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In the interest of being fair to all involved parties, Grian is willing to admit that the preening thing is absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent his own fault.
It’s not as though he’s doing it on purpose. It’s a habit. A nervous tic. It’s— well, something of an instinct, if he’s going to get technical about it, but that’s just embarrassing so he’s trying to forget about that part.
He’s doing it by accident, mostly. Grian and Scar are together, even if Grian’s not really quite sure what that means. They have a castle on Monopoly Mountain, a llama, and four lives between the two of them. Scar’s frustrating, sometimes. He runs off on his own and takes off all his armor and stands too close to the lava moat, but he brought Grian flowers. Grian would say they’re friends — they’re teammates, they live together, they’re in each other’s space. Really, it was inevitable that Grian would get twitchy.
He’s sure it’s happened before, with other friends of his, except Grian can’t really remember anything earlier than waking up in the forest with the firm, heavy knowledge that he had only three chances, nothing else. And doesn’t seem like Scar minds.
Grian is pretty sure Scar hasn’t noticed — he’s certainly not a bird, he doesn’t have any feathers for Grian to pick at. As far as Scar can tell, Grian’s just touchy sometimes.
He’ll reach up and pick lint off of Scar’s shoulders, brush some sand or a stick out of his hair and Scar will always turn that blinding, shiny grin to him and say, “Thanks, songbird. What would I do without you?”
It’s a poor substitute for proper preening, but it calms the prickly feeling at the back of his skull. It makes his own feathers lay flat. There’s not a single person on the server that Grian sees more than Scar, Grian thinks it’s fair enough that his stupid birdbrain would mistake him for flock.
But then Scar starts doing it back.
“Hang on,” Scar says, interrupting Grian in the middle of a sentence. “You got somethin’.”
He reaches around to pull something from the back of Grian’s neck. He hadn’t even noticed it was itching him, but a feather must’ve gotten stuck on his sweater. Scar holds it up smiling, the feather bright red and a little ruffled.
“There you go.”
“Thanks,” Grian says. Scar reaches back — this time, his fingers drag lightly through Grian’s hair, straightening the tangle that probably caught the feather in the first place. It’s stupid, but Grian smiles. “You interrupted me.”
“Oh, I wasn’t listening at all,” Scar says cheerfully. His red eyes squint against the setting sun. He’s unfairly handsome for a man who spends all of his time running around in the sand. “C’mon, you’ve been at it all day. The cactus wall is looking great. Let’s go inside.”
With an exaggerated, dramatic roll of his eyes, Grian agrees.
It keeps happening after that — for every stray thread or leaf Grian pulls off Scar’s cape, there’s a gray hand fixing Grian’s hair, wiping dust off his cheek.
Grian can’t even pretend like he minds. It doesn’t mean anything — not for Scar, anyway, and all it means for Grian is that they’re close, that they’re each other’s. Scar’s good about it, too, like he knows exactly how much it calms Grian down.
After every close call, when Grian’s riled up and bristling and not quite relaxing even when they’re back home in one piece, Scar reaches up to ruffle the sand out of his hair with a smile.
Even if Scar has picked up on the fact that it’s a bird thing, it’s not like it’s inappropriate, or crossing a line. It’s not like he’s fixing Grian’s wings.
Grian runs into the wrong end of a cave-spider’s nest in a mineshaft after he eats his last piece of bread. It’s a bit of a struggle to get home — he’d tried mining outside of the desert, just to see if he’d have more luck, but all it really means is that he has to stumble back to Monopoly Mountain most-of-the-way starved with more than his fair share of spider bites. He trips once or twice in the sand, just to make things worse.
All this to say, by the time he’s back in the castle and has been fed absolutely everything in the kitchen by Scar’s worried hands, his wings are itchy.
“You’re feeling better?” Scar asks, a tense edge in his voice.
“Yes.” It’s the truth. Eating helped. Sitting inside, warm and with Scar, is actively helping. Grian thinks he could fall asleep right here at the kitchen table if it weren’t for the fact that his feathers are so itchy it feels like his bones are going to crawl out of his skin.
“You’ve got cobwebs everywhere.” Scar pouts, picking the offending cobwebs out of his hair. “And sand, seriously, songbird, you sure you’re alright? Do you need anything else?”
Grian could spend an hour twisting around just to get at the hard to reach feathers on his own. It would take forever, and he’d be uncomfortable the entire time, but he could do it.
Or, well. It’s not like it’s illegal to ask someone to preen your wings. He and Scar aren’t like that, and Grian thinks this solidly counts as an exceptional circumstance. Jimmy has wings. If he were here, Grian could ask him — it would maybe be a little awkward, but it wouldn’t actually mean anything. And Scar doesn’t even know, not like Jimmy does. It’s only weird if Grian makes it weird.
“Actually,” Grian says. Involuntarily, his left wing twitches, trying to dislodge whatever is poking between the feathers. “Um. Do you think you could help me with my wings?”
Scar’s eyes flick over to them and then immediately go wide. “Oh, jeez, I didn’t even notice. That looks bad. Of course.”
And then they stare at each other.
Eventually, Scar says, “You’re gonna have to tell me what to do.”
“Right.” Grian flushes, and then looks away so Scar won’t see it. He turns the chair around and sits again, letting his wings hang over the low back. There’s a tentative, gentle brush against his secondaries. “It’s not hard. Just brush out the gross stuff and make sure everything’s straight. You can pull out any broken ones.”
“Won’t that hurt?”
“Not if you’re gentle.”
“How do I know if it’s broken?”
Grian laughs. The shaking of his shoulders pushes his wing into Scar’s hands, and already Grian can feel his brain starting to walk away from him. “It’ll look broken. They’re not going to trick you. If you pull on a good one by accident, I’ll tell you.”
Scar seems a little reassured by that, and carefully runs his fingers through a few feathers, pulling sand and dirt out as he goes. Grian tries not to slump in his seat.
Really, he should be helping. Scar’s got his left wing covered, it seems — straightening a feather here, removing a cobweb there. Grian tries to bring his right wing around, just enough for him to get at the spots that are easier to reach, but Scar tuts.
“I’ll get to it, okay? You need to relax.”
It’s a testament to how badly Grian needs this that he doesn’t argue. His face feels warm, every brush of Scar’s fingers between his feathers sends a spark up his spine. He knew it would mess with him a little bit, to have Scar help him out, but he didn’t think it’d be quite this severe.
His wings have been so full of sand that Grian notices how much better it feels immediately. As soon as Scar shifts to switch wings, he stretches it out slightly, marvelling at the fact that nothing itches.
The sun has set, leaving only the moonlight to stream in through the window. It’s a quiet night, enough of the desert lit up that mobs don’t bother wandering their way up the mountain. Distantly, Pizza bleats. Grian feels wound up, more than a little flustered. His head droops.
It doesn’t take much longer for Scar to finish, and Grian misses the contact as soon as it’s over.
It wasn’t supposed to ruin Grian’s brain. It wasn’t meant to give the stupid little bird that lives in his chest the wrong idea. It was a favor. Grian needed helping out, that’s all.
Only Scar seemed to like it, because he keeps offering to do it again. The right thing to do is say no, of course, because Grian doesn’t need to get his wings preened every night, and because Scar doesn’t even really know what he’s asking for. But he keeps asking.
Hey, G, you’ve got a bad feather back here, want me to get it, over dinner and you’ve got sand everywhere, c’mere, before bed. And Scar always looks like a kicked puppy when Grian says no.
“It’s fine, Scar, don’t bother.”
Scar pouts. Grian dutifully does not stare at his bottom lip. “But I want to help you out! It’s not a bother, you’re my partner! I want you to be comfortable.”
Grian’s been trying to say no. He had been, even, the first few times. But it feels nice, and Scar is good at it. Grian’s sleeping better than he ever has, and he thinks it only has a little to do with the fact that they pushed the beds together to keep warm a week ago and haven’t moved them back.
Some sand out of his feathers and a gentle hand in his hair are all it takes for Grian to pass out, apparently. He keeps telling himself he’ll tell Scar no, or even just explain why he’s saying no, but it never happens.
I’ll tell him tomorrow, Grian thinks as he falls asleep, probably for the eighth night in a row.
Here’s the thing: he knows he won’t.
It’s when they spend a few days with Scott and Jimmy that things get complicated.
See, Scott and Jimmy are married. They’re together, they’re like that. Jimmy’s got wings, too — Grian watches him fix Scott’s blue hair and smooth out his jacket, smiling all the while. It’s sweet, and Grian’s willing to bet that Jimmy barely notices himself doing it. Jimmy’s wings are well taken care of, shiny with all of their feathers. Grian doesn’t have to wonder who helps keep them neat.
Grian and Scar are only there to help them set up some underground storage and get a bit more prepared. It’s not not because Grian still feels a little bad about putting Jimmy on red, but he thinks it’s mostly about Scar trying to make them some friends, just in case he falls down another ravine. That way, he’d said, too cheerful for the topic of conversation, you won’t be alone. Grian had told him to shut up.
“Oh, G,” Scar says over lunch, when they’re sitting by the pond in the sun. “You’re a wreck. Let me fix it, c’mere.”
Jimmy raises his eyebrows. He glances over at Scott, green eyes meeting red, but Scott just shrugs.
Grian is torn — in the privacy of their castle, it’s nobody’s business what he lets Scar do to his wings. Here, though, in front of other people, in front of Jimmy, it’s not so simple. But he can feel the twig he’s sure Scar notices, caught in the feathers and scratching at the wing underneath, and it is driving him crazy.
Doing his best to act natural, Grian scoots over to sit in front of Scar. He stares very carefully at the grass, at the flowers, anywhere except Jimmy’s intrigued face. By the time Scar’s done, Grian thinks his ears must be on fire.
Of course, Scott brings it up as soon as he and Grian are alone.
“So he’s helping you with your wings now?”
Grian shrugs. “Sometimes.”
“I didn’t realize you two had gotten so close,” Scott says, the implication clear in his tone.
“He’s just being nice,” Grian insists. “He’s not a bird, it’s not like he knows. It was an emergency once and he just kept offering. He likes to feel helpful.”
“I don’t have wings and I know,” Scott points out.
“That’s because Jimmy told you. That’s cheating.”
“Hm,” Scott says, and then he doesn’t say anything else.
“If he knew, he’d stop offering,” Grian says, sure of it. “He’ll get bored of it eventually. He’s just being nice.”
Except Scar doesn’t get bored of it. He offers nearly every night, every time he spots something caught in Grian’s wings. It’s nice. It’s driving Grian insane. He doesn’t want to tell Scar to stop.
It’s more than just fixing his hair, the casual touches, the little things. It’s screwing with Grian’s head — he sees Scar and thinks mine. He catches himself staring at Scar, fingers twitching at his side, frustrated because Scar doesn’t have wings and Grian can’t return the favor. He can’t look Scar in the eye and say yours too, and he can’t show him with his hands.
But he can’t make himself tell Scar to quit it. He can’t make himself give Scar a reason to stop. And that drives him crazy, too — he feels guilty all the time, skin crawling, convinced he’s taking advantage of Scar by not telling him.
They still haven’t moved the beds back.
“Songbird, you have a bad feather,” Scar says, perfectly casual. Moving on his own, Grian sits on the edge of the bed in front of him and stretches out his wings.
Scar hums quietly to himself while he works. Grian’s brain melts into putty, surely leaking out of his ears. He sways a little, nearly half asleep.
“I’m glad you let me do this.” Scar’s voice comes quietly, a soft rumble. It takes Grian a long, deliberate second to process that he’s said anything at all.
Grian swallows, throat thick. “You’re doing me a favor.”
“I know you don’t need it all the time, but you always get so clingy after,” Scar says. Grian can hear him smiling. Something about his tone makes it sound like he’s confessing, “I like taking care of you.”
It’s too much.
“I have to tell you something,” Grian blurts. His cheeks burn. Scar’s fingers stutter to a stop, and he’s glad Scar can’t see his face.
“Okay,” Scar says.
“I’m really sorry,” Grian says before anything else. “I should’ve told you earlier.”
“What is it?”
He can’t figure out how to explain it. It’s confusing and arbitrary, a little stupid, even. Eventually, he manages, “You don’t want to preen my wings.”
So, so slowly — enough that Grian could pull his wing away if he wanted — Scar continues combing through his feathers. “Why not?”
“It… means something,” Grian says. “It’s not— usually it’s for someone you’re with. More than just friends. Or roommates, I guess.”
“I see.” Scar flattens a feather that’s been bothering Grian all day. The back of Grian’s neck burns.
“It makes it a bit more sensitive,” Grian explains, a little desperate and confused, because Scar’s not stopping even though Grian is giving him plenty of reasons to. He could move away, but he doesn’t. “It kind of messes with my head, a little bit— I didn’t mean to take advantage of you, you just keep offering.”
“Of course I do,” Scar says, voice casual. He sounds a little absent.
“Scar, are you even listening to me?”
“I’m listening.”
“I don’t believe you,” Grian says. “Scar, I’m telling you, it’s not your fault, I’m sorry I didn’t say something earlier, but if you keep this up I’m going to do something stupid like—” and then Scar picks out an especially itchy piece of dirt and Grian has to stop himself from making a very embarrassing noise.
“Something stupid like what?”
“Something stupid like fall in love with you,” Grian hisses. Scar does not stop. “I knew it, you aren’t listening to me—”
“G,” Scar says firmly. “I’m listening to you. If you want me to stop, I will.”
Grian can practically hear the start of his next sentence. “But?”
“But,” Scar continues, “I don’t want to stop.”
Grian’s brain freezes. His wings twitch. Scar pauses in his preening, carefully pulling his hands away. Grian twists to look back over his shoulder, eyes wide. “What.”
Scar is staring at him, smiling and fond. “Preening your wings is romantic, yeah? I like that. I want to do that.”
“No you don’t.”
“Grian,” Scar says, voice curling warm around the word.
“You don’t mean that.”
“Of course I do,” Scar’s smile splits into a real grin. “You’re more than welcome to fall in love with me. It’d make us even, for one.”
Carefully, like Scar is going to startle and change his mind, Grian turns around, kicking off his shoes to sit completely on the bed facing Scar. He bites nervously on his lip. “You’re in love with me?”
Scar reaches over to brush some of Grian’s hair behind his ear. “You make it easy.”
“Don’t say stuff like that,” Grian says, face flaming. Scar gives him another handsome, perfect grin.
“C’mere, songbird.”
Scar tugs Grian into his lap, cupping his face in his hands as he brings him in to kiss. Whatever was left of Grian’s brain after the preening promptly shuts off, completely focused on the feeling of Scar’s mouth on his. It’s chaste until it’s not, Grian nipping on Scar’s bottom lip.
But they need to breathe. Grian pulls back, knocking their foreheads together.
“This means you’ll keep fixing my wings, right? I don’t think I can go back to doing them myself. I’d do yours back but you don’t have any.”
“I’ll do them for as long as you let me,” Scar promises. “You’re stuck with me, G.”
Grian very much likes the sound of that.
“Good,” he says, and then he dives back in.