Chapter 1
Notes:
My first non-consensual cannibalism let's go.
(The cannibalism is actually very minor I'm sorry.)
Chapter Text
It’s near noon. Scar checks the time again. Checks his bag. He has his phone, car keys, and the juice box. Everything he needs.
He ignores his younger brother besides him, desperately insisting that Scar not go through with this. Of course Bdubs is arguing. He undoubtedly still resents Scar for the fire, and for their father. He probably resents their mother too, for blackmailing him into silence. So Scar doesn’t listen to him- he never does.
Soon the clock will strike twelve. When that happens, the bakery will close, as the bakers will have their lunch break. In the lunch break, Grian likes to go down to the dumpling stall nearby, even though his coworker Joel insists it’s a rival business.
The stall’s owner is very good at not noticing the things Scar’s family is up to. It’s a survival skill.
The clock strikes twelve. The bakery closes. Bdubs grumbles that he doesn’t want anything to do with this and walks away, probably back to the stables. Since their father’s death- since Scar’s first kill -he’s been spending more time there than at home. Sometimes Scar still hopes he’ll come around and forgive him eventually, but Mother says it’s futile. For all intents and purposes, they lost Bdubs when they lost Etho.
A few minutes after the bakery has closed, Grian steps out of the side door and starts heading down the street. There’s nothing particularly remarkable about him at first glance- a young man with messy, mousy brown hair, his sunglasses pushed up onto his head. He’s significantly shorter than Scar, a slight figure in a black leather jacket, black trousers, polished black shoes, all as usual. Scar, with his height and bright blue and orange shirt, feels almost too visible as he falls into step beside him, as Grian slows down, mindful of Scar’s slower walking speed, of his reliance on his cane.
“Hello Scar,” he says, unguarded and unsuspecting. Scar returns the greeting, and down they go together.
The dumpling stall is always run by its owner, Scott, who’s been in a wheelchair since the amputation of both legs at the knee a few months ago. Scar happens to know that most of the muscle of the thigh is also missing. So is a lung, a kidney, and previously a bit of liver that’s probably regrown by now. He wonders if that means more can be harvested. But anyway, it hasn’t impacted Scott’s mostly cheerful demeanour, nor his cooking skills- as always, the stall has plenty of options: meat dumplings, fish dumplings, cheese dumplings and various vegetable dumplings, sweet dumplings with apple or plum or apricot, and a selection of toppings and sauces. Scar, as usual, takes one with a ground meat and vegetable filling.
“Did this one have a name?” he asks, letting it sound teasing.
“Martyn,” Scott says flatly, and Scar nods, approving. He knows Scott tried to warn Martyn away- Scar’s mother sent him down to reprimand Scott for it. Fortunately for everyone, Martyn saw Scott as a rival for Cleo’s affections, and was thus disinclined to listen to any warnings he gave.
Grian chuckles, because he thinks it’s a joke. He takes one of the same batch of dumplings, and doesn’t seem to notice how closely Scar watches him eat. Or perhaps he’s just used for it. They’ve been friends for almost a year now, after all.
In that time, Scar has learnt a bit about Grian and his two friends, roommates and co-workers, Joel and Jimmy- but not much. He knows, for example, that the three met in a rehabilitation program offered at a juvenile jail, but not what any of them did to get arrested in the first place. But that’s fine. After all, Scar’s done enough to be put away for life, and Grian doesn’t know that about him.
They hang out around the stall for Grian’s lunch break, and Scar offers him a juice box to go with his dumpling, which Grian accepts happily. He drinks all of it, too, and Scar spares a little concern to wonder if the standard dose might be slightly too much for someone of Grian’s stature.
The food is soon eaten, and when Grian gets up from the bench to throw the paper plates into the nearby bin, he sways on his feet. Scar is quick to steady him, guides him to sit down again.
“Woah, take it easy,” he says. “Have you had enough to drink?”
“I- yeah, I have, you gave me the juice box, remember? I’m just a little tired- bakery opens early, you know.”
“Well, you just sit and rest, I’ll take care of things,” Scar assures him, and Grian half-heartedly protests, but it’s only out of concern for Scar’s comfort, so Scar assures him it’s fine.
Naturally, Grian’s even unsteadier than before by the time he returns from throwing the plates, so Scar asks Scott to keep an eye on him while he goes to get his car, conviently parked nearby, to give Grian a lift. Scott agrees, the suppressed disgust in his voice noticed only by Scar- Grian’s no longer aware enough to be particularly perceptive.
Scar’s back with the car within three minutes, and half-carries Grian inside.
“I thought you considered him a friend,” Scott says suddenly before he can get into the driver’s seat.
“Oh, I do,” Scar says, grinning. “You’re friends with Mom, right?”
Scott glares at him, but lets the matter drop.
“Give the bakery a call and let them know Grian’s not feeling well and has gone home. Don’t mention me,” Scar instructs, to which Scott aquieses with some grumbling about how Joel is going to blame his dumplings for Grian’s “unwellness”. And Scar, in an excellent mood, gets in the car and drives home.
His mother isn’t back from work yet, and won’t be until late into the night, which suits Scar just fine, as it means he’ll be able to use the cellar without interruption. And Bdubs will stay away like he’s done every time since they got the new house.
The old one is ashes, still. Apparently there are plans to build an apartment block on the land. Bdubs isn’t happy about it. Scar doesn’t particularly care. The old place had to go with the evidence, and they have a better set up now.
Grian’s unresponsive as Scar gets him inside and down the stairs with some difficulty. He unlocks the heavy door and switches the light on in the soundproof room, and the figure lying on a cot near the entrance stirs, wakes.
“…Scar?” Martyn mumbles, squinting against the light.
“Yup. I’m just moving you, you can go back to sleep.”
Martyn blinks sluggishly at him.
“Alright…? While you’re here, could you, uh, up the painkiller dose again maybe? I’m kinda…”
He waves his unshackled hand vaguely.
“Sure, no problem,” Scar says cheerily as he wheels the cot and IV stand out of the room. He decides giving Martyn some sedatives alongside the pain medication can’t hurt either, just in case he gets any ideas about trying to leave once he’s out of the room. Not that he’d get far in his state, but still, Scar doesn’t want to cause his mother any trouble- or have her angry at him.
When Grian wakes up an hour later, he’s comfortable on the sofa next to the bathroom door, which is ideal, as he’s able to reach the toilet before throwing up. Scar, surprised by how quickly he moved, follows him inside, pats him on the back and offers him a mug of freshly brewed tea he knows helps against the after-effects of custom juice boxes.
“Scott let your friends know you’re not well,” Scar tells him as Grian takes a cautious sip and makes a face at the taste.
“Tell him thanks from me,” Grian says hoarsely. “I should get going.”
“What you should do, Mister, is take a shower,” Scar suggests.
“I don’t-”
“It’s no trouble at all, really. You’re already in the bathroom, might as well use it. You don’t want to go out smelling like you’ve been sick.”
“But… my clothes would anyway, so-”
“Oh, don’t worry about it- you can borrow some of Bdubs’s things.”
When Grian opens his mouth again, presumably with another half-baked excuse, Scar sets a hand over it.
“Take a shower, Grian. There’s no rush, it’s no trouble. You’re not well- let me look after you for a bit, okay?”
“…Okay,” Grian says, finally.
Scar steps out of the bathroom for Grian to change, and, once he hears the shower turn on, collects the clothes left sloppily folded on the floor.
“There’s a spare toothbrush on the sink for you,” he calls over the sound of the water running before he steps out with the clothes, which he places in a drawer next to the sofa, where they aren’t visible. They can be washed or burnt- whatever is more convenient, depending on whether they need to fabricate evidence or conceal all trace -later.
Once that’s done, he slowly makes his way across the room- he’s been on his feet for too long, has pushed his body a little too far, and is beginning to feel the consequences, but it’ll be well worth it -to where a cupboard stands next to a plastic cot smelling strongly of disinfectant. He opens a drawer and traces over the items within as he ponders what he wants to use. A scalpel, for sure- maybe two, one for larger incisions -and a good pair of scissors. Toothed clamps could also be useful, and perhaps he’ll indulge in the small, battery-powered bone saw as well. It’s been a long time since he last got to use that.
This will be the first time Scar’s done all of this on his own, without his mother’s guiding hands and sharp instruction. The anticipation alone is delightful.
He carefully fulls a syringe with a small amount of weak paralytic, not enough to suffocate someone but enough to make even the smallest movements a struggle. It should last about a quarter of an hour- sometimes it’s a little more, sometimes less, and he’s never thought to ask why. Then, he rolls a comfortable desk chair over to the bathroom door and waits, trying not to be inpatient. The sound of the shower has already stopped.
It takes three more minutes for Grian, wrapped in a giant fluffy towel, to open the door a sliver.
“Scar? Do you have something for me to change into?”
“Of course, I was just resting my legs for a bit,” Scar says. “My brother’s room is all the way upstairs, you see.”
“Oh. Yeah, don’t strain yourself on my behalf, okay, Scar?”
Scar smiles.
“You’re worth it.”
He watches Grian blush and duck his head and simply cannot wait any longer. Scar gets to his feet, using the wall for support, and holds a hand out to Grian. Grian, confused and oh so helpful, slips out of the doorway and takes it.
And Scar, in a smooth and practiced movement, pulls the syringe from his pocket, flips off the end’s protective cover with one finger, and injects it into the arm he holds fast with his other hand as Grian tries to jerk away.
“Scar?!”
“Yes?” he asks, unable to keep a giggle of pure, giddy delight out of his voice. He’s doing this, it’s happening, finally. There’s no way for him to back out after this. And no way for Grian to get away, either.
“What… what was in there, what are you doing…?”
His hand in Scar’s has gone lax, and he sways on his feet. Scar moves forward to support him, half drags and half carries him to the desk chair, which he rolls over to the plastic cot. Grian topples out of it halfway, whether accidentally or not Scar doesn’t know, and even though he really should be taking it easy and not exerting himself further, he cannot keep himself from picking Grian up in a bridal carry, bringing him the rest of the way to the cot with an air of ceremony.
He lays Grian down, removes and sets aside the towel. With the cuffs attached to the sides of the cot for specifically that purpose, he secures Grian’s wrists and ankles. There are more restraints, but they won’t be necessary with the paralytic active. He wipes his own hands as well as Grian’s skin with disinfectant out of ingrained habit rather than true concern. Brings the chair over for himself, this time.
Scar starts slow. Savours the knowledge that Grian, his breathing shallow and uneven, can feel each incision Scar makes over the lines of his ribcage, tracing the scalpel tantalizingly down from sternum to the seventh left rib, underneath which he cuts deep and careful, swirls the fingers of his free hand through the hot blood that wells up. Grian tries to thrash, and manages only feeble twitches. Tries to scream, and makes a voiceless, hoarse sound, air rough over useless vocal chords.
“It’ll wear off soon,” Scar assures him. “And then you’ll be able to scream as much as you like.”
He slips the smaller scalpel under the skin he’s already damaged and starts the slow process of removing it. Not too much, just a long, thin strip that perfectly follows the line of the ninth rib, then another over the eighth, the seventh, up and up until half of Grian’s chest shows the pattern under his skin in bright red, glinting in the light with every breath Grian takes. Then he returns to the deeper incision, widens it until he can fit two fingers inside and feel his way into Grian’s body, fat and muscle soft and warm against his skin. He curls his fingers slowly, experimentally- it’s not something he’s ever tried before. He wishes, now, that he’d found a way to get Grian on the cot without resorting to a paralytic. Scar wants to see and hear and feel every reaction.
He carves away more skin and muscle to expose the sixth rib, to run his fingers through ragged flesh and over smooth, slippery bone, all the way to the border between bone and the cartilage that joins the rib to the sternum, and to the next four ribs below it. It’s tempting to lay it all bare… but no, too much, too fast. Instead, Scar turns his attention to the right side of the body laid out before him, makes a subcostal incision with the larger scalpel. He uses the toothed clamp to pull slick tissue aside and pin it in place, leaving a gaping wound that, as he scrapes aside more flesh, reveals the dark gleam of liver.
Despite having had relatively recent practice, it takes Scar a while to properly remove a segment of the liver’s right lobe, and he soon finds himself talking aloud as he does.
“Did you know liver goes well with potatoes?” he tells Grian. “It’s really nice fried, especially with onions or spring onions. I think we have spring onions in the fridge upstairs, I’ll have to check later.”
Grian doesn’t reply, of course, but he’s beginning to move more, is forcing Scar to occasionally hold him down against the cot lest he do too much damage too quickly. He really doesn’t want Grian to bleed out when he has so many more things he wants to try first.
Once he’s separated the segment of liver from the rest, Scar sets it aside- he’ll make a late supper, a nice surprise for his mother when she comes home. Then he wipes his hands, picks up the little bone saw, and takes it to the rib he laid bare earlier. It’s that which earns him the first scream, sharp and strained and quickly stopped, as if Grian startled himself with the sound. Then he starts trying to pull away, which Scar puts a stop to by climbing onto the cot and straddling him, using his own greater weight to keep Grian still enough for him to keep going with the saw until he’s removed enough of the front outer length of bone to expose some of the marrow. There’s not much, in slender ribs. Scar picks up the scalpel again and uses it as a spoon, scooping the liquid-filled marrow up in tiny portions he piles next to the liver. Impulsively, he pops one into his mouth, raw and rough against his teeth. Left behind is a hollow, and when Scar fits the tips of this fingers in, he realises, he can use it to grip the rib.
Grian screams, high and agonised, and Scar removes his blood and marrow streaked hand to place it carefully over Grian’s throat instead, to feel the source of the sound, the vibrations of it soft against his palm even as the awful harshness rings in his ears. Scar shivers. Then he clenches his hand into a fist and the scream is cut off, sound trapped, fluttering against his grip.
“Look at me,” Scar demands, low and earnest as he leans down until they’re face to face. “Look at me, Grian.”
A sob, stifled by the too-tight hold Scar keeps on his throat, is the only response he gets. Scar lets go to grip Grian’s face instead, turns it forcefully towards his own. Grian’s eyes are open, at least, though so unfocused and tear-filled he likely cannot see anything clearly.
“Focus on me,” Scar instructs. He’s unsure if he’s heard, at first, but then Grian’s breathing becomes a bit less ragged and a bit more deliberate, and he blinks some of the tears from his eyes before his gaze finally finds Scar’s.
“There you are.”
“Scar,” Grian whimpers, “you’re hurting me.”
Scar grins widely. The hand not holding Grian’s face settles against blood-slick liver, still exposed to air. Perhaps he’ll take another segment. And another after that. Perhaps he’ll strip the flesh from every bone and crack them open for the marrow. Perhaps he’ll throw a feast of lung and liver with those potatoes. Perhaps he’ll take the heart, too.
If Scar keeps going… well, Grian won’t survive. Scar traces the reddened mark he’s left on Grian’s throat. He might as well kill him intentionally. He could. It would be incredible, he’s sure. The greatest high of his life. Nothing else would ever compare.
He’d never have Grian like this again.
Scar does not want to stop… but if he does. If he cleans the wounds and stitches them up, if he asks his mother to help him keep Grian alive and hidden away… he could do this again. And again, and again.
“I want to watch you die,” he confesses. Closes his hand around Grian’s throat once more. “I want to feel it.” Lets go. “But I also want to do this again.”
“Please…”
Scar sighs. Grian’s looking right at him, dark eyes blown wide. Beautiful. Scar wants to keep them. He picks up the small scalpel once more, leans down to grip the side of Grian’s head firmly as he slips the blade between eye and socket, severing tendons and nerves. Grian’s flinch is a violent thing, causes the scalpel to pierce the eye itself, rupturing it. Scar sighs again, in exasperation this time- mostly at himself, as he should have predicted such a thing might happen. He finishes removing the ruined eye less carefully.
“It’s quite the dilemma, I know,” he continues once he’s done and is moving to the other eye- he wants a pristine one to keep. ”What do you think, Grian? You probably don’t want to die, right?”
Grian makes an odd, wheezing sound, and it takes Scar a second to realise he’s laughing.
“What? What’s so funny?” he asks, unable to keep his own chuckle out of his voice.
“You- you think I- Scar, you’re ridiculous.”
“I’m confused,” Scar admits. When the only response he gets is another wheezing laugh, he shrugs and focused on getting the second eye out without damaging it. This time, he manages. Grian doesn’t flinch, but he shakes like a leaf, and Scar has to pin his head against the cot to brace it.
And then he’s done, and he wants to do more, but for now… it will have to be enough. Scar can be patient. He climbs back off the cot, body aching from too long in a suboptimal position, to go and grab what he needs- gauze, antiseptic wipes, a sterile needle and thread.
“Hold on, alright, Grian? You’re going to be fine.”
The answering chuckle is a broken, hopeless thing. Scar decides not to pay that any mind.
Scar cleans the woulds slow and careful, smiles to himself at how it must sting. There are no more screams, but Grian’s breathing remains ragged and pained, and his trembling shows no signs of ceasing. Scar sweeps his fingers through blood-drenched but undamaged skin and licks the mess off his fingers. Touches a drop to Grian’s lips as well, just for the reaction. There is none. The too-wide subcostal incision and the hollow beneath the seventh rib need packing, so Scar disinfects a bowl- and his hands again -for the wetting solution and fetches more gauze and tape.
Fixing people up always takes longer than damaging them does. Scar rarely cares for it, preferred to leave giving medical attention to his mother and brother, in the days before Bdubs declared he didn’t want anything to do with any of it anymore. But Cleo won’t be home until late and he wants Grian alive, preferably for a long time to come.
An hour passes like this before Grian speaks up.
“How did you find out?”
His voice is quiet, a little hoarse. His tone is somewhere between blank exhaustion and wary curiosity.
“Find out about what?” Scar asks.
“About the cannibalism. About me.”
“Grian, I genuinely don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“What? But you said earlier…” he trails off. Takes a moment before he keeps talking. “So this isn’t- you’re trying to tell me that you picking me for this is a coincidence?”
“Coincidence? No, of course not- you’re special to me, really. I’ve wanted to do this since the day we met!”
“Right. Lovely,” Grian says flatly. “But that’s not what I meant. I… I was jailed for partaking in cannibalism, Scar. But they thought- the court decided I wasn’t one of the main perpetrators, just pressured into going along with it, so I got a light sentence and rehab. My… friends-” he says the word like a question “-weren’t so lucky. But we all knew what we were doing.”
“Oh. I really didn’t know that.” What were the odds? It seems the more Scar learns about Grian, the more he likes him.
Grian hums. Flexes against the cuffs on his wrists.
“Are you going to let me up?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. You need to lie still and rest to heal.”
“Scar. This-” he thumps his hand against the cot “-is sticky and disgusting. Let me up.”
Scar does.
Chapter Text
Grian is prepared to be patient. Prepared to play along for as long as he needs to. But for once, luck is on his side. He recalls the movement of Scar’s hand whenever he set an instrument down, and it’s perfectly believable for Grian to strumble a little as he gets his feet under him. Scar is steadying him in an instant, chiding him for not taking it slow.
And just like that, Grian has a scalpel in hand, cutting into his palm. One Scar doesn’t notice as he guides Grian away from the cot.
“I’m sure you could join us for dinner,” he’s saying blithely. “I’ll put the potatoes on the boil soon- do you think I should mash them? Or maybe fry some slices…”
“Either sounds good to me,” Grian says, as truthfully as can be, considering he’s not planning on sticking around for dinner at all. He’s not that interested in what his own liver tastes like.
“I think I’ll go with- hang on, Grian, is your hand bleeding?”
Grian has no time to second guess himself. He lunges, drives the scalpel towards the sound of Scar’s voice. Fresh blood splashes onto his hand as Scar yells. Grian wrenches his arm back, aims lower, centre mass. Drives the scalpel into yielding flesh with the strength of all his desperation, all his will to survive. Again, and again, and then there’s a thud as Scar hits the ground and Grian backs up, keeps moving until he hits the wall and feels his way along it to the door.
“Wait.” Scar’s voice is weak, too weak. Grian hesitates. “Don’t go.”
The door is heavy, but not locked. Grian steels himself, and leaves. Ignores the feeble cry of his name before the door slams shut behind him.
He drops the scalpel on the floor and begins the laborious climb up the stairs. After some fumbling, he finds the front door, too- he knows that’s what it must be because of the cold, fresh air that hits him as he opens it. He’s done it- he’s out, he’s free.
Grian starts walking. He cannot see where he’s going and doesn’t really care- away is good enough for him. Good enough to be worth the pain that every breath brings, that every step amplifies.
He doesn’t hear much traffic, which is a little odd. Nor anything else- there’s the faintest rustle of the breeze through distant trees somewhere, and an ambulance siren that sounds like it’s getting steadily further away.
And then, after several minutes of stumbling down the street, using the curb of the pavement he found to orientate himself, a familiar voice.
“Hello? Are you alright?”
It’s Scott. Grian raises his head- and sees nothing, of course.
“Hello?” he says again, sounding closer. “…Grian?”
“Hello,” Grian mumbles. His voice sounds too high and shaky to his own ears. The touch of Scott’s hand against his own startles him.
“Easy,” Scott says. “I’m not going to hurt you. You got away?”
Scott saw Scar leave with him, Grian realises suddenly. He’s figured out what happened- or at least, that something happened, that something went badly.
“I had to… I think I killed Scar,” he admits shakily, and Scott sucks in a sharp breath.
“Okay, that’s not ideal… we probably can’t go the police then, right? Especially seeing as you have a history with them. So what’s your next step?”
“I have to get home,” Grian says.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea? Grian, listen, if Scar’s dead then the rest of the family is going to want revenge. You want to risk Joel and Jimmy being collateral?”
No, no he doesn’t. It hadn’t occurred to him.
“What do I do?”
“You can stay at my place until you figure it out,” Scott offers.
“Thank you,” he says, incredibly relieved at having some sort of shelter, time to make some sort of plan. It takes the edge off his desperation, and he realises how exhausted he is. “Really. I don’t know how to make this up to you.”
“Don’t worry about it. Let’s get you inside, and you can lie down, alright? We’ll deal with all this in the morning.”
Scott’s voice is calm, soothing, and Grian latches onto his promises- the only hope he has. Scott guides his hand to one of the wheelchair’s push handles and starts moving slowly, and Grian holds on, and follows. Focuses on putting one foot in front of the other in the dark, and grits his teeth against the pain that comes with it. He doesn’t know how long it takes before they stop, and there’s the sound of a door being unlocked and the warmth in the air as it opens, and then Grian’s feeling his way inside as Scott closes the door behind them- he doesn’t hear it lock.
“Follow the wall on your left to the bedroom door. I’ll get you a glass of water… and some painkillers, I think.”
“Thank you,” Grian says again. Does as instructed, and finds the bed against the far wall of the room after bumping into a houseplant on the way. He curls up on top of the covers, bringing his limbs to protect his chest and abdomen even though he knows he’s safe now. The air feels cold against the sweat drying on his skin.
The door brushes softly over the carpet as it opens further, and Scott announces himself a moment later. Grian holds out his hands, and receives a cold glass and a small, disc-shaped pill. He takes a sip- it’s water, as promised. Takes the pill too, and drinks about half the glass before handing it back.
“Try and get some rest,” Scott advises, and Grian nods, curls up again as he listens to Scott close the door behind him, and waits for the medication to take effect and the pain to abate.
He thinks it might hurt a little less, after some time, but that’s not the main thing he notices. Instead, he slowly becomes aware of his exhaustion becoming sleepiness, of how heavy his body feels and how his breathing is slower than usual. He tries to tell himself it’s normal- he’s just falling asleep because he needs to rest. But his mind keeps trying to remind him of falling asleep during his lunch break and waking up down in the cellar, with Scar so seemingly helpful, sounding so perfectly sensible.
It’s not happening again, he tells himself. There’s no reason it would.
…Except Scott didn’t seem surprised by the state Grian’s in at all. And wasn’t Scar talking to him while Grian was in the car? …Why is Grian here, anyway? Shouldn’t Scott have decided to call an ambulance… no, of course he hasn’t, they don’t want the police involved. Because Scar might be dead and it’s Grian’s fault and that would make him a repeat offender, because no one would believe, with Grian’s history, that he wasn’t involved in Scar’s cannibalism before it came to light…
Scott doesn’t know Grian’s history. He just said they couldn’t go to the police because of Scar- killed in self-defence. He said that as though it were the greatest risk to Grian’s safety right now, though he also said the rest of the family could seek revenge. As if the chance of a potential prison sentence is a normal reason not to get medical attention or protection from… a family of murderers? Was that what Scott implied? And if so, how did he know?
…He used the idea of a family seeking revenge to keep Grian away from his friends. So that he won’t endanger them? Or so that no one knows where Grian is, nor what has happened to him?
He’s suddenly very aware of the fact that he doesn’t have his phone anymore. He needs to call Joel and Jimmy, let them know. Tell them to stay safe. He can ask to borrow Scott’s, and if Scott refuses, well. Then Grian will at least know where they stand.
But the moment he moves to get up, he realises it’s too late. His head is spinning when he raises it, and his arms won’t support his weight.
He’s trapped, again. It’s a good enough reason to panic.
But he doesn’t. There’s still a small, hopeful part of him that says it’s probably just exhaustion catching up to him, that he’s only being paranoid as a trauma response, that the odds of this happening to him twice in a row are minuscule- even his luck isn’t that bad. There’s a much larger part of him that’s simply too tired to care.
So what if Scott hands him over to Scar’s family? Scar is probably dead. Revenge will probably hurt, might not be quick, but no one is going to keep him indefinitely. It might not be so bad, if Grian dies. He won’t have to deal with any of this anymore. Won’t have to learn to live with the aftermath of what he’s done and what’s been done to him. No more hurt, no distrust, no panic, no pain. Nothing to worry about, nothing to think or feel or be. That might not be so bad at all.
For now, he’ll settle for sleep.
Notes:
Well I hope you enjoyed that. :D
I'm off to go write a sequel.
Birdie_told_you on Chapter 2 Sun 06 Apr 2025 06:03AM UTC
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C_Zira on Chapter 2 Sun 06 Apr 2025 01:38PM UTC
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YeahamnotanAlien on Chapter 2 Fri 02 May 2025 03:04AM UTC
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C_Zira on Chapter 2 Fri 02 May 2025 12:00PM UTC
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