Archive of Our Own ^beta

<GoodTimeWithScar> gRAIN :D
<GoodTimeWithScar> i LOEV THE FLOWERS
<GoodTimeWithScar> Gosh darn it these caps
<GoodTimeWithScar> *love
<GoodTimeWithScar> What are these?
<GoodTimeWithScar> Poppies?
<GoodTimeWithScar> LOL theyr everywhere!

“Oh god,” Grian sighs, watching as the communicator on his wrist pings again and again and again.

“Someone’s in a chatty mood today,” Mumbo chirps, the cheerfulness of his voice filtering up from within the guts of his safe where he’s managed contorted himself, crammed in between several large pistons as he meticulously fiddles with some redstone wiring. “Is that Scar?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Sitting at the unfinished entrance of Mumbo’s enormous safe, Grian curls his wings forward, mortified as he reads and rereads Scar’s comments, posted for all the world to see in the public channel of the server.

<Bdouble0100> yea baby!!!
<cubfan135> big if true

With an embarrassed groan, Grian looks away from the chat, hoping that if he pretends it doesn’t exist, maybe it’ll disappear. In the meantime, Mumbo’s silence is telling, and Grian can just barely see him twisting his forearm awkwardly into view so he can catch up on the server’s messages.

“Are you leaving him flowers now? That’s awful sweet of you, G.” Buried somewhere in the mechanism of his safe, a wire fizzles and snaps, causing Mumbo to hiss a noise of displeasure as he refocuses on his task.

“It’s not on purpose,” Grian sighs, dramatic as he buries his face in his palms. “I don’t know where they’re coming from. We fall asleep and I wake up and they’re everywhere.”

The cat’s out of the bag immediately, and Grian can hear the smile in Mumbo’s voice when he says, practically preening, “So you’ve been staying the night? Now that’s a development.”

“I have to go,” Grian says, clipped and quick, pushing himself to his feet with a speed that even he knows is incriminating. He spreads his wings, feathers warm from an afternoon spent sitting in the sun while he watched Mumbo work. “Later Mumbo.”

With humiliating timing, Grian’s communicator pings again.

<PearlescentMoon> Woop! Good on ya mate :D
<GoodTimeWithScar> Why is everyone so excited lol

Heat floods Grian’s face and he shakes his head physically like it’ll somehow clear the thoughts in his head. He’s in sudden desperate need of a flight to get him away from all this and he rushes outside, barely catching the chuckled, ‘Later dude,’ from Mumbo as he pushes himself off the edge of his friend’s construction project.

Gravity reaches for him eagerly, plummeting in a free fall for a moment before his wings snap out properly and catch the right angle to lift him up into a soar, the pressure of his own momentum a pleasant, familiar strain on his shoulders and the muscles of his chest. There’s a bit of an itch around the bend of his wing and under the carpal edges as he beats his wings down to keep up his momentum—which is all the more reason to get a proper flight underway, really.

The rush of the air around him as he soars is pleasant, wiping the heat of his embarrassment off his face, the arc of his flight cutting a wide curve out into the mid-afternoon skies of the server, far away from facing the humiliation of his own affections.

“Whoa now, watch your head here—oh, and this footing’s a bit rough, Gri, make sure you don’t trip on this boulder—plus, you’re gonna want to be careful on this—”

“Scar!”

Grian’s voice echoes, exasperated and loud in the confines of the crevice they’ve found themselves in. It’s been three days since the poppy fiasco, and the two of them are miles underground, squeezed tight between a giant outcrop of granite, torches crammed into the rock around them, lighting their way back to the surface, their rucksacks heavy with the spoils of a fortunate mining expedition.

“I’m not made of glass, Scar,” Grian huffs. “You don’t have to be so—whatever this is.”

If anything, Grian should be the one reminding Scar to be careful. He’s fallen at least half a dozen times already, losing his things as he went and having to collect them over and over. A couple of the tumbles had been Grian’s fault, of course—it’s always impossible to resist the urge to play a prank or two on Scar when he’s dangling naively over a ledge—but they’ve been down in the caves for hours, and Grian’s more than ready to resurface now, without Scar’s kid-glove treatment.

“I dunno, that was a close call with those googlies back there,” Scar counters, pushing a hand back through his hair as he turns back to grin at Grian, looking ruggedly handsome even in the dim torchlight.

“When did we start calling them that?” Grian asks, bracing his hand against the cave wall as he shimmies himself forward, fighting off the feeling of claustrophobia that constricts his chest as he goes. His wings are itching badly again, and he can only assume it’s because they long to stretch out just as badly as he does. He tries his best to grit his teeth and bear it, knowing the cave opens up just a few metres further and that then he’ll be able to breathe easier as they retrace their way back to the surface.

“I dunno,” Scar admits, grunting as he manoeuvres himself through the narrow pathway ahead. “You started it.”

“I didn’t,” Grian argues. “In fact, I’m almost positive it was y—”

“Oh my gosh,” Scar interrupts, cutting Grian off mid-pedantics. “What in the world—? Were these here when we first came down?”

Immediately ahead of them, the cave has indeed opened up, widening into a large cavern that Grian remembers well from their initial trek into the depths. The ceiling vaults high above them, arched like some sort of cathedral, the upper heights laced with thin lines of diorite that glimmer a pale opalescent in the torchlight. The whole area has a natural kind of beauty to it that had made them both decide to pause there hours earlier, taking in the scenery around them as they sat amicably on a natural ledge in the stone.

They’d passed a thermos of hot tea back and forth, eating cookies Scar had made special for their excursion. Grian had rolled his eyes good-naturedly at them, sighing when Scar had insisted that the biscuits had ‘magic caving benefits’ baked into the dough.

Refusing to be dismissed and determined to bring his point home, Scar had set to rambling, espousing the many virtues of elven baking while Grian had fondly listened. He’d felt a niggling scratch crawl its way up his spine, then—an urge that refused to be ignored– and following that desire had led to Grian leaning in while Scar was mid-sentence, pressing an impulsive, affectionate kiss to his cheek.

Scar had smiled at him then, bewildered and fond, and shortly after they’d put away their snack and continued on with their endeavour.

Returning now, only hours after their visit, the cave looks nothing like how Grian remembers it.

In fact, it is full to bursting with lilacs.

There’s a thick carpeting of the flowering shrubs sprouting up out of the granite floor, branches heavy with large bundles of flowers, the purple blossoms packed into tight, fragrant bunches. It doesn’t make a lick of sense—beyond the certainty that these flowers weren’t there when they’d first passed through, there’s no sunlight or soil to help them grow. It’s miraculous in one way, and bizarre in another.

“I’ve heard of pressed flowers but this is ridiculous,” Scar laughs, scratching his head as he stares into the cave, mystified. “How the heck did these get all the way down here?”

“Dunno,” Grian replies, crouching down to examine the flowers closer. “Maybe someone brought them here to mess with us. We should probably be careful in case there’s a trap rigged nearby.”

“Sounds like something Doc would do,” Scar agrees, approaching a thick grouping of lilacs with absolutely no sense of self-preservation.

Grian shakes his head at the display, heart warm as Scar takes a moment to admire the beauty of each new specimen of flower. He picks a few of them, pointing out to Grian where the roots seemingly grew from the stone itself. It’s a conundrum for sure, the kind of mystery that prickles across Grian’s body. He absently scratches at his shoulder, near where his wing lays folded against his back.

“What’s that?” Scar asks, eyes drawn by the motion.

Grian turns to see what he’s pointing at, only to see Scar staring at him directly.

“What do you mean?”

All at once, Scar reaches a hand out towards him, cupping the side of his face in one big palm. Immediate heat floods Grian’s face, his cheeks no doubt flaming. His mouth parts, breath quickening in both panic and anticipation. Scar’s fingers curl through his hair, brushing gently against his scalp, and Grian resists the urge to shiver.

“Got it!” Scar enthuses, pulling his hand back. Within his grasp rests a smaller stem of lilacs, the bundle of blossoms the richest purple he’s ever seen.

Grian blinks at it, uncomprehending.

“Guess a few of them got caught in your hair, G. Weird!”

“Yeah,” Grian says, mouth dry and heart pounding embarrassingly quick in his chest. “So weird.”

They continue after Scar’s had his fill of admiring the flowers, making their way out of the remainder of the cave without incident, hauling themselves up out of the innocuous cave mouth to find sunlight and the pleasant warmth of a summer afternoon.

Scar takes an exaggerated breath as he stands next to the cave entrance, stretching his arms above his head, and Grian grins at the display, pleased to know he had fun on their little adventure. He takes a seat on a stoney outcrop nearby, pausing for a moment to look through his supplies as he reorganises them into his shulker, making sure he hasn’t left anything behind while Scar preoccupies himself, rummaging around in the forest nearby.

He’s not expecting it at all when a flourish of purple takes up his field of view entirely.

“Scar, what—”

“For you!” As Grian pulls back, he’s treated to one of Scar’s winning smiles, its brightness rivaling the sun up in the sky. “A little souvenir from our travels today.”

“Oh,” Grian says, flustered as he accepts the bouquet of lilacs Scar had gathered from the cave. He’s wrapped a few lengths of tall grass around the stems, securing it to keep them in place. Grian can’t help but think that of course, along with everything else, Scar has a flair for floral arranging. “Thank you, Scar.”

In lieu of a response, Scar winks at him and stoops down to gather up his things. Grian gently sets the bouquet in an undisturbed corner of his shulker, wondering if he has any clay left back at home with which to craft a flower pot.

Eventually, Scar calls out a farewell to him, putting on his elytra as he takes to the skies as Grian waves him off, watching him disappear into the distance.

He waits until he’s out of sight until he shakes his wings out in preparation to head home himself, stretching them wide to limber up before the flight. It’s as he’s doing so that he notices more soft purple in the corner of his peripheral vision. Lilacs, dozens of them, sprouting where he had just sat, almost as if spreading his wings had pulled them up from beneath the earth.

“Odd,” he mumbles to himself, frowning. In the back of his mind there’s a nagging certainty that there’s a connection there—between the magically apparating flowers and himself—but like so many things in Grian’s life, he simply decides not to think too much about it. He takes a running start instead, tucking his shulker under his arm and taking off. He flaps his wings hard as he cuts across the afternoon sky, heading back towards his base.

It’s late afternoon a week and a half later when Grian hops the turnstile at the entrance of Scarland and strolls confidently into the park, back straight and head held high. He feels good. There’s an aloofness to his actions—a cockiness that stems from the knowledge that he alone is able to get away with this behaviour.

He’s met at once by the grand entrance to the park, the enormous garden plaza stretching out in front of him, resplendent with its immaculate flowerbeds and meticulously maintained trees and hedges. Scar is impossible to miss amidst the crowd, the navy blue sleeves of his cardigan rolled up to his elbows, hair combed back handsomely and cane in hand. He’s talking animatedly with one of the vendors operating the popcorn cart set next to a couple of ornate brass benches.

“Grian!”

Whatever story Scar was relaying cuts off mid-sentence, and his excitement at seeing Grian’s approach sends a warm thrill up Grian’s spine, automatically quickening his step as he rushes to meet up with him.

It makes Grian feel silly sometimes, how much effort he puts into convincing himself that this will surely be the time that Scar fails to light up when he sees him. It’s yet to happen of course, and maybe, he admits, he simply has to accept that it never will.

“I’m so glad to see you! You didn’t say you’d be dropping by today.”

Grian blushes as Scar’s arm wraps around him, hugging him close in a quick, affectionate squeeze. He barely has time to return it before Scar’s hand is slipping down and encircling his, their fingers lacing together as he turns back towards the park.

“Thought I’d surprise you,” Grian explains, bashful, caught up in the rush of Scar’s hand holding his.

“Lucky me,” Scar preens, and the compliment makes Grian feel warm.

The golden hour of the day is hitting all the right angles as they walk further into the park, rays of yellow ochre sunlight lighting up the main street with a warm glow. It reflects off the storefront windows, turning each pane into amber. Very soon the lights and the marquees will switch on, transforming the park from its daytime wonder into a nighttime splendour. As many times as Grian has visited Scar’s park, it still fills him with a sense of awe, enamoured by the magic only Scar can create.

“I was hoping you’d come by,” Scar explains, giving Grian’s hand a squeeze as he says it. “We finally got that firework shipment I told you about. I’ve got my guy rigging up a little sample show and I wanted to get your opinion on the effects.”

“That’s a roundabout way to ask me to stay the night,” Grian teases, the joke sending a familiar prickle rippling along the back of his wings. It doesn’t feel bad—like something warm mixed with an itch he can’t quite scratch. He refolds his wings absently, letting them hang more relaxed and angled away from his back as they continue to stroll through the park together.

“You know I’m a gentleman, G,” Scar replies, affable to the joke. “I’ll get you home before curfew.”

It’s all too easy for Grian to fall into the familiarity of being with Scar. He feels at ease as he walks with him, smiling almost nonstop as they stroll through the avenues and pathways of Scarland. They talks easily as they catch each other up on their days, winding through the crowds of attendees before together they slip behind a high fence marked for staff only. It gives Grian a thrill as they do it, the delight of sneaking off somewhere they’re not supposed to be, illicit and rebellious as they make their way onto the grounds dedicated for a future expansion of the park.

He’s awed, to say the least, not expecting the scale of the progress that Scar has made since they last came out here together. What had previously been a field of unremarkable grass and obnoxious birch trees has now been brought to order. There’s a gently sloping path winding up through a manicured lawn, the areas dedicated to future attractions hemmed in by garden beds overflowing with flowers and blossoms.

“My god, do you ever sleep?” Grian asks, the question rhetoric as he admires the scene. The landscaping is stunning, a balance of natural beauty and meticulous floral arranging, all a testament to Scar’s talent and skill.

“You, more than anyone, know I do,” Scar teases, using his cane to help himself down onto one knee before he sits, patting the grass beside him. “C’mon, best seat in the house.”

The suggestion sends a heat to Grian’s cheeks, his face flushing as he looks away. He attempts to first wrestle his expression back under control before he joins Scar on the lawn, still warm from the day’s sun, a perfect place for them to relax and take a load off.

In front of them, the spires of Scarland’s castle push upwards, bathed in the fuchsias and pinks of the setting sun. A corny part of Grian thinks everything about this is incredibly romantic, only to immediately feel silly for it, knowing that, at most, he’s simply hanging out with a friend.

Not that he doesn’t wish that they were something more. Not that he doesn’t feel full to bursting with the desire to tell Scar his feelings; to tear down his fear of rejection and just go for it.

The tension in his wings blooms, a familiar feeling at this point, causing him to spread them out behind him as he reclines back with Scar and waits for night and whatever firework display they’re about to be treated to. Scar carries the conversation effortlessly, talking park logistics, attendance, petty staff drama, and his ongoing hassle from Bdubs’ horses. Grian is content to listen to him, lulled by something so familiar and comforting in his tone that he finds himself tempted to lean in for a kiss, when Scar’s sudden exclamation catches him off guard.

“Oh my gosh—Grian!”

Grian is yanked back into the moment with a shock, sitting up in panic, snapping his gaze around as he looks for whatever threat they’re about to find themself faced with.

He sees nothing, but that doesn’t stop Scar from shouting, pressing the heel of his palm against his temple as he gasps, appalled. “My lawn! My garden!”

Dread settles in Grian’s stomach and he doesn’t even have to look down, knowing exactly what he’ll see.

Lilacs growing up out of the soil, their branches heavy with flowers, and poppies with paper-thin petals bobbing on the ends of long elegant stems.

“I…”

“I spent so long on these! And look Grian, they’re even in your wings!”

The floaty feeling is gone, replaced by a cowardly dread, sitting like a stone in Grian’s gut. Instinctively his wings fan open, sending a shower of petals, purple and red, raining down on the lawn. It would be comical if it weren’t so mortifying, and before he even knows what he’s doing, Grian is pushing his wings down, flapping hard to get himself off the ground. He hates the strain these kinds of takeoffs put on his back, but he needs to get out of there, now.

“I’m sorry, Scar. I really gotta go.”

He’s off before Scar has time to respond, heart racing as he flees while the sun sets, embarrassed and humiliated, a trail of flower petals fluttering in his wake.

In the end, Grian doesn’t hide away in his own base, too nervous that Scar will follow him there directly. Instead, he winds up flying back to where they’d all clustered together nearly a year ago, back in the starter village. His wings grow heavier and heavier as he flies, flowers now blooming from them in abundance. It’s not quite intentional when he lands in front of Scar’s massive elven tree, but he’s drawn in by it anyway.

The overarching canopy is comforting as he shakes out his wings, hundreds of petals cascading out from between his primaries like confetti. It isn’t painful, but it’s concerning as he walks forward and the petals continue to fall, endless as they blossom into fully formed flowers at his feet. More than anything, it’s simply mortifying, and Grian is glad at the very least that the considerable size of Scar’s tree tucks him out of sight of any passersby.

It feels strange to be here again after so long, wandering beneath the spreading branches overhead like a shadow. Each step Grian takes causes more flowers to grow under his feet, and he winces at the sight of them, grimacing at the thought of ruining Scar’s handiwork with the unwanted wild flowers blooming around his haphazard steps.

Determined, he instead heads straight towards the trunk of the tree—inside, where he remembers Scar’s old bedroom used to be. He passes the grandfather clock, smiling at the detail Scar put into the carving, reaching out to stroke the face of it. Lilacs bloom from the tips of his fingers on contact, latching onto the wood beneath. With a gasp, Grian rips his hand away, rushing up the stairs as poppies grow behind him.

Eventually, he finds his destination. Scar’s bedroom, lofted above the other areas of the tree. While the whole base has a cozy feel to it, Scar’s room in particular sets something in Grian’s soul at ease. The dwindling light of day trickles in through the window as Grian climbs onto the plush mattress, pulling back the soft, teal sheets before he finally buries himself away from the world.

Even after months spent unused, everything around him still smells like Scar, and Grian finds himself soothed despite the way flowers continue to fluff up his wings, poking out between his feathers. He closes his eyes, willing himself to sleep so that he can wake up out of this dream, even while knowing for certain that it doesn’t really work like that.

It’s perhaps not as surprising as it should be that Scar finds him sooner than expected.

The sun has set, and the lanterns in the area have been lit, including the ones in the tree that Scar claimed were kept on by ‘elven magic’ and definitely not Cub’s redstone work wired up from somewhere in the basement. The lamps bathe everything in a warm, orange glow, and through heavy lashes Grian can’t help but admire how beautiful it all looks.

“Well hello there,” comes Scar’s voice, quietly amused in the ambiance.

“How did you find me?” Grian mumbles, voice winding up out of the nest he’s made of Scar’s sheets and pillows, only the very top of his head left peeking out.

Chuckling as he approaches, Scar takes a seat on the edge of the mattress, settling a hand on the sheets, close to Grian but not quite touching.

“You left a trail of flowers behind you, G. It wasn’t exactly hard to follow.” As he speaks he folds his legs up, scooting closer and prompting Grian to make more space for him. “I’d have come even sooner, but I had to pick something up along the way.”

Grian nods mutely, too nervous about what’s to come to really pay attention to what Scar’s saying. He feels trapped, caught like a child about to be scolded for doing something absurd. His heart is in his throat, anxiety twisting its way up his spine, palms sweaty as he grips them into nervous fists beneath the blanket.

“Can I ask you something?”

Grian half-laughs, his panic making him feel weak, barely strong enough to push back the sheets so he can sit up and face Scar. Beneath the blanket, flowers bloom.

“Are you really going to make me do this?”

“Isn’t that the only way to make the flowers stop?”

Scar’s voice is gentle, not a trace of judgement in it. Grian wishes it was more reassuring than it is. For all that Scar is being patient with him, it says nothing for how he feels.

He braces himself. “Go on, then.”

“Grian…” Scar asks, too careful, too soft. “Are you in love with me?”

It feels like his face is on fire. Like his wings are so heavy they’ll drop him straight through the floor. He can feel it, the petals tucked in between his primaries and secondaries, shivering as they fall loose to the bedspread, poppies and lilacs filling up his vision. It makes him want to pull back and shy away. He doesn’t feel like himself at all. It’s embarrassing. He’s embarrassed.

“Yes,” he whispers, and it’s like he’s ripped open his chest to bare his heart.

Scar nods, quiet, considering; taking far too long to answer.

“I’m sorry,” he replies at last, and Grian feels his hope plummet, his whole body going cold. He’s not sure what kind of expression he’s making, but it’s enough to make Scar’s eyes go wide, hands coming up as he shakes them back and forth, trying to explain himself. “Oh no—no, no, Grian, that’s not what I—sorry, oh my gosh, I didn’t mean—!”

When words seem like they’re too much, Scar huffs a breath and leaves them be. Instead, he reaches out and pulls Grian into an embrace, arms warm and tight around him. Humiliatingly, it’s enough to bring tears to Grian’s eyes, the fear of rejection too fresh to hold them back. His shoulder’s begin to shake as Scar strokes his spine, carding the delicate down between his wings as he makes shushing sounds.

“Grian, I’m so sorry…” Scar says, whispered soft. “What I meant was, I love you too.”

“What?” Grian croaks, voice thick with tears and confusion. “What the fuck are you on about?”

Scar laughs like he’s embarrassed himself, pulling back to take a look at him. Grian glares through the wetness in his eyes, frustrated and at a loss.

“I love you, Gri.” Scar smiles, bright and earnest. “The apology earlier was for not figuring out what was up with you sooner. I should’ve known from the very first poppy on my pillow.”

There’s a mess of emotion whirling around inside Grian’s head. Happiness, doubt, and exasperation to name a few. The last one wins out, and Grian groans, thudding his palm against Scar’s chest. The force of the hit pushes Scar backwards, and he lets out a low ‘oof.’

“Scar! There’s an order to these things! Say that part first, you absolute prick!”

Scar’s laughing now, which is both better and worse.

“It’s not my fault!” He objects, holding his hands up defensively in front of his chest, still smiling, sheepish but wide. “It got all twisted up inside my head—I’m dyslexic, G!”

“You’re an arsehole is what you are,” Grian sniffs, emotion making his throat feel tight. All the same, hope rings in his ears, his body wired tight with it. “... do you really mean it?”

“What, that I love you?” Hearing it again, plainly spoken this go around, makes Grian’s heart race and his face heat up. He nods cautiously, and Scar’s deep, green eyes twinkle with the kind of fondness that Grian knows is just for him. “Yeah. I love you, Grian. I have for a really long time.”

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” Grian mumbles, fragile within his feelings, picking at the small poppies nearest to his hand. The petals are silk soft in his grasp and he strokes them absently, eyes low and unable to meet Scar’s gaze.

“Well it’s not like you said it either,” Scar returns, but then laughs, a little embarrassed, “But, uh… if I’m being honest… I sort of thought we were already dating, G.”

Grian’s head shoots up at that, looking straight at Scar, incredulous. “You cannot be serious.” The words are bowled out roughly, and when the chagrin on Scar’s face makes it obvious that he is serious— “How long?”

“I dunno… maybe a little bit after the Turf War?”

“The Turf—?!” Grian didn’t know it was possible to feel such an abrupt change of emotion, his heart dropping in an entirely different way this time. “Scar! That was years ago!”

“I know!”

“We haven’t so much as kissed since then, what on earth were you thinking?!”

Scar throws his hands up in the air, cheeks pink and flustered. “I just thought you wanted to take things slow!”

“Scar!!” Grian yells and laughs all at once, dropping his face into his hands and running them down his face, giving a strangled cry.

There’s a lot to process. He’s overwhelmed. He’d been too distracted to notice at first, but the flowers surrounding them have steadily been growing smaller and smaller, only the ones on the bed remaining, vibrant and large. Grian feels near giddy with relief, too stunned to fully believe Scar feels the same way, and yet too familiar with the way Scar’s head works to doubt it.

Scar’s hand is on his knee, rubbing comforting circles there as Grian catches his breath. Small flowers sprout and wrap gently around his fingers and his wrists. A bloom of red and purple—like rings and bracelets.

“Feeling alright?” Scar asks, voice so warm that Grian wishes he could wrap himself in it and wear it forever.

“Mmm,” he hums, placing his hand on top of Scar’s and enjoying the way the poppies and lilacs move to wrap around them both.

It takes him a moment before his calm turns to curiosity.

“You said you didn’t come here right away because you had to get something?” He asks, curious, knowing what Scar can be like. “What was it?”

“Oh, right!” Scar starts, sitting up straight and then reaching behind him. He rummages around before brandishing a single, beautiful, canary yellow sunflower. “Tada!”

He urges Grian to take it and Grian does, furrowing his brow in confusion. “And this is…?”

“A sunflower,” Scar says, simple, his pride over it evident. Grian is about to roll his eyes and sigh, demanding a more in-depth explanation when Scar leans in close, pressing a quick, chaste peck to his lips. “If it were me, it would have been sunflowers.”

Grian finds himself stunned silent, lips abuzz with the feeling of Scar’s on his. He touches his fingertips to his mouth, warm all over.

“What…?”

“Sunflowers turn towards the light,” Scar explains, eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles, soft and sweet. “And, to me? You’re the sun.”

It’s like an explosion in his chest, warmth radiating out from his heart to every point along his skin. Petals burst from him all at once, racing outwards and blooming from every place they land. Poppies and lilacs grow abundant, more and more till the room is filled with them, purple and red and, at the centre of it all, the two of them, gold like sunlight.

“Wow,” Scar enthuses, awe clear in his voice as he looks around them.

“You…” Grian starts, caught between breaths, “You drive me mad, I swear.”

“In a good way though, right?”

Grian can’t help but laugh, smile so wide on his face that he thinks he may never stop grinning. Maybe his face will be stuck like this forever, and maybe that won’t be so bad, so long as he has Scar by his side.

“Debatable,” he teases.

Scar grins at him, dashing as usual. He scoots closer, the hand on Grian’s knee moving up towards his hip. “Does that mean we can kiss again?”

Grian rolls his eyes, laughing as he leans in and presses his lips to Scar’s at last.