figure who’d laid still and listened to his heart mere moments before.

A part of him, small and uncertain, wonders which side of Grian that was. The human part, or the hunger.

“Can’t believe we slept in so late,” Grian mumbles, weariness in his voice, still cloudy with sleep.

“Did we?” Scar asks. Slowly, he leverages himself up, watching carefully as Grian shifts his weight over and gets to his feet, nothing about him reminiscent of the silent creature that had pressed against his chest.

“I think so,” Grian responds with a shrug, cryptic in a way Scar knows isn’t intentional. “Didn’t you just wake up?”

“Yeah,” Scar lies.

He wonders, maybe, if he’d been half asleep himself. Imagining things. Maybe the cabin had looked real because he’d dreamt it looked real. And maybe, he thinks, guilty, he’d only wanted Grian to rend into him due to the muddy, overly simplistic thoughts of his subconscious.

“Mmm,” Grian agrees, clearly not thinking about it too hard. “Same for me, I guess.”

It’s raining when they exit their cabin after getting dressed and ready for the day. A low fog encompasses the area, obscuring the tops of the towering douglas firs and turning them into dim spectres that loom over the compound, their limbs hanging heavy as raindrops bead on the ends of each bough. For a moment, Scar debates heading back in for something more waterproof, before deciding it’s a light enough drizzle that it shouldn’t matter once he’s inside anyhow.

The cold has a way of seeping into old injuries though, and while Scar is used to the familiar ache of the many marks lining his skin and scored into his joints, he can’t avoid the way Grian moves in his periphery. His partner winces in discomfort, rolling his shoulder in a way that makes Scar’s heart pang. Even if it had been necessary at the time, it’s hard to contend with the guilt of having shot him, and he doubts whether the memory of the action will ever properly scab over.

He wishes that he could ask if Grian is okay, but by the time he works up the nerve they’re already pushing through the doors of the dining hall, and the moment is lost in the mist behind them.

Inside, the din and bustle of the crowd greets Scar with a fervour, increased by an extra buzz of excitement as it immediately becomes clear that Ren has made yet another appearance. He sits slightly off to the side at a table of his own, a sizeable crowd gathered around him—smaller than the previous day, but attentive and serious nonetheless. Most of the other survivors are still in the middle of their meals; many of them faces that Scar is getting good at recognizing, and can confidently put a name to.

Sitting at Ren’s table, Cleo waves at Scar when he meets their eye, but doesn’t budge from her place, attention quickly returning to whatever Ren is saying. Etho and Joel are much the same, their expressions stern as they remain focused, nodding along to Ren’s words, their conversation unintelligible over the general chatter of the room. Only Bdubs and Big B push their chairs back and move away from the group, calling out with wide grins as they gesture to an empty table nearby.

“Good morning, fellas,” Bdubs beams, all smiles as he takes a seat.

“Morning,” Grian replies, polite in a way that’s unlike his usual self.

Beside Bdubs, Big B settles in, motioning with his hands as he invites them to sit. “I know you’re both probably eager to grab a bite, so I promise I won’t keep you for long,” he explains. “But I’d love to get a word with you before you start your day, if I may.”

Despite having already spoken to Big B one on one, Scar feels a dread at being invited in for a conversation that he can’t explain, instilling him with an emotion he doesn’t know the name of. Even now, he’d rather not interact more with him than he has to, and he finds himself forcing the unkind reaction down, no matter how his mind insists on its justifications.

“Sure,” he hears himself say, disconnected from himself. “Who doesn’t love a surprise first thing in the morning?”

Without offering any reassurance, Big B exchanges a look with Bdubs before Bdubs nods and places a large sheet of paper face down on the table with aplomb, sliding it towards Grian. Dubious, Grian eyes it over, turning his head to meet Scar’s gaze with a raised brow.

It would be rude to get up and leave, as much as Scar may want to, so he finds himself nudging Grian along instead, encouraging him so that Grian has no choice but to turn the paper over.

Scar doesn’t know what he’s expecting. Something incriminating, maybe. An inescapable truth. More evidence of Grian’s past with the man sitting in front of him that will tear Scar’s heart out and undo the careful way he’s tried to box things up into parts he can handle.

Instead, lifted up carefully in Grian’s hands, the paper reveals an image that makes Scar gasp out loud.

It’s them.

It’s him and it’s Grian, side by side, drawn in pencil and smudged graphite. The portrait is like a candid photograph— an image of them smiling and talking to one another as they sit side by side in the dining hall.

“Oh my gosh.”

Reverently, Scar reaches a hand out towards the image, careful not to touch the lines. The paper itself is a heavy cardstock, gritty beneath his fingertips. Something about the heft of it—the fact that it’s a quality of material that no one is going to be producing anymore—makes a swell of emotion bubble up in his chest.

His eyes remain fixed on the image, pouring over every detail. The creases in the corner of his eyes, the early greys in his hair, the softness of Grian’s jawline; every part of it drawn in painstaking detail. It’s beautiful in a way that tugs at that corner of Scar’s heart that’s felt so off-kilter lately. There’s a mesmerising quality to it, seeing himself as he looks now—older, tired, unshaven scruff on his face and smiling despite it…

It makes Scar’s throat feel thick, swallowing around the sentiment.

The image of himself next to a changed Grian—altered in ways the artist couldn’t even begin to imagine—sticks in his brain. The way Grian’s undercut has grown out from beneath, the new scars barely visible along his hands and the places where his sleeves are rolled up, and the brightness in his eyes—all of it is on the page, captured perfectly and with meticulous talent.

“Did you draw this?” Grian asks in awe, looking in Big B’s direction.

“Me? Oh, absolutely not,” Big B laughs, tilting his head to the side instead. “I can’t draw for the life of me. I called in a favour from Bdubs, here.”

“You’re welcome,” Bdubs says, haughty in a way that’s clearly meant as a joke.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about your camera,” Big B explains, his voice careful as he broaches the subject while his gaze settles on Scar. “I know it’s hard to keep things these days. To hang on to them. And I… I don’t know—”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Scar feels compelled to remind him. A peace offering. The little he can give when it’s clear the other man is trying so hard to set things right.

He can feel Grian’s attention shifting, and realises too late that he never told Grian what had happened—about his conversation with Big B or what he’d said about the camera.

“Cheap plastic from a tourist trap,” he explains. “It was bound to break sooner or later.”

“We know someone,” Big B offers impulsively, like he’s been waiting for a chance to say it.

“Know of someone,” Bdubs interjects.

“Ren and I met him once,” Big B continues. “One of those prepper types. He lives a few hours away in a—a bunker or a vault or something. He’s not— I mean, he’s a bit paranoid, I guess you could say. But he was pretty invested in documenting the ‘Reorienting Period,’ as he called it. Had a lot of cameras and video equipment and stuff.”

“A tall, twiggy, moustached man taking pictures in the apocalypse that only they saw,” Bdubs interrupts, speaking with his hand shielding the side of his mouth from Big B as he makes a show of rolling his eyes. “We’re all pretty sure the two of them were loopy from lack of sleep and hallucinated the whole encounter.”

Big B shrugs, a careful gesture. “I don’t know how long you’re staying, but he might be able to salvage at least a few of those photos off of your camera, if you manage to head out his way.”

“And in the meantime you got this beauty!” Bdubs declares, dragging the attention back to himself as he taps a finger against the corner of the drawing. “Sketched from across the room and finished up from memory, I might add. ‘Cause goodness knows you two forgot all about spending time with ol’ Bdubs the moment you settled in.”

His tone makes it clear he’s not confessing any actual hurt, dramatic simply for the sake of the attention he knows it’ll get him.

“Now don’t be precious with it,” he continues, reaching out and dragging his fingertip over one of the lines, Scar’s body tensing at the motion before he notices that it hasn’t smudged. “Hair sprayed it up for you—thanks to Cleo for sharing. Those lines won’t budge.”

“Thank you,” Scar says, knowing the words don’t convey enough. “This is so incredibly thoughtful… gosh. I— I love it, Bdubs.”

“We both do,” Grian adds, and from the tightness in his voice, Scar knows he’s experiencing his own wash of emotions. “It’s beautiful.”

“Well, it’s the season of giving,” Bdubs offers, suddenly bashful under the weight of Scar’s gratitude. “Happy solstice, right?”

It’s a detail Scar remembers—the day of the year with the least sunlight, marking the earth’s furthest tilt on its axis before it begins its slow return. Cub had explained it to him on more than one occasion, holding up oranges and tennis balls and coffee mugs while he outlined the science of it over and over again. Scar had feigned ignorance every time, enjoying the chance to rile him up.

He’s about to thank them both again, and to ask what he could possibly do to return the gesture, when across the hall Ren gets to his feet. Like a spring, Big B immediately sits up, placing his hands on the table as his attention shifts.

“I’m gonna have to go,” he explains abruptly, the apology clear in his tone. “Ren’s got a lot on his plate today.”

Before any questions can be asked, Big B has already taken his leave, threading between tables and chairs to return to Ren’s side, Ren greeting him with something akin to relief as he immediately leans in close to speak into Big B’s ear. Wordlessly, Bdubs watches the two of them, one elbow resting on the table, craning his neck.

“Lotta zombies testing the perimeter today,” he explains when his attention returns to Grian and Scar, his voice lowered into something that feels confidential. “Ren’s gonna have all hands on deck until the influx passes. Too many gaps in the fence to not take it seriously. We can’t afford any more losses.”

The phrasing catches Scar’s attention, but as Ren and Big B make their exit and Etho begins to head over in their direction, the moment for asking about it is lost. Instead, Etho’s smooth strides carry him across the room in short order, and when he’s close enough, he puts a familiar hand on his husband’s upper arm, his palm quickly sliding down to settle between his shoulder blades in a manner that reads as both intimately comfortable and familiar.

“Am I interrupting?” he asks, his voice soft.

Bdubs shakes his head, grinning wide as he beams up at him, leaning back easily into Etho’s touch. “Nah, you ain’t,” he all but coos. “Take a seat. Plenty of room for you, baby.”

Eyes pinching at the corners from his smile, Etho readily takes a seat next to Bdubs. The shorter man instinctually leaning in, turning just slightly to press a quick kiss to the side of Etho’s face against the edge of his mask. The gesture comes off effortlessly second nature, and it makes Scar’s heart feel warm to see it. Despite the difficulties he knows the two are having as they navigate the new facets of their relationship, it’s clear that they care deeply for one another.

“Busy morning,” Etho mumbles to the table, clearly trying to make conversation.

“Sure is,” Scar replies easily, taking the prompt offered. “How’s Ren holding up?”

“Good as can be, but I don’t envy him.”

There’s an enigmatic placement to Etho’s words, offering no judgement in either direction.

“It’s hard to set up a place like this in the middle of the apocalypse,” Bdubs stresses, like he’s retreading familiar ground. “Woulda been hard before things went to shit, mind you. Ren’s keeping track of it all. Keepin’ us safe…”

“We’re lucky to have so many people who believe in his vision. But believing in something isn’t nearly enough to make it happen,” Etho continues, half explaining, half commiserating. “And most of us were pretty used to living comfortable lives before all this. Present company included.”

“This is why I was always tellin’ you to get out more,” Bdubs says with a melodramatic sigh, performatively rolling his eyes, “Imagine if you’d learned to ride horseback when I was taking those classes. You’d be set right now!”

“This place has horses?” Scar asks, intrigued.

“Well, no,” Bdubs answers bluntly. “Goodness. You think if we had horses I’d be sitting here talking to you?”

“Cars won’t last all that much longer though,” Etho offers, interjecting between Bdubs’ words. “Unless we start making and refining our own oil, it’s only a matter of time before most vehicles become obsolete.”

“You don’t think they’ll have all this figured all this out by then?” Grian asks, the question more optimistic than Scar is used to hearing from him. “Y’know, discovered a cure and all that?”

Etho and Bdubs exchange loaded glances, something about it reminding Scar of how he and Grian had reacted to the trio whenever they’d shared their hopes for the future. At the time, their naivete had been surprising and felt a little misplaced.

It’s odd, now, being on the other side of that equation.

“I mean, that’s the best case scenario,” Bdubs allows, clearly choosing his words carefully. “But only a fool packs for a sunny day when it’s already raining.”

Beside him, Etho nods. Several strands of white hair slide over his eyes with the action, and on instinct Bdubs moves a hand to brush them away from Etho’s face.

“Having plenty of contingencies is what we’re aiming for here. Ren wants to make a safe haven. A place where average, honest people with similar mindsets can put in the work, combine their skills, and try and salvage the future.”

It’s a novel concept—creating a stable place to exist, rather than continuing to desperately try and survive one day at a time.

It has Scar humming, impressed. “You’re the first person I’ve heard put it like that.”

Dismissively, Bdubs waves the comment off. “Well we all talk about it like that. If you haven’t heard it yet, it’s probably ‘cause Big B didn’t want to scare you two off by putting our whole happy commune recruitment speech on you. He seemed pretty certain you’d both be gone within a day or two. But look at you now! Nearly a week and you’re settling in just fine!”

It feels jarring to hear their time laid out so plainly, a spotlight shone directly onto it. It puts into perspective Grian’s recent loss of control, mindlessly hunting Joel through the woods.

Scar’s heart lurches.

Grian’s gone so long without a proper meal and he hasn’t complained even once.

He must be starving.

“Anyway,” Bdubs continues, barreling on, heedless to Scar’s internal conflict. “It’s a sin to brag, but Etho and I got a hall pass to go out and check the caches today. You two got any interest in tagging along?”

“‘The Caches’?” Grian echoes.

“You’re gonna love it,” Bdubs enthuses, grinning excitedly as he sits forward in his seat. “We’re revitalising shopping in our post-capitalist society.”

“It’s nothing fancy,” Etho offers, wincing with a laugh as Bdubs gasps and jabs into his ribs with an elbow. “We set up some lock-boxes along the main roads in the area. Convenient for other survivors passing through to take what they need.”

“Well don’t take all the wind out of my sails, for pity’s sake!” Bdubs exclaims, making a face of exaggerated frustration before he explains, “Folks can leave things too! It’s a mutually beneficial system of my own invention.”

“It’s take-a-penny leave-a-penny,” Etho insists.

“We’ll come,” Scar agrees, defusing their banter before it has a chance to get too serious.

“Of course you will,” Bdubs agrees, pushing his chair back. The legs scrape against the floor as he gets to his feet, loud and unapologetic. “Eat your breakfast quick, then! And get your coats and whatever you’re shooting things with these days and meet us by the main gate, but don’t dawdle.”

It takes them the better part of an hour to fully mobilise and prepare, eating a breakfast Grian doesn’t partake in before packing up and provisioning for whatever the day might have in store. Together, they walk to meet Etho and Bdubs at the main gate, the now familiar pickup truck at the ready as Bdubs works together with Cleo to load several cardboard boxes onto the flatbed of the trunk.

“Ah, the cavalry’s here,” Bdubs crows when he sees them, immediately hoisting a box into Grian’s arms as he steps back and dusts his hands off.

“What’s in these?” Grian asks, groaning under the weight of a box, its contents clanking with what sound like glass jars.

“Oh, you name it. We got nonperishables, we got first aid, we got quality of life—”

“The puzzles we don’t like,” Etho adds.

“And some good stuff!” Bdubs insists.

“Are you coming with?” Scar asks as he picks up one of the boxes, catching Cleo’s eye.

“Not me, no,” they say, shaking her head with a smile before moving towards Bdubs. “Just came to see him off.” She punctuates her words by bending down and pressing a quick kiss to Bdubs cheek. It’s a brief gesture, one that would be easy to miss, if not for the way Etho goes completely still where he stands near the driver’s side door.

To her credit, Cleo seems unbothered by the reaction, only hesitating for a moment before she puts out her hand, waiting until Etho gingerly returns the gesture before shaking it.

“Have a nice drive,” she offers, the words encompassing something Scar knows he isn’t a part of.

“Oh, tell ‘im to have me home by eight all big and serious, I’ll like that,” Bdubs says, chipper as he hefts the last of the boxes into place, oblivious to whatever Cleo and Etho are attempting to navigate between them.

“Stay safe, darling,” Cleo offers instead, Bdubs snorting dismissively as he moves towards the passenger side door.

“You know I’ll be safe,” he drawls back, climbing in without a care. “I’m with Etho, aren’t I?”

“You two alright sitting in the back?” Etho asks, words quiet beneath Bdubs’ confidence.

Grian nods as he helps himself in. “We’re used to it.”

They leave the compound with Cleo waving from inside the gate, the drive slower and far more relaxed with Etho behind the wheel. The experience is entirely different from the first time Scar had ridden in the back of the truck. Bdubs, more than anyone, appears transformed—completely at ease this time with Etho at his side. The moment they’re through the gates he opens the small window at the back of the truck’s cab, keeping Grian and Scar involved in his conversation as he chatters almost non-stop.

It’s clear to Scar how enamoured he is. How much simply being with Etho makes him happy. Every story and anecdote comes paired with his reflection on Etho’s thoughts and opinions on it, rarely refuted by Etho himself, who merely nods along in silence.

It’s a pleasant enough trip, the rain having tapered off into a heavy overcast. It leaves them in a fog that lingers close to the ground, making it impossible to see very far, though Scar supposes that’s a comfort. His world is shrunk into the truck. The flatbed. Grian sitting across from him with his knees pulled up to his chest, and Bdubs’ voice cheerful over his shoulder. Everything within easy reach. No surprises.

The first cache they approach is in a parking lot, the building it once served having burned down to its foundation in whatever chaos had gripped the area during the initial onslaught of the infection. Through the fog it’s impossible to tell how built up the area around them is—if they’re in the outskirts of a metropolis, or the heart of a small town. It’s quiet, though. Entirely still in a way that reminds Scar of a tomb.

Signs have been left to draw attention to the cache, spray painted in the same cursive Scar remembers from the side of the highway back near the falls. It’s hard for him to read the writing, the loops of the letters shifting in front of his eyes, but he understands their intent well enough: take what you need, leave what you can—alongside a standing invitation to the compound, promising safety and non-hostility.

The cache itself is an unplugged chest freezer, protected against both animals and the elements. There are also a couple of shelves raised up on cinder blocks beside it, with a rough plywood awning erected as a shelter. Etho parks close to it, and Bdubs hops out with excitement in his steps, unhooking the latch that keeps the freezer shut and lifting its lid.

“Nobody left us anything,” he bemoans, deflated as he leaves it propped open with the broken end of a hockey stick.

“You win some you lose some,” Etho replies mildly, moving around the truck in order to slide one of the cardboard boxes to the edge of the pickup’s flatbed.

“In spring time we’re gonna start getting honey out of the bee boxes,” Bdubs continues, explaining his vision to Scar over his shoulder. “Imagine opening one of these puppies and finding a stash of free honey!”

“Joel thinks the honey’s a fool’s errand. Doesn’t think anyone will want it,” Etho remarks, lifting the box into his arms and carrying it towards the freezer.

“Well Joel better watch his sweet mouth with talk like that,” Bdubs sniffs, haughty as he begins emptying the box of its contents—an abundance of winter hats, scarves, and a few serviceable jackets—into the cache. Once he’s done he shuts the lid and raises a handmade flag: red with a white sawtooth pattern running down one side, catching on Grian’s memory from when they first spoke to Ren. Similar to the banner he’d had spread across his chair.

“I’m a honey visionary,” Bdubs concludes as he moves back to the pickup. “He’ll see.”

They return to the truck and continue driving, and through the mist Scar begins to understand that they’re skirting the edge of a moderately sized town. They see no zombies, but the remnants of their violence remains everywhere, the clear signs of attempted fortification and self-preservation fallen to ruin.

Etho is careful what roads he takes, avoiding driving too deep into whatever remains of the town’s centre as they head towards the next cache. This one, too, provides nothing of note, much to Bdubs’ disappointment. The third, however, is greeted with a loud shout of excitement, Bdubs clapping his hands together as he lets the lid of the storage box fall open with a bang.

“Someone left stuff!” he shouts, turning gleefully towards Etho. “I told you! I told you! Bdubs’ Cache Emporium is a smash hit, baby!”

The way Etho’s eyes squint is an obvious indicator of a smile, laughing softly at Bdubs’ enthusiasm. From inside the cache, the shorter man retrieves what looks to be a pack of baby wipes, several tupperware containers, a pair of sneakers, and a set of playing cards, looking them over closely. The cards and the baby wipes Bdubs eventually leaves, but the sneakers he takes, holding them against the soles of his own feet and declaring them a perfect match.

His good mood carries over to the next cache, and the one after that, each stop offering them new gifts—things left behind by strangers that he happily picks through before leaving items of his own. A box of cereal here and a pocket knife there, inconsequential on their own, but integral in a way that Bdubs insists speaks to the good of humanity. People willingly sharing what they have for no reason other than to provide for a stranger.

While Scar agrees with Bdubs’ sentiments, he finds that as the day winds on, the altruism of others is not what he ends up focused on. Maybe it’s because of his continued tensions with Grian, or maybe it’s because Bdubs and Etho are the first visibly imperfect relationship he’s come across since his own exploded in his face, but… despite himself, Scar can’t help but read into every interaction between the two.

It’s obvious that the years they’ve been together have fostered an almost intimidatingly strong connection between them. They each move with an innate understanding of the other, Etho making ample space for every one of Bdubs’ large, dramatic gestures, while Bdubs effortlessly fills all of the gaps that Etho leaves for him to inhabit. Bdubs has a natural talent for bringing Etho into every conversation. For a man that waxes unabashedly about his own ideas, he’s remarkably in tune with making sure that Etho is never overshadowed, offering a near constant stream of praise for his partner that comes across as effortless.

In so many ways, they’re entirely opposites, however Scar can see that they’ve made it work for them. Every interaction between them is indicative of two people immensely comfortable in each other’s spaces. Inseparably entrenched in one another’s lives.

Something about it soothes him more than it aggravates him. He can see the potential for jealousy—the bitter resentment of wanting what they have—but when Bdubs speaks fondly of his past with Etho, all Scar can think of is his future.

How even now, after everything, he pictures Grian there in it.

He knows now that the idea of simply leaving their past behind them would have never really worked. That sooner or later their ugly breakup was bound to bubble up and rise. He can see that it was ridiculous of him to simply try and press on. A part of him had just been so tired of hurting that when Grian had returned he’d jumped at the chance to brush it all aside. Anything for the chance of a happy ending, however unearned it would have been.

He sees now that there will be no joy, no relief—for either of them—without resolving the things they’ve been pulling along from their past for far too long.

At the end of the day he wants Grian in his life— can’t imagine living without him. But he knows that’s going to take work.

However, if people like Etho and Bdubs, secure in their love for decades, can suddenly reorganise their lives and redefine what it means to love one another—remaining committed to each other just as strongly regardless—then maybe there’s hope for him and Grian yet.

“What about these?” Bdubs asks, lifting up a pair of bright, almost painfully green slip-on house shoes for Etho to see. “Y’think they’re Joel’s size? This is his colour, right?”

It’s a consideration that would almost pass without remark except for Etho’s reaction, a blush pushing its way up above the edge of his mask.

“I think so,” he agrees, before gently adding, “It’s nice of you to think about him.”

“Well, I’m a nice guy,” Bdubs replies with confidence and a small grin.

It’s clear that efforts are being made from everyone involved, from Cleo’s kindness to Etho, to Bdubs’ consideration of Joel’s significance to their dynamic—complicated in ways Scar can only begin to understand. Unconsciously, he finds his attention shifting over to Grian more and more, feeling the distance between them and understanding how badly they need to try and bridge it.

He wants it, he realises. The hard work that it’s going to take. The trust and the perseverance. He wants it for the both of them.

He wants to make this work.

The first spit of rain catches them all by surprise, Bdubs squinting up at the sky with a twist in his expression as several heavy drops start to patter down around them.

“Nuts,” he mutters, with a vehemence that feels genuinely frustrated. “Alright, well, that’s gonna be the end of that.”

There’s a particular softness to the mood that the change in weather brings, even though the rain is a disruption to their day. Automatically Etho raises his arm to shield Bdubs, while Bdubs naturally gravitates to his side. Still, it quickly becomes clear that the weather will be more than a drizzle, and that the clouds overhead are intending to settle in for a while.

“You boys are gonna get damp, I’m afraid,” Bdubs says, sympathetic as they jog back to the truck, the heaviness of the rain picking up by the second. “Grian, if you want you can cram in the cab with me and Etho, but—”

“I don’t mind sitting in the back with Scar,” Grian answers simply, and it’s as sweet as it is absurd.

“Grian,” Scar starts. “You don’t have to—”

But he can’t even finish before Grian’s eyes catch his, offering a look that asks for understanding as he hops up into the rear of the pickup, putting his hand out to help Scar climb in after him.

“This’d be fun if it wasn’t so damn wet!” Bdubs says, laughing in the cab as the rain turns from a regular drizzle into a proper downpour.

Already too late to prevent himself from getting soaked, Scar sits down in the back and pulls his hood up anyway. He can feel the slight strain in his knees as he attempts to make himself small under the deluge coming down from overhead. Beside him, Grian’s hair is already plastered to his forehead, and it doesn’t take Scar by surprise when he tucks himself against Scar’s side, the two of them getting drenched together.

“Just think of how good it’s gonna feel when you get in and dry off!” Bdubs calls back to them cheerfully. He has the stereo on, a cassette of something folks-y playing over the speakers that both he and Etho seem to know. Beside him, Grian makes a mumbled sound that only Scar can hear, pushing his shoulder closer to Scar’s side.

The urge to reach down and hold his hand, to join them together in the experience, is almost overwhelming. A temptation Scar struggles against, not knowing how it will be received until they hit a pothole and the decision is made for him. The pickup rocks from side to side, jostling them in a way that has Scar instinctively putting his arm around Grian to steady him, holding him close as their bodies naturally tuck closer together.

“Sorry!” Etho says from the driver’s seat, Bdubs laughing uproariously next to him. “That one was on me—it’s my first day.”

If it weren’t for the fact that Etho seems like the sort to stay out of other people’s business, Scar would wonder if the bump was intentional. Still, he can’t say that he minds, staying close to Grian even after the ride settles. It’s clear that Grian notices the choice he’s made, looking up at Scar for as long as the rain will allow before he drops his gaze back down to his lap, allowing himself to remain pressed in close.

Neither of them speak, simply listening to the music and to the way Bdubs chatters, Etho responding with thoughtful, attentive comments every so often. Overhead, the rain continues to streak down, the sound of it soothing even as the cold sinks into Scar’s extremities. It’s remarkable to him how unperturbed Grian is by it, the chill in the air barely seeming to touch him. By the time they make it back to the compound, Scar is shivering and sneezing loudly as he gets up on stiff legs and clambers out of the pick-up, but Grian looks like he’s enjoying an otherwise balmy day.

“Now that’ll never do,” Bdubs chides, the hood of his jacket engulfing his head as he throws open his door. “You two better get yourselves back to your cabin to dry off and change. You’ll catch your death if you stay soaked like that.”

“Shouldn’t have gone out in this weather,” Etho admits, neutrally apologetic from where he sits in the driver’s seat, not yet having exited the truck. “Sorry about that.”

“Not like we get forecasts anymore,” Bdubs tuts, waving Scar and Grian off with both hands. “There’ll be soup at the dining hall waiting for you when you get yourselves presentable. Go on, skedaddle.”

The walk back to their cabin is quick, Scar half-jogging as best as his legs will allow until he gets inside the door, pausing to take off his boots while Grian immediately heads to the fireplace. He’s gotten the hang of rekindling the morning’s embers, and he does so with ease before moving onto anything else, letting the fire begin to warm up the room.

They don’t talk as they begin shedding their wet clothes, Scar moving to the bathroom on bare feet in order to drape his jacket over the shower head, letting it drip down into the drain. It’s strangely domestic—both familiar and almost too intimate. He and Grian move in and around one another, peeling off wet layers and getting towels to blot at themselves before they change into dryer things. Standing in the bathroom with the door open, Scar takes a moment to fix his hair in the mirror, running a hand over his scuff, the longest he’s ever allowed his beard to grow. He almost asks Grain if he should check around camp for a razor to shave with before he stops himself, stuck on the awkward edge of acting too comfortable.

When he finally leaves the bathroom, it’s to find Grian standing next to the kitchenette sink, wringing out his shirt. He startles when Scar sees him, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t be.

“That’s a good idea,” Scar reassures, trying to break the strange mood that’s settled between them. Not hostile or tense, but weirdly melancholy in a way he’s not sure what to do with. “I’ll have to do the same with mine, too.”

Outside, the rain continues to pour down, creating a soft ambiance indoors that the growing crackle of the fire adds to. It’s an almost irresistible temptation to relax, and Scar finds himself heading over to the couch and settling into it with a sigh. His aching muscles are grateful for the reprieve as he absently reaches down to massage above his knee. It’s nice to be able to unwind. To sit, safe, with the benefit of a whole community around them keeping watch when he doesn’t have the strength to.

It’s a shame that it can’t last.

Scar doesn’t even realise he’s drifted off into his thoughts, sitting pensively by the fire, until Grian speaks up, his voice quiet and careful from over his shoulder.

“Scar…”

When Scar tries to turn to face him, Grian makes his way over instead with small, deliberate steps. There’s a set to his posture, a rigid tension that belays the careful neutrality of his tone, the expression on his face saying the words before he can speak them out loud.

“Can we talk…?”

It’s a strange feeling, both predictable and jarring all at once—something that Scar knows he wants, but doesn’t know if he’s ready for, all the same.

He struggles against his immediate impulse to shy away from it.

“Oh.”

It’s not hard to tell what’s about to happen, a unique kind of dread settling in Scar’s stomach that he doesn’t know what to do with. He feels nauseous from the anxiety of it, his nerves twisting around the fact that the inevitable when has just become a now.

It surprises him how much his instinct is to push the question away. To make an excuse, to deflect and defer a little bit longer, despite how much he knows he was just pining for this. Despite every clear sign reminding him that it’s far past the time to settle things between them if they ever want to do things right.

He wishes he knew what’s gone wrong with him. What’s made him want to push away the things he longs for, even when knowing they’re what’s best for him.

Too late Scar realises he’s let them lapse into silence. Grian watching him, quiet and patient. Simply waiting.

“Sure,” Scar says finally, his voice sounding further away than makes sense.

Without a word, Grian sits down, a spring squeaking beneath his weight as he perches on the far edge of the sofa. The logs in the fireplace crackle, loud popping sounds escaping them as heat expands within the tight knots in the wood. Scar can see that Grian is nervous, his fingers twisted into white-knuckle fists that he’s pressing tight against his knees.

It takes him several minutes to work up to speaking, his words leaving his body in a rush when he finally does.

“I cheated on you.”

The admission hangs awful between them, still just as wretched as the first night Scar had realised it. It takes everything he has not to crumple immediately, keeping his body still and letting the words wash over him. An admittance he still doesn’t want to think about, not even after everything that’s passed since the initial revelation.

“When we were dating I kept trying…” Grian continues, his eyes moving to meet Scar’s before they quickly dodge away, “…to make you leave me. I wanted you to put your foot down, I wanted you to tell me I’d gone too far. Every time I said I didn’t enjoy the movie you picked, or that I didn’t like the menu at a restaurant, or avoided you and ignored you, and then got mad when you went out with other friends instead… I was pushing you, because I wanted you to leave so that I could feel sorry for myself. So I could be the one broken up with. Poor, sad, lonely Grian.”

He bites his lip, looking down at his hands to steel himself while Scar waits for him to gather his thoughts.

“But then you didn’t leave,” Grian resumes at length. “You didn’t get mad, either. You just… accepted that as part of the person I am. And you still cared about me, and you still kept trying. And I resented you so much because of it. Because that wasn’t what I wanted… because I was scared of what it meant for you to accept me no matter what I did…”

His voice trembles, forced to take a few deep breaths. Scar’s throat is tight as Grian’s words settle on him one at a time.

“So I cheated on you. Because I knew it would hurt you, and I knew it would hurt me to lose you. And I knew I had to lose you, because every time I tried to push you out, you only found your way further in, and it was better to lose you now, early, when I wasn’t—” His words cut off abruptly, overwhelmed by a deluge of confessions he’s struggling to keep under control.

“I didn’t get to know B, Scar. I didn’t even try. It wasn’t about him, it was just what I needed him for. And then the world ended and you—you lost everyone. All your friends, all your loved ones… Everyone you worked so hard to care for and keep near. And… I lost no one. Because all I had, and all I ever needed… was you.”

It’s hard not to interrupt him, hard to continue letting Grian speak when every word makes Scar want to say a hundred thousand things himself. The corners of his eyes sting, painful from the pressure of unshed tears. Hating to hear the truth of it, but needing to hear it all the same.

“When the world fell apart I was grateful… because I realised, when you caught me, that it wasn’t what I wanted. That I didn’t want to lose you. That all my posturing and my stupid risks in the name of taking control of how our relationship ended were pointless because I didn’t want it to end. But by that point I knew it was too late to take it back. And then suddenly the world erupted and—if I was all you had, and you were all I had… we’d have another chance, y’know? I knew you were mad at me, but I trusted you’d get over it, because what other choice did you have?”

They sit in silence as Grian takes another pause, the air heavy with his admission while the fire crackles softly in its hearth.

“But then you didn’t just get over it. And it wasn’t like you’d always been before. I’d hurt you in a way we couldn’t just brush over, and yet, I still didn’t even try to get better, because I thought… well, I hadn’t meant it with him. None of it had meant anything to me, and I just... I think I had to lose you. I had to really, really lose you to realise…” he scoffs, a quiet sound, chiding himself. “Well, a lot of things.”

His words are simple, quiet but resolved as Grian finally, finally lifts his chin.

“I’m glad that B survived. I’m glad because… I needed this. I needed to show you that I can change. To prove that I can be a better person—someone who can meet you as an equal. To admit that I never should have tried to hurt you. That it wasn’t ever him, it was me...”

He trails off, and Scar finds himself faced with the fullness of Grian’s gaze, his eyes dark but serious as he offers, at long last:

“I’m sorry, Scar.”

Reflexively, as if prompted by the sentiment alone, Scar’s body trembles. He swallows the choke of his emotion as the words settle in, every part of him fragile and fit to shatter.

“I’m sorry I cheated on you. I’m sorry. I know it hurt you. I know it wasn’t fair.”

Grian pulls in a quick breath, sharp, belaying the edge of tears he’s barely holding back.

“And I’m sorry that we found this place, and these people, and this opportunity… because I know I can’t stay here. And I’m not expecting you to come with me—”

“Grian.” Scar barely recognises the sound of his own voice when he finally speaks, choked up and broken as a multitude of emotions wrestle for control inside of him. “That’s enough—slow down…”

“I love you, Scar,” Grian presses, rushing the words out despite Scar’s request. He passes the heel of his palm over his eyelids, wiping away the tears that he’s struggling to keep in. “I love you. I’m so sorry we ended up this way. Because of me. Because I couldn’t be brave enough to admit how much you meant to me. Not even to myself.”

It’s too much to take all at once, overwhelming in every sense of the word. Scar feels both tense and exhausted, like he’s on the verge of breaking down, and like he couldn’t cry any more if he tried. He wants to reach out towards Grian and take him into his arms. He wants to hold him close—to have that reassurance, that proof of something tangible—but the thought of being touched right now makes him recoil. Too tender, knowing he’ll shatter into a million pieces if he’s so much as brushed up against.

Instead, they sit with what Grian’s laid bare, the silence unfolding while Scar tries to collect his thoughts into something that makes sense.

To his credit, Grian doesn’t push for a response, only sniffling once, quiet, as he tries to gather himself. Scar does the same, swallowing around the lump in his throat and flexing his jaw as he finally attempts to put words to his emotions. There’s a heaviness to it that he feels on his shoulders—to be here now, no longer shying away from their past. Facing it head on together.

Once upon a time, this was all he’d ever wanted to hear from Grian. Certainly, in the immediate aftermath of catching him in the act, it would have been cathartic to hear his confession as it stands. But now… after so many weeks, and the dissolution of the world as they know it… Scar just doesn’t know anymore. Doesn’t know what he wants. Doesn’t know where they go from here.

Doesn’t know what he’s still waiting for.

“You said it wasn’t about him,” Scar speaks at last, voice hoarse from holding back the tide of emotion locked up in his chest. “But I need to know… was it about me…?”

Grian meets his gaze, confused and hesitant to answer because of it.

Scar swallows again, throat dry.

“I know… that there’s a lot I can’t do,” he continues. “And I know that during the time we were together, things got worse for me. I get that maybe that wasn’t what you’d signed up for when you met me, and so maybe—”

“No,” Grian interrupts, adamant. “No, Scar. It was never like that—”

“Let me finish, G,” Scar insists, and Grian stills.

It takes Scar a moment to remember where he was, collecting the loose tether of his thought once more.

“My whole life, I always considered myself lucky,” he begins. “Lucky because I survived an accident that should’ve killed me. Lucky that my time afterwards— in the hospital and then in foster care— was relatively mundane. Lucky that I was able to support myself with a job I loved, and lucky that I flagged my health before it got too bad to be untreatable.”

He takes a breath, steadying himself against the pain he can hear sneaking into his voice.

“Lucky, that on a planet with eight billion people on it, against all odds, I met my soulmate. The light of my life.”

His gaze shifts, staring into the fireplace as he blinks back his emotion, watching the flames flicker along the broken rifts in the logs. He’s well aware that Grian’s eyes are on him, but he doesn’t attempt to meet his stare, still trying to organise his thoughts. Trying to make Grian understand where the root of his unhappiness stems from.

“Then… the longer we were together, and the more of me you saw, the more distant you started to get. Those last few months… they were bad, G. I tried to work it out in my head. Tried to tell myself you were busy with work, or… maybe it was something you were feeling about yourself that you just weren’t quite ready to share with me. But it was… hard.” Tilting his head, Scar looks down at his hands, tracing the familiar lines of pale, faded scars and trying to ground himself with their familiarity. “Now I know it’s because you weren’t really present with me at all. That you were with someone else that whole time, keeping it a secret. And I can’t help but wonder… was it because of me?”

It’s a rhetorical question, one that Scar can see Grian longs to try and answer, but he’s not done yet. He knows that if he stops now then he’ll never be able to lay out his fears the way he needs to. That he’ll forever relegate them to some distant corner in his heart, locked behind an easy smile and a dismissive wave of his hand.

“I wonder, because from where I—didn’t always stand, things were good. We were doing great. And then suddenly you weren’t around as often. Suddenly, you were cancelling dates, too tired to talk, too forgetful to text back.” Thinking back to those moments still makes Scar’s hands shake, so sick and anxious with what he knows lurks just over the edge that he feels his stomach twist. “Even when we slept together, things weren’t the same. You always seemed distracted, almost like you—like you were bored. Tired of doing the same old things with the same old person.”

“Scar…” Grian whispers, his tone gutted, eyes wet with tears.

“And then, I find out that it's not just in my head. You’re sleeping with someone else. Secretively. On purpose. And you’re doing things with him that you never could’ve done with me. Things that my body and my health would’ve made impossible for us to ever try together.” The air rattles through his lungs as he breathes, a deep, heavy sigh before he shrugs, helpless. “And I guess it just made me wonder… if maybe you were tired of being with someone who would always have limitations. Someone who was probably going to get worse over time, instead of better.” He swallows again, rough, before he concludes, still staring listlessly into the fire. “Someone like me.”

Deep down a part of Scar knows that he’s discounting plenty of evidence to the contrary. Shoving aside how easy and instinctual it had felt to share the most vulnerable parts of himself with Grian. The way Grian had adapted to every change like it was second-nature for him to be at Scar’s side in every context imaginable.

But he simply can’t forget the way he’d felt when he’d found the continued proof of Grian’s affair fallen beneath the backseat of his car. The condom wrapper, immeasurably small and innocuous—the pain of it spilling out and contaminating the only thing they’d had left to share. His anger, his hurt.

His deep, mortified embarrassment.

There are times in the past where he knows Grian would’ve retaliated to his statement. That he would have coiled on his side of the sofa, cornered and insecure, telling Scar he was wrong. That he wasn’t being fair. Making a scene where one need not have been. When all Scar had ever wanted was to feel heard and be seen by him.

Now, however, he simply sits in silence. His expression is impossibly complicated as he stares at his knees, hands gripping them tight as he works through emotions Scar wishes he knew the names of.

“I’m sorry,” Grian says at last, the words small but intentional. “I’m sorry that I made you feel that way.”

It’s alarming how surreal continuing to hear an apology from Grian feels. While it’s something Scar’s wanted for a while, it’s somehow both overwhelming and unsettling—like he still can’t fully believe it’s real.

“I want to swear that it wasn’t about that,” Grian offers, shoulders slumped under the weight of the admission. “But I see how I made you feel, so I don’t think it matters what my intentions were.” He looks to the side, biting the inside of his cheek before his eyes once again seek out Scar’s. “I promise I never needed any of the things I did with B, Scar. It was just… something to do. I wasn’t ever thinking about your limitations. I was thinking about—” he stalls, realisation dawning within the words as he says them. “—myself… I was really just thinking about me.”

Scar doesn’t know how he’s meant to feel about that. Doesn’t know whether he’s relieved, or insulted, or angry.

“I got used to that from you,” he says, weary from the reality of it.

“I wish I could go back,” Grian confesses, half-hearted and useless to them both. “I wish I could tell myself that being the person who was meant to be with you isn’t as terrifying as I thought would be.”

“What is it, then?” Scar asks the question quickly, searching for an answer. His expression is tight, fearing Grian’s reply but needing to hear it all the same. “If it’s not terrifying… if it’s worth it now, then what is it, Grian…? What does it mean to you?”

It takes Grian a minute to answer. Quietly, carefully sifting through his words before he replies, the words soft as he finally admits them.

“It means everything Scar.”

The confession curls vulnerably between them, squeezing something lovelorn in Scar’s chest.

“It’s what keeps me human…”

In the fireplace the largest log shifts, crackling loudly as it sends a burst of sparks up into the chimney.

“I know I can’t build my life around you,” Grian continues, careful with the admission. “But I also know I’m not myself without you. I wasn’t myself before I met you, and I wasn’t myself with… with B. With anyone else. Not ever.”

He pauses, taking a deep breath, his hand unconsciously reaching towards his own shoulder, rubbing the place where the bite mark is scarred into his skin.

“And I know I wouldn’t still be myself without you now.”

Once upon a time, hearing something like that would’ve been enough to make Scar crumble. It would’ve been every bit of the reassurance he needed, soothing the last of his heartache as the pain ebbed away. Now, though, with hundreds of miles behind them—with the hurt and regret and anger festering for weeks and weeks and weeks—Scar feels oddly numb. Not relieved, not upset, just… nothing.

“So the only reason you regret what you did is because you think I’m good for you?” he asks, quietly monotone. He knows it’s an unkind reading of Grian’s words, but he can’t help the way his mind twists things, poking at every fissure and hairline fracture to get to the bottom of where they went so wrong. Trying to get all his upset, all his frustration out now while he still can—while they’re still talking and addressing things head-on. Just in case he loses the nerve to ever be this honest again. “Because I’m more useful to you than someone else might be? Someone more supportive to the person you want to retain?”

For a moment, Grian looks taken aback—pained by Scar’s harsh assessment. Yet again, Scar can picture it in his mind’s eye; Grian pulling away from him, defensive and angry. But then the expression smooths away, resolve written on Grian’s face, a further sign—proof—that he’s no longer the man he used to be.

“No,” he insists, adamant. “I regret what I did because you deserved better, Scar. I regret it because it took me so long to admit to myself that I loved you, that I ended up losing any right to keep you by my side.” There’s a pause, loaded and heavy, before Grian continues, his voice thick. “And that’s why I told myself that no matter what you decide now, I’m going to respect it. Even if it means us going our separate ways… I’m going to do whatever you need me to do.”

The words twist ugly in Scar’s chest. Repellent to him like something vile. He doesn’t want that. He’s never wanted that. From the very beginning, the only thing he’s ever truly desired was to have Grian at his side, the two of them content and fulfilled in each other.

Even now, after everything, the mere idea of going on without Grian makes him feel woefully incomplete. Like an integral part of him is missing.

“I just…” Scar starts, hoarse, struggling not to draw them into a circular argument but still unable to find the resolution he knows he needs if they’re ever going to move past this. He claws at every dissatisfaction like a man drowning, desperate to break through to the surface and take a life-saving deep breath. “If you were so unhappy, why didn’t you just break up with me, G? Why did you have to go around behind my back? Why break my trust when you could’ve just said you didn’t want to be together anymore?”

“Because I wasn’t unhappy,” Grian insists, meeting his cyclical questions head on. “Because I never wanted to break up with you, Scar.”

“You’ve said that before,” Scar points out, immediately thinking back to that day in the desert—a memory that feels like a lifetime ago. Back when he was resolutely putting one foot ahead of the other with Grian dragging along in his wake, feeling like no matter how hard he tried he was never going to get anywhere, with or without him. “And even now it makes no damn sense to me.”

They’re on the verge of something—or maybe they’ve already passed over it. The mood is changed—still tense, but in a quieter, more muted way. Like the aftermath of a storm.

Cautiously, Grian edges closer to him on the couch, putting one hand out to settle on the cushion next to Scar’s thigh.

Scar doesn’t stop him. Knows he doesn’t want to.

When at last he’s close enough to touch him, Grian places a careful hand on Scar’s forearm. It’s light enough that Scar could easily shake him off, but he feels no urge to do so. Grian waits, patient, and when he isn’t rebuffed, he tilts his head into Scar’s line of sight, meeting his eyes.

“Scar… you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he starts, tone serious, even as it wavers with vulnerability. “And because of—of stupid, ridiculous hangups I’ve had since forever, I couldn’t trust that it—that you—were real. I couldn’t put my faith in those feelings, and I couldn’t take the risk in letting myself love you back, because I was too afraid of getting burned.”

Grian squeezes his arm, and Scar gets the feeling his touch is just as much a reassurance to himself as it is for him.

“So instead of waiting for you to break my heart the way I was so sure you would, I messed everything up. I did it on purpose. That way, at least, I could control the fallout. That way I knew to expect it when things went wrong.”

It feels like he should say something, but Scar can’t work up the energy for it. He feels drained, emotions having bled him dry. Grian hesitates, clearly wondering if he’s made things worse with his confession. He tries to explain himself further, touching back on what Scar remembers him saying at the start of all this, so very long ago.

“I’m not saying that it was smart or that it made sense. I wasn’t really thinking it through. I just… I wanted a reason for you to break up with me, so that I wouldn’t have to worry about it happening when I didn’t expect it, over something I couldn’t control. I was afraid of getting hurt if I finally let my guard down. If I let myself love you as… as much as I knew I wanted to.” He bites his lip, breaking eye contact, staring down at where his hand is resting on Scar’s arm, guilty. “But when you left my place that night, after you caught me… I realised that it was too late. That I’d fallen in love with you that deeply already.”

Memories of that night swim up unbidden. Inescapable. Scar’s feet carrying him across Grian’s lawn. Checking the rearview mirror in his car. Wanting to see Grian chase him and heartbroken when he didn’t even try.

“If that’s true, then why didn’t you follow me when I left?” Scar croaks, feeling too raw. Too vulnerable. “Why did you just let me go?”

“I didn’t want to cause a scene,” Grian confesses quietly. Predictable as he glances up at Scar from the corner of his eye. “What would the neighbours say, y'know…?”

Scar laughs despite himself, the sound watery and broken. He’s unable to prevent it, overwhelmed by the absurdity of it. Something about the admission so Grian that it makes perfect sense. “That’s so stupid, G.”

Grian gives him a cautious smile in return, small and tentative. “I know,” he admits. “But… if I’m being honest, I don’t think I could’ve moved then even if I’d wanted to. The second you left, my legs felt like jelly.”

“Welcome to my world,” Scar mumbles, soft but not unkind.

Grian chuckles, squeezing his arm again, something burgeoning and affectionate in the gesture.

The silence continues to hang between them for a moment, neither comfortable nor miserable. A mutual pause for them to share.

Finally, Grian relents, biting his lower lip before he offers, carefully, “I’d chase you now, Scar.” The words are quiet, but resolved all the same. “I’d make a scene for you.”

“I think you’ve already proven that,” Scar concedes. He’s unable to deny it—the magnitude of the gesture, the distance Grian covered on his own just to see him again, with or without the promise of Scar returning the feelings they once shared. So changed, so altered, but still him. Still his Grian.

It takes a moment for the acknowledgement to register, Grian smiling shyly when it does.

“I guess I have…”

In a loaded gesture, Scar moves his arm, letting his hand find Grian’s palm, lacing their fingers together before he gives Grian’s hand a squeeze. It still feels strange, neither right nor wrong, to have the fullness of Grian’s apology presented to him. After so long hoping and waiting for it—the longing growing to bitterness as Grian held out and refused to face the consequences of his actions—Scar still doesn’t know what to make of it. Doesn’t know how long it will take for the words to truly sink in.

At the same time, he knows that this is what he’s wanted. He knows this is what they both needed in order to finally, finally begin to put right everything that had settled so wrong between them.

“I meant it…” Grian says at last, the pad of his thumb rubbing slowly along the ridge of Scar’s knuckles. “When I said I loved you… I meant it. I still mean it.”

Scar pauses, considering Grian’s words for a moment before he offers, “I want to forgive you, Grian. I do. But it’s… a process. It’ll come in bits and pieces—I can’t give it to you all at once. You’ll need to give me time so we can work on it. Together. Just like this.”

He knows that in the past a request like this would have been something Grian rebuffed, retreating into himself at the thought. He’d have rejected any idea of a long term commitment, even one that held their relationship in the balance. His adamant refusal would’ve pressed into Scar’s patience like it always had, preying on his own insecurities, leaving him doubtful and clinging to what little Grian would give him instead.

This time, however, Grian merely nods, agreeing with a readiness that comes as a genuine surprise.

Scar can see the urge in Grian’s eyes, the desire to secure his words with something tangible. A touch or caress he could use to quiet his own demons. He holds himself back, though, and Scar is grateful for it.

He can see a time where they won’t need this, where Grian will be able to act on his own needs without ceding himself to Scar first, but for the moment he appreciates it, something within him needing it.

In a show of mutual deference, he finally gives Grian’s hand a gentle squeeze before he asks, “Is it alright if I kiss you?”

The look on Grian’s face is worth it, brightening with hope and yearning, and a shyness that Scar finds endlessly endearing, the sight of it wrapping around his fragile heart.

“Yes,” Grian replies, quick and eager, shifting closer so that his thigh is pressed flush to Scar’s. “I’d like that.”

Scar smiles as he leans forward, allowing Grian to close the distance until their lips finally meet. Nothing about it is rushed or desperate or hasty. The two of them enjoying a slow, enamoured exchange.

“I’m with you,” Scar says finally, pulling away only far enough to allow them to speak. In the same breath he confirms what he knows he’s left vague between them for too long, offering the stability of a promise, at last. “It’s you and me, Grian. Together.”

This close, he can see the way Grian’s eyes swim with tears, struggling to blink them back as he chases Scar’s lips for another quick kiss.

“I’m with you, too.”

Scar knows that there’s more they could say. That the two of them could sit and talk until the shadows of the day grow long, and the last of the daylight is pushed down into the dark. He knows that this is only just the beginning, and that a long reconciliation will follow with no set timeline to completion.

But he also knows that they’ve already crossed the biggest hurdle, and that, more than anything, is what’s important.

“How long does it take to change into something dry, for pity’s sake?”

Bdubs voice is a surprising and impatient interruption as he shouts muffled through the door, causing them both to startle in place, hands tensing tight around one another as they look towards it in unison.

“Joel made hot pot and I brought you an umbrella! You’re gonna miss it if you don’t hurry!” There’s a pause, a moment of consideration lingering before Bdubs adds, “Unless you’re taking a nap! In which case—sorry for waking you!”

Grian chuckles, leaning into Scar where they’ve remained seated close on the sofa.

“You hungry?” he asks, and Scar knows he can’t return the question, kissing Grian again as he slips an arm around him.

“We’ll catch up in a minute,” he suggests, enjoying the way Grian relaxes in his embrace at the thought of being able to enjoy a little while longer alone together.

It’s a comfort when Grian leans in to kiss him once more, the two of them aligned for the first time in what feels like forever.

Their hearts and souls intertwined, settled in sync at last.

 

Notes:

There is it. There it is. :')

It was a long time coming, nearly 350k words to bring us to this point, but here we are at last. 💞 Progress is never linear, and I think we've seen that throughout the fic, but these two have come a long, long way, and it's such a relief to finally give them a place to lay out their feelings in full. 💖

Hmm...? What's that? Two more chapters left, you say? What could those possibly be about if Scar and Grian have solved things in this one, you ask?

Well.

Don't worry about it. :) I'm sure it's fine. :)

THAT SAID, next week's chapter will be out on Thursday instead of our usual Friday—A WHOLE DAY EARLY, just so that we can have an update ready for you, very fittingly, on Halloween! 🎃🍫🍬 Wouldn't be a zombie fic without a Halloween update after all! ;D

See you guys on the 31st! 👻🍭

Chapter 41

Notes:

HAPPY HALLOWEEN! 🎃 Before we get into our tricks with this chapter, let's enjoy some treats to start us off right~ ;D 🍭🍬

First off, we have this tender moment on the couch as well as the soft kiss soon after from the previous chapter drawn by deputy-jude 💞

Following that, we've got a haunting recreation of Grian in his hunting-state by Syneester 🧟

And then an absolutely gorgeous rendering of the forest scene in Chapter 39 by la-brielle 🌲🏹

Finishing things off strong with yet another beautiful snapshot of the kiss from the previous chapter, this one done by izuchannisfan! 💋

A BIG THANK YOU TO ALL OF YOU!! You continue to make the experience of writing and sharing this fic absolutely unforgettable ;w; 💜

... and... for better or worse... we hope you feel similarly about this chapter...
An unforgettable experience to be sure... >;3 🩸

 

The morning breaks soft and slow through the windows of their cabin, unfolding in a lazy gradient; deep indigo brightening by increments into a dusty grey lavender that settles unobtrusively against the thin curtains.

The bell for breakfast had gone off at least half an hour ago, but the warmth under the covers has made Grian loathe to leave. He’d spent the night slipping in and out of sleep, pressed up close to Scar, laying still beside him and relishing in their proximity.

After their long, emotional conversation, the two of them had spent the remainder of the previous day in the company of the others milling around the compound, forcing themselves into something social, intent on keeping up appearances. Throughout it however, Scar’s eyes hadn’t stopped seeking out Grian’s. Small, secret glances that had made Grian’s face heat up, even though there was nothing salacious about them.

He’d found himself brushing against Scar often, seeking out that familiar anchor. And to his surprise every touch had been reciprocated, filling Grian with a relief he hadn’t even dreamed could be possible for them again.

When they’d finally returned to their cabin after dinner, they’d talked more in low, hushed voices while they'd sat by the fire, reaffirming what they’d gone over earlier and reestablishing where they now stood with one another. Eventually their discussion had petered out, their mutual exhaustion revealing itself, and both of them had disrobed as they’d prepared to sleep. There had been no question about where Grian would spend the night, Scar touching a hand gently to Grian’s waist as he’d lead him to bed.

It felt right, to be close again. Like they were finally on the same page. The same sentence. No reading between the lines.

In bed, they’d held each other quietly, Grian pressing occasional kisses to Scar’s shoulder while Scar had run his fingers through Grian’s hair. They’d whispered some more, trading words back and forth. Nothing as intense as what they’d already been through, but enough for Grian’s tired eyes to sting with tears as he murmured apologies mixed with hopes for the future. Their future.

He’d been entirely drained by the end, and he could tell that Scar felt the same—a smile on his face in the gentle light of the lantern, but his eyes puffy and red-rimmed all the same.

Falling asleep in one another’s arms wasn’t new to either of them, but it felt fresh and novel all the same. Like starting over, maybe. Or beginning a new chapter. Safe and secure, able to rest and wait out the darkness of the night together.

Now, with morning pressed up against the cabin, Grian finally blinks his eyes open properly, letting them adjust to the daylight filtering in through their curtains. Once the initial glare passes, he shifts onto his side with a sigh. He’s hoping to snuggle up against Scar’s chest while he gathers his bearings and lets Scar continue to rest.

He’s met, instead, with Scar’s smile, his eyes warm as he watches Grian shift and settle.

“Mornin’,” Scar murmurs, voice still heavy with sleep.

Grian’s heart races, very nearly skipping a beat as he finds himself under the soft mantle of Scar’s attention. Every time he’d seen this look on Scar’s face in the past, he’d felt a pang of guilt—a reminder deep down that he didn’t deserve it. This morning, however, Grian meets Scar’s focus with something new—a timid sort of hope, fluttering like a bird within his chest.

With an oddly secure sense of confidence, he realises he doesn’t want to lose this feeling ever again. That he’s going to make sure Scar has every reason to look at him like this for the rest of their lives.

“I wanna kiss you…” he confesses, quiet, and Scar chuckles at the words, nodding encouragingly.

“I wanna kiss you too.”

Without waiting for the chance to second guess himself, Grian tilts his head up, capturing Scar’s lips with his own. The kiss is warm and slow and chaste. No simmering heat. No desperate desire for more. However something about it makes him feel loved and safe all the same.

They trade kisses back and forth as they lay together, slowly waking one another up. When they finally break apart, it’s only so they can rest their foreheads together. Scar’s hand is gentle as he pets over Grian’s hip, and Grian’s hand rests on Scar’s arm, tracing the line of one of his many scars.

“Breakfast?” Scar asks at last, after a few silent minutes have passed.

“Kind of want to shower first,” Grian admits. “I’ll meet you there?”

“I’ll come with you,” Scar hums, easy. “They’re both in the dining hall anyhow.”

Leaving their bed feels like a loss. The cabin air is cold, even to Grian, especially after so long spent enjoying the radiant warmth of Scar’s body heat incubating against him under the blankets, and the floor is chilly beneath his bare feet. Scar is moving slowly too, gritting his teeth as he pulls his clothes back on, stretching out the joints that have stiffened up overnight.

It’s a struggle, but Grian finally manages to haul his legs back into his trousers and shove his feet into his boots. He gathers up two of the towels that have been stacked in the cabin’s bathroom as he allows himself to enjoy the anticipation of his upcoming shower. He knows it won’t be anything like the showers he and Scar had back at the cabin by the lake, but a warm wash and clean hair will do him good all the same.

Together they leave their cabin, Scar with his cane in hand, and Grian carrying their toiletries. Outside the day is a high, wispy overcast, the clouds overhead lit in the bright, pale grey that Grian has learned often precedes a snowfall. A stiff breeze tugs at them, pushing through his sleep-mussed hair and stirring eddies of dry leaves skittering away across the ground.

They’re nearing the dining hall when B exits out through the main doors. He pulls his jacket tighter around his shoulders, squinting up at the sky before he greets their towels and dishevelled state with a sympathetic shake of his head.

“Nobody’s having showers this morning, boys. No hot water in the tanks.”

It surprises Grian how easy and conversational his tone is, the three of them meeting each other like the casual acquaintances they always should have been.

With a heavy sigh, Scar’s shoulders slump, echoing Grian’s own sentiments as he reacts to the news. “What happened? You lose track of the dragon you had keeping the boiler going?”

B chuckles good naturedly, and a part of Grian still struggles to trust it—to truly believe that things are as fine as they seem. The two of them treating each other nonchalantly, for once without the enormity of their shared history painfully metastasizing between them.

“Something like that,” B concedes. He nods his head back over his shoulder, indicating the distant gates leading into and out of the compound. “Etho’s the one who keeps the water up and running, and he’s out with Joel doing fence repair right now.”

“This early?” The information feels out of alignment with the camp life they’ve gotten to know. Grian glances up at the sky as if to confirm the time, unable to detect the hour through the matte grey looming overhead, but knowing instinctively that this seems unusual.

A guarded expression passes over B’s face, unreadable and moving far too quickly for Grian to properly catch and discern.

“Yeah,” he says, stiff, the word sticking strange in his throat. “So, about that.”

A second passes, reluctance caught in it before finally B relents.

“You’re gonna find out the moment you go in to eat anyway, so I’ll just warn you now,” he sighs, speaking as though he’s sharing something somewhat confidential. “We’re in a bit of a high alert situation right now. The patrols we did yesterday yielded a lot more undead in the area than we normally get, and Ren doesn’t like the way the hordes are nearing camp, so he’s sending groups out to shore up the perimeter as a precaution. Joel’s always up early for breakfast duty, so…” he shrugs, forcing himself to crack a smile. “It was off to the mines for him.”

“And Etho?” Scar presses.

That, at least, brings them a moment of levity, B quirking an eyebrow at Scar before he answers, “No way you haven’t noticed that Joel can’t get very far without Etho trailing after him.”

It takes a second for B’s words to sink in, but then, with a fondness that Grian wasn’t quite expecting, Scar glances towards him, his hand bumping against Grian’s elbow as he teases, “I wouldn’t know what that’s like.”

It pushes a blush into Grian’s cheeks, for once not feeling self-conscious as Scar points out the connection between them.

It could’ve always been like this, a part of him thinks, traitorous and bitter. If you had let yourself love him.

Forcefully he pushes the thought down, opting to lean into Scar’s side instead, an indescribable emotion settling over him as Scar automatically drapes his arm around his shoulders.

The relief on B’s face as he observes them is plainly visible, something tense within him relaxing while he watches them interact.

“The good news is that they’ve already been out for a few hours, so Etho’s due back any minute now,” he offers. “Once he’s back and settled, I figure you just gotta give him a couple hours to figure out whatever it’s gonna take to get the showers going. Well- a couple hours plus the breaks he’ll take to check up on Joel. Plus catching up with Bdubs. And then we can't forget whatever hoop he’s jumping through for Cleo today…”

The expression on Grian’s face must read as unenthusiastic, because B chuckles at him, offering an alternative with a vague motion of his hand.

“Or I could take you down to the river. You can fill up a couple of buckets, heat 'em up in the kitchen, and then you could have a nice sponge bath instead. Not convenient or pleasant, but what is these days, am I right?”

It’s clear that he’s joking. The obvious preference is to wait for Etho to fix whatever kink has lodged its way into their rudimentary plumbing. Still...

“Alright,” Grian agrees, watching as B’s expression slacken in surprise. “It’ll be worth it to get the dirt and grime off.”

Without thinking, his hand moves to rub into his shoulder where Scar had shot him the previous day. The arrow injury is well on its way to becoming nothing more than another scar, but it aches deep within his muscle all the same. Some hot water over the area would do it good, despite the effort it will take to make that happen.

From the corner of his eye, Grian can see Scar immediately glance towards him, his expression conflicted as he no doubt sees where Grian’s hand is. Knowing Scar, he probably still feels guilty about what he had to do, so Grian tries to send an encouraging smile his way, relieved when Scar manages to mirror the expression back.

“Seriously?” B asks, eyebrows pushing up towards his hairline.

“Were you joking?” Grian asks, not unkindly, but still direct. It forces a noncommittal sound out of B.

“Suit yourself,” he relents, shrugging a shoulder. “We can grab some buckets on the way. Follow me.”

Together, the three of them walk through the camp, B offering nods and brief moments of conversation with the other residents that they pass. It strikes Grian how well respected B is—a founding fixture in the compound, familiar and well known to everyone. It surprises him, too, how many times he and Scar are greeted with friendly smiles and waves, like people are genuinely glad to see them. It twists something that aches in Grian’s chest, knowing full well that they won’t be able to stay here much longer.

That they’ve already overstayed their welcome.

He shakes his head to distract himself from the thought, focusing instead on B as he pauses briefly at a shed full of neatly organised gardening tools. With the door propped open, B reaches in, offering them each a bucket from a stack kept up on a shelf.

“You’ve really got everything you need,” Scar says, admiration in his words.

“That’s the plan,” B agrees, swinging the shed door shut behind him.

The trail they take to the river, Grian realises, is the same one he followed the night he spoke to Joel. The path is much clearer during the day, zigzagging down through the woods until it meets the riverbank. Effortlessly, B fills the air with conversation as they make their progress, explaining that, while all their drinking water now runs through a proper filtration system, going downstream to wash had become the standard for everyone when they’d first established the compound.

“We made it nice,” he insists. “A regular day spa, you’ll see.”

While Scar asks questions here and there, Grian is content to listen politely and nod along. Mostly, however, he finds himself staring into the trees, on alert for any scuttling between branches or small, sudden movements, oscillating between the hope of the chance to curb his hunger if they come across a small animal, and the fear of an ambush from a zombie that somehow managed to slip past the perimeter. Whatever his distracted intentions, Grian feels an odd sense of comfort here, away from the camp and the bustle of people. Back out amongst the other wild things, following the simple instinct to survive.

“Here we are!” B announces at last, yanking him back into himself with a start.

They’ve stopped at the edge of the broad bank that follows the outward curve of the river. Dirt, deposited from years of runoff, has created an arm that pushes out into the current, dotted in places with grass and tufts of scrubby foliage that's faded into yellow for the winter. The natural curve of the arm creates an eddy of water on its leeward side, swirling gently and sheltered from the stronger current. It’s a natural bath—albeit an unheated one—and it’s the perfect place for them to set their things down, which both he and Scar quick to do, casting their eyes around and admire the view, the heavily forested mountains pushing up on either side of the river, rough and snow-capped and unbelievably beautiful.

“Now, the buckets get pretty heavy when they’re full, and it’s uphill all the way back, so my advice is that you—”

Predictably, before B can even finish, Scar has already begun stripping off his clothes. Without a care he tosses aside his shirt and jacket, followed by his trousers, until he’s left in only his boxer briefs, pulling off his boots as he strides towards the water.

Mouth hanging open, B stares after him, and both he and Grian watch as Scar laughs in excitement, shocked, no doubt, by the temperature of the water as he puts his feet in. He lets it rush up, past his calves and then his knees, until it’s lapping at his waist as the eddy curves around him, before he looks back towards the shore and smiles.

While Grian’s immediate reaction is a burst of affection so strong he feels it pushing against the inside of his sternum, he can’t help the way he rolls his eyes at Scar’s antics all the same. It’s cold outside, the clouds above heavy and grey. They’re not safely tucked into a shower. They’re not at a hot spring. There’s no way the river is at all inviting.

“Scar!” he shouts, trying to sound scolding but hearing the telltale way Scar’s name curls beneath the fondness of his smile. “Put your clothes back on!”

His partner only offers him a wink, his charming grin spread across his face as he replies, “C’mon! The cold’s good for you, G!”

The response startles a laugh out of B, and Grian shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to smother the amusement in his expression.

It’s as clear as day that Scar is cold, his breath fanning around his head in a large cloud. Still, he dips his hands beneath the surface of the water, undeterred, cupping his palms together to splash some of it up on his face before he pushes his wet fingertips back through his hair.

“I used to do ice plunges at physio, remember?”

The words are called over in good-humour way as Scar abruptly drops down in the water. He disappears up to his shoulders for a moment before he takes a breath and dunks his whole head beneath the surface.

Grian remembers the ice baths well. He remembers Scar being a good sport about them, taking them in stride each and every time—he also remembers Scar’s relief when his doctor had decided to explore other options to mitigate the pain of his flare ups and recurring muscle aches instead.

“It’s not that bad once you get in,” Scar insists as he resurfaces, a brightness caught in his eyes that Grian knows means he’s lying. “C’mon G,” he goads. “When are you ever gonna have a chance like this again?”

A part of Grian wants that knowledge to be a relief. Wants the mutual understanding that he and Scar will be pressing on soon to come as a comfort. However, another part of him is aware of how finite that means their time in the camp is. How they’ll be leaving soon—if not the next day, then the day right after.

Strangely, it makes him impulsive. Makes him want to seize this moment. To do something uncharacteristic in front of Scar, and in front of B.

“I’m going to regret this,” he hears himself say, grumbling as he bends over to untie the laces of his boots.

“No way,” Scar gasps from the water, genuine shock and delight mixing in his words. “Are you actually coming in?”

“I’m coming in,” Grian confirms, pulling his feet out of his boots one by one, before he unfastens his trousers and pushes them down his legs. He intentionally doesn't looking at B as he does so. Not interested in the other man’s reaction.

From neck deep in the water, Scar lets out a whoop, the sound echoing off the trees as it reverberates up the valley. Beside Grian, even B seems amused.

“You too, right Big B?” Scar presses, but B only shakes his head.

“Not a single chance. You two can catch your death if you want, but I’m gonna stay nice and dry, thanks.”

“That’s just more for us then. Right Grian?” Scar teases, and for the first time in his life, Grian revels in the clear and obvious partnership that Scar is touting. Feeling like he’s a part of something, like he’s included, in a way that makes his heart warm.

Bolstered by the sentiment, and eager to show Scar his newfound enthusiasm towards his antics, Grian slides his arms out of his jacket, hastily pulling his sweater off over his head and casting it aside.

It’s as he wrestles himself out of the t-shirt beneath that he feels it—B’s hand heavy on his shoulder.

“Grian,” B starts, all the merriment that had been in his voice a mere moment before abruptly stripped away, his tone now ice cold. “What…?”

It’s only then that Grian realises, a paralysing chill going through him, tingling over the now exposed bite mark marring his body. With his heart in his throat, he tries to pull his shirt back on, wrestling with it in an attempt to cover his neck and shoulder, cursing himself for his short-sightedness. How could he forget? How could he be so absent-minded?

He’s unable to put his shirt back on as B holds him still. Not tenderly, not romantically, but firm. Like he’s a wild creature that needs to be taken hold of.

Somewhere out behind him Grian hears splashing, the clear sounds of Scar wading back to shore, no doubt wondering what the hold-up is. It’s too late, though. Nothing Scar can say now will undo what Grian’s given away by accident. His eyes meet B’s, guilt in them that he knows he can’t hide and B’s confusion turns at once to realisation and then—predictably, inevitably—to horror.

“Grian…”

“B,” Grian starts, his heart racing within his chest. An anxious, terrified patter that makes a part of him feel like he’s dying all over again. “Listen... I can explain.”

Out of the water, Scar hastily shakes himself off on the bank before he gathers his things, moving close to Grian’s side while looking between the two of them. “Is everything okay?”

There are no words that Grian can speak to set the situation right. Nothing that will undo his stupid mistake. He’d been so swept up in the moment, foolishly daring to enjoy himself for a change, that he’d forgotten the one lesson he’s spent his whole life learning—that secrets are meant to be kept.

Next to him, B doesn’t take his eyes off of Grian’s bite mark, focused solely on the scarred, ragged ring. Belatedly, Grian slaps a hand over it, as if that will be enough to put the entire topic behind them. The noise of skin in skin jolts Scar’s attention and, entirely too late, his gaze settles on Grian’s shoulder, belatedly piecing things together.

“Oh…” The sound leaves him like a breath, stilted and just as incriminating as the bite mark itself.

“‘Oh’?” B repeats, incredulous. “What do you mean, ‘oh’? Did you know about this, Scar?”

“Know about what?” Scar asks on the heel of a nervous laugh, his gaze drifting anxiously off to the side.

The expression on B’s face is torn, clearly caught between a choice he doesn’t want to make, and one he knows he has to.

Grian doesn’t dare speak, too afraid that any explanation now will only damn him further. Waiting, instead, to see where the pieces fall.

He remembers, faintly, the B he used to meet in secret. Patient and infinitely forgiving. Maybe, if he’s lucky, B will gloss over this. Maybe he’ll pretend it’s something else entirely, too awkward to deal with the reality of what Grian has pushed into his hands.

But then B’s expression hardens into something stiff and resolved, and Grian knows with certainty that his time in B’s good graces has entirely passed.

“We have to head back to the cabins,” he says, clipped and more serious than Grian has ever heard him. “Put your clothes back on. Hurry. We need to move now.”

The second B’s hand comes off of Grian’s shoulder, Grian resumes wrestling his shirt back on. His heart is racing so fast in his chest that it makes him feel sick. Carefully, Scar settles a hand against his back, attempting to reassure and ground him, but it’s not enough to quiet the part of Grian that knows he’s fucked up yet again.

He shouldn’t have let his guard down. He should’ve been more careful. Yet again, he’s hurt Scar through the thoughtlessness of his actions. Selfish, selfish, selfish.

Buckets unfilled, and Scar hastily scrambling back into his clothes, the three of them begin the hike back to the compound. The pace B sets feels frantic, Scar and Grian nearly have to run to keep up with him. There’s none of the joviality that had accompanied them on their way down to the water. No burgeoning attempts at camaraderie. No kinship at all.

Nervous, Grian exchanges a glance with Scar and sees his own anxiousness mirrored back at him. He stares, hard, at B’s back as they follow him. The creeping reminder of his infection crawling under his skin, his previous day out with Scar rearing up like a suggestion.

There’s no one here by the river, he can’t help himself from thinking, It would be so easy to nip this mistake in the bud.

Again, he turns towards Scar, wondering if he’d approve. If they're thinking the same thought. If Scar would help or hinder him if he attacked B from behind and took him down, giving in to the overwhelming hunger of his appetite. But then, he turns back to B and his stomach twists. He doesn’t know if he could—not to someone he's so familiar with.

There’s a world of difference between tearing apart a stranger, and tearing apart someone he’s gotten to know. Intimately.

‘Six months,’ says an accusing voice in his head, a mix between his own and Scar’s. Grian swallows back the bile that rises in his throat, clenching his fists tight at his sides. His whole body remains tense, even as they leave the relative isolation of the river, his chance to take B out without notice passing, though the nausea of considering it remains.

He tries not to focus instead on how frightening it is the way B behaves, reacting with a startled, guilty jump every time someone waves at him in passing as they return to the compound. It makes Grian wonder if this is how B would have acted had he known about how close he and Scar were before the world fell apart. Would he have carried the lie? Or would he have put an end to things right at the start, stopping Grian’s spiral before it could ever begin?

Resolutely, B leads Scar and Grian back— not to their own, but to his cabin—the one closest to the dining hall. The door creaks as he opens it, B looking back over his shoulder as if to make sure they weren’t followed before he ushers them inside, closing the door firmly behind them and locking it for good measure.

The inside of his cabin, Grian finds, is cluttered and properly lived in. It’s the complete opposite to Grian and Scar’s, which still feels like they’re merely passing through, barely touched and free of clutter. Marks of B’s personality are everywhere—mugs left out on every surface, clothing hung up on an improvised line to dry, books and papers piled on a spare card table, and, most notable, a flannel shirt and pair of reading glasses that reminds Grian of what he’s seen Ren wear left on the foot of B's bed

“Alright,” B snaps, turning on them with an expression that pushes the hairs up along the back of Grian’s neck the moment he's sure they're all secure. “What the hell is going on here?”

Silence sticks between them, neither Grian nor Scar rushing to explain themselves.

“I’m not an idiot,” B continues, pacing a quick line across the floor. “I can see what that mark is and I know what it means, so don’t try to play it off as anything else.”

Immediately, Scar turns his head to the side, catching Grian’s gaze with his own. Wordlessly, he reaches out and takes hold of Grian’s hand, gently squeezing it before letting go.

Grian knows what it means innately—that Scar is on his side, no matter what.

He only wishes that didn’t make him feel worse.

Heedless of the moment they’re sharing, B continues to stare at them, his expectation fixed and oppressive. His demand—needing to know now—automatically incites the part of Grian that goes tight-lipped and resistant, making him want to buckle down and refuse. To become obstinate because he can.

“Grian,” B presses at last, his voice dipping down in a way that feels like a warning. “Please don’t force my hand.”

It’s not the time for it, but distantly Grian realises that his dynamic with B has always been like this. It’s always been Grian carefully keeping his secrets, while B remains held deliberately at arm’s length, doing everything in his power to try and get in.

Yet again, he can’t help but wonder if this is how things might have gone had he been caught cheating without the crashing edge of the apocalypse upheaving his entire life at the same moment. Would B have taken this tone with him? Would he have looked at Grian with the same mix of fear, uncertainty, and revulsion? Whose side would Scar have stood on?

Would he have remained in the room at all?

Grian’s lucky, he realises—not for the first time—that this is the way his life unfolded. That the end of the world tilted this single scenario in his favour, allowing him to face B, not alone, but with Scar’s support at his side.

There’s simply no way he could do this without him.

“I know what it looks like,” Grian starts, his voice more even than he thought it would be. “I know it looks bad.”

The expression on B’s face speaks to an aggressive agreement, his mouth fixing in a straight, silent line as he waits for Grian to explain himself fully.

“I need you to hear me out,” Grian entreats, almost pleading.

Silence sticks once more between them, and without any further reassurance, Grian finds himself forced to divulge his secret at last.

“A few weeks ago I was attacked. A… one of them jumped me from behind. It bit me. I… I died.” His words come out haltingly, pausing as he thinks them over before he clarifies, “A part of me died.”

He can see the way B’s expression shifts, the confirmation of all his fears realised at once. Every worst case scenario. Every wretched nightmare. The words B swore by, the trust he vouched for, all of it arranged on a rotten foundation that is now crumbling into the earth.

“I’m fine,” Grian insists, pushing away the parts of the statement he knows are a lie. “I’m fine, B. It was weeks ago. Weeks, okay? It didn’t affect me—the virus didn’t work.” He pauses, taking a deep breath before he adds, insistent, “We think I’m immune.”

Too late, he wishes he’d gotten to know B better. Wishes he knew what the look on his face means. Wishes that he could reassure B in the way he needs right now, so that this moment doesn’t boil over into a larger catastrophe.

Instead, Grian is met with an expression he can’t read and, right behind it, a statement that catches him blindsided.

“You have to go,” B demands, voice low and rushed in a way Grian doesn’t understand. In a way that doesn’t seem fair. “Now.”

He knows he shouldn’t, he knows he has no right to push back, but Grian can’t help himself, his lip curling slightly as he insists, firm, “I’m not dangerous, B.”

He doesn’t mention his hunger. Doesn’t mention that he’s just as contagious as any of the mindless, undead ghouls they’ve encountered along the way. He doesn’t want to share it—exposing the parts of himself forever changed by an infection that still lurks in the cells and atoms of his hideously changed body.

“You don’t understand.” There’s something in B’s tone, a tension that Grian can tell isn’t just because of him. B casts his eyes around the cabin again, looking increasingly agitated until abruptly he focuses, staring directly at Grian as he warns, “He’ll kill you.”

The threat sticks in the air like a punctuation mark, simultaneously chilling and infuriating.

“Who—”

“You’re not listening to me,” B interrupts, his tone sharper than Grian has ever heard from him—ever thought he was capable of—as something like fear seeps into the edge of his words. “He’ll kill you. And then he’ll kill Scar for harbouring you. And then he’ll kill me for not going to him the moment I found out.”

A fundamental piece of what B's saying is missing, the necessary context still noticeably absent.

“I don’t—” Grian tries again, only to be cut off one final time.

“Ren.”

A chill goes up Grian’s spine, something inside him instinctively cowering at the way B says the other man’s name. In his mind, he can see Ren’s face again like he had that first day: sharp and cunning. The eyes of a hunter taking in its prey.

Grian’s not expecting Scar to speak up, his words steady and serious from beside Grian’s shoulder. “What are you saying?”

“Ren doesn’t do ‘immunity,’” B presses, insistent. “There are Living, and there are Infected, and there are Rules.” He sighs, hands curling into fists as he presses them against his temples. “I told you on day one—there are rules.”

Grian feels his guilt rotten and heavy within him. The knowledge that his secrecy caused this. A familiar feeling by now, but an awful one just the same. It worsens when B’s eyes meet his again, his expression overwhelmed and pushing into panic the longer their time together lasts.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

The question is quiet, fresh betrayal settling on top of what Grian has already spent so long piling up.

I’m sorry, Grian thinks, wishing he had the courage to say the words out loud. I was afraid. I didn’t want to go, not when Scar finally had something for a change.

Luckily, the moment shatters before B can pry an explanation out of him, Scar’s voice curt as he speaks into Grian’s silence.

“I don’t understand,” he says, tone flat and frank. “This whole time we’ve been here, you’re the only person who seems like they can approach Ren at all. Why can’t you just go… talk to him?”

“Because Ren won’t talk about this,” B snaps back, his patience finally running out as his nerves fray into his temper. “Because Ren’s not okay, alright? Because Ren’s—” he pauses, closing his eyes for a moment to gather himself before he sighs heavily and relents. “Because Ren took too many chances, and lost too many people already. And you lied to him, and he… Grian, he’s not well, okay? He’s not going to be able to handle this.”

B raises his hand, tugging nervously at the cropped end of his beard, weighing something internally before a dam gives way and he finally relents.

“Listen… there were more of us, initially. On day one of the outbreak, when things went to shit, I was by myself, and—it was so bad. I was in a city I didn’t know—that I couldn’t get out of, and people were dying and turning and tearing each other to pieces. Buildings were on fire, walls were collapsing, and then out of nowhere there was this guy in a pickup truck, and he slams the brakes and yells at me to get in, and…” His words trail off, lost in the memory before he explains more clearly, “It was me, Cleo, Ren, and another guy. Martyn. He… he was the one who made Ren stop. He told me to get in. He saved my life.”

An impatient part of Grian wants to interrupt—wants to ask what any of this has to do with him and Scar’s situation—but the somber look on B’s face stops him. It’s a mixture of things he’s grown all too familiar with, grief and regret and a sadness so deep it feels immeasurable. Grian’s seen it on the other survivor’s faces throughout the camp in passing glimpses. He’s seen it on Ren in abundance.

He’s seen it on Scar, when he thinks no one is looking.

He’s seen it on his own reflection, staring hollowly back at him through the bathroom mirror.

“The three of them had known each other for years, and I was a stranger to them, and they still brought me into the fold. Martyn got us out of the city—got us somewhere safe. We were together for about a week when we came across Bdubs, and even then, with the little we had and no plan to speak of, they made him part of the group without question.”

B wrings his hands, working the knuckles of his fist into the heel of his palm, the look in his eye distant as he recalls what are no doubt painful memories.

“It was Ren who came up with the idea of establishing a compound—a commune, he wanted to call it. But it was Martyn who led the charge on finding a place we could fortify in order to make sure that Ren’s plans were feasible. It was Martyn who championed all of Ren’s ideas. Martyn who kept morale up when Cleo and I felt unsure about the way things were going. Ren’s been our leader since day one, but it was Martyn who built the foundation to support him the way he needed.”

“We haven’t met Martyn,” Scar whispers, quiet, but even as he says it, Grian knows that an awful realisation is dawning on him, the mood in the room growing more and more tense.

“And you won’t,” B explains with a slow shake of his head. “Because Martyn’s dead.”

It’s what Grian expected to hear, but it sucks the air out of the room all the same. Around them, the world seems too quiet, as if even the breeze moving through the trees has opted to hold its breath. Taking a moment, B works through his emotions, his face twisting up before he smooths it out again.

“We all… took it pretty badly. By the time it happened, we’d established this place and had quite a few people with us already, so Martyn was… he was a familiar face to everyone. Losing him… it wasn’t easy.” He pauses, shrugging a shoulder as if to shake something off. Like he’s trying not to get too caught up in the emotion of it all.

“Not that any death is easy, but it felt… bigger, somehow. Like we’d lost a piece of ourselves. And if that’s how people like Bdubs and I felt, who’d only known Martyn for a few weeks, it’s… difficult to quantify just how awful it was for Cleo and Ren.”

Everything around them feels cold, as if the longer B speaks, the lower the temperature drops. Through the window of B's cabin, Grian can see that it’s begun to snow outside, tiny flakes making their way down from the bright grey, almost white, sky above.

“We were all worried about Cleo—she and Martyn made it no secret that they were divorced, but it was obvious that they still cared about each other, even if it wasn’t romantic. Luckily, Cleo had Bdubs to lean on, and Bdubs to help share that grief with. But when it came to Ren... Nobody even realised how heavily Ren had come to rely on Martyn until suddenly he was gone and Ren had… no one,” B pauses, pulling a deep breath in through his nose, pained by the memories. “He was a ghost of himself… so lost and haunted, and I knew—I knew—that I had to do something. I was the only other person left. I had to step up, but I—” Abruptly B's words stumble to a stop, emotion piling in his throat as he concludes, “Sometimes I can’t help but feel like all I did was make things worse…”

In the wake of his words a terrible tension remains, desperate for a final piece of clarity.

Grian hates how much he needs to be sure. To be absolutely certain.

“B…” he interrupts, an awful foreboding crawling up his spine. “How, exactly, did Martyn die?”

The silence that follows is loaded, heavy with an implication so strong it’s as if Grian can feel it, like a physical weight in the air.

When B finally speaks, his face has been cleared of all emotion. His voice is a flat monotone, devoid of any feeling at all.

“Martyn got bit by a zombie. So Ren had to kill him.”

The stillness within the cabin is rancid, neither Grian nor Scar speaking, gripped by the revelation.

“They were supposed to be out on patrol together,” B explains, metering the words out one at a time with careful deliberation. “Ren was… he was reckless, but then—we all were. Thought we were untouchable, y'know? Surviving the initial outbreak, establishing this place without problem, meeting all these like-minded people… I think we all genuinely thought that the worst of it was behind us. I know Ren did, for sure.”

There’s a weariness to B’s words. The hubris of the past, made stark by the clarity of hindsight. His story beleaguered by the idea that a couple of weeks into the outbreak they were ready to believe that the calamity had peaked and they were heading towards a return to normal.

“Ren went out ahead to scout the road alone, assuming that Martyn was right behind him. Things went sideways. Fast. Nobody knew that Ren had been ambushed by a horde—there’s no guns in this country. No shots were fired to warn us. He was supposed to be carrying a flare, but it was in Martyn’s bag… When Martyn finally caught up to him, Ren was in a bad way, so Martyn ran in to save him, but…”

The implication is clear, but B continues speaking all the same.

“By the time Ren brought him back to camp, it was already too late. His whole… his face, his arm, his shoulder… there was nothing any of us could do.”

He exhales slowly, a faint tremor in his breath.

“We all knew he was dying, but it was Martyn who begged Ren not to let him turn. He wanted… he needed Ren to make sure that there was no chance he could come back, and… and like I said earlier, it’s not as easy to find guns in this country, so… Ren had to take things into his own hands.”

Grian remembers their first day, meeting Ren amidst the chaotic clutter of his cabin. The hard, unapproachable slant of his words. The way his eyes had looked right through them.

The bloodstained axe resting next to his chair where he’d sat and talked to them. Untouched. More like a relic than a piece of weaponry still seeing regular use.

He swallows around the lump in his throat, feeling a prickle as the hairs rise along the back of his neck, his imagination running away from him as he plays out Martyn’s last moment in his head.

“The rules came in after that,” B finishes simply. “Curfews, schedules, routine, accountability. Guns… We had to take things seriously. No more room for error. The Ren we’d all gotten used to—gotten to know… he wasn’t here anymore. Camp life changed.”

Biting his lower lip, B looks down, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Ren changed.”

The tragedy of it is undeniable, one in a sea of countless similar stories. Heartbreak mixed with loss and sadness.

“I’m sorry for his loss,” Grian offers, the words awkward on his tongue, not quite knowing how to extend condolences for the passing of someone he’s never met. “But I guess I just… don’t know what that has to do with us. I’m telling you that I’m immune—I’m not like those… things.”

“If it’ll make things better, we can talk to Ren—” Scar starts, only for the look on B’s face to change abruptly, drawn back into the moment as he focuses on the two of them and the matter at hand.

“It’s not gonna work like that,” he insists with a shake of his head. “That’s the worst thing you could do.”

He sighs, heavy, looking around the room like he’s searching for some other outcome to give them, only to come up short.

“I believe you,” he starts, and Grian tries his best not to flinch at the ease with which B accepts another one of his half-truths. “You say you’re immune, and that’s… that’s amazing. That’s incredible. But it’ll do no good here, because Ren won’t believe you.” When Scar opens his mouth to speak, B shakes his head again. “It’s not a matter of trying to convince him or—or proving it somehow. I need you to understand that Ren won’t believe you because he can’t believe you.”

Walking over to the nearest window, B eases the curtain back and glances out through it, as if making certain they’re still alone.

“He’s still grieving. He hasn’t let go of what happened. Hasn’t let go of Martyn. If you go around touting your immunity, it’s only going to put doubt in Ren’s head. It’s going to make him wonder if maybe Martyn could’ve had that same immunity, and if he killed him before we ever got a chance to find out.” B’s jaw tightens as the words sink in around them, chilling Grian to the bone.

Despite himself, he can start to see it. Can start to understand the real issue caught within the spiral of Ren’s grief.

“Ren won’t accept it because he can't," B insists, his words sharp. "He’s not capable of it at this point. Not when he’s still so deep in mourning. To Ren, you can’t be immune because he can’t have killed Martyn for no reason. He’ll kill you to make sure killing Martyn wasn’t a mistake. His mistake.”

It’s a harrowing confession, one that sends a shiver up Grian’s spine. He hasn’t seen enough of Ren to know him as a person, but he knows from the way every survivor at the camp talks about him that they all have an ardent devotion to the man. A kind of trust that’s come without doubt or question. To learn that such dangerous instability lurks within him, and has been so carefully guarded by B, is a frightening thought.

And yet, when Grian tries to imagine losing someone—losing Scar—he can’t say that a part of him doesn’t understand it.

“So you see why you have to go,” B continues, the corners of his mouth created into a frown. “There’s no hiding this. Sooner or later the truth will come out—we all know that secrets don’t keep forever.”

The remark hits deep, all three of them well aware of their history, and the gravity of the situation settles between them into something heavy and immutable. It’s Scar who’s the first to recover, placing a hand on Grian’s shoulder and nodding in B’s direction.

“So we leave,” he says, more calm than it seems possible to be. He lets his words resonate for a moment before offering a sideways smile in an attempt at levity. “Do you think we’ll have time for breakfast, or should we pack up immediately?”

It doesn’t quite break the tension in the room, but B manages a half-smile in return, though the expression fails to reach his eyes. “I think breakfast could be arranged… but let’s pack your things up first. It’ll help speed along your exit after, in case anyone tries asking questions.”

The incrimination is heavy as they leave B’s cabin, as if both he and Scar can feel the accusing sting of every imagined eye on them as they leave B’s front step and return to the cabin they've both been sharing. There’s no ambush waiting for them as they approach, however. No indictments pinned to the door. None the less, Grian feels the haste of urgency as he steps inside, crossing the floor quickly to his backpack while he begins to pack his things.

“We shouldn’t say anything at breakfast,” he says aloud, words more confident than he feels.

The silence of Scar’s response is telling, Grian’s suggestion anathema to everything he knows Scar believes in and holds dear.

“You’re right,” he finally agrees at length, the admission quiet. “It’ll be rough if they try to convince us to stay.”

A part of Grian aches at the thought. He thinks of Bdubs and Cleo and Etho, all so welcoming and kind when he’d been nothing but prickly and irritable towards them when he first arrived. He thinks of Joel, who he’s found what he truly wants to call friendship in, after a lifetime of feeling like friendships were something he was incapable of cultivating. He thinks of Scar, who has made fast friends with so many people here, easily connecting with the community around him.

Yet again, he’ll be the reason Scar will have to put it all behind him. Yet again, Scar will be worse off for having chosen to remain at his side.

Packing is miserable—so different from the reluctance to stay that he’d initially felt when they’d first arrived. Worse, even, when Grian realises that both of them have grown complacent while they enjoyed the luxury of the compound’s three square meals a day. There are no longer any food or rations in either of their bags—Not that Grian will need them, but he knows that it means Scar will be hungry as soon as they leave, and with the surrounding area already well raided for the camp’s provisions… Grian can’t even begin to guess how far they’ll have to go before they start finding untouched, abandoned pantries and convenience stores again.

He tries not to think about it, hoping that Scar will be able to sweet-talk his way into getting a few non-perishables and unopened cans for the road before they go.

Biting the inside of his cheek, he empties his things out of the lowest drawer in the cabin’s dresser, folding them tightly into his bag in order to take up as little space as possible. His spare clothes, their few camping items, his toiletries, and his sleeping bag barely fill half of his bag when he’s finally done. He doesn’t even know where his canteen is anymore, aware that he should have it and frustrated that he doesn’t. He feels simultaneously rushed and too late, like there’s already a target on him and anything he does now to improve or change their odds will be entirely in vain.

This isn’t fair.

It’s an old refrain, one Grian hasn’t thought back to in days. His teeth continue to gnaw along the inside of his cheek in order to hold himself back from saying anything he’ll regret. Instead, he pulls his maps out of the waterproof sleeve he’d been carrying them in before they settled into the cabin, turning the creased, poorly folded pages over and over in his hand as he tries to imagine where they can possibly go next. It’s daunting, the world suddenly too large, and yet not nearly large enough for the kind of distance he know they'll need to keep.

Across the floor, on the other side of the cabin, it’s clear that Scar is also coming to the same realisation about the state of their supplies, his bag alarmingly lean as he zips it shut.

It feels like they’re being banished—sent out into the wild to starve and die. Sentenced to something cruel and inhumane, like sick, injured animals.

Like prey.

It’s as Grian is preparing to call on B, to appeal to the good person he knows he is—to ask him to do something to help them—that they hear it; screeching tires and the sound of a horn blaring, fast and urgent.

“Fuck,” B mutters under his breath, tense in a way that feels damning. Like it’s already too late for them. “What now?”

The three stand still, Scar and Grian frozen while they wait for a cue on what to do. Outside the horn continues, loud enough to be within the gates of the compound, but still far enough away that Grian doesn’t immediately assume it has anything to do with them.

“Someone wants attention,” Scar says at last.

The implication is loud and clear, deferring to B and his authority on the matter.

‘What do you want us to do?’

It’s obvious that B is conflicted, his position as one of the founders of the camp called on by the situation at hand, but reluctant to leave Scar and Grian alone while he tends to this new distraction. Ultimately, the decision is made for him as the honking continues, drawing closer and closer until it’s impossible to ignore.

They hear the slamming of a door and the unmistakable sound of Etho’s voice as he shouts, desperate.

“Somebody help!”

Turning, B scrambles to open the door, rushing outside as fast as he can. With a nervous exchange of glances, Scar and Grian do the same, following after him to see what the commotion is. It’s clear that plenty of other residents have had the same idea, gathering outside their doors and trickling out from the hall, encircling the jeep that now sits as the central focal point of the compound.

At first, Grian can’t tell what he’s looking at, Etho standing with his back to the group. He’s faced towards the jeep’s open rear door as he struggles to remove something from within it.

“Is everything alright?” Cleo asks, their voice carrying over the murmuring of the crowd as she arrives on the scene. Bdubs trails not far behind, an apron from the dining hall tied low around his waist, absently cleaning his hands off on a rag.

The question is directed to no one in general, but B answers from across the distance, his tone cautious and unsure. “We’re not sure yet…”

“Etho, love?” Cleo presses, their voice gentle as they approach the jeep. “What’s happening here?”

Either ignoring them or unable to hear in the tension of the moment, Etho continues labouring within the back seat of the jeep. His voice is muffled but urgent as he speaks to his passenger, gathering them up, arms heavy, when at last he finally turns around.

Grian feels his reaction in his chest, his heart stuttering with what he can only describe as dread.

In Etho’s arms is Joel. Head lolled to one side and blood soaking through his shirt, his body completely limp in Etho’s grip.

A sound ripples through the crowd. Concern mixed with something worse—something awful. All at once, Grian thinks back to what B had shared just moments ago, and he wonders if the residents are thinking of it now in the same way he is.

“Is he—” Bdubs starts.

“He’s alive,” Etho croaks, and it’s only then that Grian notices he’s not wearing his mask, the full desperation of the expression on his face clear for anyone to read. It’s strange to see him like this—like Grian is overstepping by seeing something he shouldn’t be. It makes him turn his attention elsewhere, studying Joel’s body in Etho’s arms instead, looking small and impossibly fragile.

“Bdubs, grab the first aid gear,” Cleo barks, suddenly all business. “And somebody get me a load of towels immediately!”

“I’m on it,” B replies, ducking back into the cabin to grab whatever Scar and Grian haven’t already used.

Like a fuse has been lit, the camp is a sudden commotion of activity, people asking what they can do to help and others making their own decisions about what must be needed. Grian watches as several residents bring out a table, quickly covering it in a bed sheet to create a gurney to lay Joel on. Arms are extended, offering to help Etho place him down, but Etho refuses to let anyone touch him, pulling away from anyone who comes near.

A part of Grian doesn’t think Etho is even aware of his behaviour. His body is tense and his eyes are wide and frantic, like he hasn’t entirely processed what’s going on. Eventually, Cleo manages to coax him into putting Joel down, and it’s a relief when they all hear him groan as he’s laid flat on the tabletop.

It surprises Grian to find out how much he cares, and how much this is upsetting him. He’s never considered himself heartless by any stretch, but he’s always taken care to keep his attachments to himself. Seeing Joel looking so gaunt and pale, eyes pinched shut in pain as he lays there, injured and bleeding… it upsets him more than he’d ever expected it might.

“Give him some space,” Cleo instructs, their voice carrying with the confidence of leadership, motioning the crowd back so that only she and Etho remain close to Joel.

Without Etho’s arms wrapped tight around him, Joel’s injury is immediately apparent—an enormous bloody gash torn into his chest and running down his side. Parts of his shirt gape open around the wound, and his entire torso is soaked in blood.

Grian wants, desperately, to believe that the injury doesn’t look like it was made by human hands.

By something infected.

“Give it here.”

In the chaos, Cleo’s voice is shockingly calm. They speak over the assorted questions and concerns of those gathered when Bdubs finally returns with a first aid kit, breathless as he hands it over.

“We have to get him inside,” they continue, officious as she unzips the bag, resting it on Joel’s leg as they begin to search through it for the right supplies.

“Stop the bleeding first, for pity’s sake,” Bdubs argues. Rolling up his sleeves, he moves to the opposite side of the table, ready to brace his palms against the open wound on Joel's side, hhalted only at the last second by an aggressive shout from Etho.

“Don’t touch him, Bdubs.”

It’s as firm as Grian’s ever heard Etho sound, and it’s clear that it startles them all. At the same time, it’s all Grian needs to send his thoughts spiraling.

Suddenly, his worst fears are coming true. Suddenly, it’s his blood that’s leaking from Joel’s injury, oozing and infected. He swallows thick around the lump in his throat, feeling guilty by association, even though he knows that this is something outside of the timeline of his altercation with Joel in the woods.

At this distance, it’s impossible to tell if those are truly bite marks snarled into Joel’s side, in the vulnerable place between his pelvis and the bottom of his ribs, or just a product of his own overactive imagination.

He tries not to read into it. Tries not to recognize the tells with a sickness that sinks down into his bones, the mark on his shoulder aching in sympathy.

“Not with your bare hands,” Etho continues, his voice quieting when he notices the injured way Bdubs looks at him. "Please..."

It’s as good as a confirmation from where Grian is standing. A sudden certainty Joel's wounds aren't merely an accident from a hunting knife or an errant crossbow bolt.

That the worst has truly happened.

“Get these gloves on,” Cleo instructs, ignoring the tension between the two, the entirety of their focus on Joel.

There’s a practised familiarity to their actions, levelheaded in the face of a disaster. Grian can’t help but wonder how she was during the onset of the outbreak. Has this always been a part of her personality, or was it learned in response to the world falling apart around them?

The entire camp seems to hang onto their every word, watching her actions with nervous, bated breath.

Slipping her own hands into a pair of heavier rubber gloves, the kind used in the kitchen dish pit, Cleo’s eyes momentarily meet Etho’s. They communicate something Grian isn’t privy to before she says, softly, “Etho. Your mask.”

The revelation catches Etho off guard, clearly taken by surprise. His pale eyes widen for a moment before he fumbles down to his hip, unclipping his respirator from his belt and hastily lifting it to his face.

From down on the table, Joel murmurs something. Groggy from pain, but unambiguously lucid.

“Let’s not speak,” Cleo says, not unkindly, looking down at him with an expression Grian knows is pitying. He wonders what it must be like for them, reliving this trauma so soon after the last time. “Not until I’ve had a good look at you.”

“M’married,” Grian hears Joel slur, catching the flagging edge of his sense of humour. “Don’t be weird.”

It’s enough to push a smile into the corner of Cleo’s lips, though not enough to remove the resolved, mournful look in their eyes.

She has her fingertips tucked under the edge of his shirt, ready to ease it back when a voice interrupts them.

“What’s going on here?”

The words come heavy and stern, with the lilt of an accent Grian hasn’t heard properly since he first arrived at the camp.

Immediately, the entire compound goes still, hushed into a silence that feels terrifying. Approaching from the far edge of the camp, having clearly come from his secluded barracks, is Ren.

He looks like a statue, a figure carved from stone as he stands and assesses the commotion, his hands deep in the pockets of his heavy, fur-lined jacket.

Unable to help himself, Grian thinks to what B had only just told them—how Ren had been changed by his grief. How he’d gone from someone reckless and human into something immovable because he had to be. He thinks he can see it now—the scars of mourning written into the tired lines of his face and the threads of grey shot through his otherwise dark, unruly hair. There’s no trace of the softer, almost-awkward person Grian had glimpsed on occasion in the dining hall, his expression cold as he surveys the scene in front of him.

The camp remains silent under his observation, Etho and Cleo exchanging loaded glances as Bdubs looks worriedly between them.

“I asked a question,” Ren continues, each word impossibly grim. “You all know I’m loath to repeat myself.”

“We were out for patrol,” Etho starts, slow and halting, like it’s taking everything he has to simply say the words. “There was—the horde has moved further than the reports said. We were surrounded. It—things were bad and—and Joel’s been injured.”

A few small, muffled murmurs crawl through the crowd, and Etho’s head snaps in their direction.

“We handled it," he insists. "The outer fence will hold them. We made sure everything was secure before we left.”

Grian feels sick, hearing Etho promise safety when all eyes are now turning towards Joel’s injury. Blatant for what it is beneath Cleo’s palms. Undeniable, now.

“Joel’s been injured, how?” Ren asks, his words cutting to the heart of the matter.

Again, Etho looks at Cleo, begging for a reassurance she can’t give. Her expression is caught between an apology and mourning. Remaining focused while she continues cleaning Joel’s wound, wiping down what they can and beginning the process of disinfection and bandaging.

‘Pointless,’ says a bitter voice in Grian’s head. ‘They know it’s already too late.’

“Injured how, Etho?” Ren asks again, austere. He steps closer, breaking through the circular formation that’s gathered around Joel’s body.

“He—we were being careful,” Etho insists, struggling with the words, his eyes darting around the group as he stumbles through his explanation. “There were just—there were so many, and we—”

“You’ll have to kill me,” Joel says, speaking up and surprising them all, his voice frighteningly clear as he interrupts Etho’s rambling.

Like two halves of a magnet finally snapping together, the realisation lands. Bdubs gasps, a hand flying to cover his mouth while the gathered crowd remains largely silent with shock. At the side of it all, Ren flinches, and Grian wonders if the words are familiar to him. If those were the same ones he heard directed his way, before he’d had to make his own impossible decision.

“Oh, Joel…” Cleo whispers within a breath, anguished in a way Grian wishes he didn’t have to hear.

“Etho,” Joel insists. “I need you to do it—make sure I don’t turn.”

“Joel, I’m not—” Etho starts, shaking his head, hair falling over his eyes like a veil. Impulsively, Joel reaches out, grabbing his wrist in a tight grip, blood smearing across the pale curve of Etho’s knuckles.

“Etho, please,” Joel begs, gasping for breath. “I can’t—you can’t let me become one of those things. You promised me. We made a deal. I need you to kill me, and then find Lizzie and tell her I said—”

“Stop it,” Etho pleads, twisting his hand so that it slips properly into Joel’s grip, their fingers slotting together naturally. “Stop, Joel.”

“You promised me, Etho!” Joel snaps, a kind of fury rising into his voice that runs a shiver up Grian’s spine. “If you won’t kill me, then what am I supposed to do?” As quickly as it came, his anger fades, replaced by something distraught and desperate. “Please Etho,” he presses, a tremor running around the edge of his breath. “I don’t want to take anybody down with me when I don’t have control anymore. I need you. If you ever really—if you care about me at all, you’ll do this. Please.”

Standing rigid near the foot of the table, Grian can see that Bdubs has begun to cry, tears tracking wet lines down his cheek. Stepping closer, Cleo wraps one of her arms around him, gentle with her touch.

Grian feels frozen himself, entirely unable to move. Every iota of his concentration pinned on Joel, whose blood has begun staining the sheet spread out beneath him.

The moment lengthens, becoming incrementally worse with each passing second. Etho remains locked to Joel, gripping his fingers in a way that must be painful. Clinging to him. Desperate.

Finally the silence breaks—not from the two joined together and interlocked. Not from Cleo, or Bdubs, or anyone from the crowd.

It’s Ren who speaks. His tone low, words a rumbled growl that seems to emanate from deep within his chest. “What’s the hold up, then?”

Around the table, everyone aside from Joel pins their eyes downwards, refusing to face the reality that’s staring back at them. To look at both Ren and the truth head on.

“You heard what he said,” Ren presses, his tone uncomfortably level in a situation where no one present is calm. “He’s infected.”

The seconds lengthen, each one flowing miserably into the next.

“You know the rules,” Ren finishes at last, the statement declarative and not up for debate.

“Ren,” Cleo finally attempts, their voice breaking fragile around the syllable of his name. “Please.”

Immediately, the light in Ren’s eyes darkens, his jaw tensing as his resolve calcifies.

“So be it,” he says at last, his weight shifting to one side as his hand moves out of his pocket and towards his hip, reaching into his jacket and producing a pistol. Grian thinks back to B’s distress—mourning what Ren had to do without access to a gun. He wonders how soon after the event all that had changed. How quickly had Ren resolved never to be in that situation again...

With steely precision, Ren raises his weapon, aiming for where Joel lays on the table. The release of the safety is loud in the air as he pulls it back with his thumb.

“If none of you can manage this, then I’ll take it into my own hands.”

Like a bomb has gone off, all hell breaks loose. Multiple voices shout at once, some in warning, some in pained acceptance, and still others in vehement objection. Without a breath to consider the consequences, Etho moves, putting himself bodily between Ren and Joel by curving over the smaller man’s form, his expression set with a fierceness that takes Grian by surprise.

“Etho!”

The pain in Bdubs’ voice is visceral. His hand clinging tight to Cleo’s arm as she struggles to hold him back, preventing him from throwing himself against Etho and directly into Ren’s line of fire.

“We’re about to lose one good man,” Ren says, heedless of the others as he stares down the barrel of his gun directly at Etho, his voice stony with the weight of his warning. “Don’t make us lose two today, Etho.”

Grian doesn’t realise he’s about to interrupt until he’s already speaking, shouting above the din as he puts a hand up, suddenly desperate to prevent things from spinning any further out of control.

“Wait, wait—hang on, wait!”

He can feel the sudden focus of every eye present on him, tension pulling tight across his chest as he struggles to stand up straight under the collective scrutiny of the entire camp.

“Grian…” At his side, Scar’s voice is quiet, a softness in it that Grian wishes he had the time to appreciate. There’s nothing forbidding about his tone. If anything, it’s reassuring. Grounding. Reminding him that, no matter what, Scar will be be right there.

Come hell or high water.

“I’ll warn you not to waste the precious seconds we have,” Ren barks, the edge of his lip curling with impatience. “These aren’t your people and this isn’t your place, interloper. Now is not the time.”

“Ren,” Cleo gasps, aghast at his dismissal in a way that at least succeeds in grabbing Ren’s attention for a moment.

Grian swallows, his nerves forcing his pulse upwards, drumming thunder-loud in his ears.

He knows the edge of the precipice he stands upon. The impossible odds he can’t simply let go of. After everything he’s done, and in the wake of every time he’s ever made the decision to step back and let the worst happen, he knows he can’t remain silent now. Not when there’s still a sliver of hope.

He can’t keep watching Scar walk out his front door and refuse to chase after him. He’s done with letting go of Quackity’s hand, leaving him to fall into the horde.

He’s no longer letting a stranger take him home, keeping quiet about the loving partner he has waiting elsewhere.

“How do we know…” he starts, his words stumbling and immediately failing him, plunging him into an awkward silence that he doesn’t know how to break.

Staring him down, Ren’s brows furrow, his voice impatient as he snaps, “Spit it out or hold your tongue, but make your decision now.”

Behind him, Grian feels it—the familiar touch of Scar’s hand; a brace he’d know anywhere, in any life, at any time. The gentle pressure settled right between his shoulder blades. An anchor against his back for him to steel himself against.

“How do we know that he’s been infected by the bite?” He asks, heedless of the warning B had given him mere minutes before. Brazenly, he presses onward, direct and clear, “How do we know he’s not immune?”

A murmur ripples through the crowd, too confused to be hopeful. Several people exchange glances, looking at Grian before glancing back to Joel. Not far from him, Grian watches as B closes his eyes, his expression pained and irrevocably resigned.

“What…?” Ren asks, his voice cracking around something fragile before he demands, harsh, “Explain yourself. Immediately.”

Grian knows he should look at him. Should ingratiate himself with what he knows as much as possible. He can’t tear his eyes away from Etho, however. Etho who, more than anyone, has lit up with a spark that’s been missing since he pulled Joel out of the jeep.

Who looks like Grian’s question has breathed new life into him.

“There’s a chance the virus won’t affect him,” he insists, speaking directly to Etho now, disregarding the presence of anyone else. “There’s a chance he won’t turn. That it’ll slough off him. That he’ll be fine.” It's a half-truth, he knows that, but it's the only mercy he can bestow.

“If you kill Joel now, Etho,” Grian warns, knowing he’s condemning himself with every admission, “You’ll never know.”

In the corner of his vision he can see Ren flinch, the gesture so small and subtle that Grian almost misses it completely. His stomach swoops, thinking of how Ren must be recalling his past—the agony of the person he lost, and the immediate quandary of whether it was inherently unnecessary.

Then, just as B had warned, the expression on Ren’s face hardens, forbidding in a way that chills Grian to his core.

“You’re suggesting a fairy tale,” he growls. “You're asking us to risk everything we have achieved here, and for what? There’s no such thing as immunity.”

“What’s the harm in trying?” Grian presses, adamant. “Tie Joel up if you have to—throw away the key. If he’s really infected it shouldn’t take more than a few hours for it to show, right? We all know that.”

“Your recklessness will be the death of everyone you care about,” Ren dismisses, spitting the words like a curse, brokering no argument. “I’m not about to let you preach the impossible.”

“I’m not lying,” Grian insists, indignant, even as he slips his neck into a snare of his own creation.

There’s no time to soften it. No opportunity to walk things back. As clear as day, a sudden suspicion manifests itself in Ren’s gaze, haunted and paranoid and wild.

“And what makes you say that?” he all but snarls. “What, may I ask, has made you so certain that this is an avenue worth exploring?”

Grian can feel the ring of his scar sunk into his skin—the permanence of the infected bite torn into his shoulder. He tries to prepare himself, knowing the truth is no longer a thing he can escape. That he has brought himself here. That this is his moment.

“We met people.”

Scar’s voice catches him off guard, loud in the collective silence, his interruption a fresh point of anxiety, searing guilty-hot against the back of Grian’s neck.

Unbidden, Grian’s eyes dart over to where Scar stands beside him, his partner’s expression calm amidst the chaos, like a part of him thrives in this state. Like this is where he’s most in control.

“Person,” Scar continues, amending his statement once he feels the crowd’s focus has shifted to him. “One. One person. He’d been bitten during the initial outbreak, but… he was fine. He didn’t turn.”

It’s not a lie, but Grian knows the full truth remains buried, obscured beneath the ease of Scar’s handwave. Around them, Grian can sense the ripple of hope that runs through the crowd. The confirmation that immunity exists igniting something within everyone gathered.

Ren’s eyes don’t waver, however. Fixed on Grian in a way he knows is damning. It doesn’t matter that someone else exists in which immunity resides—now that Grian’s spoken and brought Ren’s attention down on himself, he’s become a fixture that won’t be replaced so easily.

“Strip off your clothes,” he demands at last, ignoring Scar’s attempt at smooth talking the situation completely. “Show me.”

The feeling of the snare line pulling tight around his throat freezes Grian in place. The seconds tick past, his reaction too jostled to be anything but guilty. What should have been reproach or a dismissive refusal damning him in its absence.

“Ren,” Cleo interjects at last, their voice a thread of reason amongst the tension pulled taut between the two. “Come on, now. You can’t ask that of him.”

“I can, and I am,” Ren insists, his eyes remaining fixed on Grian, squaring off with something Grian knows is larger than the two of them. “If it’s true what they say—if they merely met someone along the way, then there’s no reason he can’t prove to me that he’s untouched by the infection. In fact, they both can.”

“What does it matter, Ren?” Cleo presses, impatient while Joel continues to bleed beneath the sustained pressure of her hands.

“We have rules,” Ren repeats as rote, firm and unbending. “Only unbitten, unmarked, unscathed individuals are allowed within the walls of this compound. When I let you through our gates you swore to me that you would commit yourself to those rules. If that remains true, then prove yourselves. Show me you are innocent.”

Grian sets his jaw, his eyes hardened as he meets the fixed line of Ren’s stare.

“I’m not doing that,” he declares at last, knowing with clarity that it’s the end of whatever grace Ren has been affording them.

“Very well then,” Ren responds, disdainfully dismissive. Without pause his aim shifts, the end of his pistol relocating so that it points straight at Grian instead. “We’ll do it your way.”

Behind him, Scar shouts something, but Grian doesn’t hear it, too startled by the gun and the focus of Ren’s aim. A clamouring breaks out in the crowd—shared shock, dismay, and alarm.

Before anyone can respond, however, B alone is shoving forward, planting himself directly in the line of Ren’s shot.

Grian can hardly process it, eyes wide as B throws a glance over his shoulder.

“Get your things,” he says, tone flat but firm. “It’s time for you to go.”

Looking briefly past where B stands, Grian catches a glimpse of the way Ren’s expression crumples. The usual weary dignity with which he holds himself—equal parts proud and grim—falling aside as heartbreak and betrayal appear plainly on his face. While his aim doesn’t waver, his voice does when he speaks, sounding utterly broken.

“What are you doing, B…?”

Before B can answer, a hand lands on Grian’s shoulder, nearly toppling him backwards.

“Let’s go,” Scar whispers, urgent as he drags Grian back towards their cabin with haste.

“You’re choosing him over me?” Ren demands, voice rising into a shout. His attention is fixed on B now, oblivious to or uncaring of Scar and Grian’s efforts to make an exit. “After everything? After all I’ve done for you?”

There’s a mournful expression on B’s face as Grian glances back over his shoulder. His feet stumble beneath him as he watches the scene continue to unfold. B looks like he wishes he didn’t have to be here. Like he regrets picking sides at all.

“You know it’s not like that, Ren,” he insists. “Please. You know I’m with you. Always.”

They’re back through the cabin doors before Grian can hear Ren’s response. He feels floaty, disconnected from his body, like he’s not entirely present—the situation moving too fast for him to keep up. Hastily, Scar is piling the remainder of their things together, shoving Grian’s arms through the straps of his bag, with the wheels of his chair secured snug to its frame. He throws on his own bag as well, his bow and quiver slung over his arm.

It’s only when Scar places both his hands on Grian’s shoulders, squeezing firmly, that Grian is knocked back into his own body. All at once, he’s both numb and anxious and Scar is staring at him, nodding once while Grian tries his best to nod back.

“Ready?” Scar questions, his hand on the doorknob, ready to go. This time, it’s Grian gazing mournfully back into the cabin. It’s Grian lingering on the threshold, reluctant to step outside.

He knew they’d have to leave sooner or later. He knew they’d never really be able to stay.

He just wishes it didn’t have to be like this.

“Let’s go, Grian,” Scar prompts. And just like that, they’re leaving for the last time.

The scene outside hasn’t changed as they exit their cabin. Every figure has remained anchored to the same spot, like they were waiting for Grian and Scar to return. With wild, feral eyes, Ren’s gaze darts towards them, followed by the attention of every survivor in the compound. There’s an awful silence within the group, tense, as if waiting for the dam to break. Ren’s gun has remained trained on B, and B has kept himself solidly in the way, standing in place as Scar and Grian edge behind him.

“It’s been nice meeting you all,” Scar says into the hush, his voice loud and carrying.

While they get no response, Bdubs bows his head, shoulders trembling with the enormity of his emotion. Cleo alone offering them a parting nod.

The gravel crunches, rough under their feet, but Grian can’t take his eyes off of Joel, still laying out on the table, short of breath and making a pained expression with each and every inhale.

If there was any way to save him, Grian wishes he could share it. If immunity was a choice, he’d pass his on to Joel without hesitation.

As if he can hear Grian’s thoughts, Joel catches his eye, and Grian’s throat tightens as he watches Joel offer him a half smile, his arm raising as he attempts to give him a thumbs up.

Eyes watery, he turns his gaze away, feeling the misery of a friendship lost.

“Goodbye,” Grian says, wishing he had time to say more. “Good luck.”

It’s not how he wanted this to happen. Not how he wanted to end their time here. A part of him is devastated, feeling cheated. Unable to give Joel the time and attention he deserves. Unable to apologise to B one last time. Knowing his lasting memories of this place are always going to be a jumble of fear, guilt, and anxiety.

Of never knowing what happened. Of never being able to end things properly.

But when he looks at Scar, another part of him is simply glad that they’re getting out while they still can.

Before it’s too late.

“Grian.”

Scar’s tone is clipped and direct when he speaks, forcing Grian back into the moment. His hand grips tight around Grian’s forearm as he leads him away from the gates, both of them knowing they’ll be shut and barred.

“Towards the river. We’ll cut through the woods, in the direction of the unfinished fence.”

It’s a miserable situation, leaving behind all of what could have been. With Scar leading, and his bag far too light on his back, Grian picks up his feet and follows him into the woods. He risks one last look over his shoulder towards the compound, where he can just barely see that Joel is sitting up.

Ren’s mouth moves as he speaks to B, but they’re too far for the sound to carry over. His gun remains trained in place.

“Watch your feet,” Scar warns him, his head bent as he pushes branches aside. “Don’t look back.”

It feels as if he’s talking to himself just as much as he is to Grian. The sound of his feet thud heavy as he leads just half a step ahead. There’s a resolve to Scar as he moves—a determination not to let this situation best him.

Strangely, it makes Grian want to say that he loves him. To thank him for being here. For leaving with him. He knows full well how easily he could have been left to slink away in the dark while Scar built a new life without him in it.

It’s as he’s opening his mouth to say the words that they both hear it—the sharp crack of a gunshot, the reverb echoing through the trees as the sound makes itself profound and unmistakable.

The nausea is immediate, Grian’s heel skidding as he tries to stop, to turn once more, to see.

“Don’t look back,” Scar repeats, urgent. His hold is tight on Grian’s arm, hauling him forward, even as every cell in Grian’s body begs him to stop, stop, stop. “We can’t help them now,” he adds, resolute. “Just keep going.”

No other sounds follow. No additional gunshots. No breaking of branches or sounds of pursuit.

No screams.

Together, Scar and Grian flee, and around them, the forest is silent.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When they finally stop for the day, the sun has only just set, adn the all-too-short hours it spent with them have left an unimpressive peachy-grey haze sketched into the clouds overhead. It will be dark within the hour, the last of the daylight fading fast and the temperature dipping along with it. It makes their breath begin to billow out around them in a fog as they realise they can go no further.

They’re on a single-lane dirt road, something the forest spat them out onto when they’d reached the limit of how far they could jog through the woods. There’s no signs of civilization anywhere around them, but Grian can see the marks and potholes left behind by years of ATVs tearing dips and divots into the earth. They’ve passed a few signs—handmade distance markers tied to tree limbs or hammered into trunks, and Grian wants to believe that means the road is going to take them somewhere. That sooner or later they’ll round a bend and find someplace picturesque and protected to stay the night.

But the snow that had started earlier has only continued as the afternoon progressed, and the mixture of darkness and slick, slippery footing aren’t the best for traveling in. There’s no secluded cabin on the horizon. No warm township to take them in. They have no other choice.

“I think we’ll need to set up camp here,” Grian mumbles, catching sight of Scar warming his hands with a breath. His heart aches, knowing that the cold affects Scar more than it does him.

He hates this situation. Powerless and on their own.

“I’m fine,” Scar insists. “We can keep going. It’s not even that dark yet.”

Adamant, Grian shakes his head. “It’s not about whether we can or not. It’s too risky with the way the weather is. Best to set up camp now, while we can still see. Maybe we get a bit off the road and find something beneath one of the bigger trees.”

A thoughtful expression crosses Scar’s face before he finally nods, agreeing. While it comes as a relief that he won’t have to push, Grian can’t help but regret that they’re in this situation at all. If they could’ve stayed in the camp just a few weeks longer, it would’ve been ideal. Safe, warm, fed, and secure. Like this, with almost no supplies, and the bulk of winter left to wait through…

“Hey,” Scar says gently, interrupting Grian’s rapidly spiralling thoughts as he knocks his shoulder into his, reading him like a book. “Don’t overthink it. We’re together, that’s what counts.”

The words manage to scrounge up what little joy Grian can find in himself to feel, coaxing out a small smile. Scar returns it, reaching down to take his hand and raising Grian’s knuckles to his lips for a kiss.

Working together, they find a serviceable enough space to camp that should keep them safe for the night. It’s an alcove hollowed into the root bulb of a toppled tree, sheltered from the light snow. Luckily for them both, they still have their sleeping bags, as well as the tent that Grian had scavenged while he was still on his own.

It takes some time to set things up but, eventually, they have not only a place to sleep properly, but a large enough fire going to offer them much needed warmth.

They sit together in silence near the edge of the flames, watching them dance and spit sparks as the sky above them continues to darken.

“Who do you think got shot?” Scar asks suddenly, abrupt.

Grian knows he doesn’t have an answer. He’s spent the majority of their day turning the options over in his head and yet, no matter how hard he tries, he knows he’ll never be able to discern the truth.

“The only options are B or Joel,” he offers at last, both answers awful and inconclusive.

“Unless it was a warning shot,” Scar suggests, pushing the end of a stick into the warm embers smouldering beneath the fire’s logs. “Maybe Ren aimed up into the trees, trying to scare ‘em.”

“Maybe,” Grian allows, doubtful.

The silence returns between them, contemplative and mournful in its own way as they continue studying the flames.

“Do you think that Joel…?”

Scar can’t bring himself to finish asking, but Grian’s heart aches at the question all the same. Profound and deep in a way he’d never predicted or anticipated.

“I don’t know,” he answers, words quiet in the dark. “But… I hope he’s okay. I hope they all are.” He surprises himself with how earnestly he means it. Everyone at camp, no matter how much or how little he knew them. He hopes things will be okay for them. He hopes that their lives only improve from here.

They continue sitting together in quiet contemplation, considering everything that occurred too quickly for them to take stock of at the time. A part of Grian feels like he’s caught in some kind of dream—not exactly a nightmare but not something that he can process with perfect clarity either. He’s anchored to emotions that conflict with one another, regretful of the way things have ended, yet relieved to still have Scar by his side.

It scares him a little—that even after all this, a not-insignificant part of him still thinks that it’s all been worth it. That as long as he has Scar sitting next to him, he still has all he needs. He’s sure there’s something to unpack there, something he needs to break down and rearrange until it’s not so dangerously codependent. And yet, when Scar reaches out to take his hand again, their fingers interlocking with the same ease he’d seen Joel and Etho’s do only hours earlier, Grian feels his stress settle in an instant. His worries becoming distant, like afterthoughts.

The two of them. Himself and Scar. Together at the end of the world.

By all measures, it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

“We should have a funeral,” Scar says, speaking softly into the gathering darkness. When Grian looks at him, head tilted in question, he only smiles, gentle. “To say goodbye to everyone we lost along the way—and to everything we’re not getting back.”

It is, as always, something that is so completely Scar that at first Grian doesn’t know what to make of it. He allows the thought to settle for a moment before he finally nods.

“I think that’s a good idea,” he agrees, unable to help but notice how Scar’s tender expression genuinely grows warmer when the suggestion isn’t pushed away.

Helping Scar to his feet, they work together to clear out a small space sheltered in the deepest part of their hollow, pushing away dry leaves, moss, and pine needles until they’ve cleared a square lit by the fire’s warm, flickering glow. There aren’t many large stones on hand, but Scar piles the few that they find into a small cairn. It’s nothing remarkable or showy, but it’s obvious in its placement that human hands arranged it and intentionally brought it into being.

A resting place for the life that lays behind them.

A memorial.

Standing back, Grian knows that he shouldn’t, but he can’t help the press of a tease, waiting until Scar moves to join him before he asks, “No viking funeral this time?”

It’s a dangerous question, one that could be misconstrued as hostile far too easily, especially when their reconciliation is still so fresh and vulnerable. It’s not a bond that needs to be tested— throwing them back to an event that’s best left in the past. A time they’ll likely put to rest here, as well.

“No,” Scar answers without hesitation, shaking his head without reproach, meeting Grian at his level with no suspicion or antagonism. “We’ve moved past things like that.”

It’s a touching sentiment. One that speaks to their growth and where they stand with one another, showcasing just how much they’re deciding to move past.

Humbled, Grian settles next to Scar’s side, the two of them observing the small grave for what it is. He doesn’t know if he should speak. If there are any words he could summon to fit the moment. The echo of the gunshot from earlier that day still lingers in his ears, rancorous and loud. Without anticipating it, Grian feels his throat go suddenly tight, realising that they’ve spent the last time they’ll ever enjoy in the company of people they can trust and call friends.

That this moment is as much a memorial for them and the people they once were, as it is for those they have known and lost.

“Pearl was looking forward to the new dog park that was being built,” Scar says at last, breaking the silence they’ve both lapsed into, “She was hoping that Tilly would have somewhere big and open to run. Cub was planning for the solar eclipse. He wanted us all to drive out so we could be in the path of it.”

Incredibly, Grian doesn’t feel the swirl of jealousy in his stomach that he used to when the names of Scar’s friends came up in conversation. Instead, he remains quiet, imagining a future that will never come to pass. One where he and Cub and Scar and Pearl all piled into his car and drove for hours companionably together.

“Karl and his boys wanted to get married. Pops wanted to settle down with his two and raise chickens.”

A moment of reflection passes between them before Scar continues.

“Joel was trying to look out for the people he loved. In all the ways that they were discovering they could love one another.”

The image of Joel and his easy smile settles in Grian’s mind. Taking care of those around him and always keeping an eye out for the sign of his wife coming home. It hurts, thinking how his story might have ended. Aching with a loss that Grian feels both companion and a stranger to.

“B stood up for us,” Scar almost whispers. “I didn’t think he’d be the one to do that.”

The fire pops, a loud crackle that sends a burst of sparks up into the darkness. Grian can feel the press of every name, heavy on his heart. He can’t believe how much he misses them already.

“Ren was trying to make something viable,” Scar concludes at last, with a heavy tone of respect. “He wanted to keep as many people alive as possible. He wanted to keep them safe.”

A deferential moment of silence settles between them. Somber as they acknowledge how far they’ve come, and how many people have had to remain behind in order for them to get to where they now stand.

“I hope some of them got what they were wishing for,” Scar finishes, drawing in a deep breath as he steels himself against the magnitude of their loss. “And I hope the others rest in peace.”

Following Scar’s words, Grian can’t help but wish he had something equally profound to say. Something that would pay respects to the people he knew and the ones he’s lost.

At the same time, he knows he won’t ever truly grieve so long as Scar is still at his side. He knows that he simply won’t ever feel the same.

Wordlessly, he reaches out, curling his bare fingers into the warm wool of Scar’s glove. A grounded sense of calm sweeps over him when Scar’s hand closes around his, holding it tight.

“I’m sorry I set you on fire, Ariana,” Scar adds abruptly. “And I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you going, Pizza.”

The apology to their vehicles stirs something in Grian, the sudden memory of a hundred things he hasn’t yet had time to sit down and tell Scar.

“I found it, you know,” he says, feeling Scar’s eyes shift towards him in a curious kind of interest. “Pizza. When I was trying to catch up to you, I found where you left him. On the side of the road.”

Scar makes a sound at that, a quiet hum of pleasant surprise.

“One last job for him,” he muses, squeezing Grian’s hand. “Delivering you back to me.”

There’s more Grian knows he has to tell him. The memory of Joel’s phone chief among them, and the picture he’s convinced had to be Tilly standing next to the waterfalls.

“Y’know,” Scar continues, distracting him with a careful drawl as he eases them out of their reverie and back into the moment. It doesn't bother Grian; he knows there will be plenty of time for them to talk, now that they’ve started things anew. Instead, he lets Scar’s mind skips ahead towards their future—something Grian no longer finds himself shying away from, as he once used to do. “With the state of the world right now… I bet a coffin seller could make a killing going door to door.”

It’s a dark comment. Too dark, maybe, for the moment at hand. All the same, Grian can’t help but quirk a small grin in response, chuckling into the darkness crowded in close around them.

“Are you thinking of a new career path?” he asks, enjoying the feel of Scar’s thumb rubbing back and forth along his knuckles, the sensation familiar and grounding. A reminder of how, at the end of all things, he’s still there, anchored beside him, warm and alive. “A humble travelling coffin merchant?”

“Nah,” Scar dismisses, his focus naturally shifting back towards their camp. The fire is bright where it waits for them, his chair and their tent and all their gear settled beside it. “I was never a very good salesman.”

“You always sold me,” Grian admits, realising only after the words have left his mouth that he’s said them aloud, rather than quietly hanging on to them as a guarded thought.

Scar’s smile is beatific, and he holds Grian’s hand tightly, long enough to help leverage himself back down to sit on a log by the fire. He makes sure that Grian has settled close next to him before he extends his palms out to warm them against the heat of the flames.

“We’ll find our niche,” he says at last, confident as he rubs warmth back into his fingertips. “There’s something out there for us. We’ll make it work.”

With burgeoning confidence growing snug in his chest, Grian knows for a fact that they will.

 

 

 

Notes:

THAT'S IT, FOLKS! Just the epilogue left now! >:D

We're really looking forward to hearing your responses to this chapter—a lot happened in it, but this is very much wrapping up the majority of plot threads and aaaaa, it's insane that we're even here tbh! Still feels like we JUST started writing TAMN a week ago :")

ALL THAT SAID!! Since this is the final chapter as far as plot goes, Lock and I are gonna take a moment here to get sappy with it, hehehe 💖 We figure it's better to get all the emotions out with a chapter like this one and then leave things on a high note next week ;D

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FOR MY PART, I just wanna say that it's been incredible posting chapters here every week and then chatting with you guys in the comments. 💜 There have been a couple of points where Lock has checked in to make sure I'm not getting overwhelmed answering comments and I tell them over and over that I actually love it SO much because you guys have really made it feel like such a community :') Long before we had the gorgeous fanart and the discord server to add to that happiness, it was the comments on their own lifting Lock and I up and making us feel super engaged with what we were writing. Every time someone guessed what was coming up or had an accurate read on the characters, we were SO thrilled. I've written fics for a lot of fandoms, but I really do think we've cultivated something special here together, and the messages you all left were some of the more thoughtful, poignant and funny comments I'd read in a long, LONG time. And of course, that community branching out and drawing fanart, writing TAMN!fanfics, making playlists and doing cosplay—all of that ultimately culminating in a server where we could share that excitement all together... :") Wow. Truly leaves me speechless. Thank you all, so, so, SO very much for the good times (heh) and all the memories we've made here together. Genuinely one of the fondest fandom experiences I've had in a while. ✨

I'd also like to take a moment to thank my co-writer Lock for everything they've done! I LOVE YOU BESTIE!! 💜 All those late nights chatting up plot points and 'yes, and'ing each other from one crazy idea to the next—I'm so, SO glad we're here at the end together. ;w; I'm incredibly grateful to you for going along with my crazy insistence that we HAD to write this fic and that we HAD to do it in a specific timeframe 😂 Every step of the way, you've been the most accommodating. You were on board to write, to draw banners for our chapters, to draw references and posters, to edit things over and over, all without a real complaint. (The fake whining was, of course, to be expected ;3) I couldn't have chosen a better person to do this with, and I'm so grateful to the universe for making us friends 💫 I wouldn't be here without you bestie, love you so, SO much. 🤗🤗🤗

— Key 🔑

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And now it's my turn <3
I truly can't believe we're here. Key knows that I've always longed to write a properly long Long Fic, and so finally being able to not only write one, but see it all the way through, and with such an incredible co-writer, teammate, and bestie has made this one of the most fun and most rewarding fandom and creative things I've ever done. I'm hugely grateful to the readers of TAMN for coming on this journey with us, for your thoughts, analysis, reactions, and comments; for the fanart, fics, and playlists; to the Life Series and DayZ for inspiring us as much as it did in the first place; and most of all to Key, who made this fun every step of the way, who is so extremely creative, talented, hard working, and funny, and who never fails to not "yes, and-" me when we start spiralling about something. I love u so much and couldn't have done this without you, Key, and I'm so happy so many people read along with us as we probed the raw, messy, vulnerable emotions in these two deeply flawed but earnest characters. I hope you all enjoyed what we made; I'm glad we got to share it; and I can't wait to see what we get to create next <3 -🔒

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THANK YOU AGAIN, FROM THE BOTTOM OF OUR HEARTS, FOR READING AND SUPPORTING TAMN! 🎉
HAVE A GREAT HALLOWEEN 🦇, and see you next week Friday for the epilogue! 🔐

Chapter 42

Notes:

Oh wow, here we are at last. The very final chapter :') After 10 long months of posting, we're incredibly excited to share the epilogue with you all, and we hope it wraps up the end nicely. 💜 Before we get into it though, the finale here has brought on an absolutely mind-blowing amount of fanworks, and there's just no way we could ever move on without sharing links to those first!

We missed this one from Inktober earlier, but wunderiee did an incredible traditional pencil and highlighter Grian! 🖋️

Another fantastic work that tragically fell off our radar is this phenomenal Post-Chapter 39 fanfic written by Kass! 📝

Following up, erestuuu returns with a streamy little TAMN!Scarian kiss that had us all fanning ourselves on the server >;3 👀

Next, we have two amazing drawings from Chapter 41 done by deputy-jude! ⚰️

And then we received a truly exciting animation meme by zephyrxiya! 🧠

After which, sunnydbd did an excellent concept-art style design of TAMN!Grian based purely on the fic itself! 🦜

Then we have our first fanart ever of Pops by lycoris707 📻

An absolutely amazing animation set to the Crane Wives by simmshine ⛽️

This incredible cosplay of TAMN!Scar by lazzertime! 🏹

Some TAMN meta with a top-10 list of locations by lovely-lee 🗺️

A beautiful illustration of Scar and Grian from chapter 40 by la-brielle 🛋️

And finally, this touching send-off to TAMN by lumyxluminous ;w; 🧡💜

Thank you to EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU! Posting TAMN wouldn't have been the same without the huge outpouring of community support every step of the way. We're so humbled and so grateful for the love you've shared with us, whether you're making fanworks, theories, leaving comments, kudos, chatting on the server, or just lurking and reading on your own time. You're all invaluable to us, and we couldn't have done this without you :")

ALL THAT SAID! WE HOPE YOU ENJOY THE EPILOGUE! 📚

Please skip to the end notes for spoiler-y CONTENT WARNINGS! ;)

 

 

 

“Incoming!” Scar shouts, letting Grian know his intentions as he fires an arrow off in his direction.

He might as well have stayed silent.

Grian moves almost before Scar speaks, innately aware of Scar’s movements even without looking at him. He ducks, dodging to the side, leaving a clean opening for Scar’s arrow to strike through the head of the zombie he’d been fighting. Immediately, Scar’s focus is shifting, loading up another shot and turning away from the zombie while Grian takes care of the final execution, ripping the arrow out of its mangled forehead and stabbing it through whatever is left of its eye.

Scar's second arrow lands just short of a proper headshot on the other corpse advancing on them, and he curses under his breath, readjusting his posture and breathing out slowly as he pulls his bow back and aims again. This time he gets it, his grin pulled wide as the creature drops to the ground, limbs loose like a ragdoll, a final groan leaving it that tapers off into a wheeze. Quickly, Grian cuts across Scar's line of sight, already advancing on the third zombie in the group. He has his new hatchet gripped firmly in hand, the one he'd taken from one of the cache boxes back when he and Scar had nothing but the empty packs on their backs, swinging it down into the already exposed brain matter leaking out from the top of the creature’s partially caved-in skull.

When a fourth zombie lunges at Grian from behind, Scar is already calling out a warning and lining up his shot. It’s entirely unnecessary, however. With a speed that makes Scar’s stomach swoop and his heart skip a beat, Grian whirls around, pulling his pistol out of its holster under his arm and firing twice in quick succession. It’s more than enough to kill the thing, a cry that almost sounds like a sob retching out of its throat before it collapses.

Pausing for a moment to ensure that everything taken down stays down, Scar lets his bowstring go lax before giving an appreciative whistle, delighted.

“Not bad, not bad. You’re getting a lot better with that gun!”

“Yeah? Was it sexy?” Grian asks, a clear tease in the playful curl of his tone.

“Very sexy,” Scar agrees, nodding matter-of-fact. “And cute to boot. You with your little pistol going pew-pew-pew.”

Reholstering his gun, Grian makes a show of rolling his eyes, but Scar can see the way his cheeks pinken. Hiding his blush as his hand moves to self-consciously tuck a long strand of dirty blonde hair behind his ear.

The motion makes Scar want to reach out and touch Grian himself, gather him in and pepper him with kisses, but he resists the urge, focusing instead on gathering his arrows back from the felled corpses scattered around them. Along with the four they’d just taken down, they’d already dealt with another congregation several yards away and Scar jogs back in that direction to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything among the mess.

As he moves, he keeps his bow in hand with an arrow loosely nocked, ready for use at a moment’s notice. When they’d first left Ren’s camp, there had been a burst of panic the following morning when Scar had realised he’d left his rifle behind in the rush. But nowadays, he finds that he hardly misses it, much preferring the silence and dexterity that his bow affords him.

Once he’s got his full count of arrows back, Scar takes the minute necessary to clean their tips on a spare cloth, careful to ensure none of the blood or gore touches his exposed skin. He’s learned to be careful—if not for his sake, then for Grian’s, who’d put an emphasis on sitting him down and explaining the intricacies of how the virus could travel on the days after they'd returned to travelling together on their own. The risk of infection has never really worried Scar, but it’s a fear he can see in Grian, and is therefore something he doesn’t mind being cautious about in order to keep his partner’s mind at ease.

He hums idly as he cleans, a song from one of the many CDs Grian has collected, sharing an apparently longstanding love of music that Scar had never known existed. In the background, the methodical sound of Grian stomping on zombie heads keeps rhythm, Grian finishing the felled corpses off to make sure they all stay good and dead.

By the time Scar puts his arrows back in his quiver and turns back to Grian, his partner is already done. Grian wiping sweat from his brow and takes a long, deep drink of water from a canteen he’s removed from his slim daypack, passing it over to Scar as he approaches.

“What do you think they’ll give us for taking down seventeen of these suckers?”

“Are you kidding me?” Scar returns with a smile. “It would’ve taken every abled-bodied adult in that place to take out these corpses. They’re gonna be singing our praises! We’ll be able to take our pick from whatever we like!”

Grian grins back at him, his smile as warm and bright as the sun in the sky. It makes Scar melt to see him so open and unabashedly happy, his mood infectious in its own way, joy radiating inside of his very bones as he turns and looks out over the landscape before them.

Bit by bit the days have been getting longer, the end of winter ebbing out as spring moves in to take its place. There are still patches of snow on the ground, and fresh frost continues to greet them, clinging to the dry grass every morning, but every day things thaw a little more and new life slowly seeps back into the world. Daffodils pushing up tender pale green shoots through the raw earth, while the occasional purple blossom of a crocus flower peeks up at them from under the previous year’s leaves.

It’s a clear day, the sky a bright, delicate blue, and the sunlight warm on Scar’s face. They’d found the zombies amassing in the broad gully of a creek bed, too uncoordinated to climb up the pebbly banks, and too mindless to turn around and walk back out the way they’d come. The prickle of sweat feels pleasantly cool along his hairline after the exertion of fighting, and he takes a moment to enjoy it before slinging his bow and quiver back over his shoulder. Still focused on the zombies, he reaches down to slip his machete off the sheath strapped to his thigh, moving the long blade with quick, efficient strokes as he begins severing the crushed skulls from their shoulders.

“I want you to get Pop Tarts,” Grian says, his attention cast to the side while Scar works, looking towards the settlement in the distance. It’s a fair ways off, more like a grey-brown smudge from where they stand— a collection of RVs and camper vans clustered close together in the lee of a grassy ridge, the surrounding hills fringed in sparse junipers and hardy looking spruce saplings. There’s an open space between them, dotted with small lumps that Scar knows are grazing cattle and a clustered herd of goats.

The ruins of a city lay further off to the east, the handful of buildings not blackened from fire standing empty and abandoned. It’s from there that the zombies have been drifting out, a perpetual source of mindless, wandering horror. Though now, thanks to Scar’s aim and Grian’s tenacious knack for violence, the tide will hopefully have been stemmed to some degree.

“And whatever milk and cheese they’ve got. I saw all their animals, there’s no way they don’t have dairy to spare.”

It’s an endearing quirk that Grian has adopted ever since it became clear his diet was permanently changed. He likes to pick things for Scar to eat now, planning and suggesting his meals with whatever they scavenge, hunt, and barter. He’s never been a good cook, not even before the world fell apart, but it’s been sweet the way he's applied himself to improving, the two times he gave Scar food poisoning already becoming fond memories in their own way.

When the last zombie’s head has been separated from its body, Scar yanks a glove onto his hand and begins gathering them all, shoving each one into a canvas sack that he uses for the sole purpose of demonstrating their worth to any sceptical marks they come across. Once he’s done, he sets the bag down, putting out his arm and drawing Grian in close.

“Good work out there,” he compliments, pressing a kiss to the top of his partner’s head. Grian’s hair is clean and smells incredibly good—like sandalwood and something crisp—everything about him well-maintained, despite the state of the world around them. “You really treated those googlies like you had a score to settle.”

Without hesitation Grian leans into Scar’s touch, the easy return of his affection still a novelty, despite how many weeks Scar’s been allowed and able to enjoy it.

“You weren’t so bad yourself,” he offers, his words mumbled sweetly into the thick flannel of Scar’s shirt. “You’re getting to have a real hawk-eye with your aim, you know.”

“I love it when you say I’m a hot guy,” Scar preens, deliberately mishearing him. “Got a real nice ring to it.”

It makes Grian laugh, which was the point, and Scar takes a moment to simply enjoy the way he looks with a genuine smile on his face, open and unabashed and unafraid.

“Back to base camp?” He asks once they’ve fully scoured the area, making sure it’s free from any straggling zombies and ensuring all their gear is in order.

“Back home,” Grian corrects, glancing towards the sun to gauge the time before he looks in Scar’s direction again. “We might as well,” he concedes, reaching out to take Scar by the hand. “If we head back to that lot too quickly, they’ll start making all sorts of assumptions about how easy this job is.”

“And then no Pop Tarts,” Scar teases, fingers intertwining with Grian’s as he hefts the bag up over his other shoulder.

“And then no lots of things,” Grian agrees, the two of them making their way back up the creek bed. Once up the bank, they turn back towards the main road they’d come in on, stepping over and around the scattered zombie corpses they’d taken down as they retrace their steps.

Their mood remains upbeat as they stroll together, Scar snacking on a handful of mixed nuts he has tucked in his pocket as they go. He politely offers some to Grian, who declines as he always does when it’s just the two of them. In the presence of others he’s more deliberate about keeping up appearances, eating small meals and offering gratitude and compliments to those kind enough to share whatever they have. It doesn’t stop Scar from maintaining the habit all the same, and he thinks a part of Grian appreciates it, even if he doesn’t say it out loud.

A stable connection back to the human side of him. A tether to keep him anchored.

“Where should we go after this?” Scar asks, mostly rhetorically, as they crest a small incline, returning to a two lane highway that cuts its way through the open landscape of leisurely, picturesque hills.

They’ve discussed the topic on and off a few times, but it’s yet to really go anywhere. While their plan had always been to head North, after learning how vastly empty the ubiquitous ‘north’ was going to be, they’d both found themselves reluctant to leave the remaining comforts of civilization. Instead they’d ended up moving eastwards, staying above the pointless concept of what used to be a border and meandering without much of a plan.

In Scar’s head, he’s sure they’ll one day find new focus, but there’s less of a hurry now, and no real reason to go anywhere that doesn’t entice them directly.

Pausing to survey the area and nodding his head when he finds the highway just as empty as they’d left it, Grian merely shrugs his shoulders. “So long as we keep hanging around the living, I’m not picky.”

“Aww, I’m not gonna forget about your dietary concerns, G,” Scar teases, glad that they’ve had long enough that Grian no longer flinches and looks hurt when the topic of his altered state of being comes into play.

Just that morning they’d had to sate Grian’s hunger, a routine they’ve slowly grown accustomed to. Another new kind of normal.

It had worked out well for them, Scar helping Grian pick off one of the campers at the survivor outpost in the early haze of pre-dawn. An individual left out on watch, guarding the very cattle they’re now hoping to get milk from. It had all gone flawlessly, allowing him and Grian to sweep in later, after Grian had eaten, and offer their assistance in dealing with the encroaching zombie problem, greeted like saviours by an encampment in the grips of the grief they’d created.

Maybe it says something awful about him, but while Scar tries not to think too deeply about the role he plays in it, he can’t deny how good it feels to see Grian full and satisfied. They never take more than Grian needs, and they always endeavour to make things as efficient and painless as possible. An arrow from Scar’s bow to take their prey by surprise, and then knocking them unconscious as quickly as they can. After that, Scar simply stands back and keeps watch while Grian satiates what his appetite requires. Simple and efficient.

It’s not the life he would have chosen for them, but the selfish part of Scar is glad he can help provide for Grian’s needs this way—can support Grian the way Grian has supported him in the past, and will no doubt do again in the future. When the glaze in Grian’s eyes recedes, when he swallows his last bite and quietly asks for water. When he helps as Scar digs a shallow grave, burying what remains beneath the earth—Scar knows that it’s worthwhile. He knows this is the life that works for them.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Grian asks, his shoulder bumping against the side of Scar’s arm, knocking him out of his head.

Scar chuckles, squeezing Grian’s hand in response, his touch both grounding and reassuring.

“Nothing in particular,” he admits, honestly. “Just thinking about where we might want to go one day. What major landmarks we wanna see. The sights…”

“Do you wish we had people to visit?” Grian asks, careful with the question, and Scar knows from his intonation alone that he’s sharing a vulnerability with him. It’s a concern Grian has expressed before, his words shared quietly with Scar. The fear that he’s holding him back from making connections. That as long as they’re together, Scar will always be isolated and alone.

Unambiguously, he shakes his head. “Things aren’t the way they used to be,” he emphasises, a statement he’s made before. “We both have to adapt and figure out what’s going to be our new normal.”

Scar remembers it—when they’d finally felt secure enough to stop running, no longer terrified of Ren’s compound tracking them down in the middle of the night. He remembers the way Grian had confided in him, tearful beneath the guilt of forever separating Scar from the rest of the world. He'd ended up describing Joel’s phone and the picture he'd seen on it. The barest hint of survival, and the awful mix of hope and regret it had ignited in Scar’s chest. How badly he’d wanted to turn around, to go back, to find Joel and to ask—to beg—to see the picture for himself.

He’d cried over it, bitterly. Fruitless, wasted tears. Angry at a world that would cheat him in such a way, putting Pearl both so near to him and so impossibly far. Forcing him to feel her loss all over again, an absence he’d only just barely made peace with.

Incredibly, through it all, Grian had never once left his side. Grian, who had previously only ever acknowledged Pearl’s name with a roll of his eyes or a curl of his lip. Grian, who had questioned Pearl’s motives more than any other of Scar’s friends. Instead, he’d held Scar’s hand and stroked his hair while he cried. Had offered, genuinely, to go back with him.

Had whispered that he was sorry Scar had lost her.

“I’m alright,” Scar continues, when it’s clear that Grian looks unconvinced. “It’s enough to know that Pearl is out there somewhere, with Tilly at her heel, and maybe even a friend nearby. One day we’ll run into her, I'm sure of it.”

Despite the impossible odds, Scar has continually chosen to believe that it could happen. That the impossible luck that has run its way through his life could come through for him one more time. That inevitably he'll cross paths with Pearl again, who he now knows is out there somewhere. Surviving, just like them.

“And until then I have you by my side,” Scar concludes, squeezing Grian’s hand where it swings between them. “So what’s there to complain about?”

Predictably, Grian’s cheeks flush. He looks away, biting his lower lip as he lets the compliment settle over him before he offers, mildly, “There’s also that prepper fella B told us about. The one he and Ren ran into—with all the photography equipment.”

“Mr. Moustache?”

Grian snorts. “Yeah, him. We could always try to find where he’s located.”

“We could ask him if any of our pictures can still be developed,” Scar enthuses.

“And see if he knows about Pearl,” Grian adds. “If he’s been going around documenting the end of the world, maybe he’s met up with her. You always said she had a knack for getting into places she shouldn’t— a prepper's bunker would be like a beacon to her.”

It’s a long shot by far, but it’s something for them to look forward to. Something to aim towards; a future built with both of them in mind.

“Sounds like a plan,” Scar agrees.

Together they continue up the road, the air dry and sharp in Scar’s lungs. It’s still too cold and arid in the shade to feel pleasant, and it's something he can feel in his joints, making him keen to take a load off somewhere warm where he can recoup.

“There she is,” he crows when they finally round a scrubby cluster of scraggly trees pushed up next to a steep hillside, the thin branches only just starting to put out buds shielding their location. Their camper van—dark grey, with a white stripe running down its side—laying just beyond, exactly where they left it.

They’d found the camper at a dealership several days after their hasty exit from the compound. It was one of a dozen identical vehicles in a lot that they’d then spent nearly a week provisioning and preparing in order to suit their needs. The sliding side door has reinforced locks on the inside, and there's a hard plastic cargo carrier fixed to the roof. That, alongside a bank of compact solar panels, and a welded support attached to the back holding extra canteens for water and gas, makes it downright luxurious at the end of the world.

Still, even with the more reliable shelter the van provides, they’ve both remained practical. The interior is furnished primarily for utility and efficient use, though there are growing marks of personality and charm to it—an air freshener shaped like a slice of pizza hanging off the rearview mirror, knitted afghans and quilts mixed amongst the sub-zero sleeping bags on their bed in the back, and suncatchers they’ve taken from the windows of other abandoned vehicles they passed along the way hanging from the ceiling.

“Pizza 2,” Scar continues, patting a hand against the passenger door as he waits for Grian to unlock it. “Home sweet home.”

“Ariana 2,” Grian corrects, pulling a set of keys out from a lanyard hidden under his shirt and unlocking the sliding side door.

The inside of the van isn’t large by any stretch—big enough for a small sink, a sliver of countertop, and a single cooking burner. Behind the kitchen nook there's a tiny bench-seat with a tabletop, and a bed at the very back with room enough for them both. Aside from those features, every spare inch and alcove has been utilised for storage, crammed almost to the point of clutter as they've prepared for anything the world might throw at them.

After leaving Ren’s camp with almost nothing in their bags, it finally feels like they’re properly provisioned again, with dry and canned ingredients, proper toiletries, first aid, emergency repair gear, and a growing cache of simple luxuries. Puzzle books and trivia, a few novels they’ve been reading to each other in pieces throughout their days, and a growing nail polish collection scavenged from the drug stores and pharmacies they’ve looted.

With no need to hurry, they unpack their things and clean themselves up. Scar takes the chance to sit and rest for a while, working out the soreness that's settled into his muscles and joints while Grian putters, putting away the laundry they'd left to dry in the spring sun and storing the few things they'd unpacked before their hunt while he hums along to music from the van's stereo.

Eventually they gather themselves and pile into the front seats, returning to the cluster of survivors they'd only met that morning. With the aplomb of heroes they present the bag of severed heads, upending it in order to demonstrate their success at thinning the advancing numbers of undead wandering towards the encampment.

“We bought you a week at most, but you’ll need to get a better barricade started,” Scar offers as they prepare to leave. He has a satchel slung across his chest, heavy with food, and there's a crate in Grian’s arms stuffed equally full of supplies. The profits of their successful bartering on behalf of their services rendered. “We’ll take out any more we see coming your way, but you can’t rely on mercenaries like us who just so happening to pass through. Who knows what our real priorities are?”

It makes Grian snicker at his side, a strangely foreboding farewell to people they’ll never see again.

It’s in their best interest to leave the area immediately in order to dissuade any followers, so they stash what they can before focusing on their getaway, following the otherwise empty highway for several hours in easy silence. Grian drives, and Scar relaxes in the passenger seat, at ease in their mutual comfort with one another as they continue along the gentle curve between the hills, not worried about their destination.

It’s late afternoon when they pull off onto a side road, following an exit that takes them to the far of a shallow hill. It’s backed by aspens on one side, and facing a small lake on the other. A good place to set up for the night—sheltered and not immediately noticeable from a distance. It’s also got the potential for Scar to pick off any local game that might come drink at the lake, an added bonus, provided they wait patiently enough.

“You could try fishing,” Scar suggests as Grian sets blocks behind the camper’s wheels, unspooling the awning attached over the side door to give them some additional shade and shelter.

“If I ever fish again it’ll be too soon,” Grian groans, though his gaze turns towards the water all the same. “Do you suppose it’s still too cold for a swim?” he asks, and there’s a sweetness to it that Scar appreciates.

“Probably,” he confesses with a sad shake of his head. “We’ll have to save our skinny dips for summer.”

“I’d like that,” Grian replies, surprising Scar in yet another new way that only serves to delight him. “You’ll have to teach me though. I could never do much better than doggy paddle.”

Together they continue setting up their camp for the evening, Scar retrieving fresh water from the lake to filter and boil, while Grian starts a fire with wood scavenged from the nearby copse of trees. It’s habit by now for Grian to cook for Scar—fresh bread, a thick smear of goat cheese, and honey that they just received, toasted on a skillet over the fire— and they sit together comfortably as Scar eats, their camping chairs pulled close to one another. Scar’s hand rests on Grian’s knee beneath the blankets spread across their laps, each of them comfortable and at ease as the spring day lapses slowly towards evening.

In some ways, Scar still can’t believe they’re able to enjoy a life like this. Together, after everything they’ve been through. Months ago it had seemed impossible—something he hadn’t even been sure he wanted anymore after Grian had hurt him so deeply.

Now, he can’t even imagine ever being without this. Without him.

Part of Scar wonders if the isolation has something to do with it. Wondering, if they’d lived in a world without the apocalypse, would they have found themselves together again? Would Grian have eventually come to aplogise, and would Scar have forgiven him? Or would they simply have decided that they were better off forever apart?

He’s certain it would have been harder for them, at least. That even if Grian had apologised, and they’d decided to try again, he’d never have been able to trust him in the same way.

It's a strange thing to contemplate. A what if that feels uncomfortably wrong.

In this world, he reminds himself, the stakes are different. In this world, the uncertainty and the struggle have given them chances to prove themselves to one another over and over again. Every opportunity constantly reaffirming Grian’s commitment to changing, and reassuring Scar that his faith in him is not misplaced.

After all that they’ve survived—death, distrust, and distance—Scar has never felt more certain that they’re meant to be together. That fate intended for them to be so completely intertwined.

Fondly, he turns his head towards Grian, watching his face in the afternoon glow. Rays of light—reflected off the surface of the lake and filtering down from between the trees—play on his features, the light breeze pushing at the strands of his hair. He looks more relaxed than Scar’s ever seen him, a healthy glow to his skin, well-rested and composed. Beautiful at one angle, and handsome at another. Human and inhuman at once. A complexity of contrasts.

The love of his life.

I’d choose you every time, he thinks, willing the words towards Grian in the comfort of their silence. In every universe. No matter what.

“Something on my face?” Grian asks at last, teasing the question when he finally catches Scar staring.

Instead of answering, Scar simply leans in towards him, capturing his lips in a kiss.

It’s soft and tender, moving at a pace that Grian easily lets himself be drawn into. It feels good to be able to share affection like this. Intimate and domestic in a way that Scar had only ever dreamed of being able to experience with his partner.

When they finally pull away from one another, Grian has an amused grin on his face, mischievous and shy and delighted all at once. “What was that for, then?”

“Nothing,” Scar insists, his smile gentle and wide.

It doesn’t surprise him when Grian’s brows slant into a skeptical expression, but that only makes Scar’s grin pull even wider, overjoyed at how easy their interactions feel.

“You picked a good spot,” he relents, when it becomes clear that Grian isn’t going to simply let him shrug the kiss off. “Nice and secluded. Lovely view…”

Looking out over the still water of the lake, the surface glinting golden in the sunlight, he can’t help but think back to the time they spent in the secluded cabin alone in the mountains. How perfect their time together had felt then, and how much better it feels now.

He lets the silence linger for a moment longer, one arm spreading to curl around Grian’s shoulders before he adds, “Want to take this back to the van?”

“Ah,” Grian laughs, tipping his head back to rest against Scar’s arm. “So you do have an ulterior motive.”

Undeterred, Scar waggles his brows. “I’m not hearing a no.”

“That’s because you know my answer’s yes,” Grian returns with ease, bracing his hands on his knees as he leverages himself back up to his feet. “You sweet talker, you.”

Together, they do another quick circle around their immediate area. A necessary precaution to confirm that they’re alone and ensure that they’ve left no obvious avenues for rogue zombies or survivors to sneak up on them. Once secure, they douse Grian’s small cooking fire and take the remaining lunch ingredients back into the van with them, safeguarding against attracting any wildlife.

It continues to feel like a page out of a future Scar never thought they’d have, the two of them moving around each other inside the camper with a natural ease. Together they put things away where they belong, washing up and tidying loose ends while maintaining casual, natural conversation.

There’s no rush, no stress; nothing but a contented sense of ease, each of them satisfied simply by being near one another. Scar loves it. Loves knowing that they’ve become so attuned to each other and comfortable in one another’s company that it doesn’t matter what they do, so long as they do it together.

When at last they move towards the bed, it feels just as habitual as any other part of their day. Sweet and unhurried, but attentive and eager all the same.

The bed fills the entire back portion of the van, a deep mattress heaped with pillows and blankets that are as inviting as they are warm. There had been other campers back at the lot with beds that folded away, converting into seating when not in use, but Grian had dismissed those options immediately. Upon prodding, he’d confessed a disinterest in anything that didn’t allow Scar a place to lay down any time he needed to, refusing to entertain a living situation that didn't accommodate him.

Grian sits on the edge of the bed now, swinging his legs slightly as he grins up at Scar, his eyes both bright and keen. He’s become diligent with shaving now that he’s able to be, but he’s yet to cut his hair. The strands flip up at the ends, just past chin-length and growing longer by the day.

Privately, Scar knows that the length is significant—that every day Grian is working towards something he’ll share sooner or later. However, he also knows that all he can do is wait patiently until Grian is ready. There’s no rush. He can wait as long as Grian needs him to. And in the meantime, he can spend every day quietly admiring the process, reaching out to run his fingers through Grian’s hair, clean and well kept, brushing it aside and tucking what he can behind his ears.

“Hi,” Grian says at last, breaking their silence and looking endearing as he peers up at Scar. His front teeth snag on his lower lip as he grins in a way that manages to be both coy and still legitimately shy.

“Hello there,” Scar responds, his words rumbling low in his chest as he continues to run his fingers back through Grian’s hair. “Are you gonna move over and let me in…?”

Something mischievous alights in Grian’s expression, a subtle tension pulling into his shoulders as he braces himself and asks, “Are you gonna make me let you?”

They never used to play like this, Scar thinks. Not really.

It never used to be this fun.

“There’s nothing in the world I could make you do,” Scar responds, a kind of honesty in his words that prompts Grian’s cheeks to flush warm under the truth of it.

It’s a sweet moment, one that Scar could enjoy forever, except that he then feels Grian’s bare foot against his shin. It slips around his leg, allowing Grian to hook his heel behind Scar’s calf, the gesture gently impatient.

“Scar,” Grian presses, a very specific intent laden his words. “Maybe I’d like it if you made me…”

The request pulls a fond sound out of Scar’s throat, bending over finally as he closes the gap between them. Hungrily, he finds Grian’s lips for a kiss that Grian tilts his head up into, accepting readily.

For several minutes the kissing is all they do. Scar leans over Grian, his hand resting on his shoulders with his fingertips curled against the nape of Grian’s neck, and Grian sits up straight, enjoying every press of Scar’s lips against his own.

It’s when Scar feels Grian shift, his ankle sliding up to tuck against the back of Scar’s knee and his mouth falling ever-so-slightly open to invite more, that he makes his move. He sweeps his arm around Grian in a way that startles a noise out of his partner’s throat, lifting him slightly. It’s almost too easy to leverage him over, the mattress dipping as Scar puts his knee up to kneel where Grian had been sitting only a second before.

The sound Grian makes is worth it, a mixed shout of surprise and delight as Scar knocks him over backwards. The breath leaves his body in a rush as he falls back onto the jumble of pillows, laughter exploding out of him an instant later while Scar shifts the rest of his weight over to join him, pinning Grian down in a way that’s more playful than it is demanding.

“How’s that?” Scar asks, enjoying the way Grian looks up at him, somewhat breathless and as openly fond as he is adoring.

“Good,” Grian praises, running his palms up and down Scar’s forearms in a sweet, playful gesture. “Now make me more…”

With his open invitation, it’s easy enough for Scar to continue manhandling Grian just the way he likes. Effortlessly he takes hold of his wrists, gathering one in each hand, before pinning them above his head, kissing Grian deeply while Grian’s back arches up to meet him. When Grian’s lips part, Scar wastes no time, licking deep into his mouth, their tongues meeting in a caress that makes Grian shiver and moan.

Scar kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him more, only pulling back when Grian finally begins to squirm beneath him, wrists tugging uselessly where Scar has him held down.

It makes him smile to see Grian this way, playing pretend like he’s meek and vulnerable. He knows full well that Grian is stronger than he looks. That if he really wanted, he’d be able to wrench his hands out of Scar’s grip and push him off without a struggle, only to resume running his touch up and down Scar’s body like he wants to. It’s cute when he does this though, looking up at Scar like he’s something captured and fragile, cheeks flushed pink.

Transferring both of Grian’s wrists into one big palm, Scar indulges him, slipping his free hand into Grian’s hair. He caresses along his scalp before tugging gently in a way that has Grian gasping out loud, keening as Scar tips his head back. Confidently, Scar leans in for another kiss, swallowing the noises Grian makes until he finally breaks away in order to trail kisses along his jawline and down his neck.

“Scar…” Grian whispers, soft and breathy, as Scar murmurs quiet affections in between every press of his lips against Grian’s skin.

When he finally reaches the bite mark, scarred just below the juncture of Grian’s shoulder, Scar pauses for effect. He can feel the way Grian goes still under him, tense with anticipation. It’s yet another thing they’ve explored over the last few months—how sensitive the ridges and bumps of Grian’s scar are, and how much a little attention there makes him melt. Scar is more than happy to take advantage of it once more, beginning with slow, teasing licks against the ragged lines of the injury before moving into wet kisses that have Grian biting back moans.

It’s when he begins to run the edges of his own teeth against the mark that Grian finally cries out, tugging so hard against Scar’s hold that his hands come free. Scar nips at him then, scolding, and Grian scrambles for purchase against his shoulders, fingers twisting into the material of his shirt as he holds tight. Again and again Scar toys with his mark, biting and laving over it in turns, continuing until Grian is a mess of soft noises and breathless whimpers.

“Good?” Scar teases, knowing the answer full well. He can feel Grian’s pulse racing beneath each press of his lips, along with the hard line of his arousal pushing up against his thigh, trapped within his jeans as Grian uselessly squirms and flexes against him.

“So good, Scar…” Grian pants, pupils blown wide and mouth hanging somewhat slack as he pulls in deep, gasping breaths.

It’s only then that Scar leans back a little, shifting off to the side and making more room to maneuver between them. The change in position dislodges Grian’s hands from where they’re fisted against his back and Scar takes the opportunity to take hold of him by the wrist once more, bringing his hand down low between them. Pressing a kiss to his lips, he places Grian’s hand against his growing erection, enjoying the way Grian whines when he feels the swell of it against his palm.

“Touch me,” Scar says, trying to phrase it more like a demand instead of an ask, mindful of Grian’s request.

The shivery exhale Grian gives him tells Scar he’s done the right thing. His touch is playfully tentative at first as he feels out the shape of Scar beneath the fabric of his pants. Like he's shy, something they both know he's not. Quickly, however, it grows bolder, encouraged by Scar vocalising his pleasure.

“Are you making me?” Grian asks at last, cupping Scar with the heat of his palm, his already dark irises nearly eclipsed by the size of his pupils, each one enormous beneath the shade of his eyelashes.

It’s a loaded question, one that could skew wrong if Scar approached it carelessly. At this point, though, it’s something that he knows exactly how to navigate. It would be easy to play into Grian’s scene, to guide Grian’s hand more directly, to husk a heady ‘yes’ and get Grian to give him everything he wants.

But that’s not what Grian really wants right now. And it isn’t what Scar wants either.

Closing the distance between them, Scar lets his lips brush against Grian’s, sharing in the air he exhales as they only just barely meet in a kiss.

“I’m asking you,” he admits at last.

“Scar...”

Without hesitation Grian surges up to claim Scar’s lips, his kiss biting and eager and hungry. The endorphins rush through Scar’s system at Grian’s immediate, enthusiastic response, feeling the way Grian’s hand moves, quickly, greedy, and bold as it passes over the line of Scar’s arousal, squeezing in a way that has Scar canting his hips forward in an effort to chase the sensation.

They’d lost and misused their intimacy over the course of their relationship’s initial demise, sinking it deep into a quagmire of lopsided, unreciprocated motions. But reclaiming it has been gratifying in its own right— an ongoing process, one with its own complications and missteps. Still, they’ve carefully unpicked the parts that had settled wrong between them and, in doing so, have managed to repair the damage made during their first, awful missteps together. Finally, it’s beginning to feel like they’re fully in tune with one another—that they’re one and the same. Devoted and united.

That they're together the way they were always meant to be. At last.

It’s a relief when Grian’s hands move to undo his pants, and Scar groans into their kiss at the feeling of it. His movements relax a bit of the pressure on his now aching erection, and Scar swirls his tongue in Grian’s mouth appreciatively. It’s even better when Grian slips his hand beneath the waistband of his underwear, his touch warm and familiar as he feels out the shape of him, rubbing his thumb against the head of Scar’s dick, knowing exactly what Scar likes best.

Scar doesn’t realise how much he’s shifted over onto his side until he feels Grian squirm all the way out from underneath him, his attention determined and focused as he manages to push Scar’s pants halfway down his thighs. With a little finagling, Scar helps kick them off, leaving him naked from the waist down, to which Grian makes a small noise of smug satisfaction. Hooking one arm around Scar’s shoulder and chasing another kiss, he eagerly wraps his hand around the base of Scar’s cock, stroking upwards with purpose.

Unimpeded, Scar moans into his mouth, feeling no shame in the way he voices his appreciation. It's with love and devotion that he offers Grian every sigh and every breathless, heavy swallow as he lets his partner move him onto his back by inche, sinking into the mattress gladly as Grian successfully reverses their positions completely. Now with the upper hand, he leans over Scar, working his touch up and down the length of his dick in long, leisurely strokes, Scar’s cock achingly hard in his grip, his body no longer reluctant to respond under Grian’s attentions the way it once was.

There will be a future, Scar is sure of it, where their pendulum swings back in the other direction. Scar will take his place leading their intimacy again, following a natural ebb and flow between them like the ever-changing tide. For now, however, he’s allowing himself to enjoy the dynamic they’ve nestled into, relaxing beneath Grian’s guiding attentions.

He enjoys the way his dick jumps in Grian’s hand as Grian nips against his lower lip, his breath quickening when Grian’s teeth snag onto his sensitive skin. Grian’s eyes catch his, close enough to be the only thing Scar sees, as he applies the slightest bit of pressure with his teeth. It’s stupid and risky and dangerous, but Scar can’t help but love the way it makes his heart race, keening when Grian hungrily moves his kisses down his neck, using more teeth than they both know is safe. He licks over Scar’s throat, sucking a mark there and waiting until Scar moans before he finally moves away.

Together, they scramble to get Scar’s shirt off. Grian quickly divesting himself of his clothes as well, leaving the two of them bare and in close quarters, thoroughly absorbed in one another. Ravenous, Grian returns to kissing his way down Scar’s body, all tongue and teeth, stopping only when he’s finally level with Scar’s cock. Teasingly, he squeezes Scar in his hand, pumping him twice for good measure before he opens his mouth and takes him in deep, swallowing so that he knows Scar can feel it. Instinctively, Scar gasps, his hands reaching out to grab at Grian’s shoulder, watching as his partner glances up at him from below. It’s a heady, risky, exhilarating feeling, Grian using his tongue to slick him up before he delicately grazes his length with his incisors, pulling off of his head with an audible pop before continuing to stroke him, slow and leisurely.

“Grian,” Scar whispers, caught between a groan and a plea.

Drawing himself back up, his partner shifts closer. Grian leaning in to press another kiss to Scar’s swollen lips, tasting him deeply and leaving the slight taste of his own pre on Scar’s tongue.

“Do you want me…?” Grian asks, just barely pulling back from the kiss as he reaches back down to take Scar in hand again.

“Always,” Scar promises, and the smile Grian gives him is radiant.

With a nearly divine look, Grian sits up and reaches for the cubby at the side of their bed, grabbing the lube they keep stored there. Playful, he settles back beside Scar, giving him one last stroke before he slings a leg over to straddle across Scar’s lap, focusing not on him, but on uncapping the bottle in his hand.

“Wow…” Scar says, unable to help himself as he stares up in awe at the sight perched above him— Grian's lithe, beautiful body. The planes of his chest and the sturdiness of his torso, and the way his own dick pushes up, flushed and hard with desire between the wide spread of his legs. His hands move to rest on Grian’s thighs, rubbing them up and down as he feels the soft hairs on Grian’s muscle beneath his palms.

“Enjoying the view?” Grian asks, just a little cheeky, but there’s no part of Scar that wants to disagree. Every inch of Grian is exposed to him as he sits up straight, bending his body slightly as he reaches behind himself with his own hand with the confidence of practice and experience.

The next few minutes are filled with slick noises and soft, restrained sounds as Grian fingers himself open while spread over Scar. While he stretches himself wide enough to accommodate Scar’s girth, he continually rocks his hips forward, grinding the hot line of his dick against Scar’s cock until they're both shamelessly leaking. All the while, Scar patiently rubs circles into his hips with his thumbs, trying to calm the excited racing of his heart, savouring every breath and shuddered gasp.

There’s an eager enthusiasm to the moment that Scar is both glad and relieved to surrender himself to completely. Just a couple months ago, the idea of letting Grian take the lead like this would have made him sick with uncertainty. He’d been so caught up with the reasons for Grian’s wandering—so sure that his own limitations had played a part in what he assumed was Grian growing tired of him—that he hadn’t been able to trust or enjoy their time together without taking firm control of the situation. It had taken them many long talks after Grian’s first apology, exposing old vulnerabilities and promising better commitment and communication, to get to where they are now.

Able to trust one another finally. Fully and completely.

In some ways, Scar feels like they’re even better currently than they were before things had started to go wrong between them. He has no doubts now that Grian enjoys taking charge just as much as Scar enjoys relinquishing control. There’s no reluctance to his actions, no reason to believe that Grian is anything other than enthusiastic as he finally lines Scar up beneath him. With slick fingers he takes Scar in hand, lining the blunt head of his dick against his hole before sinking himself down at last.

Deep down, Scar knows can’t ever completely forget what Grian did—that some echo of it will always spring up, unbidden and inopportune, whether he wants it to or not. They’ve both come to understand and accept this, and though it pains them both, he knows that Grian has made his peace with it.

What he can also do, though, is continue to move forward with Grian.

He can place his trust in the person that Grian is intent on becoming.

He can love him, fully, the way that he knows Grian loves him in return.

“Oh,” Scar groans, breathless through the tight fit as Grian takes him in slowly, bit by bit, his body slick and snug around him. Heavily, Scar’s hands flex on his hips, fighting the urge to pull him down in one swift tug, exhaling heavily through his nose as he struggles to remain still. “Grian…”

Above him, Grian remains quiet. His expression is pinched in concentration, his lips parted as he works himself down. His thighs spread wider as he straddles Scar, seeking to accommodate as much of his swollen length as he can. Small gasped noises work their way out of his throat as he takes Scar deeper and deeper, slipping his dick further within him one inch at a time.

Rebuilding their trust has been a slow test. A growth as gradual as the return of spring. As many missteps as they’ve had, they’re both still here. They’re both tangled up deep in the moment—this moment—intertwined inescapably tight with the only person either of them wants to be with. Both sure of that now, at last.

“God,” Grian groans, exhaling the word with a moan as he finally manages to settle himself snug against the cradle of Scar’s pelvis.

He breathes in deep through his nose and out through his mouth, his body adjusting to the entirety of Scar’s length buried inside of him. Scar knows he’s imagining it, but something inside of him is convinced he can feel Grian’s pulse. The beat of it thrumming in the soft, vulnerable inside of his thighs where they’re pressed snug against his waist, deep in his core where their bodies are connected, and in the steady, rapid vibrations that hum in the air filling the space between them.

Alive. Despite everything, and against every odd. Incredibly, abundantly alive.

With the expertise of practice, Grian slowly raises himself up an inch, before he lets gravity do the work as he drops himself back down with a slow roll of his hips. He allows Scar a brief reprieve to appreciate the entirety of the movement before he repeats the motion again.

It feels so good it’s indescribable.

“Grian…” Scar groans, his hands holding tight to Grian’s hips, keeping him steady as Grian continues to ride him, small noises and gasps escaping him with each and every movement.

You look so pretty, he thinks, watching the way Grian’s body shifts and flexes above him, made beautiful by the soft light of afternoon that’s suffused through their van. His hair has fallen over his eyes, a few strands sticking to his forehead, and the lighting casts long, shifting shadows across his chest, highlighting the scars littered across his body and the bite torn into his neck. His dick is hard where it presses into Scar’s abdomen, smearing drops of pre into his skin, beautiful in its own way as Grian shows himself both taking and wanting.

“Scar,” Grian gasps, the sound pitching up in the back of his throat. The speed of his movements increases as he finds the right rhythm to satisfy them both. The slick sound of their coupling filling the air within the confines of their van, punctuated by their whispered breaths and moans. Unconsciously, Scar begins to push himself up to meet Grian’s motions, desperate to fit them even closer together, his hands moving to cup the curve of Grian’s ass as he pulls him down to meet every thrust.

There’s no rush, aside from the way they chase their own pleasure. No haste aside from the pace they choose to set. At one point Grian pitches forward, trembling as Scar’s dick touches the sensitive point of his prostate, and he gasps and cries against Scar’s chest as Scar proceeds to fuck himself up against that spot over and over and over again.

“Don’t make me come,” Grian warns at last, no bite present in the words. Fondness blooming in Scar’s chest when he continues, breathlessly, “Wanna—together…”

It’s an incredibly sweet sentiment, one that has Scar feeling soft, tender affection swelling within his chest. He can’t entirely pass up the opportunity for a tease however, reaching a hand out and stroking the side of Grian’s face while winking at him.

“Not making you do anything, remember?” he reminds, pushing his hips up again to meet Grian’s next bounce. “This is your show.”

Grian huffs a laugh, breathless and choking off into a moan, “I suppose that’s—fair enough...”

The retort makes Scar want to add something more, but then Grian rolls his hips again and Scar’s mouth snaps shut, heat suffusing his body as pleasure wracks his body.

It’s obvious that Grian notices his reaction, a mischievous glint sparking his eye, the smirk on his face charming in the way that only Grian can be. His long hair drapes over Scar as Grian leans forward, pressing a tender kiss to Scar’s mouth. His body slowly slides off Scar’s cock by inches, then, Scar inhaling sharply at the sensation, flexing his fingers on Grian’s hips and resisting the urge to slam him back down again.

“If you want us to come together, you’re gonna have to stop toying with me, G,” he whines.

“I’m not worried,” Grian replies, nonchalant. “I’ve got a couple tricks up my sleeve.”

“Got no sleeves. You’re buck naked—”

Abruptly, Scar finds himself cut off as Grian slams himself back down onto him. He’s barely able to take a breath before his partner sets an unrelenting pace, bouncing himself on his cock like he’s been shaped for it. It sends a hot pulse of desire searing through Scar’s entire body, laying back and watching Grian take exactly what he needs from him.

He likes it. Likes being at mercy to Grian’s whims. Glad simply to be present. To be able to serve.

“You were saying?” Grian taunts breathlessly, haughty and self-assured in that way that Scar has always loved about him.

It’s all Scar can do to shake his head, throwing it back after a moment so he can shut his eyes and enjoy the feeling of Grian fucking himself on his dick, using him how he pleases. This is the Grian he fell in love with, he thinks. The one who is so confident and sure of himself; bold and wild enough to lead. So many of those qualities had been hidden away over the years, but Scar had always seen them in him—had always been able to read between the lines and glimpse the person he knew Grian was meant to be. To see Grian like this now, having worked to carve away so much of his hardened exterior… it makes Scar vow to continue nurturing and supporting this version of him for as long as he’s able.

“G,” Scar gasps after a particularly fluid motion of Grian’s hips, his body made sensitive by his own emotions. “M’close...”

“Good,” Grian pants, like those were words he needed to hear. “Tell me what you want—what you need. I’ll give it to you, Scar. Anything.”

Scar manages to lift his head, making proper eye contact with Grian once more. The expression on his face as Grian looks down is determined, eyes heavy with desire. He’s focused on Scar, completely fixated on him, and it makes Scar’s heart pound in his chest, determined as he pushes himself up on his elbows, raising one hand out to cradle the side of Grian’s face with a painfully tender touch. Almost on instinct, Grian leans into his caress, tilting his face so that his cheek presses into Scar’s large palm, rubbing into it like a cat.

Scar takes a moment to appreciate the softness of his skin, rubbing his thumb over the swell of Grian’s lips as Grian continues to ride him. Then, boldly, with his heart in his throat, he presses his touch in.

Immediately, Grian’s brows furrow in confusion, but his mouth parts obediently all the same, the motion easy and welcoming. Confidently, Scar slips his thumb into the warm wetness of his mouth, smoothing his touch over Grian's tongue before sliding the soft pad of his thumb between Grian’s teeth.

“Bite me,” he instructs, breathless.

At once, Grian’s eyes meet his, sharp and inquiring and desperate. He can’t speak, not with Scar’s thumb wedged within his mouth the way it is. All he can do is breathe, his heavy gasps leaving warm condensation on the inside of Scar’s hand, a drop of drool sliding into the curve of his palm.

Scar doesn’t speak either, meeting Grian’s gaze with equal intensity and focus. Beneath Grian, he feels vulnerable. Submissive and prey-like, offering his throat up to a predator. At the same time, he feels incredibly strong. Confident, both in Grian and in their relation to one another.

Desperately, Grian whines, his tongue brushing up against the side of Scar’s thumb, testing his resolve. He doesn’t blink, every atom in his being focused on Scar completely.

I trust you, Scar thinks, believing it fully, recklessly defiant in the face of the hunger bearing down on him. Heedless of the danger it presents. Of what could happen to him if it all went wrong.

Carefully, taut with arousal but not shifting away, Grian opens his mouth a little wider. He lets Scar slot the length of his thumb snuggly between his teeth, fitting it right between his molars. At the same moment, Scar’s free hand moves down to where their bodies are connected. He finds Grian’s dick, painfully hard and slick with pre, and wraps his palm around it, stroking him to match the quick stutter of Grian’s movements.

“Just like that,” Scar husks as Grian begins pressing his teeth together, his bite gentle but consistent. The pressure builds as he tightens his jaw along the swell of Scar’s knuckle, the first sliver of pain spidering up Scar’s wrist.

Their eyes remain locked, unmoving as Grian bites down harder, a noise lurching up in the back of his throat. So, so careful not to break through Scar’s skin. As Grian maintains his hold with his teeth, Scar feels a knot tighten low in his belly. His movements are hard and rough as he fucks up to meet Grian’s body, the mattress shifting beneath him, the van rocking subtly with their movements.

It feels like a conclusion, the gauze on a wound that was ripped open so many months ago when he’d found the condom wrapper in the back seat of Grian’s car.

Finally, he can do this for Grian.

Finally, Grian can give him the closure he needs.

“I love you,” Scar says, meaning every word of it, and all at once Grian’s bite goes lax. He cries out in a warning, desperate, his drool slipping down the line of Scar’s wrist.

“I’m coming,” Grian warns, high-pitched and nearly raving. “Scar, hurry, quick. Please—”

There’s no elegance to it, no grace. Scar pushes his hips up in rough, rapid thrusts as Grian goes tight around him, every muscle tense. Finally, Scar drags him down, bringing their lips together in a messy, open-mouthed kiss as he comes, pushing their bodies snug together as he fills Grian full. In the same breath, Grian makes a sound like a sob against Scar’s lips as his own body gives out, spilling himself over the curl of Scar’s fist and across the flat of his stomach as they come together, kissing again and again as they bring each other through their mutual orgasms.

“I love you…” the sound of Grian’s words come to Scar as if through a haze. A tingle runs through him, the exhilaration of his peak gradually passing and leaving him wrung out but satisfied, enjoying the feeling of Grian still anchored above him, plastered to his body. “I love you, Scar. I love you.”

“Love you too,” Scar husks out at last, his whole body warm and fulfilled.

As the moments pass and they start to catch their breaths, Grian finally tries to slide off to the side to give them each a bit of room. Scar stops him, however, shaking his head and pulling Grian in closer. Without complaint, his partner immediately moves to lay flat against his chest, getting comfortable now that he knows there’s no hurry to move off of him.

They fit together like two puzzle pieces, Scar thinks. Matched perfectly into each other’s grooves. Grian tucks his arms around Scar, nuzzling into his chest as he murmurs contentedly, and Scar, in turn, puts his arms around Grian, drawing abstract shapes on his back with his fingertips.

The weight of Grian’s body on him feels amazing, like a heavy blanket settling him in place. That, alongside the loose, relaxed feeling that always follows after climax, has Scar’s eyelids drooping sleepily, more than content to drift off.

It’s hard to imagine that they’re here together now, vulnerable but completely at-ease with one another. If not for all the hard-won effort it took for them to get this far, he’d wonder if it were simply all a dream.

When his arousal finally softens enough to slide out of Grian, they carefully rearrange their positions, laying next to one another, face-to-face in the comfort of the world they’ve created. Grian smiles at him, his expression soft, one hand brushing through Scar’s hair before trailing down his face. It’s this kind of tenderness that makes Scar’s heart melt—makes him glad that they ended up here together, despite the many sacrifices they were forced to make along the way.

He places one palm on Grian’s bare arm, rubbing absently up and down as his eyes finally flutter closed, thoroughly at ease. Shifting forward, Grian presses a soft kiss to his lips, tucking in close to his chest, clearly also settling in for a well-earned nap.

It’s only as Scar’s drifting off, his thoughts floaty and almost incoherent, that he hears it.

For a moment, he thinks he’s dreaming already, imagining shadows where he knows none exist. Then the sound comes again, quiet and plaintive, and his eyes shoot open as he abruptly sits upright in bed.

“Is everything alright?” Grian asks, suddenly wide awake at his side, body tensed up and on alert. “What happened, Scar?”

“I thought I heard something,” Scar mumbles, leaning over to find his pants and tugging them onto his legs as quickly as he can manage. He forgoes his shirt and his shoes, moving quick as he stumbles out of bed, moving through the van and towards the sliding side door.

He can hear Grian call after him, alarmed, but he can’t afford to waste a second. His heart pounds anxious in his chest, excitement coursing through his veins as he slides the door open, letting it glide back on its track while he practically jumps down the steps. As soon as his feet have landed on the cold, trampled down earth, he peers around discerningly in every direction, curling a hand around his ear as well, in the hopes that it will help him hear the sound again.

As luck would have it, his quick jump to attention pays off, and Scar is rewarded almost immediately by another quiet noise. Eagerness splits his face into a grin, but he tries to temper his approach as he sidles around the rear of the van, walking cautiously, each step slow, steady, and careful.

Sure enough, the moment he turns the corner, he sees it.

A cat; grey and white with an arrangement of dark stripes, currently sniffing at a bag of trash near the back of the van, likely in the hopes of discovering leftovers.

Large, green eyes look up at him, settled above small, delicate, perfect features.

“Well, hello there…”

Despite the slight ache in his knee, Scar kneels down to get on the cat’s level. He’s putting his hand out towards it when Grian finally steps around the side of the van, fully dressed once more, with Scar’s shirt held tight in his hand.

“Scar,” he starts, weary but fond. “It’s too cold for this, put your clothes back on.”

It’s clear that he’s understood they’re not under some immediate threat, relaxed and disheveled as he stands with his feet in Scar’s large, unlaced boots. Before he can even finish chastising him, however, Scar is already glancing back over his shoulder, a wide grin on his face as he catches his partner’s eye.

“Gri,” he whispers, voice low as he nods his head towards the cat. “We have a guest.”

Carefully, Scar extends his hand, fingers curled non-threateningly, holding very still until the cat finally pads forwards, stretching its neck as it gives his knuckle a tentative sniff.

“Oh, Scar,” Grian says, sighing through a barely contained smile.

The cat’s whiskers touch Scar’s hand first, followed by the cold wet spot of its nose. The soft rub of its forehead comes soon after, nuzzling against the edge of his finger and allowing Scar to get a good, close look at the state of her.

“Who knows how it got out here,” Grian remarks, casting his eyes around. They both know full well that they’re in the middle of nowhere at the moment—and that any cat out this far doesn’t have somewhere home to return to. “Could’ve been walking for days.”

“Can we keep her?”

Scar’s practical but hopeful as he asks, opting for the direct approach rather than trying to skirt things and be clever. He knows that it won’t be easy to keep a cat—that this world isn’t designed for that kind of sensitivity—but a part of him is confident that Grian won’t have the heart to turn it away. Carefully, he runs his hand back over the cat's small head, feeling the telltale rumble of a purr in its throat as it angles its narrow body to allow his touch to travel down the length of its spine.

“She’s so friendly, G,” he adds, hoping to sound persuasive.

Without complaint, the cat lets Scar nudge her close enough to scoop his hand under her belly. As he lifts her up, she simply continues to purr, and Scar cradles her against his chest before he turns to face his partner again.

“Her people might come looking for her,” Grian warns, though there’s an enthusiasm in his eyes, just as excited about the potential of a cat as Scar is.

“Well then, that just means Grian’s going to get to enjoy some convenient at-home food delivery. Won’t he, Jellie?” Scar asks rhetorically, scratching the cat under her chin as he talks, her purr radiating up through his palm.

“You’re on a first name basis already, are you?” Grian teases, taking another step closer towards them. “You don’t think she’s more of a Maui?”

Scar’s eyes meet Grian’s, eager to the point of giddiness as the cat bumps her head against his hand, pushing her body closer to his chest.

“Do you hear that purr?” he presses as Grian joins him, putting his own hand out to meet Jellie. She cranes curiously towards it, sniffing at him before she contentedly accepts his touch. “She loves me already!”

“She’s got good taste, then,” Grian concedes, stroking his knuckle down the bridge of her nose.

Scar can’t help himself, fond beyond words at the sweetness Grian’s become so at ease in expressing. With a burst of giddiness, he leans in and presses a kiss to Grian’s forehead. Between them, Jellie twists her body around so that she can push against Grian’s sternum, her purr only magnifying.

“Seems like she likes you, too, G,” Scar offers.

“Well… maybe I was too quick on assessing her taste, then.”

The joke is amusing, but self-deprecating enough that Scar feels compelled to shush him, nudging Grian playfully.

“No need for that,” he soothes.

“Well, welcome to the group then, Jellie,” Grian says instead, resting the side of his head against Scar’s shoulder as Jellie tucks herself into the niche left between them. “I hope you won’t get too bored of us.”

“Not a chance,” Scar says with confidence. “We’re very entertaining.”

“Why don’t you bring her in then?” Grian suggests, his hand on Scar’s elbow, nudging him back towards the van. “And we can get you dressed.”

“Or undressed,” Scar teases.

“A googlie and a nudist,” Grian says with a shake of his head, walking alongside Scar back around the van. “Are you sure she shouldn’t run while she still can?”

The second they turn the corner, Jellie immediately jumps out of Scar's arms, landing lightly on her paws when she spots the open van door, leading the way back inside as if the place has always belonged to her.

Unable to help himself, Scar laughs, “I think she’s more interested in the food we’ve got than the personalities she’s saddling herself with.”

“A girl who knows what she wants,” Grian muses. “I can respect that.”

“She’ll fit in perfectly,” Scar insists, meeting Grian’s grin with one of his own.

With the sky still sunny and bright between the trees, and the breeze cool around them, Scar takes a deep breath, true contentment settling in his chest. Companionably, Grian knocks his shoulder against Scar’s side, and Scar looks down to see him offering out his hand. Happily, Scar takes it in his own, enjoying the feel of Grian’s fingers slipping in between his; perfectly matched, despite all their differences.

Idly, he rubs his thumb over Grian’s knuckles, his partner smiling up at him, bright with an expression that’s genuinely satisfied and at-ease.

Ahead of them, Jellie pauses on the lowest step of the camper van, throwing them both a look as if telling them to hurry up, before she disappears in through the open door.

It’s a different world than the one they both started out in, and Scar knows that neither of them have remained unchanged in the face of it. However, the excitement to continue living, and growing, and changing, and trying remains dancing in his blood, despite every loss they've had, and every sacrifice they've made. At peace with their place in the face of a new existence, and the role they’ll have to play as they forge onwards into something new.

It’s only the beginning of the life they’re going to live—an experience they'll travel through together. And with Grian’s hand held tight in his own, Scar is nothing but eager to face it.

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

(Click to reveal.)

[ SPOILERS ]

This chapter contains sexual content, so if you're a minor or would otherwise like to skip that section, please stop reading from, "When he finally reaches" and continue reading after, "It’s only as Scar’s drifting". We've provided a summary below that you can read in order to keep up with any plot details that might be relevant.

[ SUMMARY ]

Scar toys with the sensitivity of Grian's bite mark, setting the mood as he touches it over and gets Grian into it. He tries to keep in mind Grian's earlier request for a more demanding encounter, but it quickly falls apart when Scar realises it's not truly what either of them are feeling at the moment. So he relinquishes control to Grian, and Grian is quick to accept the change, just as into it and just as eager as he was moments ago.

Grian gets ontop and they kiss while Grian manually stimulates him. Scar muses on how far they've both come, and how he truly feels at ease with Grian here and now. Whereas they'd had plenty of intimate moments before, this, now, feels like real trust and security. He enjoys letting Grian lead, and he thinks about how eventually they'll likely switch things over again, but it's nice to be able to trust that Grian wants him and that being in charge is something he enjoys and doesn't just do because of Scar's limitations.

Eventually, Grian takes Scar into his mouth and then teases him by using the very edge of his teeth. It's risky and dangerous, but Scar can't help but admit he enjoys it. It gets them both ready for when Grian straddles Scar properly, getting into position to ride him. While Grian stretches himself out with lube, Scar again thinks on how something like this would've been impossible for them only a few short months ago. He thinks on how he would've been too insecure to let Grian take charge, so certain that Grian's cheating had, in part, been influenced by his boredom in having to take care of Scar and mind his abilities. Now, with the reassurance that Grian loves to lead as much as Scar enjoys giving up control, it feels easy and simple between them.

He thinks further on how much more difficult forgiveness is than he initially thought, and how he still gets upset about past events sometimes. But Scar goes onto to think that while the past can never be erased, that doesn't mean that he and Grian can't still move forward together. And, in fact, he finds himself trusting the Grian of now more than ever. He sees the person Grian is dedicated on becoming, and he puts his full faith in him.

Grian rides Scar and Scar fixates on how pretty Grian looks as he does it, with his newly lengthened hair and his slow resurgence of confidence. They banter and joke back and forth, teasing one another as they continue to couple, the mood fun and airy and light. Scar marvels at how much Grian has come into himself, bolder and more mischievous now; more sure of himself. It makes him happy to see Grian grow into the person Scar had always known was waiting right beneath the surface, and he can't wait to continue to see him blossom and flourish in this way.

When they're both close, Grian asks Scar what he wants and promises to give him anything. Scar responds by stroking Grian's face and slipping his thumb into Grian's mouth. He asks Grian to bite him. They're playing a very dangerous game here, but Scar implicitly trusts Grian and knows his partner wouldn't put him the way of any real harm. Grian both melts and feels incredibly heated from the request, and when he complies with it, Scar quickly reaches the precipice of release.

In a way, Scar muses on how this feels like closure for the affair in the back of Grian's car. They're now recreating their own moment in similarity, overwriting that one in his head. This time around, Scar is the first to say he loves Grian, and that is enough to send Grian over the edge of release. He begs Scar to finish with him, and Scar takes care of the rest, putting his hands on Grian's hips and following through. Grian responds that he loves Scar, and again Scar repeats how much he loves Grian.

After a while of cuddling, they disentangle from one another, feeling satisfied and sleepy.

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Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of There Are Monsters Nearby