Archive of Our Own ^beta

They thought Grian couldn’t hear them arguing. 

It was early in the morning, dull sun spilling through the blinds of the window, but Grian was wide awake, lying on the couch, listening to Scar, Mumbo, and Xisuma talk in the next room over. 

“We should all be there,” Scar was saying, and though his voice was muffled by the walls, Grian’s keen avian ears could pick out every syllable. 

Mumbo, of course, was quick to agree. “Yeah.” His voice was adamant, stronger than Grian was used to hearing it. “He’s gotten much closer to us these past few days. Think of the trust it would build.” 

“ No, ” Xisuma snapped, and Grian flinched without meaning to, even knowing that the harsh tone wasn’t directed at him. “Too many people there will overcrowd him, and we all know Doc can be off-putting to new people. Grian needs to feel safe. ”

The sound of his name on the admin’s tongue had Grian feeling guilty for listening. He should have been asleep, not eavesdropping—what if they found out?

Trying to stifle the fear now steadily pumping in him, Grian rolled over, attempting to shut the other Hermits out. 

But he could still hear them. 

“Come on, X. Grian knows us—’’ 

“Maybe he does,” Xisuma interrupted, and his voice had dropped lower, less harsh than before. Reserved. “But that doesn’t mean he trusts you guys. Both of you know firsthand how hard it is to trust people when you first meet them.”

That had the other men quiet for several long, tired seconds. 

“Just. . .” Xisuma continued, and Grian could imagine the admin waving his hand, “give him some time.”

Grian rolled over again, cover slipping from his frail body and dropping to the floor. With shaky hands, he retrieved it, settling it over himself again. 

“Fine,” Scar’s voice finally sounded, begrudgingly, but there was a tint of understanding around the edges. 

Mumbo spoke next, and his voice carried an air of warning. “I hope this is the right call.” 

“Me, too,” Xisuma admitted, and Grian jumped when he heard the door down the hall suddenly open.

Heart stalling in his chest, he froze. His body stilled beneath the blanket and his breath seemed to fade from his lungs. He didn’t have time to react, to move, before the three Hermits strode into the dimly lit room. 

“Oh, you’re awake,” Scar stammered, sounding surprised. His wide eyes fell to Grian’s hands, which were tightly curled around the edges of his blanket. “Did we. . . did we wake you?” 

Grian ducked his head, letting his hair over his face. He could feel the shame pumping through him, the grim realisation that he was caught growing until fear was mounting, as well. “No, sir—Scar.”

The hurried correction certainly didn’t go unnoticed, but no one mentioned it. Xisuma said, “Are you ready for today?” 

“Yes, Suma,” Grian responded immediately, the need to please pushing the lie out. 

Because the truth wasn’t something he could admit, not to the man who was more or less his Master.

He wasn’t ready for today.

He was getting his stitches out. 

“That’s good,” Mumbo said earnestly, putting effort behind the words. Grian looked up at the man and mustered a small, nervous smile, trying to hide how he really felt. 

“Are you hungry?” 

Grian bit his lip, caught in between himself. What was the correct answer? If he said he was, he was admitting his weakness. But if he said no, he wouldn’t eat until later. 

“Are-are you guys going to eat?” he asked, voice dipping into the quiet panic he kept for questions like this. 

The three Hermits looked at him, studying. Out of all of them, Scar seemed to understand the most, and he nodded his head in answer. “Of course, Birdie.”

The nickname lapped at Grian’s chest. Mixed feelings fought for his control—pleasure, disgust, fear, joy—but he tried to shove them all away. 

I’m an avian, he told himself, placing a mask of indifference on his face. A soldier. He swallowed and forced himself to think the next part of the mantra. A Watcher .

And Watchers didn’t feel—at least, they didn’t let anyone know what they were feeling. 

That had been a command that Grian regularly struggled with. 

(It was much easier to obey when his face was covered with a mask)

“Hey,” Xisuma said, gently, and Grian blinked to see a bowl on his lap. 

When had that gotten there?

Swallowing, he reached towards the porridge, noting the berries settled on top, and pulled it closer. “Hey,” he tried to say, but his voice was quiet. 

“Where did you go off to?” Xisuma continued, sitting down slowly next to the avian, leaving some space between them. He held a bowl himself. Scar and Mumbo were across the room, on another couch, talking together with their food curled in their laps. 

Grian blinked, his head wings twitching in confusion as he turned back to the admin. “Go off to?” he asked, tilting his head.

“What were you thinking about,” Xisuma rephrased, clarifying his original question. 

“Oh.” 

The single word hung in the air. Grian cleared his throat and reached for the rest of that sentence. “Just. . .thinking.”

Xisuma nodded, like this was a perfectly reasonable explanation. He took a bite of food, and Grian took that as permission to eat himself. 

The porridge, to anyone else, would have been bland. It was largely unseasoned and the berries were slightly pruned. But to Grian—to Grian, who was still getting used to consistent full meals—it tasted heavenly. 

But the feeling of content didn’t last long. In between bites, Xisuma informed him, “Doc will be here soon.”

Grian stilled at the words. “He will?” 

Xisuma nodded. “We figured it best to start as early as possible.”

Forcing a shaky nod, Grian took another bite so he didn’t have to respond. The food was now sour in his mouth; his appetite was gone. 

They ate in silence for the rest of breakfast, both of them preoccupied in their respective thoughts. Mumbo and Scar talked idly, but it was clear something was bothering them, too. They kept sneaking glances at Grian, making the avian feel like ants were crawling up his spine. It was everything he could do not to shrink away.  

And when Xisuma told them, “Doc will be here soon,” their eyes dropped to each other, sharing a look, before turning to Grian again. 

This time, Grian caught their expressions. They were. . .sad. Disappointed. 

They want to stay. 

Grian had known this already, of course, from the overheard conversation. Xisuma thought it would be best if Scar and Mumbo left for the procedure. 

Scar and Mumbo did not share that sentiment. 

Honestly, Grian wasn’t sure what to think. He liked Scar and Mumbo, sure, but they were still so new. . .and the idea of being weak in front of them, of them seeing his scars—

The thought sent a shiver down his spine, the ants crawling faster now. 

No, he didn’t want them there. 

They must’ve seen the fear in his eyes, the building panic, the shame, because realisation travelled the lengths of their bodies. They looked at each other, faces pinched with worry, but also understanding. 

They understood. 

“We have to go, now, Grian,” Scar started, slowly, softly. He stood up with the help of his cane and Mumbo. 

Grian nodded, a swirling mass of feelings in his gut. He wanted to want them to stay—he did. But the very thought had nausea tainting his throat. 

Mumbo shot him a sympathetic smile. “We’ll be back later. Okay?”

Grian nodded again. Forced himself to say something, anything. “Okay, Mumbo.” 

The duo shuffled towards the door and, easily, slipped through it. The cast tired glances to Xisuma, who looked back, a silent exchange between them. 

And then they were gone. 

“When,” Grian started, not quite looking at Xisuma, trying to find the words in the wake of the absence of their mutual friends, “when will Doc be here-here?”

He cursed the stutter, but Xisuma didn’t seem to notice. Or else, he didn’t think it worth comment. “He’s on his way. Are you done eating?” 

“Yes, Suma.” 

“Great. Want to help me clean the bowls?”

Surprised, Grian blinked. No one had asked him to help with anything yet. He thought that maybe they felt it was too soon, or that it might trigger him, but all he felt was relief. 

He was useful, again. 

Grian broke a real smile on his face. He nodded eagerly and scrambled to his taloned feet, letting the blanket fall to the floor. 

“Kitchen is this way,” Xisuma said, gathering the bowls, and he led Grian down the hall and to a door on the right. 

Grian hadn’t been anywhere but the lounge and the bathroom. He’d been offered the guest room, of course, but he didn’t want to dirty up another space than the one he already occupied. 

Besides, he was perfectly fine with sleeping on the couch. It was better than almost anywhere else he used to sleep, and he didn’t feel trapped in that room like he might in a smaller one. 

Plus, it was easy to see who came and went. He could keep track of who was there. 

Either way, he knew he was allowed to explore the house—Xisuma had told him that—but hadn’t brought himself to do it yet. The ever present fear of getting caught somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be kept him on the couch for most of the day. 

So, when Xisuma pushed the door to the kitchen open, Grian spent a long time examining his surroundings. 

It was small; smaller even than the living room. Tired cabinets lined the walls and a barrel was shoved in the corner. Furnace to the right, cooler to the left. A sink on the far wall, underneath a window with no curtain, so that sunlight splayed into the space evenly. 

The pair trodded over to the faucet. Xisuma dug through a drawer and handed Grian a rag. 

“You can dry,” he said, flashing a small smile, “and I’ll wash. Sound good?” 

“Yes, Suma,” Grian shot back, pleased, and he waited impatiently for Xisuma to wash the first dish. 

Finally, it was passed to Grian, who took it greedily. While Xisuma began soaping the next bowl, Grian dried the first one. 

He tried to be quick, so that he’d be done at the same time that Xisuma was done, but he didn’t want to be too quick and be accused of rushing. Plus, he didn’t want to miss any water droplets and fail at the first job he’d been given. 

When he deemed the porringer dry enough, Grian carefully placed it on the drainer. 

Just in time, too. He turned to see Xisuma already passing along the next bowl. He repeated the process: drying, drying, drying, finally placing it on the rack. 

Again with the next bowl. He was getting good at this, and for the first time in almost a month since arriving at Hermitcraft, he felt useful. He was helping, and he was doing a good job. 

That is, until the next bowl slipped from his fingers. 

A simple mistake, really. Xisuma hadn’t really been looking, and the slick surface was difficult to get a proper grip on. The admin had let go without realising that Grian wasn’t securely holding the dish. 

And the bowl dropped. 

It dropped, and it shattered against the ground with a loud crash , broken into stabbing pieces and scattering across the square room. 

Both Xisuma and Grian gasped in surprise, mouths wide and eyes wider. For several moments, neither of them said anything, caught in the moment, staring at the jagged glass littering the floor. The faucet was still running, and Xisuma’s hands were soapy and Grian was clutching the rag with his fingers. 

But then the panic set it .

Grian heaved a quick, gulping breath, dropping instantly to his knees. His hands were shaking shaking shaking, and he discarded the rag and started picking up the biggest pieces of glass, cupping them in his hand. 

“I’m sorry,” he croaked, voice thick. The glass was digging into his knees but he hardly felt it, fear taking the forefront in his mind. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, sir, I’m sorry—I—”

“Grian!” Xisuma yelled, and the avian flinched. The glass in his palm slipped from his grasp, dropping back to the floor with a cacophony of sickening sounds. 

Instantly, Grian set about picking them back up, shaking harder now than before. He could hardly see straight. 

“Grian, oh my stars, stop it,” Xisuma was saying, rushed, and distantly Grian knew the admin was crouched beside him. “You’re hurting yourself— stop .”

Grian froze at the command, stilling as much as his quivering body would allow. Vaguely, he was aware of a pain in his knees, a pain in his hand, but that didn’t matter—nothing mattered except the shattered glass on the ground, the shattered glass the shattered glass the shattered

“Grian, I need you to breathe with me,” Xisuma was saying, voice calmer than before. “In, out.”

Choppily, Grian tried to follow the admin’s lead. When had he stopped breathing? He didn’t know. 

“There you go, in and out,” Xisuma coached, hand hovering somewhere above Grian’s shoulder, not quite touching him. “Almost done. Just a few more. . . perfect.”

Slowly, Grian’s vision cleared. He was in the kitchen. He was on the floor by the sink. Sunlight was reflecting off the shattered glass, and it was kind of pretty, distantly, like the way blood is pretty. He stared at it. 

“You’re hurt,” Xisuma murmured. He held his hand out, palm up. “May I see it?”

Grian hesitated, staring at the hand. His words seemed to clog in his throat, sticking there. He thought of all the times a hand was offered to him only to be used to hurt, to cause pain, to cut him again and again and again.

But, but this was Suma. 

He wouldn’t hurt him. He said so himself. 

Carefully, Grian laid his hand on Xisuma’s. He shivered at the touch, but it wasn’t unpleasant. It was—shockingly, alarmingly—gentle. 

“There you go, Birdie,” Xisuma said, softly. Deliberately, he rotated the avian’s hand and examined the cut with sad eyes. For several long moments, no one spoke. 

“It’s not bad,” he finally announced, and Grian nodded. “But we should bandage it. Can you stand up?”

Grian nodded again. He kept his hand in Xisuma’s as he rose unsteadily to his taloned feet, trying to be wary of the glass. 

“Good job,” Xisuma praised. “Now follow me—careful, step around the glass—follow me. That’s it.”

Together, they walked down the hall, Xisuma leading Grian, until they stumbled into a medical room. Xisuma helped Grian sit on the bed before turning to some cabinets. 

Grian took the opportunity to scan the room. It was very white. White floors, white walls, white ceiling. There was one window, but it was small and high up so that the only person who would be able to reach it was Mumbo. 

“Here we are,” Xisuma was saying, drawing Grian back in, and the admin crouched in front of the bed. “May I see your hand?”

Grian nodded and put his hand in Xisuma’s waiting palm. The admin looked at the cut (which wasn’t that deep, thank the stars) and slowly began unwinding the roll of bandages. 

“Your knees are cut too,” Xisuma said, and Grian blinked, looking down. He hadn’t even noticed, but sure enough, little pinpricks of blood were seeping through his pants. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, hating how tight his throat felt. “I’m sorry.” 

“Hey, hey,” Xisuma interrupted, voice gentle, eyes never straying from the task at hand. “It’s okay. It was an accident, yeah?”

Grian swallowed, unsure how to answer. “Yeah.” 

“Then no reason to worry. I’m not upset with you, I promise.” 

Grian shut his eyes at the words, letting them rush over him. Xisuma wasn’t mad at him. Xisuma wasn’t mad at him. 

“I’m going to clean your cut,” Xisuma explained, holding up a rag and a bottle. “This is hydrogen peroxide. It won’t hurt, but it’s going to bubble up, okay?” 

“Okay.” He sounded unsure even to his own ears, and he watched with morbid fascination as Xisuma held the rag under his hand and poured the liquid into the wound. 

It was cold, and Grian shivered as the cleaner bubbled white where it met his cut. After a moment, Xisuma gently wiped it and poured some more. 

“All done,” he said, setting the supplies aside and picking up the gauze. “Time to wrap it, okay? Can you hold your hand straight out for me?”

Grian did as he was told, silent as the admin began the process of twining the fabric around his palm. He looped it in between Grian’s thumb and first fingers, and then again below the thumb. He sealed it off. 

“Let’s take a look at your knees.”

And they did, rolling up the pant leg and frowning at the scattered slashes. None of them were very deep, either, but they were bleeding a lot, so Xisuma pressed a rag to them. After a few minutes he removed it and cleaned them out, wiping the bubbling liquid away before wrapping them with cloth. 

“Are you mad at me?” Grian finally asked when he’d gotten the courage. 

“Oh, no, of course not,” Xisuma rushed to say, pausing from where he had been unrolling Grian’s pant legs. 

“But I ruined the dish,” Grian felt the need to point out, forever his own worst enemy. He shouldn’t try and convince Xisuma to be upset, but it felt wrong not addressing everything in full entirety. 

Xisuma shook his head as he finished with the pants. “It’s okay, Grian. We can get more.” His voice was soft and gentle and soothing. 

Grian garbled a noise. “But you shouldn’t—I mean, shouldn’t you, like, punish me?”

The last words were whispered. 

Xisuma stilled under the weight of them, eyes pinned to the task at hand. “Grian” he said, calmly, “remember what Scar, Mumbo, and I told you at the Server Meeting?”

Grian thought about it for a minute, then slumped in realisation. “You said you would never punish me.” 

“Exactly. I’m not going to break that, especially over something as trivial as a bowl. Okay?”

Grian nodded slowly. “Okay. Sorry.”

Xisuma rocked back on his heels, standing to put his supplies away. “Nothing to be sorry for,” he assured Grian. 

The avian opened his mouth to respond, but someone else spoke again. 

“Xisuma?” A voice called out from down the hall. 

Grian flinched at the unfamiliar noise, eyes slipping to the door as a figure appeared in it. 

It took a moment for Grian to recognize the hybrid, but finally, the name Doc floated in his mind. He had met this man, this man had been . . . Well, he hadn’t been kind, per se, but he definitely hadn’t been mean. 

Xisuma confirmed Grian’s suspicions. “Hey, Doc.”

The man frowned, eyes wandering to Grian’s hands. Self consciousness mounded in the avian and he shied away, cradling his injured palms to his chest. 

“Hello, Xisuma,” Doc said, and his voice was deep and littered with an accent Grian couldn’t quite place. The hybrid held up a medical bag. “I’m here to remove the stitches.”

Xisuma nodded, glanced at Grian. “Of course. Um, I—I think we’re ready now.”

The last part sounded like a question, and Grian started to realise it was aimed at him. “Oh,” he said, stupidly, face flushing. He cast a glance at Doc, then back at Xisuma. “Um, yeah. Okay.” 

“Perfect,” Doc rumbled, crouching next to the bed and opening his bag. His lab coat fanned about him, and Grian tried not to lean away. “We’re going to numb it up, so you won’t feel a thing,” Doc promised. 

“Normally,” Xisuma jumped in, leaning over Doc’s shoulder, “you don’t have to numb someone to remove stitches. But, well. . .we thought it might be best.”

Grian nodded. He didn’t want to speak—didn’t want to show how embarrassed that made him. They thought he was a special case; they thought he wouldn’t be able to handle the feeling of the stitches coming out. 

(They were probably right, of course. But the thought did nothing to soothe him.) 

“But we do want to give you a choice,” Doc continued where Xisuma had let off, and Grian was starting to feel a little overwhelmed. “Would you like to be numbed?”

Grian blinked up at the man, eyes shifting between Doc and Xisuma. They. . .wanted him to choose?

“Um,” he mumbled, something like fear lapping at his mind. “I guess—numb it?”

His voice sounded unsure even to himself and he tilted his head down. His wings tightened around him; a self hug. 

“Okay, Birdie,” Xisuma responded, gliding over the rough response easily. “Doc is going to clean the skin around the wound, okay? Then he’ll numb it, cut the thread, and take the stitches out. We’ll probably bandage it again for awhile to make sure it’s okay, but other than that, you’ll be good to go.” 

“Okay.” The whole process sounded far, far more simple in words than in actions. “Should I, do you want me to l-lay down?”

“It would be easier,” Doc admitted. 

Grian bit his lip and nodded, swinging his legs up onto the mattress. He leaned back. It wasn’t very comfortable, especially with his wings, but he didn’t say anything. 

“It’s okay, Birdie,” Xisuma said, softly, going to sit by Grian’s head. “You’re okay.”

He nodded and tried to smile, but he was shaking, and when Doc reached forward to lift his sweater up, Grian flinched. 

“Sorry,” he rushed to say, turning his head away, forcing himself completely still. His breathing was hurried and heavy and he didn’t really understand why he was so nervous.

“It’s okay,” Xisuma said again, and Grian felt a soft hand land in his hair. He closed his eyes as the admin brushed his bangs back. “Doc is going to lift your sweater now. Is that alright?” 

“Yes, Suma,” Grian gasped out. He kept his eyes screwed shut as he felt the fabric of his jumper slowly lift, the cool air of the room sliding over his stomach. 

The hand combing through his hair stilled. He heard both Xisuma and Doc suck in a breath at the sight of his tattered, scarred torso. 

“I know,” he said, quietly, refusing to look, “it’s bad.”

No one moved for a long moment, unsure of what to say. Grian tried to imagine their expressions: alarmed, shocked. Disgusted. 

He shoved the image away. He didn’t want to know. 

After a long moment, the hand in Grian’s hair restarted its tousling and Doc turned to his bag. 

“He’s going to use a syringe to numb it,” Xisuma explained, voice soft and close to Grian’s ear. 

Grian opened his eyes and tilted his head forward to see. 

But then he wished he hadn’t. 

A long, pointed needle was poised to go into his flesh. It was filled with a clear liquid, and while Grian had never before been scared of pointers, a horrifying fear filled him. 

He jumped, moving back and away from Doc, from the needle. He sat up and scrambled back, desperate, colliding with Xisuma, who sat at the head of the bed. His breathing was ragged. He couldn’t stop shaking. 

“Woah, woah, Birdie,” Xisuma said, surprised, hands hovering around Grian and not quite touching him, even though he had every right to shove Grian away for invading his personal space. “It’s okay.”

Doc, for his part, looked mildly uncomfortable. He kept glancing between Grian and Xisuma, eyes hard to read, head cocked slightly to the side. “Grian,” he said, and with his accent the name sounded distorted. “We don’t have to numb it. If you don’t want to.” 

“He’s right,” Xisuma added, finally laying his hands gently on Grian’s arms. He turned the avian so that they could look at each other. “It won’t hurt if you don’t numb it, I promise. It just might be a little uncomfortable.”

Grian sniffed. He felt helpless, he felt like no matter what he did he would make the wrong choice. He was still shaking. 

“It’s your call,” Xisuma prompted, gently, and Doc was nodding. 

“Whatever you want to do, we’ll do it,” Doc added, and this time his accent was somehow comforting. 

Grian shivered against Xisuma, glancing wearily at the syringe. But slowly— slowly— he lowered himself down again. “I want to numb it,” he whispered, barely audible, but Doc heard him anyway. 

Xisuma pulled Grian’s head into his lap, smoothing his hair down again. “You’re so brave, Birdie,” he told him, and the words were said with so much conviction that for a moment, Grian believed him. 

But then that moment was shattered when his sweater was pushed back up and the tip of the needle was pressed against his skin. 

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, panic building in his chest. His hands squeezed the sheet beneath him so hard that his knuckles turned white. 

And then Doc stuck the needle in and pushed. 

The pain was sharp, and Grian released a small breath, but otherwise held still. After a second, Doc pulled the syringe out, and the feeling was gross but not horrible.

“See? You did it,” Xisuma praised at the same time Doc said, “Good job, Grian.” 

Grian tried to smile. “That—that wasn’t awful,” he admitted, softly. 

Doc smiled for the both of them. “I’m glad. We’re going to let that sit for a few minutes, okay?”

Grian nodded against Xisuma, suddenly feeling foolish for how scared he’d been. The shot wasn't even that bad! Sure, it had pinched a little and it was gross and weird and he hadn’t liked it at all, but, but he had done it. That was worth something. 

“You’re doing so good,” Xisuma said. He had started to braid a stray piece of the avian’s hair, and Grian was shocked to find that it felt . . .nice. So unlike the many times guests had run their hands through his hair at parties, when guests had—

He shut that line of thinking down as fast as he could. He wasn’t at any parties, he was with Xisuma, on Hermitcraft, getting his stitches out. 

No cruel, mocking guests around. No masters. Just Xisuma, and Doc, and Grian. 

He heaved a deep breath, letting that information swell his mind, and started counting to give himself something to do other than think. 

He made it all the way to 263 when Doc announced, “Time’s up. Do you feel this, Grian?”

Grian watched as Doc lightly touched the area around his wound, but he couldn't feel it. It was entirely numb. 

“Wow,” he gasped, sitting up for a different reason, this time. He held up his sweater and ran his hands over his stomach, shocked when his body didn’t register it. 

“Pretty, cool, huh?” Doc asked. He was smiling softly as he watched Grian poke and push his scarred skin around. 

“You’ve still gotta be careful, though,” Xisuma warned from behind Grian. “You can still hurt yourself, even if it’s numbed.” 

“Right,” Doc agreed. 

Grian nodded and finally laid back down, still mesmerised at the feeling of nothing. He hadn’t known that was possible. 

“Okay, now, you likely won’t feel this at all,” Doc started, holding up two shining tools in his gloved hands. “These are sterile scissors,” he waved one, “and this is kind of like a little hook. I’m going to cut the thread with the scissors, and then pull the string out with the hook.” 

“Okay,” Grian agreed, careful to keep the doubt out of his voice. He focused on the feeling of Xisuma’s hand in his hair. 

“I’m starting. . .now.”

Grian heard the snip of the scissors, but he didn’t feel anything, not even when Doc held up the first knot of the bunch and he knew the thread had been literally pulled out of him. Nothing. 

It was amazing. 

He just laid there while Doc worked, looking up at the ceiling, not feeling a thing. It was almost. . .peaceful. He could forgive the pain of the needle if it meant this kind of bliss. 

“And. . . done!” Doc finally announced, after several minutes had gone by. “Don’t sit up yet, I’m going to clean it.”

He slathered an antiseptic on the skin, but this time, there was no cold sensation or feeling. Just the awareness that his skin was wet. 

“This is so weird,” he blurted without meaning to, regretting the word when Xisuma’s hand stilled. 

He said something wrong—he must’ve done something— he hadn’t meant to speak out of turn, he hadn’t—

But the admin only laughed. “Yeah, right?”

Without meaning to, Grian let a small smile play on his lips. He was aware that smiling wasn’t normally something he was supposed to do (not unless he was at a party, of course), but . . . He didn’t think Xisuma would mind. 

He was right. Nothing happened. No hits, no yelling—no one even seemed to notice. 

“Perfect, you can sit up now,” Doc said, and Xisuma moved his hands so Grian could do just that. 

His jumper slid down to cover his stomach as he came up, and he winced when his former wound stretched a bit. Doc caught the movement and smiled sadly, the weird metal around his eye sparkling. “Yeah, it might be sore for awhile. But otherwise, you’re all healed up.”

“Thank you,” Grian said softly, running his hand over the space where he knew the wound to be. 

“Of course.” 

“We’ll need to keep it covered a little longer,” Xisuma explained again, walking over so Grian could see him. “We’ll have to bandage it.”

“That’s right,” Doc agreed. He leaned over to shuffle in his bag, produced some white wrappings. “These have a healing component to them. They should help with any pain and hopefully speed the process up.” He handed them off to Xisuma. 

“Thanks, Doc,” the admin said, sincerely, as the hybrid packed up his bag again. 

Grian bit back the disgruntled feeling spilling in his stomach at the sight of Doc leaving. Somehow, in all of this, Doc had grown on him. But he didn’t say anything against it, and soon enough, he was gone, leaving only Xisuma and Grian behind. 

“Let’s get on with, then,” Xisuma said. “Arms up.”

Grian obeyed immediately, raising his hands over his head. He let Xisuma work the sweater off of him. 

(Distantly, Grian wondered why they hadn’t taken his sweater off for Doc. It would have been easier, after all. 

But he didn’t feel like asking.) 

It was a conscious effort not to look at his skin. He already knew what it looked like: torn and broken and ugly. Why did he have to see it again? 

Xisuma didn’t comment on it. Grian knew that, if he had been anywhere else other than Hermitcraft, he would have heard things that made the bile in his stomach rise.

“You were so pretty—it’s such a shame.” 

“Wow, someone branded you?”

“Those scars sure are ugly, aren’t they?” 

“Good thing for you, I guess. If you didn’t have those marks , I bet handlers would be having the time of their lives with you.”

When Xisuma's hands touched him, Grian couldn’t stop the flinch. Instantly, he felt ashamed, regretting the instinctive movement, but his panic was still there, too. 

“Grian?” Xisuma asked, voice deceptively calm. Worried. “Birdie?”

“S-sorry,” he gasped out, fighting the urge to shy away. His fingers clutched the sheets beneath him and he tried to breathe.

Xisuma was not going to hurt him. He had promised. 

The knowledge didn’t stop the fear from building. It felt like every scar on his body was burning, tingling with the phantom pain stemmed from memories. 

“It’s okay,” Suma was saying, hands no longer hovering toward Grian and instead retracted. “If you don’t want me to touch you, I won’t.”

Grian swallowed thickly, willing his feathers to settle down. “I,” he tried, but his voice was thick and heavy like the blood that was coating him, the blood that was always coating him and staining him and he could never scrub it off—

“Shh, Grian. It’s okay, you’re okay. Look around, you’re with me, Xisuma. We’re on Hermitcraft, at the Community House.” 

Hermitcraft. The Community House. 

“Doc just left. He took your stitches out, do you remember?”

Shakily, Grian nodded. 

“I was just going to bandage you. I promise, I wasn’t trying to hurt you.” 

Grian took a breath, finally pinning his gaze on the admin. His jaw was clenched tight and worried eyes stared back from under the purple of the visor. 

“You’re safe,” Xisuma confirmed the question in Grian’s eyes. 

The avian licked his chapped lips, looking away for a second. “Safe,” he repeated. 

“Yes. I promise.”

Grian shivered. His throat felt sluggish and dry, and without thinking he reached a hand to rub his neck, like that might help. 

“Let’s go get you a drink,” Xisuma suggested, of course understanding the gesture. He held out a hand to Grian and waited patiently while the avian fought his instinct to shy away and instead intertwined their fingers. 

(Grian had never been much for physical touch, but somehow, with Xisuma, it was easier.)

Slowly, Xisuma tugged Grian down the hall. They didn’t go to the kitchen—there was still shattered glass in there, and Grian wasn't really sure he could handle that—and instead stumbled towards the bathroom.

Xisuma turned on the faucet, holding his hand under the water until it cooled. Grian stared at the ground, avoiding the mirror he knew to be watching him. The tile lining the floor was smooth and grounding.

“These are normally for mouthwash,” Xisuma explained as he grabbed two small cups from under the sink. He was still holding Grian’s hand. “But we can use them.”

Grian nodded numbly and waited patiently while the admin filled them halfway with water. He handed one back to Grian and then took his own. 

Grian watched and waited for Xisuma to drink first, needing the unspoken permission. But for a few moments, Xisuma just watched him right back with sad, soft eyes, like he knew what Grian was doing and was testing his resolve.

It made the avian squirm. He fought the urge to drink and instead waited as patiently as he could manage, reminding himself he only had water because Xisuma had given it to him. The least he could do was wait for the admin to have his share, first. 

Xisuma finally sighed, softly, then slowly brought the cup to his lips. Grian copied the gesture immediately, relishing the taste of nothingness soothing his sore throat.

His face was burning, though, with the knowledge that Xisuma knew his made up game so well. Grian tried not to look away from him, not to give in. Somehow, that felt like losing.

Eventually, though, pure instinct won out and his eyes snapped away from the admin on their own accord. 

And directly to the floor length mirror.

It was startling, staring at himself. His hair was slightly matted from when Xisuma was playing with it, and his face was sullen. 

And his body—his body—

If Grian had been in a better state of mind in that moment, he might have noticed how he wasn’t so thin anymore. How his ribs weren’t so easily countable, how his shoulders had broadened slightly, a direct result of all the regular meals bestowed upon him. 

But as it was, a noise like a high keen escaped his mouth and he dropped his cup, water sloshing on the ground because he could only focus on one thing.

The scar.  

The scar. 

He had known it would scar, of course, had known that the Watcher’s had cut deep enough to kill him, so of course it would scar. Of course it would. 

But knowing it and seeing are very different things. 

It was long, stretching from his bottom left rib and ending with a cruel curve at his right hip. It was slightly raised and tinted pink, making it stand out even more against his pale skin. 

Grian couldn’t look away. It was like his gaze was pinpointed at that one spot, eyes trailing up and down the mark over and over, running the course of it, breathing picking up. 

It was so ugly, it was so hideous. Pair it with the rest of them, the many many white lines sprinkling over, and he wasn’t even a person anymore. No, he was a monster, a beast, something awful and horrendous and, and—

“Grian, it’s okay!” 

But it wasn’t okay. Nothing was. Nothing ever would be okay if Grian looked like that, if he was so damaged he was beyond recognition, if eyes would follow him and they would feel sorry for him—

“I’m going to throw up,” he barely managed, and instantly turned towards the toilet, dropping to his knees and emptying his stomach of the porridge that he’d so graciously been fed. 

“Oh my stars,” Xisuma rushed out, kneeling beside Grian. He started rubbing the avian’s back in slow, soothing circles, but the panic in his voice was easy to make out. “You’re fine. You’re okay.”

Grian gagged again. He couldn’t seem to get himself to stop. 

He almost expected Xisuma to leave. To let him kneel there, alone. After all, Grian was making a mess, and he was being disgusting and gross and ungrateful, so why shouldn’t Xisuma leave?

But the admin stayed right where he was, whispering to Grian, the words hard to make out but comforting nonetheless. 

When Grian had finally emptied himself, he slumped backwards into Xisuma, panting. The admin immediately passed him his own water cup, since Grian’s had spilled all over the floor. 

Grian didn’t have time to care about permission. He gulped the water down as fast as he could, very much aware of the tears tracking his face. He finished the whole cup and threw it aside, shivering against Xisuma and closing his eyes tight. 

“Birdie, Birdie, what’s wrong?” Xisuma asked, hand uselessly hanging in the air, and Grian realized his breathing was coming in erratic bursts and he was shaking desperately. His gaze traveled to the mirror and he couldn’t look away from himself. 

“Too many,” he managed to gasp out, trying to tear his eyes away but not being able to. He was rooted to this spot, staring, eyes wide and fearful and panicked. “—t-too many—”

“Too many what, Grian? What’s the matter?”

Everything was so much. It felt unbearably hot in here, and tingles kept shooting down Grian’s body as he stared at himself. He could see Xisuma behind him, too, looking scared. 

“Scars,” he said, one word, ripped from his throat like a sliver. He felt tears dripping down his face. A sob built in his stomach. 

“Oh, Birdie,” Xisuma whispered, voice pained and sad, dropping with sympathy. He settled a hand on Grian’s arm, and the avian jumped at the sudden touch despite the fact that he was literally pressed against the admin. 

He finally broke his contact with the mirror. It didn’t help.

He knew the scars were there, and he knew Xisuma could see them, and he knew the admin was probably thinking about how disgusting they were. About how much he wished Grian would get away from him. They were marks of failure, after all, a telling of every single time Grian had messed up.

A continuous record of his misgivings. That would be alarming to any Master.

“I’m sorry,” he finally stumbled out, wiping his face with the back of his hands and hunching over, separating himself from Xisuma, trying to hide. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” 

Xisuma’s fingers twitched in his peripherals, as if caught in indecisiveness. “You don’t have to apologise,” he tried, but Grian could hardly hear him. 

“I want them gone,” he gasped, running his hands over his body, feeling the texture of each one. He knew he was acting erratic— Xisuma was watching him lose it, he needed to reign it back in ,—but he couldn’t seem to stop. Just kept pushing his skin around, trying to find a smooth spot but failing, trying not to imagine how it had felt to receive each and every one of them. 

“Grian, you need to stop,” Xisuma tried, reaching for him, and Grian was too distracted to move away. Hands landed on his own. “You can’t do that; your wound is still sensitive. You might make it bleed.” 

“I want them gone!” Grian yelled back, wrenching his hands away and turning so he could push himself back, away from Xisuma. The bathroom tile that had felt so grounding before was now too cold. He was still shaking, but it felt like a distant thing, an earthquake in the next town over. 

Xisuma sat frozen, a few feet away, eyes watching Grian. “I know, Birdie, I know.”

Grian shook his head, aware again of the tears streaming down his face. “I want them gone,” he repeated for a third time, softer, now, voice cracking. “Please.”

The bathroom filled with the sound of crying when no one talked. Grian sniffed and wiped his eyes and tried to stop, but he just couldn’t. He knew he was being pathetic, unreasonable, but he just couldn’t seem to get himself under control. 

He was literally falling apart on the bathroom floor. 

“There’s a code,” Xisuma started, finally interrupting the sounds of Grian’s crying with the words. His tone was soft and hesitant. Scared. Almost meant to commiserate him. “I can—I can hide them.”

The words stilled Grian, breaking through his panic just enough to byset it. Hide them?

He must’ve looked confused, because Xisuma hurried to continue. “They wouldn’t go away. They would still be there, and all, but no one would be able to see them.” 

“Not even me?” Grian croaked. 

“Not even you.”

Silence, again, as Grian mulled it over. Hide them, no longer have to see them—it was so, so tempting. 

“Would it hurt?” He finally asked, running his hand over his new scar again. He could feel the raised line against everything else, could picture the way it looked so easily in his mind. 

Xisuma shook his head. “No,” he admitted. He sounded unsure about the whole idea.

But Grian was already nodding, the relief so tangibly it made him tear up again. “ Yes,” he choked. “Yes, please— please, Suma, I want them gone, I want,” his voice broke off into hiccups. 

Xisuma slid forward the slightest bit, and when Grian didn’t react, he went ahead and closed the distance between them and slowly wrapped the avian in a hug. 

He rubbed the spot between Grian’s wings, softly, so gently that it made the avian cry harder. 

“It’s okay,” Xisuma murmured. “I’ve got you.” 

“I h-hate them,” Grian whimpered. He wasn't even sure if he was talking about the scars or the people who gave them to him. 

Xisuma nodded like he understood exactly. “I know.”

They sat like for awhile, until Gran had managed to calm down and had mostly stopped crying. There was still a small water puddle on the floor, from Grian’s cup, but Xisuma didn’t seem to care and they left it behind in favour of the medical room.

Grian settled on the bed when they came in, separating himself from Xisuma even though he didn’t really want to. But he needed to get it back together; losing control like that was unacceptable and he knew it. The bile was still coating his tongue, a constant reminder.

“I’m sorry,” he said, trying to ease whatever had happened. Now that he wasn’t crying anymore, the embarrassment of the day was hot and ready in his mind. 

“You don’t have to apologise, Grian,” Xisuma responded, instantly, like Grian assumed he would. The admin settled in one of the chairs and pulled out his Comm. 

He typed on it for several minutes. Grian just sat there on the bed, trying to hold perfectly still in an effort to stop his trembling hands. He kept his gaze pinned on the floor, not daring to look anywhere else for fear he might see his reflection in something. 

“It’s typed out,” Xisuma finally announced. His expression was hard to read, especially though the mask and visor, but Grian thought he might’ve looked cautious, doubtful. “Are you. . . You’re sure you want to do this?”

Grian nodded, wrapping his arms around his middle. “Yes, sir.” 

The admin closed his eyes but didn’t comment. “Okay, then, Birdie. Ready?”

Grian nodded again. 

Xisuma pressed a button on his Comm. 

And. . . Nothing happened. 

“Why isn’t it working?” Grian asked, the fear back into his voice, as he stared at himself and nothing happened. His scars were still on display, still shaking in the light, still broadcasting the failures he so often committed. “Suma, why—why isn’t it—” 

“It’s okay,” the admin rushed to say, crossing the room and settling next to Grian. He didn’t touch him, but he was close enough that Grian could feel the warmth radiating from his suit. “It’s just loading up; it’s going to take a minute.”

Grian swallowed, trying to push away his paranoia. “Okay,” he said, and he sounded unsure even to himself. 

“Remember,” Xisuma replied, maybe in an effort to distract the avian, “I can reverse this anytime you want. I’ll take the code away the moment you say so.”

“Oh-okay,” Grian mumbled back, feeling a little overwhelmed. Maybe he’d made this decision too brashly, too quick. 

But that line of thought was cut short completely when the scars started to fade. 

Grian watched, mesmerized, as the marks covering his torso for years became invisible. It was like watching sand fall in a timer; the process was slow but satisfying. His skin reworked itself, becoming less and less ruined and more normal, until the only one that remained was the newest one, long and jagged, and then even that one was gone, too. 

Slowly, Grian touched his bare skin, surprised that he couldn’t feel any of the roughness that he knew was there. The scars were just— gone. 

“Woah,” he whispered, and for some reason his voice caught. 

“It’s a lot, I know,” Xisuma said. 

Grian just kept staring. The feeling rising up in his stomach was weird. He had wanted this. He still wanted it, was glad it had happened. But looking at the change, knowing that this wasn’t actually him, it reminded him so much of the Watchers. 

They had changed him, too. Made him no longer just an avian, had replaced his code and gave him a new name and messed with his head so he spoke like them, so he was one of them. 

One of them. 

They made it so he was one of them, he wasn't himself anymore. He was fake and made of plastic and he wasn’t anything, he didn’t even feel alive, and he had to get out of there. Had to leave. 

But they found out. They found out he was trying to go and they hit him on the head, they beat him, and then they, they, they cut him. 

They cut him and it scarred. 

“No, no no no no,” Grian stuttered, out, standing, flying himself off the bed. He ran his nails up and down his skin. The scars were gone, Xisuma had taken them away, he had—

—he had changed him. 

Grian sobbed, pressing his hand against his mouth to try and keep the sudden noise in. The Watchers didn’t like it when he cried; he was supposed to be a good soldier and keep his mouth shut. But everything hurt, his very bones, and he knew he wasn’t quite the same as before. 

Something was different, they had changed him, he wasn’t himself—

“Grian, breathe with me.”

(They had called him Grian, not Xelqua. No one—no one ever called him Grian)

Who was that? It was impossible to tell. The voice sounded familiar, but so did the cruel laughter that came with pain from failed missions and the sounds of swords clashing together. 

But, but no one was touching him. It was dark, but that was. . . His eyes were closed. It was dark because his eyes were closed, and he was standing, and there was the sound of someone next to him taking exaggerated deep breaths. 

He thought about the voice. They had told him to, to breathe with them, and Grian wasn’t supposed to break an order. Shakily, he tried to follow suit, keeping his eyes closed for fear that the mystery person would turn into someone he couldn’t bear to see. 

Grian took a deep breath and the voice praised him, “Good job, just like that.”

It made him irrationally happy. He had done something right. He stumbled through another breath, then another, until slowly, his head began to clear. 

And with that brought the humiliation. 

“Oh, my stars,” Grian breathed, covering his face with his hands, like that could separate him from the situation. His wings were puffed behind him in embarrassment and the left over perturbed feeling still swirling in the air. 

“Are you okay?” came Xisuma’s tentative voice, closer, but not too close. Not smothering. 

Grian nodded, dropping his hands and opening his eyes. His face felt flushed and he couldn’t look at Xisuma. “Yeah.”

His voice was strained, but not broken, so he was counting that as a win. 

Xisuma was silent for several moments. So long, in fact, that Grian risked a look at him for fear something was wrong. He looked worn down, tired, concerned, but okay. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” the admin eventually asked.

Grian shook his head. “Not really.”

Xisuma didn’t push him; he just nodded and motioned to the bed. 

“We still need to bandage you,” the admin explained as Grian slowly shuffled over. He felt awkward and ashamed and too big in the small room. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but the wound is still there. It still needs to finish healing.”

Grian hummed and sat down, curling his hands in his lap and knotting his fingers together. He stared down, shoulders hunched and wings settling around him in an instinctive attempt at comfort. 

He couldn’t believe himself. Did he seriously just get so lost that he thought he was back with the Watchers? It’d been over a month. A month, since coming to Hermitcraft. 

He should be over it. What happened there—it didn’t, it wasn’t like—

“Birdie,” Xisuma said, cutting into his thoughts. He became aware that the admin was kneeling before the bed, holding the bandage, looking up at him. 

“Yes?” His throat was dry again but he didn’t dare ask for another drink. 

“Are you okay?”

Grian blinked, surprise fighting for his attention amongst his other emotions. “What?” 

Xisuma shuffled closer, looking serious, eyes flitting down to look at where Grian’s hands were strangling each other. Instantly, he stopped and forced them at his sides. “Are you okay?”

There was more conviction behind the words, this time. 

Grian nodded. He tried to conjure up a smile, because he knew the admin liked those, but couldn’t quite manage it and it came out more like a grimace. He dropped it quickly. “I’m fine.” 

“Are you sure? I can erase the code, if you’d like. Take it back.”

But Grian was shaking his head as hard as he could before Xisuma had even finished talking. He reached out with his hands, grabbing the first part of the admin he could (his shoulders) and pleaded, “No, please, Suma. Don’t take it back. I don’t think I can watch it happen again. It’s too much—it’s like, like them.”

For a long minute, Xisuma looked confused. The words were sharp and piercing in the air when they finally processed , and the admin looked alarmed. “You mean—” 

“Don’t say it,” Grian interrupted, tightening his grip on Xisuma. He leaned forward until they were closer. He had no business ordered Xisuma not to speak, but the desperate sentence had slipped out. “Please.”

The admin looked at him with sorrowful eyes, and Grian looked back, fighting the sting of tears behind his eyes. 

He didn’t want to talk about the Watchers. Not with Xisuma. 

“Okay.”

The single word eased the tension off Grian by about a million pounds, and he awkwardly let go of Xisuma and leaned out of his space. He wasn’t sure where his sudden boldness had come from, but it was gone now. 

All he felt was tired. 

“Let’s get you bandaged,” Xisuma murmured, holding up the cloth for the hundredth time that day. “Arms up.”

It was a repeat command, and Grian obeyed. He didn’t flinch this time when Xisuma touched him, only shivered. Other than that, he remained perfectly still as the admin wrapped him up, and even after as they struggled on the sweater together. HIs hands were still bandaged from earlier, so now he looked more gauze than person. 

Fine with him. 

“All done,” Xisuma said. 

“Thank you, Suma,” Grian responded, tucking his hands into the massive sleeves. The jumper was so soft, so much nicer than anything he had ever owned before. 

“You’re welcome, Birdie,” the admin responded. His voice was a little weird and Grian could tell that Xisuma wanted to ask him something. He braced himself, but all he said was, “I think it’s time for a nap.”

Grian knew he was being let off the hook. In any other place, he would have been suspicious of the offer of sleep, would have thought it was a test.

But Xisuma didn’t look mad at him. He hadn’t said that Grian broke any rules, even if the avian felt like he had. 

“I’m sorry,” Grian blurted out, needing to deal with the guilt somehow.

Xisuma cocked his head. He looked tired and impossibly sad. “Why would you be sorry?”

Grian flushed, breaking eye contact and then remembering masters liked it when he looked at them. “For, um, for everything that happened today. Breaking the bowl. And, and crying.”

Xisuma closed his eyes at the words. He held out his hand, palm up, and Grian stared at it. 

Then, slowly, he lowered his own hand into it. He let Xisuma pull him into another hug, and it was so nice, so gentle, that Grian found himself melting into it. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Xisuma whispered into his hair. “Remember, you’re allowed to cry?”

Grian made a noise in the back of his throat. He did remember that, Xisuma and Scar and Mumbo had told him that at the Server Meeting, when he met all the other Hermits. 

“You are allowed to cry. That is a basic right. You are allowed to feel things.”

Right. This was Hermitcraft, not anywhere else. There were no rules as long as he wasn’t hurting anyone or himself. 

“I forgot,” Grian admitted, quietly, to Xisuma.

“That’s okay. Change is hard, and you’ve been through a lot.”

Understatement of the year, but the words were still a comfort. 

Someone was acknowledging his pain, validating his suffering. Saying, “I know that wasn’t right and I want you to know and understand that, too.”

He was allowed to cry. 

“Come on,” Xisuma said after a long time, pulling away and leading Grian by the hand towards the living room. They passed the kitchen, which still had broken glass, and the bathroom, which still had a small puddle on the floor. With his other hand, Grian traced the path of his wound, knowing it was still there.

But he couldn't see it. Wouldn't ever see it again. 

“You’re tired,” Xisuma told Grian, and Grian couldn’t argue because then he would be lying. It wasn’t even lunch time, but he felt like he might sleep for years if he was allowed to. 

Xisuma helped him settle on the couch, helped him wrestle a blanket over his body and straighten his wings so he could lay comfortably. Then the admin shut the blinds and turned off the lights, and the room plunged into soft, grey darkness. 

Xisuma turned towards the hallway, probably meaning to go clean the messes Grian had made, but Grian called out before he could think.

“Stay,” he gasped, running his hands over the blanket to try and bring some feeling back into himself. He added, “Please.”

There’s silence. Then the feeling of the cushions sinking in, the presence of another person. Xisuma, sitting on the other end of the couch. 

“Always, Birdie,” he murmured. 

He fell asleep feeling safe.