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"Scar."
It is just one word. Only a syllable. Grian still manages to choke over it.
He turns to where Scar stands in the shadow of the Secret Keeper. He is looking at the same drawn paper, a similar look of confusion slashed across his face.
Scar lifts his head.
"Grian."
Perhaps it is fate's sense of humor, or perhaps it is the impossible slivered fraction of chance that the two of them have twisted together once again. People shouldn't have these kinds of strings stretching between them—especially not Grian and Scar in a game of mortality. It trips them up, caught between blood-stained teeth and vengefully heavy feet.
Wrong person, wrong time. Over and over.
It's obvious, the secret keeper whispers through the wind, soft and alluring. It twirls the fringes of his hair and brushes his cheek, rustling the task in his hand. It plays coy with him and Grian can imagine a large eye squinting down on him with an eager smile.
Miserably, the only face in front of him is pulled tight with worry without a smile to be seen.
~~~
They have migrated to the back room of Trader Scar's, Grian having just attempted to talk his way out of being caught in a theft of gold from Gem’s underground storage on the trip over. His arm is still sore from where she yanked him away.
The back room is a small space, even as they hold themselves to opposite corners, keeping their distance, both scared of what comes next.
Grian shouldn't have been greedy. This is his fault entirely.
The paper in his hand crumples.
It could have been anyone standing beside him. Any other player's name could have been inked into the small space atop Scar's name. That still doesn’t mean much. Scar has a similarly sickening task. Just for them.
Scar folds his task neatly into squares and slips it into his pocket, but not before raising a thin, rolled condom in the space between them. "Mine came with this."
Hysterically, Grian laughs. He sways a little where he’s standing, using the wall as support. Ridiculous. This is absolutely ridiculous. A fever dream of bad intentions.
His laughs are hollow, ringing in the space between them with a stale sourness. The logical realization is that he needs time to process this—they both do. They should sit down for a talk or work it out another way—a loophole in the system. They’re good at that.
The luxury of time is not on their side. Grian can hear a clock ticking down as the sun arches in the sky. There is no time to talk. They hardly have time to think about this.
Scar stands before him, a man who has haunted Grian since the beginning, orbiting far too close for comfort but never close enough. A brush of fleeting fingers, the violent plunge of a sword. They meet in the middle only to be torn back apart.
Here, it is unclear which is happening.
Grian fears both.
He has no idea what he is planning to do, doesn't know how to tackle the task, but if one thing is for certain he will not let Scar figure out how misplaced he is. The cracks he hides will stay under wraps, tied tight with brute force. He will face this with calculative precision and finish it off as quick as possible.
Scar has strengths where Grian comes up brittle and weak, but when Scar’s eyes look to him carefully, lost, it hits Grian that it truly is up to him to take the lead. Making the decision for himself and having it forced upon him by Scar are two very different positions.
“All right,” he slurs with a pump of false optimism.
He turns on the balls of his feet and shoves his palms against Scar’s shoulders until Scar falls backwards against the floor. His legs stretch into a jumble of limbs.
“Hey—” Scar cuts himself off with a strangled noise as Grian clambers on top of him.
“Leave it to me,” he says breathlessly, confidence already dwindling. “I’ll take care of this. Just stay there— it’ll be done in a jiffy.”
Whatever Scar has to say is lost as Grian pushes him back against the floor.
This is his fault, this is his responsibility. Grian owes it to Scar. Over the countless times he has ended a series, or stolen an item, or lied through a smile—Grian can spare Scar the same sickness writhing in his gut.
He can shave off a fraction of the weight.
Still, Scar resists. Even with his back to the ground and Grian looming over him.
“Are we actually doing this?” Scar’s voice is low and tense. “Grian, that’s insane. Something like this should be done with care and prep—”
Grian’s hands itch to latch onto Scar’s shoulders and shake him senseless. He settles for a glare. Touching Scar any more than he has to feels wrong. A loophole he can't possibly exploit. “If we don’t, we lose ten hearts. That would kill you. Immediately.” He speaks bitterly, words sharp against his lips. “Look, I don’t want to do this anymore than you do, okay? Let’s get it over with.”
Scar stays silent for too long, eyes locked on his hands in his lap, reading the lines as if searching for a way out. Callused and worn, palm readings will do them no good.
He exhales through his nose, eyes finally raising to Grian. “Let’s get this over with, then.”
“This shouldn't happen,” Grian mumbles, before leaning in to trail a deft hand under Scar's green shawl and pick at his buckle. He can't quite hide the tremor in his hands.
He is sorry. It never should have gone this way.
Grian takes one more breath before popping Scar's buttons. No turning back.
The hem of Scar's undergarments slide down his thighs with the pants, easily. As Grian stares down Scar's half-hard dick, Grian kind of wishes that had been more difficult. He is itching for a fight and his irritation only grows when he dares a glance at Scar to find him propped on his elbows and staring back, enraptured.
Scar’s cheeks are just as flushed as the tip of his dick. His mouth falls open dumbly, but unless he is about to tell Grian how much he's disgusted by him, he doesn't want to hear it.
The dick is warm in his palm and grows harder at each accidental jut Grian does with his trembling hands. He plays it off with a shaky smirk, looking down on Scar with one hand plastered to the ridge of his clavicle.
He hopes it hurts. He hopes he hates it, and he hopes the revulsion is shared between mingling, stuttering exhales as his hand takes the head of Scar's dick between his legs. He runs his fingers up the shaft as he steers it to a better angle.
Under the weight of everything, his knees protest the most, already aching as they push into the floor beside Scar's ribs. The ache will never leave; it will follow him to the grave—a reminder of what he has taken from both of them.
Scar's dick aligns just right, pressing to the dip between Grian's legs. Solid, callused hands fly out to grip his waist.
"Whoa there!" Scar's voice trembles but his hands are firm. "You're not ready."
Grian's veneer quakes under Scar's intense gaze. Has he already been found out? Has Scar seen straight through to his pounding heart and liquefying veins?
Like a sandcastle crumbling, Grian's traitorous legs begin to shake from exertion. Gently, callused fingers pull his body into Scar's, tummy to tummy. The relief is instant. Grian blinks back furious tears.
It isn't supposed to be like this.
"I am."
Scar looks unconvinced. "Don't you need…"
"What?"
"…to be stretched out?"
Grian chuckles darkly. He raises his head and lets his bangs fall to side of his face. The sting of tears is gone. He presses down on Scar's lap. "No. I'll be fine."
Scar's grip tightens, cementing him in place. Grian tries another cant of his hips but Scar is stronger than he looks. He hardly moves.
"Grian. Please. Let me do this."
Grian is weak. He is so, so weak. He bows his head and lets Scar lift him back onto his knees. Thankfully the ache is still there, reminding him of what this really is. A trick of chance, a game of horrifying fate.
Scar holds him there for another long minute, hands firm against his waist. The hesitance is a nauseating delicacy. A respite at the edge of the world, but Grian sees what's coming and he would rather plunge headfirst into the abyss than be pushed off a cliff.
Scar's nose brushes Grian's navel and suddenly he needs this to speed up immediately.
"You're as white as a sheet," Scar murmurs, almost gentle.
Grian's nails bite into Scar's shoulder and he raises himself off Scar's lap. He clenches his teeth. "Time's ticking. Let's go."
A heavy exhale ghosts across Grian's shoulder and then Scar moves. One hand remains locked to Grian's waist but the other drags down the skin of his thigh. The heat of his hand leaves Grian suppressing a shiver, biting down on his lip to keep quiet as Scar finally finds where he should be.
A gentle hand holds his ball sack, and this time Grian can't hold back the shiver running up his spine. It circles the sensitive underside, squeezing up and down slowly.
Scar inhales, his forehead bending forward to Grian's chest. The skin at his hairline is already slick with sweat. And then the tip of his finger dips inside.
The other hand—Scar has two hands— encircles Grian’s dick, just there. Not moving. Not yet. His thumb rests dauntingly over the tip. Just a gentle press forward and his head would roll under the pad of Scar’s finger. The potential has Grian's knees weak. Tension replaces the ache.
Steady, Scar's finger pushes further in, slow and controlled.
It is uncomfortable and weird. The rounded tip of Scar's finger drags around the inside of his walls. Pressing gently. Circling.
It isn't good. It is underwhelming and weird, and he is about to say just that when Scar pops in another finger and a zip of something visceral leaves his arms tingling. A sound, soft and haunted, curls in the back of his throat. Grian's hands fist at Scar's chest like a lifeline, pushing them apart but refusing to let go.
Focused eyes meet his own, melting into clear concern.
"Did that hurt?" Scar asks. His voice is deep like a river, the current of his words reeling Grian around.
His fingers do not stop moving. They're slow and methodical, pressing in and rotating before pulling up and repeating. Grian can already feel the space opening up for them, his insides loosening and the tension bleeding. The pad of Scar's thumb presses right where it shouldn't, a dry drag of his hand down Grian’s dick, and all the tension snaps back.
Grian gasps. "It feels gross. Take them out, take them out—"
He must have misread the concern on Scar's face, because instead of listening, Scar curls his fingers just as his hand slips down Grian again.
The same haunted sound unfurls from Grian's throat and slips past his lips. His hand flies to his mouth, his balance going lopsided in a futile effort of escape. His hips jut upwards, away from the stimulation of Scar's dancing fingers, but the hand on his waist keeps him down.
"Sorry," Scar mumbles into Grian's chest, though he sounds anything but. His forehead is sticky against his skin and the back of his ears radiate a red to rival that of redstone dust.
"If you do that again," Grian warns, "I'll kill you."
"Don’t be a silly goose. It will hurt if you don't let me do this."
"It will hurt either way."
Scar hums and a third finger presses in. Grian chokes back a hum of his own, far more animalistic than anything he is comfortable with. He is afraid to breathe, feeling the tug of those fingers resting against his most sensitive spots. Blunt nails drag across his tender insides and he wriggles away, flinching at the sensation.
Scar is being too nice, too gentle. Grian chews on the inside of his cheek, watching as Scar’s concentration morphs into hesitant confidence. He takes his sweet time, like he’s handling something delicate and important, unable to mess up. Grian finds that he has bitten through the skin of his cheek and tastes blood, sharp and metallic.
"Okay," he says. His voice is ragged against the air between them. "Okay, that's it. That's enough."
"Okay," Scar echoes, finally—finally—removing himself from Grian. There is a horrible squelching sound as his fingers pop out, and if Grian's consciousness hadn't died before, it was now completely buried six feet under.
Please don't look at me, he begs as Scar lifts his head. The void does not listen. Molten eyes meet his own and Grian can feel the tears threatening to fall. He hides them in the crook of his arm.
The sound of the condom puts Grian on high alert and he buries his head deeper into his arm, if only to gain a fraction of his composure back.
Scar’s thumb is back on Grian, pulling his hole open, and then, with as little warning as this secret task, he presses in. It is terribly intense, more than anything Grian has felt before. Scar hasn’t gone very far, carefully pressing deeper, but it hurts so much it burns. The hands on his waist scald the skin, branding two hot prints to forever be remembered. The start of another pathetic sound chokes him up as he bites down on his lip, plastering his mouth closed. He squeezes down hard instead, distracting himself from the frog in his throat.
Grian pulls his arm to himself, clutching his mouth shut with both hands.
For Scar, he thinks. For survival.
Scar's face darkens visibly. "Grian," he rasps. "You have to relax."
He tries, he really does, but the panic in his throat is choking him and the press of Scar's hands feel like locked chains.
It’s all futile, though, when Scar pushes in an inch more, hitting an electric current in Grian.
“Hnnn—”
Grian’s mouth drops open in a moan, garbled by his hands. His body seizes involuntarily. Distantly, he feels Scar’s hands on his face, cupping his chin, looking over Grian’s screwed up face, still resting in that same, electric spot.
Grian punches blindly at Scar’s back, hoping to escape the pressure on his prostate. If failing the task won’t kill him, this surely will. Scar doesn’t understand, or if he does, he is cruel, because instead of letting off, Scar pushes further in.
The long, slow drag wrenches another mangled sound from Grian’s throat. Has he always been this sensitive?
Scar continues, hips pressing flush against Grian. Bottomed out. Above Grian, Scar’s face is an angry red, and Grian can see a strain in his neck. His chest rises shallowly.
“Scar? Breathe. Buddy, you’re freaking me out.”
With a voice strained beyond belief, Scar grunts, “It’s fine.”
And then it isn’t fine. Scar pulls out faster than he had pushed in and tilts his hips. He rocks forward, moving closer, pushing down. Grian’s legs spread to the side easily, fallen open, calling Scar in. His presses a heavy hand to his mouth again, already expecting what is to come.
“Haah—” he breathes out as Scar pushes in, starting a rhythm Grian doesn’t think he can keep up with. Quickly his mind is going blank, his patience is wearing thin. Any further and Grian really, really doesn’t know where they’ll end up.
He needs this to be bad. He can’t decide if it is.
Accident or not, Scar repositions his hands, a soft, gentle finger brushing Grian’s chest, just a tease of something else, and Grian clenches in false anticipation.
“Grian,” Scar says, sounding just as wrecked as Grian, voice thick and heavy. The angry flush has dissolved into a pretty pink.
That’s not how this works. Grian needs Scar to hate this. Hate him.
He needs him to fight back.
“Just hurry up,” Grian begs.
Scar gives him a reproachful look, and thrusts back in. Grian rocks back against the floor, lip quivering in shame as every pump into him releases a mortifying “ah, ah, ah”, muffled but loud in Trader Scar’s. Quickly the pace has increased.
It’s too much. It’s really too much for Grian to handle, even when he can’t decide whether he wants it to stop completely or go faster. Consciously, he registers that he is enjoying this. He can fight as much as he wants, he can push Scar to the brink, but his body will never lie. It wants Scar. He wants Scar.
Between ruby-red violence and long days under sweltering suns, Grian has dreamed of being held by Scar. Not like this. Nothing like this. But the sentiment still stands.
It would start with a confession and lead to languid spells under thin bedsheets. It would be hazy around the edges, rose-tinted by a dream-like wonder.
This is a nightmare.
“I’m s-so sorry, I— hnn, ‘orry,” he hears himself hiccup. His voice sounds foreign to his ears, a different person entirely. It’s terrifying how easily he can melt into somebody else, just the gentlest touch from Scar has The Game’s hardened personality fall away.
It’s a useless thing to say, a broken apology. Scar shows no sign of hearing it. Neither can afford to stop now, not when they’re so close, not when lives hang in the balance.
Grian mumbles through the tears and pleasure, torn between a sickening fault line. He’s a whimpering mess, violently overstimulated as Scar continues to move faster, snapping his hips, gritting his teeth. He pushes Grian to the floor, turning him over, huffing out a warning when Grian tries to scramble to his knees.
“Hang in there. Just a little more.”
Grian tenses, goes to roll over, to challenge, but there is no hesitation to Scar’s movements. He spreads Grian open and drives back into him. This angle is even deeper. Every thrust Scar makes is driving relentlessly in Grian’s prostate once again. His weeping dick is being ground against the floor with each sharp thrust.
If this was a game, just between the two of them, no Secret Keeper, no tasks, Scar has won.
Grian pushes back as best he can, still fighting himself, out of rhythm. His arousal is spiraling high and higher. The urge to come is breaking waves through him, an unbearable, sweet ache of not-quite-enough and horrible, horrible, bad. Finding pleasure in this feels like stark betrayal.
“S’ar,” Grian pleads.
Scar’s hips falter briefly. He holds Grian tight as he teeters from the edge, and horribly, Grian finds it comforting, enough for him to release in a deep, white-hot flood of warmth.
Scar slams into his once, twice more and stills, his head dropping to the back of Grian’s shoulders.
Gasping for air roughens his throat. He can feel the usage and knows he’ll have trouble talking tomorrow. If there is a tomorrow.
They’ve completed it. All they need to do is hit the button.
Scar is saved.
Grian’s eyes refocus, finding Scar looming over top him, breathing hard, eyes closed. Grian rolls out from underneath him. He needs space. He needs time. He needs—
He hears himself gasping. His heart is loud in his ears. He can feel his heartbeat in the tips of his fingers, pouring through the rest of his body.
Grian stares at Scar. A vicious sickness claws through him, burning his insides. He turns away from Scar and heaves. Nothing comes out but more awful, hurt noises. A dying animal. Grian is tired of making these uncontrollable noises, but his stomach convulses and he bends in on himself as he gags into his hand.
He tastes it, the sludge. It still never comes. It stays still in his body as he bends further in on himself and prays to choke it out.
“Grian—?”
Grian uses the corner walls to help himself up. The sickness doesn’t subside, but Scar’s voice cuts through something, because suddenly he is able to pull himself together. “Don’t… Don’t touch me,” he groans.
“You’re barfing all over the place! Let me—”
“No! I am not barfing.” There is a warmth down his thighs and a fire on his bum. He wants this over with as soon as possible. “Let’s just— let’s go hit that button.”