There Are Monsters Nearby - uhohbestie - 3rd Life (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

The week the world ends sticks out in Scar’s memory as an eventful one, as far as things go. Fast paced, one hit after another, adrenaline pumping, the whole shebang. And really, it’s got to be like that, hasn’t it? No good story has ever started with a rolling recap of the mundane. Not the kind that Scar likes to chew over, anyway.

No, the week where his life as he knows it changes forever is explosive from start to finish.

“sh*t,” Cub hisses, the machine in front of him giving a loud, shuddering groan before popping several screws and spewing black smoke from the seams, ominous and foreboding.

From his position laid out on the couch, Scar whistles low, exaggerating a grimace that Cub responds to with an exasperated sigh. He snickers at his friend’s misfortune, comforted in the knowledge that Cub would do the same if their situations were reversed. He then stretches his legs, dangling them to the side and grabbing the cane leaning against the armrest. It takes a minute, but it’s a relatively low pain day so he’s quickly able to get onto his feet and make his way over to where Cub is fiddling with a now pitifully sparking machine.

He looms over his friend in a way that comes only from years working by his side, peering down at the contraption below with curiosity, well in Cub’s bubble without invading his working space. “Whatcha got there?”

“It’s the project I told you about.”

“Ohh, the one with the super strict deadline at the end of the month?”

The machine sputters pathetically, another spurt of black smoke escaping from it before the whole thing gives one final shake and dies.

“Yeah,” Cub punctuates, grim.

“Yikes.”

His best friend sighs, pushing up his glasses to rub at his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose.

“It’s not that bad. I can fix it, it’s just gonna take more time than I anticipated. See, the gears I had were interfering with the—”

“Don’t explain it to me, Cub,” Scar interrupts, throwing a hand up dismissively, “I’m more than happy thinking of it as magic. All this engineering stuff is hocus pocus to me.”

Cub snorts, fond in that subtle way that Scar knows is reserved only for him. “You’re a weird guy, Scar.”

Scar laughs, grinning wide and winking. After a moment more of tinkering, Cub sighs and moves away from the project, side-stepping around Scar and taking a seat in front of his desktop setup several feet from the machine. Now that he’s up, he doesn’t fancy sitting down again, so Scar meanders over to the couch and picks up the remote lying on the cushion, flicking through the TV channels while Cub troubleshoots across his spread of monitors.

“I’ve got a knack for magic, you know.” He talks over his shoulder in Cub’s direction, teasing, “Just point me in the direction of the crystals and I’ll make sparks fly.”

“The sparks are the problem, dude,” Cub replies, distracted but playing along good-naturedly.

Scar snickers to himself and turns back to the TV, eyes catching on the drag performers showing off their outfits on a lavish stage. It strikes him that the show might be a good watch for date nights. He lingers for a bit, filing away the information for later before changing channels again and catching the trailing ends of a Halloween horror movie marathon before switching into the news. Almost immediately his stomach drops, a report about a spike of sudden hospitalizations is scrolling through the headlines, and the rows of hospital beds full of sick people on screen twists up his heart. He hated hospitals even before he’d been diagnosed, but it always got particularly bad in this season. He zones out, stuck in his own thoughts.

The last time there was a wave of illness spreading through the city, his doctor had stopped barely short of ordering him to stay indoors. They meant well—didn’t want to exacerbate the issues with his already fragile immune system—but it had been the worst phase of his life for him thus far. He’d been isolated and alone, unable to leave his apartment or make any real human contact. Staring at walls and text messages day in, day out.

“Scar?”

He jolts, clicking the remote and changing the channel to something far less triggering, plastering a smile on his face as he turns back to acknowledge Cub. “Mmm?”

His friend looks him over at him for a moment, calculating, but eventually relents, “I was just asking if you’d heard anything about this, seeing as you’re the resident Disney guy.” Cub gestures at his computer screen, likely at some sort of article that Scar can’t see from his angle. “It says here that they’re closing the parks for a couple days. That’s pretty unprecedented right?”

“I suppose so,” Scar hums. He usually loves rambling about the parks, but it’s a little difficult to reorient himself after a near panic. “They’ve closed before for hurricanes. Can’t fight natural disasters!”

“Yeah, sure, but it’s not hurricanes that’re doing it. They’re only citing ‘circ*mstances beyond our control’ as the reasoning for it,” Cub counters, tapping the end of his pen against the edge of his computer screen.

“Ohh, that is interesting,” Scar says, curiosity piqued.

He tosses the remote towards the couch and starts to make his way over to where Cub is standing when his phone starts to ring. Yelping in surprise, he takes a second to calm his startled heart before reaching into his coat pocket and fishing out the device. It’s a reminder, scheduled for now. He smiles at the message before muting it and putting it away. When he looks up again, Cub is watching him in askance.

“Grian,” Scar explains, “It’s my turn to cook tonight and I’m always forgetting, so he set up a little reminder for me! Isn’t that sweet of him?”

The sound Cub makes is non-commital. “Sure.”

“Aw, c’mon Cub,” Scar admonishes teasingly. “Don’t be that way!”

“I’m not being any kind of way.”

Scar knows he should leave well enough alone, but there’s this quiet anxiety that settles in his chest whenever he feels like the people he cares for don’t get along with one another. It makes him want to solve it. Like if he just forces the subject along far enough they’ll realise they really do like each other, and then everything will be fine.

“You know, you should come over for dinner sometime,” he suggests, keeping his tone cheerful and optimistic. “It’s been a while since you two have hung out!”

“Scar, we’ve talked about this,” Cub sighs, leaning back in his chair and sending a serious look his way. “Grian’s fine, I don’t have a problem with him. I like hanging out with him, even. He’s fun.”

“See? So what’s—”

“I just don’t think he’s good for you. That’s it.”

“Cub…”

An awkward mood settles between the two of them, Cub’s lip curling up and his brow furrowing.

“You two have been together like what? Three years? And he still won’t let you call him your boyfriend,” Cub says at last, when it becomes clear Scar isn’t going to speak first.

“He’s just a little shy!” Scar defends, shoulders tensing up.

“That goes beyond shyness, Scar. Anyone else would be living together by now. Or at least have left over more permanent stuff in your apartment other than a toothbrush and a couple of socks in a drawer.”

Scar’s palm sweats where he’s gripping his cane, knuckles tight around it. His stomach churns. He hates arguing with anyone, but especially with Cub. There’s no one who knows him better, except maybe Grian. When they fight it feels wrong.

His heart hurts. The evening was going so well—he doesn’t want to leave things like this, and he certainly doesn’t want to make it worse. The subject of his relationship with Grian is a conversation he and Cub have been having increasingly often lately, and Scar’s not looking to add another strained night to the tally.

Taking a deep breath, he forces his muscles to untense, meeting Cub’s gaze with his own pleading one. “Things are good between us, Cub. I promise. And… and if they weren’t, I’d come to you about it.”

“Would you, though?” Cub asks, testing.

His shoulders sag. “Cub, come on.”

There’s a flash of guilt on his friend’s face, and Scar can see the moment where he breaks. “Sorry,” he apologises, and Scar can tell he means it. “I know you would. I just… get worried sometimes, I guess. I don’t want him taking you for granted, Scar.”

Feeling the tension drain from the air, Scar smiles and crosses the short distance to Cub, wrapping him up in a hug where he sits. “Oh, you big ol’ teddy bear! I’ll be fine, don’t you worry your precious head!”

Cub laughs, a little strained, holding onto Scar’s arms briefly before tapping at them to let Scar know to let go. “Yeah, yeah. I gotcha.”

It’s not the ideal way for them to part, but Scar knows not to push when it comes to things Cub feels this strongly about. One of these days he’s going to have a proper sit-down conversation with his best friend about Grian. Cub’s concerns aren’t unfounded, Scar knows that—he’s had several of them himself. But what do the little things matter when he comes home to Grian smiling at him, and falls asleep with him in his arms? That’s got to count for something, right?

Crossing the room again, Scar picks up his phone, taking a moment to check his messages. There’s nothing from Grian, but at times like these he’s learned that it’s better to act like there is.

“I’m gonna head out now—Grian says he’s hungry. But hey, keep me updated on how much worse your project gets, alright?”

Cub raises a brow at him from where he’s already immersed himself back in his bank of monitors. “Bold of you to assume I’ll answer any messages before I’ve got this handled. I’m going into fixation mode, dude. You won’t hear from me until this is done or I’m dead.”

“You get good reception from beyond the grave?”

“You tell me,” Cub grins, “You’re the one with the magic.”

The retort makes Scar laugh, genuine and heartfelt, and that’s how he knows things are okay between them. With his wallet, keys, cane, and phone, Scar gives Cub’s shoulder a parting squeeze before he heads for the door. With an extra bit of banter, promises to drop by later in the week, and a wave as he lets himself out, Scar leaves Cub’s apartment for the very last time.

Grian is late for dinner.

Then again, Grian prides himself on being the last to show up to anything, so Scar never really expected him to arrive on time. His stubborn lateness is just one of his many quirks, and Scar loves him for it.

His first text comes an hour after he was supposed to arrive.

‘Running late. Sorry :( See you soon.’

Scar smiles and doesn’t let it bother him.

Forty minutes later, he gets another text.

‘Terrible traffic. Be there in an hour.’

The excuse settles funny in Scar’s mind. Traffic? He slides his thumb along the screen of his phone, pulling up their messages from that morning, the ones where Grian said he was working from home that day.

Most days, Grian walks to Scar’s place, insisting the fresh air is good for him. Traffic’s never been an issue before.

‘Aren’t you working from home?’

Scar doesn’t have time to put his phone down before it lights up with three quick messages.

‘Yes.’

‘I am.’

‘See you in an hour.’

Grian’s never been particularly warm in text. When Scar thinks back on this moment, weeks later, he understands this should’ve been when a warning bell went off in his head. Instead, he pulls out his cast iron pan and happily begins preheating the oven.

Two hours pass before Scar caves and texts Grian again. Grian had chastised him once for messaging him too often and Scar had since done his best to practise patience, but the low rumble in his stomach forces his hand.

‘Traffic still bad?’

It takes ten minutes for Grian to reply.

‘I don’t think I can make it tonight :( work’s awful.’

He waits for a sorry, he waits for a love you.

He gets silence.

‘No worries,’ he replies. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

Dinner sits untouched in the oven, and Scar is ravenous. It’s past 8 PM, getting closer to 9. A cool fall evening, with the sky still caught in deep blues. The perfect, clear night for taking pictures of the stars. Outside his open windows, Scar can hear people talking, the rumbled sounds of traffic from the side-street, a distant dog barking. It’s only a short walk to Grian’s place, but his legs already ache, and they’ll ache worse tomorrow if he pushes it now.

Still.

He packs a portion of their dinner onto a plate and covers it in tinfoil. In a cloth napkin he wraps up two large chocolate chip cookies he baked the day before.

Grian’s working late, and Scar already went through all the trouble of cooking for him. It’s a short walk, but an even shorter drive.

In hindsight, he should’ve seen it coming.

Grian lives in a townhouse in a good neighbourhood, on a nice street lined with big trees, decorations still out from Halloween two nights ago. It’s a lovely place, with more than enough room for two. Scar knows it. Everyone knows it. Scar’s stayed overnight countless times, but the longest he’s been welcome to linger in their three years of dating has been the occasional weekend.

Grian has a carport and a short driveway.

Scar almost doesn’t think about it when he finds another car parked there.

He parks on the curb, blocking a fire hydrant. It’s illegal, but he’ll only be there for a minute—unless, of course, Grian invites him in. But then, rules are made to be broken, and nothing is currently on fire. The hydrant will be fine, and so will he.

He has a key to Grian’s front door. Of course. Of course he does. You don’t date someone for years and not get the key to their place. So what if Scar had to finagle a copy out of Grian like he was some sort of hostage negotiator? So what if Grian made him swear he would only ever use it for emergencies? Scar has a key to his not-boyfriend’s place, that’s all that matters.

He still knocks first, though. Still leans on his cane as he stands on the front step, the bottom of the plate warm in his hand, the cookies balanced delicately on top of the tinfoil. He has a moment to think about how he wishes he’d tucked a note in between the cookies, a pen doodle of a smiley face and a big goofy heart.

He has several moments, actually.

Maybe Grian’s not home after all.

He’s not going to leave a plate of food on the ground, there’s a raccoon problem and he doesn’t believe in feeding wildlife, so he fishes out his key and lets himself in.

“Ready or not, here I cooome.” He meant it to sound silly—it is silly, speaking out loud to an empty house. He nearly trips on a pair of shoes just inside the door, and it’s odd, because when he looks down he notices they’re bigger than Grian’s tiny feet. Nearly as large as his own shoes, actually. Except he’s never left a pair of shoes at Grian’s place.

The navy blue jacket thrown over the bannister is new as well.

There’s a sound he can’t place. Something is thumping softly against a wall upstairs. It goes on for a moment as he carefully steps over the unusual front-door clutter, then it stops.

In hindsight he should’ve turned around.

In hindsight he should never have let himself in.

Scar is in the kitchen, giving a sideways glance to two unfinished glasses of wine on the counter as he opens the fridge to stash away Grian’s meal, when he hears hasty feet on the stairs. He thinks, again, to the car. To the shoes. To the jacket and to the noises.

Grian’s flushed when Scar finally sees him, frozen in the kitchen doorway, and for some reason Scar can’t make his body move to shut the fridge as they both stand there and stare.

Grian’s cheeks are bright pink, distressed and embarrassed and something else incriminating and so much worse. His hair is mussed up, pushed out of place by fingers that aren’t his own.

Scar has a second to take him in, even as his mind plays catch up in the back, filling in all the blanks. Only a second to fully commit to memory the sight of his boyfriend, caught in the act.

“Grian,” he says, the word forced to sound cheerful despite the immensity of his discomfort, each syllable incredibly heavy in his mouth as he forces them out.

“Scar.” If he didn’t think Grian was guilty before, the dread in the way he speaks confirms it. There’s an inky, black sorrow—betrayal—rising in Scar’s chest, in his throat, that threatens to choke him. He swallows it back.

“I brought you dinner,” Scar says, and the fridge door is forcefully closed, enough so that some of the magnets are jostled off and skitter away across the floor. Grian winces as they clatter and Scar feels nothing. “Because you’re working so late.”

“Scar,” Grian repeats, and it doesn’t sound better a second time.

“I only brought enough for one. There’s two cookies, though.”

Scar moves and Grian shrinks out of the way like water displaced by oil. Scar’s back in the hall, passing the navy jacket, the shoes.

He’s leaving.

“Scar,” Grian tries it a third time, and there’s an edge to it now, like he’s angry, like he has something to be angry about.

Scar doesn’t hear him.

He doesn’t hear him because there’s a man. There’s a man standing on the staircase. He’s got his clothes on, but it’s clear that, much like Grian’s, they were put on in haste. His sweater looks soft. If they were standing in line together at the grocery store, Scar would ask him where he got it.

He has the same deep flush to his face that Grian has. Like two peas f*cking each other in a pod, Scar thinks.

The man’s expression is unreadable—but then, Scar doesn’t exactly give himself time to properly study it.

He’s thinking about traffic that never existed. He’s thinking about the bottom of the plate, warm against his palm. He’s thinking about the rhythmic sound of the bedframe hitting the wall.

He’s thinking about Cub.

He’s thinking about how Cub warned him.

“I want you to come get your stuff.” Scar doesn’t recognise his voice when he speaks. It sounds like he’s hearing himself on a television set that’s playing in another room.

“Scar...” Grian tries for a fourth time, and has the nerve to sound hurt as he says it.

“Tomorrow. First thing. It’s gone or it’s on the lawn.”

He’s shaking as he tries to open the door, and he has to fumble his cane into his other hand to try to get a proper grip on the doorknob. In his periphery he can see Grian moving forward automatically to help him, and a part of Scar feels like he’s going to catch on fire and self-immolate if Grian gets within an arm’s length of him. He shudders, feeling sick, and then the door is open. The man on the stairs starts to say something, but Scar doesn’t hear him—can’t hear him. Scar’s on the front step, down, cutting across the lawn. He’s stepping on some flowers, but he’s always hated the look of a lawn with flowers.

He’s parked in front of a fire hydrant. He was only going to be here a minute.

He feels sick.

Grian isn’t chasing after him.

He remembers a morning, months ago, where he woke up from a dream to find Grian sitting up in bed, back resting against the headboard—the one he just heard traitorously thumping against the wall—reading a book that Scar had thought sounded boring.

“I had a dream you cheated on me,” Scar had mumbled, voice rough with sleep as he’d moved his arm and draped it across Grian’s lap.

“Is that so?” Grian had asked, still reading his book, fingertips moving to idly pet the hair on Scar’s forearm. “Did I trade up?”

“He had a moustache,” Scar had mumbled, words muffled into Grian’s hip. “And a son.”

At least this one didn’t have a moustache, Scar thinks, and suddenly realises he’s in his car. He doesn’t remember getting in it. The key’s in the ignition, though. In his rearview mirror he can see Grian standing on the front step, he’s too far away for Scar to make out his expression, but distantly Scar thinks that he doesn’t look as sad as he should.

He releases his parking brake and pulls away from the curb more aggressively than he’s ever driven before in his life. Then he jams his fist against the centre of his steering wheel and doesn’t let off the horn until he’s several blocks away.

Once at a safe distance, he tries to turn the radio on, but every station is playing a news update, and he doesn’t want to hear about sports and the weather right now, so just as quickly, Scar turns it off.

Funny, he thinks as he drives home, ears ringing with silence and heart racing in his chest. The roads are incredibly clear.

He’s in no state to be driving, but it’s fine because he barely remembers being on the road at all. His mind is racing, connecting the dots, things he overlooked—every time Grian cancelled plans, his cagey responses about work, sudden friends from out of town he was meeting for drinks—there’s been months of this. A string of red flags going back further than he wants to admit.

He parks his car in a haze, slamming the door with trembling hands and feeling weaker than ever as he grips his cane tight and pushes himself back towards his apartment.

It had taken a lot of smooth talking to ensure himself a place on the first floor, but right now it makes no difference at all. Scar feels winded, breathing hard like he’s been climbing flight after flight of stairs. His blood rushes in his ears, heart tight in his chest and body clammy with sweat and nerves. Distantly, like an afterthought, it occurs to him that he might be panicking. He doesn’t know how he gets his door open, but he does it in his continued fugue state, discarding his coat and his keys on the coffee table before collapsing on his couch.

Breathing still feels difficult. His stomach is in knots. He feels sick to his core, blood churning and the sting of bile sharp in his throat. His vision is watery.

He needs to call Cub.

Scar wipes at his eyes and struggles through a breath. He drops his cane carelessly to the floor and pushes himself fully back onto the couch, bringing his legs up and turning sideways so that they dangle over the armrest.

He promised he’d call Cub if anything ever happened.

It’s just… he never, ever thought anything would.

An awful, mournful noise works its way out of his throat, and even all alone in the dark of his cold, empty apartment, Scar feels humiliated by it. Grian always said he was too emotional, and right now, beat down under the weight of his feelings crushing against his chest, Scar agrees.

No matter how much he spins the procession of events around in his head, he can’t make sense of it at all.

How long has Grian been cheating on him? Does this go back half a year? Ten months? More? When Scar had thrown him a surprise party for his birthday a while back and Grian had flushed bright pink, all flattered and enthused—had he spent that following weekend in someone else’s arms instead of busy at work like he’d said? Had he been spending days with his lover and nights with Scar? Was he splitting time evenly, or had Scar always been the lowest priority?

Surely there had to have been a time when he was Scar’s and only Scar’s? Surely?

Another anguished, half-choked noise escapes him, and Scar curses himself for not being strong enough to swallow it back.

What exactly had he done so wrong that Grian felt the need to hurt him like this? If they weren’t working out, why didn’t Grian just break up with him?

Or was he so indifferent to Scar that he hadn’t even considered his feelings in the first place?

On the coffee table, his cellphone comes to life with a shrill ring, black screen lighting up. Scar lurches towards it like a man possessed, clutching it tight in his grip and staring down at the display like it’ll somehow magically smooth away the ache of his heartbreak. For a second, for just a moment, he hopes against hope—only to fall apart further when it’s not Grian’s name on the caller ID.

It’s Cub.

Anxiety overwhelms him at once. Logically, there’s no way Cub can possibly know what just happened. Scar knows that, he does.

And yet, it’s impossible to pick up the phone.

Despite having longed for him only a moment before, now that he’s calling, Scar can’t bear the thought of hearing Cub’s voice on the line and having to confirm that his friend had been right about Grian all along. He’s ashamed of himself—for not seeing the signs sooner, for not listening to Cub’s advice, for not heeding his many, many warnings.

Scar doesn’t want Cub to see him like this.

He holds the phone in his hand until the ringing stops, shoulders only untensing when the room goes silent again. But he has only a moment of reprieve, because immediately the ringing starts anew, Cub’s name flashing urgently, accusingly, across the screen. Gritting his teeth, Scar switches his phone to vibrate and lets it clatter onto the coffee table once more. The insistent drone of the vibrations rattle against the wood of his table, but he turns his head away from it. When a call comes through for a third time, Scar grabs one of the couch cushions and stuffs his head between them.

He’ll talk to Cub, he will—he just… he needs a minute.

When sleep comes, Scar isn’t ready for it. He hardly feels like he’s sleeping at all, forced to relive the drive to Grian’s house in his dreams, the trip both too long and too short, nightmarish in the way his footsteps echo across the kitchen tiles as he turns to see Grian’s face. In the dream he’s smiling. He hadn’t been in real life—had he? Scar can’t remember clearly, not in this circular hell where he runs out the front door and ends up right back in his car driving to Grian’s place, the ground beneath his wheels shaking like it’s seconds from cracking open and swallowing him whole.

Waking up feels like falling, disorienting on all accounts, and Scar finds himself gripping tight to either side of himself as his foot slips from the armrest where it had been dangling.

His phone is still vibrating.

He stares at it, blinking slowly. It takes him a second to place himself, and a second more to gauge how much time has passed. From the way the light has completely faded from the sky, it’s been a few hours at least—so surely it’s not still Cub calling.

Scar steels himself and picks up his phone, answering it in the same instant.

He can’t avoid this forever.

“Hello?” he croaks out, dull.

“Scar!” Comes a bright, accented voice, excitable and entirely discordant with his current state. “Did you see the news?”

It takes him a moment to place who it is, having been so sure he’d be speaking to Cub.

“Pearl? Is that you?”

“Of course it’s me, who else would it be?”

His stomach twists awfully. “Nobody. Sorry… what did you call for?”

She laughs, bright and delighted.

“The world’s ending!”

There’s a feral kind of glee in her voice, and she laughs again with an almost manic enthusiasm that despite everything, still manages to light up a deep, earnest fondness in Scar’s chest. Pearl’s always been like this—on the wild side of weird. She’s always got something new: a conspiracy, a cover-up, a close-encounter. Usually he delights in it.

Today he’s simply too tired.

“That’s great, Pearl.”

His voice feels flat as he says it.

There’s a pause on the line and Scar can almost picture the way Pearl must now be frowning.

“Is everything alright?” She ventures, her voice cautious. “You sound a little low…”

“I’m fine.”

It’s a lie, and she hears it as blatantly as he does.

“Oh, so we’re telling fibs now?” She asks, and he hears the sound of her beginning to grin through the phone. “C’mon Scar. You can confess to me, what did you break this time? Tell ol’ Saint Pearl what’s the trouble.”

The words stick in Scar’s throat, thick and tarry. As much as he tries, he simply can’t get them out.

“...Scar?” There’s a genuine note of concern in her voice, now. He doesn’t want to worry her—hates that he can’t seem to stop it from happening.

“Grian—” Scar’s throat closes up and he can barely get the name out. He doesn’t want to cry like this.

“What’s happened to Grian? Is he hurt?” There’s an edge to Pearl’s tone, tight with concern.

“No.” Scar chokes the word out like it’s something rotten.

A moment passes. Then another.

“Oh, Scar…”

He can hear the pity now, rolling in like a wave. It’s kinder than if he’d told Cub. None of the flat ‘I told you so’ judgement that Cub—even with the best of intentions—would try and fail to conceal, just the deep sympathy of a person who’s had her fair share of relationships turn sour. Two lonely people seeing each other clearly.

All at once the isolation is crushing. He can’t stand another second of being by himself.

“Can you—”

“I’m on my way,” Pearl says, finishing his thought before he has a chance to properly complete it. “Just let me get Tilly in from the yard. You sit tight, alright? Ten minutes and I’m out the door, tops.”

Ten minutes is more like twenty, but that gives Scar a chance to sit up so that he’s not curled in a ball on the couch when Pearl lets herself in.

She’s carrying a six pack of beers hooked on her middle finger and two pints of ice cream in a plastic shopping bag dangling from her wrist. It’s not that Pearl’s especially good in a crisis, nor has she ever been particularly motherly, but she puts the effort in when it counts. A more than meagre part of Scar has always adored Pearl, and that fondness flares especially strong now as she shucks off her jacket and deposits her food offerings on the kitchen counter before crossing the room to join him on the couch.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” she says, getting the words in before he can say anything, having clearly rehearsed them on the short drive over. “I just want you to know that he’s crazy and an idiot and a fool, and no matter what: you didn’t deserve it.”

“I told him to get his stuff first thing in the morning,” Scars says, numb and practical as he states the facts.

“You’re kinder than me,” she says, blowing out a breath and slouching down onto the couch next to him, her shoulder warm and solid as she leans into his side. It’s a welcome touch, not as overtly pitying as a hug, but sympathetic and supportive all the same. “When I broke up with my ex, I threw all his stuff right out into the snow.”

“He broke up with you,” Scar clarifies, sullen but still a stickler for detail.

“Maybe so,” Pearl replies, dismissive. She leans forward, reaching for the TV remote and turning it on, an easy way to break any morose silence that might seep in between them.

“No news channels. I don’t want to hear about the world ending,” Scar groans, pressing his forehead into the heels of his palms.

“I’ll put on a movie, no worries.” She sounds too casual, and not joining him in the bit takes Scar a bit off guard.

“... Is the world really ending?” he can’t help but ask, peeking out at her profile from between his fingers.

“Yeah,” she cackles like a witch, attention focused on the TV screen as she flips through channels. “Fire and brimstone, the whole nine yards. It’s what we all deserve.” It’s clear that she’s enjoying whatever disaster may or may not be unfolding in the headlines. Any other day they’d been delighting in it together, gleeful about whatever scrap of chaos she’s uncovered.

She catches his eye as he continues to look at her, and her grin turns mollifying as she explains, “Just some folk getting twisted out of shape and catastrophizing about a cold that’s going around. Nothing to worry about, Scar. We’re fine.”

He could press it further, get the truth about whatever’s going on for his own peace of mind, but the fact is, he doesn’t really want to. They could all fall to a plague, or the floor could drop out from beneath them right now, and at this point he’d welcome it gladly. The world ending would be better than having to sit a single second longer with this awful rot feeling currently hollowing out his chest.

Scar lets himself lapse into silence as Pearl finds an action movie from the 80s that’s already midway through its run-time. They sit in silence and watch it, neither really processing what’s playing on the screen. During one of the commercial breaks Pearl gets up and retrieves the beer and ice cream from the kitchen counter, and Scar accepts the offering gladly.

He’s almost done his pint of chocolate-swirled vanilla when he says, quiet, “I walked in on him. Caught him red-handed with some other guy upstairs.”

“He’s an asshole,” Pearl says cooly, using the side of her spoon to pry a chunk of brownie out of her ice cream.

The pain doesn’t feel any less all-encompassing, even with Pearl’s frank appraisal of Grian. For a moment Scar sits, the question heavy on his tongue, before he finally steels himself and asks, “Am I a bad boyfriend?”

Pearl looks at him, eyes wide, and Scar opens his mouth to retract the question before suddenly her hands are on his, her grip dewy and cold from holding the ice cream container that she’s hurriedly set aside. Dimly, Scar tries to remember the last time anyone held his hand and he finds himself pulling up a blank. Grian was never a fan of public displays of affection and always said they were silly.

Scar grips her hands tightly, struggling not to let himself wonder if all Grian’s cagey distance was because he preferred the feel of another man’s hand instead.

“Scar,” Pearl says, firm and broaching no argument. “You look up the definition of Good Boyfriend and your picture is right there. You’re an amazing partner, and any man would be lucky to have you.”

Scar can feel the sting of tears biting at the corners of his eyes and he presses the heels of his palms up into them to stem it. He blinks hard in tandem, trying to will them back, which only makes them well up more.

“I hate this,” he says, honest. “Why did he—” he can’t get the word out, still can’t make himself face the reality that he’s been cheated on. “f*ck…” he says instead, defeated.

Pearl shifts her weight, tucking her knee up on the sofa before she tugs on Scar’s hand, pulling his body forward so that he’s forced to lean into her as her arms lift up and encircle his shoulders. For a moment he hangs, indecisive in the midst of the gesture, then the weight of the world crushes down on him, and Scar sags into her embrace, burying his face against her neck as he lets out a shuddering sob.

The movie continues to play in the background as Scar cries into the collar of Pearl’s shirt. Eventually the story concludes and the credits roll and the programming turns to infomercials, but neither of them pay any attention. Pearl holds him and doesn’t say a word. After a time, her hand finds his hair, and soothingly combs through the short strands. It lulls him, comforting and calming, and he doesn’t realise he’s fallen asleep until he abruptly wakes up.

“Hey.” Pearl’s awake—maybe she never fell asleep—and is smiling softly at him, and the part of Scar that’s mortified he fell asleep on her finds only the barest comfort that at least he doesn’t have to worry about his boyfriend flipping out about it.

Not that said boyfriend had any problem falling asleep on others himself.

“I passed out,” he says, groggy and not yet fully conscious.

“Yeah, you were really gone for a while there.” Her smile hasn’t faded—if anything it’s grown wider and more fond as she watches him struggle to wake up. “Don’t beat yourself up about it,” she adds, as if able to read his mind and predict where his nerves were about to take him. “You needed the rest.”

“How long was I out for?”

Pearl’s eyes slide towards the window, and slowly Scar realises the darkness of late night has been replaced by the early blue-grey that comes before dawn.

“sh*t,” he mutters, sitting up quickly from where he’d dozed off slumped against Pearl.

Grian.

He told Grian to come get his stuff first thing.

It’s not that he has to explain himself—not after the state he found Grian in earlier. Not when they’ve already broken up. He just doesn’t know if he can handle the inevitable argument if Grian were to come over and find Pearl here.

“Do you want me to clear out?” Pearl asks, reading his tension clear as day as Scar’s hand anxiously combs back through his hair. His leg hurts, a throbbing pain that spikes all the way up into his hip. Everything hurts, actually. His heart continues to ache like an open wound in his chest.

“Maybe that’d be for the best,” he hears himself say, his own voice sounding unfamiliar and distant, like it’s being delivered by an actor hired to play him on screen.

“Will you call me when he’s gone?” Pearl prompts, resting her hand on his knee. “I’ll bring Tilly over. We can trash old photos and get lunch.”

“I thought you said the world was ending,” Scar says morosely, unable to lift his gaze to meet hers, choosing instead to focus on the hand she’s left resting on his knee.

“We can still get lunch at the end of the world,” Pearl teases, and gives his leg a pat. Then she’s standing up, gathering their warm un-drunk beers and the melted remnants of their ice cream before she crosses the floor into his tiny kitchen, where she deposits them all unceremoniously in his sink before patting her pockets to check for her keys and phone.

She’s amazing, Scar thinks. Dropping everything to come over and let him cry himself to sleep on her like he was some sort of infant, and then letting him carry on with all his dignity intact.

“We can make that happen,” he says, and her smile is bright and genuine in response.

“Alright. I’ll get out of your hair, then.”

She pauses just inside his door, lower lip snagging between her teeth for a moment before she says, carefully, “Maybe I can loop Cub in. Send him over while you deal with Grian.” She’s cautious as she says it, not wanting to overstep. “Y’know, strength in numbers and all that.”

Scar knows she’s worried about potentially breaking the news about Grian before he has a chance to tell Cub himself, but in reality he finds the suggestion comes as an immediate and overwhelming relief. It will take the pressure off him to deal with Cub’s inevitable sour reaction, and leave Pearl to talk Cub into not flying off any handles.

“I’d appreciate that,” Scar says, gratitude in his tone. “Cub doesn’t know. He—he’s not gonna take it well.” There’s a pause, reluctant and grim as he explains, “He told me to call him, but I just…”

“I’ll handle it,” Pearl says, clearly galvanized now that she has something concrete to do. “Leave it to me.”

She quickly moves back across the floor, squeezing Scar’s shoulder in a quick hug before she kisses the top of his head, and then she opens the apartment door and is gone.

With Pearl’s departure, the place seems immediately gloomier. The thoughts that had shadowed the corners of Scar’s mind become abruptly apparent, growing darker as they prowl around his empty walls and lonely rooms.

There’s only an hour or so at most until Grian is due to arrive, and despite the ache in his legs, Scar finds himself pacing with restless energy, unable to sit still. He’s both dreading Grian’s arrival with every fibre of his being and also incredibly anxious for him to get here already. Nothing seems appealing, no matter how his attempts to distract himself. No TV, no games on his phone, no mindless scrolling through the internet.

Instead, he busies himself collecting the meagre few belongings Grian has left at his place after all their years of being together. It all seems obvious in hindsight, now. Of course. Of course Grian hadn’t been faithful to him. The signs were strewn throughout their relationship. Like Cub said, anyone else would’ve been living together after this long, or at the very least had a dedicated drawer of their own in his bedroom—a corner on his bathroom counter—a shelf in the tiny pantry of his kitchen. Grian had never once made any effort to integrate himself into Scar’s life. He’d never even called Scar his boyfriend aloud, and here Scar had been chasing after him like he hung the moon.

Scar laughs to himself bitterly.

He supposed it was only about time before the moon came crashing down to earth.

Working methodically, Scar assembles a pile of Grian’s belongings. Not in any sort of neat, organised manner—he knows better than that, now—or done with any regard for Grian’s convenience or ease, but because Scar figures it’ll work best if he dumps Grian’s things near the front entrance so he can minimise the amount of time he and Grian have to be in contact. Like this, it’ll take two, maybe three trips for Grian to carry his things to his car. If Scar helped it would probably only be one but…

He thinks he’s earned the right to watch Grian struggle through this on his own.

It’s as Scar’s tossing the last of Grian’s things onto the floor and the grandfather clock in his hall shows a quarter till nine that the thought sneaks up on him.

What if Grian’s not planning on coming here at all?

Scar glances towards his partially open blinds. Daylight is now properly making its way into his home and still no sign of Grian, even though Scar had said to arrive first thing or his stuff would be gone. Did Grian not take Scar seriously? Did it not matter to him even if Scar was? Did he watch Scar drive off, laugh, and return to bed in the arms of the man on the stairs, rolling his eyes and giggling at what a nuisance Scar was?

A hot prickle of shame and embarrassment burns through him, heating his cheeks and stinging at his eyes.

He hates this. He hates feeling like this. A bother and a chore. Unwanted.

No one’s ever made him feel this way before.

He feels so small.

His hands begin to shake as he makes his way back to Grian’s things, swallowing past the lump that’s formed in his throat.

Fine. If that’s how it stands, it’ll work out for him either way. Having all of Grian’s belongings piled up here just makes them that much easier to throw out.

Burying his aching heart behind his anger, Scar reaches for a stack of notebooks Grian had left from a project at work, debating on the catharsis in tearing each page of carefully articulated writing to shreds.

It’s as he pops open the front cover of the first notebook that his doorbell rings.

In an instant, his heart stutters in his chest, his body growing cold. He feels robotic, nearly automatic, as he puts the notebooks back down and steps up to his door. Peering through the peephole, he can see him standing there.

Grian.

A numbness settles over him, all earlier feelings of heartache and pain driven from him. Gone is the panic, the fury, the agonizing hurt. All that remains is a cool indifference that he’s not even present enough to hope Grian is threatened by.

He opens the door to Grian looking small on his welcome mat, shoulders tense and nerves evident as he cautiously looks up in order to make eye contact.

“Hi,” Grian says.

Scar steps to the side, wordless, leaving room for Grian to enter if he squeezes past. Grian’s awkward half-smile slips a little at the cold reception, and he breathes out a deliberate sigh through his mouth in a way that reignites a spark of anger amidst Scar’s deadened haze. How dare he act as if this is nerve wracking and bothersome for him after what he put Scar through? The audacity of it makes Scar want to yell, if he only had any words come to mind.

Stepping in past him, Grian moves to the side and bends to take off his shoes like he’s done countless times in the past. It makes Scar’s heart wrench in an awful, ugly way, and he finds himself speaking before he’s even fully thought through what he’s going to say.

“Keep them on—you won’t be here long.”

It’s a wonder how steady he sounds, considering all he wants is to fall to pieces right there. His voice is firm and unwavering, cold and precise. A perfect mask for the way he wants to drop to his knees and ask Grian why? Did he really hate Scar so much that he had to hurt him like this?

Grian flinches, embarrassment flushing his cheeks, and a distant part of Scar is gratified to see it.

“Right.” He straightens up and clears his throat mindlessly, swinging his hands as he gathers his bearings. Scar can see when he spots the pile of his things because his eyes widen minutely in recognition. “Oh, you’ve already gathered everything up for me.”

“Not for you,” Scar corrects, still clinging to the stone-faced demeanour he’s created for himself. “You were late, so I was getting it all set to throw out.”

It’s a lie, but Scar’s always been a good liar when he needs to be.

And as it turns out, he thinks sardonically, Grian’s even better at it.

Grian’s blush grows deeper. “It’s–it’s still morning, Scar—I just. I lost track of time.”

Against his will, Scar thinks of the unfamiliar car in his driveway, the shoes by his door, the thump-thump-thump of his headboard. His lip curls, his grip on the doorknob tightening enough to make it creak in his hand.

“Yeah, I’ll bet. You had a lot to occupy your time after all.”

Grian visibly cringes and Scar wishes he could delight in it instead of feeling the persistent hollowness deep in his chest where every good memory of the two of them used to reside.

“Scar…” Grian starts, pleading, but Scar’s not interested in entertaining any more of his excuses and certainly none of his platitudes.

“You better hurry up with that stuff,” he drawls, backing away from the door, plucking a dining chair from further in, and dragging it the short way back to the front. He takes a seat in it, the perfect vantage point to observe Grian’s miserable little trek to and fro as he collects his things. “Cub will be here soon, and it’s probably for the best that you’re gone by then.”

“Cub?” Grian bristles, like an electric shock has been put through him. “Why is he… did you tell him?”

Scar shrugs. “Him and Pearl.” It’s not the whole truth, but it’s close enough that he feels at peace with it.

“Pearl too?” Grian’s frustrated now, brows furrowing and annoyance clear on his face. “You couldn’t have given me at least a day to get my sh*t together?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did you want us to announce it together?” Scar mocks in a singsong, his tone biting. “This isn’t an engagement, Grian. I think I get to tell who I want when I want, when my partner of three years sneaks around and f*cks somebody else behind my back.”

Grian tenses every muscle in his body, cheeks aflame with a guilty blush, but agitation writ in every line of him. “Well if you’d just listened to me and stayed home when I told you—but no, you had to come over! You know, when you coerced that key out of me, I told you it was only for emergencies! And you just—God, that’s the problem with you Scar, you never f*cking listen!”

“And what would listening to you have gotten me, huh?” Scar shoots back, refusing to bend in the face of Grian’s misplaced anger over his own guilt. “Another few weeks of not knowing you were cheating on me? A few more months?” Despite himself, his voice grows hoarse, wavering as he speaks. “Tell me, Grian. How long? How long were you screwing around and lying to me about it? Was he the only one? Are there others?”

The silence between them is damning, as is the way Grian refuses to make eye contact.

Softly, stubbornly, Grian says, “We’re not going to see eye-to-eye on this. So maybe I’ll just start taking my stuff out.”

Scar doesn’t bother to grace that with any sort of answer, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. After a moment’s pause, Grian stoops down and begins to gather up his belongings and Scar watches him impassively as he heads out the door.

In any other situation, it would be more than a little funny watching Grian struggle to carry his things out by the armful, knocking into the door and accidentally closing it over and over, cursing under his breath every time he did. But then again, in any other situation, Scar would’ve offered to help him. As a team. Instead, Scar sits firmly on his dining room chair, watching Grian as if he’s a stranger.

In fact, it’s only now that Scar truly takes Grian in, having not really looked at him since that awful moment last night.

To put it lightly—he looks a mess. He’s still wearing the same clothing he was in the night before, all rumpled like he’s slept in them. Only, it’s abundantly clear that he hasn’t slept at all, or that if he has, it wasn’t a restful sleep in the least. There are dark shadows under his eyes, and a gaunt paleness to his usually bright complexion. Whatever had happened after Scar left hadn’t been easy for Grian, clearly.

An ugly part of Scar delights in that, a terrible schadenfreude sinking into his skin.

He’s not proud of the feeling, but somehow he thinks it’s easier to be bitter and vindictive than it is to crumble as his life falls apart in front of him.

“I think this is the last of it,” Grian grunts as he picks up the remaining items, accidentally knocking the door shut yet again in the tight space when he turns.

The frustrated way he shouts is music to Scar’s ears.

He ought to get up and open the door for him, if only so Grian can get out and leave for good, but instead Scar finds himself watching as Grian tries to shift all the things he’s carrying to one arm in an attempt to open the door with his free hand, only to realise the futility and accept he’s going to have to put it all down and start over. In all honesty, Scar probably would have continued to watch indefinitely if it weren’t for the sudden, loud, thudding knock at the door.

“Must be Cub,” Scar hums, enjoying the way Grian blanches at the sound of his name.

Scar gets up from his seat, stretching out his legs and feeling the stiff ache in them. Sighing to himself, he walks forward, side-stepping Grian and doing his best to appear calm and collected, even though the truth is that he’s just as terrified of seeing Cub as Grian is.

What will his best friend say at the sight of him, when he’d been the one warning Scar right from the start?

Scar steels himself for the worst of it, twisting the doorknob and pulling it open wide.

The man standing pressed against his door is on him in an instant.

To say Scar’s surprised would be an understatement. He doesn’t even register that he’s been jumped until he’s on the ground, the man on top of him snarling and digging his nails into his biceps. He’s disoriented, relying on instinct as he shields himself from the stranger’s attack, blindly grabbing for his shoulders and shoving him as far back as he can, still recovering from the shock of the initial lunge.

Distantly, he thinks he hears Grian shout something, but there’s no time to focus on that when the man snaps his teeth at him, angling his head forward like he means to take a bite out of his throat. Scar tilts his head away as best he can without losing sight of his attacker, adrenaline and instinct fueling him while everything in his brain continues to scream in confusion.

“sh*t,” he wheezes, winded as the stranger digs a knee into his gut. His eyes water from the pain, his mind racing with questions. What’s going on? Who is this man? And what’s Scar done that’s got him angry enough to try and take a chunk of flesh out of him with his teeth? Scar lives in a good area—a quiet suburb where he gets along with all his neighbours. He’s never once in his life been randomly attacked.

The man screeches and makes another desperate lunge towards Scar’s face, teeth snapping and spittle flying from his saliva-wet mouth. From up this close, Scar can see that his eyes are cloudy and bloodshot in a way he’s never seen before. The man kicks, his hard-toed boots sending a sharp pain up Scar’s shins that only compound the pain that’s already weakening him.

All at once he knows he’s going to lose this fight, and it’s going to be the last defeat he’ll ever suffer.

From the corner of his eye, he catches only a flash as Grian runs up and swings down with all his strength, striking something heavy against the man’s head. Scar can hear the crunch of the man’s skull in a way he’ll never forget for as long as he lives, blood and brain matter splattering against his face and slopping down onto his shirt.

Grian’s face pales, his grip on the makeshift-weapon—a tire iron Scar had borrowed from Cub a week ago when he’d gotten a flat tire—slackening, his voice pitching as he goes, “I killed him…? Oh my god, I think I killed—”

The stranger’s head snaps back up, despite the gushing head wound. There’s no change in his strength as he snaps his jaw at Scar again, as if unbothered by the way his skull has caved in on itself. Scar shouts for Grian, who’s watching in stunned silence, mouth hanging partially open. His fearful scream launches Grian into action, and Scar stares as Grian brings the tire iron down on the man’s head again, and again, and again, till no normal person, no human, would’ve still been alive.

It takes a lot longer for the man—the creature, to go still. And it’s only when he collapses fully that Grian throws the weapon aside and moves to drag Scar away from the carcass pooling blood on the floor.

“Holy sh*t,” Grian pants, chest heaving and voice frantic. “Holy sh*t, Scar. Are you okay?”

Instead of attempting to formulate a response, Scar stares at the body by his feet, shock keeping him from total hyperventilation. “Is he…is it dead?”

The body on the floor twitches.

“f*ck,” Grian curses, putting his arms under Scar’s and shouldering his weight as he helps him stagger to his feet. The second Scar orients himself and isn’t in immediate danger of falling over, Grian lets him go and races back to pick his weapon up off the floor.

The thing on the ground groans, body undulating unnaturally.

“Grian,” Scar gasps, fear locking his limbs.

“Can you run?” Grian barks at him, taking a defensive stance that Scar does not like one bit.

“Grian—”

“Can you run, Scar?”

He swallows, mouth dry. “Not very far. Not today.”

Grian’s eyes go wide, panic racing through him as he considers their options.

“Can you make it to my car?”

Scar thinks of the spot Grian nearly always chooses to park at. The one he complains about. Not enough guest spaces, why is it always street parking, not enough shade, potholes that are bad for his tires, on and on and on. It would always make Scar laugh, somehow fond of Grian’s constant griping.

He doesn’t know if he can make it that far.

He knows he has no choice but to try.

“Yeah.”

“Good,” Grian says, fixing himself in place with the weapon raised over his head as the body on the ground slowly struggles to pick itself up, more slowly, more lethargic than before. “That’s all we’ll need. The second this thing gets up, I’m gonna smash it. That should be enough of a distraction for you to get around it. Get to the car—the doors aren’t locked—and I’ll meet you there.”

Hysteria lodges itself in Scar’s throat, nervous laughter bubbling its way out of him. “But—”

“Scar, for once in your life, listen to me! We don’t have time. Are you with me or not?!”

Scar snaps his mouth shut, shelving the argument and a dozen similar ones just like it for later.

“I’m with you,” Scar says, steeling his resolve and looking at the exit just past the grotesque creature that’s slowly getting to its knees.

“Alright then. Ready—set—” Grian laughs, hysteria creeping its way into him as well. The shambling thing, skull caved and shoulder dislocated, but still somehow very much alive, gets its bearings at last, standing still for just a fraction of a second before it locates them with what remains of its eye and screams.

“Go!” Grian shouts as the monster charges, putting his whole force into the blow.

Scar watches as Grian smacks the thing down over and over again. Until blood and gore and viscera mark him up like a Pollock painting.

“What are you waiting for?!” Grian snaps at him when he finally notices that Scar is still standing there. He grips the weapon tight and attacks a final time, slamming the creature down, good and dead, and standing panting over top of it, strained but victorious. “Run already!”

As he says it, Grian is already rushing from the scene himself, calling back for Scar over his shoulder. And in a way that’s as familiar to him as breathing by now, Scar chases after him.

Grian’s car isn’t far, half a block away at most.

It feels like miles.

Scar’s entire body hurts, it’s in agony. His joints and muscles, everything aches, but the adrenaline keeps him moving—down the front steps, across the yard, to the sidewalk. Grian is at his side, but even with his shorter legs he’s outpacing Scar, glancing at him and stressing—insisting—that he go faster.

“Scar, we have to move!”

It’s adrenaline. It’s desperation. Scar can see Grian’s car parked on the other side of the street. The back seat is piled with the things he’d been moving out of Scar’s apartment, shoved in haphazard, disorganised and ashamed. The sky overhead is bright and sunny, a clear sky for a temperate, pleasant day.

Grian opens the driver’s side door as Scar rounds to the other side of the car. He’s fumbling for his keys, cursing under his breath, trying to get them in the ignition as Scar hastily buckles himself in.

That’s why Scar sees them first.

People—no, not people, not anymore—standing in the middle of the street about three blocks down.

“Grian.”

Grian isn’t paying attention. He’s finally gotten the key in the ignition, he’s buckling himself in, he’s checking his rearview mirror as if that’s what he has to worry about most right now.

“Grian.”

The bodies—corpses; zombies—are standing in the middle of the street. There’s four of them, and they look lost, for lack of a better word, swaying back and forth as if undecided on where to go. Even from a distance Scar can see that they’re stained with blood and viscera, smeared on their clothes and caked on their hands and faces. He feels sick just looking at them, and glad that they’re not close enough for him to identify. He doesn’t want to recognize them as a neighbour. He doesn’t want to spot a former friend.

A fifth zombie lurches out onto the street as Grian finally pulls away from the curb, slow, like he has all the time in the world. At their movement, five bodies twist to face them in unison and begin moving. They’re not coordinated, but they’re fast.

Scar can’t take it any longer.

“Grian, for goodness sake they’re on the road!”

Grian’s never been good when things don’t go according to his plans. When he gets stressed, he gets anxious; he panics.

He’s panicking now.

“I don’t know what to do.” His fingers are white-knuckled where they grip the steering wheel. The zombies are advancing, two of them faster than the others. Scar recognizes one, he thinks. His stomach twists.

“Grian!” Scar yells, his voice loud, to the point that Grian startles on reflex. “The gas! We can’t just sit here!”

The front-runner is metres away, arms outstretched and making swiping motions. If they don’t move they’re going to die.

“Grian, now!”

Grian’s leg jerks on reflex, hammering down the gas pedal. For a moment their world is nothing but the squeal of tires on asphalt and the force of the car’s acceleration pushing them back into their seats. Grian veers left roughly, swerving around the nearest zombie. There’s a moment, sickening and terrible, where Scar locks eyes with the milky, dead sockets of the creature as their side mirror clips its shoulder. It crumples to the ground in an explosion of gore and a screaming, too-human wailing that Scar will never forget.

Then it’s over and they’re past, and the zombies are rapidly shrinking in the rearview mirror.

Somehow, it doesn’t feel any safer.

“Where are we going?” Grian’s voice is high and it quivers around the edges. He’s pale and looks like he’s about to be sick. The last thing Scar wants is to be his emotional support right now.

He becomes it anyway.

“We have to get out of the city.”

“I don’t know where to go,” Grian babbles. There’s a frantic edge to his tone, a hair’s breadth away from a panic attack. “What even were those things? Where did they come from? Why did they—oh god, Scar, you almost died.”

Scar thinks back to all the times he listened to Pearl prattle on about hypothetical emergency scenarios, listing the best places to go in a crisis and what areas to avoid. It’d seemed so amusing at the time, her silly fascination with the abnormal. The Scarlet Witch, he’d teased her, always planning for the end of the world.

He wishes she were here, now.

“We’ll take alleys and side roads,” Scar says, more calm than he has any right to be. “We’ll get out. Pearl always said, you… you get out, you get clear, and then you re-evaluate. We need a safe distance to—”

“To what, Scar?” Grian’s voice is biting, and Scar hates how it makes him bristle. “What are we going to do?”

Service roads. They just need to get to service roads. Once they’re outside the city they can. They can…

“We’ll go to the police,” Grian announces, coming to his own conclusion amidst his panic. “That’ll—”

“Grian.” Scar’s tone is firm. He’s gripping his hands into fists so tight that his arms ache. “I think we can agree, you owe me at least one thing. So if you could listen, I’d appreciate it.”

The air in the car grows tense and guilty. Grian stares grimly at the road and says nothing.

“We need to get out of the city. If something’s happening, if there’s some sort of invasion or—or infection, we can’t be here. Be smart about this, Grian. Think.”

Grian is silent. Up ahead there are brake lights, multiple cars backing up at an intersection.

Grian turns left into an alley. He continues driving, taking side-streets, heading in the direction Scar knows leads to the outskirts of town. He’s listening, and there’s no need to fight about it, but Scar refuses to feel grateful.

On autopilot, he reaches out and thumbs on the radio, scrolling through the stations.

There’s static at first, then music, predictable and casual, as if nothing is going wrong. Every station is playing the same—radio ads, the weekend top 40, oldies, rock, classical. Scar scans the channels, one after the other, looking for a news report, listening for something to confirm that things aren’t alright.

Finally, one station breaks from the rest.

It’s an emergency broadcast, automated and on alert. The same words repeating over and over: out of an abundance of caution, with no cause for alarm, stay off the roads, stay at home, stay inside.

Grian says nothing.

They’re speeding, but it doesn’t seem to matter. The side-streets are empty. Emptier than Scar thought they’d be in a crisis. It feels like the world has already ended, like they’re lingering in a post-credits scene that no one was meant to see.

“It’ll be fine,” Scar hears himself say. In the side view mirror, messy and streaked with gore, he can see a column of smoke rising in the distance. A building on fire; maybe more than one. “I’m sure of it,” he insists.

Next to him, Grian remains silent.

Together, they drive.

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

“I think we need to break up.”

Cub looks at Scar, expression flat behind the square frames of his glasses.

“Y’know,” Scar continues, voice wavering around the edge of the word. “Spend some time apart… see other people.”

Cub remains silent, and Scar can feel the awful bloom of embarrassment from a joke failing to land winding slow up his spine. It makes him want to curl in on himself and hide his face in his hands until he can muddle out an apology and explain himself properly.

He thought Cub would be in on the joke and that he wouldn’t have to explain the bit any further in order for him to join in. Now he feels ridiculous, and the hot flush of it makes his face feel like it’s on fire.

“I didn’t know you felt that way about me,” Cub says after a silence that feels interminable, tone almost performatively neutral in its delivery. “But if that’s what you want, then I suppose I’m going to have to respect your say on the matter.”

A pause follows, marked only by the smallest up-tick of a grin tugging at the corner of Cub’s lips.

“I’m keeping the diamonds in the divorce, though.”

The immediate relief Scar feels is overwhelming, to say the least.

“Cub!” he exclaims, boisterous as the world properly re-aligns itself around him. “That’s not fair! You know you can’t separate a man from his dozens of offshore shell corporations through which he’s embezzled his millions.”

“Should’ve signed a prenup,” Cub says dismissively, focus slanting away as he returns his attention to the paperwork strewn across his work table.

Scar had invited himself over earlier with no forewarning, and Cub had casually welcomed him into the cluttered workspace he’d built up in his garage with practiced familiarity. He’d assured Scar that he was just wrapping up and that Scar would have his full attention in a moment, but that had been hours ago. Usually, Scar was content to wile his time away in the periphery of Cub’s company, but now, with the light of afternoon fading into evening, Scar was finally forced to jumpstart his true motive for coming over.

“The thing is, Cub,” he says with careful confidence, hoping the segue lands as well as he needs it to. “As funny as they are, I think we’re gonna have to start tabling some of those kinds of jokes.”

He can feel the mood shift, the amicable comfort that had spread between them pivoting towards something somewhat sour. Cub turns to look at him, face neutral and hands unmoving where they had just been sorting through the papers on his desk.

“Just,” Scar adds, doing everything in his power to avoid making direct eye contact with Cub. “You know, in case.”

“In case,” Cub repeats, flat.

“In case someone thinks we’re…”

“We’re...?”

The sigh wrenches itself out of Scar before he can think it through, mild frustration with Cub’s obstinance mixing with annoyance that he even has to say any of this in the first place. “The thing is, Grian doesn’t find it as funny as we do when we joke about, y’know… us being a couple.”

“Ah,” Cub says, and Scar can feel the judgement pressed effortlessly into the single syllable of the word. “Grian.”

Scar doesn’t want to do this—doesn’t want the responsibility of curating his friendships this way. He gets where Grian is coming from, of course he does. It’s just… he wishes Grian hadn’t acted as if his friendship with Cub was now secondary in the face of their future together.

He wishes Grian had brought it up sooner if it bothered him so much, instead of letting it linger till he served an ultimatum and sent Scar off to ‘deal with it now’, forcing him to rush into Cub’s home unannounced. He resents everything about this, really, but Grian had made it clear to him that the jokes had to go, so Scar was going to do the right thing and smooth out the creases before they had a chance to tangle up further.

He braces himself for the worst—an argument, a dramatic production of anger. At the very least he’s expecting Cub’s calculating gaze and the weight of their years of friendship levied against the short span of his relationship with Grian.

What he’s not prepared for, is an immediate, uncomplicated understanding.

“That makes sense,” Cub agrees, and if Scar were standing he’s sure his feet would have slipped right out from under him in shock. “If it makes him uncomfortable, I’m glad he said something.”

Scar doesn’t expect the relief that washes over him to feel as good as it does, his anxiety draining away in an instant. The fact that this doesn’t have to be a messy situation, that Cub simply takes him at his word and just understands… but then, when has Cub ever done otherwise? For a moment, he’s embarrassed that he expected Cub to shout at or scold him when his friend has never been anything but patient and accepting.

He doesn’t know why he came here preparing for the worst.

“I guess that must make it official then,” Cub adds, shuffling a stack of papers into a loose pile and tapping their ends to bring them in order. “Congratulations on the boyfriend, Scar.”

“Well,” Scar starts, drawing the word out as his face flushes and he busies himself with looking at a spot on the ceiling. “Grian doesn’t want to rush putting a label or anything on us just yet, so…”

He can feel Cub’s gaze on him, level and direct.

His silence speaks volumes.

“He wants us to take it slow,” Scar finishes lamely, levelling it like an excuse, aware of how flimsy it sounds.

Another tap of papers, Cub working efficiently now to clean up his workspace.

“Sure, Scar,” he says with a forced deference, like he has no emotional investment in the topic at all. “I understand.”

Scar knows he has more to say—that he’s about to say it—words stocked up in the back of his throat, ready to defend Grian and the meticulously ill-defined shape of their relationship. Instead, the garage jerks suddenly, like a film knocked off its reel. The memory stutters in Scar’s mind’s eye. The images buckle and shake before they begin to fade away, forced into a sudden over-exposed brightness as Scar reluctantly opens his eyes.

He finds himself awake, bent awkwardly in the passenger seat of Grian’s sedan, arms cramped from how tightly he’s had them folded across his chest, his neck aching from the uncomfortable angle of the headrest. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, and it’s disorienting to find himself surfacing up out of a dream made from a memory he remembers so well.

The last thing he recalls is a spluttering radio broadcast fading into static, Grian’s tight grip on the steering wheel as they’d driven out of town, and an uneasy silence laying wretched between them. The roads had been surprisingly empty, which Scar had thought was strange. He’d imagined more chaos in a catastrophe. Traffic backed up for miles, sirens and screaming, with helicopters hovering overhead. He still doesn’t know if the empty roads had been a good sign or not.

He sits up, clearing his throat as he drags himself out of the lingering dredges of the dream, his brain reluctantly reorienting itself.

“Oh good, you’re awake.”

Next to him, Grian is putting the car into park and pulling on the emergency brake, his fingers settling tense on the car door as he casts a wary glance around them. From the looks of things, they’re in the parking lot of a rest area pulled off the highway via an exit ramp. There’s a squat, nondescript building for a public washroom, a gas station, and a drive-thru burger chain arranged around a small green space edged with concrete picnic tables and trash bins.

There are no other cars around—in fact, there seems to be no sign of life near them at all. It wouldn’t normally be all that alarming, but they’re not far enough out of the city for a place like this to be completely abandoned at midday.

Scar doesn’t want to investigate it, and blessedly, Grian doesn’t seem inclined to either. They’re parked on the edge of the asphalt, as far away from the cluster of buildings as possible. The car is pointed towards the exit back to the highway, as if anticipating the need to make a hasty escape.

“We need to take stock of what we have, so we know what we need to pick up along the way,” Grian explains. Matter-of-fact, like he’s done this before. “We should also get gas while we’re here. I didn't think to fill up the tank before I left home this morning.”

There’s an edge to his tone, a subtle shifting of responsibility that makes Scar feel like he has something to apologise for. It sits like an uncomfortable weight on his shoulders, making his throat tight as his brain reminds him of just what Grian’s put him through—that he doesn’t need an attitude like this from him already.

The urge to run and put some distance between them claws at Scar’s chest, but he knows it’s impossible. He’s stuck here, and Grian’s stuck here too.

The two of them.

Together.

Picking up on his silence, Grian finally drags his eyes away from scanning the parking lot and looks at Scar. His expression is pinched, a crease between his eyebrows beginning to form a frown.

“What?” he prompts, and it’s clear from his tone that he’s already on the defence. “Are you still mad? I told you it wasn’t safe to go back, Scar.”

While Scar has, quite frankly, more than a few reasons to be mad, that’s not the primary emotion Grian evokes from him when he thinks back to the city.

It’s incredible really, how quickly the narrative has shifted. Grian had stubbornly wanted to stay within city limits—just in case the police managed to sort things out; just in case this was a one-off scenario that would soon be dealt with. Scar had had to guilt him out here in the first place, and Grian had been obstinate about it the whole time.

It stings more than a little that Grian had shut him down the second Scar had remembered there were others that might need saving.

Or maybe that’s the guilt talking. After all, it had only been when the radio alert had instructed people not to venture out in search of loved ones that Scar had found himself scrambling for his phone, realisation coming too late that they’d fled the city long before he’d ever thought of Cub or Pearl.

The horror of it churns in his stomach even now—scrolling through text after text from Cub, the usual bluntness of his requests slowly transforming to outright begging for Scar to pick up, to respond, to let him know he was okay, did he see the news, did he need Cub to come get him, please, Scar, don’t do anything reckless, it’s dangerous—

Scar chokes back a staggered, wet, breath.

It was the dozens of missed calls from Cub, the single cryptic text from Pearl, and the fact that neither of them were picking up when Scar had tried to call them that had changed Grian’s tune. Suddenly, he no longer wanted to wait for news while crouched within the city limits. Suddenly they needed to stay on the highway.

Suddenly, they had no reason to turn around.

“If Cub was trying to call you, that means he was smart enough to get out,” Grian had argued, vehement, shoulders square as the speedometer crept above the speed limit. “If we go back, all we’re going to find is that he left ages ago. If you’re out, stay out. That’s what the broadcast said.” The words had settled awful between them, Scar’s body taut with tension as he resisted the urge to rip the steering wheel out of Grian’s hands and turn them back towards his friends.

It had been a meagre olive branch, offered as a paltry comfort, when, after several minutes of bitter silence, Grian had cast a quick glance in Scar’s direction and added, “If anyone is going to stay safe and survive in the face of… whatever this is, it’s Cub.”

The comfort hadn’t been well-received. Scar had bit the inside of his cheek and stayed silent, knowing the argument had already been lost and that Grian wasn’t about to budge.

It didn’t matter that Cub had tried to call him. It didn’t matter that Scar knew full well that without an answer Cub would have tried to come looking for him. It didn’t matter that Scar knew the scene that would’ve greeted him was blood and viscera splattered across his entryway, front door left open, his own car still sitting in his driveway as what remained of his neighbours lurched across his lawn.

Grian was driving. And to Grian it wasn’t a priority, so it wasn’t going to happen.

He hadn’t even told him about Pearl coming over the previous night, not willing to face the brunt of his misplaced jealousy. Scar’s stomach still twists thinking of her. Had she made it back home safe? Had she found her way to Tilly and gathered up her things in time to escape? Or had she been overcome along the way, taken by surprise because her focus was on Scar and helping him out?

If only he’d listened to her musings about the troubling state of the world—maybe that would’ve clued him into something. Maybe then they could’ve escaped together. Maybe they’d have met Cub along the way, and all three of them would’ve been okay.

But sitting here like this, miles away and unable to contact either of them… it feels like he might as well have killed both of them himself.

The sigh beside him is impatient and cutting, dragging Scar back to the present.

“Scar—”

“Do you think…” Scar interrupts, still in somewhat of a daze. “Do you think there are more of those things out here?”

The expression on Grian’s face flickers, changing from annoyance to something milder and more human.

“I don’t know,” he admits at last, casting his attention uneasily towards the too-quiet gas station sitting across from them. “While you were asleep we passed a police barrier about an hour outside the city, but no one was at it. The traffic seemed normal, but…” Uncertainty flickers in his eyes, lasting for a moment before it’s replaced by something more focused and determined. “The best thing we can do right now is take stock and get gas, and then keep going.”

“Keep going where?” Scar can’t help but ask.

“Well I don’t know, Scar,” Grian snaps, exasperation returning in an instant. “It’s bad enough with the—with those googlies running around. I don’t have answers, alright? We’re going to get gas, and we’re going to keep going until we find someone that can tell us what’s going on. That’s all.”

The buckle of his seatbelt clicks as he unfastens it. Grian moves with determined confidence, opening the door and stepping out onto the asphalt. There’s a moment of stillness as they both take a breath, waiting for the world to dissolve into bloodlust around them, but nothing reacts—nothing lurches at them out of nowhere—and with it Grian’s confidence grows even higher.

“Come out and help me,” he instructs, and obediently, Scar follows.

He steps out in the heat of noon, the sun shining high in the southern sky with only scant wispy clouds above to offer a fleeting shade.

It’s a beautiful day for the end of the world, the kind of fall weather that Scar would’ve used to enjoy a stroll in the park, watching people having lunch, playing with their kids, and walking their dogs. He’d have settled back against a park bench and relished the warmth, daydreaming of pulling Grian away from work long enough to seize the day with him.

Instead, he keeps Grian at arm’s length as he walks around the perimeter of the sedan, gaze constantly scanning the area for any danger before he settles at the trunk, hauling it open and studying the mess Grian has crammed inside.

The time it takes them to assess the contents of the car is passed with Grian’s usual brusque efficiency. The cardboard boxes and canvas tote bags containing the leftovers of his life are unloaded. His toothbrush, his extra sleep shirts and workout clothes, his breakfast cereals, several of his DVDs, his non-functioning iPod. There are two blankets rolled up in the trunk, remnants of a picnic date Scar had planned weeks ago that Grian had cancelled on at the last moment. He’d been busy with work, he’d said. Scar knows what that means now—knows that work was a confused looking man standing near the bottom of the stairs—and the way Grian’s fingertips flinch when he touches the fabric says he’s aware of it, too.

Scar’s not polite enough to look away and give Grian a moment to collect himself, and Grian’s not foolhardy enough to ask for it, so they continue sifting through his things wordlessly. A lot of it is junk in terms of survival gear, but luckily Grian had kept an emergency bag and first-aid kit in his car, and it’s stocked well enough that it feels like they have something to go on, at least.

The monotony of sorting through items makes the earlier tension between them fizzle away, and soon they have an assortment of mismatched goods piled together. They put the things they have no reason to keep with them to one side for discarding—a plastic cactus in a clay pot, magnets Grian had bought as souvenirs but insisted on keeping on Scar’s fridge, and a large stuffed bee that Scar had won Grian at a fair several summers ago.

“Aw,” Scar mourns as Grian sets the bee on the curb. “You don’t want to keep Mr. Bubbles?”

“I just don’t think we’ll get much use from it,” Grian reasons, though there’s a guilty tilt to his voice as he says it, eyes casting down towards the plush where it sits in a sad lump on the concrete.

Scar doesn’t push. There’s not much to say anyhow when he essentially agrees with Grian. The truth is, he’s just making conversation. Despite how much he’d rather have some distance from the person who tore his heart in two, he’s always been a social person, and spending time with Grian in silence is far worse than trying to maintain some sort of dialogue with the only person around for seemingly miles. Even if that person is now officially his ex.

Still, it settles melancholy in his chest that everything they have available to them right now originally belonged to Grian. There’s nothing of Scar’s left—not his clothes, not his books, not the new couch he’d only just bought, not his favourite cane… not so much as a scrap of paper with his name on it. He supposes he should be grateful they have anything to pick through at all, but it’s not lost on him that the only reason they do is because Scar had told Grian to take his things and go. He tries to ignore it—doesn’t want to pick at a wound that is so fresh it hasn’t yet had the chance to scab over—but it stings in a way that’s unfamiliar and new. It hurts that while he has nothing to get sentimental over, Grian has the luxury of picking out the excess from his trove and choosing to leave parts of it behind.

Scar hasn’t had the chance to make a choice. Not in any of this.

“Come on,” Grian prompts, changing the topic before Scar has any chance to spiral in his thoughts any further. “We’ll get water and snacks in the gas station, we’ll refuel, and then we’re gone.”

The walk across the empty blacktop takes longer than Scar would’ve thought, the cautious way they approach making them slow. He feels the tension coiling a tight knot between his shoulders as they approach the double doors of the gas station. Sunlight slanting down from overhead makes it impossible to see inside, showing only their reflection in the streaked panes of glass. Scar catches sight of the same nerves he feels mirrored in Grian, who looks likely to bolt at any second. There are still no sights, no sounds, nothing out of the ordinary to alert them that anything is remotely askew, but in its normalcy it all feels so wrong.

“Should we have brought something? Like a weapon?” Scar asks, hopeful that maybe Grian kept the tire iron from earlier and hadn’t left it behind when they ran. He keeps his voice quiet, as if afraid to disturb the stillness that wraps all around them.

“What weapon?” Grian’s reply comes equally hushed, though it’s sharp enough to dash Scar’s hopes all the same. “Did you happen to hide a handgun in my glovebox? Or do you just want to wail on someone with Mr. Bubbles?”

“Okay,” Scar bristles, feeling his nerves smoulder under the prickle of Grian’s ever-critical personality. “I’m sorry for asking a question—”

With a sigh and a dramatic roll of his eyes, Grian carefully pads forward, cupping his hands around his eyes as he leans against the glass of the gas station door and peers inside.

“I don’t see anyone,” he announces after a careful study of the interior. “Some stuff’s knocked over, but it looks dead in there.”

Scar hesitates, reluctance written in every line of his body as Grian’s hand settles on the push-bar of the door.

It’s as Grian’s about to enter the gas station that Scar notices it. Off to one side, by an outdoor freezer that looks like it used to have bags of ice inside, is a bucket of sloppy grey water.

There’s a squeegee sticking up out of it. A squeegee with a long, sturdy handle.

“Hang on,” he whispers, moving towards it despite Grian’s small hiss of annoyance and whispered snap of his name. Pulling the squeegee out of the water, Scar lets it drip on the ground, casting Grian a proud grin as he returns and nods towards the door. “Okay, ready.”

It takes Grian a moment, a flurry of micro-expressions crossing his face before he settles on a look of bewildered exasperation, shaking his head as he carefully pushes on the door and nudges it open.

They both wait, poised and ready. Scar doesn’t know what he expects—an explosion of activity maybe, a zombified body lurching up from behind every shelf and counter, grasping and clawing and terrible.

He holds his breath, anticipating, but the door simply swings in on its hinges, letting out nothing but a curl of air conditioned air and silence.

Carefully they step in, one after the other, but there are no spring-traps and no sudden horde of undead to disturb them.

“Guess everyone’s got somewhere better to be,” Scar suggests, optimistic for lack of anything better to say.

Next to him Grian rolls his eyes, but Scar can see the way his shoulders relax, the tension ebbing out as it becomes clear no fresh horror is about to unfold around them.

“Get water, and as many energy drinks as we can carry,” Grian instructs, and despite the friction between them Scar finds himself following his directions, skirting around a rack of chips towards the stacks of water bottles piled next to the refrigerated walls of pop and soda.

It’s a little awkward to lift the plastic-wrapped cases with one of his hands encumbered by the squeegee, but Scar finally manages to heft two of them up onto his shoulder, casting his eyes around for Grian, who he finds with a wad of plastic bags in his hand, grabbing all the protein bars and beef jerky he can carry with focused determination.

“They’ve got that cheese-flavoured popcorn you like,” Scar remarks, but if Grian hears him he doesn’t react, shaking out another plastic bag with a flick of his wrist as he moves over to the stand of chocolate bars, pulling entire boxes off the shelf and bagging them.

He can’t help but feel silly, pointing out Grian’s favourites during a crisis while Grian fails to acknowledge him at all. But then again, it’s not exactly new behaviour. Their entire relationship was a series of times where Scar put Grian’s preferences first, and Grian failed to ever acknowledge Scar had any of his own. He used to dismiss it, making excuses for Grian, justifying him each and every time. Now he knows it’s simply because Grian never cared enough to pay attention to him in the first place.

It makes something desperate and spiteful curl in Scar’s chest, the sudden desire to be prioritised, to have his needs addressed.

“Can you get me the Reese’s?” he asks, shifting the water as he attempts to better redistribute the weight.

“I’m not a fan of peanut butter,” Grian answers absently, a fresh plastic bag snapping as he moves to the candy aisle, making a pleasantly surprised noise in the back of his throat. “They have the good gummy bears, though.”

Scar feels the sting and pushes out a breath to stay calm through it. He wants to believe it’s not Grian’s intentional callousness. He wants to blame the tension of the situation, the adrenaline, the uncertainty, but he knows from experience this would’ve played out exactly the same way with or without a zombie invasion unfolding all around them.

“Grian,” he repeats, stern, knowing he’s making an issue out of something that would seem ridiculous to anyone else. He doesn’t know how to explain that he simply needs this. Needs the chance to assert himself when Grian’s already taken so much from him. It’s stupid, he knows, but it’s currently all he has. “I want Reese’s.”

Grian’s eyes connect with his over the racks of snacks. There’s a frown on his features, something frustrated, ready to boil over and cause the same scene Scar desperately wants for himself.

“Fine,” he spits at last, like he’s been tasked to do a chore unfairly. “If it’s so important to you.”

Stubbornly, he rounds the aisle and pushes more chocolate bars into his bag. There’s a pettiness to it that begs a confrontation, but Scar lets it pass, focusing instead on hefting the water back to the car. He leaves the gas station on his own, and something about that feels both incredible and frightening. The first deep breath he’s taken since it all went wrong.

He pushes the cases of water into the back seat and then leans against the side of the car for a moment, taking in the sunlight and the fresh air.

It’s hard to believe anything could be wrong when the world goes on looking so beautiful. It’s idyllic and yet… he’s unable to stay for long before the anxiety starts to creep in, a concern for safety he’s never felt before, forcing Scar to return to the store to make sure nothing’s gone amiss.

Grian is just as he’d left him, picking and choosing more items to take off the shelves and only glancing in Scar’s direction for a moment as he enters before deliberately looking away again. Feeling magnanimous, Scar picks up a bag of the cheesy popcorn anyway, determined to be the bigger person.

Determined not to stoop to his level.

It’s on their final trip back to the car that it occurs to Scar to check out the drive-thru. At a glance it’s equally deserted, and they haven’t even given it a passing look.

He doesn’t know what compels him to veer off from Grian without a word—a careless action he himself would’ve scolded Grian for if their positions were reversed. Maybe it’s prompted by the earlier serenity he felt, when he was alone in the sunlight, far from the man that had caused him so much grief. Maybe it’s prompted by a spiteful independence, the need to prove he’s still in charge of some small thing in his life. Maybe he’s simply being thoughtless. Whatever the case is, Scar ambles towards the restaurant with a relaxed air, like he has nothing in the world to worry about. He’s not cautious when he puts his shoulder against the door to nudge it open, the abandoned state of the gas station giving him a false sense of security that’s rewarded with hubris as a ghoulish figure lurches out at him, arms extended as it snaps and snarls.

He falls back, nearly tipping over, arms too full to counterbalance himself. The squeegee is completely forgotten, clutched uselessly at his side as the surprise immobilises him. It’s only Grian’s shoulder pushed against his spine as he runs up from behind him that keeps Scar from toppling over, saving him from being descended upon and torn to pieces.

Grian’s scolding yell catches in his throat as he steadies Scar, pulling him back with desperate urgency.

“Scar, what are you doing?!”

The creature— person— thing—doesn’t move quickly, shambling on what should be an irreparably broken ankle as it limps through the door and follows them. Blood and spittle slick down its jaw, part of its shoulder mangled with a bloom of grotesque looking bite-marks, groaning wretchedly as it stumbles after them.

Scar watches in haunted fascination as it makes desperate motions towards them, hunger writ in every swipe of its protruding digits. Beyond its mangled arm, affixed to the front of its bloodied shirt, Scar catches sight of an employee name tag, innocuous and unassuming. It sticks ugly in his chest, the idea of a person being reduced to this.

It takes him a second to realise that Grian is shouting—has possibly been shouting this entire time. His hand is fisted tight into the back of Scar’s shirt, and he’s pulling, pulling, hauling Scar towards the car with a desperate urgency, even when it becomes clear the shambling mess of a body can’t possibly keep pace with them.

“—in the car, we have to go. We have to go now, Scar. Why did you open that door, what were you thinking—?”

The shock and surprise of the encounter has Grian’s fury tuning in and out of Scar’s hearing. He finds himself pushed into the passenger seat, door slamming as Grian scrambles to the other side of the car. Through the windshield, Scar watches the stumbling figure. They look to have been about his age, with a beard that would’ve made them look handsome before it became clotted with gore. Beneath their employee apron they’re wearing a t-shirt with the logo for Disneyland on it, and the part of Scar not frozen in shock finds that detail amusing.

The zombie is still yards away, barely having passed the picnic tables when Scar spots several others begin to shuffle out after it through the now open restaurant doors.

It solves the mystery of where all the people went, but it doesn’t feel at all satisfying to now have the knowledge.

He doesn’t know if Grian sees the others, but thinks he probably hasn’t when all his attention is focused on getting them out of the parking lot. The tires spin for a second with the speed that Grian applies the gas and then they’re back on the road and entering the on-ramp for the freeway.

“I’m fine, by the way,” Scar says, still dazed from fright. “It didn’t even touch me.”

Grian yells something, loud and upset and angry, speeding too fast as he merges onto four empty lanes, but Scar, still thinking of blood and viscera splattered down the front of a theme park shirt, simply doesn’t hear it.

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

The farmhouse is a bad idea, but it’s the only option they have.

From where they sit, parked on the gravel shoulder of a service road that splits off from the highway, they can see the proper entrance to the farm. It lays at the end of a long road that skirts around the edge of several fields. It crosses a culvert and empties into a gravel driveway set between two large silos, a barn on one side and a simple saltbox house with a large garden next to it on the other.

It’s a three minute drive, four at most.

They don’t have enough fuel to get them that far.

While Grian had had the foresight to grab a gas can from a stack by the fuel pumps back at the gas station, they hadn’t exactly had time to fill it up during their hasty exit. Neither of them knew how to syphon fuel, but when they’d found an abandoned car on the highway, they’d stopped to try. Scar, at least, had an idea of how to do it, having watched Cub syphon gas a handful of times, an action that had always seemed both in and out of character when coming from the type of man Scar had always known Cub to be.

He’d tried, at first, to call Cub again for advice—all while Grian gave him an impatient look and scolded him for ‘wasting limited battery’—but unlike earlier, his phone didn’t even connect to Cub’s answering machine.

‘We’re sorry, all circuits are busy. Please try your call again later.’ came the dull, electronic voice over the line, and Scar had to wonder how bad the spread had gotten for all phone lines in the areas to be filled to capacity. It had been several hours since they’d left Scar’s apartment, but surely that was too short a time for communications to collapse?

Heart heavy in his chest, Scar had typed out yet another text to Cub, letting him know he was still fine, he was still alive, and that if Cub somehow received his message, to please let him know if he was okay. He’d sent the same message to Pearl, and tried not to think too hard about whether she might’ve been safer if she’d never come to comfort him at all.

The texts went through, which had been a relief, but it had also pinged a thought in his head that had made Scar quickly scramble to pull up the browser on his phone. Grian had peered over at his screen out of curiosity, eyes widening as he too remembered the data on their phones. Together, the two of them had tried to pull up site after site, desperate for answers. Unfortunately, it had been to no avail. Whether it was the news or a government webpage or any number of social media sites, nothing connected, either timing out or displaying errors or infinitely loading.

“There must just be too many people trying to connect right now.” Grian had reasoned, awkward in his delivery. “Like the phone lines.”

Or the internet’s gone down entirely, Scar had thought, but hadn’t said aloud. He knew Grian felt the same though—could see it in the set of his jaw.

“We’ll just have to wing it,” he’d declared, with more confidence than he felt, crouching by the abandoned car and trying to remember exactly what he’d seen Cub do.

It had been an awkward few minutes, struggling with the length of hose they’d pulled from Grain’s emergency roadside kit, but Scar had finally managed to coax a few litres of fuel out of the car. Litres that they’d burnt through sooner than he’d thought they would, leaving the needle of Grian’s fuel gauge deep in the red without a single other vehicle on the road.

Desperation is what had driven them to take the exit off the highway when they’d spotted the farm from a distance, and desperation is where they stand now.

“I still don’t know if this is a good idea,” Scar says, voice deceptively calm.

“I can see three trucks from here,” Grian reasons, impatient and defensive all at once. “Between them there’ll be more than a full tank of gas. That’s what we need right now, Scar.”

There’s a multitude of reasons that Scar isn’t a fan of this idea; it’s too quiet for one. While the roads have been deserted with no sign or trace of the kind of carnage Scar had come to expect from the copious amounts of apocalypse movie watching with Pearl, it doesn’t bode well that there’s no one around. The silence is eerie and unnatural, the kind that winds a coil of tension tight in his stomach.

Of course, the alternative is coming across unfriendlies—whether that be living survivors with no intention of working together, or the corpses of those that hadn’t escaped fast enough.

Admittedly, the threat of running into infected ranks at the top of his list.

The large drain water pond that separates them from the farm is a close second.

It’s wide—too wide to jump across, its banks edged with tall grasses and reeds. Scar doesn’t know if it’s ever been used for swimming, but he can see a tatty lawn chair on the opposite bank, left by someone for enjoying secret smoke breaks by the looks of the white butts he can barely make out on one of the armrests. On either end the pond empties into ditches, choked in duckweed and cattails, their sides too steep to clamber out of should they attempt to cross it there.

“I can’t believe they didn’t bother to build a bridge,” Grian mutters, like the water’s lack of a proper crossing is in every way intentional. “It’s gonna take us forever to walk all the way around.”

“We’re not gonna walk around,” Scar scoffs, undoing his seatbelt and climbing out of the car. He doesn’t bother to shut the door behind him as he walks towards the trunk, already pulling the hem of his shirt up in preparation to lift it off over his head.

“Scar, jesus!” Grian squawks, looking away like there’s any semblance of modesty left to protect between the two of them.

“Come on, do you really think there’s anyone out here to see me?” Scar asks, deadpan, as he undoes his belt. He wants to add more, wants to press that it’s nothing Grian hasn’t seen before, but it feels too raw; too soon to be making anything close to approaching a joke like that.

He shimmies out of his pants, leaving him in his boxers as he pops open the trunk and shakes out one of the many plastic bags Grian took from the gas station. Packing his shoes into one, and looking it over briefly before deciding that it’s as waterproof as it’s going to get, Scar pads barefoot towards the pond. Over his shoulder he can hear Grian muttering a disbelieving, ‘You can’t be serious,’ and then he’s ankle deep in cold water.

He sinks deep and quickly as the bank slopes down under his feet, and he does his best to keep balance while holding his bagged shoes above his head with one hand. In the end, it’s a simple task to effortlessly swim across to the other side.

It’s an easy breaststroke, albeit one-armed, the kind he’d do as a warmup before a real swim. After his diagnosis, swimming had become a lifeline for him—a physical activity that was easy on his joints and good for when his muscles were feeling particularly stiff. He’d spent a lot of his time swimming before he’d met Grian and started spending all that time with him instead.

The distance across the pond is shorter than the full length of a swimming pool. Scar doesn’t even strain for breath.

On the other side he hauls himself out onto the far shore, dripping water down the planes of his skin. Grinning from the exertion, he casts his attention back towards Grian, finding him standing with his hands on his hips, a mixture of a scowl and an expression that could almost be mistaken for pleasant surprise mixing on his face.

“It’s not that bad,” Scar calls across the water, raising his voice to be heard. “Not even cold, I swear.”

“I can’t swim,” Grian objects, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify his words, even though Scar can hear him just fine. “Not when I can’t see the bottom.”

Dimly, Scar feels that he knew this, and it’s not something Grian is making up to be intentionally difficult. He could coax Grian over—with enough persuasion he knows it’s possible—but instead, he upends the plastic bag on the shore, shoving his wet feet back into his shoes before he walks the short distance to the trio of pickup trucks they intend to syphon from.

The first one’s truck bed is empty, but the second yields what he’s looking for; a stepladder, just long enough for what he needs, shoved in among a yellow plastic egg crate and several uneven pieces of plywood.

“Here.” Scar makes his way back, Grian frowning as he returns not to the shoreline, but to the edge of the ditch. “Be careful.”

It’s not an ideal solution—in fact, it’s barely a solution at all—but it does what they need it to do. The ladder lays flat across the ditch, making a simple bridge that stays stable once Scar jiggles it into place. He nods encouragingly at Grian, gesturing to how it connects either side.

Grian eyes it, openly reluctant as he stands with one foot braced against the rung that anchors the makeshift bridge to his side.

“Scar…”

“You just walk. Try not to look down. Once you get past the halfway point, I’ll put my arm out and I’ll catch you, okay?”

Scar explains it with confidence and ease, oozing the kind of charm that got him so far in his career before he had to leave it behind. He’s not trying to manipulate Grian—he knows he can catch him if things go wrong, or swim to fish him out if need be—but he doesn’t think it’ll come to that. This should be easy, and will be easy if Grian just agrees to go along with it.

“I’ll… I can crawl,” Grian says, after a moment spent scrutinising the ladder. “Just make sure you hold it steady.”

“It’s steady,” Scar assures him, crouching down to brace his hands against either edge of the ladder, holding it in place as Grian tentatively sets his foot on the first rung.

His crossing is not graceful or dignified; nothing like the standard Grian usually holds himself to. But one awkward, shuffled, crawl-step at a time, Grian manages to creep across the ladder-bridge to the other side. He’s ungainly as he puts both hands, then knees, on solid ground, pulling himself up into a crouch, entirely ignoring the hand Scar extends out to him as he gets up on wobbling feet.

“Put your clothes back on,” he mutters, pushing Scar’s shirt and pants into his outstretched palm before he proceeds to brush himself off. Scar’s hand closes around his clothes automatically, and he steps back to give Grian space. He pries his wet feet out of his shoes, stepping one foot and then the other into his pants, legs still damp from his swim but not about to complain about it to Grian.

Scar’s never been easily embarrassed about nudity, but he’d have at least hung his head a little at the scolding if he hadn’t noticed the way Grian’s eyes had glanced down his chest and torso as he handed him his shirt. He looks from top to bottom, his gaze roaming across Scar’s body in a quick once-over that Scar is so familiar with; used to take pride in, even. Before Grian threw it all away, his lingering attentions would curl up warm in Scar’s chest. Now all it brings is a mix of melancholy and regret—Scar doesn’t care to be attractive to Grian anymore. He’d rather not feel seen by him at all.

“I didn’t know you could swim that well,” Grian says, awkwardly conversational as Scar wrestles his pants up his thighs.

“Well. You don’t know everything about me,” Scar replies, more short than he intends to be. He’s not being callous on purpose; that’s never been his style, though a part of him argues that after everything he has a right to be. It’s just… he may be stuck with Grian for now, but it was only yesterday that he’d caught him with another man. This is part of setting a clear distance between the two of them and reminding Grian where they stand.

They’re not dating.

They’re not friends.

They’re not anything.

Not anymore.

Regardless, his curt response puts an end to their chit-chat and Grian looks away, face flushed with what Scar hopes is some semblance of shame.

“I’ll get the gas,” Grian says, scuffing the sole of his shoe into the grass, pushing up a clump of soil. “You check the house.”

“Check for what?”

“Stuff we can use,” Grian explains simply, and it sticks weirdly in Scar’s head. Grian’s tone suggests that he doesn’t expect any other people around. It pushes something uncomfortable into the back of Scar’s mind, fearful and desperate.

For all that Scar’s grateful not to be alone in the apocalypse, he’s not about to accept a future where he has only the man who cheated on him for company.

“We’re not the only survivors,” Scar reasons, as much a rationale as it is a request for reassurance.

Grian studies him, eyes dark and hand flexing on the plastic handle of the gas can. It takes him a moment before he says, deferentially, “Well, if there are others inside, maybe you can make some new friends.”

His words make Scar’s heart jump in his chest, surprised by how close Grian got to Scar’s line of thought. He doesn’t refute the statement, and Grian’s lips thin as his mouth twists, his expression unreadable as he turns away. The exchange brokers no additional conversation, and before Scar can so much as wave, Grian is setting off in a direct line towards the pickup trucks on the driveway.

With a sigh, Scar heads off towards his own task.

As soon as he gets close, he can tell from the state of the porch that no one will be inside the house to greet him. The front door hangs open, innocuous but telling, the screen door torn to one side. Scar wants to imagine that it’s for a reason far better than the one that caused him to leave his own front door open in his desperation to get away, but he knows in his heart that’s impossible. He hesitates to ring the doorbell, and instead raps his knuckles against the wood frame, giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the dark of the mudroom before he fully steps inside.

He can tell at a glance that this is a house that held generations. Family portraits line the walls; graduation photos, snapshots from weddings, baby pictures in pretty frames. The kitchen and living room are full of the clutter of busy people and overlapping lives, a harvest schedule pinned on the fridge right next to a chore wheel and grocery list. Dishes sit in the dishrack, a fresh round of dirty plates piled expectantly in the sink. There’s a basket of laundry set on a footstool in the living room, mismatched socks layered on top of neatly folded sets of sheets ready to be put away. Everything about the home has the look of busy people caught mid-sentence.

He wants to believe their absence means they got out in time.

He hopes they had the chance to take more with them than he did.

Normally, Scar considers himself an opportunist, but he finds that he doesn’t like the way it feels to pick through the home of people he’s sure will never be back to see it again. The feeling constricts around his heart, overwhelming empathy for a family he’ll never know.

He doesn’t open any drawers or cupboards, doesn’t pry too deeply into the lives of unfortunate strangers. He feels bad for them, and honestly, not that much better for himself. He regrets his intrusion into a scene that looks so quietly untouched, and yet a part of him feels that this is important, that he needs to see all this so that he can better understand the magnitude of what’s unfolding all around them.

Quietly, he takes the stairs up to the second level, feeling the mounting pressure that he’s trespassing where he shouldn’t be. The stairs creak with the familiarity of old wood, and he can’t help but picture children stepping in precise locations to avoid the noise, the secret codes of the house passed down through generations. He’s expecting bedrooms when he reaches the landing, and that’s exactly what he finds. The doors are left open, everything ready to be returned to.

He tries not to look at the walls, avoiding the pressure of humanizing the home’s former occupants any more than he already has. He tries to remind himself that survival is what’s important here. That he has to prepare for the worst of what the elements could offer. He hopes it won’t come to that—hopes things will somehow sort themselves out before the chill of fall fades into the frost of winter—but something in his gut tells him that it’s a fool’s hope.

With staunch practicality, Scar picks a throw quilt up from the foot of an unmade bed. He uses it like a makeshift pack, grabbing two clean towels from the linen closet and a plastic-wrapped six-pack of toilet paper from the hallway bathroom before rolling the whole thing up securely. He hesitates for a moment in the bathroom, contemplating if he’s about to take a stranger’s toothbrush, but ultimately turns away instead. He grabs a large red flannel overshirt thrown into a laundry hamper as he leaves, the colour catching his eye because it’s always been Grian’s favourite.

It’s not stealing, he tells himself; repeats it over and over like a mantra. It’s borrowing. He’s borrowing. And if the owners want their stuff back, then they can show up and tell him so themselves.

It’s in the last room—clearly the master bedroom by the size and layout—that he finds it.

A brown aviator jacket, sheepskin collar and dappled with patches, draped over the back of a chair. He almost passes it—he’s not here for a fashion statement, and Grian would roll his eyes at the choice for sure, but the cut of the coat looks wide, and it’s rare for him to find clothes that fit his broad shoulders. It’s a bit awkward, setting down his pile of borrowed items, but he manages to do it without unraveling the throw quilt and spilling things everywhere.

Scar grabs the jacket and takes a second to slip his arms into the sleeves, hiking it up his shoulders and grinning when he feels how well it fits him. The leather is real—none of that plastic, faux nonsense—and it’s soft to the touch. Although there are some worn in creases from years of use, it’s obviously been well taken care of, if the absence of scuffs and general sheen of it is anything to go by. It must’ve meant a lot to the original owner, and Scar feels like it would be doing a disservice to them if he didn’t take a moment to appreciate how it looks, despite the mounting pressure that makes him feel they cannot linger here.

Grian’s probably already filled the gas tank. He’s probably standing impatiently by the ladder bridge, arms crossed and sighing in annoyance every few seconds. With a wistful sigh, Scar turns to leave the room without looking for a mirror, making sure to grab their scavenged goods as he goes.

He’s on his way back down the stairs, the few borrowed necessities tucked under his arm, an out of place spring in his step and a hum in his throat at the thrill of a new jacket, when he finally notices it.

Set off to the right of the staircase, recessed down a shallow hall, there’s a doorway, the kind that leads into either a basem*nt or a crawlspace.

The door is shut tight, wedged in place by a chair that, from the looks of it, was dragged in from the dining room. On the front of the door itself, marked quickly by a duct tape roll that lays discarded on the floor a few feet away, is a huge X, marked so prominently that it feels jarring.

A warning.

Scar takes a moment, pausing midway down the stairs. Part of him wants to creep in and investigate closer, but he remembers with clarity the drive-thru, and what happened the last time he went poking around somewhere without letting Grian know.

There’s a nauseating, dreadful twist in his gut as he continues to stare, understanding with perfect clarity what lies behind the barrier.

There were people here. Not all that long ago—hours, maybe. A couple days at most, if it started here before it hit the city where he and Grian lived. People just like him, just like Grian… Just like the neighbour who had thrown their mangled body full speed at Grian’s car. Just like the stranger at the gas station who had stumbled out of the restaurant.

For a moment, Scar stands on the bottom step, overwhelmed by the sheer scope of it, the reality that this isn’t a concentrated event or an outlier. That this—whatever it is—is widespread, and not something they can simply drive away from. He feels the pressure like a vice gripping his chest, pressing tight to his sternum as it becomes suddenly difficult for him to take a proper breath. This isn’t the time or place to have a panic attack, but he feels it looming, a wave rolling above him, the full force ready to crash down.

If they’re the only people left alive—if it’s just him and Grian—if the last person he’s ever going to know is the man he caught cheating on him less than twenty-four hours ago. If his choice is a life with him, or a life entirely alone—

The blocked door thumps suddenly.

It’s a listless sound, less like it’s being intentionally knocked against and more like it’s being nudged by the meandering passage of a shoulder dragging against the wall as a body circles the interior of the room.

Immediately, the noise is answered by a clattering in the kitchen, and the existential panic gripping Scar’s chest shifts into something far more pressing.

It’s not Grian. He knows it’s not Grian.

Grian wouldn’t wander in silent. Grian would announce himself, loudly.

He doesn’t like what else that means it could be.

With his arms full of jackets and blankets and towels, Scar moves quietly down off the last step.

The living room is in front of him, and through an open doorway he can see into the kitchen. It’s there, stumbling slowly out of the walk-in pantry, that Scar spots the source of the sound.

A woman—once—maybe the same age as him, maybe younger, skin mottled and blotched, dark with blisters that bloom around a series of bite marks trailing down one arm. The gore itself seems contained, less mutilated than the others Scar has seen in his short induction into this awful horror.

Her movement is aimless, dragging herself against the edge of the kitchen counter until she bumps blindly into the fridge, heedless of the magnets and coupons she sends scattering to the floor. Scar doesn’t know if she can see, doesn’t know if she knows if she can see. All he knows is that he needs to leave. Every second spent standing in the living room is a second towards her noticing him, and the catastrophe that will inevitably unfold the moment that happens.

And yet, a terrible sort of sympathy grips him in place, and he finds he can’t bear to move.

She’s wearing a hoodie with ‘Graduating Class 2004’ printed on the back. It’s well worn, the kind of sweater you’d only put on while at home, on a day where you don’t have plans that take you outside. Scar can’t help but try to imagine how her last moments unfolded. Who was the first to turn in this house? Was she weeping, when she’d been bitten all the way down her arm? Was she shaky and delirious, pressing her already infected family members into the basem*nt and barricading the door? How long after that had it taken for her to succumb? How quickly until she’d been lost herself? Did she have time to apologise? To say goodbye?

Scar can’t push forward, can’t wrench himself away from the sight of her. She turns slowly to face the other wall, hands grasping blindly at the sink. It’ll be only a matter of seconds before her wandering has her turning in his direction. Scar has a rapidly closing window of opportunity to sneak out past her, to leave her be and to put all of this behind him—

The axe comes out of nowhere, swinging down harsh and violent. It embeds deep in her shoulder, sticking for a second before it’s jerked free and brought down again into her skull right above her ear.

Scar doesn’t have time to brace, isn’t at all prepared. The axe rises and falls again, again—there’s no fight, no struggle. Any instinctive reaction she might have had is robbed of her as she collapses in a pile of loose, disorganised limbs.

Putting his foot against what remains of her shoulder, Grian jerks the axe free, looking at Scar with his face pursed into a scowl.

“What the hell are you doing?”

It’s snapped rhetorically, giving Scar no time to reply before Grian’s stomping forward, hands out, snatching the bundle of blankets from Scar and turning sharply towards the kitchen door.

“You’re going to get yourself killed, and then where will that leave us?”

Scar knows Grian isn’t expecting an answer, and he’s not sure he wants to provide one.

“She was just getting a drink,” he hears himself say, deflecting the question with as much casual humour as he can manage with his mind still so deeply unsettled. “You got something against staying hydrated?”

“Now’s not the time, Scar,” Grian sighs, and Scar can practically hear him rolling his eyes. He stops at the front door, holding it open expectantly, but when Scar hangs back, looking down at the corpse that’s mangled and spread out on the floor, Grian doesn’t wait for him.

“I got the gas,” Grian passes back over his shoulder. “I’m going back to the car. Don’t dawdle. Who knows how many more there are lurking in the corners.”

Behind him, in the living room, Scar can hear the low moaning from behind the door, alerted by the commotion. It’s disconcerting, the rhythmic thump of bodies pressing against it in an effort to break free. He tries his best not to think back—to soft thumps coming from upstairs as he stood on the threshold of Grian’s front door.

He tries not to think at all.

Making his way into the kitchen and stepping over the corpse, Scar reaches into the dishrack, removing a glass and leaning awkwardly against the counter to avoid getting his feet in the gore. He fills it slowly with water from the tap, kneeling down and setting it on the floor near to what was once her outstretched hand.

“I’m sorry,” he says; to the corpse, to her infected family members barricaded behind the door, to the world at large, to himself.

He stands back up, wishing there was something more he could do, knowing his gesture is silly and pointless at best. He leaves the house, carefully shutting the door behind him as he goes, like he’s closing the final chapter on the people who used to reside within.

Grian’s already crossed the ladder bridge, standing near the car with his arms folded across his chest, looking impatient even from a distance. Feeling guilty for making him wait, Scar jogs across the driveway to catch up to him, ignoring the spike of pain that spiderwebs up from his knee and digs into his pelvic joint.

“It’s about time,” Grian grunts, hefting the second gas can into the trunk as Scar finally catches up.

Without a word he gets into the car, continuing to process the way the world around them has forever been changed, silent as he closes his door and looks out through his window at the farmhouse sitting still across the pond. Grian shuffles into the driver’s seat with some mumbled words Scar doesn’t hear, though he does catch the way his gaze lingers momentarily on the new coat he’s acquired.

When he notices Scar watching him, he scowls.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he says, and Scar is forced to confront the fact that Grian, in no uncertain terms, has now killed for him. Twice. It doesn’t matter that they were technically these grotesque undead. What counts is that Grian moved without hesitation, valuing Scar’s life above anything and anyone else.

Scar doesn’t know how to feel about it. He supposes he should show some gratitude, offer some words of thanks… but all he can think of is how it’s funny that Grian is willing to put his own life on the line for him, is willing to kill for him, but still somehow didn’t care enough to stay faithful to him.

Grian saved his life.

Grian broke his heart.

Scar stays silent.

It’s obvious that Grian was expecting some sort of response, but when the acknowledgement fails to come he turns away from him, tone rough and prickly as he says, “Let’s go. There’s a rest area six hours from here. If we drive straight through, we can sleep there for the night and see what the situation’s like in the morning.”

Thinking of the family of strangers, alone in their farmhouse, far from the ravages of the city… Scar doesn’t believe the morning’s going to be any better. Nevertheless, he nods, works up enough of his voice to say, “Let me know if you want to switch off on driving.” and that’s as close to ‘thank you’ as he thinks he can get.

He can feel Grian staring at him as he turns back to look out the passenger-side window, but despite the momentary pause, there’s no further conversation as Grian starts up the car and steers them back onto the road.

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

The sun rises. A rusty smear against an overcast horizon.

It’s chilly in that southwest November way. While they’re too far south for it to get particularly cold when the sun is shining high up in the sky, in the early hours of the day it’s another story. There’s a bite in the air; a warning for the winter season to come.

Scar is awake. He’s been awake since just past five in the morning, when Grian had nudged him with his elbow and said it was time for him to take his turn on watch. Wrapped up in his borrowed coat and a throw quilt, he’s been able to keep mostly warm, though he’s glad to see the sun rise through the windshield with the promise of the day’s heat to follow.

It’s surprisingly boring being on watch. He’s never had to do it before, sitting up alone in the dark on the off-chance that something might happen. From what he had seen in movies and shows, he’d expected it to be more nerve-wracking. Constant tension and watching your back to make sure no one snuck up behind you. Instead, the hours had passed, slow and miserable, with too much time to think and nothing to distract himself with.

Behind him, spread across the back seat in a far more comfortable looking sprawl than the one that Scar had managed for himself, Grian is still asleep. His shorter stature fits snugly in the back in a way Scar’s long limbs simply couldn’t, his joints still aching from having attempted it hours ago.

Grian’s breath is heavy, bordering on a snore. Scar used to find the sound endearing. Now it grates on him. One of a myriad of Grian’s formerly delightful quirks that suddenly rub him the wrong way.

“Grian,” he says, coughing to clear his throat as the syllables catch on his tongue. He waits a moment, but when Grian doesn’t stir, he reaches back and shakes him twice, firmly. “Grian, c’mon, time to wake up.”

Grian’s eyelids flutter but stay closed, brows furrowing in sleep-addled confusion.

“B?”

It’s an unconscious accident, surely, a slip of the tongue that Grian isn’t awake enough to catch in time, but Scar feels it like a blow to the chest.

A sharp burst of pain and fresh betrayal rushes through him, hot and humiliating, running all the way down to the very tips of his fingers.

Unaware, Grian breathes a frustrated sigh, mumbling quiet into the bend of his arm. “You shouldn’t have stayed over. I told you not to.”

He should have expected this, really. Scar had assumed that Grian cheating on him hadn’t been a one time thing, and yet, somehow having it confirmed by the familiarity in Grian’s voice as he mumbles out the name of his lover is suddenly too much to bear. Scar feels like his heart’s been swallowed by his lungs; squeezed and constricted into breathlessness.

Sensing the silence, Grian’s eyes shoot open, reality setting in fast as he sits up, face flushed and expression twisted into something both guilty and ashamed.

“Scar.”

The inside of the car feels impossibly small, not remotely large enough to contain the two of them and all the emotions Scar is feeling, welling up hot and heavy and ready to explode. He doesn’t realise the car door is open until he’s slamming it behind him, taking long strides away from the vehicle as he stomps down the soft shoulder of the rest stop parking lot they’d pulled off into for the night. The arid soil kicks up dust clouds under his feet and he knows he’s making a scene, but there’s no one—no one—here to see it but Grian. And frankly, Scar doesn’t care what Grian thinks about his reaction.

Bitterly, he wishes he could skip to the part where he doesn’t care about Grian at all.

He takes a deep breath, staring up at the brightening sky, hands clenched into fists so tightly they hurt. He hates this. Hates being stuck, trapped next to the person who caused all this. Hates feeling anger with nowhere to put it. Hates feeling stupid and short-sighted and broken-hearted. Hates knowing that this is as much distance as he’s going to get from the source of all his anguish, that the most he can afford is several minutes kicking sand next to the clumps of sagebrush and brittle, dry grass before the risks of drawing unwanted attention outweigh the catharsis of physically working the negativity out of his system.

In a normal world he’d spend several weeks pouring his heart out—subtly, too-politely, trash-talking Grian to everyone he knows while also painstakingly removing him from every single one of his social media posts; he’d have his friends to keep his head above water every time his mind spiraled, trying to insist he must’ve done something to deserve it, that this was his fault, really. That he pushed Grian into this.

They’d be exes, and he’d eventually get on with his life.

In this world he’s seen Grian cleave a blunt object through the skull of an undead monster. For him. Twice.

In this world, Grian calls out someone else’s name while he dreams.

In this world...

Grian’s the only one he has.

He feels sick.

It takes Scar a few minutes to calm down, clutching to the front of his shirt and leaning over just in case he vomits. He tries his best to stay grounded, thoughts swimming with a sharpness that warns of an impending headache. He squeezes his eyes shut tight enough to see static, and breathes in and out shakily.

When he finally comes back to the car, Grian is sitting in the driver’s seat with the door kicked wide open, eating a granola bar and refusing to make eye contact.

“Thought I saw something,” Scar lies, and Grian doesn’t press it.

He accepts the granola bar Grian hands him even though he’s not remotely hungry, opening it and chewing on automatic. He doesn’t notice until the last bite that Grian had given him the peanut butter one—his favourite.

He doesn’t know how that’s supposed to make him feel.

“Should we look around?” Grian asks, a foghorn in their silence. It’s obvious that he’s desperate to bleed out the tension that’s blocked up between them by changing the subject and Scar’s too tired to fight it. “We got through the night in one piece. Don’t think there are any googlies here.”

It makes sense. From what Scar has been able to discern, they must’ve been hit by the very start of the infection and acted quick enough to avoid the chaos. They’d left the city immediately and then stayed far off the beaten path. Grian’s navigation has kept them out of the thick of anything consequential or dire, staying ahead of any horde that might’ve been created in the home they left behind.

They’d been lucky to get this far and only see a handful of corpses in the distance, shambling aimless around rest stops and overturned vehicles.

Scar just hopes that luck doesn’t run out the second they let their guards down.

They’ve gleaned a few meagre updates from looping radio broadcasts that have phased in and out as they’ve driven—it’s all a mish-mash conflicting instructions; calls to avoid city centres, to shelter in place, to head for designated safety areas, or that it’s every person for themself. The last transmission they’d heard was an advisory for people to move north if at all possible in order to avoid epicentres of infection, which had seemed as good a direction as any. Neither of them wants to recreate the chaos of their first encounter, so sticking to isolated rest-stops and out-of-the-way gas stations has served them well thus-far.

“Not like there’s anything better to do,” Scar says, brusque despite himself. In his periphery he sees Grian’s head shrink down into his shoulders and he tries his best not to feel a bitter curl of satisfaction at it.

The place they’d chosen to spend the night is slightly more extravagant than their previous pit-stops. A roadside attraction, advertised by large hand-painted billboards propped up by old cars spaced along the side of the highway, boasting genuine extraterrestrial artifacts and proof of alien encounters. The displays track—they’ve been skirting the edge of Roswell, after all—but it’s still a bit darkly comedic. The proof of aliens sits largely out of place and grossly inconsequential in the face of a true-to-life, zombie outbreak.

Still, by the light of day, with seemingly no one else around, it seems worth exploring. If nothing else, Scar figures it will get his mind off of the enormous, traitorous elephant sat between them.

“Come on, then,” Grian mumbles, and Scar glances over the gear he wants to take with him while Grian takes the car out of park.

They drive closer to the cluster of adobe buildings covered in bright signage and colourful streamers. Light-catchers flash in the early sun as they twist from strings hung off the overhangs outside every doorway. It’s a kitschy tourist trap, the kind Scar would’ve wanted to stop at anyway were the situation not so dire. The irony of it is not lost on him as he gets out the second Grian parks the car, impatiently tapping his feet while he waits for Grian to join him.

Scar’s got the axe from the farmhouse wielded in front of himself protectively. The blade’s been cleaned, and Scar wonders if that’s what Grian had been doing as Scar had taken his time leaving the house. Somehow, the picture of Grian crouched over and wiping down grime and gore with nothing but water and scrap cloth is not as jarring to imagine as it should be. He wonders if maybe he’s already becoming numb to what’s happening. If it all somehow pales in comparison to the heartache in his chest.

Nevertheless, he’s glad for the safety the weapon provides, and when Grian finally joins him by the entrance to the building closest to them, he sees the way he eyes the axe in Scar’s hands with approval. The two of them pause for a moment, wordlessly looking around for any signs of life; reanimated or otherwise. When they don’t see or hear anything, Grian nods at him, and Scar pushes open the door.

The building they enter is a single large room, lit with soft fluorescents and cluttered with shelves, glass cases, photographs, and shadow boxes. It’s filled to the brim with hundreds of maps, diagrams, photographs, and newspaper headlines amassed into an organised chaos, a lifetime of sifting and collecting conspiracy theories and government cover ups. At the centre of the room, there are two small pedestals hold bits of plaster and papier mache, a diorama supposedly recreating the sight of an alien landing in a nearby valley, and a variety of pebbles and stones set in a hermetically sealed box that alleges proof of an extraterrestrial encounter.

Nothing charges at them, no bodies lurking around the displays.

It’s empty, and they’re alone.

Scar wanders inside, catching a sign marking this building as a ‘Museum’ and smiling to himself about it as he leans over the glass and inspects the contents inside more closely. Grian shuffles behind him, much more reserved. Together, they meander from display to display, but only for a handful of minutes before Grian abruptly disregards the space, classifying it as useless and urging them on.

“We can’t dawdle,” he insists, but there’s a reluctance to it, the words said cautiously, hyper-aware of the fragility of their dynamic.

“C’mon Grian,” Scar says, unable to help himself from getting a little caught up in the novelty of the place. “There’s always time for legitimate proof of an alien encounter.”

“There’s nothing legitimate here, Scar,” Grian sighs. “This is a lot of hokum and you know it.”

“They’re pretty persuasive totally-normal-looking rocks,” Scar counters, and the sigh it evokes from Grian warms something deep and satisfied within Scar’s chest.

In the past, he used to delight in the ways he could get Grian to heave a beleaguered sigh at his antics. Now, he tries to convince himself that he simply enjoys grating on Grian as much as Grian grates on him.

They leave the museum at as much of a snail’s pace as Scar can muster and cross a small paved courtyard between the buildings to enter what’s garishly labelled as The Extra Terrestrial Emporium and Gift Shop. This fares them slightly better, though not by much. The normal gas station fare is juxtaposed with more alien-themed tchotchkes than Scar thought existed in the world. On t-shirts, coffee mugs, shot glasses, fridge magnets and more—all have the classic bulging black eyes on a bulbous-shaped head, and disc-shaped flying saucers.

They help themselves to a display of local beef jerky, emptying the majority of it into a tote bag Grian pulls down off a display board next to some t-shirts and hoodies.

Next to the cash register there’s a slushie machine, which continues to churn despite days without any human interaction. The flavour is listed as Alien Green and a part of Scar wants to try it.

“Do you dare me?” He asks, nodding towards the neon green slush.

“I dare you not to,” Grian says, beleaguered.

A petty part of Scar wants to drink it to spite him, but he loathes the idea of food poisoning, imagining himself hunched over the side of the road with Grian condescendingly saying ‘I told you so’ while a shambling undead horde advances.

Instead, he takes a selection of puzzle books and crosswords off a wire rack. Things that will occupy time on the road and give them something to do outside of sitting in animosity and silence. He grabs a couple of pencils too, with alien shaped erasers on the end, as well as some other knick knacks that might come in handy, like a lighter with a bright green sun screen printed on the casing and a metal nail file with planets painted on the handle. It’s as he’s rummaging through a bin of discount plushies—all cheaply made and unravelling at their seams—that he spots it.

“Oh my god.”

The words escape him on instinct, a knee-jerk reaction as he abandons the toys and races to pick up the item that caught his eye.

It’s a disposable camera; the cheap plastic shell wrapped in green decal with the word FUJI printed on it in large capital letters.

“Grian.” He holds it up like a prize, something remarkable, every other emotion sliding away as he gets swept up in the novelty of his discovery. Even Grian looks excited, a grin of recognition spreading across his face as he steps closer.

“Haven’t seen one of those in years,” he says with the fondness of youthful nostalgia.

It’s true, Scar hasn’t either. Not since he was a teenager, away at summer camps and out on weekend trips. He remembers counting down how many photos he had left, mindful not to waste the limited roll of film. And yet they were always photos taken in haste regardless—washed out or reflecting too much light from the sun. That never mattered in the end though. Once they’d been developed they’d been precious snapshots to him all the same.

“I can’t even remember how these work,” Scar mumbles, turning the camera over in his hands, squinting at the tiny instructions on the back, and sighing when the letters swim in front of eyes, unreadable. He rips open the packaging, making note of the bold ‘27 photos’ marked on the front and committing it to memory as he marvels at how little of the camera’s design has changed in the decade since he last held one. “It shouldn’t be too hard to guess though, right?”

“You gotta wind it. Here—” Stepping forward, Grian inserts himself into Scar’s personal space without a second thought, deft hands taking the camera from him with familiar confidence. It sends a tension up Scar’s spine, an urge to back away crawling through him, but he resolutely shoves it aside. Instead, he watches Grian focus on the camera with his head bent, heedless of the stiffness that has crept into Scar’s posture; a rigid discomfort at having him so near.

Confident fingers advance the film, Grian popping up the flash prior to tilting the camera up at Scar, snapping a photo almost before he says the words.

“Say cheese.”

The camera clicks and Grian immediately passes it back to Scar, their palms brushing at the gesture. With the camera pressed into Scar’s hands, Grian’s focus slides easily, unaware of the subtle shift in the air. His attention alights like a bird as he gravitates towards a rotating rack of keychains and fridge magnets set next to a shelf of large, alien-head shaped mugs.

Scar feels a tingling in his fingertips, like an electric current running through him. It’s the first scrap of entertainment he’s had in days, the first thing they’ve done that’s been fun and not linked to survival and horror and grief. He’s near giddy with it, delighted by the simple accomplishment of taking a picture. Grian’s hands around the camera, the smile on his face prompting one of Scar’s own, even before he’d said the words…

He doesn’t want to admit it was nice. Doesn’t want to give Grian the kindness.

“Do they have our names?” he asks, forced-casual as he stays rooted in his spot, busying himself by winding the camera to line up the next photo.

“They never have our names,” Grian commiserates, distracted as he scans the keychains, letting them rattle together as he slowly turns the display. “Good news if you’re a Karl or a Dave or a Xelqua, though.”

“Oh good, we know plenty of them. Some souvenirs for the office.”

Grian scoffs absently and it’s enough mild approval that, out of habit, Scar pursues it. It’s better this way, he reasons. It’s better to keep the line of communication open and not let things stumble back into awkward, disjointed interactions between them. For better or worse, they only have each other after all.

“How ‘bout this, Grian?” He picks up a t-shirt that has ‘I went to Roswell and all I got was [censored by AREA 51]’ printed on it in neon green.

“Everything here is awful,” Grian says, rolling his eyes before he holds out his hand. “Here—give me the camera and I’ll take a picture of you with it.”

Scar can’t help himself, grinning as he passes it over to Grian. He doesn’t think as he holds the t-shirt up to his chest, winks at the camera, and waits for the click of the shutter. There’s no way they’ll be able to get the film developed. He's not even sure if these are memories he really wants to preserve. But he doesn't think about any of it, simply letting himself be led around the abandoned gift shop, posing for Grian when prompted, and chuckling together at the absurdity on display all around them.

He counts down the remaining photos, click after click after click, a force of habit. He tries not to dwell on how monumentally pointless it all feels now.

It’s only when Grian grabs his hand as they exit the gift shop that it all comes crashing down.

The fun fantasy of wandering through a store together, laughing and teasing like they used to do, abruptly shatters the moment Grian’s hand interlocks with his own. Suddenly Scar is thrown back into the foyer of the townhouse, the grim resignation on Grian’s face when he met him in the kitchen, the stranger standing on the stairs as Scar told him they were through—the stranger whose name Grian had murmured into his elbow while half asleep only an hour ago.

“Is there a timer on the camera?” Grian asks, smiling, swept up in the moment and oblivious to Scar’s abrupt change of mood. “Look, you can set it up here and we can go pose.”

He points excitedly to the lid of a trash can directly across from a plywood photo-op. On it, there are two gangly grey alien bodies standing in front of a flatly painted scene of the desert at night, a flying saucer glowing and hovering in the background. Holes have been cut in the painting where the alien’s faces would be, leaving gaps so that people can stand behind and stick their heads through. It’s the sort of thing they would have done as a couple, that Scar would have enthusiastically dragged Grian to, that they’d laugh and joke about looking at the pictures later.

Scar can’t stand the thought of doing it together now.

“This isn’t a date,” he remarks, blunt, noting the way Grian’s eyebrows fly up before he flinches and pulls his hand away. “I’ll hold the camera and take a picture of you, if you want.”

“No,” Grian replies quickly, cheeks flush with embarrassment that Scar can’t help but feel he deserves. “I was being stupid. Nevermind.”

Scar wants to drive the point home, but he can’t bring himself to muster up the effort for it. It’s a bad crash. He got too caught up in how much he was enjoying the moment, relieved at the sense of normalcy after everything they’d gone through. It lowered his guard. Stupid.

There’s no going back though—not to moments ago, and certainly not to how they used to be.

It’s all gone now. Completely erased.

“Alright then.” As easily as that, their lighthearted exploration is over. Scar shoulders what little they’ve pilfered from the gift shop and adjusts his hold on the axe before he starts back towards the car. “Let me know when you’re done looking around and we can go.”

He doesn’t look at Grian as he says it, opening the trunk and dividing their new supplies between the space there and the backseat. He hopes Grian takes more time to poke around the area. He wants to be alone.

Getting into the car, he pushes the passenger seat back and flattens it out as far as it’ll go before settling into it properly. He waits a minute, and then another, but thankfully Grian doesn’t show up. His impulse is to take a nap, but the only thing worse than falling asleep and being woken up by an irritable Grian, is falling asleep in a vulnerable place and waking up surrounded by a horde clamouring for his flesh, so he figures he’ll need something else to occupy his time.

After a moment of hesitation, he pulls out his phone again, staring at the black screen quietly. He’s been keeping it off to conserve battery, because who knows when he’ll ever have the chance to charge it again. He wants to get in the habit of checking it once a day, in case there’s any news from the people he still cares about. Bracing himself, Scar powers on the device, holding his breath as the lock screen appears—a picture of cats from a shelter he and Grian had visited together, back when Scar had dreamt about adopting one with him.

He types in his passcode.

There’s nothing.

No new alerts. No texts, no missed calls, not a word from anyone.

Heart heavy in his chest, Scar aimlessly scrolls through his last texts, as if somehow staring at them will make new ones appear. There’s people from work, people from the gym, the park, neighbours and strangers he met out on strolls—he’s always been charismatic, always been friendly, and somehow that just makes the isolation feel that much worse. A whole world of people at his fingertips, but not one still around to reply.

With a shaky breath, Scar dials Cub’s number and holds the phone to his ear. The same message from yesterday greets him. Mouth dry, and knowing it likely won’t be any different, he calls Pearl. Again, the same monotone voice. The same, ‘All circuits are busy.’

He needs air.

Despite wanting distance from Grian only moments ago, getting no response makes him feel more alone than ever, and Scar hops out of the car and walks back in the direction of the museum. He sees Grian sitting by the alien photo-op, his back to Scar, and it settles that anxiety in him about being alone. He considers approaching him, but ultimately decides against it.

Instead, Scar looks back up at the museum and all the hokey decorations surrounding it, and thinks of the disposable camera still in Grian’s hands. He remembers all his time spent on day trips and vacations with friends, good times filled with laughter. He pulls out his phone. It takes a bit of finagling, to get both himself, Grian’s back, and the Museum all lined up in one shot, but he manages it and takes a couple of selfies with a wry grin on his face. Satisfied with his results, he fires off the image to both Cub and Pearl.

‘Wish You Were Here,’ he writes, which is accurate and, at the same time, not nearly enough.

The images mark as delivered, but don’t change over to ‘read.’

“What are you doing?”

Scar jumps, startling and nearly dropping his phone as he fumbles it, clutching it tight to his chest.

“Grian! You nearly gave me a heart attack! You can’t just sneak up on a man like that in the middle of the apocalypse!”

Somewhat amused but still managing to look exhausted, Grian raises a brow at him, “Shouldn’t you be more aware of your surroundings? What if I’d been a zombie?”

“I’d have taken you out with the axe!”

“What axe?”

Opening his mouth to respond, Scar immediately snaps it shut again, remembering he’d dropped it off in the trunk with the rest of their supplies. Grian’s expression is smug and Scar has nothing but a sheepish shrug to offer in return. With a shake of his head, Grian turns away from him and walks towards the car.

“There’s nothing left for us here,” Grian calls back over his shoulder, “Let’s head out.”

Scar takes one last look down at his phone, at the selfie he took and texts he’d sent. He waits one second, and then another, but as the moments pass and no response comes, he gives in and powers the device down again.

He’ll try again tomorrow.

His long strides catch him up with Grian easily, and the two of them get back to the car in tandem.

“I think we should just stick to the road and keep driving through the state,” Grian says as he locks in his seatbelt. “We’ve got food, we’ve got a weapon, and we’ve got this car. It’s not worth stopping for anything but gas.”

Scar nods. “Still going north?”

“That’s the plan. We’ll make use of the daylight and get as far as we can before nightfall. We can trade off driving and keep an eye out for any places that might make a good camping spot as the sun sets.”

His voice is all practical and matter-of-fact. A natural born leader. Scar’s always been fond of that about him, and even now, after everything, he finds it a comfort more than anything else.

“We’ve been lucky so far,” Grian mumbles,taking the car back onto the road, “Not a soul blocking our routes, and only a handful of monsters to deal with.”

“Why do you think that is?” Scar muses.

“How do you mean?” Grian asks, checking over his shoulder out of habit as he merges onto the highway.

“Like… isn’t it strange that we’ve had no issues getting this far?”

“I wouldn’t call being attacked by zombies multiple times ‘no issues,’ Scar.”

“No, I mean,” Scar sighs, unsure how to phrase it. “Besides right at the start of all this, back at my place... we’ve had it relatively easy. I would’ve thought it would be worse, y’know? Cars backed up, blocked roads, massive wandering hordes of the undead… it just seems really quiet for the end of the world.”

“Are you saying you’re disappointed?” Grian laughs, bemused.

“Not disappointed, just… worried, I guess. Worried that this is it. That this is all there is.”

Just you and me and endless miles of road and no room to breathe, he thinks.

There’s a beat and then Grian prods, cautious. “Is this about Cub again?”

It is and it isn’t. Not exactly. Despite himself, the line of questioning gets his hackles up, but Scar takes a breath and relents, “I’m worried about him. About everyone we knew. Aren’t you?”

“No,” Grian retorts, blunt, his grip tightening around the steering wheel, brokering no argument. “We can’t waste time worrying about anyone else when we’re not safe yet, Scar.”

Scar stares at him. “You don’t mean that.”

Grian doesn’t respond, gaze fixed resolutely ahead as he continues to drive.

“Grian, come on. You’re worried too, I know you are.”

For all that Grian’s broken his heart in ways he never could’ve seen coming, Scar knows him. He’s had years to know him. And while Grian is great at putting up a tough front, Scar’s seen the anxiety, the stress, the insecurity and fear—he’s seen the worst of Grian; from the breakdowns to the cheating. Grian’s not made of stone. He’s more than capable of warmth and love and affection. If he hadn’t been, breaking up would’ve been so much easier.

Grian’s worried too. He’s just better than Scar is at compartmentalizing it.

Frustrated, Grian argues, “How I feel isn’t going to change anything, Scar. Getting emotional never helps. All it’s going to do is make it more difficult, and then where does that leave us? No. No, we have to stay focused. What’s important right now is going north and getting there in one piece. Everything else is secondary.”

Hearing Grian now, forcibly detaching himself from the life they’d lived for years, some part of Scar can almost understand it. He can almost see why Grian wouldn’t think twice before throwing water over all they built together. It’s just who he is in the face of things new and uncertain—flighty, like a bird.

“It’s early days yet,” Grian says, somber, and Scar knows it’s the end of the conversation. “Maybe this is just how these things happen—maybe we’re fortunate—but I don’t fancy being caught unaware when our luck runs out.”

Silence settles between them, nothing but the hum of the engine to fill the space. Wordless, Scar turns back in his seat and digs through the pile of knick-knacks he’d grabbed from the gift shop. With a crossword book in one hand, and a green pen with an alien shaped cap in the other, he settles back in his seat and starts in on a puzzle.

Grian glances over at him, but ultimately doesn’t say anything.

It’s for the best—Scar needs to focus.

Crosswords are a bitch with dyslexia.

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

It’s frustrating, at times, how disorganised the world has become.

Cosmically cruel, is how it feels. Because while the apocalypse brings its own chaos, there’s something else to it—something more. The fact that the world has chosen to fall apart right as Scar’s relationship crumbled seems too on the nose. Ironic, in a cold and callous way. It’s messy, it’s painful, and it hurts. His life unravelling as society slips into disarray all around them.

He and Grian have continued heading north as best they can, with the limited navigation skills they share between them. Mostly it means following the roads west in order to cross into the next state. The radio repeats the same message over and over—shelter in place, isolate, take only what you need with you to survive—so they press on with a single-minded, almost desperate focus. Rest stops are minimal, only taken when they can’t put off refuelling any longer.

They sleep as little as possible.

Outside the car, the familiar desert has transitioned into low hills covered in dry, weathered grass and the occasional scrubby cluster of short, leafy trees. Although he knows it’s only a matter of time before they hit the next stretch of desert when they pass through the Mojave, Scar appreciates the change in view. It’s distinctly different from the environment Scar is used to, and for the first time he feels like they’re actually getting somewhere—even if he’s not entirely sure where exactly they are getting to.

For the last ten or so hours, he and Grian have been switching off at the wheel, taking turns driving so neither of them gets too cramped or too complacent on the road. It’s nice to be able to take a break, but if Scar is being honest, no matter what they do, he feels anxious and uncomfortable. It’s gotten worse the further they’ve driven—the looming, impending anxiety. Though the roads remain mostly empty, they pass through the outskirts of small towns cautiously, and as quickly as possible.

They pass through without stopping because they have to. Because they have no choice.

They do it because it’s too dangerous to linger.

Because they’re everywhere, now.

They see them, hoards of them. The shambling bodies of people who aren’t people anymore. There haven’t been any altercations because they’ve kept their distance, but it’s impossible to ignore how many there are, in clusters and pairs and large, roving crowds. It gives Scar a sinking feeling. A fear he can’t escape.

He had hoped, somehow, that heading towards larger populations would’ve meant more coordination, more organisation, more chances of survival in the face of the outbreak. Instead, they pass through abandoned towns strewn with bodies and riddled with zombies, roaming aimlessly and seeming without motive. It’s as if every piece of media he’d ever consumed had it right– the devastation over only two short days is immeasurable.

It’s disheartening, and it’s terrifying.

Scar doesn’t know what they’re going to do.

“This is a mess,” Grian says from the passenger seat, stating the obvious. His arms are crossed tight over his chest, posture stiff, looking every bit as miserable as Scar feels. “What are we supposed to do here?”

They’re pulled off to the side of the road, surveying the entrance of a shopping mall. The sun set over an hour ago and they’re losing what’s left of the daylight. They have to find a place to park and camp for the night but… this isn’t it.

The building itself barely remains, only a fraction still standing, the rest collapsed in on itself in a mess of tilted rebar and masonry after what looks to have been a colossal fire. There’s no sign that anyone tried to stop it- no fire trucks, no barricades, no emergency response at all.

Aside from the blackened, tilted structure, everything else looks untouched and unaffected. The garden beds immaculate, cars left in orderly lines on the large stretch of parking lot.

Closer towards what once was the glass-faced front entrance, are dozens of wandering infected.

“We need gas,” Scar says, flat. He’s tired. His body aches and he feels filthy. He longs for a long shower and a proper bed, neither of which he’s going to get.

He’s not in the mood for Grian’s attitude right now.

“I hate malls,” Grian remarks, as if it’s remotely relevant to their situation right now.

“Well lucky for us we’re not here to window-shop.” The words come out meaner than Scar intends them to, and Grian bristles at his side.

“You’re in a mood today,” he grumbles, like he has a leg to stand on.

“I’m exhausted, Grian,” Scar sighs. “Let’s not do this right now.”

He parks next to a cluster of abandoned cars, as far from the group of corpses congregating towards the front of the mall as he can, and together they carefully sneak around and check them to find which will be the easiest to syphon from. Luckily, there’s a contender in the form of a cherry red convertible, which at least means they won’t have to creep any closer to the wandering ghouls.

With now practiced ease, Scar dips the hose into the tank and tries to ignore how illicit the activity still feels. He can’t shake himself loose from mentally bracing for an accusatory shout every time he pries off a stranger’s gas cap, expecting someone to ask what the hell he’s doing, or threaten to call the police.

Part of him longs for it. The grounding normalcy of a stranger's accusation to prove he’s not alone.

While Scar fills up their jerry can, keeping a wary eye on their surroundings lest they be caught off guard, Grian walks the short distance back to their car and pops open the trunk. Scar glances towards him for a moment, watching Grian as he rifles through their supplies. It’s been several days of gas station junk food and snacks, and Scar longs for something more substantial. He feels grimy, every inch of him uncomfortable.

At this point, he’d settle for just brushing his teeth.

“I wish I had a toothbrush,” he voices aloud, conversational as the gas can continues to fill.

“Why?” Grian asks, bristling slightly in that instantly defensive way he’s had ever since they escaped Scar’s apartment together. Scar gives him a moment, and when the question properly settles into him, Grian’s shoulders relax. It takes him a second to consider it, unwrapping a granola bar and chewing on it before he offers, “You can use mine.”

It’s a stupid thing to get paranoid about, and Scar knows it. But he’s dirty, his body aches, and he’s not at his best right now. There’s literally nothing to read into—in fact, if anything, Grian is being uncommonly generous.

It’s stupid to spur an otherwise kind offer. And yet…

“Since when do you share your toothbrush?” Scar can’t help himself from asking, a snap in his words that has no reason to be there.

“What?” Grian begins to respond, caught entirely off guard.

“Did you share yours with ‘B’?”

It comes out sounding hostile, saying the name Grian called in his sleep.

It is hostile.

There’s no reason to drag him into this. A dead man Scar will never properly meet. It’s unnecessary. Petty.

Grian looks as shocked as Scar is that he said it. But Scar doesn’t regret it. It’s out there now, and Grian’s wide eyes and hand clutched tight around the remainder of his granola bar don’t offer any excuses.

Roughly, Scar yanks the hose up out of the gas tank he’s syphoning from, twisting the cap back in place before he hefts the jerry can and carries it back towards the car.

“Well?” He prompts, looking pointedly at Grian as he goes about refilling their car.

Grian doesn’t look upset; doesn’t look angry either. He casts his eyes away as Scar stares him down, colour rising to his cheeks as he chews the last bite of granola bar and swallows it.

It might as well be confirmation, as far as Scar is concerned.

It’s not about the toothbrush. Not really. But Grian’s silence speaks volumes.

“I’ll take the bad breath and tooth decay then, thanks,” Scar chirps, more cheerful than he has any need to be, tipping the jerry can up at an angle to wring out the last drops of fuel. When it’s empty he pulls the spout back, holding it out towards Grian, murderously bright as he says, “Your turn.”

It’s not unfair. It takes more than one fill from the can to raise the fuel gauge in the car. If they want to travel any real distance without stopping to syphon again, it’s best to do it all here now, while they have an abundance of cars around them and the relative safety to do so.

It just sounds snide and nasty the way he vocalises it with weaponised cheer, passing the jerry can into Grian’s unenthusiastic hands– and it sounds that way because it is. Though Scar’s never been the confrontational type, he’s not a pushover either. He’s always been able to sweet talk would-be aggressors, and deter bad-faith encounters with a little mirthful sarcasm; barbed words coated in honey—a warning to anyone underestimating him.

No, his reaction to being slighted isn’t new, it’s just that he’s never had a reason to turn those skills in Grian’s direction before.

To his credit, Grian doesn’t say anything haughty in return. Doesn’t put up a fight or resist. Instead he gives Scar a clipped, tight nod and turns away, walking to the furthest car in their corner of the parking lot as he retreats to lick his proverbial wounds.

It gives Scar a moment to feel and a moment to breathe.

Not for the first time, he wishes he had the company of someone—anyone—else. Even if it wasn’t a close friend like Cub or Pearl, it would just be nice to have companionship from someone who he isn’t at odds with. He doesn’t enjoy arguing, and he’d much rather spend the little down time they have relaxing instead of lashing out over ridiculous things that don’t actually matter.

Honestly, now that the moment has passed, he feels the predictable and immediate rush of remorse for attacking Grian like that. It’s not that Grian doesn’t deserve it. As far as Scar’s concerned, he’s been kinder about this whole situation than most others would be. It just seems… pointless. It’s silly to be affronted by the prospect of shared toothbrushes when the world’s been turned upside down.

He’s just got all these building emotions with nowhere to put them. He can’t talk it through with a friend, he can’t get distance, he can’t untangle the mess in his head through any healthy means, so here he is instead, taking it out on the person who caused them in the first place. It’s not the way he would have chosen to do this had he any say in the matter. It’s not the person he wants to be.

Still.

He’s not going to apologise for it.

He continues turning over his reaction, feeling it gross and wormy but objectively not wrong in his chest, until the trunk, left open by Grian, catches his eye. It’s a mess, things haphazardly shoved in with haste and no consideration for order or accessibility. It’s not in Scar’s nature to organise, but his squabble with Grian mollifies him a bit. Sorting through things can be his non-apology. Something that’ll benefit the both of them.

He finds himself arranging their supplies, methodical and slow. Once he’s gotten started, it’s easy, just putting the most often used things within arms reach and the lesser used items at the back. He hums and haws over the axe for a moment, not sure if having it too close might mean accidentally cutting himself while grabbing a snack, but ultimately decides to leave it within easy grabbing distance. A little extra insurance, just in case.

It’s as he’s cleaning that he wonders if maybe he could just use a little toothpaste to freshen up. Even if he doesn’t use Grian’s toothbrush, he figures rubbing some paste on his teeth and gums will do better than doing nothing at all. At the very least it’ll make him feel more put together.

However, it quickly becomes clear that none of Grian’s toiletries are in the trunk, so once the last of the supplies are sorted, Scar shuts the truck and pulls open the back door of the car. He might as well air out the nest of blankets that Grian has piled into the back seat while he’s at it, searching for wherever his things are squirrelled away.

Scar’s bent over, pushing aside empty cans and food wrappers from the floor of the car, when he spots it.

Not a toothbrush, not a tube of toothpaste.

A used condom wrapper—gold, foil and square, torn open along its side.

It’s laying down beneath the driver’s seat, in a place that would be easy to miss if someone wasn’t actively searching for it. Scar picks it up, feeling crushingly numb all over.

He inspects it mutely.

It’s not a brand he’s ever bought before.

Not that he needs the confirmation to know whose it is. He and Grian have never messed around in Grian’s car. Scar’s too broad and tall for the back seat—contorting that way would do a number on his joints, his chronic pain making it basically impossible. It had never been an issue, though. They’d talked about it once, on a whim, and Grian had said that he wasn’t interested in things like that anyway. Too old, now. Too mature. Not one for college-age shenanigans in sweaty cramped back seats.

It hurts more than anything to know that had just been another lie.

Spiralling, Scar can’t help but wonder how many more lies there are. How far back it all goes. And—with a sick twist of his gut—he wonders how much of Grian’s cheating was motivated by exactly this. The desire to be with someone who could do all the things Scar simply couldn’t. Someone who didn’t feel the muscles cramps and exhaustion. Someone who didn’t have the bad days. Someone who woke up and got out of bed each and every morning, and never had to wrestle or compromise with their body and what it could manage at any given time.

Panic tightens his chest. Negativity shrouding him in darkness, cloying and thick in his throat, making it hard to breathe. The guilt. The fact that maybe this was his fault.

That maybe he deserved this.

He tenses painfully, fingernails biting so hard into his palm he can feel the sting of his skin splitting under the pressure.

There’s a loud scuffing of feet coming up behind him, and Scar jolts up and out of the car, heart thudding rancorously behind his ribcage, loathsome discovery cut short.

It’s not a zombie. His immediate fear congealing into a revelation far worse. Just Grian, dragging the soles of his sneakers against the pavement as he trudges back towards the car, the gas can thumping against his leg as he walks. It’s performative, and if Scar was being generous he’d think Grian was trying to lighten the mood. A little slapstick pantomime in an attempt to make him smile. However Scar can barely pull himself together quick enough to appear neutral, much less appreciative of his theatrics.

Scar pushes the condom wrapper into his back pocket, turning to meet Grian, who blows out an overdramatic breath as he drops the gas can at his feet. The noise it makes sounds hollow, and it only takes a second for Scar to realise that Grian hasn’t returned with anything.

“We aren’t the first people to think of this,” Grian says, matter-of-fact. “They’re empty already. All of ‘em. Unless we want to search through the cars near the horde up front…”

They turn towards the entrance to the mall in tandem. The corpses continue to shamble around aimlessly, heedless of the way the light has faded from the sky and the temperature around them cools. They’re still oblivious to Grian and Scar’s presence, and it’s best to keep it that way.

Grian sighs, resting a hand on the hood of their car as he mourns, “If we can’t refuel her we’re gonna have to leave her behind.” He’s being over the top in his sadness, lower lip pouting as he speaks. Scar knows he’s doing it intentionally, trying to clear the air between the two of them with an attempt at levity. In any other situation it might work, but Scar’s in no mood for it right now.

“Poor Ariana,’ Grian continues, sounding genuinely crestfallen in amidst his theatrics. “She’s got so many good memories attached to her…”

Scar doesn’t know what to say or how to react. He’s still processing, still holding back a tide of emotions that threatens to overwhelm him. There’s just no ounce of strength in him left to respond to Grian’s obliviously tone-deaf behaviour. In the face of all they’ve gone through, after all Scar’s lost, mourning his car, of all things. It feels like a slap on the face of everything else he’s had to deal with.

Unaware, Grian merely sighs nostalgically. “I got her when I was still studying at uni. She’s been through so much with me… God, actually, I think I drove home from my first date with you in this car.”

It’s entirely too much. Scar can’t handle it.

Can’t cope with Grian waxing poetic over his fond memories while Scar stands with further evidence of his cheating burning a hole in his pocket.

“We should go,” he says, brusque, ignoring the way Grian looks at him, surprised and put out, like Scar’s ruined some grand gesture he was trying to make. “We can’t camp here, and we’ve already lost our daylight. We’ll have to find somewhere else to stop on the fuel that we’ve got.”

“Maybe we’ll find somewhere else to syphon along the way,” Grian suggests, optimistic as he packs the gas can back into the trunk, oblivious or intentionally ignoring the edge in Scar’s tone.

Scar hopes they don’t.

He has a good mind to use what little fuel they have left to drive them headfirst into a wall.

They resume driving in silence with Grian at the wheel. Scar can’t focus enough to give another puzzle book a try, so he returns to apathetically staring out the window. It gives him a chance to fester, the deep well of hurt within him mixing with an ugly bitterness and a growing revolt. He feels trapped, now, confined to a car that’s been defiled who knows how many times.

He can’t help himself. Can’t help but wonder how often Grian said goodnight to him, left his apartment, and slipped out to meet up with another man. Had it been months of this? Had he come to expect that Scar would leave him unsatisfied? Is that why it started? Was it just sex, or had it blossomed, ugly, into something more?

Scar wants to ask. Wants to grab the wheel and pull them off to the side of the road and demand Grian give him answers until he has no questions left to ask. But the thought of hearing his worst fears laid bare stops him. He doesn’t think he can handle having Grian tell him plainly that he lacked in ways he could never physically overcome.

It terrifies him.

So he keeps his mouth shut and stews in the rot of his own misery, letting it swallow him whole.

They’re alone in the darkness on the highway when the fuel gauge starts to ding. Scar watches, detached, from the corner of his eye as the tension begins to creep into Grian’s shoulders. The slow realisation that their luck, such as it were, is running out settles on Grian visibly, heavy and inescapable.

“It’s not fair,” Grian shouts abruptly, loud, frustrated, and angry, slamming his palm on the steering wheel and breaking the silence they’ve shared since they left the burnt mall parking lot. “We have so many supplies! Our water! Our gear! We can’t possibly carry it all! Everything we own is in this car—”

“Everything you own,” Scar mumbles, pedantic to a fault.

“Do you really want to do this right now?” Grian snaps, bristling at the apparent audacity of Scar daring to point out the truth. “They were my things because you were making me take them, remember. But I feel like it’s reasonable to say they’re ours now, considering the—considering… bloody hell, just look around, Scar!”

He makes a gesture with his hand, taking in the state of the world around them.

“I don’t know what you want,” Grian continues, irritable, like he’s the one who has any right to be offended. “I don’t know why you’re short with me one second, and fine the next, but like it or not we’re all we’ve got right now– so we can split hairs and dither over which of us has it worse, or we can get it together, because I don’t know if you’ve realised, but without a car this is going to be so much harder for us.”

There’s a sharpness to him, an undercurrent that Scar has never heard before.

Grian’s been frustrated with him before—annoyed, blowing out his breath and rolling his eyes more times than Scar can count. He’s never gotten angry with him though. Not to the degree that he is now. It stirs something in Scar, something vindictive. The nerve of him to imply that Scar’s the problem here, that he’s the one making this difficult.

“Alright,” he says simply. Petulantly. Filing all his simmering defiance away for later.

Grian nods his head; a single, rough jerk of a motion, his hands settling back on the steering wheel, fingers flexing to grip it white-knuckle tight.

“Alright,” he agrees with finality.

They resume driving in silence, a cold animosity settling between them until the periodic ding of the gas gauge becomes a more frequent, insistent alert.

There’s no other option. They haven’t come across a single car or gas station.

Reluctantly, Grian takes an exit off the main road, following the signs in a too-quiet area towards a regional park. It doesn’t take long before they’re turning into an open area with an empty gravel parking lot surrounded on all sides by tall, towering trees. It’s one of those nice, tame parks, tucked safe within the city limits. A large sign posted at the entrance illustrates the abundance of walking paths and green spaces for ball games and family picnics. It’s the kind of place people go to jog and teach their kids how to ride a bike. It feels safe.

They know enough by now to understand that it isn’t.

“I don’t want to stay here for the night,” Grian says, brokering no argument as he scans for a place to permanently park the vehicle. “It’s too close to the city and too open. We’ll get swarmed before we even know it. We just need to pack up as much of our stuff as we can carry and get going before we attract any attention.”

Past the signs and by the trees, Scar can see a lake large enough for swimming and paddle boats, the surface of the water illuminated by the moonlight overhead.

It sparks an idea.

“Wait, wait—park it by the lake,” he insists, sitting up in his seat. Before Grian can dismiss his suggestion, he offers an explanation. “We’ll be able to see anything approaching better from the light reflected on the water.”

The look Grian gives him is dubious at best, but he complies at least, driving up over the grass and stopping a few feet from the edge of the lake. Maybe he does it because he’s glad Scar isn’t giving him the cold shoulder anymore. Maybe he’s already lost to the grief of leaving his car behind. Whatever the case, Scar can’t stop the strange excitement bubbling in his chest as they both sit and stare out at the water through the windshield.

“I think we should have a funeral,” Scar announces. “If we have to say goodbye to her, we should pay our respects.”

He’s prepared for a heavy sigh and a roll of the eyes.

Instead, he’s met with silence. When he turns to look, Grian is staring at him with a sort of vulnerable tenderness in his eyes. The expression of someone who’s being given something that means a lot to them.

Scar tries not to let it get to him.

“Yeah. I… I like the sound of that,” Grian says at last, nodding.

The process of unpacking the car is a tedious one, but Scar’s earlier sorting makes it easier to decide what to keep, at least. With no clothes and barely any survival supplies, their key focus is on portioning out the food and deciding what’s going to get left behind. They’d pulled backpacks out of a camper van they’d found tipped over at the side of the highway—smeared in blood but with no sign of any bodies—hundreds of miles ago, and those come in handy now, packed full with as much as they can manage.

Without making a big deal about it, Grian ends up hefting the heavier of the two bags onto his shoulders. He adjusts the straps so that they hug his body and don’t droop, settling the weight properly on his hips so that he’ll be able to walk without feeling overburdened. He grabs the axe too, and Scar doesn’t stop him, too busy setting the car in neutral and making his own final preparations. When Scar steps back, he takes a good long look at Grian, who’s staring at his car, visibly upset, the reality of having to leave it behind clear on his face.

“She was a good car,” Scar says as he straightens up, taking a deep breath and speaking from his chest. He sounds as sombre as he does formal, speaking just as he would at a real funeral. “It may be true that I only knew Ariana for a few years—I met her one stormy night, when she and Grian gave me a ride home rather than forcing me to walk in the rain—but I cared for her all the same. She was truly up for anything, be it a late-night drive or a weekend adventure. And I’ll never forget the smell of her Sahara Rift air freshener, whatever that label means. She always got us where we needed to go… except right now, of course, what with her empty gas tank and all.”

“Scar,” Grian hisses, but it’s lighthearted, and Scar can see him smothering a grin even as he says it.

“What matters is, we will miss her,” Scar continues, clearing his throat as he gets back on track, Grian bowing his head mournfully as he plays along. “… And her broken cup holder that Grian never found the time to fix. And her CD player that ate every disc we ever tried to listen to.”

“Except for Christmas Cats volume 2,” Grian adds.

“Except for Christmas Cats volume 2,” Scar amends, nodding in agreement.

They stand in silence for a moment, Grian’s hands clasped in front of him while Scar tucks his own into his jacket pockets, one hand closing around the small, foil wrapper.

“Maybe you’d like to say a few words,” he suggests, prompting Grian in a way that seems to genuinely surprise him.

“Oh,” Grian says, eyebrows rising. “Yeah. I should, shouldn’t I?”

He takes a moment to collect himself, twisting his fingers together as he rubs his thumb absently over his knuckles before he opens his mouth and speaks.

“I bought Ariana because I needed a car,” he says simply. “I chose her because she was fuel efficient and in my budget.”

Scar snorts at that and Grian smiles.

He pauses, taking a long, reluctant breath. “I always felt it was a bit silly to care about a car—which is just a thing, and doesn’t have feelings—but I’m pretty sad right now, so I guess I cared about her more than I realised. She was always reliable and got me where I needed to go. For every milestone in my life, Ariana was there, costing me a fortune in parking tickets because I just fundamentally don’t believe anyone should have to pay for the privilege of parking at the side of the same bloody road we all drive on.”

“Here, here!” Scar enthuses, egging Grian on as he inches closer to the vehicle.

“Thank you for everything you did for me, Ariana—namely getting me from Point A to Point B. I’m sorry I hit a zombie with you… and a squirrel that one time. And also got too drunk that New Years that Scar had to drive me home and I threw up in you.” Grian bows his head, contrite. “Goodbye.”

Together, they take a moment of silence.

It’s as Grian is still taking a moment to reflect that Scar makes his move.

The click of a lighter sounds loud in the silence. Grian’s head snaps up, immediate, but it’s already too late. Effortlessly, Scar rolls the igniter with his thumb as he steps forward, opening the back door and dropping it on the seat. It lands on top of a tinder pile of crumpled papers and forgotten receipts, all left intentionally by Scar when they were unloading.

The flame catches fast—faster than Scar had anticipated, spreading quickly from the point of ignition as it flares up over the upholstery.

“Scar… Scar, what—” The stunned horror from Grian is satisfying enough in its own way.

Scar doesn’t respond, simply smiling as he walks back to the trunk and pushes the car with all his might, its roll forward made easier by the gear he’d left it in and the gradual slope of the ground underneath its wheels. He stops it just at the edge of the lake, where one final shove will send it over. It’s there that Scar steps back, watching passively as the flames lick up the back seat with a hungry crackle, orange light spilling from the windows. Grian remains mute, eyes fixed on him, horrified, stricken, and dismayed.

Scar waits until the fire is past the point of extinguishing before he reaches into his other pocket and pulls out the condom wrapper, gold, open, and accusing as its foil catches the fire light. He makes sure to hold it up. Makes sure that Grian sees it. He keeps eye contact, smile fixed on his face even when Grian’s eyes widen in recognition.

And then, he reaches out and tosses it into the flames, letting the fire swallow it in its destruction.

Finally turning away from Grian, Scar braces both hands on the quickly warming trunk of the car and gives it a decisive push into the water, something maliciously content settling in his chest.

“Viking funeral,” he says, flat.

There’s nothing. No argument, no fervorous reaction. Grian stands in place as Scar returns to his side, watching as the flames grow, consuming the car, a beacon in the growing gloom of the evening. They crackle loud and ominous, metal creaking and airbags popping from the heat. The car won’t sink immediately, maintaining buoyancy in the water, shallow beneath its wheels, so Scar takes a minute to enjoy the heat and light that comes with a job well done.

When the imminent threat of a signalling bonfire outweighs the satisfaction of watching the car burn, Scar sighs and bends down, lifting up his backpack and hefting it onto his shoulders before he glances over at Grian, who’s staring at him like he’s seeing him for the very first time. Scar lays on the sweetness as thick as he can manage.

“All those memories, eh? Bye bye!”

There’s something concentrating in Grian. A vitriol ready to burst.

“We’d better get going,” Scar explains, eyes cold behind his smile as he turns away from the bonfire. “A lightshow like this is bound to attract some unsavoury attention. They’ll be out here in droves before you know it.”

It’s mean, but he feels like he’s allowed that. An eye for an eye.

Justified.

Grian takes a moment longer to process, staring dumbstruck at the fire before he turns on Scar, shoulders hunched and tone furious as he spits out, livid, “Scar.”

“We don’t have time for dramatics,” Scar says, aloof in a way he can tell slides under Grian’s skin like a papercut. “Every zombie in the area is on high alert right now. Either we do couples counselling or we leave while we can, you decide.”

Behind the two of them the flames roar, brighter and hotter than Scar had anticipated they would be. It sends a prickle of adrenaline up his spine, an exhilaration he enjoys more than he fears. Beside him, Grian casts one more glance back at his car—at the beacon and pyre it’s become—before he angrily twists his fingers into his backpack straps, straightening his shoulders as he stomps ahead of Scar, head bent and refusing to engage in any sort of interaction with him.

“Good choice,” Scar needles, loud enough for Grian to hear.

The flames are warm against his back as he sets out, following in Grian’s wake.

He doesn’t look back.

Grian doesn’t either.

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

Grian wakes up to a stiff neck and aching shoulders.

He feels a lot older than thirty. Forty-five at the very least.

The morning air is dewey as he slowly uncurls from the mess of blankets he’s buried under. It takes him a moment to reorient himself, his brain struggling to catch up with the reality of where he finds himself—not in his bed, not on his sofa, not even in his backyard hammock. He’s sleeping on the bed of a pickup truck, tucked down safely out of the eyeline of any meandering ghoul, everything he owns in the world is stuffed into a backpack settled at his feet, and Scar—

“Scar?”

His voice catches in his throat, rough with the earliness of the hour as he sits up and looks around.

He remembers now. They’d been walking, leaving behind the flaming wreck that had formerly been his beloved car, her smoke a twisting plume that rose up like a spire into the sky. Grian’s initial fury with Scar had tempered into a grudging tolerance once he’d realised that by setting the car on fire, Scar had successfully drawn the attention of every zombie in the area. It had left them entirely unbothered as they walked west towards the sunset. Almost like he’d planned it that way.

With the sun having set in the steady advance of mid-autumn, and no light reflected off the water to help them see along the way, they’d eventually had to agree they couldn’t progress any further until dawn. They’d chosen the back of a pickup to sleep, for lack of anywhere else to shelter. Abandoned on the side of the road, its windows smashed, enough dried blood smeared along the side of it to paint a clear picture—it was as good as they were going to get in the circ*mstances, and beggars couldn’t be choosers. Grian had offered to take the first watch, seeing the weariness around Scar’s eyes and something deep inside wanting to relieve him of it.

Why though, when Scar had just destroyed something that meant the world to him? Any act for which he’d shown no remorse, no sympathy at all.

Out of guilt, maybe. Out of some sentiment clinging at the back of his mind that insisted he owed it to Scar to help out; that it was the least he could do. Or something like that anyhow.

He’d been trying not to think about everything that had happened, and he certainly wasn't about to start now. Not when even a moment’s distraction could mean the difference between life and death.

They’d eaten a simple, cold dinner, not daring to light a fire. Afterwards, Scar had dropped off to sleep almost immediately. The sound of his breathing, heavy in the dark, had been a comfort to Grian as he’d sat up, staring out into the night. It had been something reliable in its repetition, calming his heart while he periodically checked the soft, backlit, LCD glow of his wristwatch, unsure what he’d do if something were to actually happen.

He’d dozed off roughly an hour and a half into his watch, and only his own nodding head pitching down into his chest had woken him. He’d snapped up, disoriented and panicky, doing a quick once-over of their surroundings to ensure his impromptu nap hadn’t cost them their safety.

He’d tossed a guilty look back in Scar’s direction afterwards. Anxiety bruising his conscience at the reality of having betrayed his trust. Again.

The thought, ‘what Scar doesn’t know won’t hurt him,’ felt a little too on the nose, but he’d swallowed it down anyway.

He’d restlessly rubbed at his eyes before patting his cheeks to force himself awake. The next few hours had passed slowly, and it was a relief when he’d finished the final minutes of his watch and been able to wake Scar. He’d taken over without protest, seemingly bright and alert the moment he opened his eyes. Grian had gratefully hunkered down into their single bed roll, still warm from Scar’s body heat, with a wool blanket Scar had taken from the farm layered on top of it, and his arms under his head to make a pillow.

He’d fallen asleep faster than he had in years. Deep and dreamless.

It’s just a shame that waking up hadn’t cured him of his utter exhaustion, body and soul.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Scar chirps, and if he’s tired he doesn’t show it. His voice has the forced bright quality it takes on when he’s trying to prove a point. “All rested up?”

“I could sleep for at least another eleven hours,” Grian admits, rubbing the muscle in his shoulder to work out an ache before it has the chance to settle any deeper. “Anything exciting happen while I was out?”

“Oh yeah, we were jumped by at least thirty googlers. I dispatched ‘em bare handed, though. So you’re welcome.”

Grian wants to smile and shake his head at Scar’s mispronunciation; wants to at least pretend to play into his joke. He can’t feign the emotion though, the events of last night still weighing on him, so he merely nods, neutral, working his shoulder for a moment longer before he pulls his backpack towards him and starts rooting around for anything that can serve as breakfast.

“We’ll get going in a minute,” he states, matter of fact, and if Scar’s shoulders drop slightly, Grian pretends not to notice. “There’s no use sitting around just waiting to be found.”

It takes twenty minutes for Grian to pull himself together, chewing his way through a protein bar and a piece of beef jerky before he packs up their sleeping bag and shifts his backpack onto his shoulders. There’s nothing to do but continue walking in the direction they’d been driving, and Grian doesn’t feel he has to explain the plan as he climbs off the back of the truck and begins walking along the shoulder of the road.

“No stretches?” Scar asks, conversational as he falls into step beside him, more cheerful than he has any right to be considering their situation. “You’re going to turn your calves into string cheese that way.”

“I’ll be fine,” Grian grunts, and it’s clearly not worth the hair-splitting because Scar shrugs and lets it slide.

There’s a mood between them, a simmering tension ready to fracture and erupt at any moment. Grian feels, in a word, bad. Like overworked dough or underproofed bread. It’s like a key ingredient of him is missing, and he wishes he could lay in bed and nurse it until it smoothed itself away. That’s not an option, though, not in the middle of an apocalypse. So he broods as they walk, hoping Scar can read his body language well enough to leave him alone.

“We should talk about something,” Scar suggests instead, his timing catastrophically poor.

“What would you suggest?”

“I don’t know…” Scar says, shrugging. “Maybe what our plan is now that we no longer have a car?”

Scar’s tone is conversational; frustratingly up-beat. He chats like they’re discussing the weather or he's describing a friendly cat he met.

It sets off the short fuse in Grian’s patience.

“We don’t have a car because you set it on fire, Scar,” he snaps, angry.

Grian’s never been good at putting on a brave face. He can’t act like things are fine when they’re not. A part of him had always admired how Scar could smile no matter the situation. Though recently, more and more of Grian resents him for it. Bitterly.

“I set it on fire to honour its memory, Grian.” Scar is wide-eyed and guileless, blinking at him in surprise. Grian’s stomach twists at the obvious mockery, unused to being on the receiving end of Scar’s honeyed sarcasm. “That car meant a lot to you, it was only fair we found a way to pay our respects to it, don’t you think?”

Grian keeps his voice low, like a warning. “I don’t want to play this game with you right now.”

There’s a beat. Abruptly, Scar stops and faces him, expression leveling out, the false cheer in his voice evaporating in an instant. “You and I both know you had him in that car with you. So forgive me for indulging in a little bit of old-fashioned cleansing with fire.”

It stings to hear it, the confirmation that Scar knows what he did. Guilt and humiliation curl rotten and searing hot in Grian’s chest. He wants to deny it, but there’s no point in lying, not now. He knows there’s nothing he can say, not when the world is falling apart around them and there are more important things to focus on.

It doesn’t matter in the end. He’s not talking about it.

Scar doesn’t expect him to, anyway.

Bitterly, Grian grips his backpack straps and stomps ahead. It’s better this way—putting space between them as they both struggle to calm their emotions. He just wishes his body’s response to being overwhelmed wasn’t to well up with hot, stinging tears that bite incriminatingly at the corner of his eyes.

For the better part of an hour they walk in silence, Grian keeping himself resolutely ahead of Scar. It feels terrible, and it’s not for the physical exertion of it. Without the protective shell of the car insulating them, the end of the world feels much more apparent. For days, as they’d driven through the desert, it hadn’t felt like much around them had changed. The absence of other people was unusual, but hadn’t felt too alarming, and the hours of dead radio had felt just like any other time they’d gone out of signal range.

Now, with society crowded up all around them, it truly feels like the world is over.

The wreckage all around them is unavoidable and seemingly endless. Cars and trucks piled up on the roads in a jumble of twisted metal and shattered glass. Entire neighbourhood blocks burnt down to nothing. In some places they see police barricades and pieces of riot gear, but everything bears the marks of chaos and disarray.

At one point they pass the open field of a high school and see a helicopter crumpled into what used to be the school’s baseball diamond, co*ckpit shattered, propellers dug deep into the earth.

The worst part is the bodies.

They’re everywhere, in numbers too high to count. Grotesque, mutilated corpses, torn apart and left in pieces on the pavement and spread across lawns. If there are survivors, they aren’t anywhere nearby. They see no signs of them.

They don’t see anyone living at all.

In his silence, walking out ahead, alone, Grian can’t help but wonder how things could have gone wrong in such a short time. Had it really taken only a handful of days for everything they knew to collapse? Surely there had to be people fighting somewhere still—pushing back the ghouls and setting up safe zones for survivors.

There had to be more left than these mile-long stretches of total devastation and nothingness.

It’s eerie. At the very least, Grian was expecting the undead to be wandering aimless in incalculable numbers. However, as they continue to walk he sees no signs of them, either. It feels foolish to jinx it and ask where they are, but he can’t escape the creeping dread that the world has become an enormous ghost town, and that the two of them, alone, have been left to pick their way across the ruins forever without a clear destination.

It doesn’t help that Grian feels the furthest he’s ever felt from Scar. Their animosity curls sour between them, masked like an afterthought by Scar’s forced-easy demeanour that only serves to bear down on Grian like a weight. He wants Scar’s familiar affable reassurance. He wants a warm hand on his shoulder, pulling him close in a comforting embrace. He wants Scar’s voice, mumbled soft against his hair, telling him things will be alright.

Instead, all he gets is Scar's emotional distance.

He doesn’t know how Scar feels about the hellscape they’re wandering through, watching him hum to himself, seemingly at peace with their situation. He tries, desperately, to seek comfort in that; to let the repetitive tune push away the noisy static in his head. After a dozen or so tries, he actually manages to get the hang of it, body and mind relaxing.

And then Scar stops humming, heaving a gasp so abrupt it startles a yelp out of Grian on instinct.

“Scar! What on earth—”

“Grian,” Scar says, eyes fixed ahead. “We have to go.”

Heart in his throat, panic seizing his chest, Grian whirls to face what Scar is looking at. He’s expecting carnage on a level they’ve yet to see. He’s expecting a band of zombies shambling towards them, innumerable, with nowhere safe for them to hide.

What he doesn’t expect is for Scar to be staring at a road sign staked on the shoulder of the highway, a list of places of interest marked in large white capital letters.

The name ‘DISNEYLAND’ is second on the list.

Grian feels his panic dissolve in an instant.

“You have got to be f*cking kidding me.”

“Grian—”

“No.”

“It’s only seven miles.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I’ve always wanted to go. I’ve been telling you for years.”

“You can’t be serious, Scar!”

Any other time, Scar’s needling might have been amusing, might’ve been cute even. But the audacity of him to think they have time for this—for sightseeing at the end of humanity as they know it—Grian’s voice pitches up, rising into the vehement tone he uses when he’s determined.

“I said no. And I quite honestly can’t believe you think it sounds sane to even suggest it.”

He’s firm, and it’s usually enough to dissuade Scar from pushing any further.

This time, however, Scar pushes back.

Hard.

“I can safely say you owe me this,” he says, flat and far harsher than Grian is used to hearing him sound.

He recoils. “You can’t—you’re seriously bringing that up for Disneyland?”

“I think I’ve earned the right to bring it up whenever I want to,” Scar replies, cool.

It incenses Grian further.

“Scar—don’t act like I’m doing this to be petty!” He snaps, voice pitching up into a shout. “Of all the stupid things—there are zombies, Scar! There are corpses walking about everywhere, and you want to go deeper into one of the most populated places in the country for—for what? A theme park? What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that maybe I’ll just go without you.”

The words send a chill up Grian’s spine, closing his mouth as he stares at Scar’s entirely indifferent expression.

It’s a bluff. He knows it is. Scar hates being alone, maybe even more than Grian does. He wouldn’t split off from him without another soul around for miles, it’s unthinkable. And yet…

That doesn’t reassure him. Doesn’t stop fear and dismay from gripping tight around Grian’s heart. Squeeze, squeeze, squeezing it until it feels like he can barely breathe.

It must show on his face how stricken he is, because Scar’s expression softens.

“Cub told me the parks had shut down. We didn’t know why at the time, of course, but… they’ve been closed. I doubt there was anyone there other than a handful of maintenance staffers when things went sideways, and they weren’t going to stay at their post and go down with the ship… I don’t think going there will be any more or less dangerous than us being out here in the open, wandering down the middle of the freeway.”

Grian doesn’t respond, taking Scar’s words in and trying desperately to see the sense in them.

He breathes in and out through his nose, calming his racing pulse as best he can.

“I just want to look,” Scar adds, a gentler bargain than Grian deserves. “See the castle from a distance, take a peek at the front gates… we’re heading in that direction anyway.”

Grian chews at the inside of his mouth, struggling against the tide of petulance that rises up to battle the despair within him; the dismal sense that he’s already lost. That he lost the moment Scar saw the road sign in the first place.

It’s not that he doesn’t feel Scar has earned this. Before things had all gone wrong he liked to imagine that he’d always been happy to indulge the easy passions in Scar’s life.

It’s simply the reality of their current situation. The persistent pressure of his anxiety, placed like a heel against his throat, that rankles him, causing him to twist in on himself with a defensive pettiness he knows is unfair.

“We look at it as we walk by,” he manages after a silence that stretches on too long, offering the words like a magnanimous compromise—like he hadn’t been thoroughly shaken by Scar’s threat to leave. “We don’t get carried away.”

When he looks up, Scar is beaming at him.

The genuine brightness in the enthusiasm of his smile makes Grian flush warm, unused to it after their fallout, and the awful, uneasy days that have followed it. It almost makes his concession worth it– if not for the sting of his pride, and the apprehension that’s now buried deep in his heart.

“No aways will be carried,” Scar reassures him as he resumes walking with renewed vigour, setting a pace Grian has to struggle to keep up with. “This I promise you, dear Grian.”

They get carried away the moment they arrive.

It’s a four hour walk to the entrance of the park. Much like the rest of their journey, they don’t come across another living soul, and the undead they encounter are few and far between, easily avoided with the aid of daylight and plenty of space for them to maneuver. The time spent feels easier- more light-hearted than the hours immediately following Scar burning Grian’s car, If nothing else, his mood is far more agreeable now that Grian had acquiesced to his request.

While Scar had passed the time with idle conversation, discussing the history and trivia of the theme park they were heading towards, Grian had spent the walk calculating how to curb Scar’s enthusiasm. For all that they're holding each other at a distance now, he knows Scar, and he knows there’s no way he would stop just to appreciate the scenery from afar.

“Grian, please.”

The only word to describe Scar is vibrating. His hands grip the straps of his backpack tight, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as they look up at the gates of the park. Because of course, of course,‘looking at it from a distance’ had become ‘let’s just walk to the bus drop-off’ had become ‘we might as well—the ticket booths are right there’ had become ‘I just want to look through the gates and take a peek.’

It would be comedic if it weren’t so tense. Grian doesn’t want to do this. There are a hundred reasons why it’s a bad idea, but he can’t voice any of them for fear of Scar calling it the final straw and leaving him standing on his own while he forges on ahead. Instead he stands stiff in place, coiled in a knot of his own nerves as Scar reaches out, wraps his hand around the iron gating and gives it a tug.

It doesn’t budge, which they both expected, but that doesn’t seem to deter Scar in the slightest.

“Here. Put your hands on my shoulders, I’ll give you a boost.”

“Scar.”

They can’t do this. They can’t risk it. There’s a tension in the air, like the lead-up to the jumpscare in a horror movie. Grian can already tell that their guards are lowering, lulled into a false sense of security by the quiet ruin all around them, seemingly devoid of survivors, living or undead.

Scar had said the parks had closed days prior to the final outbreak, but somehow Grian had still expected to find crowds surrounding the place. Looking around now, it makes sense to find it so deserted—the area surrounding the park is all restaurants and shopping and hotels; a wide swath of commercial land designed for tourists.

If the parks were closed, and people instructed to go home, it makes sense why the area isn’t like the residential neighbourhood they’ve skirted around. The ones where residents were told to shelter at home, before they were driven wild by whatever sickness had compelled them to lash out and attack one another.

Still. Some innate instinct in Grian says that entering the park is a deathtrap, ringed on all sides by a wall and gates, tricky to enter and cloaked in greenery. If they go, his gut insists they won’t come back out.

And yet…

“Come on, Grian. Before my knee seizes up.”

Scar is crouched down, fingers woven together to make a step for Grian to put his foot in. At a glance it looks like he’s proposing, but the absurdity of that idea is enough to make Grian feel embarrassed for even thinking about it.

He knows better. He knows he knows better.

“I just want to see,” Scar says, quiet, and for the first time in days Grian finds Scar looking at him—at him—directly. Not casting his gaze aside, not pinning his attention somewhere on Grian’s shoulder or up by his ear. He looks him straight in the eye and asks, “Please. We’re never going to be here again.”

The sentiments are implied, heavy and potent. It would mean a lot to me.

Without a word, Grian fits the sole of his shoe into Scar’s grip, hoisting himself up, using his shoulder for leverage as Scar boosts him off the ground and helps lever him over the top of the gate. He lands heavily on the cobblestones on the other side, grimacing as his knees take the impact, but already Scar is hefting his bag over, forcing Grian to scramble to catch it so he can let it down gently.

It’s a testament to Scar’s athleticism, the way he effortlessly grabs the wrought-iron bar that runs along the top of the gate and uses it to haul himself up and over without a second of struggle. It sparks a warm appreciation in Grian’s gut, the kind of thing he used to praise and compliment Scar for. He opens his mouth out of habit, but ultimately doesn’t say a word. It feels weird mentioning it now, when things are so strained between them.

“Come on,” Scar grins, oblivious to Grian’s internal turmoil, reaching out to grab his hand presumably on instinct as he pulls him towards the park. “If we wanna make the most of our time, we’ve gotta be quick. Did you know the rail line was an opening day attraction? Disney had it built based off of his own miniature train Lilly Bell. He has it in his backyard—named it after his wife.”

There’s an excitement in Scar’s voice that’s contagious. Grian can’t remember the last time he heard him like this; openly and unabashedly enthusiastic. How long has it been since Scar had rambled to him? How long since Grian had paid any attention?

His heart aches. Sudden, guilty, and profound.

They walk through an arched tunnel that runs beneath the railway that encircles the park, and emerge out onto a large central avenue. The road is flanked by wide sidewalks in front of an immaculate recreation of a classic American main street. It’s deserted and silent, but somehow still manages to feel magical—like something pristine transported out of another time, and not currently mired in the midst of an unfolding catastrophe.

The sun shines bright overheard without a cloud in sight; it’s a beautiful day for a hellscape. Past balmy, verging on too hot, enough so that Scar’s pauses to take off the coat he’d donned back at the farm, wrapping it around his waist. Grian tries not to stare at his shoulders and the broad lines of his chest, but it’s difficult not to when Scar’s hand is warm as it holds his, as if they’re simply on a date.

Grian isn’t sure Scar knows they’re still connected, or if he’s simply so swept up in the moment that he’s forgotten their animosity entirely. There’s a light in him Grian doesn’t want to dampen though, so he doesn’t draw attention to it. Instead, he threads his fingers between Scar’s as they walk down the centre of the otherwise empty street, sunshine bright above them, reflecting off the storefront mirrors.

“It’s all t-shirts and knick-knacks now, but in the old days they used to sell actual goods here,” Scar explains, gesturing at the shuttered store-fronts. “Infamously, one of the shops sold bras, back when the park had just opened.”

Grian smiles, unable to resist Scar’s infectious attitude. They walk the length of mainstreet and end up standing at a central hub, the road encircling a statue and gardens before splitting off in several directions, each avenue leading to another portion of the park. Directly in front of them the iconic castle rises up, somehow smaller than Grian thought it would be.

He glances around, trying to maintain at least some degree of caution, but there’s nothing but beautiful landscaping and empty park benches to greet them.

“I always wanted to come here,” Scar says, an aching fondness in his voice. “When I was a kid, y’know…? But we could never afford it.” His smile turns bittersweet, emotion welling in a way that makes his voice waver before he adds, “Cub and I were gonna visit once. The summer before I met you, actually. But then he got a grant and had to work so we put it off, and then after that we just never really had the time.”

The revelation twists jealously in Grian’s stomach, his hand tightening on Scar’s.

“You could’ve asked me,” he says, trying not to sound as petulant as he feels.

Scar’s responding grin is equal parts amused and cynical, raising his eyebrow as he glances sidelong at Grian.

“Would you really have come if I asked?”

The question sticks an uncomfortable accusation between Grian’s ribs. He can’t help but think of all the weekend trips, the holiday plans, the impulsive vacations suggested by Scar that he had deferred and declined, time and time again. Just another facet of his reluctance to commit to any level of their relationship.

Sometimes, it’s a wonder to him that Scar didn’t leave sooner.

He tries not to think about it.

“I never knew you cared about theme parks so much,” Grian says, deflecting Scar’s question as they continue to walk. They pass the statue of Walt Disney himself, heading towards the wide road that takes them directly through the castle.

“Then you weren’t really listening to me,” Scar answers easily, and Grian tries not to flinch. “I like this place in particular—something about the passion project of one man, you know?” He pauses, joined hands swinging between them as he considers the castle, a large mountain capped in fake snow rearing up to its right and a lagoon beneath the drawbridge to its left. “I know it’s all a corporate, capitalist mess now, but the thought of having a dream and building it yourself from the ground up…”

He shrugs, a roll of his shoulder that feels a bit sheepish.

“I know it’s silly,” he adds, almost like he’s getting the words out quick before Grian has a chance to.

Grian doesn’t want it to hurt as much as it does. It stings his ego that Scar doesn’t trust him to not say something cruel. He’s known for his biting sense of humour, sure, but he’s never intentionally turned that on Scar. To think that he would start now… it’s a painful blow to his ego.

“I’ve always liked that you like things,” he says softly, and it’s honest. Scar’s enthusiasm has forever been one of his best qualities. Grian likes it about him.

He likes so many things about him.

Scar smiles, but it’s weak, like he doesn’t actually believe Grian is offering him anything more than lip service.

The conversation falters as they walk through the magnificence of the castle. Dwarfed by its towers and arches, their heads tilting up to admire the swooping architecture above them.

On the other side it’s like entering into a fairy tale, the area filled with colourful recreations of something magic and idyllic, pulled straight out of a storybook. There are cobblestone buildings with thatched roofs and stone spires, bright banners strung between eaves, beautiful flowers sprouting up between sculpted hedges, and hundreds of brass stanchions forming empty queues for motionless rides.

“I wish I knew how to turn them on,” Scar sighs as they pass by a ride for Peter Pan, a tattered pirate flag hanging near the entrance. “I don’t think anyone else on earth has had the chance to have the entire park completely to themselves like this.”

“The sounds might attract something,” Grian cautions, not convinced that there’s absolutely no one inside.

They’re here, after all.

Out of the corner of his vision, he sees Scar roll his eyes.

Somewhat condescendingly, Scar says, “I’m just daydreaming.”

Grian can’t help but feel chided. However, before he has a chance to let the hurt settle in, Scar gives his hand a squeeze, bringing his attention back up and out of himself.

“Take a look at that.”

Ahead of them stands an enormous carousel. Dozens of gilded white horses, their legs lifted in spritely steps, prance under a large pink and blue tent. For a ride that likely sees a lot of traffic, it looks remarkably polished, the figures clean and unscratched. They gleam in the sun, gold and sparkling.

It’s stunning. It feels magical.

“C’mon,” Grian says, nudging Scar with his elbow. “Let’s sit on one. Even if we can’t make it spin.”

For a second Scar looks at him, wary reservation on his face, as if he can’t quite decide whether or not Grian is teasing him. Then he smiles, broad and genuine, and suddenly he and Grian are racing through the empty queue, Scar’s hand tight around his. It pulls a laugh out of him, and that in turn makes Scar laugh as well. It’s unthinkable, somehow. They’re laughing together. Grian can’t remember the last time they were like this.

The last time it felt like they were truly having fun with zero reservations.

“Pick your favourite,” Scar encourages, and Grian nods. He’s attentive to the personality of each and every horse as they walk the perimeter of the carousel. Finally, he points towards a figure with a radiant mane and a candy pink bridle caught in its open mouth. Without a moment’s pause Scar boosts him up, and Grian feels giddy as he sits astride the horse. Silly, maybe, but really, truly enjoying himself.

“Are you picking one too?” Grian asks, but Scar is already shaking his head.

“With all the walking we’ve been doing, my joints are already aching like crazy. I don’t wanna push it,” he explains, and it makes sense but still feels unfair.

A thought occurs to Grian, impulsive but insistent.

“Wait.”

It’s awkward, but he manages to shift his backpack into his lap. He searches through it deftly, reaching into one of the pockets to pull out the disposable camera from the Area 51 tourist trap. He winds it, turning towards Scar in order to capture his picture next to the nearest horse—a candid snapshot—before Scar stops him, holding out his hand.

“Here, let me.”

Grian’s heart sinks. He’d wanted to make a memory for Scar, even if it’s unlikely the film will ever be developed. He doesn’t want to be photographed alone. Nevertheless, he silently hands the camera off to Scar, less enthused now that his efforts have been rejected.

Only…

Scar takes it and immediately turns the camera around, holding it as far away as the reach of his arm will allow as he offers out his other, inviting Grian to lean in for the photo.

A picture of the two of them. Together.

Grian tries not to let his emotion show. Tries not to read too much into the gesture, even as his heart races rabbit-fast in his chest. He leans in, a surge of happiness filling him in a way he’d forgotten it could.

He smiles and the camera shutter clicks.

Realistically there’s no way the photo will turn out. Even if all the zombies collapsed at the same moment, photo centers will probably be the last thing on people’s minds as they attempt to rebuild society from the ground up. Grian knows that this image of the two of them, side by side, no matter the strain between them, will likely remain embedded, undeveloped, on this roll of film forever.

Still.

He treasures it, all the same.

They exit the carousel after that and carry on through the park. The warm afternoon weather keeps them company, light streaming over them and brightening their path. Scar points out the spinning tea cups and the miniature storybook boat ride, having a story for each of them that Grian listens to attentively. When they reach the outer facade of It’s A Small World, they stop as Scar stares in genuine wonder and delight at the display. Grian watches him, a fond smile never leaving his lips.

It feels surreal, like something out of a dream. Despite Scar’s earlier suggestion that the park might still have a skeleton crew within despite having been closed to the public for days before the major outbreak, they’re entirely alone every step of the way. They walk through the stillness, taking in the scenery hand in hand. Everything is frozen and left immaculately in-place—every kiosk and popcorn cart sitting patiently on the sides of paths and avenues; every storefront fully dressed and stocked; all of it waiting for the park to reopen and for people to return as normal.

They turn and retrace their steps back through the fantasyland and end up walking alongside a large lagoon with an island at its centre, a masted sailing ship sitting on its calm, glassy waters.

“That’s the Haunted Mansion,” Scar explains as they walk past a foreboding looking house sitting on a hill in the midst of a dark and dreary garden. “The house itself is fake, the ride’s all hidden underneath it. They put you in a room and make it look like the ceiling is stretching up, but it’s really an elevator taking you down.”

They pass through a recreation of a New Orleans avenue, and Scar stops to point out an innocuous doorway marked with a number 33.

“There’s a really fancy restaurant in there,” he explains. “The waitlist to get a membership for it is years long. I couldn’t even pretend to afford it.”

“Let’s go in,” Grian insists, sudden and determined. Without waiting for a response, he walks to the door, wrapping his hand around the handle and giving it a push.

It doesn’t budge, which he probably should’ve expected. Instead of giving up however, he gives it a reproving look before he dips his shoulder down and puts it against the grey-blue door with a rough shove.

Nothing happens.

It’s laughable, probably. Definitely. Grian’s not particularly large, and though he’s strong in his own right, he’s certainly not the kind of person that can break a door in simply by pushing on it.

Embarrassment heats his cheeks, but luckily, Scar is sympathetic.

“I don’t think the two of us together could get in there,” he says, humouring Grian, if nothing else. “C’mon, let’s leave it a mystery.” But he pauses, considering the door for a moment before he adds, with a stupid kind of optimism that Grian has always rolled his eyes at, “We’ll try the waitlist when the world’s gone back to normal. I bet it’ll be way shorter because of, y’know, the tragedy.”

Grian doesn’t want to sully the sentiment. He doesn’t want to insist that he’s reasonably sure there will never be a ‘back to normal.’ Instead, he gives the door a kick with the toe of his shoe, and turns to Scar with his hands planted on his hips.

“Well, since this dump won’t have us, where are we off to next, then?”

“I want to see the Enchanted Tiki Room.”

The name sounds preposterous and ridiculous and very Scar, enough so that an immediate smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Grian motions at him with a gesture of his hand. “Lead on, then, Mr. Disney.”

“Please,” Scar dismisses with a grin. “Mr. Disney was my father. You can call me Mickey.”

“Absolutely not,” Grian snickers. He makes a face and they both laugh.

They leave the faux alleys of New Orleans behind, and find themselves in an area that’s lush and overgrown, like a genuine jungle. The wide footpath is lined with bamboo signposts and awnings overhung with trailing vines, sandstone sculptures towering above them, torches and dangling lanterns left unlit.

The Enchanted Tiki Room is tucked away, shaded by palm fronds and festooned in wood statues and carvings. Unlike the rest of the rides, there’s no organised queue switch-backed outside of it, and when Scar leads Grian up to the thatched roof building they’re met only with two doors, one of which has been left propped open.

It should be a warning sign, but they step inside anyway, caught up in the enjoyment of the moment.

“It’s dark.”

It’s a statement of the obvious but funny in its own way, and Grian can’t help the little laugh that escapes him at it. The building they’ve entered doesn’t contain a ride. Outlined in the dim glow of the emergency lightning, he can see rows and rows of benches arranged around a central carved pillar overflowing with flowers, things hang in bunches from the ceiling, but it’s too dark to make them out.

“Hang on. I’ve got a torch.”

Shifting his backpack off one shoulder and pulling it under his arm, Grian opens the large zippered front and roots around until he produces a small flashlight, the kind you’d attach to your keyring. It casts so little light it might as well be useless, but it’s enough for them to get a glimpse of the room. There are masked carvings on every wall, oversized flowers hanging from every joist, and perches full of still, silent animatronic birds dangle from the exposed rafters.

“They sing,” Scar explains, reaching up to touch one of the long tail feathers of a red, yellow, and blue macaw. “It was a whole musical animatronic show. The very first of its kind.”

The longing in his voice is palpable, the desire to see the thing he’s heard about for years. All at once, Grian wishes they’d come here before everything went so wrong. He wishes he’d made time for it. He wishes he’d cared enough to notice how important it was.

The realisation twists something resolute in his chest, creating a sudden determination to make at least this one sliver of Scar’s dream a reality.

Holding the flashlight up, he walks further into the room, inspecting the walls and the large columns covered in masks that hold up the ceiling.

“What are you doing?” Scar asks, fondly curious but clearly confused.

“There’s got to be a button or a switch or something to turn it on,” Grian explains stubbornly. “There are lights on in the streets outside, the world hasn’t gone dark. Surely there’s a way to get this rigamarole started.”

He doesn’t notice it until he steps too close—a back door, clearly intended to be an exit for the audience after the conclusion of the show, also propped open and left ajar.

Through it, one of them—one of those things—is emerging.

He doesn’t have time to properly assess them. They’re wearing some sort of work uniform, either custodial or maintenance, if Grian had to guess. Scar would know, but there’s no time to ask—no point to it when every wasted second spells peril. The sleeves on the uniform are twisted up and rolled haphazardly, as if the creature was attempting to tear them off. Their head twitches left and right jerkily, like an animal hunting for its next meal.

Grian makes a noise, a choked gasp of surprise, and suddenly they find it.

The corpse lurches forward the second it spots him. Its movements are uncoordinated and unhinged, its jaw making an ungodly sound as it clamours for him. It’s only the fortune of Grian’s high-strung nerves that has him falling back, stumbling over his own feet before he manages to catch himself against one of the benches. It should give him a second to assess his options, but in his panic his foot slides on the tile floor, and there’s a moment where he feels his centre of balance shifting, his body made unfamiliar by the weight of the backpack resting on his shoulders.

He knows that if he topples over then the zombie will be on him in seconds, but the low back of the bench gives him nothing to grab onto for purchase. For a second he sees it—his throat torn to shreds, left mutilated, twisted and torn in a puddle of viscera right smack dab in the middle of Scar’s most treasured memory. Then, out of nowhere, heavy hands are taking hold of his shoulders, straightening him up as Scar pulls Grian back, dragging him almost effortlessly as he manhandles them towards the door of the attraction.

“Grian, run!”

The word is grit out, brokering no argument as Scar shoves Grian forward. He stumbles down the shallow stairs leading into the attraction, Scar right at his back. With the benefit of his long reach, Scar yanks at the door that had previously been wedged open, shutting it quickly. The sound of it slamming is loud in the otherwise utter silence of the park.

Grian just hopes it doesn’t sound like a dinner bell.

“Vacation over,” Scar says, any trace of the delight that had filled him mere moments before completely evaporated. “Back to the gate. We gotta get out of here.”

They jog fast, occasionally sprinting as the urgency makes them frantic. Every shadow puts them on edge. It’s been hours since they last saw a zombie, and while Grian had tried not to let his guard down, it’s obvious he had by the way this has shaken him. Just one creature in the margin of an otherwise undisturbed attraction makes the whole park feel suddenly unsafe and contaminated.

It doesn’t make sense for there to be just a singular member of staff on duty, he reasons—where there’s one zombie, there must be others.

This whole time they’ve been wandering through a death trap.

It’s only as they prepare to pass under the rail bridge and through the tunnel that leads to the entrance of the park that Scar slows, reluctant as he turns his gaze towards an old fashioned fire hall: a dusty pink brick building festooned in red and white bunting, with an enormous bell on its gabled roof.

“Scar—” Grian feels the hiss boiling in his throat, but Scar waves him off, nodding his head towards the second floor window of the building.

“Do you see that light?” he asks, breathless from their flee.

It’s obvious at a glance, an old fashioned oil lamp sat in the centre of the window, white lace curtains pulled back on either side of it.

“When Disney used to come here, in the early days of opening the park, he’d have that light lit to let everyone on staff know he was around.”

There’s something in Scar’s tone, a grief and a sadness, a nostalgia for something he never got to properly experience. It makes Grian’s heart twist in an uncomfortable way.

He wishes things could be different. Wishes he could reach out and comfort Scar in any way that matters.

“We should go,” he hears himself say, unsympathetic. He’s more curt than he means to be, but the anxiety of the encounter has left him unable to temper himself.

Scar looks at him and offers a small half-quirk of his lips, like that’s what he’d expected him to say. Like he’s used to Grian pushing his words aside.

It’s pointless to explain himself—it would only waste time they don’t have, so Grian doesn’t. He’ll let Scar believe he’s being intentionally cruel.

Just another mark on the tally.

Together, they quickly walk the rest of the way to the gates. Scar puts his hand out and helps Grian climb back over. When they’re both safe on the other side, he doesn’t move to take Grian’s hand again like he had in the park.

They leave with the sun high in the sky overhead, cloudless and perfect. A pristine postcard kind of day.

The bittersweet unfairness of it sits sour on the back of Grian’s tongue.

Walking beside Scar, head stubbornly bowed, his hand feels empty and cold.

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

Leaving Disneyland and the tourist area surrounding it behind doesn’t make things better.

In fact, it makes things worse.

They see them now. Zombies. Wandering aimless and alone, or in disorganised, shambling clusters.

Like a veil has been lifted, suddenly they become easy to spot, prowling aimless through back allies and across open parking lots. The sheer number of them is a stark contrast to anything they’d encountered previously, and it puts Scar and Grian on an incredible edge as they venture forth.

It’s not that it’s difficult to avoid them—if they cut down side streets and across backyards, or just change directions entirely, by and large the zombies don’t seem to notice them. It’s anxiety that’s the issue. The tension wiring their jaws shut, clamping their joints stiff. The fear lodges thick and dense in their chests, making every movement, every word, fragile like glass that could shatter in an instant. No matter how hard they try, it’s hard not to wonder when they’ll find a hoard they can’t easily back away from.

Scar tries not to be too hard on himself. A handful of days into the end of the world and they have no real experience to show for it. They’ve been lucky so far, their rare encounters easy to flee and keeping them alive. However, the fact of the matter is that they don’t know how best to keep the undead from noticing them. Avoiding being spotted is a given, and being quiet, too, but can they smell them if they get too close? Can they simply sense the difference between the living and the dead in an innate way that Grian and Scar can’t hope to comprehend?

When it comes down to it, they’re woefully ill-equipped as well—just one axe between the two of them, deadly but not nearly enough. All that they have to fend off the hordes they don’t know nearly enough about.

They stick together and scope out areas as best they can, navigating tight corners with care. The few times they’re sighted by a zombie, they’re able to run without alerting others in the area. Scar wonders if maybe it’s because it’s only been a few days that things don’t seem so dire yet—wonders if maybe the zombies have had their fill of the living in the area and are fully sated, making them slow and almost passive; not driven by a ravenous hunger, making them desperate to attack them.

He shakes the thoughts away, forcing himself not to be complacent. To stop searching for a silver lining when there simply isn’t one.

Taking it slow is the right way—the safest way—to go about things, but it’s tedious and time consuming. Every detour eats up precious daylight, and the high sun of the afternoon creeps by hot overhead. They can’t afford to speed up; rushing through such a heavily infested area will only lead to careless mistakes, but as the afternoon crawls towards evening, the knowledge that they have nowhere safe to stay sits heavy in the silence between them.

The silence.

Yet another issue for them to contend with.

While Scar understands the need for quiet while in close quarters, sneaking past ghouls, there are so many open stretches of time that they could fill if only Grian would talk to him. It doesn’t have to be anything special, he’s not looking for a deep dive into their breakup, or debate why Grian did what he did. He just wants something to keep his mind off the constant dread as they continue to push through the infested areas, looking for somewhere safe to stay.

He tries not to read too far into Grian’s reticent silence, but it feels unfair on a monumental scale. It’s a problem he can’t find a solution for, his softball topics of conversation met with simple, single word replies, or ignored entirely altogether.

He’s not used to this—not used to things being this complicated with Grian.

To be frank, every moment they spend together in silence is a reminder that he’s no longer with his Grian anymore. The Grian he loved–the Grian he was building his life with–no longer exists in the same way he once did. The Grian walking at his side is a person of decisions and actions Scar never would have ascribed to him—would have sworn he was better than.

He’s lied and cheated. Done things that Scar wouldn’t have believed unless he’d seen them with his own two eyes.

Scar thinks about a version of himself that exists in a timeline where the world never fell to pieces. He thinks about a real breakup– a proper breakup. The time he would’ve spent meticulously scrubbing Grian out of every inch of his life. That version of him could’ve chosen to spend time with friends instead. He’d have had the option to take all the time he needed to feel his grief, his anger, and eventually his acceptance. That Scar would’ve had the ability to move on, in time. Not better for the experience, but grateful for the lessons it taught him.

A part of him hates that they’ve been forced to remain together. It leaves him unable to process what has happened, or grieve what he’s lost, or even share his pain with a sympathetic ear. Instead he’s made to relieve the reality of their situation over and over again, sharing every second with the person who hurt him most, continually scraping the wound raw so that it never has a chance to scab over.

Another part of him knows for a fact that he couldn’t do this without Grian at his side. Dropping the axe, pushing ahead, making the judgement calls Scar needs to be made.

More than anyone else on earth. No matter what he’s done. That traitorous, pathetic, needy part of him is so, so glad Grian’s here.

“It’s nice that they don’t seem all that interested in us,” he says, attempting yet again to fill the dead air between them.

Grian startles slightly, pulled out of his own thoughts, glancing first at Scar, and then down the street. They’re at a large intersection, stop lights blinking red overhead. Two blocks down they can see several zombies wandering together, aimless and utterly oblivious to their passing.

“Yeah…” Grian replies, dragging the syllable out as though he’s unconvinced. “I’d still feel better with another weapon or two in hand, though.”

“Oh yeah?” Scar raises an eyebrow, relieved to finally have some conversation going to distract him from the complexities of his emotions. “You’ve already got that axe—what are you in the market for next? Tire iron? Machete? Bullwhip?”

“I was thinking just a good old fashioned gun,” Grian admits, hurrying his steps so they can get out of the zombie’s line of sight on the off-chance they spot them from this distance. Scar follows closely after him, sticking close. “Maybe two guns, actually. And a third in reserve, just in case.”

“In reserve? What are you saving it for, a rainy day?” Scar jokes, and caught up in the complacency of unhostile conversation, Grian responds without thinking.

“Saving it for marriage, of course.”

They both hear it, but it’s too late to take it back. It’s too soon to be joking about anything approaching the subject of relationships and marriage. Not when it’s something Scar had once professed to dreaming about and Grian had waved off. Especially when the easiest retort would be the reminder that Grian couldn’t be trusted to save anything for anyone. It’s too soon to touch on any of it, to glance even accidentally in its direction, for fear of the ugliness that’ll follow.

Taking a deep breath, Scar does everything in his power to tramp down the spiralling thoughts that kick up in the back of his head. He’d wanted a conversation to keep him occupied, and he’s not about to give that up over one ill-timed comment. He can’t afford to foster animosity between them, not now.

Besides… he can’t help but think of Grian’s good mood. The way he’d laughed and humoured him through his theme park ramblings. He’s not being intentionally cruel. He was just careless.

“I think that’s called a shotgun wedding,” Scar smooths over with an awkward smile, and the tension visibly drains from Grian’s shoulders, followed by a small, relieved tremble of laughter.

The topic passes as they find themselves faced with another intersection, this one completely blocked by abandoned vehicles. A pile-up of cars driven recklessly into one another, windshields shattered and doors twisted inwards or thrown open as if in a hasty exit. Crushed glass litters the street, twisted bits of metal and torn fibreglass spreading out from the accident’s centre, where more vehicles have been left, abandoned seemingly at random.

They pick through the cars and don’t talk about what’s inside of them. Bodies torn apart in ways that’ll be imprinted in Scar’s mind forever. A few of the corpses have turned, but remain strapped in by their seatbelts, clawing at air as Grian and Scar pass, desperate to sink their teeth in. It sends a full-body shudder through Scar’s system, a queasiness that sits like a rock in his gut.

“Maybe it’s better that we couldn’t bring the car this far,” he says, testing the topic as he helps Grian over the wrecked remains of a pickup truck, trying not to look at the blood splattered across what remains of the seats and windshield. It’s toeing the line of argument territory, but maybe it’ll annoy Grian enough to make him keep a conversation going. “There’s no way we could’ve driven through this.”

Unfortunately, as a conversation starter, it fails to work. Grian makes a face but doesn’t disagree, and Scar throws in the towel.

Together they press on, wordless.

It’s late afternoon when Scar starts to feel it. His muscles ache and his joints begin to hurt like they do before a flare-up. He keeps it to himself, doesn’t want Grian’s irritation or panic.

It’s not an easy walk, but it’s not the most difficult thing Scar has ever had to do. They follow the main through-ways, highway arteries of six lanes intended for rush hour traffic and heavy commuting. It’s eerie, experiencing the world like this—no passing cars, no sirens, no construction. He longs for an impatient honk, or a frenzied car alarm.

He can’t help but wonder where everyone all went. There are zombies everywhere, more than he can count, but they’ve still yet to see even a sign of a single living survivor.

What happened during the two short days they spent driving alone through the desert? Had people escaped? Were their cars piled up elsewhere? He can’t help but wonder if maybe the buildings they’d passed were filled with survivors, hidden away for their own safety. Surely they hadn’t all been turned, not so quickly. But then why hadn’t they come across anyone else in all this time…?

Scar dreads the thought that maybe they’re it. That they now live in a world where they’re the only ones left. He swallows back the nausea that comes with that panicked thought, physically shaking his head to clear it. He tries not to think about it, focusing simply on placing one foot in front of the other.

They’re passing a golf course, tall palm trees and Italian cypress silhouetting immaculate greens, when Grian speaks up, surprising Scar by being the one to break the silence, finally.

“Would you rather a grassy lawn, or mushrooms?”

Bewildered, but desperate to have something distract his thoughts, Scar repeats, “Mushrooms?”

Grian hums in assent, arms swinging as he walks. He looks tired but he hasn’t yet complained, only requesting stops long enough to drink the water they’ve stolen from deserted gas stations and corner stores, still cold from refrigerators left running unattended.

“Like, instead of blades of grass there’s hundreds of mushrooms?”

“No, they’re tall. Like trees. Big and red, with the white spots, like in books.”

Scar doesn’t know what kind of books Grian’s been reading.

“Tree-sized mushrooms?” he echoes.

Grian nods, driving the point home. “Versus grass.”

“Just grass? No weeds or hedges or—”

“Just grass.”

Scar takes a moment to consider the two options. He can tell that Grian assumes the choice is obvious—that no one in their right mind would choose plain, uninspired grass over the wonders of a mushroom forest. He agrees, in a way. There’s certainly only one easy answer.

“I’ll take the grass.”

Grian makes a sound of disbelief, as much genuinely perplexed as he is disgusted. “Are you kidding? Why?”

“I like the simplicity. It’s like a blank canvas,” Scar insists, smiling at Grian’s utterly predictable reaction. “Besides that, it’s a nice lawn, easy to mow… even better if you get one of those rider-mowers, y’know? Sit back and let it do the work for you. Nothing better than that. The American dream.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not the American dream,” Grian protests.

“Well it’s better than some ‘Princess and the Frog’ mushroom forest situation,” Scar argues, grinning. “Big mushrooms towering up all over the place, wafting their spores, putting mycelium in the dirt. Nothing appealing about that, if you ask me. It’s the kind of thing that should be outlawed.”

Grian shakes his head, unconvinced but bemused and Scar’s heart squeezes with fond familiarity. This is the Grian he knows. This is the Grian he fell in love with. The one who never cheated on him. Or put an axe through a zombie skull.

“My turn,” Scar says as Grian looks up at him, waiting. “A man has wandered into your city and declared himself king. Would you rather join his side as a knight, or fight in the resistance?”

“Is it too predictable if I choose resistance?” Grian asks.

“It is,” Scar says, chuckling, and Grian groans dramatically in response.

“Ideally I’d just stay out of it, I think. Putting up a resistance these days is harder than it used to be.”

“I’d join the knights,” Scar says, matter of fact. “The pay’s gotta be good working for royalty, right? Imagine the riches!”

Grian rolls his eyes. “It’s always money with you. Say there was a civil war, would you rather—”

“War profiteering, easy.”

“I wasn’t even done the question yet!” Grian exclaims, shrill, and Scar can’t help the laughter bubbling up in his chest.

It’s easy. Lighthearted, without any high stakes. Scar is grateful for the distraction. It’s a slice of normalcy in what’s been one world-shattering event after another. Walking side by side with Grian, no heaviness between them—Scar can’t help but feel nostalgic for a simpler time. He knows it makes him more forgiving than he should be, but he can’t help it. He’s always been a sucker this way.

They play the game for hours, heading north along abandoned roads, avoiding zombies when they see them, and giving corpses a respectful distance when they lay in their way. The sun is barely a finger above the horizon when Grian finally heaves a breath, dredging weariness up from the soles of his feet as he says, “That’s enough for today. We need to hunker down for the night.”

It’s not as easy as it sounds. Unluckily, there are no empty houses around for them to squat in.

They’re in a commercial area entirely made of strip malls, retail outlets, and storage units, with huge sprawls of asphalt parking lots spread out between them. Some of the businesses show signs of forced entry and looting, glass smashed and electronics pulled out of window displays, but they don’t see any signs of zombies, which comes as a relief after hours and miles of avoiding them.

It’s nice to have one less thing to worry about.

“The storage unit might have a staff room,” Scar suggests, weighing their options one at a time. “Bars on all the windows. Maybe a fridge and running water, if we’re lucky.”

Grian considers it, rubbing his jaw as he looks at the storage unit, a large stand-alone building with a cinderblock wall running around its perimeter.

“It’s not a bad idea,” he acknowledges, which is as close to a compliment as Scar is ever going to get.

“If we get bored we can smash some locks. Play ‘Price Is Right’ with people’s treasures and trinkets,” Scar suggests, attempting to sweeten the pot.

“People’s useless tat, more like,” Grian counters, but it’s clear he’s convinced and is in favour of Scar’s suggestion.

Together, they cross the centre of the abandoned intersection, traffic lights above them changing for no one. The front gate of the building is closed, but with a little brute force courtesy of the axe, they manage to pry it open.

Ultimately, the storage unit doesn’t have much for them to benefit from. When they finally get in, abandoning their attempt to force the lock and simply smashing a window, they find the front office empty and useless. The reception desk has nothing of interest on it, just a computer from the early 2000s and a phone without a dial tone when they lift it off its cradle.

Scar finds the staff room while Grian goes through the shallow drawers of the reception desk. The door opens into a small space with a thin slit of a window high up on one wall. There’s a sink and a sliver of counter, which is promising. There’s also an old fridge covered in takeout menus and hand-written betting pools for every sport imaginable in one corner, and a table with four plastic-backed chairs in the other. There’s no couch to crash on, but there is a door marked as a washroom, and most exciting of all—

“Grian,” Scar says, careful not to raise his voice as he speaks. “You’re gonna want to see this.”

Grian’s steps approach quickly, not quite a run but understanding the urgency. There’s a second where he stands in silence at Scar’s side, and then he bursts out with a loud, excited exclamation.

“This is the best day of my life.”

It’s a sight for sore eyes—placed right next to each other against the furthest wall: a fully stocked vending machine, and a self-serve coffee station.

Grian has crossed the room before Scar can get another word out. There’s a stack of styrofoam cups next to the coffee machine, and Grian puts one in place crouching slightly so he can figure out the buttons.

“Scar, if this works…” Grian trails off in anticipation as the LCD panel flashes green. Something whirs inside the machine, a grinding that doesn’t sound like a malfunction, and a moment later hot coffee is dispensing into the cup.

Grian shouts, and it’s hard not to get swept up in his excitement. There’s always been an infectiousness to Grian’s enthusiasm, and it’s no different now even with all the new complications between them. When the machine finishes brewing, Scar can’t help but take a step forward as Grian picks up the paper cup.

“Well?” He asks, apprehension colouring his tone while he watches Grian blow on it and cautiously takes his first sip. “How is it?”

“Oh,” Grian sighs, blissful, his eyes fluttering closed. “It’s awful.” He beams at Scar, his smile radiant in a way that’s uniquely his. “And it’s the best I’ve ever had.”

They hastily brew Scar a cup of truly mediocre, watery coffee for himself, and together they take a moment to simply enjoy the first warm caffeine they’ve had in days. It feels like a bonding moment, a threshold of endurance they’ve now passed together and get to celebrate. They share their drinks in a silence that feels companionable, grinning at one another between sips.

Eventually, once their cups are empty and the novelty of a warm drink has settled down, they return to assessing the situation with a slightly more clear-headed focus.

Together, they inspect the rest of the building, and ultimately determine that it doesn’t have much to boast for itself. Outside the staff room the hall splits—one direction leads to the front door and reception, and the other ends in two doorways. The first leads into a small janitor closet that contains only a mop, a bucket, and a vacuum. The other leads to what Scar assumes was the manager’s office. Inside sits a desk, several filing cabinets, a stubby potted palm, and a pair of beige armchairs.

“Oh my god,” Grian exclaims, shrugging his backpack off his shoulders and dropping it to the floor, nearly throwing himself on one of the seats, legs tossed up over the stuffed armrests, curling up on his side as he relaxes into the upholstery. “Finally. Something comfortable for a change.”

Scar doesn’t want the smoke of any hair-splitting. Doesn’t want to point out that up until last night, Grian had been sleeping cozy, curled up in the backseat of his car. The backseat he’d cheated with another man in.

The chairs aren’t large enough for either of them to sleep on, but they have cushions that they collect to take back to the staff room. Scar almost reminds Grian not to forget his things, but stops himself as he imagines his sigh and the exaggerated roll of his eyes–the tone he’d use as he’d say ‘I’m not five, Scar. Don’t nanny me.’

Instead, he turns his attention to the window, and with some measure of trepidation, casts a cautious glance through the lowered blinds.

The storage units themselves are outside, constructed out of cinder blocks with orange aluminium roll-up doors in orderly rows, walled in on all sides. Large spotlights mounted to the edge of the building illuminate the lanes running between the lockers. In the growing dark, they cast off-kilter, overlapping shadows that send a shiver down Scar’s spine, but from his vantage point there seems to be no sign of movement, neither from the living or the dead. The confirmation that they’re alone doesn’t necessarily ease the anxious clench pressing into Scar’s chest, but it does give him a sliver of reassurance.

The illusion of safety.

With the pillows in their possession Grian returns to the staff room, while Scar hangs back a few minutes longer. He paces the manager’s room, inspecting the cluttered surface of the desk and finding nothing remarkable about any of it. He feels like a voyeur, peering into someone else's life. The timetables and schedules of employees he’ll never know, the client contracts left unsigned, the sticky notes with phone numbers and lunch orders. Ultimately, he’s not sure what he thought he’d find. The office is mundane and ordinary in every way– just another relic of a world that no longer exists. Feeling a touch subdued, he departs, returning to the staff room.

He’s not at all expecting the sight that greets him. Grian sits at the small lunch table, grinning from ear to ear.

In front of him lies nearly the entire contents of the vending machine, spread out in an organised arrangement.

“What in the world…” Scar begins, but Grian cuts him off with a bursting eagerness.

“It’s a buffet!”

He seems incredibly proud of himself, and Scar can’t help but again feel the infectiousness of his enthusiasm, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. Setting his share of the couch pillows next to their bags, he allows Grian to draw a chair out for him, sitting at the table as he excitedly shoves a selection of vending machine foods at him.

“Look at this! Ramen, instant oatmeal, apple chips, even miso! Must’ve been a real health-conscious cohort.”

They’ve been eating the same gas station fare for days. The same granola bars, beef jerky, and chocolate bars. It’s not that he’s unappreciative of having food to eat, but the additional options nearly make his mouth water. The vending machine’s contents aren’t all that different, but it’s enough distinction to feel like a novelty. Even the different brands of chips strike Scar as exciting, something he’s not sure he would have noticed before the end of the world.

“How did you—how much did this cost you?”

“Scar,” Grian chides, rolling his eyes in a light-hearted way that doesn’t feel mean. “I don’t think we’re ever going to have to pay for anything anymore, buddy.” He holds up a hand, fingers splayed wide. “Five finger discount, right? Well, five fingers and the leg of the chair that I used to smash the glass.”

That startles a burst of laughter out of Scar, which in turn makes Grian grin bright and wide, eyes twinkling in that mischievous way of his. Scar sees it now—or, doesn’t see it, rather. The glass that had previously been a part of the vending machine has been broken into large fragments, all of them swept carefully aside into a corner of the room.

“Oh! And one more surprise,” Grian adds, perking up before he proudly slides a proper ceramic mug across the table. “I found it drying in the sink,” he explains. “I figured you’d get a kick out of it.”

Scar turns it around on the table, revealing the graphic printed on the side. It’s a silhouette outline of Disneyland, the castle crested by a set of large mouse ears. The words ‘#1 Boss’ are printed on it in the classically recognisable lettering.

It’s impossible not to crack a smile at it, and Scar doesn’t fight the urge, letting his delight show. It’s clearly the reaction Grian was seeking, because he beams, satisfied as he turns back to the food on the table. He picks up a mini sleeve of oreos, opening the bag and dumping them all out in front of them.

“By the way, I checked the bathroom and there’s no shower, but I at least want to try and scrub off in the sink later. I figured you’d probably want to as well.” He sounds organised and pragmatic, confidently in charge of the moment as he busies himself scraping the icing off each Oreo in an effort to create one large, incredibly thick cookie, which strikes Scar as amusing. It’s like they’re kids out camping, not adults surviving an apocalyptic scenario.

Working together they find an electric kettle under the sink and boil water, making a cup of instant noodles each. The end result is far too salty and the shrimp flavour is terrible, but after days of potato chips it’s still the best thing Scar thinks he’s ever tasted. They share in Grian’s cookie concoction for dessert, passing on another round of coffee in favour of hot chocolate instead, which the coffee maker produces, tasty but strangely gritty.

After they’ve eaten, they portion off what they can take with them and what they can save for the morning. Satisfied with their preparations, they each take turns in the bathroom, doing their best to wash their hair in the sink with watery hand-soap, and clean off using wads of damp paper towel. Scar watches as the water swirls down the drain with some measure of relief. He doesn’t feel entirely clean—not in the way a proper shower would allow—but he’s no longer covered in dry sweat and dirt, so he’ll take it as a win.

He finishes up in the bathroom in time to find Grian padding out their slapdash bed of stolen couch cushions with the few extra items of clothes they have. It’s nothing to write home about, but it’s better than sleeping flat on the ground. Grian looks at him as Scar closes the bathroom door, smiling apologetically as he folds his sweater into a makeshift pillow.

“It’s not glamorous, but it’ll get the job done.” He sits up on his knees, hands on his hips as he inspects his creation. “I think it’ll fit us both with a squeeze,” he adds, sounding satisfied with his handiwork.

Obviously Grian doesn’t mean anything by it, but the idea of sleeping lying next to him makes Scar feel suddenly ill. He doesn’t know if he’s ready for that, even if it’s meant strictly for survival’s sake.

“We should probably still sleep in shifts,” he manages to say, hoping Grian can’t hear the aversion in his tone.

It’s a fool’s hope, because Grian’s always been able to read him at a glance. The soft smile on his face immediately turns downwards, an embarrassed flush rising quick to his cheeks, even as he keeps his expression carefully schooled. When Scar doesn’t look away, Grian does, shamefully breaking eye contact.

“Right,” he manages at last, hands clenching tight in the folded sweater he’d been shaping. “That’s smart.”

Quick and casual, before the moment can spin out into something any more awkward than it needs to be, Scar says, “I’ll go first.”

He can see the subtle twist in Grian’s countenance, the twitch of his lips that implies ‘you always take the first shift,’ like he does it with some sort of agenda. However, instead of arguing, Grian simply nods in one sharp, jerky motion.

Scar doesn’t press it, taking it for the concession it is.

They’re both far too tired to fight. Scar, in particular, can feel the worsening of his usual symptoms, inflamed in the back of his mind. He’s always been an athletic guy, and his diagnosis had never stopped him from pursuing all avenues of exercise still available to him, but he’s found that in balancing both his enjoyment and his health, he’s got a better grasp of his body than most. His next flare-up is looming, and it’s going to be a bad one. He can only hope that they’re somewhere safe so they can comfortably wait it out when it finally happens.

Not that he supposes they’ll have much say in the matter.

Whatever the case, he’s not about to make things worse by worrying. They’re both exhausted—neither of them used to having to travel by foot. They’re pushing themselves to the limit for survival, and he’s not blind to the reality that this moment of security is a rare gift.

He doesn’t intend to squander it.

While Grian settles down to sleep, Scar drags one of the chairs over to the door, taking his place by it for his watch. Across the room, Grian lays curled up alone on the makeshift bed. Neither of them says goodnight, and the silence wraps awkwardly around them in a way Scar can’t begin to fix.

The light from the spotlights outside filters in through the high window, and in the blue-shadowed gloom Scar watches Grian shift restlessly. He lays first on one side, and then the other, a constant rustle in the dark as he shuffles back and forth.

It’s just over half an hour before Grian finally breaks, sighing out his frustration before he whispers miserably, “It’s cold.”

He’s right. The air conditioner hasn’t yet been affected by the apocalypse, and they can hear the hiss of cool air coming in from the vents overhead.

“I can’t sleep when it’s cold,” Grian adds, miserable.

Scar is intimately familiar with this. He’s spent countless nights sweating in a room kept stifling while Grian slept soundly beside him.

He knows that maintaining his integrity would be the right thing to do here. He should stay true to his conviction. One of them needs to stand watch. One of them is nursing a broken heart. One of them is the one who carelessly broke that heart.

But if he’s being honest… he’s tired.

He’s bone-deep exhausted. It’s a weariness that crept in that moment he let himself relax, making his eyelids heavy and his mind fuzzy. He could fall asleep in a minute if given the chance.

Across the room comes another shift of Grian’s form on the cushions followed by another sigh, and suddenly Scar’s mind is made up. His knees protest, a little sore as he gets up and moves forward, and aching worse as he bends down. He braces his hands on the linoleum before he lowers himself into a crouch, and then resting on his elbow, finally settling next to Grian on the ground.

“C’mere, G.”

It slips out of him naturally, a nickname he hasn’t said in days. He puts his arm out, inviting in the dark, and after a second of hesitation Grian tucks himself into it, pressing inward until his back touches Scar’s chest.

It twists something impossibly complicated in Scar’s core. The familiarity of it mixing with the necessity, trying to push down how much he’s missed this, how much it hurts, and how reluctant he is to fall back into familiar habits.

His arm drapes around Grian’s waist, bundled as he is in his extra layers, his body heat already seeping into the small curl of Grian’s body.

“Better?” he asks, words mumbled into the damp tangle of Grian’s hair, still wet from the sink and smelling of cheap lemon hand soap.

It takes a moment for him to get a reply, Grian’s hand tentatively settling on his wrist before he pulls Scar’s arm tighter around him, nodding, his head remaining tucked under Scar’s chin.

They lay there, breathing quiet in the dark. Scar can feel himself drifting, slowly nodding off with Grian warm in his arms. It’s complicated, but he’s too tired to think about it too much. Reluctantly he admits that there’s some comfort in the normalcy of it– a familiarity in the face of all the uncertainty surrounding them.

Pressed back into his chest Grian sighs, gentle, his thumb running slowly back and forth along Scar’s knuckles.

He’s nearly asleep, limbs heavy and thoughts slow when he feels it, subtle but intentional.

Grian’s hips pressing back into the cradle of his pelvis.

It’s not displeasing, but it does take him by surprise, consciousness seeping back into him as Grian breathes out heavy in the dark, pressing back more intentionally, his squirming unmistakable.

Firm, Scar settles a hand on Grian’s waist, holding him in place. He’s too tired to make a scene. Not interested in hearing Grian’s rationalisation. Not wanting the inevitable fight that would ensue.

“Get some sleep,” he mumbles into the soft wisps of Grian’s hair, arm wrapping tight around him and putting an end to his movements. He can feel the tension in Grian’s shoulders, can sense the frustration he feels at his rejection, but Scar is simply too exhausted to care.

In another breath he’s drifted off, falling into a heavy, dreamless sleep, leaving Grian to churn over his own restless emotions by himself in the dark.

Chapter 8

Chapter Text

Grian wakes up alone.

For a moment he enjoys it, wrapped in his blanket, warm. The familiar smell of coffee wafts into the bedroom, along with the clatter of Scar rummaging around in the kitchen. Grian hopes he’s making him breakfast in bed. He hopes it’s waffles.

He stretches, languid as his spine uncurls, and his feet fall off the end of the mattress.

He frowns, eyes still shut against the morning light. His bed’s never been that short. Neither is Scar’s.

He doesn’t think it’s B’s…

The movement in the kitchen is loud. Far too aggressive to simply be rummaging around for measuring cups and flour. It settles all wrong in his chest, heart pounding as the soft, cozy feelings of a slow morning dissipate in an instant.

His eyes snap open to drop ceiling tiles and lines of tubular fluorescent bulbs overhead.

He’s not at home.

An instinct he doesn’t know keeps him silent. A prickling up the back of his brain telling him to be quiet and stay still. He’s not safe right now.

He knows where he is, at least. Laying on a bed made out of couch cushions on the floor of a staff room in a southern California storage unit. He fell asleep full and safe and clean, with Scar’s chest pressed warm against his back. He slept deep and dreamless.

Something outside the room makes a loud banging sound.

Carefully, by inches, he turns his head, looking left towards the door.

Green eyes meet his, dark circles smudged beneath them, making them appear even brighter than normal. They’re wide with an emotion Grian immediately recognises.

Fear.

The clattering outside continues, and with a slow motion Scar raises a hand to his lips, laying a finger across them, signalling silence. He’s crouched next to the door, holding the doorknob with his other hand, tension wired tight into every line of his body.

Warily, bit by bit, Grian sits up as Scar continues to motion at him. Their eyes never leave one another. It’s all too clear what’s outside, now. The disorganised, aimless banging, the shuffle of careless movement…

It’s a zombie. Maybe more than one.

Internally Grian curses himself, immediately regretting their reckless decision making. Any number of mistakes could’ve led to their current predicament—breaking the window, not ensuring the gate was locked. They fell asleep together, confident in their seclusion. They practically begged for this, inviting the shambling corpses in with open arms.

There’s no window in the door, no way to tell what’s outside of it—if it’s just the one undead creature that’s wandered in on its own, or if it’s part of a large, dispersed horde.

With wary motions, Grian bends his knees and slowly pushes his feet back into his shoes. Then, in that same slow, trepidatious manner, he crawls over to Scar, mirroring his gesture as he holds his finger up to his lips.

It’s a stilted pantomime as they motion out how long the zombie has been there and how many Scar thinks there are. With some fumbling of hand gestures, Grian gathers that the noise has been going on for the better part of twenty minutes, and that it’s steady but it seems contained. The actions of an individual, rather than that of a group.

What they’re going to do about it is another debate, and this one is less clear in its verdict. Their supplies are scattered, carelessly left strewn out, assuming they’d have the luxury of a leisurely morning to get themselves together. His bag is still in the office, where Grian put it down in order to pick up the armchair cushions. He curses internally, upset at his oversight. He let his guard down—he was supposed to be careful, and he’d let the illusion of safety set them up for failure.

They’re at an extreme disadvantage if it comes down to a fight. Without a proper weapon, they’ll have to go hand-to-hand with the creature and that’s a risk they simply can’t take.

Their only option is to run for it and hope for the best, but to do that they’ll have to abandon the majority of their supplies…

Grian could start to pack what they have here with them, but there’s no guarantee they’ll be able to do it without alerting the zombie and even then, Grian’s not confident the additional baggage won’t make any attempt to escape too encumbered.

Their best case scenario is if the zombie wanders past the offices and into one of the other rooms down the hall—that way they could secure their things and make a run around the corner towards the front exit.

He stops himself from thinking about what will come after—what they’ll find outside. He tries not to imagine the parking lot overrun with zombies. His self-flagellation is at an all-time high, bitter about the pointless risk they took, how they smashed the window with impunity, confident they were safe.

It’s difficult not to dwell on how no kind of clever escape will matter if they run headlong into a throng waiting in the parking lot just outside.

The thumping outside the door continues, aimless in its trajectory. The door knob rattles.

Grian’s mouth feels dry.

Without a word, Scar gestures for Grian to get his backpack and to load up as much of the supplies as he can. It’ll be hard, but there’s no time to hem and haw over what they want to keep and what they want to toss. Grian methodically chooses the things that’ll keep the longest and are the most filling.

Suddenly the ramen and miso aren’t so exciting anymore.

Grian’s hands shake, barely able to breathe as he gathers as much as he can. When he’s done with what food he can fit into Scar’s pack, he edges towards the bathroom for the few things he left inside when they’d cleaned up the night before. His throat feels thick with emotion. It’s unfair. It’s so f*cking unfair. He’s already lost so much, and to have to give up the little he owns yet again?

He picks through things as fast as he can without making noise. Minutes feel like hours and every soft rustle feels like a siren alarm. Finally, he carefully eases the pack onto his shoulders, returning to Scar, crouched on hands and knees and nodding to signal his readiness.

They wait by the door, listening and gathering their courage.

The shuffling is in the hall, aimlessly pacing and directionless. They have no way to control the situation—no way to goad the zombie and no way to aim its attention. The best they can do is bide their time, concentrating on the sound of thumps and shuffling as they stray close, closer, to the point where the fumbling creature slides across the door, and then it’s passed, the sound distinctly disappearing up the bend in the hall.

They don’t know where it’s gone.

Grian hopes it’s not just around the corner.

Scar looks at him, waiting for his assent, and despite every fibre of Grian’s being telling him to not to do it—to wait, even though he knows that it’s only inviting the situation to worsen, that inevitably more ghouls will drift in and make what is already difficult, impossible—Grian nods, quick and tight as he pulls himself into a half-stand.

Scar doesn’t waste time, swinging the door open. Immediately, Grian starts towards the office, hoping to grab the axe at least, but almost instantly Scar throws a hand across his chest, forbidding his movement. Scar points at his ears, mouth clamped shut, and Grian takes a moment to listen. His heart sinks, stomach twisting at the sounds of shuffling in the room where he knows all his possessions lay.

He has no choice but to leave it.

Together, they creep down the hall in the other direction, hunched low, shoulders pressed against the wall as they attempt to stay small and keep silent.

The reception is empty, which floods his body with more relief than Grian knew he could possibly feel at one time. The door remains locked shut, but the broken window shows signs of entry, tattered strips of cloth and shreds of viscera clinging to the jagged edges of glass where the ghoul had hauled itself in. Yet again, Grian chastises himself for his oversight. He should’ve been more careful. If something had happened to them—had happened to Scar—

They don’t have time for apologies now. Scar checks over his shoulder as Grian scrambles with the deadbolts, yanking the door open once he twists it free, the pair rushing out into the too-bright California morning.

The light is overwhelming after the dark of the staff room, and the halo of glare blinds Grian as his eyes struggle to adjust. It forces him to squint, hand instinctively reaching out to find Scar’s, the other raising to shield his eyes.

“Grian,” Scar says, clipped—urgent—and that’s all Grian needs to hear to start sprinting, blindly following Scar as he waits for his eyesight to return.

Together, they run.

Dimly, Grian can tell they’re skirting the edge of the building, heading away from the entrance gate they’d originally come through. He doesn’t stop to ask questions; doesn’t hesitate to trust Scar’s judgement. Rows of storage lockers line the driveway to their left, single-lane avenues between them barely wide enough for a trailer to pass through. Scar mutters something Grian can’t hear, and they duck into one, Grian following suit as Scar presses his shoulders flush back against the stippled concrete wall.

“There were four,” Scar pants, drawing in quick, deep breaths after their mad-dash. “At the gate. We can’t get out that way.”

“Maybe there’s a back exit,” Grian suggests, shoulders prickling with pain where they’ve chafed from impact on the textured concrete behind him. The adrenaline from the fear and the pain makes him feel light and clear-headed, like he’s never been more alive. “Like an alley gate, y’know?”

Scar looks at him, considering, then draws in a deep breath and nods his head.

“Stay close,” he instructs, and Grian doesn’t need to be told twice. There’s an easy synchronicity to their movements, like somehow this is how they’ve always been, working together and trusting each other’s actions. Swept up in the high of his endorphins, Grian thinks they make a pretty good team.

They creep along the wall, risking a glance down the avenue before they make another rush towards it, heading deeper into the rows of storage units.

There’s no noises, no guttural groans or growling to alert them, but that doesn’t mean they’re safe. Grian’s hands twitch as he thinks yearningly of the axe left propped up by his backpack in the office. He presses himself close to Scar, the two of them heading towards the back of the lot on silent feet, hoping for an exit; a door, a dumpster they can climb over, an escape of any kind.

Instead, they’re met with a seven foot high brick wall with a loop of barbed wire running along the top.

“What’ll we do?” Panic creeps into the edge of Grian’s voice, an anxiety he can’t simply push aside.

Scar stares hard at the wall, expression inscrutable before he turns, quick, to face Grian.

“What’ve you got in your pockets?”

The question catches Grian entirely off guard, prickling instinctive guilt up along his spine—the product of one too many close calls in the life they lived before all this, the secrets he kept hidden away on purpose, for no other reason than because he knew he could.

He pushes his shoulders up, immediately defensive. “What are you talking about?”

“Your pockets, Grian,” Scar repeats, firm, like he’s making a demand. “What’ve you got? Empty them.”

Grian can’t help but feel like he’s being reprimanded. Caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. His cheeks flush hot as he glares at Scar, uncomprehending. It feels like Scar’s expecting him to have catnip for zombies in his pockets. He doesn’t know what he’s on about.

“Bobby pins,” Scar snaps, clearly losing his patience. “Paperclips, a ballpoint pen. Come on, Grian! I saw you rifling through the desks, you definitely took something.”

“Oh, so it’s alright when you take things.” Grian bristles, prickly as he feels himself unfairly pushed into a corner. He didn’t do anything wrong. Not when it comes to this, anyhow. “Your ‘borrowing’ is different, I guess?”

“Grian.” Scar is keeping his voice down, but his agitation is palpable, brokering no argument as he continues to press. “Pockets. Now.”

“Fine!” Grian’s louder than he needs to be, unable to help his frustration from boiling over. He’s bitter as he yanks the backpack over his shoulder, unzipping a side pouch and pulling out the things he’d taken from the reception desk. A pocket mirror, three pens, some elastic bands and paperclips, and a small emergency first-aid kit. It feels stupid and trivialising, like he’s a child being scolded.

“Shall I go put it back?” He asks, livid. “Would that make it better? If I get bit while I’m doing it will that make you happy?”

If Scar is listening to him he doesn’t show it, pawing through what Grian’s taken out of his bag.

He’s acting as if Grian isn’t there, which only twists his frustration tighter.

“Okay,” Scar whispers under breath, both absent and focused at the same time. He takes the paper clips and then begins scanning the storage units, moving from one door to another, crouching down to check each of the heavy looking locks.

“What the hell are you doing?” Grian snaps. It comes out as angry as it could possibly sound, and he means it.

“Storage lockers, right?” Scar says, impervious to Grian’s tone. “Someone here has a shovel or a baseball bat or some golf clubs. We just need to find one of the flimsier, unsecure styles of—” He cuts off abruptly, turning one of the padlocks up in his hand and inspecting the keyhole. “Okay. Okay,” he repeats to himself, unbending one of the paperclips. “This can work.”

“Scar.” The fight drains from Grian all at once, like water through the bottom of a broken glass. He suddenly can’t keep the exhaustion out of his tone, weariness and frustration blending together. “What are you doing?”

“Cub and I used to watch these videos—lock picking ones,” Scar explains, his tone distracted. “Sometimes we’d practise, y’know? Just something to do.”

With one eye squinted, he slips the long end of the paper clip into the lock, angling it like he has an idea what he’s doing.

“Cub was always better than me at it, but…” he trails off, his words running out of steam as he works on the lock, jiggling it slowly.

They don’t have time for this. Grian can feel the mounting pressure, gripping him like a vice. He’s skeptical of Scar’s expertise, here. Something shambling and not quite alive is about to turn around the far corner any second and they’ll be defenceless and trapped, all on a fool’s errand.

“Scar—”

“I need something thinner,” Scar mutters, brow furrowed as he focuses on the lock. “Do we have a sewing kit?”

They don’t, but Grian finds himself thinking back to the first aid box and snatching it up anyways. He opens it despite his misgivings, rifling through bandages and gauze until he finds two long needles; one straight, one curved.

“We need to get out of here—not waste precious seconds on petty thievery,” he insists, petulant as he nevertheless hands Scar the straight needle.

If Scar hears him he doesn’t acknowledge it and Grian bites the inside of his cheek, anxious as he crosses his arms. He doesn’t even know what Scar is doing—what good will a weapon be if they’re overrun? It feels stupid, wasting valuable time on a whim for something Scar has never done before and likely won’t even work—

“Got it.” Scar’s breath leaves him in a rush, twisting the padlock as it springs open.

Grian gapes, gobsmacked.

For a moment, they both forget their situation as Scar looks up at him from his crouch, beaming with pride.

“I told Cub it’d be worth it, one day. I told him.”

It takes Scar a second to get up, hand braced against the unit door for leverage. Grian can’t deny that he’s impressed. In fact, the display of competence sends a misplaced wave of affection through him, making him smile sidelong at Scar. Enjoying the thrill of success, Scar grins back at him with a rakish pride. Then, refocusing, he kneels down and grabs the handle on the sliding garage door, pulling it up in one fluid motion.

It’s the loudest sound Grian’s ever heard.

Metal scraping on metal, unoiled wheels grating along a rusted track.

A sound like aluminum screaming.

“Scar!” The shout is out of Grian before he can even pause to rethink it. The two gawk at each other, frozen stiff, recognizing in an instant the beacon they’ve just made of themselves.

“Hurry,” Scar urges. “Quick.”

They duck inside and it takes a moment for their eyes to adjust to the shadows within the locker. Grian’s anticipating an overflowing bounty of supplies, a hidden cache, like a treasure trove left in place expressly for them. Anything to make it worth the time they’ve squandered, and the risk they’ve taken by making so much noise.

He looks around expectantly, dark shadows still blooming in the corners of his vision.

They’re sh*t out of luck.

Inside the storage unit are several wood pallets stacked with bags of mulch and grass seed. Several rakes and shovels, leaning against a corner. A coil of garden hose, and a single push mower.

Gardening supplies.

“Scar,” Grian starts, and the acerbic anger in his tone is so strong he can taste it. “You—”

“I’ll try another one,” Scar responds, quick, like they haven’t already run out of time. “Grab a shovel.”

“And do what? Dig our own graves?!” The words are out of him fast, biting, but Scar is already on the move, checking the lock of the next storage unit and then the one after that. He carries himself like he’s browsing the produce selection at the grocery store, albeit browsing in a bit of a rush. Nothing about him looks like he’s trying to avoid being cornered by hobbling undead corpses.

Bitterly, Grian stalks deeper into the locker. He doesn’t want to admit Scar’s right, doesn’t want to accept that a rake in his hand is better than nothing at all. His own failure still stings, the sole weapon they had now left behind thanks to his carelessness.

He shakes away those thoughts and focuses on testing the heft of the tools available, albeit admittedly not sure what he’s looking for. He can hear Scar approaching from behind him, and turns to offer him the shovel as he reaches for the rake.

It’s only a millisecond of warning—a slight prickling of the hairs along the back of his neck—but something makes him hesitate, has him turning quick, raising the shovel he had previously been about to offer above his head and slamming it down.

The zombie—not Scar; not Scar at all—lurches forward, some glottal, inarticulate sound choked in its throat as it reaches for Grian with grasping, fumbling hands. Grian strikes out, turning the flat blade of the shovel into a bludgeon as he attempts to swing at the zombie’s head. He misses, connecting to its shoulder with a wet noise that makes his stomach turn and sends a sharp shock rattling up his arm.

The zombie doesn’t notice, unbothered by the hit as it takes another swipe at Grian that forces him to stumble back, tripping on the garden hose as his heel slips out from beneath him. He falls awkwardly, tumbling sideways into the pallet of grass seed.

He wants to yell, to alert Scar of his predicament at the very least, but he can’t make a sound, fear silencing him entirely. The corpse lunges at him and Grian has no choice but to let instinct take over, heart pounding in his throat as he lifts up the shovel and jams it forward with a grunt.

The sharp edge of the blade finds the bottom of the zombie’s ribcage, pushing in, in, until he feels tissue split apart with the pliability of a wet paper bag. Something like blood, but not, slops in a wet gush down the zombie’s stomach. Coagulated, Grian thinks, dimly wondering where he learned that word in the first place.

It should be enough. For a human being it would be more than enough. The thing in front of him, however, endures the assault, snapping and snarling. Grian twists the shovel and feels resistance, stomach and entrails impeding his blow. He pulls the shovel out, guts falling out after it, slopping out in thick coils as the creature drools from its open maw, clawing at him desperately.

He’ll only have one more shot at this, so bracing himself, Grian levels the shovel properly, swinging it down violently, using the side of the blade this time and ensuring that it meets the skull. The decaying cranium parts like an egg, and Grian cleaves down, once, twice, until the corpse pitches sideways and falls.

Dead.

Properly dead.

He’s left breathing hard in deep, rasping gasps, his hands shaking. He thinks he may be in shock, ears ringing in a way that fills up his head. He doesn’t know what’s happened, doesn’t know what he’s done. Did he kill it? Is he safe?

There’s no time to process, no time to calm down.

Another infected corpse appears, silhouetted in the doorway.

There’s something wrong about it, worse than the first. Its right arm and leg bend at crooked angles, like they’ve been folded wrong and pinched in. It dawns on Grian suddenly that what he’s looking at is a body that’s been mangled in a car accident. That either this person survived one only to be attacked, or that they turned, horrifically, while they were driving, and in so doing were wrecked almost beyond recognition.

Now they jerk towards him, uncoordinated and horrific, and try as he might, Grian can’t pull the shovel free from the skull of the zombie he just struck down.

He pushes himself up, reaching for another makeshift weapon, and blindly grabs the handle of a garden hoe. It’ll be less effective than the shovel by every metric, but it’s all he has. He turns around and swings wildly, hoping that, if nothing else, it’ll push the zombie back and leave an opening he can escape through.

The end of the hoe connects to the zombie with a wet sound of splitting flesh that makes Grian feel ill, but either the tool was made flimsy, or Grian has misunderstood his own strength his entire life, because the handle splinters in his hand, snapping in two midway down the shaft, sending both pieces clattering to the ground. Blindly, Grian grabs for the nearest piece—his hands landing on the length with the hoe blade still attached—both he and the zombie stumble back from the force of the impact.

It’s not elegant. He’d feel ridiculous defending himself with gardening tools if he wasn’t mindless with fear and adrenaline. By sheer luck he manages to manoeuvre their positions around, putting his back towards the open locker door as he sends the zombie toppling over the same coil of hose he himself had stumbled on. The creature shrieks and snaps on the floor, mangled body twitching and twisting as it attempts to right itself on broken limbs.

It’s the extra second of time Grian needs to retreat, ripping his gaze away from the ghoul and reaching up as high as he can in order to grab the handle of the garage door. He pulls it down with all the force he can muster, breath caught in his chest. The unoiled metal screeches, loud, but blessedly the door rattles down, slamming securely into place.

Almost immediately he can hear hands scraping futilely from inside the locker, banging against it in an attempt to get out. The metal barrier stays in place, separating them, and he feels the flush of overwhelming relief welling up so large in his chest that he trembles with it.

There’s no time for him to appreciate his accomplishment. He’s panicking, pulling in shallow gasping breaths as he looks around wildly for Scar.

The alley is bare.

Grian can’t see him, can’t see any trace of him. The sunlight beats down, hot and unforgiving overhead, leaving no shadow of doubt that Scar has left him here. The reality of it flares terrifying in his mind. Grian manages one unsteady step forward, not sure which direction he should run without a partner by his side, when suddenly something grotesque grabs him from behind.

It’s the backpack that saves him, the bulk of it meaning that the bite aimed for the vulnerable curved part in the crook of his shoulder falls short. Rancid spittle lands on his cheek, gnashing jaws making Grian’s gut twist. His assailant is larger than him and incredibly strong, its rotting arm grasping to seize him around his middle in an attempt to pull him back closer so it can get a proper bite.

Grian doesn’t think to yell out. Can’t form a thought at all. There’s no calm serenity or placid acceptance of his fate—all he feels is fear so strong that he chokes on it as he’s pulled back, back—

A voice cuts in, loud over the rasped groaning in his ear.

“Grian! Down!”

He doesn’t hesitate, legs buckling as he drops himself to the ground. Uncoordinated undead fingers grasp at him clumsily, but aren’t able to get a secure hold. He doesn’t have time to brace himself. Has no idea what’s coming.

A millisecond later his eardrums reverberate with the loudest sound he’s ever heard.

It takes a moment to collect himself, his body shaking, pushed to its limits as he struggles to open his eyes.

The first thing he sees is the body of the ghoul, collapsed on bent knees next to him.

It’s been shot once. Clean between the eyes.

A large hand, warm and strong, wraps around his bicep, pulling him to his feet. Panicked, familiar green eyes look him over quickly.

“Did it get you?!”

He can’t answer the question. Can’t process it quick enough in his daze to even know what he’s being asked in the first place.

“Are you bit?!” Scar presses, his grip firm and grounding as Grian’s focus slowly returns.

Inch by inch he processes, managing to shake his head, slow. His words are like a slurry, tongue thick as he husks out a single, “No.”

Scar looks at him, expression broken, pupils only pin pricks, body constricted tight with fear, and surges forward all at once, a desperate hand fisting in the shoulder of Grian’s jacket as he yanks him close and kisses him hard.

It’s not gentle and it’s not romantic. Scar’s lips are chapped and bruising against his own, and by the time Grian registers that it’s even happening, it’s already over. Scar leans back, hand brushing through Grian’s hair in a tender, devoted gesture before his eyes refocus on something over Grian’s shoulder and he says, firm, “We have to go.”

Only when Scar steps back does Grian see it, the rifle gripped tight in his free hand. Stunned, his eyes scan the bank of storage units and see the two other doors Scar had managed to open while Grian was preoccupied fending off his attackers. One of them is entirely empty, but the other is piled with shelves, mattresses, bed frames and—tucked against the foot of a sofa—a gun safe, the door thrown open with its contents strewn across the paved floor.

“Scar,” Grian whispers, relieved and confused and awed all at once. “How did you—”

“Later,” Scar replies, hand wrapping around Grian’s wrist as he pulls him forward, leading him back towards the entrance gate they first came through. “We dealt with three of them—I only saw four by the gate to begin with. If we’re lucky, it went the other way around the main building and hasn’t caught on to us, yet. We can sneak out and shut it in.”

Distantly, Grian knows Scar’s explanation makes sense, but in the heat of the moment he can’t make heads or tails of it. Neither of them says what they’re both thinking. That maybe there’s more than the handful of zombies they’d originally seen. That maybe there’s no safe exit now.

Scar jogs ahead, hugging the side of the long line of storage units, the rifle clutched easy in his hand. Grian follows after him, chest tight and ribs aching as he pushes through his short breaths of panic. Everything hurts and he feels scared—more scared than he’s ever been in his life. Possibly more scared than he knew he had the capacity to be.

Carefully but with haste they make their way to the front of the lot, rounding the small parking lot near the reception door that they first came out through. The gate is only a few metres away, clearly visible to them, but it’s what they hear—a low, agonising sound, pulled through clotted lungs—that gives them pause, ducking low against the brick and hoping to stay out of sight.

“I can’t tell how many there are,” Scar says, words whispered, his shoulders pressed flush to the wall. “On the count of three you run, okay? Don’t stop, don’t look back. Make it through the gate and shut it behind you, no matter what.”

“What about you?” Grian asks, the fear of being separated, even for a minute, near strangling him.

“Come on,” Scar says, either not hearing him or refusing to acknowledge him, too preoccupied as he leans forward just enough to risk a glance around the edge of the building. “On three—one. Two.”

Grian wants to fight, wants to argue, wants to insist they take time to properly think about this and for Scar to fill him in on whatever he has planned so that Grian knows he’ll be okay, but Scar is already counting up, numbers hissed in a whisper until he snaps, ‘Three!’ and then they’re both up and running.

Grian moves as fast as he can across the asphalt, hoping he doesn’t trip and hoping even harder that nothing latches on to him. He’s through the gate before he knows it, grabbing the bars, looking around wildly for Scar when a shot reverberates around him, exploding loud in the relative silence. Through the gate he sees Scar, shooting the corpses that are chasing after them—more, much more, than they’d originally accounted for. Scar seems undeterred, firing once, twice, each shot hitting its target. Two bodies drop heavy to the ground and then Scar is shouldering through the gate and Grian is slamming it shut and—with forethought Grian didn’t even know he had— Scar is securing it with one of the padlocks he took off a storage unit door.

Grian only has a second to admire the accuracy of Scar’s aim—the two zombies laid out, shot with neat, pin-point accuracy—before Scar is pulling his arm again and they both break into a sprint. There are more of them—zombies—trickling out into the parking lots of the adjacent shopping plazas, no doubt drawn by the sound of Scar’s shots. Grian feels a sick twist in his gut as he wonders if they were there the whole time, hidden in the quiet while he and Scar had slept the night away, unprotected.

“We can outrun them.” Scar shouts as they run, jarring him from his thoughts, sounding much more confident than Grian is. “Look, they’re slow.”

It’s true, they are. They’re not like the zombies from their first encounter, the one that ran towards Grian’s car, arms outstretched. Even alerted to their presence, the best these undead things can do is trudge forward at an amble. If he and Scar can keep up a jog they’ll be able to get away, easy.

Grian’s not at his most athletic, however. He hasn’t trained for anything since he left secondary school behind. His lungs already hurt from the panic he felt earlier, and each inhale sears the inside of his chest like a brand. Not to mention the prior exhaustion he was already feeling from having walked for miles the day before.

Not for the first time, and definitely not for the last, he thinks about how much he misses his car. How much easier this would be if he could just foot the gas and go.

They run until they can’t anymore. Maybe half a mile. Maybe less. Then they walk, checking over their shoulders at every opportunity. The zombies seem unable to maintain a pursuit, which comes as a small blessing, but as one threat fades, others rise up in their place, like eager weeds ready to choke their precious garden. Nowhere seems safe. Every building they investigate, every storefront they peer into, something grasping and shambling reaches out to greet them.

Whatever it was that had kept the zombies from rising up towards them throughout their journey thus far, it’s decidedly gone now. They encounter them repeatedly, around corners and on open streets. There’s not a moment to rest, every narrow escape pushing bile up into Grian’s throat, anxiety claw him like something feral and alive. They have no water and very few supplies, almost all their things left behind in the mad dash of the morning.

The day passes in a haze of adrenaline and fear as they push on and on and on in a desperate bid for safety.

Grian tries not to grant too much space to his growing negativity, knowing that once it takes hold it won’t easily tamper back down. Instead, he tries to take charge and control the things he can. He scours the map book they picked from their last rest stop and had luckily crammed into the backpack they had brought, deliberating over the best possible routes. He takes them away from major intersections and choke-holds of infection, pulling them through the suburbs, heading towards the undeveloped mountains he sees in the distance.

It takes hours.

They trade the backpack back and forth between one another, taking turns sharing the burden. Not that it amounts to much—neither of them brings up how much lighter it is, how much they were forced to leave behind. Grian tries not to dwell on the hoard of food he’d pulled out of the vending machine, the treats he’d had to leave behind because they only had one bag to stuff it all into. He tries his best not to grieve the loss of the watery, flavourless coffee, reminding himself he’s always been more of a tea person anyway.

It doesn’t help much, but at least he can pretend.

As they walk, they look across sun-baked lawns and wide empty driveways. Each house is tempting; the potential of a safe bed, a roof over their head, cupboards full of food, and running water… but they’ve both agreed it’s not worth the risk. Beyond the undead already milling about in yards and on patios, they can’t take the risk of walking into a home and finding it harbouring the remnants of a family.

Or worse.

As they walk, Scar keeps suggesting that there may be survivors; that it’s too soon to give up hope on others having made it out or holed up alive. He says, conversational, but desperate for it to be true, that it would make sense for anyone still living to board themselves up in their homes, stocked with food and supplies in an attempt to wait things out.

Grian is unconvinced. If there are survivors, they’ve yet to see any sign of them, and even if there are people locked up in these houses they pass, it’s not like any of them would happily welcome the two of them in with open arms.

Grian knows he wouldn’t.

No. Letting their guards down and setting up in any of these suburban homes, only to find themselves swarmed in the night, either by shambling corpses or other desperate survivors following their trail, is not in Grian’s game plan. He brushes Scar’s suggestions to go door-to-door seeking refuge aside, ignoring the look Scar gives him, and they push on, shadows lengthening as the day leans over from afternoon into evening.

Eventually, even the suburban neighbourhoods come to an end, the mountains that had seemed so far away earlier in the day now looming up, blue-purple above them, the road they’ve been following winding in a lazy serpentine up the first hill, the slope gradual enough that it doesn’t intimidate them.

They come across the shooting range by chance, passing large plywood signs posted in the brush on either side of the road, directing them to a members-only gun club less than a mile ahead.

“It’ll either be overrun or deserted.” Scar says, speaking with an authority that catches Grian by surprise. He’s still not used to the idea of Scar being someone who knows how to handle a firearm. It runs against the affable, easy-going charmer he’s grown accustomed to. A side of Scar he wasn’t prepared to see.

“We should check it out, regardless,” Grian huffs, the slight incline as they trek upwards making him sound more than a little winded. “If it’s bad we’ll keep walking, but we need somewhere to stay the night.”

He doesn’t want to sleep outdoors for a multitude of reasons, but most of all he just doesn’t know if he’ll be able to do it without the protective insulation of a tent to cover him. Some animal instinct part of his brain loathes the idea, so if there’s somewhere safe, somewhere provisioned—somewhere with ammunition—they’d be fools not to at least take a look at it from a distance.

The walk stretches longer than it has any right to. Grian glances at Scar repeatedly, trying to gauge how he’s fairing under the stress, but while he doesn’t look comfortable by any means, his expression stays in that same state—a weary but resolved determination.

By the time they make it to the shooting range gates, Grian is hot, tired, thirsty, and more than willing to risk another attack if it means he gets to sit and rest for fifteen minutes. The sun is hot on the back of his neck, his feet ache, and the sight of the driveway veering left gives him a visceral sense of relief.

“Finally,” he sighs, shoulders sagging. “I thought we’d never make it.”

Scar, on the other hand, is not so careless. The lane bends into an empty parking lot, but that doesn’t seem to mean anything to him as he cautiously slings the rifle off his shoulder, walking with it held steady in his hands as they approach the seemingly abandoned building.

The club is laid out like a compound, with three long, flat-roofed buildings covered by aluminium siding forming a U around the shooting range itself. They approach cautiously, checking the perimeter of each building, but the grounds seem entirely empty. No lurching creatures shamble out to greet them. No warning shots are fired to keep them at a distance.

They try the door of the first building and find it set up like a garage, with several ATVs up on blocks, their tires removed in the midst of refurbishing. The second building holds even less than the first—mostly just plywood sheets and some siding. There are targets, decoys, and clay pigeon throwers arranged on some shelves; but it’s all things to shoot at, nothing to shoot with.

The third building is the least shed-like and clearly the most used of the establishment. Inside they find something like a clubhouse, with worn brown leather couches and sun-faded upholstery arranged around a single large room. Hunting trophies made of taxidermied deer heads and award plaques for marksmanship are mounted on the walls. There’s a bar in one corner, which strikes Grian as a ridiculous addition to a place teeming with guns; both dangerous and risky. It has a self-serve, honour system menu written on a whiteboard propped up against it, liquor bottles lined up against the wall.

“There’ll be an ammo room,” Scar explains, matter-of-fact as they stand in the doorway. There are large windows and sliding glass doors leading out to the shooting range. It looks nice, almost inviting.

Grian has never been somewhere more alien.

“How do you know?” He asks, and Scar gives him a look, eyebrow raised as if it isn’t obvious.

“I had other hobbies before I met you,” he says, as if that clarifies anything at all.

Grian’s not sure what to make of it. Not sure whether he should feel jilted by the statement, or guilty for not having learned more about Scar in all the years they’d been together.

He settles on a dim neutral, pushing the exchange out of mind, trying not to get bent out of shape about their distant history, especially when the far more recent memory of Scar’s hand on his cheek and lips pressed to his are now so recent. A port in the storm, making him feel like they might not be as over as he had once thought.

Scar himself seems unconcerned, passing through the lounge and down a short hall. There’s a single door at its end and Grian watches as he tries the handle, finding it locked. Without stopping to consider, Scar puts his shoulder to it and shoves once, twice, until the cheap plywood splits and the door swings inward.

Grian tries not to stare. Tries to hide the flutter Scar’s strength ignites, warm and liquid in his belly.

Through the door is a small room lined with cheap wire racks and simple shelves. Sets of ear protection and glasses hang off hooks next to half a dozen reflective vests. There are no gun safes, there’s no firearms at all.

What they do find, however, are boxes of ammunition, stacked in orderly, organised rows.

Scar moves without hesitation, acting with the confidence of a man who knows exactly what he’s looking for. It sends a buzz creeping up Grian’s spine, seeing him so competent. However, it’s not the time nor the place, so he instead focuses on looking over the rest of the room, hoping to find something they can use to resupply.

“A lot of these are useless,” Scar says, putting aside boxes he deems of no value. “Wrong calibre, wrong model. It looks like this place dealt mostly with pistols and handguns.”

Grian hums in acknowledgement, getting the general gist of it despite not being a gun person himself. As he listens, he pulls an empty shoulder bag off of a shelf. It’s meant to sit snug across the chest—not as good as a backpack, and unable to hold much, but absolutely better than nothing.

“We’re gonna take everything worthwhile, though,” Scar adds, picking up his final selections of ammunition and putting the boxes into their backpack. “Let’s just hope this mess blows over before we go through it.”

Unable to help himself, Grian asks, “How long do you think this is gonna last?”

Scar goes quiet. When Grian looks at him their eyes catch, speaking a million words that neither of them dare say out loud. The last of the setting sunlight slants in from the hall, casting a warm tint on Scar’s face. His mouth pulls tired around the corners, circles worn deep under his eyes.

“I think it’ll be over right before the ammunition runs out,” he says, simple.

Grian chooses not to press it, nodding like he agrees.

It only takes them a little while longer to finish sorting through the tiny room, but by then the sun has set, the last dredges of light fading from the sky from a sunset that appears to have been magnificent. They decide to stay for the night, because it feels like they have no other choice. There are no street lights, nothing to light their way. They don’t know what’s out in the dark, and neither of them wants to risk it. The club might not be safe for long, but it’s safe for now, and that’s all that they can ask for.

Still, there are windows on all sides of the lounge, and nothing to cover them with. The doors are flimsy, and they have nothing to secure them. Their last encounter weighs heavy on both their minds, but their choices are slim.

It’s a crappy hand. All they can do is play it and hope their luck lasts the night.

“Beer nuts,” Grian announces from where he’s standing behind the bar, trying to brighten his tone and keep the mood between them upbeat. “And pretzels. Some M&Ms and those awful pre-packed brownies. Man, they really said ‘you can, in fact, shoot guns on an empty stomach’ didn’t they?”

“I don’t think they meant for their off-grid shooting range to include five-star dining,” Scar snorts, affable. He’s sitting on the floor, legs stretched out in front of him, yet again too tall to sleep comfortably on any of the couches. Though it’s dark out, they haven’t risked turning a light on, relying instead on the dim glow shed by the open bar fridge.

Grian scoffs at that, picking out what interests him most from the meagre offering of snacks before he nudges the door shut with his elbow, plunging them into a darkness brightened only just slightly by the light of the moon. “We’ll just have to enjoy the best this mini-fridge has to offer, and I promise not to complain too much.”

Scar makes a noise in the back of his throat, bemused, tilting his head back to look at Grian as he steps carefully in order to avoid being silhouetted in any of the windows he passes by.

“You’re in a good mood,” he remarks idly.

Grian sits down heavy on the sofa Scar is leaning back against, pulling his legs up under him as he places the snacks in his lap.

“Well yeah.” He can’t hide the small tug of a smile, a flush rising to his cheeks that he’s glad the darkness will cover. “We have a place to stay, we’re about to eat some potentially stale cheetos…” he pauses, taking a breath before he adds, “And you kissed me today.”

For a moment Scar sits silent, his face in profile to Grian, expression unreadable.

Grian doesn’t know if he overstepped. Doesn’t know which direction their conversation is about to take.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” Scar says at last, admitting it carefully. “I don’t know… I guess I panicked. And then I was so relieved when you were alright, I just...”

He trails off and a quiet settles between them. They’re on the precipice of something that feels enormous, something that puts Grian's heartbeat up in his throat. A part of him wonders if it’s too soon to push, when Scar’s clearly only just begun to forgive him… but another part can’t resist. He misses Scar. He misses everything.

The worn leather of the couch cushions squeak as Grian slides off them, food abandoned in favour of something more appealing. He settles himself on the floor next to Scar, looking at him intently in the dark.

“Scar…” he whispers, soft, laying his hand against his cheek and turning his head to look at him. He can’t see the fine details of Scar’s face in the dark, can’t guess what he’s thinking.

He takes a risk, hoping it’s the right thing to do.

The kiss is slow and gentle, Grian leaning forward to press his lips against Scar’s. For a long moment nothing happens, and nothing is reciprocated. Scar is still, like Grian’s not even there. It’s enough to make a knot of anxiety twist in Grian’s chest, one that nearly forces him into a shameful, red-faced retreat.

Then, finally, Scar kisses him back.

He takes his time, feeling almost distant, hands still in his lap even as Grian slides his fingers up and back, running them through Scar’s hair.

There’s nothing desperate between them, not the same passion Grian felt when the adrenaline was humming in him like a livewire and his ears were ringing from the gunshots. Grian kisses Scar, determined, and Scar kisses him, and slowly he opens up in a way he hasn’t since… well, since before.

Before.

Grian really has missed him. Missed this. He knows they’re not ready to pick things up where they left off—that there’s still too much left unresolved between them. But he knows, despite everything, that his feelings are still there. That he still wants Scar just the same.

He never stopped, really. Not even when he strayed.

It was just…

Complicated.

He’s shifting forward, raising his knee to straddle across Scar’s lap when Scar stalls him, hand heavy on his thigh. Grian makes a questioning noise, confused, and Scar slowly, carefully places a kiss on his cheek.

His voice is quiet in the dark as he asks, “Can we lay down instead? My legs are killing me.”

Relief blooms like a rose in his chest, petals fanning out to fill him eager and warm. A part of Grian that he didn’t even know was grieving feels unburdened all at once. He’d hoped Scar would eventually want this again, but he didn’t dare dream that it would be so soon. And the fact that Scar is initiating it… the emotions swell up in him, all overlapping, nearly swamping him with their vigor.

He nods eagerly and lets himself be manoeuvred in place, Scar laying him down on the makeshift bed he’s made of cushions and hunting jackets he’d found in a closet. He tucks Grian’s back against his chest, hands warm and familiar on his body. When he settles and stills, Grian can’t stem by the tide of his excitement—his yearning for the same closeness they used to have. Now that it's within reach, he doesn't want to wait a second longer, even if he knows this must seem abrupt when Scar is easing into it so slowly. A pleading noise that works its way out of Grian's throat, wanting Scar to touch him, touch him—he’s pushing his hips, not sure whether to rock forward or nudge backwards, wanting to feel more, feel something.

“Grian,” Scar sighs into the nape of his neck, and something in him sounds lost.

“Scar,” Grian replies, pushing back into the bulk of his chest, almost desperate for the contact. “Don’t make me beg...”

The moment stretches, curling into something close to painful, but finally Scar gets the message, and though his hands are hesitant at first, he still manages to work Grian’s jeans open without complaint. Grian's entire body aches from how much he’s wanted this, how much he’s needed the familiarity and security of Scar’s touch. He’d tried his best to keep it all locked away, but now, with Scar offering, he feels lost in it—intoxicated by the way it feels when Scar holds him, small and protected and secure against his body.

Grian doesn’t know if he should make a noise or be quiet, but when Scar’s hand slips under the waistband of his trunks and works him free, he finds he can’t keep silent, muffling a small moan out into the dark. Scar’s fingers curl around him, calloused and familiar as he strokes him once, slow, like he has to remember how Grian feels. It’s a stupid thing to get worked up over, but Grian feels like he’s falling apart already. So content, so relieved.

It’s good. It’s exactly what he needs. Scar gets him to the edge of release embarrassingly quick, hand stroking him steady as he pulls the slick of Grian’s pre down his length, helping the slide of his hand, which almost completely encompassing him.

“Scar…” A soft sigh slips from between his lips as Grian hitches his hips forward, chasing the feeling of Scar’s palm wrapped around him. He repositions himself, pushing his shoulders back, wanting to feel Scar—wanting to be enveloped by him entirely. He feels crazed with it, like a starving man presented with a feast. He missed this so much, god, he missed it.

He can feel Scar’s breath, hot against his neck, even, in and out, pressing soft kisses to his nape as his hand moves faster, faster, picking up until Grian is gasping with every breath, feeling the knot wind tight in the pit of his belly, flaring out into his pelvis.

“Scar,” his pitch rises, the hiss of his whisper breaking as he feels his body crest. “Scar—Scar, oh—” He comes in a rush, barely having a chance to catch it, his hips pushing forward in a few desperate ruts as his f*cks into the curl of Scar’s fingers, his mess splattering onto the floor and dripping down the ridge of Scar’s knuckles.

He relaxes almost immediately, breath leaving him in a moan that mixes out into a sigh as satisfaction floods into every pore of his body. He feels good, loose and gummy around the edges as he hears himself giggle, distant, like he’s not fully present within himself. Slowly, he feels Scar’s hold on him loosen up, moving to wipe Grian’s mess onto the lining of one of the hunting jackets they’ve stolen.

There’s a residual thought in Grian’s head, the reminder that it’s Scar’s turn now. Sluggishly he starts to turn over, hand pressing uncoordinated against the front of Scar’s trousers.

He’s not expecting to find Scar soft, no hard line presenting itself to the searching pressure of his touch. He’s not sure what’s happened. Did Scar already finish?

“G,” Scar says, hushed in the dark. “It’s okay, don’t worry about it.”

He feels Scar’s kiss, lips pressed gently against his forehead, then again to his temple.

“Just lay back. Relax.”

A part of Grian isn't sure, something unsettled creeping at the fringe of his consciousness. However, so much more of him is buried under the warm comfort of his org*sm, sleepiness settling into the marrow of his bones, that he lets his concern slowly ebb away.

Wordlessly, Scar helps tuck him back into his pants, buttoning his jeans and drawing up some of the jackets, tucking them around Grian like a blanket. He feels another kiss pressed against his cheek.

He wants Scar to kiss him properly. Wants words of adoration and assurance, the way he used to, but suddenly he’s not certain he knows how to ask.

“I’m going to take the first watch,” Scar explains, low in his ear.

Grian doesn’t want him to go; doesn’t want the moment to slip away. However, for the first time in days he feels secure and comfortable, like an inch of common ground has finally been reestablished between them.

He doesn’t fight, laying still as Scar slowly stands up, footsteps retreating across the floor as he goes to take up watch where he can see out the majority of the windows.

Sleepily, Grian wants to say thank you. Wants to say he’s glad that Scar still cares. That he’s glad Scar chose to forgive him.

Instead, he lets himself drift off, falling asleep heavy and dreamless, thinking about the comfort of Scar’s strong hands.

Chapter 9

Chapter Text

Scar wakes up to a hand gently shaking his shoulder and a voice whispering in his ear, calling for him by name. He frowns, trying to tuck his face deeper into his pillow, unwilling to let go of the serenity of sleep just yet, his body resisting wakefulness every step of the way.

“It’s morning,” Grian murmurs, low, and Scar supposes that by some definition it is. There’s sunlight on the horizon, a sliver of pink-orange pushing the deep indigo back. It can’t be any later than six. Too early for him—he’s never been a morning bird.

He sits up slowly, feeling grimy and stale in the clothes he fell asleep in. He’s been wearing the same thing since before the end of the world. The same blue gingham button-up, the same reliable pair of jeans. There’s nothing to do about it at this point, but he still wishes he’d had time to wash them at the storage unit. Or had time to look around through the boxes of other peoples’ lives to find something else he could change into.

He’s getting used to wishing for things that can simply never be.

Grian is crouched on his knees beside him, his features picked out in the warm light of the rising sun. There’s a small but earnest smile on his face, looking pleased and reasonably well rested. He angles himself in, leaning forward for a kiss.

Scar leans back on instinct, his heart pulsing up into his throat.

An expression he can’t place moves quickly across Grian’s face, resolving after an instant with an understanding smile. He rocks back, settling his wait on the balls of his feet as he affectionately squeezes Scar’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry, I have pretty bad morning breath, too.”

Scar doesn’t know what to do with that statement. Doesn’t know what to say. Instead, he wordlessly looks away, letting it sit strange between them as he instead works his hands into the sore tendons behind his knees.

“We should get going,” Grian finally interjects, breaking up the quiet as he pushes himself to his feet. “I’m going to pack up as many of the water bottles as we can carry. There’s some energy drinks if you want them, but they’re not exactly my favourite flavour.”

He’s cheerful and downright chatty as he paces around, getting their things together. It’s a side of Grian that Scar hasn’t seen in a long time, even before the world spun off its axis. Each time Grian passes next to him, he touches Scar—a brush against his wrist, a hand on his shoulder—smiling and enthusiastic. It’s like they’re on a romantic weekend getaway together, and not trying to outrun the collapse of society as they know it.

Scar tries not to let it get to him. Tries not to let it make his skin crawl. Something about it feels like he’s relapsing, that he’s let himself slide into something he should have tried harder to avoid.

He pushes himself to his feet and makes himself busy, trying to distract his uncomfortable wandering thoughts. He packs away the meagre supplies they have and double-checks his pack to make sure everything of value is still within it. His breakfast is a protein bar, which he eats, perfunctory and barely tasting it as he heads towards the fridge to pick out the aforementioned energy drinks.

Upon opening the door, he starts, blinking at the change from last night.

“The light’s gone.”

“Mm?” Grian hums from where he’s sorting through food and water.

“The fridge light,” Scar repeats, “Last night, it was still on. Did you unplug it, or…?”

“Oh,” Grian says, light and dismissive. “We lost power. It happened during my watch, I guess about an hour before you woke up.”

A trickle of irritation crawls up Scar’s spine. He tries his best to keep any antagonism out of his tone, leveling on the non-hostile side of humour. “And you didn’t think that was important information to share with the team?”

Grian shrugs, nonchalant. “It was bound to happen at some point, right? Can’t exactly manage the upkeep of electricity when there’s no one left to do it. He scoffs a bit, unperturbed as he resumes packing M&Ms and pretzels into his bag. “Remember when you and Pearl watched all those disaster documentaries last year, and you got all paranoid? You were saying power would give out after a day or two. We had almost a week of it. Shows how little those prepper nerds knew, eh?”

Scar’s stomach turns. If they’ve lost power, then what does that mean for their survival when winter is only just around the corner? Their plan is to head north, away from the temperate safety they’ve grown accustomed to over the years. What will they do for heat? And light? As of now, they’ve got one sh*tty keychain flashlight between the two of them. How long will the batteries last when they’re forced to use it every night while setting up camp in empty, powerless buildings?

Has Grian thought about that? Is he keeping it to himself, to protect Scar from his anxiety, or is he truly just indifferent to it all, too lost in his own thoughts?

“C’mon,” Grian calls with a smile. He’s busy trying the long sleeves of his overshirt around his waist, leaving him in his somewhat dingy looking undershirt. “We have a long day ahead of us, can’t be dawdling.”

Scar shuts the fridge door, no longer in the mood for drinks. He knows this pernicious positivity and upbeat mood of Grian’s is his own doing. He knows he coaxed this into being. A direct result of how last night went. A thousand poor decisions made in the heat of the moment and acted on as exhaustion made it impossible to think straight.

He regrets it.

He wishes he could go back and undo it all.

It had just been so easy to fall back into old patterns and familiar habits. He hadn’t wanted to rebuff Grian and fight, hadn’t wanted to lie about how much he was missing him, so instead he’d let their intimacy come as a security. It had been worth it, at the time, to allow the moment to unfold naturally and not shatter it by picking at the tender scab that had formed between them.

Much of it had been prompted out of fear—the terror from the near miss with the zombies back at the storage unit still looming large on his mind. The nightmarish possibility that maybe, just maybe, he had been about to lose Grian in that attack.

Even after they’d escaped, it had remained a white-hot impression, seared on the forefront of his mind for the rest of the day. He hadn’t stopped checking the entire way, looking at Grian, ensuring he was there at his side. The anger that had been simmering in his chest, the betrayal lingering in his gut, the rotten feel of rejection and deceit, had all suddenly seemed so inconsequential. He’d just been glad to hold Grian in his arms again, solid and real. Unharmed and alive. It had come as such a reassurance, those moments when they kissed, when he’d held Grian’s hand again, that had Scar thought maybe… maybe securing their closeness could be something he wanted.

It was only when Grian fell apart under the touch of his hand, gasping and writhing, shoulders pushed back into Scar’s chest, that Scar had realised he’d pushed himself too far. He wasn’t ready. Their intimacy had felt wrong and disjointed—with none of the pleasure he’d come to expect from it.

He’d made a mistake, and now he doesn’t know how to walk it back.

Grian smiles at him as he puts on an ill-fitting hunting jacket he took from a closet, the size far too large, long sleeves bunching up at his wrists. The sandy coloured camo looks ridiculous on him and somehow suitable at the same time. It feels like something Scar’s seen him in before, but he can’t place it.

It’s better than gore stains, at least. It’s better than blood.

“Ready?” he asks, oblivious to the storm raging in Scar’s head.

Scar manages a smile of his own, forced and fake. “Yeah. Let’s get going.”

He checks over his gun and adjusts it into a carry on his backpack while Grian explains the route they’re taking. He’s found maps in one of the bookshelves by the entrance—they detail ATV trails and little-known side roads that cut through the shallowest slopes of the mountains, rejoining the major highways on the other side. From how Grian describes it, the path shouldn’t be too long–a couple hours of hard hiking, but certainly something that they can manage.

Scar isn’t so sure he agrees.

As they set out, he can feel the reluctance in his joints—an ache that tells him he’s already pushed himself, and forcing his limits is only going to leave him worse for wear in the long run. He misses his cane, misses his chair, misses the times when even taking transit seemed too daunting, and Pearl would offer him her spare helmet and give him a ride home on the back of her motorcycle. He doesn’t regret setting Grian’s car on fire—the bitter catharsis it gave him was worth every aching step—but he does wish he had something to make the distance they have to travel easier.

It’s not that he can’t do this, he just doesn’t know how long he can keep it up for.

He doesn’t have infinite time. Sooner or later he’s going to have to stop.

The road leading out from the gun club is forested on both sides. Dense, hardy trees growing up out of the arid soil. The ground slopes up, steeper than Scar would like, but at least it’s shaded. The air is shrill with the sound of the morning chorus, a multitude of songbirds chirping loud in the grey light of early morning.

Grian’s cheerful, humming to himself like they’re on a casual stroll. He repeatedly tries to catch Scar’s hand to hold, undeterred when Scar resists him every time.

Scar doesn’t know how he can make his feelings more obvious without turning things into a confrontation, so he doesn’t say a thing at all.

Eventually, Grian slips ahead, easygoing as he follows the road. It turns sandier the further they go, concrete replaced with hard-packed gravel, which eventually thins out into dirt rutted only by ATV tires and the occasional crescent print of a horse hoof.

The morning is turning to afternoon when Scar’s legs finally become too much of a pain to ignore. They stop at a bend in the road, the remaining third of the shallow mountain rising up in front of them, daunting in its own right. The trees are scrubby around them, stout growth with rough branches and bristly bushes made to weather the dryness and the heat. Scar knows that this is transient scenery. That the route they’re taking will lead them down into the Mojave on the other side, returning them to the desert vistas that they had become so familiar with on their journey.

Grian is sitting down as he finishes a bottle of water, resting on a boulder that was likely heaved out of the way back when the road was being put in. He looks fresh-faced and pleased with himself, enjoying the exercise on a bright sunny day. He’s clearly on the cusp of saying something carelessly casual when Scar cuts him off first.

“Are you using that?”

It takes Grian a moment to notice where Scar’s gaze has fixed on the broken garden hoe he’s strapped to his bag. He swallows the last of his water, twisting the plastic cap back on the bottle as he says, “Why do you ask?”

“Can I borrow it?”

Grian’s already loosening the belt he’d used to hold the handle of the hoe in place, handing it over without any reservation.

“Gonna do some gardening?” He asks, the corners of his mouth lifting in a grin.

Scar snorts, turning it over so the broken end of the handle is set on the ground, tapping it a few times to test its balance. It’s not better than his cane, and a far sight from his chair, but it’ll do.

“Just acclimating,” he says, gripping the handle near the trowel blade and nodding towards the road. “C’mon, ain’t no flies on us.”

Grian eyes him mutely, then bends down, lifting up one of his shoes and yanking on the laces.

“Just give me a second,” he says. “These damn laces are way too tight.”

Their break ends up dragging on as Grian muddles with seemingly every element of his outfit, allowing Scar some extra time to recoup, and Scar wonders if that’s his way of apologising for not noticing his struggle before now. Regardless, it’s another hour of hard hiking before they reach the ridge that forms the crest of the mountain.

It’s not a challenging landscape; more a gentle bend that buckles up and then descends down gradually in the other direction. It’s mostly dry and grassy, pocked in places with short, weathered trees, their branches bent from years of growing in the lee of the wind.

Picturesque, people might say.

There’s a sense of pride in Scar’s chest for having dragged himself up here, despite the exhaustion that’s settled into his bones. He looks to Grian, a small grin on his face, ready to wheedle a compliment out of him for reaching the summit, but all he finds is Grian looking back the way they came with a grim expression locked on his face. Frowning, Scar turns around, leaning heavily on his makeshift walking stick.

A mute kind of shock wedges itself in his throat, freezing him.

The city stretches out below them, wrapped tight to the base of the mountain and stretching out until it disappears into its own haze. Scar’s seen a city sprawl before, but he’s never seen anything like this. Parts of it are blackened, still smouldering from uncontained fires run amok. Other parts look cratered, homes, buildings, and entire blocks having crumbled back on top of themselves, leaving concrete skeletons standing in their absence. Smoke trickles up towards the sky in thready columns, signs of occupation or encampments, maybe, or just society continuing to collapse in on itself.

It looks like a war zone.

He feels sick.

“This isn’t a small hiccup, is it?” Grian asks as they both stare, his voice flattened and low. “This isn’t just going to blow over in a week.”

“I don’t know.” It’s not a lie, but deep in his gut Scar feels the permanence of their situation making itself clear. An irreparable shift in the way the world works.

They continue staring in silence, just the two of them, alone on the edge of the wreckage of what used to be. Mourning, not for the first time, and not for the last.

“Have you noticed there are no planes?” Grian asks after what feels like hours, though has only been a handful of minutes, at most. “No highway sounds, no industry, no sirens. It’s so quiet.”

It’s true. Their last days have been crushingly devoid of sound, all the usual background clamour of their lives absent. Scar has tried not to dwell on it much.

It scares him.

“We should keep going,” he says instead, even though every one of his limbs protests at the thought. “The hard part’s over, right? All downhill from here.”

“Right,” Grian says, slowly tearing his eyes away from the scene spread before him. “Hard part’s over.”

He’s not wrong, really. The opposite side of the mountain slopes down, laced by the wide, lazy zig-zag of the dirt road. The path it makes stretches out before them, almost completely visible from where they stand. Its end is overlapped by a highway and what looks to be an average sized town beyond. This side of the mountain has no forests, the ground dry and arid as the terrain gives way to desert. They pass scrubby bushes fit to endure the climate, and patches of yellowed, wind-swept grass. The few trees they spot, clinging to the soil, look more like shrubs.

“There’s a service road,” Grian explains as they walk side by side. “I saw it on the map. It runs north east, along the highway. We can follow it and maybe avoid any… you know, googlies.”

It’s a practical plan but Scar doesn’t know how realistic it is. His body aches more than he’s willing to admit. Another hike is going to push him well past his limits, and he doesn’t think he can simply force himself through this one.

“We might have to find somewhere to hole up,” he says as diplomatically as possible.

Grian brushes his words aside, dismissive. “Once we’re far enough out of town, we will.”

Scar knows Grian hasn’t truly heard him. Hasn’t understood the implication behind his suggestion. However he can’t spare the energy to argue, so he simply tightens his jaw and continues walking.

Together they descend the mountain, following the road. With less vegetation to cover the sandy soil, the slope is littered with stones of various sizes. Years of people—on foot or on ATVs—have stopped to make piles out of the flat rocks that litter the ground. Some of them have names scratched on them, celebrating graduations or marked in memorial. A large boulder at a switch-back on their descent has the initials ‘M.E. + W.S.’ encircled by a large heart painted on it in purple. Grian stops to admire it, casting his glance back at Scar with a smile.

“Too bad we don’t have anything to write our names with,” he teases, unaware of how his casual flirtations stick like a stone in Scar’s shoe.

Without answering, Scar keeps moving. He steps carefully, more grateful than ever for his makeshift walking stick. The peak of the day has passed, and their shadows begin to lengthen out as they near the base of the mountain. The rutted trail empties into a flattened area that was clearly used by locals as a parking lot, splintered off from a rarely used service road.

There are no cars left to greet them.

As usual, there is no one.

“We should sit for a minute,” Grian proposes, and even he looks tired, red splotches spread along his cheeks and brow from too much sun. He winces as he crouches down to rub the meat of his calves.

Scar doesn’t want to sit. He knows too well what resting now will mean.

“Grian,” he says, keeping his tone a careful neutral. “We can’t stop yet.”

“I just need a minute, Scar,” Grian replies, dismissive as he continues rubbing his leg, working the tendons of his thigh.

“Grian,” Scar repeats, hoping not to scare him, knowing what this admission is going to do to him. “If I sit down, I’m not going to be able to get back up again.” He pauses, taking a deep breath. “For a while.”

Grian looks at him as if seeing him clearly for the first time. Scar feels the direct point of his gaze as he asks, careful, “What are you getting at?”

“You know what I’m ‘getting at,’” Scar sighs, leaning heavy on his walking stick. “Grian… we need to find a place to stay. Somewhere safe. With doors and a roof.”

He sees the panic settling into Grian’s expression—the instant anxiety and the realisation that they’re about to become much, much more vulnerable.

“You can’t be serious,” he says insistently, standing up, body tense as he bargains, like it’s something they can deliberate on. “Scar—”

“Grian,” Scar repeats for what feels like the hundredth time. “I’m tired.”

“What are you asking us to do?” Grian stresses, shoulders stiff, his good mood abandoned. “What are you even saying?”

“I’m saying we’re going to find a place with a proper bed,” Scar says, laying it out as impartially as he can. “A bathroom, a kitchen, and a front door that we can barricade and lock.” He pauses to ground himself, bracing for Grian’s outburst. “And then we’re going to wait.”

“For how long?!”

It feels like he’s bartering. Like there’s some part of this situation that Grian thinks he can haggle down if he negotiates well enough. It’s as frustrating as it is predictable, and Scar struggles to suppress a sigh.

“We should get going,” he says, trying to put an end to the dispute instead, scratching the end of his walking hoe into the dry, sandy dirt. “It’s gonna get late if we dither around for much longer.”

“Scar, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but every place we’ve stopped has been overrun with things that want to eat us alive!” Grian says, snapping like the apocalypse is something Scar is at fault for. “And we’re about to enter another no doubt infested town! We can’t just decide to—to settle down and plant roots and—”

“Grian,” Scar snaps, and for the first time since their conversation began, his voice comes out sharp, shutting down any continued argument. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I’m gonna need you to stop acting like I’m making a choice here and listen to me when I tell you that we have a finite window to get somewhere safe before I lock up completely, and it is rapidly closing.”

That, at least, gets through to Grian, a shock of embarrassment passing over his features before he squares up and nods tightly.

“Okay,” he relents, understanding at last. “You’re right. I—I’m sorry. We should get going, then.”

“We should,” Scar agrees, exhausted from diverting the little energy he had left towards a squabble.

They resume walking, Grian’s pace far outmatching Scar as the urgency pushes him ahead.

The edge of the town is marked by the highway they saw from the mountain. Two lanes in each direction, piled with backed up, abandoned cars. The outskirts are the same as any highway-adjacent city—gas stations, auto repair shops, drive-thrus, and convenience stores. Even from a distance they can see them, though– wandering corpses, shambling as they wander aimlessly. There are dozens of them, littering the streets and sidewalk curbs.

They can’t make a base here. They have to pass on through as best they can.

Scar can feel the mounting pressure every time Grian looks over his shoulder at him. He can tell that he’s judging his pace against the setting sun, casting his gaze around constantly to keep track of the movement of the ghouls around them, knowing there’ll be no sprinting to escape if they get ambushed.

It’s exhausting.

Eventually, Grian pauses at an intersection, the traffic lights dead above them, not even blinking on emergency power. He crouches down, hiding behind a series of abandoned cars that conveniently block them from the zombies ambling along the cross street, groaning tonelessly. He holds up a hand, indicating for Scar to wait in place, and together they hold their breath and wait as the creatures move past them.

“I need you to wait here,” Grian says once they’re gone, breaking the silence they’ve maintained since their argument at the foot of the mountain. “I have an idea. You just need to sit tight for a minute.”

Scar wants to push back, but his joints are in agony, searing pain running the full length of his legs and leeching up into his spine. Just having stopped here makes him never want to move again. This is as far as he realistically can go. He’s beat.

“How long will you be?” He asks, but Grian responds to his genuine question with a cynical raised eyebrow and a roll of his eyes.

“Very funny.”

Without any further explanation he unclips his shoulder bag from across his chest, holding it out to Scar.

“Just trust me, okay?”

Scar wants to say that’s impossible. He wants to ask on what planet does Grian think he gets to be sensitive about Scar asking how long he’ll be, and then turn around and ask for his trust? After lying to Scar over and over, after cancelling plans, delaying dates, being late because he was in bed with someone else, how can he look Scar in the eye and think he can ask for any faith at all? Grian made short work of Scar ever trusting him again.

But he can’t afford a fight right now.

He knows they’re already stinging; that it would make that cut fester if he were to pick at it any further. He knows that it wouldn’t gain him anything other than further loneliness and isolation if he were to.

So instead of saying anything at all, Scar simply accepts the bag from Grian without complaint.

He wonders if Grian means it like collateral—a promise that he’ll return, if not for Scar then at least for his belongings. It’s a grim thing to think, that Grian might only be using him as a glorified coat rack, but he can’t put it past him. Sighing, Scar hooks the straps over his right shoulder and casts his eyes around, looking for somewhere to wait that isn’t out in the open but is still within a reasonable walking distance for his weary body.

“Yeah, fine,” he says, flat. “I’ll wait.”

He’s distracted, trying to decide if he can make it to the glassed-in bus stop across the street, when he feels Grian’s hand on his forearm. He has only a second to prepare before Grian is rocking up on tiptoes and kissing his cheek, far too close to the corner of his mouth.

“I’ll be quick,” he whispers, an assurance almost entirely lost on Scar, who finds himself blindsided by the gesture.

Before he can even form a reaction, Grian is off, crouched low as he jogs up the street, avoiding the direction the few zombies had straggled off in. At a distance he looks small and vulnerable in a way that has Scar’s heart twisting, a strange mix of emotions clogging his ventricles.

The anxiety of being left by himself sets in fast.

He hates being alone.

Forcing himself to turn away, Scar pushes the last few feet to the bus stop he’d been looking at. In terms of shelter, it’s in no way secure—a simple bench surrounded by glass on three sides—but beggars can’t be choosers. He sits down heavily, tucking himself against the poster-ad plastered to one side, advertising a probiotic brand of yogurt, and tries to plan what he’ll do if a zombie lurches towards him.

He’s relatively safe, visually speaking at least. He’s lower to the ground, and the pile-up of vehicles just ahead keeps the bus stop out of view of the creatures wandering just past them. Still, that doesn’t mean he can lower his guard and relax. He checks his six often, followed by his open sides, all while going through escape routes in his head. He could use his gun but the sound would absolutely draw every other zombie in the area. In such close quarters, the best bet would be to run, but he doesn’t know if his body is even capable of that at this point.

Beyond that, the thought of potentially losing track of Grian puts a terror in him that he doesn’t have a name for. It’s a wretched sort of vulnerability, a kind he’s never felt prior to this. He’s clinging by his fingertips to the edge of the world and hoping he doesn’t have to find out how far it takes to fall.

It’s fifteen, maybe twenty minutes before Grian comes back. The time since he’s left has passed for Scar in a tense anxiety that ratched up one minute at a time, knowing it’s when not if he’d be discovered. He’d started to stew in a darkening cloud of certainty that he’d been left behind, cast aside and abandoned, when he catches sight of Grian’s form pedaling towards him on a bicycle, its tires thick and its frame bright orange.

Seeing him again stirs up both relief and dread, the two emotions curled together, tumultuous in his gut.

“There’s no way I can pedal that,” he blurts before Grian even has a chance to come to a complete stop. It’s a nice bike, it’s practical, but Scar’s limbs feel like lead—there’s just no way he can manage to ride it.

There’s a second of disappointment on Grian’s face, and Scar gets the feeling he was expecting a hero’s welcome. A part of him feels bad for robbing him of that, but they don’t have time for the trappings of civility, not sitting out in the open, unguarded as they are with the snarling of the undead roving just outside their tentative hideaway.

“No one said you have to pedal,” Grian mutters, propping out the kick stand as he hops off the bike. He moves with quick efficiency, holding out his hand for his bag and strapping it back across his shoulder once Scar returns it to him. “I worked it out. It’s got one of those flat top bike rack thingies, see? You just sit on the back, I’ll take care of it.”

Scar is doubtful.

“Grian, I’m not exactly a small guy. How on earth are we supposed to squeeze onto this thing together?”

“If you keep your legs bent and your arms around me while we ride, it’ll work,” Grian insists, “Look, I know it’s not the best method and it won’t exactly be comfortable, but we can’t hole up here where there’s dozens—maybe hundreds—of corpses walking about.”

Scar is still hesitant, too many memories of a childhood spent falling off of bikes in front of the neighbourhood kids cluttering his mind. “Will you really be able to pedal with the weight of two people to push, though?”

Grian looks affronted, genuinely, and Scar gets the sense he’s touched a vulnerability he didn’t even know Grian had.

“I’m stronger than I look.”

It’s ridiculous. There’s every chance that this will only blow up in their faces, leaving them worse off than they started, but… with the way Grian looks at him, eyes bright and determined, Scar can’t help but relent.

He sighs and hefts himself up off the bus stop bench, leaning heavily on the hoe to manage it. It’s not the easiest thing he’s ever done, but it’s manageable. It has to be. He shakes himself out a bit—letting his body adjust to the pins and needles feeling of standing up—before he nods his acceptance to Grian.

“Let’s go, then.”

With a beaming smile, Grian immediately gets into position, sitting ready on the seat and waiting for him. It takes some effort, but Scar manages to leverage himself up onto the bike rack. Surprisingly, that part is easier than figuring out how to fit his legs into a position that doesn’t snag the bike chain or drag his feet along the street. When he’s too tall for Grian’s earlier suggestion, he ends up awkwardly adjusting so that he’s sitting sideways, backpack worn across his chest and gun at his back in order to distribute the weight better. His feet just barely miss the pavement as he wraps an arm around Grian’s middle and tucks his face against his shoulder.

There’s a sharp intake of breath from Grian, something surprised and pleased, but Scar doesn’t dwell on it, interrupting the moment with a question. “Where’d you even find this thing?”

“Lucky us, the bike store up the street was having a sale,” Grian laughs, sarcastic. “That five-finger discount’s really come through for us lately.”

“Should’ve gotten a tandem bike then,” Scar remarks. “That would’ve worked a lot better for us.”

Grian snorts, amused. “All sold out, I’m afraid. Slim pickings at the end of the world.”

It takes them a bit to get going, a few false starts with Scar sliding off the rack and having to readjust how he sits. Grian grunts with the effort as he finally gets the bike moving, the initial startup requiring the most force from his pedaling. Once they’ve gotten moving however, their arrangement works remarkably well. They round back towards the highway, turning away from the rest of the town.

The direction catches Scar off guard, assuming they only had a few minutes to travel before they were going to find a place to lay up.

He taps Grian’s side to alert him. “Wrong way.”

Grian shakes his head, pushing the pedals faster as they merge onto the deserted highway, easily skirting the few abandoned vehicles clogging the on-ramp. Scar tries not to stare at them, their windows smashed, rust-red viscera smeared across the hoods and dashboards.

“Lotta googlies back there,” Grian explains, grim. “Not Scar safe.”

The anxiety nestled deep in Scar’s chest ratchets up, choking him on his own nerves. All at once, delayed fear for Grian wraps like a vice around him. He thinks of himself, left to sit idly by with a gun in his hands, kicking his feet at a bus stop for what felt like hours. He thinks of Grian, alone without their only means of defence, peering through windows and checking car doors in an attempt to find them some form of transportation. He knows the 'bike store’ is just a bit—that Grian was likely heading into backyards and other dangerous places he could’ve easily been cornered.

He could’ve gotten swarmed out there. Grian could’ve been surrounded, with no one to help him, mauled and ripped apart and Scar would’ve never even known. All because he ventured out in hopes of finding something for Scar.

“We don’t split up again,” he says suddenly, firm.

Grian’s response is merely silence, though Scar gets the impression he wants to glance back. Instead, Grian concentrates on keeping them moving, panting from the exertion. They follow the line of the highway, past a road sign that lists the nearest town as just over twenty-five miles away.

Scar doesn’t bother to ask how far Grian thinks he can cycle for.

For three hours they travel alone along the highway, Grian focused and Scar sitting silent behind him. The highway is a straight shot, flat, and relatively rut-free, but that doesn’t mean their progress is easy. Grian labours, breathing hard, his hair sticking to his forehead from sweat that he repeatedly wipes away from his eyes. They stop a few times for him to catch his breath and drink some water. Their supply is already getting low, but Scar doesn’t mention it, too worried that Grian will simply stop taking breaks and push himself to pedal for longer periods without respite in order to preserve what they have left.

The journey is bleak. Desert stretches out around them in every direction. Dry, sandy soil, pocked in places with clumps of agave and cacti, and nurturing very little else. It wouldn’t be an interesting drive in a car, and it’s even less compelling from the back of a bike, staring out at the darkening horizon that only seems to creep by.

They come across just one delay. A collision of cars, with a miasma of traffic radiating out from in both directions. There’s a handful of undead milling about, distant enough to avoid, but there’s no way to easily cycle around the pile up. They only slow down long enough to sidle the bike between gaps in the cars, but that’s enough to draw the attention of a lone zombie they hadn’t noticed, which pulls its head up out of the crumpled trunk it had been awkwardly slumped in. It makes a guttural, too-human noise that has them both alarmed, considering for just a brief instance that it might be an injured person in need of help.

Their concerns are dismissed when the zombie catches its own arm on the jagged edge of a car door as it lurches towards them, tearing muscle and sinew that peel off from the bone, clotted and gangrenous from days of sun exposure. It stumbles, struggling to pull itself free, leaving most of its forearm behind.

No living person would behave that way. Not a soul.

Scar raises his rifle, aiming down the barrel, finger resting careful on the trigger, but Grian elbows him gently, shaking his head. All it will do is alert the others in the area. There’s no need to waste the shot.

“I feel bad for it,” Scar says as he lowers the gun, voice quiet, meant only for Grian to hear.

“You shouldn’t,” Grian dismisses, simply. “I don’t.”

They resume their progress, pushing the bike through the last of the mangled vehicles before they continue on. Behind them, the ghoul follows with slow, stumbled steps. Scar watches it silently over his shoulder until it dips out of sight, his arm tightening slightly around Grian, forehead turning to press between his shoulder blades.

By the time they reach their destination, it’s late. The day is long shadowed by evening, the sky a bruised blue-purple above them as it withers with the last of the sunlight.

It would be boastful to call the place a town. A gas station standing directly off the highway, with a meagre mainstreet of sun-faded businesses running a couple blocks behind it. There’s a sign declaring the presence of a space museum in the area and Scar nudges Grian with a grin, only to be met with a tired glower.

The town is small enough that, without even trying, they immediately slip into what stands for the residential area. Simple homes, single-wide trailers and tract housing, all spaced evenly apart on gravel lots with minimal gardens. Every window they pass is dark, every driveway empty. The place is eerily quiet—either evacuated, deserted, or devoured.

It’s a sea of options for shelter though, which is why it confuses Scar when Grian doesn’t stop.

“What are you looking for?” He questions after they pass the dozenth viable house without so much as slowing down. The night is fully around them now. The darkness unsettling, an unease burying bone deep in his chest, pulling out the animal instinct to find somewhere safe to hide. “Any of these will work fine.”

“I’ll know it when I see it,” Grian replies.

He’s winded; exhausted, breath laboured and shoulders heavy. Scar doesn’t know why he’s pushing himself like this, what he could possibly have to prove. He’s never understood Grian’s tenacity, nor his inability to compromise once his mind is made up.

They’re near the end of the cul-de-sac street when Scar spots it, the only house in the neighbourhood with a second storey. It must be one of the original homes from when the town was first established, weathered construction that’s stood the test of time, with a larger lot and a detached garage set apart on the end of its forked driveway.

“I could see it from a distance,” Grian explains, breathing hard as he brings the bike to a stop at the curb. “I always wanted a big family house like this. Lots of space to grow into.”

Scar tries to ignore the way that stings—Grian’s making a joke, he’s sure, but it still hurts to hear. Getting a cat together had been too much commitment for him, and here he is talking about notions of family.

He forces the feeling down. He doesn’t want to know if this had been a long standing dream. Doesn’t want to wonder if Grian had always wanted those things, just not with him.

Whatever the truth is, they don’t have time to unpack it now. Don’t have time for any of Grian’s nonsense. Scar’s body is an overlapping twist of searing pains as he carefully eases himself off the back of the bike. He wobbles as he pushes his backpack and gun back to their appropriate places. He can barely walk—in fact, it’s a miracle he can stand. The hours sat hunched over hanging tight to Grian have sapped what little was left of his reserves.

“Grian,” he says, voice tight, and automatically Grian moves to his side, Scar resting his arm heavy across Grian’s shoulders as he leans all of his weight against him.

Up close the house is dark; looming, and intimidating. Unbidden, the memories of the ambush at the storage locker, and the encounter with the zombie that wandered out of the pantry in the farmhouse, loom up in Scar’s mind, nagging at him. They don’t know what waits for them inside—if the former residents are pacing the rooms, mindless, ravenous, just waiting for someone to crack the door open before they spring—and Scar knows he doesn’t have the fortitude to fend off an attack.

“We’ll sleep in the garage,” Grian says, innately picking up on his concern. “Figure the rest out in the morning.”

It’s as good an idea as any, both of them too tired and, in Scar’s case, in too much pain to dither about it. Together, Grian helps Scar limp the short distance up the driveway, the simple counterweight garage door swinging up when Grian bends down to pull on it. Inside the space is almost comically vacant, a dusty cement floor with a bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. There’s a door to the side and in the far corner: an empty tool bench with nothing but a stack of water-damaged magazines on top of it, the paper buckled and covers rolled back.

It feels stupid to rest here when they both know there’s a bed less than twenty feet away, but Grian reassures Scar that it’s fine. He helps Scar down until he’s sitting, legs stretched out long in front him, back resting against the unfinished plywood wall.

“There,” Grian says, smile strained with exhaustion as he sits down heavy beside him. “Our five-star suite.”

Scar can’t joke, can’t even bring himself to offer a smile in return. With careful movements he eases the backpack off his shoulders, settling the rifle next to his thigh. His body feels heavily, his movements impossibly slow, like he’s dragging them around on puppet strings from a great distance. Next to him Grian is talking, but Scar can’t hear, can’t focus beyond his pain and the relief to be somewhere he can relax. Somewhere safe.

They’ve left the garage door open for now, moonlight offering what little light it can in the otherwise total darkness of the room. They’ll have to shut it before long, lest it attract the wrong type of attention, but for now Scar lets himself breathe in the night air, steady breaths that fill his lungs before he exhales. He closes his eyes, listening to Grian talk until even he, eventually, quiets. Scar doesn’t quite fall asleep, but he does let go of himself in an out-of-body sort of way, forcing himself to untense, letting each limb drop loose. In doing so, his whole body throbs in an almost satisfying way—the kind that hurts but is a relief to feel all at once.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, but by the time he’s finally cognizant enough to open his eyes again, Grian has laid out provisions for the night and is looking at the water-logged magazines they’d spotted earlier. Scar peers at the protein bar, chips, and bottle of water with blankness. He’s hungry, but in an absent way—like his body doesn’t consider it a priority next to everything else it’s currently dealing with. Never-the-less, he takes a deep breath and inches himself up and forward, reaching out towards the rations.

It’s as he’s unwrapping the protein bar that he hears a foot scuff outside, heel dragging slow across the ground.

Scar wrenches his gaze towards Grian, and Grian’s eyes snap to his, wide.

Silently, Scar reaches for the gun propped beside him.

Suddenly it seems monumentally short-sighted for them to have left the garage door pulled up, leaving them entirely exposed. The noise draws nearer still, careless shuffling. The telltale, aimless approach they’ve both become familiar with.

Scar fits the rifle against his shoulder, aiming it at the moonlit opening. Neither he nor Grian breathe, dead silent.

They wait, tense, but it’s not the open garage that gets them.

Abruptly, without warning, the side door—the one leading towards the house—swings open. Nearest to it, Grian jumps, a startled yelp escaping him at the unexpected motion.

On pure instinct Scar spins around, ignition catching with a bang that’s ear-splitting as he aims and pulls the trigger.

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

On a good day, Scar is an expert marksman. Years of practice, dedication, and a love for the skill have paid off for him. Of course, the edge of having a knack for it helps as well. He can hit a moving target at a distance, he can nail a bullseye…

On a good day, he doesn’t miss.

On a bad day, the pain in his joints and the strain on his muscles makes his hands unsteady, unable to follow the sights of a rifle or accurately gauge the movement of a target. On a bad day, it means his shots are off-centre, listing to the right as he pulls up to favour the aches in his arms. It’s why he gave up shooting in the first place—it’s no good being unreliable when you’ve got a gun in your hands.

All things considered though, Scar’s lucky that today is a bad day.

The ignition fires but the barrel pulls to the side, missing his mark entirely. The sound of the rifle firing deafens him for a moment, Scar wincing as he suffers through the ringing in his ears. In the doorway, another figure winces as well. A young man, barely into his twenties. His brown hair hangs, unwashed and tousled, in front of his eyes. He’s dressed in an over-large floral knit sweater under a khaki overcoat, feet shoved into leather boots with dangling, untied laces. Blotchy, sunburnt skin; chipped nail polish; breathing. Alive.

Alive.

“Oh,” the stranger says, voice brighter than it has any right to be. “You’re people.”

“Oh my god.” The revelation hits Scar all at once, the surprise and delight at meeting another person—someone else; not just him and Grian, but another survivor—upended by the fact that he’d instinctively tried to kill him. “I almost shot you.”

A laugh bubbles up out of the stranger, high and delighted, almost manic.

“Holy sh*t,” he gasps, voice edged in disbelief. “You almost shot me.”

They look at one another, Scar laid out on the floor, back resting against the plywood wall, rifle still held tight in his hands, and the stranger, hands fidgeting at his sides, rocking his weight from one foot to the other.

At almost the exact same time, they both dissolve into relieved, jittery laughter.

“You could’ve killed me,” the stranger adds, like the revelation is still settling in. “I could’ve died.”

It’s a nerve-wracking thing to consider. In all their reckless slaughter of the wandering corpses lurching out at them from the dark, Scar had forgotten he still had the potential to kill real people. If he’s being honest, a part of him had already lost hope that there were any real people left.

“Damn, and here I was, coming in all co*cksure and confident because I thought I heard a noise! Didn’t stop to think about someone packing heat.” The stranger lifts his foot, about to move further into the garage when a cry from behind him catches his attention. His gaze hooks back over his shoulder, turning to greet the two panicked voices that shout out, overlapping one another.

“We heard a gunshot!”

“Are you okay?!”

“I’m fine,” the stranger shushes, reassuring. “I was just making a friend.”

“Did you take it out?” One of the voices asks, the lowest timbre of the three. “How the f*ck did one figure out how to shoot a gun?”

The stranger giggles with the same high, infectious laugh as he gestures into the garage, stepping in as he waves the two outside to join him.

“Not a zomboid,” he says, as two tentative sets of footsteps approach, scuffed soles dragging on the gravel. “Check it out—we got guests.”

Warrily, two new faces join the stranger, both matching him in age, fresh and out of place in the new grimness of the world. They’re both shorter than their companion—the shortest has a beanie crammed down over shoulder-length black hair, and the other boasts a ragged wolf cut, bangs held back by a bandanna. They wear the same mishmash of layers as their friend, one of them in a Nevada U sweatshirt, while the other sports a white shirt over a dark hoodie with fire designs snaking up the sleeves.

“… They gotta go.”

The statement comes from the boy in the flame-sleeved sweater, turning to face the other two after only a moment spent studying Scar and Grian.

Beside him, Grian bristles, and Scar rests a cautioning on his forearm, quieting him with a motion. There’s no point in playing their cards early if they want something out of this exchange. Better to wait and see where things stand.

A brief discussion breaks out between the three strangers, their backs turning to Grian and Scar, apparently unthreatened by them, despite the reverb of Scar’s shot still ringing in their ears.

“Don’t be like that,” the tallest says, face squinting with distaste at his companion’s knee-jerk reaction. “They only just got here. How’s that for hospitality? Think of the Yelp review...”

“Karl, we don’t have time to dick around. It’s getting late. We gotta get them out of here, now.”

“And that’s exactly why we can’t make them leave. C’mon Sap, don’t be heartless.”

“I’m not being heartless. I’m being realistic.” The speaker—Sap; with the flames—tilts his head forward, giving the one Scar nearly shot a serious expression. “C’mon, Karl. Think about this.”

There’s something loaded in that sentence. It piques Scar’s interest, listening intently for further clarity on their situation.

Unfortunately, despite his cautioning, Grian refuses to remain silent.

“We can hear you, you know,” his voice sounds out, irritable.

“Of course you can,” Karl says, looking at them with a grin. It’s a sweet smile, boyish and naïve, lips parted wide, like they’re not in the middle of a tense negotiation. “And that’s why we’re gonna ask you to spend the night with us—platonically, of course.”

Scar can feel Grian coiling. He’s on the defense, which brings out the hair-trigger in him. While normally Grian is humorous and jovial, with a mischievous touch that made Scar fall for him in the first place, all of that is absent when he feels like he’s been backed into a corner. Like this, he’s a lit fuse. A stick of dynamite primed to go off at any moment. Because what’s more threatening than encountering a too-sweet stranger in the middle of the apocalypse?

Scar can easily imagine the multitude of ways Grian is likely to lash out and ruin this for all of them, all too familiar with his barked words and cutting insults. He knows he has to think quickly—that his window of opportunity is closing fast, and that Grian is liable to shoot them both in the foot if he feels himself being back-talked in the slightest.

He can’t let Grian blow this for them, but there’s no time to step aside and form a plan.

So he takes a breath and goes for it.

“Well shucks, we’d love to,” he supplies, quick, before Grian has a chance to speak. He matches Karl’s smile with a radiant one of his own, the kind he knows reads as affable and charming; the one that says ‘trust me, I’m a good guy.’ “You know, I was just saying to Grian that folks ‘round here are known far and wide for their generous hospitality? You boys are certainly living up to the reputation.”

“We’re not from around here,” the smallest of the three mutters, shoulders pulled up defensively as he subtly leans into Sap’s personal space.

“Must be the local air rubbing off on you,” Scar counters, effortlessly moving with the conversation. “Honestly speaking, it’s gotten to me as well. Put me in a real sharing mood! Maybe we could all pass around our names while we’re feeling so giving—mine’s Scar.” Before Grian can speak, he sets a large hand on his shoulder, patting him fondly. “And this is my sidekick, Grian.”

The tallest of the three smiles brightly at that, stepping forward as he holds out his hand. “I’m Karl,” he offers, without a shred of hesitation.

Scar’s expression tightens at the corners as he sits still, unable to rise and meet his hand. “Karl! Great name—so glad I didn’t shoot you before I had the chance to learn it,” he says with a smile. “You’ll forgive me for not getting up. We’ve had a long day.”

Without hesitation, Karl bends his knees and sits down affably on the ground next to him. He meets Scar at his level as he eagerly takes his hand and shakes it. Still crouched beside him, Grian makes no motion to offer the same gesture, and Scar is relieved when Karl doesn’t even try.

“Believe me, man, we’ve all been there,” Karl confesses, like he has decades of experience to draw from. “Anyway, Pandas here—I mean, this is Sapnap. And that’s Quackity.”

Uneasily, Sapnap kneels down beside Karl, not willing to sit, but getting near enough to give Scar an acknowledging nod. Quackity doesn’t move at all, arms folded tight across his chest, expression pinched with distrust and concern.

“Quackity, eh?” Scar offers, sensing his reticence to join them. “Never heard that one before. You get it from your mallard’s side?”

Karl bites down on a quick laugh, but Quackity doesn’t see the humour in it, bristling in a way that Scar is all too familiar with.

“None of your business where I f*cking got it from,” he snaps, shutting the conversation down before he shifts his attention to his companions. “C’mon, let’s get out of here,” he mutters, blunt and tense.

“Well I think—” Scar begins, but is interrupted by Grian’s hand grabbing his shoulder.

He mock-whispers, just loud enough for all to hear. “Just let them go, Scar. We don’t know what their angle is—we can’t trust them.”

“Hey f*ck you, pal,” Quackity bites, hackles raised. “It’s you we can’t trust.”

“Q’s got a point, Karl,” Sapnap cautions, words civil but the spark in his eyes no less dangerous than Quackity’s. “We’re not exactly in a position to take risks right now.”

“See?” Grian says, uncrossing his arms to gesture emphatically, taking their rejection as a triumph. “None of us like each other, so it’s just best to go our separate ways, and since we got here first—”

“Like hell you did!” Quackity snaps, his voice raising up against Grian’s, the two of them talking over one another in a way that’s already getting hectic. “We’ve been here for days, pal. You can’t just—”

“Now hang on a second, gentlemen,” Scar reasons, raising his hands in a pacifying gesture. “All this getting up in arms and there’s simply no need. We can make this work! They’ve always said there’s safety in numbers, right? So what say we huddle together for warmth tonight, and we’ll go our separate ways in the morning.”

He uses his most charming voice, the kind that’s gotten him out of multiple sticky situations before. He’s good at talking his way out of things; much like shooting, he’s got a knack for it. However, just like shooting, sometimes he misses, and Scar gets to enjoy only a beat of silence before three voices speak out at once—Grian, Quackity and Sapnap making a din in their rush to object.

“Absolutely not, no.”

“Are you out of your f*cking mind?”

“We don’t even know you.”

“Scar,” Grian calls, springing to his feet at last. He dusts his knees off before he presses his toe into Scar’s thigh. “It’s time for them to go.”

With an incredulous snort, Quackity laughs, “Time for you to go.”

“No offence,” Sapnap adds, softer in demeanour than Quackity, but still firmly refusing to budge. “We just can’t risk—”

“Risk what, exactly?” Grian snaps. “I told you: we got here first.”

The cacophony builds, Grian raising his voice to argue and Quackity raising his in turn. The sound of shouting is a beacon to attract any wandering ghouls, if the gun shot hadn’t alerted them already. The tension is high, and Scar remains stuck in place, joints stiff, his heart up in his throat as he watches their first chance to catch a break spiral down the drain.

He speaks up, adding his voice to the din as he tries to negotiate. “Okay, okay, so maybe we need to workshop our terms, but you boys can’t tell me there’s not a glimmer of a good idea in there.”

If the other three hear him they don’t let up, arguing back and forth until all at once they’re interrupted by the sound of two hands clapping together, just once, followed by Karl’s voice, loud above it all.

“Enough.”

Like a switch has been thrown, both Quackity and Sapnap fall silent, leaving Grian’s voice to ring out alone, alarmingly loud in the now quiet space. He immediately pauses, abruptly self conscious by his volume as his eyes dart around to the others in the room.

“Wow.” Scar breathes out a huff of surprise, admiration in his tone. “How did you get them to do that?”

Karl glances at him, eyebrow quirked and a grin pulling at his lips. “Do what?”

“Listen to you.”

Karl’s laugh is tittering and delighted. It trails off into a giggle as he rocks to his right, pitching his shoulder into Sapnap as he leans heavily against him.

“That’s just how we work,” he explains, easygoing, like the words explain themselves. There’s a momentary pause, and Scar watches as Karl looks him over, shrewd, before taking a quick glance at Grian as well. Whatever he sees, it makes him hum. “You know…” he adds, eyes narrowing with a conspiratory smirk. “Because we’re in love.”

Scar blinks at that, not quite taken aback but somewhat confused. He waits, wondering if it’s the lead up to some joke and the punchline is about to be delivered, but when only silence follows, he reassesses.

Slow and careful, he takes in the way Karl leans into Sapnap’s space, looking for all the world like he belongs there. At the same time, Sapnap crouches just in front of Quackity, blocking him in a way that’s decidedly protective. The admittance must be a joke—Scar can’t fathom three people in a real relationship like that, when just two together makes such a complicated mess. But it’s hard to see it as anything but truthful when Karl conveys it with all the enthusiasm of someone newly engaged, heart full with all the beauty of the world and eager to let everyone around him know it.

“Ah,” Scar laughs, a weird bittersweetness settling over him. Being in love would explain it, of course. Respecting and listening to each other… he’d almost forgotten how it worked for most people. “Well, that would explain it, I suppose.”

The strangeness of his reaction doesn’t seem to register to Karl, who abruptly leverages himself back up, adopting a practical position as he says, matter-of-fact, “Seriously, though. I think Mr. Scar here has a point. There’s safety in numbers and, no offence, there’s strength in it too.”

He pauses, giving Scar and Grian time to do the quick math he’s implying. His three to their two. Beside him, Grian takes a breath to speak, but Karl simply continues, talking over him with an easy confidence.

“And instead of taking that as a threat, maybe you could just let us give you a hand.”

There’s a pause, expectant as he waits for them to react.

“Do we look that bad?” Scar asks at last, smiling despite himself.

“You look like car crash victims,” Karl explains bluntly. “And, I’m gonna be honest, there’s no point any of us sleeping out here when there’s beds and a shower inside.” His voice softens, genuine as he adds, “I promise we’re not bad people, man. We could help each other.”

It’s enough to sway Scar—elbow nudging into Grian as he needles persuasively. “A bed and a shower, Grian.”

He can see Grian’s reluctance, the petulant set of his expression and the stubborn way he bites his bottom lip. For all his attitude, he’s sharp—much sharper than he lets on. It’s clear to Scar that he doesn’t trust these people as far as he could throw them, and Scar knows how unlikely it will be for him to budge. Grian would sooner sleep outside on the dirt, confident of his distrust, than accept the suspiciously convenient charity of a helping hand. It’s a survivor’s instinct, and while it often benefits them, Scar knows he needs them to take a risk right now.

“Please,” he whispers, pulling Grian down gently by the arm and lowering his voice to keep it just between the two of them. He tips his hand, leaning on a soft diminutive. “G. I need this.”

Grian stares at him, frowning, the chewing on his lip becoming more aggressive until finally he sighs.

He heaves his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug, long-suffering. “Fine.”

“Awesome!” Karl crows, effortlessly getting to his feet with Sapnap following suit right behind him. “And you’re just in time for dinner, too.”

He looks down expectantly, hands on his hips as he waits for Scar and Grian to join them.

It’s a sudden and unexpectedly tricky situation. While Scar’s happy to have some new company, he’s not about to become an open book. He doesn’t want them to know any more than they need to, and that includes his current inability to stand.

“We’ll catch up in a minute, if it’s all the same to you,” he says diplomatically, praying it doesn’t sound as suspicious as it feels. “Pack our things up. Make sure all that shouting and gunfire didn’t draw over any unmentionables.”

His words have a curious effect, Quackity stiffening up immediately. Scar catches Sapnap glance at him, hand twitching at his side like he wants to reach out. Karl, however, only smiles.

“Hey, no rush,” he says, calm, elbowing Sapnap and Quackity as he shares a grin between them. “That’ll give us a minute to make the place decent. Can’t remember the last time we had guests that weren’t dead-eyed and slobbering.”

“We’ve never had guests at all,” Sapnap corrects plainly, but still lets himself be lead as Karl links elbows with him and moves towards the door. The only one of the three to hang back is Quackity, sharing the same distrustful expression on his face that Grian wears plainly on his own. After a tense second, he snorts, muttering something under his breath before he turns to leave.

The door closes, leaving Scar and Grian alone, a lingering tension rolling loose and unformed between them. Scar waits a moment for the trio to clear away from the doorway, then he turns Grian with a grimace.

“I need you to help me get up.”

There’s no hesitation as Grian pulls his knees under him, shifting into a crouch before he easily slings Scar’s arm over his shoulder, helping him to his feet with practised familiarity.

“What the hell are you thinking?” he hisses, sour and upset.

Scar shrugs easily, not letting go of Grian’s support. He won’t be steady on his feet without it, and he needs all the leverage he can get before he has to pretend in front of their new friends.

“I’m thinking we need a win,” he answers, succinct.

“And if they kill us in our sleep?”

“Grian,” Scar sighs, barely stopping himself from rolling his eyes. “They’re three scared kids. The tallest one can’t be older than twenty-three. I don’t think they’re the threats you’re mistaking them for.”

Grian doesn’t look convinced but to his credit, he drops it. Together, they move towards the door, Scar keeping his arm around Grian’s shoulders and propping himself up with the rifle when he dips too low. It’s not exactly proper handling of a firearm, but it’s not like anyone’s around to write him up for it.

“Besides,” he teases, unable to help himself as they make their way out of the garage and move towards the house. “We’ve been taking risks this whole time. What’s one more?”

The front door has been left cracked open, a risk Grian would never approve of in a million years. The moment they step inside it’s clear that the trio have been squatting there for a while. All of the windows have been covered up from the inside with sheets and blankets, barricaded in place with the majority of the home’s furniture. There are board games and puzzles piled on the floor, and candles arranged on almost every surface.

It looks less like a survival situation, and more like a sleepover with insurance.

The trio greet them with a relaxed familiarity as Grian nudges the door open and helps Scar in. It’s clear they’re as tired as Grian and Scar are, because the conversation that follows is perfunctory at best, Sapnap explaining that he’ll take the first watch as he volunteers Grian to join him, and Karl saying he’ll take the second shift with Scar. Neither Grian nor Scar feel in a position to disagree, so it’s declared settled.

Once the minutiae are sorted, Karl makes a grand sweeping gesture and offers to show them to their room. He heads up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and Scar feels Grian’s hand spreading against the small of his back, getting ready to support him.

It’s to Scar’s detriment that he forces himself, walking steady, gripping the handrail so tightly he worries his knuckles are going to split. At the top of the stairs, Karl points towards a closed door, indicating it as the bathroom with the aforementioned shower. While the idea of getting clean sounds heavenly, Scar grits his teeth as his body threatens to teeter. It feels like far too long before Karl brings them to an open doorway, ushering them into what might’ve once been a guest room. The windows are curtained, but not heavily barricaded. The bed looks large and luxurious, with fresh sheets and an abundance of pillows. It looks like an invitation, and every inch of Scar longs to succumb to it.

Karl asks if they’re hungry, and Scar's smile wavers, his joints echoing with pain. He doesn’t know what to say that won’t immediately give him away.

“We want to settle in first,” Grian says, tactfully avoiding Karl’s question. “I’ll come down in time for our watch, I promise.”

“Wasn’t doubting you,” Karl says, effortlessly quick on the reply, and seemingly unbothered. “Get comfy, and, hey—” he pauses, hand resting on the doorframe, idly scratching his thumbnail into the wood grain before he speaks. “We’re glad you’re here.”

It’s a vulnerability or a ruse, but blessedly Grian doesn’t reply in time to question it. Karl’s feet thump loud as he heads back downstairs, and Grian closes the door behind them, letting his breath out the moment they’re in private.

Like a battery on empty, Scar feels his energy drain, whatever adrenaline that was keeping him going well and truly shot. He only has a second to mumble Grian’s name in warning before he stumbles into bed, exhausted beyond belief. Without hesitation, Grian remains at his side, saying familiar reassurances as he helps Scar out of his jacket and shoes. Scar nods along mutely, just wanting to curl up and pass out. Now that he's completely let the tension in his muscles go, he feels more exhausted than ever. Grian mumbles something about going to talk to the boys as he pulls the covers up over Scar's body. Scar thinks he manages a nod, but he can't be sure of it, sleep already edging in on the fringes of his consciousness. He watches Grian leave the room with blearily eyes, and that's all he can recall before, with minimal tossing and turning, he gives in to sleep.

It’s another deep, dreamless night, and Scar doesn’t realise he’s slept through his watch until Grian is waking him up, hand gentle but insistent on his shoulder as he shakes him awake.

It’s a nice feeling, being woken up by him while laying in a bed—a real bed, with sheets and pillows and a comforter tucked up around his ears. They spent the night in a room, safe, with a bedroom door that shuts. There’s the familiar sounds of pots and pans bustling in the kitchen and the smell of food cooking in the air.

Scar never knew he could miss something so much.

He never knew he could sleep so heavily.

“Scar.” It’s not the first time Grian’s whispered his name, but it’s the first time it properly catches his attention, inhaling deep before he slowly twists around to lay on his back.

“Hey,” he mumbles, sleep-slurred, only just barely cracking his eyes open, unwilling to fully commit to being awake just yet.

“They’re making breakfast,” Grian says, soft. He’s dressed and looks clean, probably having spent the better part of an hour in the shower adjacent to the room Karl, Quackity and Sapnap had set them up in. Scar foggily remembers Karl pointing it out last night, though he’d been too tired to follow up about it. Grian has cleaned up nice though; he always does. He’s properly shaven for the first time in weeks, hair brushed back, looking like the Grian Scar remembers before it all went wrong.

A part of Scar that he wishes he could squash down wants to compliment Grian—wants to drag him close and kiss him. Wants to languish in the afterimage of what used to be.

Instead, Scar clears his throat, rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyelids to stop himself from thinking about it anymore.

“What’s on the menu?”

“Waffles.” Grian grins, a genuine thread of excitement in his tone. “Real waffles. They’ve got a waffle iron and a mix.”

Scar chuckles, can’t help himself, having to admire how the universe once again dips in Grian’s favour.

“Sounds like I should get up, then.”

It’s a gamble and they both know it. Scar can feel Grian’s eyes on him, watching intently, trying not to add any additional pressure but failing. That ship sailed the second Scar discovered that, despite Grian insisting he didn’t care if Scar couldn’t physically do certain things, he only said it because he was turning around and fulfilling those desires with someone else.

He just can’t help but think he’s letting Grian down if he doesn’t push himself now. It wraps around his chest wrong, and logically he knows it’s stupid to blame himself for something he can’t control; that the cheating was Grian’s fault and not his, but he can’t help himself. He continues pushing anyway, for a man he’s broken up with.

Taking a deep breath, Scar throws the covers back and leverages himself up, swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress. His joints don’t feel as bad as yesterday, just the persistent ache that’s always there—something he’s long since gotten used to. Emboldened, he clenches his jaw, bracing himself as he puts his weight on his feet.

Slowly, carefully, he stands up.

There’s pain, but it’s not significant. He feels the soreness he’d expect from a long day spent walking, throbbing muscles and stiff joints, but it’s nothing he can’t handle.

He takes a step forward and behind him Grian lets out the breath he’d been holding.

“Good day today,” Grian says, relief evident in his tone.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Scar deflects, attempting to shift the tightness out of his shoulders with a stretch as he moves towards the bedroom door.

The noise filtering up from the kitchen is warm and inviting. There’s a deep comfort in the sound of casual voices caught deep in conversation, punctuated by the occasional high giggling laugh—laughter that Scar now knows is Karl’s. He can smell their cooking from up the stairs, something he hasn’t been able to enjoy since the world fell to pieces. He misses warm food. He misses breakfast. He misses companionship.

“Gimmie a hand,” he says, extending his arm out to Grian, who helps him without question as together they make their way down the stairs, taking it slow and easy as he lowers himself down every step.

The scene that greets them in the kitchen makes Scar’s heart pang. A nice, tender squeeze in his chest. The room is dim, even in daylight, the windows blocked out with cardboard and bedsheets. The kitchen looks visibly picked apart, thoroughly rummaged through for supplies, the majority of the cupboards thrown open and the contents of the pantry pulled up onto the countertops and piled haphazardly on the floor. It’s a mess, plates and dishes everywhere, and Scar can’t help but remember how his kitchen in a similar state used to have Pearl heaving a long-suffering sigh before she’d roll up her sleeves and start tidying.

Around the table is something much softer. Quackity, in a baggy t-shirt with his hair hanging over his eyes, is sitting with his shoulder tucked into Karl’s chest. Karl’s arm is lazily looped around him, the two are in conversation with Sapnap, who stands at the stove next to a messy, cast-iron waffle iron. The iron is the old-fashioned, non-electric kind that Scar had only ever seen his grandparents use. Quite a find at the end of the world, and it looks like Sapnap is making good use of it. He looks relaxed and open, his attention split between his companions and the breakfast he’s cooking on the gas stove.

The three of them together paint a domestic picture, though Scar’s still uncertain how it’s meant to work between three partners.

All the same, he’s missed seeing people look so happy.

It’s Quackity who notices them first, the easy smile on his face vanishing, eyes fixing on them as tension wires through his body. His sudden stiffness alerts Karl, who looks towards the door with a smile.

“Hey, look who’s awake.”

Karl’s on his feet easily, drawing a chair out from the table as he motions Scar and Grian in, inviting them to join. “We were just taking bets on how long you’d sleep.”

Scar smiles. He can’t help himself, enamoured by the genuine hospitality from a stranger. Taking the chair Karl offers him, he sits down with relief, glad he doesn’t have to waste his limited capacity calculating how best to hide his disability. It sits uncomfortably on him to have to do it at all, but—much like travelling with Grian—the end of the world has forced him to make compromises with himself.

Leaning back, Scar pats the seat next to him, motioning for Grian to join them. After a pause Grian does, but it’s clear he’s reluctant, sitting perched on the edge of the chair, as if ready to take flight at a moment’s notice.

“And so? Which of you called it?” Scar asks, driving the conversation forward.

“It was Q. Right darlin’?” Sapnap says, nodding towards Quackity. It seems like he’s had a change of heart over the night, his attitude towards them much more easygoing in the newness of the morning. He’s tied his dark hair up in a bun at the top of his head, and it makes him look sweet. Like the kind of guy you’d tip generously at a coffee shop.

Quackity nods carefully. There’s still an uncertainty in him. It doesn’t feel like distrust, but Scar can’t put his finger on what else it might be. His behaviour reminds Scar of Grian, in a lot of ways. Constantly on guard. An open book until he’s not.

“I hope you put money on it.” Scar jokes, and Quackity offers him a thin smile but not much else.

“Waffles will be ready in a minute,” Sapnap says, nearly apologetic as he flips the waffle iron over. “There’s a learning curve on this thing. No wonder we buy Eggos.”

Karl retakes his seat as Scar chuckles, planting his elbows on the table and propping his chin up in his palms. “So,” he says, cheerful like a talk show host. “Two guys on a bike in the middle of nowhere. Pretty far from home, I bet.” He winks. “Where were you when the zombies attacked?”

It’s blunt, but Karl seems extremely casual as he says it. Still, Scar’s smile falters, and he can feel Grian tense up beside him.

Karl doesn’t mean anything by it, obviously. It’s a normal thing to be curious about, and Scar knows he’s just as curious about Karl’s answer.

There’s no way he knows what a sensitive topic it is. How little Scar and Grian themselves have thought about it—the reason they were together when all hell broke loose.

“Scar’s apartment,” Grian says, clipped, offering the answer before Scar can.

It’s the exact thing Scar would’ve said, but it bristles against his nerves anyhow—like somehow Grian cut him off, getting his answer in ahead because he couldn’t trust Scar not to immediately air out their dirty laundry.

Not to be beat, Scar leans back in his seat, looking Grian in the eyes with a bright smile as he adds, “We were just doing a little spring cleaning together. Getting rid of things we didn’t need anymore.”

Scar can see the flash of betrayal in Grian’s eyes before he smooths his expression over. It’s a stupid and petty to say, especially when things have been generally civil between them for the last few days, but somehow Scar feels less sorry for saying it than maybe he should.

“I knew it!” Sapnap crows from where he’s plating the first round of fresh waffles, the smell of them wafting in a way that makes Scar’s stomach audibly growl.

Grian frowns, confused. “Sorry?”

There’s a bit of shared laughter from the trio, exchanging grins and glances before Karl finally explains, “Like, it’s obvious that you two haven’t just met along the way. The way you act around each other—you have history, clearly. Only, Pandas here took that one step further. He’s sure that you two are together, you know?”

The silence that follows is potent.

It’s awkward in a tangible way, Karl waiting for an enthusiastic confirmation that will never come. The laughter has died down, and unless one of them speaks, Scar knows this is about to become a bigger deal than it needs to be.

“Oh. No, we’re not together.” Scar doesn’t dare look in Grian’s direction as he says it, afraid it’ll make him lose his nerve. “But! We have known each other for a long time, so points for that at least!”

“No f*ckin’ way,” Sapnap slaps the countertop, shaking his head. “So what’s with the crazy vibes between you two, then? Just apocalypse UST or what?”

“Sapnap!” Karl gasps, covering his mouth with a hand, eyes twinkling with very obvious amusem*nt.

“C'mon, you see it too, don't you?” Sapnap crows, and it’s clear he’s having fun, like they’re playing some sort of game. Scar’s never been ribbed like this. It makes him feel like he’s sitting at the kid’s table at a family event.

Face crawling with heat, he fights to keep his voice from cracking in embarrassment. He carefully keeps his gaze fixed ahead, trying not to read too much into Grian’s silence. His heart pounds incriminatingly loud in his chest, the idea of sexual tension—memories of Grian warm against him, moaning, calling his name as he finished in his hand—vivid in his head.

“Definitely nothing like that,” he lies.

“So,” Quackity says with the glint of an opportunist, eyes catching Scar’s from across the breakfast table as a smirk quirks at the edges of his mouth. “You’re saying you’re single?”

The reaction is immediate and loud. Karl bursts out laughing, kicking back his chair as he clutches his stomach. Sapnap sighs loudly, melodramatic as he mutters ‘here we go again’ while plating another two waffles before he sets them on the table. Quackity rolls his eyes, smiling as he gestures with his hands, attempting to explain himself, but neither of the other two give him a moment to speak, shouting and yelling, all with wide grins on their faces.

Scar feels entirely out of the loop.

“Sorry,” Sapnap says as the mayhem dies down, a wry grin on his face. “Q’s got a thing for handsome older men.”

If Scar felt embarrassed before, it was nothing like how he feels now, warmth flooding his cheeks and turning everything from the tips of his ears to the skin of his neck red. Beside him, Grian shifts in his chair, and Scar tries not to think about it—tries to pretend Grian isn’t here at all. It’s easier than imagining the fight that’ll no doubt come of this after.

“Shut the f*ck up, Sapnap,” Quackity snaps, and his tone would be intimidating if not for the way he’s hiding behind his hands in mortification. “What the hell is wrong with you, oh my god?”

“Am I wrong?” Sapnap presses, clearly enjoying himself as he prods at Quackity.

Gleefully, Karl answers, “You’re not, your honour!” He turns towards Scar, mock-whispering, loud and conspiratory, “Between that and his boner for politics, we can’t watch the news around him at all—he’d run off with the first barrel-chested politician he saw on screen.”

“That’s not even close to true. What the f*ck Karl, you’re supposed to be on my side,” Quackity cries, glowering but unable to wipe the guilty smile off his face.

“Plus, Q has a type—tall and broad,” Sapnap teases, finishing off the last of the waffles and leaning in to press a kiss to the side of Quackity’s temple. “Tell Scar what you said to us last night about how he checks all your boxes.”

“You guys are such dicks,” Quackity groans, but doesn’t resist when Karl scoots in close and wraps his arms around him, pressing a kiss to his other temple, mirroring Sapnap’s affections.

“Well, we’ve really enjoyed our breakfast, thank you,” Grian interrupts, using the curt, forced-polite tone he uses when dealing with the bank or his landlord. It’s entirely at odds with the mood of the moment, and the trio abruptly stop what they’re doing to listen to him.

“We really need to get going, though,” Grian continues, clipped. “Don’t we, Scar?”

It’s a rhetorical question, Scar can hear it plainly in the way Grian speaks. He turns to face his companion at last and hates the twist in his heart when he sees how closed off Grian’s expression is. It shouldn’t matter to him anymore that his jealous, insecure feelings are hurt. It shouldn’t.

And yet a part of him wants to console and reassure Grian all the same.

“What’s the rush?” Karl asks, clearly trying to read the energy of the room and keep things up-beat. “Scar hasn’t even had his waffles yet.”

At that, Sapnap slides the syrup Scar’s way and, despite Grian’s bristling, Scar can’t help but be excited. He digs in immediately, sighing aloud at the first forkful, grateful for the hot meal.

It’s impossible not to notice Grian’s pointed glare out the corner of his eye, though. Something he needs to acknowledge, at least.

He defers slightly, shrugging a shoulder as he speaks around a mouthful of waffle. “I wouldn’t say we’re in a rush.”

He’s ambiguous on purpose. While he doesn’t want to incense Grian any further, he’s not yet ready to part ways from the only other living company they’ve had in weeks. They’re a welcome buffer. Even if all they seem to have done is piss Grian off, it’s still nice to be around other people. Comforting to know they’re not the only two people left in the world.

“You got a destination in mind?” Karl asks, co*cking his head to the side as he turns to Grian with his smile as bright and enthusiastic as ever.

“North,” Grian replies, guarded for no good reason. “Before all the radios went out that’s where the emergency broadcasts were saying to go. Supposedly it’s better up there.” He pauses, and Scar knows him well enough to anticipate it coming—a calculating jab. “But I'm sure you knew as much?”

“We didn’t!” Karl says, Grian’s words sluicing off him like water off a duck’s back. He claps his hands together, nodding confidently. “Sounds like we have a plan now, though. We can get our stuff together pretty quickly, can’t we, boys? We’ve been saying we need a reason to pull up these roots, and I don’t know about you two, but the three of us agree we’d really like the company.”

It’s presented like the best possible option and an extremely logical conclusion, but Scar can feel the desperation in it. Behind Karl’s easy smile and Sapnap’s gentle affection he can see their apprehension.

'Don’t leave us, please,' it says.

“Well it’s certainly an idea,” Grian allows, dragging the word out in a slow drawl. “What do you think, Scar?”

It’s clear what answer Grian wants to hear, his attention pinned on Scar. Grian would rather continue without them. For whatever reason, he can’t seem to stand having them around.

It’s an issue they should probably pick apart later, but absolutely not something they can dissect right now.

That doesn’t mean Scar’s about to fold, though.

“I think it wouldn’t be a long, perilous journey into the frigid north through a zombie infested wasteland without you three,” Scar quips, ever magnanimous. He winks at the three younger men, and the instant relief from them is palpable. Tensions Scar hadn’t even realised they’d been holding relax right in front of his eyes as they exchange quick looks and small, private nods.

“I just… I don’t know,” Grian interrupts, the only note of dissent at the table. “We hadn’t really planned our route to accommodate five…”

“Then why even ask me if you’ve already decided, Grian?” Scar asks, sharp. His frustration bubbles up fast, catching even him off guard, fork clattering down onto his plate as he lets it drop. This isn’t something Scar wants to air in front of strangers, but it’s not a situation where he can back down, either. “Kind of feels like a jerk move when you’ve already made up your mind.”

There’s a sting in his words and it lands, Grian’s brows pinching together as he frowns.

“No offence,” Grian says, surprising Scar by choosing to speak to the trio rather than address him at all.

“Some taken,” Karl cracks, and it’d be funny if the tension around them wasn’t wound so tight.

Grian blows out his breath in a frustrated sigh. “The thing is, we just met. There’s googl—there’s zombies outside. The world’s gone to hell. It’s a big ask when we don’t know you at all.”

“Funny,” Karl replies smoothly, tone mild but aloof with the confidence of youth. “‘Cause we don’t know you at all, and yet, we still invited you in, gave you a bed, and shared our food.”

It’s a checkmate and Grian clearly knows it. He folds his arms across his chest tightly and looks away, jaw held clenched.

“Where exactly were you planning on heading anyway?” It’s the first words Sapnap has spoken in awhile, clearly attempting to broker peace between them before things can fracture further. It’s obvious he’s not used to negotiating, words coming out slow between pauses for thought.

Scar can’t help but find it endearing.

“You said you had a route in mind,” Sapnap continues. “We might not even want to go in the same direction.”

Grian says nothing, and Scar wonders if he’s been shamed into silence by the simple rationality he’s been presented. Whatever it is, Scar can practically feel him stewing.

“Grian,” he needles at last, when it becomes clear the conversation won’t continue on its own. “Go get the maps.”

It’s another mark against him, Scar knows. Their camaraderie is tenuous at best and Scar shouldn’t be pushing it, but he’s not willing to give up on the chance of company. Not yet.

Luckily, Grian doesn’t argue or bite back, simply shoving his chair aside as he stands, feet thumping in heavy steps as he heads back up the stairs.

“I’m sorry about him,” Scar says, quick while they have the minute, his voice low. “He’s—”

“Hey,” Karl interrupts, smiling soft and understanding. “Don’t worry about it. It’s the end of the world, dude. Nobody’s at their best right now.”

An unkind part of Scar—the part still hurting from the betrayal that forced their break up—wants to say something callous. Wants to explain that Grian wasn’t at his best before the world fell off the rails. That he’s been cruel and selfish and only looking out for himself for seemingly years. But Scar pushes that down, simply smiling and nodding instead, appreciating the sympathy for what it is.

It only takes a few minutes for Grian to return with the maps and, to his credit, he brandishes them without a fuss. Karl and Quackity quickly clear the table of their plates, breakfast polished off and minds set towards what comes next. Officiously, Grian unfolds the maps and lay them out, and then they listen intently as Grian lays out the tentative route he and Scar plan to follow.

“We don’t want to go too far west,” Quackity corrects after Grian is finished explaining. He’s standing so he can lean over the table and properly study the map, his eyes calculating and keen. “There’s a lot of big cities that way. We have to avoid them as much as we can.”

“Why?” Grian snipes without hesitation. It’s the kind of hostility that reads like it carries a personal grudge. Unbidden, Scar thinks back to the teasing flirtation over breakfast and hopes against hope that’s not the reason why Grian’s decided to put up a fight. “Is there something you’re trying to hide?”

“Hide?” Sapnap echoes, incredulous. “We’re not trying to hide anything, what the hell are you talking about?”

“The cities are infected wastelands, asshole,” Quackity explains brusquely.

“They’re also the only places we’re going to find shelter and supplies,” Grian counters, like he’s played some sort of masterstroke.

“Dude, have you never seen a zombie movie in your life? You know that when those things bite you, you turn into one, right?” Sapnap argues, brushing a hand back through his hair in frustration. “You die and you… you come back different.”

“You come back worse,” Quackity says, curt, drawing looks from both Karl and Sapnap. “I don’t care what your reason is; supplies or not, you’re crazy if you think walking directly into a hotspot makes any sense at all.”

“It’s not that bad,” Grian dismisses breezily. “We were in Anaheim and got through it fine.”

They’re met with a stunned, incredulous sort of silence.

“You were in Anaheim during a zombie apocalypse?” Sapnap says at last. “Why the f*ck…?”

Sheepish, Scar chuckles. “I’d never been to Disney and we were already in the area, so…”

“Oh I love you, dude,” Karl cackles, delighted. “Holy sh*t, you’re amazing. Did you, like, climb the Matterhorn? Or—”

“Point being,” Grian interrupts. “The zombies we encountered were slow, mostly uninterested, and kept their distance. I’m not saying it was easy, but—”

“For now,” Quackity interrupts, quiet.

“Excuse me?”

A strange mood descends over the group in an instant. Scar doesn’t know what it is, but whatever Quackity’s about to say has Karl and Sapnap exchanging significant glances. Quackity doesn’t look in either of their directions, gaze fixed on Grian, mouth set seriously and expression knit.

“It’s been, what? A week since things went to sh*t? Give or take a couple days, depending on how fast it spread in your area.” Quackity’s voice is level and strong, engaging in a way that has Scar hooked on his every word. Absently, Scar wonders if he’d done a lot of public speaking before this mess; he’s a natural at it. “The infected humans are all degraded to their base instincts: eat and spread. Right now, all we’re encountering are creatures that are well-fed and satiated. They’ve had their fill of the people that weren’t fast or smart or lucky enough to find somewhere to hide—they’re f*cking full. So why the hell would they go against their instincts and put themselves at risk by going after dessert carrying a shotgun?”

Grian’s expression is carefully neutral. The room remains completely silent, all of them gripped by Quackity’s words.

“In a week or two, when they’re hungry and have no easy prey left to pick off… when they’re desperate and starving and single-mindedly trying to fuel their decaying bodies—it’s not going to be so easy anymore.” Quackity’s eyes flash, agitated. “You’re a f*cking idiot if you think things won’t change—that this is as bad as it’s gonna get.”

The silence persists, mood darker than it’s been since Scar and Grian first arrived. Scar doesn’t pretend he gets all the implications of what’s being said, but he processes enough to feel that Quackity’s making several extremely valid points. He looks over in Grian’s direction, hoping to find the same acknowledgement in his eyes, but all he finds is a blank look of indifference.

“And you’re a biological expert on these things, I suppose?” Grian asks, only managing to draw a minorly irritated sigh from Karl.

“Look, if it’s supplies you’re worried about, we have them,” Karl reasons. He reaches out, pressing his finger down on the map, pointing to a thin line heading north. “We were gonna head this way originally. There’s loads of old ghost towns from the gold rush along this route. Not a lot of people, a clear road, and empty places to crash for the night when we have to.” He pauses for a moment, carefully considering Scar and Grian before he continues earnestly. “I won’t speak for these two, but this whole… everything has been hard—really hard. We’re not getting down on one knee to propose here, but it would be nice to have some company for a while.”

Unconvinced, Grian huffs a breath, making a little noise to Scar’s left, tetchy and unconvinced.

“When this road meets the interstate heading into Oregon you can tell us to f*ck off,” Karl adds persuasively. “Just a little temporary partnership, y’know?”

It’s increasingly obvious that no matter what Karl says, Grian is not going to bend. His mind set on splitting up here and now, despite the obvious benefits being part of a larger group would be. It’s cruel to make them continue begging for something that would be of mutual benefit for them all.

So Scar abruptly puts an end to it, making a unilateral decision.

“Gentlemen, we’d be honoured.” He extends his hand in a flourish, ignoring the way Grian hisses his name at his side. With clear relief, Karl reaches out and shakes his hand, wrapping long fingers tipped in chipped nail polish around Scar’s palm, that now-familiar giggle of his working its way out of his throat.

“You won’t regret this,” he says, like a kid who’s just gotten his first full time job. “I promise you, we’re a hoot.”

“Guess we should get packing then,” Quackity murmurs from the side.

Scar gives him a wide grin, hand still gripped by Karl’s, ignoring Grian to the best of his ability. “Guess you should.”

The trio immediately get started, divvying tasks with their usual play-shouting and bantering. It amuses Scar, and he watches them while Grian gathers up the maps from the table. He’s holding himself stiff, mouth shut in a way that suggests clenched teeth.

Scar is ready for the fallout that’s guaranteed the moment they’re alone. It’s not his first rodeo.

Sure enough, they're barely back in their room before Grian is snapping at him.

“What’s the matter with you?”

He’s mad—as mad as Scar’s ever seen him. He used to find Grian’s temper endearing in its own way, the way he’d bend himself out of shape over every minor inconvenience. Nowadays he just finds it exhausting.

“What’s the matter with me?” Scar asks, sitting down heavily on the edge of the bed, his legs already aching from going up and down the stairs. He’s on the edge of a bad flare-up, and fighting with Grian is the last thing he wants to be doing. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t want to stick with them,” Grian retorts, blunt. “They’re a liability, can’t you see that?”

“Grian, they’re a bunch of scared kids.”

“Not kids—not even close.”

“Young adults then, whatever. You know what I mean,” Scar sighs, rolling his eyes as they split this hair. “We’ve got a decade on them, Grian. They’re kids to me, and I can’t in good conscience leave them here to fend for themselves when they’re begging us to help them just because one of them looked at you funny.”

“It’s not how they look at me,” Grian spits, pacing the floor. “It’s how they look at you.”

The confession, the sheer unbelievable audacity of it, shocks Scar to his core. It shouldn’t, maybe—not after years of Scar defending his friendship with Cub against Grian’s constant criticism. It’s funny, looking back at it now. Because when it comes down to it, despite Scar being ‘too friendly,’ he’s not the one who ended up cheating.

He sighs, wearier than he’s ever felt. “They’re not a threat to you, Grian.”

That, at least, gets Grian to stop his pacing, looking at Scar with a mixture of emotions on his face that Scar can’t even begin to pull apart. It frustrates him. He hates their fragility. He hates his instinct to comfort and reassure Grian, even now. Feeling like he yet again has to cover for the people in his life.

“Besides,” he continues, stubbornly rising to his feet despite the ache in his legs, wanting the height advantage when he speaks, redrawing the line between them yet again. “You need to remember that there is no us to feel threatened about.”

He doesn’t look at Grian as he says it, not interested in what kind of expression he’ll make. Scar’s always been soft at heart—especially when it comes to Grian. If he’s being entirely honest, it’s taking a lot of effort to keep his distance. All Grian would have to do is look hurt for Scar’s insides to twist in guilt and for him to cave in some degree, so he avoids facing that reality at all, instead focusing on getting their meagre belongings together.

It doesn’t take him very long. He manages it in silence while Grian silently watches him in the background until finally he hauls the pack with all their worldly possessions up onto his back and slings the strap of the rifle over his arm.

“Get your things together,” he says as he moves towards the bedroom door, still not looking Grian’s way. “I’m going to take a shower, and then we're out of here. I'm not keeping them waiting any longer than we have to.”

He puts his things next to the bathroom door and heads in. It's dark, the only light coming from a window covered by thin, sheer curtains. It's enough visibility for him to work by, so he doesn't bother with moving the coverings aside. He strips down quickly and steps into the shower, preparing himself for the blast of cold before it hits him. Even so, he yelps as the first bits of spray hits his warm body. Working quick, Scar washes himself in the chill, making use of the soap and shampoo that the either the boys or the prior owners of this home have left behind.

It feels good to get clean. Feels even better to focus on nothing but wiping himself down, letting his mind go blank. He wishes he could stay inside longer, but the cold water makes it near impossible to linger, his teeth slowly beginning to chatter. He rinses off the soap and shampoo in a few passes, hurriedly shutting off the water and stepping wet onto the shower mat outside the stall. He grabs the towel laying on the rod, still slightly damp from when Grian used it last. Drying off, he sighs forlornly as he stares at his dirty clothes.

A shame to have to get back into those when the rest of him feels so clean. Nevertheless, Scar does what he has to, dressing back up and heading out of the bathroom. His things are still where he left them, and he grabs them up as he makes his way down the stairs, taking it slow and keeping a firm grip on the railing. Once he’s at the bottom, he heads straight for where he hears the loud voices of the trio presumably packing their things. They smile at Scar as he enters the room, and for the first time in a long time, Scar feels welcome.

It takes them the better part of an hour to sift through the things the trio have amassed to determine what to take. Grian joins them partway through, and when Scar meets his gaze he sees nothing but an intent focus on the task at hand. Together, they pack up bed rolls and blankets along with canned foods, matches, and candles. It’s with great reluctance that they set the perishables aside, mourning them almost overdramatically. There’s a mood the three carry between them, like they’re preparing to go camping—they’re excitable and enthusiastic, laughing and joking amongst each other with a levity Scar hadn’t expected but finds himself enjoying.

They don’t have any firearms, but each has a weapon of their own. A machete, a tire iron, and a crow bar. Additionally, Sapnap keeps a hunting knife strapped to his hip and shin guards on his legs. Of the three of them, Quackity travels the lightest, either on purpose or out of ignorance. He’s got the fewest layers and the lightest pack, his sleeves partially rolled up, exposing his unprotected forearms.

Still, he remains organized and practical, keeping Sapnap on track with their gear while Karl and Scar sit aside and plan their route.

Karl again touches on what Quackity warned, citing it as the reason why they need to leave their current base as soon as possible. He relays to Scar that they'd scoped out the nearby neighbourhoods when they'd first arrived, and it's heavily infested. Together the trio has looted what they can, but there’s an understanding lingering that they need to be gone, and soon, because the corpses wandering around are bound to grow hungry any day now. While this particular house may be safe, if they wait any longer, the zombies are going to spread out from where they've been loitering. And by the time they come looking for them, it’ll be too late to leave.

They both agree that the best thing they can do is split up and rendezvous at the same destination, daisy-chaining their way north. Since Scar and Grian have a bike, it simply doesn’t make sense for them to slow down for the other three. Instead, they can scout ahead to find safe places to stop, while the trio follow behind on foot.

Their first day goal is an abandoned outpost town a three hour walk away. They’re anticipating something abandoned—old trailer homes and shacks left to rot in the desert. No zombies. No survivors. No one around for miles.

It’s nearly noon by the time they’re ready to go, standing inside the front door of the house with packs strapped to their backs. Scar’s own is heavy with supplies for the first time since they were forced to strike out together. It’s reassuring for their odds of survival, but he worries about his legs.

“Here.” Sapnap reaches out to him, holding a walkie talkie in his hand. “We tested it and it’s got a range of about seven miles. It’s not ideal, but…” He trails off, shaking the walkie impatiently as he waits for Scar to take it. “If you check in every half hour or so, at least we’ll know when we’re getting near and what to expect.”

“Don’t take any stupid risks,” Karl says, cautioning them both. “We’ve stopped at a few of these kinds of places and haven’t had any trouble yet, but you never know when that luck’s about to run out.”

“We’re a bad omen, we get it,” Grian sighs, making a show of rolling his eyes.

“We’ll assess things from a safe distance,” Scar promises, speaking over Grian’s dramatics. “If there’s any googlies, we’ll wait for your arrival to set ‘em straight.”

Karl’s eyes light up, delighted. “Wait, what was—do you call them googlies?”

“Ah—oh. Well, Grian started it,” Scar says, seeing the opportunity and wanting to encourage camaraderie. Even now, broken up and with Grian at his worst, a part of Scar can’t help but want others to see Grian the way he does. The way he used to. Grian is resourceful, intelligent, witty, and so, so funny. He doesn’t know if calling attention to it will help, but it’s worth a shot.

“I can’t believe you two were wandering around Anaheim,” Sapnap marvels, shaking his head. “It’s a miracle the zombos didn’t tear you up just for calling ‘em that.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure when they caught sight of those guns, they thought twice,” Quackity teases, elbowing Sapnap as he grins in Scar’s direction.

“I’ve only got the one,” Scar explains, pleasant.

Karl can’t hide his smile, shaking his head fondly. “He wasn’t talking about your rifle, dude.”

Sapnap gets a good laugh out of it, and Quackity giggles as Karl loops an arm around him and mutters ‘down, boy’ in a way that’s clearly fond. Scar feels the heat rising in his cheeks. He knows it’s a joke, but it’s been a while since he’s been appreciated for his appearance. Even when he had Grian were dating, Grian’s compliments had grown scarcer in the months leading to their breakup.

Maybe that should’ve been a sign.

They split up with little fanfare, quieter out in the open where they could draw attention. The trio hang back for a moment, something about Karl wanting to say goodbye to the house, which Grian ignores as he goes to collect their bike. They set off together, Scar’s seated behind Grian with his backpack in his lap and rifle on his back. He keeps the walkie talkie in hand, counting down the minutes before he can use it. They ride quietly for a while, with nothing but the sounds of wheels on concrete and the pattern of Grian’s breathing to keep them company.

Once Scar estimates that they’ve travelled about five miles, he holds the device up to his mouth and presses down on the push-to-talk button.

“Pandas, Pandas, this is Sparrow, come in, over.”

He hears Grian sigh heavily—can imagine him rolling his eyes—but it does nothing to dim his excitement. A moment passes, and then another, until Scar begins to worry that maybe they’ve overshot the seven mile leeway they had.

But then, crackling over the speaker—

“Uh, hey Scar—I mean… Sparrow.” Sapnap’s voice comes, crackly through the radio, laughter apparent even in his choppy tone. “What’s up?”

“Say again? Pandas, is that you, over?”

Another pause, followed by a rush of static and then, firmer than the last time: “Roger that, Sparrow. This is Pandas, over.”

Scar grins wide, chuckling to himself as he presses down on the button again. “Reading you loud and clear now, Pandas. Just wanted to inform you boys that it’s been smooth sailing—or biking, as it were. Not a googlie in sight. Over.”

“Roger that, Sparrow. When will you be checking in next, over?”

“Let’s say at around 1300 hours, Pandas. Do you copy, over?”

“Err, that’s like... one o’clock, right?” Comes the uncertain response, breaking off before starting again, only to add, “Over.”

Scar bites back a laugh. “Affirmative, Pandas. Over.”

“Alright, Sparrow. We’ll stand by for an update when you’re ready. Over.”

“Roger wilco,” Scar agrees. “This is Sparrow, over and out.”

He takes his thumb off the PTT, the walkie cutting off into silence as he takes in a deep breath, enjoying the fresh air. Above them, the sun is at its zenith, not a cloud to block it as it shines down on them, lighting the desert in bright tans and oranges that reflect the lift in Scar’s mood.

“Well that was fun,” he says, prompting conversation, wanting Grian to have enjoyed it even just a fraction as much as he did.

Grian replies with a tiny grunt of acknowledgement and nothing else.

Grin faltering for a second, Scar tries again, making a couple light observations about the scenery around them. This time, Grian doesn’t reply at all. Ultimately, Scar gives up, resolving to enjoy the ride simply out of spite alone. Let Grian peddle out his frustration in silence.

It’s another half-mile before Scar gets bored of the flat and the silence. Trying not to jostle Grian, he digs his phone out to pass the time, powering it up and trying not to look too closely at the already greatly depleted battery life. Out of habit, he pokes into his social media apps, unsurprised when nothing connects to the internet. It’s what he expected, but it still feels wrong in a way he’s not used to.

He looks into his photo album next, going through snapshots of various cats from his walks, landscape inspiration, and meme after ridiculous meme he saved for a chuckle. The nostalgia gets a few grins out of him, but the humour is quickly lost when he hits the first few selfies of himself with Grian. A snapshot of the two of them lazing around in bed on a weekend, Grian pressing a kiss to his cheek sleepily. Another where Grian is holding the phone up at an angle to catch himself in the photo, laughing hard as he frames Scar in the background, absolutely soaked from an escalating series of pranks they’d been playing back and forth for nearly two weeks.

The memories curl up into a knot in his stomach, and Scar finds himself flicking through the pictures with Grian as quick as he can, trying not to see them but lingering all the same. His anxiety spikes even further as he stumbles onto the first selfie of him and Cub. His best friend’s never been a picture guy, but he’d made an exception for when Scar had thrown him a surprise party for securing his newest grant. In the photo, Scar’s arm is around Cub, pumping his fist in the air and cheering, all while his friend sips casually on a drink and looks to the side. There’s a small smile on his face, hidden behind his glass, and it’s so Cub that it makes Scar’s chest hurt.

On automatic, he switches over to Cub’s text messages, staring hard at the unanswered messages and feeling the guilt that comes from having missed his last calls. He hesitates, disquieted, sending another, ‘I hope you’re doing alright,’ into the list of unanswered texts. Trying not to dwell on it, he flicks screens to his texts with Pearl, with the intention of sending a similar message. It’s there that his heart nearly stops.

There are no replies, no reactions, no response—nothing as remarkable as that—but… beneath his last message to her, the grey text has changed from ‘Delivered’ to ‘Read.’

It should make him feel hopeful, but it doesn’t—all Scar can think of is what it means. Is it a glitch? Has something gone wrong? Or did Pearl actually open the message and then simply never bother to reply? That doesn’t seem right. Neither Cub nor Pearl would leave him on read like that; especially in such a dire situation. So then… what? What had kept Pearl from responding?

Scar knows that the likeliest outcome is that his messages have gone glitchy—it’s the end of the world, the power grid is down, it’s not like they have proper service. Hell, he doubts that his messages are even going through anymore. And yet…

The possibilities, good, bad and worse, all stick like burrs inside his head.

Anxious and restless, Scar looks to Grian, hoping to share his concerns, or at the very least his discovery, but the memory of Grian's bad mood makes him close his mouth again. Heart heavy, he powers down the phone and tucks it away, pushing down the gnawing unrest of the mystery and focusing on the problem at hand instead.

Grian has held out a lot longer than Scar expected him to. Their destination isn’t far now, and the entirety of the journey has passed with his determined silence. In truth, Scar had thought they’d spend the majority of the ride bickering, and in the rising tension of the absence of an argument leaves him feeling like something between them is about to snap.

“Can we talk?” he prods.

Blessedly, Grian doesn’t ignore him this time.

“Kind of a captive audience right now,” he huffs, hands flexing on the handlebars. “Don’t think I can really stop you.”

That’s fair enough.

“What’s your problem with them?” Scar asks. “Really. Not just ‘I don’t like it when they look at you.’”

“Just going straight for the kill,” Grian mutters, incredulous. Scar would give him a winning smile, but the mood isn’t right, and it’s not like Grian can see his expression anyway.

Grian continues pedaling, fixing his voice into that scolding tone he uses sometimes, like he’s pointing out something astoundingly obvious. “You don’t think it’s suspicious? Like, why were they just there? Hanging out and waiting for us?”

“I wouldn’t say they were waiting for us,” Scar argues, trying to keep an open mind. “It was one of those coincidences. Honestly, it was weirder that we hadn’t seen anyone up until we met them, y’know?”

“That’s just it though, isn’t it?” Grian huffs. “If we didn’t come across anyone before because they were all turned or dead, how come those three weren’t? Why were they just wandering out in the open like that?”

“We were also just wandering out in the open.” Scar points out.

“That’s different,” Grian insists, undeterred. “We’re heading north. That’s been our plan from the very first day. But they had no clue where to go until we gave them a direction!”

Scar closes his eyes, resisting the urge to drop his forehead against Grian’s bag. “That’s nothing, Grian. All that tells us is that they were lost and confused, just like anyone their age would be when thrown into a survival situation.”

“So what’s all the secrecy about, then?”

Scar can’t help himself, giving into the impulse to roll his eyes at Grian’s paranoia.

“What secrecy?”

“You can’t be serious,” Grian says, huffing a laugh with no humour in it. He’s speaking through gritted teeth, pedaling harder, making the gears creak. “All those little glances they exchange with one another? Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. Or what about all the information they have on how zombies act and behave. Where did they learn all that?”

“What are you implying?” Scar challenges, frustrated with Grian’s obstinance. “Are you saying they’re double agents? Working on the side of the zombies?”

“I don’t know,” Grian counters. “I’m just saying it’s suspicious, that’s all!”

“Listen to yourself, Grian.”

“I am listening!” Grian retorts, twisting his head to the side so he can throw a quick glare at Scar over his shoulder. “And you asked! So I’m telling you: I just don’t like them, Scar. But it’s fine. We’re doing it your way, so that’s—you know. It is what it is.”

The accusation stings. The implication that Scar has somehow strong-armed Grian into something wholly unreasonable when Scar genuinely believes being grouped up like this is nothing but an asset to them both. He’s trying to help. He’d never willingly put Grian in harm’s way. Never.

“I don’t like this side of you,” he mutters, words low in his chest. “You’re—”

“Not the man you married,” Grian bites, bitter and viciously sharp.

The words connect with Scar like a slap across the face. He jerks himself back, almost offsetting the balance of the bike—and maybe that’s what does it.

Maybe the disorientation, the shifting of gravity, is the final nail in the coffin. Maybe it’s Grian’s rough pedaling, his heavy handling of delicate parts, or even just the strain of having to accommodate the weight of two people and their gear when the bike was only ever built for one.

Whatever it is, it’s still a surprise when the gear chain snaps, the resulting swerve of the bike sending Scar tumbling off the back.

“Scar!” Grian shouts, distressed, turning sharply around on instinct.

The bike’s tires screech on the patchy pavement as Grian comes to a stop. However, he barely has the time to cast the bike aside before Scar is gathering himself up off the ground, trying not to appear winded. Grian moves to crouch by his side, telling him to take it slow and reaching out to help him, but Scar jerks away from his touch, rejecting his aid, and Grian pulls his hands back like he’s been burned. Scar doesn’t know why, doesn’t know what makes him so petty, all he knows is that after their argument mere moments before, the last thing he wants is Grian’s immediate pity.

It takes longer than he would like, but eventually, Scar manages to get upright on his own, head still swimming from vertigo. He sits on the ground as he assesses the rifle, checking it over to make sure nothing’s broken or jammed from the fall. He counts himself lucky it didn’t misfire when he hit the ground, trying not to think about who or what an errant shot might have alerted, or how bad the distant sound might have worried the boys.

The rest of his things are within arms reach, the backpack too heavy to have fallen far, and the walkie talkie jammed uncomfortably into his hip.

If his body was aching before, it’s worse now, pain shooting through Scar’s joints as he attempts to stand.

Grian hovers next to him, hand held loose in front of his body like he wants to reach out and steady him but is afraid of being rebuffed again. Scar pretends he doesn’t notice, leveraging himself to his feet on his own. He walks shakily past Grian, picking up his backpack and hefting it back onto his shoulders before he grabs the walkie talkie from where it skidded out from under him, immediately holding down the push-to-talk button.

“Pandas, this is Sparrow,” he says, curt. All trace of his earlier excitement is gone, giving his message a purely perfunctory air. “The road’s clear. I’ll hail again once we’ve reached the destination, over.”

The walkie talkie crackles moments later, Sapnap’s voice concerned over the line.

“Hey Sparrow, this is Pandas—that's good but, uh, you sound a little rough. We got some static a couple minutes ago, gave us a bit of a scare, is everything okay? Um. Over.”

“Affirmative,” Scar responds, short and to the point. “This is Sparrow, over and out.”

He lets go of the PTT, gripping the walkie tight in his hand as he takes a deep, long breath and then blows it all out, trying to vent his frustration without losing his cool. Pain ricochets up his leg as he continues to stand, but he ignores that too. The only thing he can’t ignore—no matter how much he tries—is Grian, watching him with worry creasing the bridge between his brows.

“Scar, are you alr—?”

“I still care about you,” Scar interrupts, struggling to keep his voice even. He takes another breath, deep and even, trying to settle his riotous thoughts. “You know that, right? You know I still care. You know that this is hard for me.”

Grian’s expression immediately shutters, his hands tightening into fists at his sides, knuckles white. He looks resolutely towards the horizon, jaw fixed.

He remains silent.

Of course he does.

“What do you want me to do?” Scar asks, begs, pressing a palm flat against his chest. “Because I have no other options right now, Grian. It’s you and me, or it’s no one and I’m alone, and we both know how far I’ll make it by myself so just—put yourself in my shoes, alright? Try.”

Seconds pass in uncomfortable silence, Scar’s heart aching in his chest, racing too fast, feeling too many emotions all at once.

Still, Grian doesn’t speak.

Scar wishes it didn’t have to be this way, struggling with the reality of the hand he’s been dealt. If he could’ve chosen to be with anyone during the fallout of something so horrible, it wouldn’t have been with the man that had just broken his trust and torn his heart to pieces.

What he needs is distance. What he needs is time to grieve and recover. But the universe has opted to grant him neither, so in the absence of all of that, Scar is doing the best he can.

Is it too much to ask for Grian to do the same?

“Grian,” Scar pleads, “I’m not asking the world here. All I want is a civil forty-eight hours with some strangers. We can tell ‘em to take a hike afterwards. It’s not forever. But for now let’s make the best of it, because they need us and, god damn it, we need them too. Grian. Please.”

There’s a familiar tension in the air, the kind that Scar’s grown used to in the months leading up to their breakup. He presses harder, intentionally picking at scabs, hitting where he knows it’ll hurt.

“You’ve already shown me what hitting rock bottom feels like, so why don’t we try something else for a change, huh?”

It’s a cheap shot, but it works.

“Fine,” Grian spits at last, choking the word like it’s some sort of surrender.

As if that in any way settles things, Grian turns away from him, heading back towards the bike.

Scar uses the time Grian spends trying to salvage the chain to rub the soreness around his knees. They have the broken hoe at least. It's strapped to the side of Grian’s bag, a makeshift walking stick coming back into play.

Cursing from Grian draws Scar’s attention, the other man standing back from the bike with a grim expression on his face.

“We can’t fix the chain. Not without the right tools. We’re gonna have to go the rest of the way on foot.” He looks like he wants to say something more, his expression flickering as he eyes where Scar is massaging his thighs. “Shouldn’t be much left, at least. We were almost there.”

Grian moves the bike to the side, pushing it off the edge of the road and letting it fall over onto a clump of dry, brittle weeds. He hesitates as he adjusts his pack across his shoulder, glancing at Scar again before he wordlessly tugs the hoe free. He hands it over to Scar before he starts off towards their destination.

The idea of walking the rest of the way is daunting, but Scar knows there’s nothing left for it. He’ll walk until he can’t anymore. That’s their only option.

Brushing the dust and dirt off his clothes, Scar straightens up as best he can under the weight of his bag, adjusting his grip on the garden hoe. And then, with a final, parting glance at the bike—lying broken on the side of the road, useless and lonely—he follows after Grian.

Chapter 11

Chapter Text

It’s mid-afternoon when they finally spot their destination—a clustered shanty of what once was a building crouched on the otherwise flat, featureless desert.

It’s generous to call the place anything more than an outpost. A single weathered trailerhome on a cinder block foundation standing next to a trio of ramshackle sheds left to fade into obscurity. Nothing has the look of permanence. A place patched together for years, lingering over the bones of something that held value to someone once, now left wholly abandoned.

The tension between Scar and Grian hasn’t faded, and as they do a cursory look around the area to check for any potential zombies, they do it wordlessly. Once the area is secure and Scar has radioed in to let the trio know they’ve made it, the two of them settle down to rest, pulling out water bottles and taking long, deep drinks. They sit in the shade of one of the broken down sheds, Grian perched on the rusted out drum from an old washing machine, and Scar resting on a stack of wood pallets left to rot into the sand.

It’s quiet, with not even a stir of wind to keep them company. The sky is clear above them, sun shining bright without a cloud in its path. Despite the sunlight, the November chill is apparent, and though it’s not exactly cold, Scar can’t help but wonder how they’ll fare when it’s later in the month and they’re far further up north.

Fifteen minutes pass, and then fifteen more. Scar is beginning to doze off when he finally hears the approach of Karl, Sapnap, and Quackity. He can tell it’s them by the sound of their laughter; a cacophony of overlapping calls and chattering. It takes him a moment of hard thought to remember the last time he had a chance to enjoy himself like that.

The sentimentalist in him wants it to have been with Grian, but reluctantly he’s almost positive that it was with Pearl.

He tries not to overthink it—doesn’t want to spend his time wrestling with the bag of cats that are his feelings for Grian. It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. Despite it all, Scar would rather have Grian with him than be alone without him. Even if it comes at the cost of the laughter and light-hearted banter that he so desperately wishes he could share with him again.

He co*cks his head to the side, listening as they approach. Karl is giggling, giddy and loud, and Sapnap and Quackity are bantering back and forth, words indiscernible from a distance, but recognizable from their pitch and tones. It’s funny to hear them when they think no one else is around. Understandably, Quackity and Sapnap have both remained carefully subdued in their presence—a caution that Karl seems to have forgone—but at a distance, Scar can hear them as they normally are. Boisterous, talking easily over top of one another, shouting and laughing in a casual, comfortable exchange.

“They’re certainly loud enough, aren’t they?” Grian criticizes, busying himself with putting away the snacks they had out during their break, cleaning up the area. “They’re lucky there’s no googlies around. They’d be calling them in for miles.”

“I think it’s nice,” Scar remarks, almost without thinking, speaking before he has a chance to consider how Grian will react. “I’m glad they can still be happy.”

He can see the way his words dig into Grian’s skin, poorly timed at best. Grian’s expression immediately shutters, dipping into something terse as he turns his torso away, focusing on packing his bag. Scar wants to apologise, not wanting to push their fragile truce into something argumentative. He feels the words building up in the back of his throat, but before he can say anything, Karl’s shaggy head peers around the corner of the trailer, face lighting up as he sees them.

“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!” Karl crows, sounding genuinely glad to see them. He tilts his attention back over his shoulder, calling out a ‘this way, fellas’ before he ambles over to where Scar and Grian are sitting. Oblivious to their tension, he sits down between them, legs stretched out on the sandy soil, his shoulders pressing back against the rusted aluminium siding of the trailer as he heaves a relieved sigh.

He looks heated from the exertion of his walk, but not overly tired, bangs slicked down to his forehead with a sheen of sweat. Several of his layers have been discarded from when Scar saw him last, now wearing a loose shirt unbuttoned almost to his navel, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“Got any water on ya, big guy?” Karl asks, and without hesitating Scar digs into his backpack for one of the water bottles he’d packed.

Taking the offered water and drinking deeply, Karl is preoccupied when Sapnap and Quackity catch up, smiling just as brightly as Karl had when they round the side of the trailer. Predictably, Sapnap takes a seat beside Karl, shouldering off his backpack with a sigh of relief but, curiously, Quackity opts to settle next to Scar, legs nearly touching as he sits on the stack of pallets.

They're both in the same easygoing mood Scar had heard as they approached, but it’s clear they’re back to acting guarded around the two of them, the trust of familiarity not yet earned.

“So?” Karl asks, after having drained a third of the water bottle. “Was it as good for you as it was for us? It seems like you made pretty good time.”

“The bike chain snapped,” Grian says without preamble, not surprising Scar in the slightest as he focuses on the negative. “So that was a pretty big bust for us.”

“Aw, well, welcome to the On Foot gang,” Karl chuckles, handing his water bottle to Sapnap.

“I’m not pleased about it,” Grian mutters, getting to his feet and dusting himself off before he clips his pack back across his chest. “But let’s get going.”

“Whoa,” Sapnap says, Quackity giving into a laugh of disbelief.

“So, we just got here,” Karl smiles, delicate but firm. “You’re gonna need to give us a minute to catch our breath.”

Grian stands silent as he looks down at Karl. Grian’s never called himself a leader per say, but he’s got the personality of someone who expects to be listened to when he speaks, and people have always tended to follow his direction as a result. At the moment, his expression alone speaks a thousand words, clearly not used to being talked back to, and even less used to being told what to do himself—especially by someone so much younger than him.

“His face,” Quackity snickers, quiet, so only Scar can hear.

It’s not that he’s picking sides, but Scar can’t help but smile. It’s nice to feel in on something, especially when it’s versus Grian. After so long without contact from anyone else, it’s freeing to be able to enjoy a moment with someone entirely unrelated to him and Grian and the history they’re burdened by.

“We saw a kangaroo rat,” Sapnap interjects, butting into the tension between Karl and Grian with almost endearingly inoffensive smalltalk.

“We wanted to see some wild horses,” Karl adds, instantly relaxing as he leans against the broad slant of Sapnap’s shoulder. “Imagine if we got our hands on some horses, right? We’d be made in the shade.”

“Have you been on the bike since the outbreak started?” Quackity asks, looking to Scar with a curious, conversational smile.

It strikes Scar, not for the first time, just how young the three of them are. Easily a decade younger than him, barely into their twenties. The way Quackity speaks to him has the polite deference of a student to a teacher, or an employee to their boss. Scar wants to tell him to relax, that Quackity doesn’t have to treat him like a distant uncle he’s unfamiliar with, but he doesn’t know how to say the words in a way that won’t come off as insulting or condescending.

‘I’ve never been good with kids,’ is the joke he wants to make, but he knows it wouldn’t go over well. Not yet, anyway.

“We had a car,” he shares, opting to just speak to Quackity like he’d speak to any adult peer of his. “But we had to put her down.”

“Sounds like there’s a story there,” Quackity encourages, his smile turning a little more genuine.

“He set her on fire,” Grian interrupts, arms crossed, still standing.

“Oh sh*t,” Sapnap pipes up, and there’s awe in his tone that Scar knows Grian won’t appreciate. “That’s so badass.”

“You see, baby?” Karl hums with a smile, speaking to Quackity and clearly picking up a well-worn subject. “I told you, there’s no rules anymore. We can do whatever we want, now.”

Intrigued, Scar sits up a little straighter, his grin turning rakish, like he’s some sort of expert on the subject. “Are you saying you’ve been nurturing a craving for arson?”

Karl laughs, almost a chortle, shaking his head before he pushes his tousled hair back with an absent flick of his wrist.

“I want us to get married. The three of us.”

He says it simply, like it’s very matter-of-fact, but his words catch both Scar and Grian in a similar way, both their eyebrows shooting up in unison as they react to his declaration.

“We couldn’t—y’know, it didn’t work like that before. Three people and all,” Karl continues, hand dropping to his side as he seeks out Sapnap’s, threading their fingers together in a fond, familiar way. “But if nothing matters anymore, what’s to say we can’t just do it now? Make our own rules.”

It’s wholesome. A sweet, romantic, remarkably mature sentiment from someone Scar had been thinking of as basically children just moments ago. Scar can’t help but wonder about the logistics of it. Marriage, so early on in their years? In the wreck of the world? How could they trust that it would last? How would they even go about it? Did all of them share the fantasy, or was this just Karl’s dream?

A part of Scar wants to question them, but another part worries that maybe this is just the way normal people are when they fall in love these days and he’s the one who’s been turned cynical by years of half-hearted efforts from his own flagging partner.

He can feel Grian watching him, focused and incredibly intense, but chooses to ignore it in favour of finding out more, motivated by genuine curiosity, and a tiny bit of spite.

“Have you been together that long?”

The question makes Grian’s shoulders tense up, stiff, as he finally, reluctantly sits back down. The two of them hadn’t ever really discussed marriage themselves. The few times it had come up it’d been brushed away with a joke or a distraction. Scar had always wanted it, desperately, but Grian would only quip that he was allergic to rings, and didn’t know when—if ever—he’d be ready to settle down.

It had been funny enough at the time. Jokes from friends occasionally teasing about proposals, admiring engagement rings in storefront windows, looking at vacation destinations and wondering if they would work for a honeymoon. The entire time laughing at Grain’s complaints of rushing into things, of the stress and inconvenience of wedding planning, of the ridiculousness of the expectation.

And then discovering that Grian didn’t just need more time. That he was truly allergic to any kind of commitment at all.

“We haven’t been together long, no,” Karl admits, and laughs at the expression Scar can’t keep off his face. “I mean, me and Sap, yeah. We’ve been together for years. But as far as the three of us go, we’ve all been friends for a while, but Q was…”

“I was both of their Other Man,” Quackity teases, unaware of how Scar’s mouth instantly goes dry, the air becoming loaded in a way he knows the trio won’t understand—won’t recognise at all. “I third wheeled them for ages. I didn’t know what the f*ck I was doing.”

“You were in love with us,” Karl says, soft. He reaches a hand towards Quackity, who brushes his fingertips against Karl’s fondly before he lets Karl hook their pinkies together. “And we were in love with you. It just took us all a little while to sync up.”

“What happened?” Scar can’t help but ask. He’s always been a romantic, and he’ll admit that the idea of three people together—without jealousy or anger—is entirely foreign to him. It touches a frayed part of his aching soul, something pained and spiteful, but his interest outweighs it, curiosity getting the better of him. “What got you all on the same page?”

A look passes between the three, quick and deliberate. It’s the kind of glance that Grian had been upset about earlier, but Scar can’t find it in himself to be suspicious. It’s clear that it’s the kind of wordless communication that can exist between three individuals entirely in tune with one another. They’re just being careful. Willing to share, but acknowledging that there’s a level of trust being unlocked in order to reveal this information.

“It was the zombies,” Karl offers at last.

“We had… a pretty bad scare that first day when it all went to sh*t,” Sapnap adds, hand reaching out to find Karl’s, fingers intertwining naturally before he puts his other hand out to Quackity, who’s gone completely silent but moves his hand towards Sapnap’s from across the gap anyhow. “It put a lot of things into perspective for us. Showed us how much time we were all wasting being… I dunno, dumb and shy and stupid.”

“It sounds crazy,” Karl jokes, smiling and honest. “The zombies were the best thing that could’ve happened to us.”

Sitting there beside the three of them, hearing them tell their story, marveling at how this catastrophe brought them cohesion and not whatever he and Grian are currently putting themselves through…

It hurts.

Of all the people to meet in the apocalypse, it’s ironic that they ended up crossing paths like this. Three people who came together so strongly in the chaos, overcoming hurdles that Scar had never even known about, while simultaneously he and Grian had fallen so disastrously apart.

A part of Scar is happy for them—overjoyed that they could find such joy in the face of a world turned on its head.

Another part of him nurses his own heartache bitterly. Resenting the idea that three people could navigate something so complex as this and not fall victim to cheating and lies the way Grian had.

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

Scar’s heart aches in his chest, longing for the opportunity to have approached Grian’s infidelity from another angle. To have had the chance to broach things differently. To be open. To share.

He doesn’t know if he could have done what the trio have done—doesn’t know if his love was meant to split into thirds that way. But the fact that he was never even given the chance to try leaves him feeling robbed. An added insult to injury, like a fresh bruise on an already deep and painful ache.

As polite as he can be in the midst of his own turmoil, Scar manages to speak.

“It sounds like it all worked out for the best.”

“We’ve genuinely never been happier,” Karl replies, looking at Quackity as he says it, who returns the confession with a blush and a smile.

Abruptly, Grian stands up, fists clenched tight at his sides.

Scar could’ve seen this coming from a mile away. It astounds him, sometimes, how Grian can take everything as a personal attack on his character—even when the people involved know absolutely nothing about him or the skeletons in his closet. A stray thought in his head tells him he's being unkind, reading too much into Grian's reaction when he likely doesn't intend it that way. And yet, Scar can't shake himself of the negativity.

Leave it to Grian to get insecure about another person’s happiness.

“Excuse me,” Grian mutters, stiff as he cuts across their circle, moving to put himself at a distance from the group.

It makes Scar’s heart sink. Makes him tired. It’s not unexpected, but it’s still disappointing. If anyone should need to get some distance, it’s Scar. And yet, he knows perfectly well that there would be no place for such actions, that it would be childish and petty to do anything other than politely listen to the trio.

“Was it something I said?” Karl asks, light, a rhetorical joke that has Sapnap chuckling half-heartedly at his side.

“Don’t worry about it. He’s just…” Scar sighs, trailing off, flexing a hand on his knee as he prepares to get up and follow after Grian. Surprisingly, Quackity hops to his feet first, motioning for Scar to stay where he is.

“I’ll go,” he suggests, easy, like he’s done it a hundred times. “Just keep him company, right? No problem.”

Scar hesitates, but it’s a good call. Grian’s no doubt prepared for Scar to follow him—ready to pick an easy, predictable, guilt-riddled fight. Quackity going instead will force Grian onto his back foot, and hopefully off centre him enough that the sore spot will blow over without any larger issue. Scar wonders if Quackity sees it like that—admiring his maturity for the suggestion either way.

Maybe he judged him by his age too quickly.

“Thanks,” Scar says, and means it. He sits back heavily, like a puppet with its strings cut, letting his breath out in a rush. It takes him a moment, lingering on the words and rolling them over on his tongue, before he adds, “Grian’s not a bad person. We’re just… in a rough spot right now.”

“Been there, done that,” Quackity says, huffing a small laugh. He’s casual about it when he speaks, expression serious but holding no judgement. “No worries, man. What are friends for, right?”

Scar tilts his head to the side, considering him carefully—it’s an odd idea, to be friends already. The idea isn’t unwelcome, but it still feels strange and a little premature. Tough, like under-ripe fruit. He’s not about to rebuff Quackity for it, though. He likes him well enough, and Scar’s never been opposed to making as many connections as possible.

“You’re a good guy, Q-bert,” he says, and means it.

Quackity grins at that, tugging his beanie back into place before he turns to follow the direction Grian had stormed off in. He walks a few paces before he seems to remember something, turning and blowing two comically large kisses back towards his partners. Karl and Sapnap both mime catching them, and place them to their heart and mouth respectively. It’s clearly a familiar practice they’ve played out dozens of times before and it’s achingly sweet to observe. Scar finds himself smiling, nothing in him capable of feeling resentful for such a warm display.

“So… how long have you and Grian known each other?” Sapnap pipes up once Quackity disappears from view around the corner of the trailer. Scar tries not to respond with how much he doesn’t want to think about Grian right now, closing his eyes and letting himself think about it

“Well, that’s a bit of a complicated question,” he muses after a pause, absently scratching at his chin. “Grian and I had a lot of mutual friends before we formally met one another, so I’d heard about him and knew of him for maybe five or six years? We didn’t get, uh… close, until about a year after that, though.”

Karl and Sapnap exchange a look, but Scar doesn’t mind. Frankly, he’s okay with the trio finding out that he and Grian have dated and then broken up, even finding a bit of catharsis in being the one to share the story. He’s not about to divulge too many details, but he doesn’t see the harm in it. He has nothing to hide. He didn’t cheat on anyone.

Neither of them pursue the topic any further however, Sapnap simply taking a swig from the water bottle Karl had handed him earlier before wiping his mouth on his wrist. “Me and Karl have you beat,” he says, almost bragging in a way that comes across as oddly endearing. “We’ve known each other since halfway through middle school—well, known of each other.”

Karl grins fondly, like he’s reminiscing on something decades in the past and not a handful of years ago at best. “I saw your dumbass hanging out on the bleachers attempting to look cool with your asshole friends a total of three times before I got pulled out.”

“Pulled out?” Scar asks, mildly amused by the idea. “What were you, a couple of bad boys?”

Karl shakes his head, smiling. “Nah, man. Puberty had me all f*cked up. I could not stay awake and my grades were a disaster, so eventually everyone decided I’d try homeschooling for a year to see if that could help me out.” He jerks his chin in Sapnap’s direction, smiling fondly. “Sap ended up coming over to my place a lot ‘cause one of his dads was my tutor and—” Karl stops suddenly. His eyes dart to Sapnap, and Scar follows his glance.

Sapnap’s expression has gone closed, mouth tight around the corners.

“God,” Karl breathes, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I’m sorry baby, I forgot. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” Sapnap interrupts, shoulders tense but voice even. “They’re fine. I know they are.”

Karl leans close to him, and Sapnap leans in, clearly glad for it, their hands finding each other. After Sapnap catches a breath, he looks back at Scar and explains.

“Me and Karl went out of state for college. My dads were really supportive, but they both cried a lot when I left, and—” his words stutter, faltering. “I should’ve called them more, I should’ve gone home to see them. I should’ve...”

“Sap, if anyone’s still out there, it’s your dads,” Karl reassures, squeezing Sapnap’s hand in his.

Sapnap manages a small smile, nodding his head, clinging to the hope Karl provides him. Scar had been so caught up in his own trauma that he'd entirely forgotten people had whole families they must be worried about. Feeling chagrinned, Scar awkwardly reaches out to give Sapnap a bracing clap on the shoulder, taking the small huff of laughter that comes out of him as a victory.

It’s a raw, choked-up moment, vulnerable and fragile between the three of them, when suddenly Quackity and Grian return.

They’re not coming back good-natured and laughing, but then Scar didn’t expect them to. It’s enough to see Grian’s expression somewhat less twisted up. Not smiling but not outright scowling either.

It also helps that Quackity flashes him two thumbs-up and a quick grin.

“Are we ready to go?” Grian asks the moment he’s back by Scar’s side, arms folded tight across his chest, impatient.

“Mm,” Karl hums, “I think we’ve rested enough to keep pushing—what do you think boys?”

“It’s probably best to go while we’ve still got light,” Sapnap offers, peering up at the sun and gauging its distance from the horizon. Beside him Quackity nods in agreement, hooking his thumbs under his backpack straps before he nods towards the direction they were heading in.

“We continue,” Karl says, chipper, and Scar manages a low chuckle as he gets back on his feet.

They file out of the pitstop in a loose cluster, the trio sticking more or less together, naturally pulled into each others’ gravity. Unsurprisingly, Scar ends up walking beside Grian, who keeps step beside him, attention focused on the ground immediately in front of his feet. He wonders if he should ask if Grian’s okay, but ultimately he just puts an arm around Grian’s shoulders—a sort of half-hug that lasts for only a second before he breaks away. He can feel Grian watching him as he drifts off to join Karl, Sapnap and Quackity taking the lead, leaving Grian awash in the middle, walking on his own.

Logically, Scar knows it’s petty to keep his distance, but he doesn’t want to deal with the weird, antagonistic way Grian gets when he’s feeling guilty with nowhere else to put it. He’s still not used to this version of Grian; the one who’s hot and cold and needy and distant all at once. He longs for Grian he fell for, all embarrassed flushes and earnest apologies when he spilled a drink or broke a cup at Scar’s. The Grian who laughed at silly jokes and stupid pranks, uniquely fond in secret, private ways; stolen moments kept just between the two of them.

His nostalgia barely has a chance to breathe before it curdles, memories of missed meals and curt texts flashing through his head instead, sitting wrong in his stomach. He wants so badly to treasure the Grian he had, but at the moment all he can dwell on is how he can’t remember the last time Grian apologised to him and meant it.

Time passes faster while traveling in a group, Scar finds. It’s easier having people to talk to, exchanging stories, and getting to know one another. They trade off positions from time to time, so Scar gets the opportunity to talk to the entirety of the trio as they advance across the seemingly endless desert. It’s nice to be able to connect with them, especially Sapnap and Quackity since, thus far, he's mostly been conversing with Karl. He already finds himself mourning their loss, dreading the return to silence after Grian insists on parting ways once they’re through the next town.

It’s silly, because Scar knows Grian would love these three if he’d just give them a chance. Especially Quackity, who seems to have grown incredibly fond of Scar. He’s got the calculation and intelligence hidden behind easy words that reminds Scar so much of when he had first met Grian.

They’re alike in so many ways, right down to the slightly abrasive edge to their personality that doesn't come out until you're on their bad side, and Scar just wishes he could convey that to Grian without making him bristle up defensively.

Unfortunately, Grian makes his thoughts on travelling with the trio clear, keeping himself several steps away at all times, rarely participating in conversation or the games they play to pass the time. The boys exchange significant looks with one another each time Grian snubs them, which they make no effort to hide from Scar, but if they hold any ill-will towards him for it they don’t say it out loud. Instead, without any formal signal, they simply tone down the number of times they ask Grian to join in, until eventually they’re making no effort to include him at all.

It hurts Scar’s heart to see Grian isolated like this, and the part of him that still cares, still desperately wants them to see Grian the way he knows he can be, has to hold himself back from interfering. Instead, he keeps a smile on his face, laughing and chatting as the sun dips lower in the sky, their shadows lengthening beneath their feet as the air around them starts to cool off.

They’ve been walking for several hours—following the straight line of the highway as it cuts across the desert, keeping the distant range of mountains to their left—when they see the zombies coming.

There’s maybe half a dozen of them—eight at most—following the road, with no obvious sight of origin.

Scar knows they must’ve come from an accident or roadside rest-stop somewhere up ahead, but it’s hard not to imagine them clawing their way wretchedly up from out of the dry dusty earth, like the Hollywood horrors he’s familiar with.

Somehow that would be preferable, he thinks. It would be a damn sight better than this.

They’re far enough away from the horde that they haven’t yet been spotted. Sapnap, who up until now has been leading them at a brisk pace, slows down. There’s a winding tension between the five, all of them chewing an uncertainty about how to address this obstacle.

“Alright,” Sapnap says eventually. His voice is low and calm, expression serious, attention fixed on the zombies as he speaks. “They haven’t seen us. If we give them enough room, we can just walk around and give ‘em a wide berth. No stupid risks. It’s just not worth it.”

The suggestion comes with the air of experience, and Scar’s inclined to agree with it. It doesn’t benefit any of them to put themselves at risk of an errant bite or scratch when the whole situation could be easily avoided. Plus, he can’t deny the relief he feels about not being tasked to put any additional stress or fatigue on his body which, despite the welcome distraction of the trio’s company, is crying out in desperate need of a rest. Already a weariness is clawing at the edges of his consciousness, calling at him to doze.

He’s opening his mouth to agree when Grian shoulders up to him, yanking the hoe that Scar had been carrying strapped next to the rifle free with a single, rough gesture.

There’s no discussion, no additional conversation. Without a word Grian rushes towards the zombies, raising his voice in a shout to draw their meandering, unfocused attention. Beside him, Karl says something loud and unrepeatable, but Scar doesn’t have time to acknowledge it, heart up in his throat as all eight of the creatures turn their gazes on Grian in unison, locked on him like a target.

There’s no pause to think, just a single, automatic reaction. Without hesitating, Scar is already unhooking the rifle from across his back and raising it to his shoulder, focusing down its sight as beside him, the trio shout and scramble for their weapons.

He exhales, controlled, and squeezes the trigger, the recoil butting up hard against his shoulder. His first shot takes out one of the two zombies converging on Grian easily. At the same time, Grian dodges to one side, knocking the feet out from under the second with the broken handle of the hoe. When it stumbles and falls, he cleaves clean through its head, burying the sharp edge of the hoe into its skull before he jerks it back, violent, as he focuses on the next.

Scar lines up a second shot as another swing from Grian’s hoe cleaves into a skull. Together, he and Grian have taken out half the ghouls before Karl and Quackity even have a chance to get their weapons at the ready and catch up. Sapnap at least, had been walking with his crowbar swinging idle in his hand, and is able to sprint and join Grian. He yells something loud and fierce as he brings the blunt end of his tool down once, twice, three times, on a zombie that looks to have once been a man old enough to be his father.

Despite the fear, despite the panic—there’s a thrill to it all that Scar doesn’t yet understand.

It’s exhilarating, the way he can tell from a distance what Grian is about to do; where he’ll step next, when he’ll flex and get ready to heft his weapon up once more. Scar can aim easily to aid him, taking out a zombie that stumbles too close as Grian is busy with his back half-turned. By the time Karl and Quackity catch up, there’s only one left, and they work in easy unison to put it down, Quackity going so far as to raise his leg to kick it roughly in the mid-section, throwing it backwards as Karl dispatches it with rough, aggressive hacks from his machete.

Quick, efficient, and the zombies are dispatched of. Every last one.

The aftermath of the violence is swallowed by an almost eerie silence, each of them breathing hard as the adrenaline catches up with them. After a long enough wait to ensure the zombies are all truly down, Scar kicks the end of the rifle off his shoulder, lowering the sight as he thumbs the safety back in place.

“Smarter to deal with them now when we have light, instead risking them sneaking up on us in the dark later,” Grian says, smug in the way Scar is all too familiar with as he taps the blade end of the hoe against the sole of his shoe, knocking off the clinging viscera. “You’re welcome.”

Karl, Sapnap, and Quackity exchange a look, but neither of them speaks up to argue. Stepping over the prone corpse of a zombie, Karl puts his arm out to Quackity, murmuring something quiet to him before Quackity nods, mumbling something that sounds like ‘I’m fine’ before he crouches down. Focused, he uses a handful of sand to scour the gore off his tire iron, face set in a carefully neutral expression, taking a deep breath as he finishes before he stands back up, slinging the tire iron over his shoulder.

“Wow,” he crows, and Scar gets the impression that he’s putting on a brave face, forcing normalcy to prevent himself from breaking down. “Tall, handsome, and a good shot. Are you sure you’re not single?” Quackity smiles at him, waiting for the perfect comedic pause before he concludes, “‘Cause I’m not.”

Scar manages a chuckle, but it’s half-hearted at best.

Together, they resume walking, but they keep their weapons in-hand, glancing around warily, on alert for any stragglers. Almost instinctively, the trio cluster together, a closed circle that Scar is not included in. Reading their need for some distance and privacy, he finds himself walking with Grian, offering the three what space he can.

“I made the right call,” Grian insists, words low under his breath. “You know I did.”

“I’m not mad at you,” Scar replies, calm.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Grian,” Scar tries. “We were all thinking it. But Sapnap decided—”

“And he’s the leader now? When did we decide that?” Grian snaps.

Scar sighs, rubbing at his eyes before he drags his palm down over the scruff of his jaw, tired. “It’s not about anyone being the leader. It’s about jumping headfirst into a group of zombies without any plan or any backup.”

“I wasn’t in danger,” Grian dismisses.

“You could’ve been overtaken. You could’ve gotten bit.” Scar wants his words to have heft to them, he wants Grian to take this as seriously as he needs to.

Instead, Grian tilts his head back, aloof as he brags.

“I wasn’t worried. I knew you’d have my back.”

Scar snaps his mouth shut, heart thudding against his sternum. He wets dry lips, cracked from the desert air. He doesn’t know how to feel, doesn’t know what he wants. It’s clear from the way Grian speaks that he’d felt it too—the rush as they’d synched up so perfectly, working together in an effortless unison.

He doesn’t know if he wants that, though. Already feeling the fear of failing to meet Grian’s standards.

“I just don’t want you taking risks,” he settles for at last, voice quiet.

“Scar,” Grian huffs, covering up his nerves with bluster in a way that’s incredibly familiar. “It wasn’t a risk! You had a gun and I knew you’d cover me. Besides, since when have you been risk-averse? You’ve always been a shoot first, ask later sort of guy.”

He’s not wrong. For all that Scar likes to plan, he’s always been easily pulled towards chaos. There’s a freedom in doing things off the cuff and on impulse; an excitement with dealing with life as it comes.

But then again, he’s beginning to see that there are many moments in his life where he could’ve saved himself the hurt and anxiety if he’d just taken a moment to think things through.

“Maybe I’ve changed,” he says after a pause. “Maybe we both have.”

Grian clamps his mouth shut, eyes reading stung.

They don’t talk after that, walking side-by-side with their gazes fixed ahead.

The sun sets behind the distant line of mountains, the sky smeared gaudy orange and fuchsia before it fades into indigo darkness. Ahead of them, Karl and Sapnap pull out flashlights and the group cluster together, following the jittering beam of their lights across the cracked asphalt.

Progress is slow. Slower than they’d anticipated when picking their destination on the map that morning, but none of them feel comfortable camping out in the open for the night. Despite having dealt with the zombies, the bruise of their presence lingers. They’re overly-cautious as they continuously scan ahead, looking up the road as far as possible in the gloom and trying to pick out any grotesque, shambling shapes in the milk-dark distance.

It’s past nine when they see it—not a gang of zombies, but a road sign marking the outskirts of a town.

It’s weathered and tilted to one side where one of the support posts has been knocked out. The aluminum is pock-marked from years of passers by taking shots at it with bullets and paintball pellets. The name of the town itself has been worn away by time, only the A and L left legible, but the ‘Welcomes you’ printed beneath it remains, as well as ‘Population: 221.’

It’s the first sign of civilization they’ve seen since they left their rundown rest stop hours ago, and the relief they feel as they cast their flashlight beams over it is palpable.

Behind it, the road forks—asphalt turning to rough grit and sand that leads off the main highway, softer under their feet as they take to the right. It feels surreal, in the dark of night, as their flashlights pick out chicken wire fences and squat, red-brick walls. Property markers, clearly delineated; places where homes and buildings used to be but aren’t anymore.

There’s no signs of life. No lights in windows, no presence whatsoever. The feeling of it—the sense of trespassing somewhere they’re not meant to disturb—crawls eerie up the back of Scar’s neck, making his hair stand on end.

As they continue walking, their flashlights start to outline the shapes of homes. Empty windows stare out to greet them. Broken glass, doors left hanging on busted hinges, half-hearted graffiti scrawled across weathered siding left to rot in the desert for decades, all speaking one fact clear and out loud.

Nobody lived here before the outbreak. Nobody lingers here now.

A ghost town.

“This place gives me the creeps,” Karl whispers, loud enough for the group to hear, doing them the favour of saying what they’re all thinking.

“I don’t think we should separate,” Sapnap advises, voice low despite the feeling of almost crushing isolation. “Let’s pick a place, secure it for the night, and assess stuff properly tomorrow morning when we can see sh*t.”

A ripple of agreement passes between them, and after some hesitant decision making, they head towards the house with the most windows left intact—a flat bungalow, much like all the others; its car-port roof fallen in and sagging to one side like a sleepy-eyelid.

They pass hesitantly in through the front door, moving quiet and careful. There’s dirt and sand tracked in on the floor, bits of masonry having fallen down from the ceiling, and empty beer cans pushed into corners, all signs of trespassers who have come and gone over the years.

There are a few pieces of furniture—a ragged recliner and a battered looking table with three chairs pushed up against a wall—but nothing that looks like it was meant for the place. Maybe they’re items dragged in by squatters drifting through the area, or maybe the work of curfew-breaking teens. Tentatively, they inspect all the rooms, as meticulous as they can be with their limited lighting. There’s a bathroom with several bike tires piled into the tub, a den with a pullout couch propped up by plastic egg crates, a main bedroom, and an empty hall cupboard.

There’s no bed-frame in the bedroom, only a threadbare mattress placed on pallets on the floor. However, the moment Scar sees it he feels his body give out, every muscle tightening as he instinctively reaches to grip Grian’s shoulder for support.

It’s only their years of familiarity—of Grian seeing Scar at his weakest and most vulnerable, and knowing how to assist him in those moments—that saves him from being left to fall to his knees. Quickly, Grian slings Scar’s arm around his shoulder, hugging his own arm around his waist as he takes on the job of supporting his weight. It gives Scar a moment to reorient himself, pushing the last vestiges of his strength to its limits. He hppes the darkness will hide how it looks well enough for the trio to ignore.

“We’re taking this room,” Grian announces, declaring it firm and matter-of-fact.

Quackity immediately bristles at the assumption. “Are you out of your f*cking mind?”

“You three take the pullout. It’s bigger.”

Grian’s not wrong, the pullout is bigger, but there’s no denying that the bedroom is the better of the two options.

“Like hell are you gonna decide for us, like you’re the boss now,” Quackity snaps. “You think just because you got lucky murdering those zombies back there that suddenly you’re in charge?”

“It’s not murder,” Grian counters, tense. “They’re not people.”

“Don’t fight about it, Q,” Karl sighs, putting his arm in front of Quackity, embodying the exhaustion they all feel. “We’ll take the pullout. We can figure it out in the morning—hell, we can pick our own place in the morning. Okay?”

He presses his forehead to Quackity’s temple, murmuring something Scar can’t hear. Whatever it is, it works to defuse Quackity’s tension, who turns abruptly to stomp out of the room, his shoulder bumping into Sapnap’s as he says, “C’mon, Sap. Help me barricade the front door with that table.”

Sapnap hesitates for a moment, staring hard at Grian for a moment before he turns to join Quackity. Their departure leaves Karl alone with them, the mood low and untenable.

“You’ll take first watch, then,” Karl says neutrally, and his tone brokers no argument.

Scar can feel his legs weakening, his window rapidly closing. He's been ignoring it all day, the shooting pains in his limbs. But now that there's clear respite available, it's like his body refuses to pretend anymore, all of Scar's exhaustion catching up to him at once. And for all that he’s grown to trust the trio, he doesn’t want the spectacle of collapsing in front of any of them—doesn’t want the burden of explaining, and the weight of their pity when he’s already pushing himself to him limits.

His fingertips dig into Grian’s shoulder, biting, painful, begging—begging—him to swallow his pride and agree.

“That goes without saying,” Grian replies, shrugging a shoulder as if the fact is plain and simple.

Karl takes a moment, studying them both before he nods. “I’m glad that’s settled.”

He hesitates at the doorway, turning back to face them, and it’s only the darkness that masks the strain on Scar’s face at being forced to stand a moment longer.

“It was the right move, taking those zombies out,” Karl confesses, and it’s a clear peace offering, meant to bleed out the tension Grian has created. “But you’re killing us with your inability to be a team-player, dude. I told you—we’re not your enemies. We’re good guys, I swear. I know times are tough, but if you stop treating us like a bother and give us a chance, we could really be an asset to you.”

There’s a pause after he speaks, and Scar can feel the way Grian works his shoulder back, straightening his spine.

His tone is carefully blank of sentiment when he speaks.

“I’ll sleep on it.”

The expression on Karl’s face is wry, evident even in the darkness. “Guess that’s all I can ask for.”

And then he’s gone, shutting the door behind him.

The moment they’re alone, Grian springs into motion, helping lower Scar down to the mattress. Scar hisses, wincing as he sits and then immediately lays back. He’s worn down to the bone, exhausted from maintaining a smile and keeping up pleasantries despite feeling these aches and pains all throughout their walk. It’s a relief like no other to bare it plainly now, to be able to air his ailment to someone who already knows the intricacies of it.

Grian helps him undress enough to relax in place before whispering that he’ll take both their watches. Scar is too tired to fight it, taking the offering for what it is and thanking Grian with a nod. He thinks Grian smiles at that, or at least squeezes his hand in affirmation. It’s hard to remember exactly as weariness clouds over him and sleep edges in from the corners of his mind. He barely hears it as Grian leaves the room, and it doesn't take much longer before he's falling asleep.

He rests deeply, waking only briefly as Grian slips into bed beside him, likely hours later. He throws an arm around Scar’s middle and presses close to his back. In a distant, sleepy way, it feels nice, and Scar wishes he had the physical energy to turn around and put his arms around Grian properly, pressing a kiss to his head.

Something about that thought feels wrong, but it doesn’t seem important when he’s so disconnected and dreamy. He sighs, placing a hand over Grian’s and running his thumb softly across his knuckles.

“G’nna need m’chair tomorrow,” he mumbles, words heavy as he drifts back asleep. “Help me with it, please. Dunno where I put it.”

“Okay, Scar,” Grian replies after a lengthy pause, so soft that Scar barely hears it. He wonders why Grian sounds so different, so sad—it’s just his wheelchair, the one he’s used a hundred times before. But that line of questioning doesn’t have time to take root, Scar pulled back into sleep in the warmth in Grian’s embrace.

It’s nice, he thinks.

He missed this.

He’s happy to sink into it.

Chapter 12

Chapter Text

Grian wakes up with sun on his face, Scar breathing slow and deep at his side, and the muffled sounds of giggled laughter and voices filtering in through the wall. He can’t place where he is, confused and disoriented as he lays in a bed that isn’t his, wearing clothes that feel stale, and arms aching like he had a strenuous workout. It takes him a minute of laying still, thoughts sluggish, before he finally remembers where he is.

Not at home, not in his bed, not safe.

Not with Scar.

Not in any way that matters, at least.

For a while he lays in silence, staring up at the crumbly popcorn ceiling above him. He’s not yet ready to commit to being awake, still tired from the previous day, and all the previous days that came before that. He’s not really thinking of anything at all, which comes as a relief, a reprieve from the tangled knot that’s made a mess in his head lately.

Through the wall, the muffled voices eventually taper off into quiet, and then, tellingly, the lull gives way to soft sighs, and the occasional unmistakable moan.

Heat floods Grian cheeks, even as a scowl works its way onto his face. He wishes he had a pillow to ball up and shove over his head, or even just earplugs to block out the noise. A part of him wants to bang his fist on the wall and tell them to knock it off. There's no way the trio don't know they'll be overheard, and the audacity of such a thing digs into him.

Another part of Grian remembers being the same way once—a time that feels so long ago, now.

Lately, he feels like he’s become a stranger to the him that exists in his memories. Like he’s someone looking in on a person that no longer exists, cataloguing the things that used to make him laugh, make him happy, made him smirk all sly and confident as he pulled the person he loved into a room and ran his hands reverently over each and every one of his scars.

He’s an observer to who he was in the past; the Grian that would giggle through kisses and grin against Scar’s mouth and moan aloud when touched. In a way, he envies the trio and their naïve love—too young and too foolhardy to realise how much harder things get as life goes on.

And yet, as the voices murmur and sigh pleasantly just feet away, Grian finds himself wondering if there isn’t some mollusk shell left from their history that they can make a new home in. A do-over, with the person he is now—the person who made a mistake, the person who still wants what he once had, the person who doesn’t want to be alone—at the centre. It's an urge he can relate to without feeling like an outsider in his own skin.

He knows it’s not entirely right. He knows there would be more than one person from Scar’s old life that would frown at this. He knows they’re not together-together.

But Scar’s been nice to him lately. Nicer. Still keeping him at an emotional distance, and still stung when their past is brought up, but they’re laying next to one another right now, aren’t they? Scar shifted over in bed to make room for him last night, and Scar was there with his rifle ready when Grian needed him to have his back. They're a team, for better or worse. And besides...

Scar kissed him back at the storage lockers.

He'd initiated that himself.

Scar had kissed him again at the gun range, holding him close and touching him the way he liked.

People hook up with their exes all the time. It doesn't have to be weird. It's reassurance and companionship and a reminder that they still care about one another, even if circ*mstances have changed. It's a way to speak without saying any words at all, something Grian finds easier to do when everything else around them is overwhelming.

If Scar rebuffs him, he'll back off. It'll be embarrassing but...

The worst he can do is try, right?

It’s almost too easy for Grian to turn onto his side, pressing a kiss, tender, against Scar’s shoulder.

It doesn’t wake him, doesn’t even cause Scar to stir, but it gives Grian the confidence to lean in closer and kiss him again. He follows the line of Scar’s collarbone towards his throat. Slowly, Scar lets out a breath, shifting onto his back as he relaxes under Grian’s gentle kisses. Grian can feel him waking up, entering the syrupy warm state that follows a deep sleep. He wants to keep him here, to hold him in that fuzzy liminal space, tender and pleasant and not yet anchored in reality.

“Good morning,” he whispers, soft against Scar’s neck, feeling scratchy stubble against his cheek and nose. It’s familiar in a way that tugs at his heart, and Grian burrows himself closer to Scar to feel it itch, raw.

Scar doesn’t speak, simply humming something low in his throat as Grian’s hands trace across his chest. He feels softness and muscle in equal measures, warm beneath his palms. He continues to trace his fingertips along Scar's body, wondering at his next step in between slow, fleeting kisses. He's not sure what else to do to make his intentions clear without alarming Scar and ruining the soft, haziness of their morning.

As it turns out, he needn't do anything else—Scar’s shifts their positions in a move that surprises Grian, wrapping his arms around Grian’s middle and pulling him up onto his chest.

Their bodies slot flush together, Grian’s legs settling between Scar’s thighs.

Grian doesn’t question it, doesn’t stop to think. He doesn’t want to let this miraculous moment go. He recalls the sounds of the trio that disrupted him, and with a fierce pang he finds himself as determined to mark his territory as the others seemed to be to mark theirs. He lets Scar sleepily pull him closer, muscles flexing, a gentle press up that Grian responds yo by rolling his hips down. The awakening thrill from the contact goes through him like a live wire. They shift together, sleep-warm and slow, and Grian can’t help the way he feels, vulnerable from how much he’s missed this.

“Scar…” he whispers, a quiet whine slipping between his teeth as he pushes his hips down again, rolling them against Scar’s. In response, Scar’s right hand settles on the curve of his rear, squeezing firmly, fingers flexing as he grinds up with his slowly growing arousal.

It’s nice. It feels nice. The comfortable, easy motions, the relaxed familiarity of it. At some point, Scar moves his hand, angling his wrist to slide his palm under the waistband on the back of Grian’s jeans. The warmth of his palm spreads across Grian’s skin, kneading and squeezing him the way Grian likes, the firm warmth of their dicks frotting together through too many layers of denim until Grian finally whispers, “I have lube.”

It’s a risky confession, one that might ruin the moment. It’s tentative, what they have here. Fragile like glass. Grian is half-surprised that Scar’s allowed things to get as far as they have, but maybe the sounds of the trio outside have gotten to him, too—maybe their open affections have dug just as deep under his skin.

Maybe he misses Grian in the same way Grian misses him, even if he won’t admit it out loud.

Still, bringing up something that has no business being in his possession right now could put an end to this if Scar thinks too deeply on it. The lube is something Grian kept tucked in the backseat of his car, just in case. And after everything that’s happened, he and Scar both know that ‘just in case’ wasn’t meant for the two of them.

Grian had fished it out surreptitiously when they were picking out their supplies, right before Scar dropped his lighter and set it all ablaze. He'd kept it in his back pocket ever since, and when they’d met up with the trio, he’d snuck it into his new pack. Another choice for 'just in case'.

A moment of silence settles between them, one that has Grian’s heart up in his throat, wondering if Scar is trying to piece together why Grian has the offending item in the first place. He doesn’t want to ruin the tranquil mood they’ve garnered here; doesn’t want to lose Scar’s hands warm on his hips. As the seconds stretch, a low anxiety begins to bubble up inside of him—a regret for pushing. He shouldn’t have suggested it so soon. He should've waited until Scar had warmed up a little more. He should’ve been happy with what they had.

He tries not to think about how that's a running theme.

But then Scar exhales, heavy, and pulls Grian tighter against him, mumbling a quiet, “Get it.”

It’s exhilarating, giddiness going through Grian’s chest like an electric shock. He leans over eagerly, sprawling across Scar’s chest and fumbling for his pack, digging into one of the side pockets, uncoordinated and eager. He doesn’t know if it’s the sun warm on their faces, the bed sagging but soft beneath them, or some actual effort at reconciliation that has made Scar so willing, but he’s not about to squander the moment.

Tube in hands, Grian settles back into place comfortably against Scar. Stubble scratches his cheek as they press together, somewhat hurried from anticipation but relaxed in that slow, familiar, sleepy morning way. Grian presses the lube into Scar’s hand, and muffles a noise into his throat as Scar thumbs open his jeans.

Disappointingly, his hands slip away after a moment, gone too soon, leaving Grian oddly bereft. He squirms his hips, managing to push his pants low enough to give Scar room to work with. He’s not going to strip down—it’s too soon to dive in head-first like that. He’ll be patient; let things evolve in their own time.

The click of the lube uncapping makes his chest tighten with anticipation, fiery and eager. Scar’s palm returns to his rear in short order, edging his thighs apart as far as the legs of his jeans will allow before, at last, a slick, calloused finger is pressing gently up against his hole.

The noise Grian makes is shameless, he can hear it as it escapes his throat, making Scar chuckle, a low rumble beneath him. Scar lets his touch circle him slowly, idle with the confidence of experience. He takes his time to tease, enjoying it, before he lets the pad of his middle finger slowly press in.

Grian sucks in a breath, can’t help himself after so long without. He lets it out a moment later in a soft moan, and Scar continues easing in slow, slow, taking his dear sweet time.

I’ve missed this, Grian thinks but doesn’t say, awash with an emotion he can’t find a name for. It’s true that they haven’t spent a moment apart in days, but Grian has missed the closeness they used to share. How they used to lay together like this on lazy mornings, Scar making him feel grounded and safe and wanted all at once.

“Ohh,” Grian murmurs, breathing out in a rush, forehead pressed into Scar’s chest as Scar fingers him, unhurried and steady. Grian can feel his own dick, achingly hard, still trapped by the thin cotton of his pants. He fumbles his hand down, and it feels good when he presses the heel of his palm against the shape of his erection. It feels better when he pulls his arousal free. He tucks the elastic of his waistband low, circling his thumb over the sticky head of his co*ck, and smears his pre down his length.

It’s an easy rhythm, stroking himself in response to the movement of Scar’s hand. It feels good—normal, even. Like memories of mornings long since passed, laying in until noon, talking and touching, and kissing and laughing. They’d enjoy each other, and Grian would indulge himself, letting Scar spoil him as he fell to pieces under his guiding hands.

“Love it when you sound like that…”

Scar’s words cut through the heady cloud of Grian’s nostalgia, pulling him back into the moment. He hadn’t realised he’d gotten so loud, hadn’t realised he’d been making any sounds at all. He whimpers in response, pushing his forehead into the crook of Scar’s neck as he continues to touch himself. He feels full with the thickness of Scar’s middle and ring finger, eagerly anticipating the pleasant stretch of his third.

“Scar,” Grian whines, hand speeding up as he pleasures himself. His body parts easily under the patience of Scar’s hand, and he grinds himself forward, shameless, rutting against the swell of Scar’s arousal, mind full of nothing but the pleasure Scar is giving him, and his eager willingness to take more.

“f*ck,” Scar groans, guttural and low. His free hand shifts from where it had been settled on Grian’s hip, and then Grian hears the rattle of Scar’s belt, Scar undoing his jeans with ease and pulling his dick free. He curls his fist around it, touching himself to the sounds that Grian is making.

It’s the closest they’ve been in ages. The most in-sync they’ve felt in awhile, even counting before everything fell to pieces. Grian gasps, choking on words he barely hears himself, and Scar shushes him tenderly, his cheek pressed to the prickling sweat on Grian’s forehead as he holds him close and f*cks him full with his fingers.

“I’ve got you,” Scar whispers into the mat of Grian’s hair, coated in desert dust, like it’s a promise he intends to keep. “I won’t let you go.”

His words touch something vulnerable and desperate in Grian, something he didn’t know he was starving for until he hears it, and all at once his body tenses, a moan catching in his throat as his org*sm sweeps over him. It’s unexpected and overwhelming, his hand working in quick, greedy strokes on his dick as he ruts against the exposed sliver of Scar’s stomach. His mouth is open and noises shameless as he comes, hard, into the curl of his fist.

It takes Grian a moment to collect himself, taking greedy, gasping breaths, hot and humid against Scar’s chest. He turns, collapsing boneless against Scar, hiding his face against his shoulder to muffle his laughter, flooded with relief that they can still have this after all, that it’s not all lost—that things haven’t been broken irreparably forever.

It’s only when Grian gathers his knees underneath himself, wobbly but determined to show Scar his appreciation, that the fragility of the moment reveals itself.

A knock, loud and determined sounds itself against the bedroom door, followed by a voice, barely containing a laugh of its own.

“Hey, you two awake in there?”

It’s Sapnap, smothering his giddy mirth at catching them at their most vulnerable. He plays oblivious, voice light in a clearly mocking manner. “Up and at ’em! We’re gonna have breakfast and take a look around.”

Like the turning of something immense and irreversible, Grian feels Scar still beneath him, muscles stiffening in a way that speaks to immediate discomfort.

“We’re awake,” Grian says at last, raising his voice enough to be heard, impatience colouring his tone. “We’ll be out in a minute. Just getting up.”

“I bet you are,” comes a second voice—Quackity’s—and it’s barely spoken before he and Sapnap bite down on barely stifled laughter.

“Take your time,” Sapnap rushes, and there’s a sound of bodies moving just outside the door, the tousle of the two playfully pushing at one another. “It’s pretty hard to get out of bed.”

That tips them both over, the two cackling aloud like hyenas.

Grian grits his teeth, ready to tell them to piss off when Karl’s voice calls out from somewhere further in the house.

“Boys? C’mere.”

It’s a casually called instruction, but the direction is firm. Quackity and Sapnap can be heard retreating down the hall, still laughing in a way that sets Grian on edge. Their departure leaves him and Scar on their own once more, and Grian takes a moment of embarrassed silence to collect himself, breathing in deep before he returns his attention to Scar.

“Where were we?”

It’s meant to sound cute—a coy segue back into the moment they’d been enjoying. He has visions of falling back into Scar’s warm arms, tugging his legs free from his jeans and straddling Scar’s hips, taking him inside himself and helping him feel as good as Scar just made him feel. But when Grian moves to slip his hand down and cup Scar’s arousal, Scar redirects his motion with a nudge of his arm.

He glances down at him, questioning, and finds himself met by Scar’s green eyes, their brightness dimmed by the deep circles worn beneath them. He looks just as exhausted as he did before they fell asleep.

Grian can tell at a glance that the moment is gone. Whatever had unfurled between them, familiar and warm and magical, is now over.

He shifts, his gaze slanting further down as Scar eases him off his chest, hands busying to re-buckle his jeans. It’s with a twist of something that feels like rejection that he notices Scar’s already gone soft. It’s an oddly fragile hurt, to see that he could be passed on so quickly.

An insecure part of him wants to twist up, small—feels ridiculous for letting himself get caught up in the excitement that this was something they could return to.

Silly to think it was a good idea to hook up with his ex.

Stupid.

It takes him a second to pull himself together, jostling his layers back in place as he marinates in his feelings, shame and foolishness sinking deep in through his skin. He’s so wrapped up in his own awkward misery that he doesn’t realise Scar is speaking to him until he sees that way he’s staring at him, expectant.

“What?” His question comes off boorish, and it’s clearly the wrong thing to say judging by the way Scar frowns, looking humiliated more than anything else as he repeats himself.

“I asked if you could give me a hand.” It’s a vulnerable request, repeated stand-offishly, and Grian immediately feels bad for making him repeat himself. “This bed’s too low. I—” The word sticks in Scar’s throat, forced out with a cough as he clears it. “I can’t.”

Grian doesn’t hesitate, standing up and offering both hands out immediately, his own fragility at Scar’s rejection pushed aside as he lets Scar grip his wrists for leverage while he does the same in turn. With a strong pull, Scar hauls himself up, making it halfway before something twinges and he flinches. Grian struggles to help him back down, taking most of his weight as he eases him down onto the mattress again, Scar hissing a breath as his weight settles.

“Scar…” Grian looks at him and trails off, not wanting to say anything that might be taken as pitying. He can’t help but worry, though, remembering with a start the way Scar had sleepily asked for his wheelchair last night, clearly lost in-between dreams. He hovers anxiously as Scar works his hands into the muscles of his legs. Scar's breathing is measured and slow as he works through whatever spasm he’s feeling, keeping his expression schooled, not allowing Grian the ability to read him.

“I need a minute,” he says neutrally and Grian nods, moving to sit down next to him before Scar shakes his head. “Go on and meet up with the trio. They’ll get suspicious if both of us stay holed up in here.”

“With what Sapnap and Quackity overheard, I don’t think there’s much left to hide,” Grian tries to joke, offering Scar a smile.

Scar doesn’t return the expression. If anything, it almost seems as if he gets tenser.

“Grian,” he mutters, quiet. “Please. I’ll catch up with you in a minute, okay?”

It’s with lingering hesitation that Grian turns away, murmuring a ‘see you soon’ over his shoulder that Scar doesn’t reply to.

When he walks through the door and it clicks shut behind him, somehow it feels lonelier than he expected.

He finds the main room of the house empty, but it’s clear from the general din he can hear that the trio are outside—or rather, they’re in the collapsed section of what used to be the carport. He steps out the front door and finds them talking easily in the morning sun, grins bright and hands animatedly moving about as they chatter. They quieten down in unison when they spot him and Sapnap smirks, canines sharp against his lower lip.

“Well, good morning,” he purrs, all insinuation and tooth. “Scar still getting dressed?”

“Something like that,” Grian replies, light, squinting as he waits for his eyes to adjust to the sunlight.

He’s on his best behaviour, trying not to ruffle any feathers. Grian’s well aware of the precarious position he left them in last night and how even Karl got short with him towards the end. In fact, even now, despite Karl and Quackity’s snickering, Sapnap watches Grian from a distance, something calculated and impatient behind his eyes. Grian doesn’t pick at it—knows he needs to maintain civility for Scar’s sake. It would be stupid to stoke a fire now, when they can afford it the least. After the previous day sulking and stonewalling them, he knows he needs to extend the olive branch and be nice.

“What’s on the schedule for today, then?” he asks, ignoring the way Quackity elbows Karl, copying his voice with a terrible accent as he repeats the way he pronounces ‘schedule,’ to Karl's clear delight.

“We were thinking of checking out the rest of the place once you two were up, right boys?” Karl says, tilting his head back and crossing his arms behind his head as he makes a large display of stretching out his spine. “See what there is to see; the shopping, the sights, the shows.”

At the mention of venturing out, Sapnap’s smile slips, his expression settling into something more serious.

“That’s right. We’ve got enough supplies for now, but it’s best to scope out and find whatever we can. Plus, even if it is a ghost town, we need to make sure there aren’t any zombies hanging around just waiting to sneak up on us.”

“Can’t let our guard down,” Grian agrees.

There’s a laugh at that, and Grian turns his gaze over, finding Quackity’s delighted, incredulous expression looking back at him.

“What, no bullsh*t today? No drama-queen push-back about who gets to lead or some sh*t?”

“Q—” Karl starts, but Grian interrupts with a tight smile and an even tone.

“I’m only looking out for our best interests.”

“You mean your best interests,” Sapnap corrects, and it’s clear that Grian’s efforts to maintain the peace aren’t going over as well as he’d hoped. Futilely, he wishes for Scar to sweep in, wanting his big charming personality to diffuse the situation. He’s not good at this on his own, not blessed with the same way with words Scar so effortlessly makes games of. “You gave us attitude all day, you were a huge bitch last night, you sleep, and now you come out here with your post-nut clarity like we’re all buddy-buddy and we’re lucky to be in your presence?”

It’s clear whatever briefing Karl had previously given Sapnap has fallen through, Sapnap’s impatience showing itself in abundance, his amiable mood abandoned.

“What is your problem, anyway? Scar says you’re a decent guy, but we’ve yet to see it. You know we were fine without you, right? You know it’s our supplies in your backpacks right now.”

“Scar said that…?” Grian asks, focusing on the wrong words, immediately distracted by the idea of Scar defending him against these strangers that Grian was so sure he'd leave him for.

“Sapnap. Fellas, come on,” Karl sighs, and there’s a familiarity to his weariness, like this isn’t new behaviour. “It’s too early for this. Let’s just cool our heads and take a walk, alright? Scout the place, like we planned.”

There’s a pause, tension still thick in the air. Sapnap and Quackity exchange glances with one another, but ultimately keep quiet. Quackity in particular makes a show of sighing aloud, shoulders dropping in an affected manner, going casual with purpose.

Karl smiles at the display, fondness etched on every inch of him, turning back to the task at hand as he addresses Grian.

“How are we splitting teams?”

“I want to be with Scar,” Quackity pipes up, which has Grian quickly looking in his direction, unable to hide his reaction.

Karl chortles, amused. “I think Grian will probably want to be on the same team as Scar, Big Q.”

“I’m okay with that,” Quackity says, grinning, sending Grian a sly smile. “So long as Grian doesn’t mind sharing.”

Grian tries not to visibly bristle, well aware he’s being toyed with.

“Scar and I work better as a duo,” he maintains, forcing himself to sound more calm than he feels.

“Well, why don’t I go ask him?” Quackity teases, “I’m sure I could convince him to change his mind. I can be very persuasive.”

Irritation claws its way up Grian’s spine, the way he’s being spoken to annoying him like nails on a chalkboard. Jealousy, insecurity, and the fear that the trio might discover what’s wrong before Scar is ready to share tug at him, threatening his earlier promise to be polite and agreeable. He tries to shake it off, forcing a thin smile to his face.

“Tell you what,” Grian counters. “Why don’t you three get ready, and I’ll go ask Scar. Then I’ll come back and let you know what he says.”

If he’s met with protest, Grian doesn’t hear it, turning around and making his way back into the house, stepping over bits of broken plaster littered across the already dirty floors.

When he enters the room, Scar is still sitting in bed, exactly where Grian left him.

He doesn’t look good.

“The trio’s ready to check out the town…” Grian says, words carefully neutral as he stands with his back to the door. “Are you coming…?”

Scar is quiet for a long time, clearly working through something. His face is conflicted, and all Grian wants to do is reach out and reassure him but, despite their morning together, he doesn’t know if his consolation would be well received.

“Grian,” he says at last, the inflection of his words delicate. “We shouldn’t have…” he trails off before clearing his throat uncomfortably, his words sticking funny. “We need to talk later,” he finishes, but the implication is clear. This morning was a mistake.

Grian stands still and silent, experiencing too many emotions at once to truly feel any of them at all.

Eventually, Scar continues, low, “I don’t think I can join you four. I can’t make myself move right now. It’s beyond me.”

The tension of their relationship and the bruise of Scar’s rejection blinks away in an instant. It's replaced by a panic that blooms, high and anxious, in Grian’s chest. He bites down on his lip to keep himself silent, knowing an outburst won’t add anything to this moment. He’s well aware of how hard this is for Scar to admit. He knows there’s no way to simply 'push though' when he’s in the middle of a flare-up—that Scar’s only saying this because he has no other options.

He swallows the fear bubbling up in his throat, nodding, tight.

“Okay,” he says, voice clipped into something forced-calm. “That’s alright. We can work around that.”

He can feel the unspoken element looming large in the room. The what if?

What if it’s a bad flare-up? What if it lingers? What if Scar can’t move for weeks?

“You should get some rest then, right?” Grian adds, clinging to words that sound normal. “I’ll handle things with the guys, don’t worry.”

Scar looks up at him finally, making eye contact in a vulnerably direct way. There’s a look on his face like he wants to say something more—but ultimately he turns away again, motioning towards the corner of the room instead.

“Pass me my rifle before you go? If you’re all heading out, I want to be able to defend myself just in case.”

Hesitant, Grian grabs the gun and gives it to Scar, passing the butt to him like he’s casually offering over a kitchen knife. “I could stay, if you want?”

Scar only shakes his head, gripping the rifle in a practiced manner and giving Grian a wry, half-smile. “Just hurry back.”

It feels wrong, but there’s some relief in getting a moment apart, if only so that Grian can feel his own emotions without passing the pressure on to Scar. With a final parting glance, he picks up his pack from the floor on his side of the mattress and leaves the room. Outside the door he takes a moment to settle his nerves, and only once he’s certain his expression won’t give anything away does he head back to where the trio are waiting.

Sapnap is up and pacing, but Karl still seems relaxed and under control. Quackity alone remains impervious to scrutiny—a nut Grian can’t crack at a glance.

“So? What did ‘Scar’ say?” Sapnap asks, making finger quotes around Scar’s name as if doubting Grian spoke to him at all.

Grian ignores the slight, forcing an indifferent smile onto his face. “He’s gonna stay here and hold down the fort,” he explains simply. “We’ve got too much stuff here to just leave it unattended.”

Sapnap raises an eyebrow, critical. “You think he’ll be okay on his own?”

Grian’s not sure. The fear is so palpable that he can feel it lodged thick in his throat. He and Scar haven’t been apart since the apocalypse started, and even if this is a ghost town, the idea of overlooking a monster that might sneak up on Scar while Grian’s away terrifies him to his core.

A part of him knows that he’s hurt Scar enough. He can’t be responsible for letting him get hurt more.

“Scar can handle himself.” he shrugs, acting disinterested.

The trio exchange a glance, significant in a way Grian can’t miss, but quite frankly, he doesn’t care. They’re probably tallying another strike against him, another stupid notion that he’s untrustworthy, or only looking out for himself. None of that matters to him. All he needs is to do right by Scar—everyone else is expendable.

“Good luck, baby duck,” Sapnap laughs, clapping a hand on Quackity’s shoulder hard enough to make him yelp.

“I always get the short end of the f*cking stick…” Quackity grumbles, taking the hint and trudging over to Grian, fists shoved deep into his pockets.

“I can go on my own,” Grian insists, “You three do your thing, we can meet back here in a few hours.”

Karl gives him a sideways glance, ever-present smile soft on his face. “There’s no shot, dude. We’re gonna buddy up whether you like it or not. Besides, what would we tell Scar if something happened to you?”

Grian bites back the urge to tell them that Scar would probably be relieved more than anything. That he cares about Scar far more than Scar cares about him, and how the way Scar looks at him these days makes Grian wish he could shrink into the floor.

Whatever.

That’s not something the trio need to know about.

“Fine,” he says, wishing he could sound more aloof and not just petulant. “But why am I paired up with—”

“Because we played rock-paper-scissors for the pleasure of your company while you were inside wasting time,” Sapnap says, rushing the words out with impatience. “Now can we please get a move on before we lose the entire day?”

The division is made and they leave the sagging carport together with weapons in hand. At the end of the driveway, he and Quackity go left while Karl and Sapnap head right. They plan to circle the perimeter of the ghost town, while Grian and Quackity opt to pick through the interior.

Not that there’s much to look at—most of the buildings are too dilapidated to be worth investigating, and the others are visibly empty just from looking in off the street.

Grian tries not to read too deeply into it; tries not to think about it how it feels like they’ve been given the easier portion of the task. He doesn’t know if it’s in deference to him, for Quackity’s sake, or because Karl and Sapnap feel that one—or both—of them aren’t fit for a proper reconnaissance.

Together they walk in silence, leading the way as they cross from one point of interest to the next. Wordlessly, they peer through the broken windows of several abandoned homes before Quackity takes it upon himself to interrupt the peace.

“So,” he says, having clearly psyched himself up to begin the conversation. “Grian’s a pretty cool name. Did you pick it yourself?”

Grian doesn’t know what to make of the question, weirdly baffled by it.

“Why would I have done that?” he asks, prickly but curious.

“No reason, I guess.” Quackity shrugs, oblivious to Grian’s bristling as he swings his weapon at a dry, scraggly clump of desert grass. “Quackity’s not my, like, government name,” he adds, as if it clarifies as anything.

“Well Grian is mine,” Grian dismisses, which only manages to pull a bemused laugh from Quackity.

“You’re not really a small talk kind of guy, huh?”

The accusation strikes Grian sideways, effectively disarming him entirely. He doesn’t want to confirm or deny it. Doesn’t want to be caught saying anything that might make its way back to Scar like a poor performance review. It already stings the way the trio has caught Scar’s attention, making him smile and laugh and chatter away like a fun new hobby Grian doesn’t see the point of.

He wishes for the days when they were alone, just the two of them, so that even if Scar was mad, at least Grian didn’t have to share him.

He takes a breath and levels himself. Asks, flat, “Well, what do you want to talk about?”

For whatever reason, Quackity perks up at that, eyes glinting as his mouth tugs up in a grin.

“What was your life like? Y’know, before all this.”

It’s an aggressively inoffensive question, but Grian side-eyes Quackity anyway. He doesn’t want to share the facets of his life with a near stranger. Talk about the dreams he had and the people he lost. He doesn’t want to invite a new person into his life just to be judged by him.

“I worked in marketing,” he eventually replies, something true, but separate enough to the real details of his life. His words are stilted, like he’s at a family dinner explaining himself to relatives he doesn’t want to be around. “Branding, consulting. Sales. That kind of thing.”

“Were you good at it?”

It’s a genuine question, backed by an actual interest in getting to know more about him, but all it does is make Grian tense and uncomfortable. He doesn’t want to do this—doesn’t want to shoot the sh*t and team-build like he’s on some sort of corporate excursion. Especially with Quackity, who seems particularly skilled at picking at his vulnerabilities.

“I don’t know. It didn’t matter,” he dismisses, shrugging a shoulder. “It wasn’t my passion. I wasn’t planning on doing it forever.”

Grian wishes he’d lied and said he worked as a private investigator. He wishes he’d said he was a masked vigilante, or a train conductor. He wishes he’d said he used to pitch elaborate game shows to television. He wishes he’d said anything else at all, because the reality of his life prior to the apocalypse makes him feel bitter and sour.

He remembers his ambitions—his grand plans to return to school and change career paths entirely. How he’d had Scar’s unfailing support as he’d dragged his feet on making any real steps towards change, even as Scar himself had been able to work less and less, reprioritizing his own life in order to accommodate his declining health.

He remembers Scar brushing all the negatives off, simply winking at him and saying that his time off just gave him more time to be there for Grian.

Unfailing support; unconditional and endless—Scar had been so patient and understanding that it had made Grian sick.

“What about you?” he cuts in, turning the topic away from himself, needing a break from the introspection clawing ugly at the inside of his chest.

“I was at school,” Quackity declares with an air of pride. “Hotel and casino management. Las Vegas boy, y’know?” He rolls his shoulders, casually stretching his arms up above his head for a second before he adds, “I had a part time thing at a club, but I’d barely started before it all—you know.”

Grian nods, not really contributing, and in his silence Quackity easily fills the void.

“That’s how I met Karl and Sap. Kinda. We kept bumping into each other on campus—Karl was studying creative writing, and Sapnap was majoring in Having Rich Dads And A Hot Boyfriend.” He laughs, smiling in Grian’s direction like they’re both in on the same joke. Grian’s aware of Quackity’s eyes on him, waiting for a reply, but he keeps his gaze focused ahead, acting intent on scouting for things of use.

In the lull, they lapse back into silence.

It’s not that he hates Quackity. He just…

There’s something about him that rubs Grian the wrong way. He’s not sure if it’s the constant chest-puffing, the way he talks like he’s everyone’s best friend, the little glances he exchanges with the others, or if it’s just the way Scar will look at him sometimes, nostalgic and fond in a way that makes Grian desperate to know what he’s thinking.

In any other world, he’s sure he could’ve managed to enjoy Quackity's company, despite the obnoxious self-assurance that his youth has given him.

In this world however, letting Quackity endear himself to him is not a risk he’s willing to take.

He lengthens his stride and they move forward together, rounding a short cinder block wall to find a yard filled with rusted-out, abandoned cars. There are dozens of them, arranged in disorganised rows, most stripped for parts—missing windows, hoods, doors, or entire engine blocks. There are a few that look remarkably intact, hauled up on blocks and missing only their tires. All of them are well aged, coated in sand and patchy with rust.

There’s a chain-link gate hemming the cars in, and Grian drags it open without a thought. The hinges wail in protest and barely budge, but Quackity steps in to help, pulling with Grian in tandem. With a little force they manage to yank the gate open, standing together at the entrance to the yard.

It’s eerie.

A feeling Grian doesn’t enjoy prickles uncomfortably up the back of his neck, like they’re trespassing in a cemetery. At the far back of the yard is a garage, half the structure fallen in from age, but enough in-tact that they move forward to check it out.

Grian doesn’t know what they hope to find at this point. It’s clear that no one’s been here for years, maybe decades. They’re not going to find a life saving cure-all. No cache of secret supplies. They’ll be lucky if they find anything there at all.

“So how long have you and Scar been together?” Quackity asks as he picks through the garage, bending down to peer in through the smashed windshield of a car.

The question twists an insecurity inside Grian, vulnerable in a way he doesn’t want to admit to. The only benefit of the apocalypse happening mere moments after Scar broke up with him is that he hasn’t had to tell anyone the embarrassing truth yet. It stings, and in the face of Quackity’s perpetual honeymoon happiness with his two boyfriends, Grian really doesn’t want to talk about it.

“We’re not,” he answers simply, resisting the urge to put his weapon through one of the remaining car windows.

“f*ck off, you liar,” Quackity laughs, but when Grian simply shrugs, his expression scrunches up.There’s a clear confusion on his face, the kind Grian wishes he could take pride in. He can almost hear Quackity’s mind racing, hearing the question before Quackity even asks it. “What was this morning about, then?”

“It wasn’t about anything,” Grian snaps, prior to forcefully changing the subject. “There’s nothing but scrap metal and junk here,” he announces. “I don’t think there's any point in hanging around.”

Quackity wavers, expression pinched like he’s about to say something. They stand in undecided silence for a moment, Grian’s lack of patience wrapping like barbed wire around his chest. He doesn’t know what they’re doing here. He doesn’t know what the point of any of this is. He’s wasting time combing through a ghost town while Scar is alone and confined to a dirty mattress on the floor. He hates being apart from him. He hates it in every way imaginable.

“Let’s try the next place,” Quackity suggests at last, offering the option like an olive branch—as if wasting more time is what Grian wants to do.

It’s not like he can turn Quackity down, though. He’s already on thin ice with the group—he doesn’t want to be the one to insist they head back to camp only to have Quackity say he wanted to explore more but Grian said no.

They turn back towards the gate together, leaving the rest of the yard unexplored.

“You won the apocalypse lottery getting stuck with him then,” Quackity says, picking up the conversation again once they’ve made their way back out through the fence. He carries on like it’s just a regular day, far too relaxed for the end of the world. “That guy’s the real deal.”

Grian ignores him, walking ahead so Quackity can’t see his face.

“Tall, broad and handsome. Sweet and funny. Plus, he can shoot?” Quackity whistles appreciatively. “That’s the complete package.”

Grian grits his teeth to keep from saying anything he’ll regret, fists tight to his sides.

“You already have two boyfriends,” he rebukes, curt.

“I don’t see your name on him,” Quackity replies, rapid-fast and grinning bright, like they’re discussing good weather or playing a fun game.

Jealousy hits Grian like a freight train, the magnitude of it so strong he feels like he might be sick. Logically he knows Quackity is just messing with him, trying to smoke out a confession about the nature of their relationship by pressing all of Grian’s buttons at once. He’s in his twenties—it’s practically in his nature to be a dick. But then Grian thinks back to Scar’s frigidity when he told him they were though, how he’d raised his eyebrows in interest when the trio had explained the multiplicity of their partnership, and the fear of being abandoned digs deep into his gut.

He fights his urge to lash out, burying his insecurity and trying to answer like he would if he weren’t Scar’s ex.

If he weren’t anyone to Scar at all.

“You’ve only got two hands. Which one are you gonna trade out for him?”

Quackity laughs uproariously, like the question is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Dude, that’s so f*cked up. They’re not Pokémon cards, what do you mean ‘trade out’?”

Grian manages an enormous shrug, flustered to be called out for how little he understands their arrangement. He wants to move on, desperately, but Quackity seems delighted by what he’s uncovered, pressing in with a wide, wolfish smile.

“Wait, do you really think that’s how it works? Oh my god, dude. Come on.”

He laughs, clapping his hands together.

“Does that mean you’d trade Scar for one of us?”

The notion is absurd, but Quackity persists, clarifying, “C’mon, have fun with it, you asshole. Pretend you had to pick one, which would it be? Who's your favourite?”

Grian feels like he’s boiling, the idea of choosing someone else over Scar hitting far too close to home.

“I’m not an asshole,” he defends, obstinately.

In response Quackity throws his head back, laughing loud.

“Dude, you’ve been frowning since we met you! Your whole vibe is just ‘f*ck off, don’t speak to me.’ Literally the only reason I have to believe there must be more to you is that Scar said you two have known each other for years, and he doesn’t seem like the type of guy to hang out with irredeemable lost causes. No offense.”

“You can’t just stick ‘no offense’ at the end of something objectively offensive and call it a day,” Grian snaps, exasperated.

Undaunted, Quackity continues to grin at him. “Am I wrong though?”

It’s true that Grian’s been incredibly closed off since he met the trio—it’s true that in a perfect world he would normally be more inviting than that.

He just doesn’t feel inclined to be gracious with his back up against a wall.

With a sigh, exasperated, gestures at the desert around them, barren and lifeless. “Take a look at where we’re at, and think about the situation we’re in,” he explains, bitterly. “It’s not exactly the kind of environment where the kindness of strangers thrives.”

“Why not?” Quackity immediately presses, and Grian feels his gut twist, hating the gleam of optimism in his eyes. It’s too much like how he himself used to be, wishing for the best and believing in the inherent good of those around him. It's how Scar still is, unlike Grian, who let his own apathy sink in and swamp him—worn down by the monotony of the world, too big to change, and too overwhelming to challenge. Just day after day of the same, the same, the same.

“Because it’s dangerous,” he says at last. “If I trusted you from the outset and you’d smothered us in our sleep, where would that have left me? Where would that have left Scar? I’m only an ‘asshole’ because I need to be, because that’s how it’s going to be from now on.”

“I don’t agree,” Quackity argues back, his humour fading into something more determined and passionate. “We have a chance right now to change all those old assumptions. We can choose to be better than we used to be.”

It’s naïve, and Grian can’t stand it. Foolhardy in a way that will ultimately only end in people getting killed.

“The world is life and death, now,” he dismisses. “We don’t get to be ambiguous like we were before. Lowering your guard in order to be kind is going to have you out there with the googlies, and if that’s where you end up, then frankly, you deserve it.”

“I’m not saying it’s easy—f*ck, I’m not even saying it’s smart,” Quackity insists, stubborn beyond Grian’s understanding. “I’m just saying, it doesn’t have to be that black and white.”

Grian stares at him, uncomprehending. “Why are you so hung up on this?” he presses, and that, at least, seems to knock Quackity off the subject.

He averts his gaze, muttering a rough ‘nevermind’ under his breath before he scuffs his shoes against the ground and walks faster, pressing ahead of Grian and leaving him behind.

It should relieve him to be done with the conversation, but something about it nags at him. With a sigh, Grian jogs after Quackity until they’re keeping pace again, walking side by side.

“Look, you’re young. You’re idealistic. I get it.” As Grian speaks, Quackity looks over at him, expression guarded. “But what you’re asking for isn’t as simple as it sounds.”

He gets no response, Quackity snorting in a way that has Grian feeling too much like a parent dealing with a moody teenager.

He tries to put himself in Quackity’s shoes—still in college, falling in love for the first time; by all accounts just barely starting to establish himself when suddenly something beyond his control snatched it all away.

He sighs, resisting the urge to run a hand tiredly down his face.

“I’m not saying the only way to prosper is to be a dick. I’m not saying nice guys finish last. I’m just asking you to take a good hard look at the world around you, think about what you care about, and understand nothing’s ever going to be as easy as you think. This—this disease, this desert… the world is starving, Quackity. It’s ravenous.” He pauses, letting his words sink in. He has Quackity’s full attention, now, both of them no longer walking as Grian looks directly into his eyes. Dark and focused and so much like his own.

“You can give all your smiles and sweet words, but what this is gonna take is more than a pleasant idea. It’s gonna take the sweat of you toiling and the tears running down your face. If you really want to do better by whatever comes next, and leave some sort of legacy behind after you’re gone, you’re going to have to work for it. Otherwise, this world will swallow you up whole." They stare at each other, dark eyes intense. "Kindness is not, and will never be, enough.”

Silence stills between them, Quackity letting his words sink in as Grian wishes, desperately, for this moment to end.

“A legacy, huh?” he whispers at length, and the way his eyes flash sends a shiver down Grian’s spine.

He has to break eye contact, his heart beating fast against his ribs. He hates that he recognises the look in Quackity’s eyes.

Hates that he’s seen it so often in his own.

Without another word, Quackity resumes walking, and Grian falls into step right behind him, wordless now that they’ve both said what was needed. Their conversation resonates between them as they pick through the remaining areas on their way back. Unlike earlier, it’s a reasonably comfortable silence despite the loaded discussion, and the two of them make quick work of the last few homes. There's something that's been forged between them—not companionship exactly, but something more than the polite strangers they'd been when they'd set off together.

By the time Sapnap reaches out to them, voice crackling through the walkie-talkie, they’re already done with their sweep of the interior. Grian gives Quackity his space as he chats with his boyfriend over the radio, half for his own comfort. It tugs something awful in him just to hear them flirt, however casual it may be, and he's in no mood to sour their fragile alliance by getting his back-up over something that would be negligible to anyone else.

“Sapnap says he and Karl haven’t found much either,” Quackity relays to Grian once he makes his way back out to him, stepping through what might have once been a storage shed.

“Shall we head back then?” he asks.

“Might as well. Sap says they just have one final place they wanna check out.”

Grian nods, and the two of them turn back towards their homebase. There’s an anxiousness in his chest at the thought of returning; not because he thinks anything’s happened, but because he hopes that Scar has somehow recovered in the time they’ve been away, however unlikely it may be. He doesn’t know how much longer they can hide things from the trio, but still doesn't trust them enough to want to share their vulnerability either. It stews inside of him, boiling over in a way he's not sure he can control.

“Hey,” Quackity says, and Grian resists the urge to jump, startled out of his thoughts.

“Yeah?”

“You never did answer.” Quackity presses, his smiles mild. “Which one of us is your favourite?”

Grian doesn’t have to answer. He can brush it aside and it would be perfectly within the personality he’s crafted for himself in front of these strangers. He could roll his eyes and scoff, turn away from Quackity without another word and it would be entirely expected. There would be no remarkable story here for Quackity to share with the others, just the same, cranky, cold Grian.

But... he can’t help but think of dark eyes, a mouth set with stubborn determination, and a fire sparking in every word.

'Which one of us is your favourite?'

“Karl,” Grian lies, and the taste of it sits bittersweet on his tongue.

Chapter 13

Chapter Text

When Grian and Quackity return to the house, Scar is waiting for them.

It’s a relief to see him up, even if he doesn’t look much better. He presents a good front, the way he leans heavily against the doorframe barely noticeable to anyone who’s not explicitly looking for it.

“Missed me so much you’re back already?” he asks, smiling with his teeth.

Grian opens his mouth to respond, but Quackity beats him to it laughing easily. “You caught me,” he teases. “I’m obsessed with you, can’t get you off my—” he stops, pausing to squint dramatically as he shields his eyes with the side of his hand before he chuckles and shakes his head. “Oh, sorry, I thought you were Karl and Sapnap.”

Scar gasps at that, placing a hand on his heart and acting wounded. It’s silly and playful—the way Scar used to act with Grian. Quackity jogs up to the front door to meet up with Scar, sliding away from Grian as he’s drawn into Scar’s orbit by conversation alone.

Grian watches them like an outsider, on the fringes of their solar system.

He takes off his pack on his own, trying to ignore how it makes it feel. It sits petty in Grian’s stomach how the scene looks. Scar open and smiling and Quackity bantering alongside him, the two talking like they’re old friends. Their conversation flows naturally and it makes Grian’s chest hurt, well aware of all he’s lost in the schism that’s grown between him and Scar. A small part of him even manages to feel betrayed by Quackity, though logically he knows that’s not fair—that one scouting mission together doesn’t mean he’s earned Quackity’s exclusive loyalty.

By the time Sapnap and Karl return, the two of them are still chatting, Grian sitting quietly off to the side on his own.

“This place is a bust,” Sapnap announces, words edged in frustration as he pushes the door open, his hair slicked down with sweat at his temples. He looks beat, depositing a satchel onto the floor without fanfare before he sits down heavily in the only other chair.

“I know we figured as much, but it doesn’t look like anyone’s lived here for years. Decades even,” Karl explains, trailing in after Sapnap. He looks equally worn out from his time in the sun, flushed across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. “We found a few camps at the far end of the street—there were ATV tracks, but they looked old. We swiped some cans and stuff. I think most of it’s expired by a year, but it’s better than nothing.”

He sits down on the floor, shrugging his arms out of his jacket sleeves before he reaches down and hauls up the hem of his sweater, pulling it off over his head. It leaves him clad only in a t-shirt; one that’s definitely seen cleaner days.

“We did have one good find, though. Show ‘em, Sap.”

Sapnap perks up a bit at the reminder, at least some of his good mood returning as he opens the satchel, rooting around until he produces their find: a solar powered camping lantern.

“Check this out,” he enthuses, placing it on the table and switching it on. The light is sterile—the kind of chill white glow you’d expect from an LED bulb—but it’s bright, and even Grian can admit it’s a good find.

“How ‘bout you two lovebirds?” Karl asks, and the question startles a shocked laugh from Grian and an amused grin from Quackity.

“There’s a car graveyard at the far end of town,” Quackity explains, folding his arms across his chest. “Nothing there, though. Everything’s rusted out.”

“Quackity wanted to check out a few other places nearby,” Grian adds, “But we didn’t find anything salvageable.”

“Why do you think this place is abandoned?” Sapnap asks. It’s obvious he’s trying not to sound too concerned, but he’s unable to hide the edge from his voice. He turns towards Karl, as if to share his worry, but Karl’s brow is smooth, his posture calm. He only hums low and shrugs.

“I think there are hundreds of places like this. People die, kids grow up and move away, nobody moves in…”

“It’s the highways,” Scar explains, and Grian can’t help a small, bemused grin. Of course Scar is up-to-date on the history of run-down little towns. It’s just like him to have these bits of obscure knowledge tucked away. “When they built all the interstates back in the 60s, people stopped needing these little side roads and winders. Communities got cut off, and they didn’t have any industry to sustain them, so they slowly died out.”

“You’re telling me there’s a million more of these sh*tty little dead-end ghost towns in our way?” Quackity groans, rubbing at his face in frustration. “That’s gonna suck for us. There’s nothing we can scavenge. We’re just gonna waste time and supplies.”

“It’s fine, we can avoid them once we’re back on the interstate,” Sapnap says, reassuring and confident. “Which—we should figure out where to go next from here. Especially if we wanna move before we start losing daylight.”

Immediately, Grian looks in Scar’s direction. He finds Scar meeting his gaze over top of Quackity’s head, the same dread in his eyes that Grian feels in his bones. The trio don’t notice, still chatting about how quickly they'll need to pack and if they have time for a proper lunch before the next trek onwards.

“I’m sure we can leave the catering in your capable hands,” Scar says, bright and enthusiastic as he claps his hands together. “Meanwhile, Grian! Can I trouble you for a moment of your time?”

It sparks a note of selfish satisfaction in Grian that Scar would make a point of asking for him and him alone. It’s silly—of course Scar would choose him right now—but it still feels nice to be invited by name.

“I’ll allow it,” Karl jokes, none-the-less taking the hint and leveraging himself to his feet. He nudges Sapnap with the toe of his boot and gestures for Quackity to join them, motioning towards the door as they walk over together. “We’ll be right outside if you need us.”

“Keep your hands where I can see ‘em though. And leave room for the lord. No funny business,” Quackity teases. The other two laugh as they leave, oblivious to the tension that settles into the room on their departure.

The second the door shuts behind the trio, Scar is shifting in his seat, the wince in his expression obvious. Something worrisome grips tight around Grian’s heart, and he resists the urge to gravitate to Scar’s side and fuss.

“Grian,” Scar says, serious.

“How bad?”

Scar looks towards the door, expression inscrutable before he breathes out, slow and even. “Bad.”

Silence settles between them, the air suddenly thick and stuffy, heavy with the implication.

“I need you to help me get back to the bedroom.”

The reality of what Scar is saying unfolds in Grian’s chest like something dreadful and rancid. The worst case scenario of Scar pushing himself too hard for too many days.

“Okay.” Grian’s numb as he says it, stepping forward on autopilot as he slings Scar’s arm across his shoulder and helps leverage him to his feet. Scar’s expression is tight, determined to look strong even in a vulnerable moment. He lets a short breath in and out through his nose before he nods and they move with slow, careful steps down the hall.

They’re lucky they have a bed. For a moment, Grian tries to imagine what would have happened had Scar seized up in the open desert, but the horror of the hypothetical compresses the question into an impenetrable knot in his mind.

Working together, Grian helps Scar lay down on the mattress, expression creased as he focuses and tries not to panic. Once safely down, Scar closes his eyes and tilts his head back, exposing the long column of his throat as he heaves a long, pained sigh.

Hesitant, Grian deliberates for a moment before he asks, “What do we tell them?”

“I don’t want them to panic.” Scar replies, eyes still closed.

“I don’t want them to know,” Grian stresses, determined.

Scar chuckles, a forced, pained sound that devolves into a sort of wheeze. Slowly, he opens his eyes, staring up at the patchy popcorn ceiling.

“At this point, I don’t know if that’s really an option.”

“Do you think you’ll feel better after you sleep?” Grian rushes, words tumbling out of him all at once. Even as he speaks, he knows this isn’t something he can barter their way around, knows it isn’t fair. “Maybe tomorrow—”

He stops himself, forcibly closing his mouth. Scar watches him from the mattress with tired eyes, and guiltily, Grian looks away. He knows how much Scar hates when people explain his own limitations to him. Of all things, Scar doesn’t need Grian attempting to negotiate with him about his health.

“I’ll take care of it,” he states instead, simple, broaching no argument.

“You’ll take care of it?”

There’s something skeptical in Scar’s tone, but Grian merely nods, not sure how he’s going to follow through but refusing to let it show on his face.

Scar continues to look him over, as if unsure of Grian’s conviction. In the end, he offers a weary smile of acceptance, more tired than grateful.

“Okay, Gri,” he says, and the use of his long-abandoned nickname momentarily takes Grian’s breath away. Leaves him feeling light-headed, with his pulse racing, already desperate to hear it said again—in praise instead of in surrender.

For a moment Grian lingers, unwilling to leave Scar’s side. It takes everything to pry himself away, and he exits the room with his heart pounding as he tries to calculate the next step to take.

While he’s good at thinking on his feet, he’s got no practical experience with a situation like this, and he knows that persuading people is more Scar’s forte. Grian can lie just as well as Scar, but there’s a charm to Scar’s method that wins people over far easier than Grian could ever dream of.

Karl and Quackity are sitting on the front step of the house when Grian opens the front door. Sapnap is standing in front of them, arms crossed, and squinting unhappily in the sunlight. They all look at him expectantly as he appears.

He takes a bracing breath.

“We’re going to stay here another night,” he explains, as simple as fact.

Three sets of eyebrows rise in response in almost comedic unity.

“Says who?” Sapnap asks, shoulders bristling.

“Says me,” Grian says, firm. “We have good shelter here, we’ve got enough provisions for now—there’s no reason to go running right back into the fray when we have a chance to spend a few days in peace and quiet without a single soul around.”

“We can’t just dawdle,” Sapnap argues, vehement in a way Grian hadn’t quite expected. He’s been fairly quiet and polite after getting over his initial mistrust of Grian and Scar right at the start, but now his temper rises seemingly out of nowhere. It puts Grian’s back up a bit to have the younger man in his face, angrier than he had any reason to be. “How many of those things did we just see wandering out on the road on our way up here? You think we’re safe right now? We’re not.”

“We’re in the middle of the desert,” Grian refutes, glad that Karl and Quackity are silent at least, their eyes darting back and forth between them. “We’d be able to see anyone or anything coming for miles.”

“But why the f*ck would we wait for them at all?! There’s literally no place to restock on supplies or water in this dust bowl, and you wanna stay here longer?”

Something about the situation reads wrong to Grian. Has him on his back foot, defending what doesn’t feel like a big ask.

He talks around it, slow and even, watching Sapnap’s face for a reaction. “We’ll leave tomorrow morning and be back on the interstate by afternoon, if it’s so important to you.”

Sure enough, Sapnap’s expression wavers, his eyes flicking in the direction of Quackity and Karl. Paranoia sinks into Grian’s gut, even as Sapnap draws back, retreating out of Grian’s space.

“This is such f*cking bullsh*t.”

“I don’t see how wanting to rest one more night is such a big deal,” Grian needles. “We left a bad spot, walked for hours to get here, and now that we’re safe you want us to just push on? Seems reckless to me.”

“Like it isn’t reckless to stay here and whittle our down resources to nothing?”

The frustration rolling off of Sapnap is evident, his arms crossed tight over his chest and anger creasing his expression. Again, his gaze shifts in the direction of the other two in his party, and this time Grian manages to glance their way as well. Quackity has his mouth set in a firm line, and Karl’s expression is carefully neutral. All of it has Grian’s back up.

There’s something more to this. There has to be.

“It’s one night, Sapnap,” he insists, determined.

“It’s a big f*cking waste of our time is what it is.”

Grian laughs, sharp and without humour. “If it’s that much of a waste of time then, by all means, you three can leave without us.”

“What’s up with Scar?” Quackity interrupts, precise in a way that catches Grian completely off guard.

The question cuts through him like a knife, the epicentre of his vulnerability suddenly exposed and pulled out into the open. Abruptly, all the tension turns on him, the trio exchanging glances with one another before looking at Grian. It puts him on the spot in a viscerally uncomfortable way, and he finds himself crossing his arms in a defensive mirror to Sapnap’s pose and posture.

“What are you talking about? Nothing’s up with Scar.”

There’s a reluctance in Quackity’s eyes, an uncertainty Grian can’t quite place.

“Nothing’s up with Scar, but when Sapnap suggests moving on, suddenly he has to talk to you alone and then without warning you’re saying we’re staying put for another night?”

A chill runs down Grian’s spine, followed by the cold sweat of being caught acting careless. He’d been so busy seething in his own distrust and dislike of the trio that he’s failed to keep his motives subtle. In his haste, he’s now put Scar in danger.

He feels ill.

“Is he sick?” Quackity asks when Grian remains silent, careful as he voices the question. A tense quiet spreads between them, breaths held as three sets of eyes bore into Grian. When no reply is offered, Quackity presses, insistent. “Did he get bit?”

The question snaps like the breaking of a dam, and suddenly it’s too hot, too much, too loud, and Grian is angry, livid at the accusation that he and Scar would ever harbour a secret like that. He draws in a breath, sharp, squaring his shoulders as he gets ready to lash out. Only—Karl intervenes.

He rises up off the front stoop in a smooth, fluid gesture, brushing sand and grit off his hands before he says, calm, “Come on, Big Q, don’t be ridiculous.”

It takes the wind out of Grian’s sails, shoulders untensing. The idea that he has an ally on his side knocking the temper right out of him.

“When would Scar have gotten bit?” Karl asks, more rational than Grian would’ve given him credit for. “We’ve had eyes on him since we ran into him. If he was bitten before we met, he would’ve turned by now. We’ve seen enough to know that.”

“He didn’t get close to the googlies on the road,” Grian adds, insistent. “If anyone, Sapnap—”

“I didn’t get f*cking bit,” Sapnap snarls, bristling. “You got close to them too, by the way. In fact, you were the first one to rush into them.”

“And I didn’t get bit, did I?” Grian argues, voice rising slightly. “So if I didn’t, then Scar definitely didn’t.”

“Boys,” Karl interrupts again, level and firm. “We’ve all made our points. Nobody got bit, nobody’s turning into a zombie.” He stares at each of them in turn before his eyes rest on Quackity, who stares back at him, guilty and indignant at the same time. It’s a look Grian knows well, having worn it plenty of times himself. Karl sighs, more patient than he has any need to be, “Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

With Sapnap and Quackity’s accusation defanged, Grian doesn’t know what to do with the adrenaline rushing through his system. It’s almost a relief when Karl turns to him, using the same no-nonsense tone—so different from the way he normally presents himself.

“Grian—you’re saying you want to take a rest day? Stay here just for another night?”

It’s weird being spoken to in such a way by someone almost a decade younger than him, but Grian takes the hit to his pride with as much grace as he can manage. He nods, not trusting himself to speak and start up the argument once more.

Karl nods back, decided. “That settles it, then. We’ll stay the night and head out in the morning.”

“Karl…” Sapnap starts, clearly unhappy with the decision.

“It’s okay, baby,” Karl promises, “Tomorrow, first light: we’re gone. It won't even be a full twenty-four hours from now. Okay?”

Karl passes the question between both his partners, and they hesitate as if waiting for each other’s agreement. Quackity hesitates, clearly reluctant, but after a moment he nods, and Karl smiles wide, pulling him into a hug. After that Sapnap seems to relent, the stiffness in his posture relaxing.

“Is that it then…?” Grian asks, cautious. “Are we good?”

“We’re good,” Sapnap says, and Grian chooses to believe him.

He leaves the trio to their business, relieved to get a break from them, heading back inside only to find that Scar’s fallen asleep. He could leave—he should—but instead Grian takes a seat on the floor, resting his back against the wall as he simply watches Scar instead. After the better part of an hour, clattering and scraping noises filter in from the main room but Scar sleeps through it all. Grian tries to picture what they could be doing, the sounds of Karl and Sapnap cursing and Quackity’s high laughter bleeding in through the walls.

Their good moods should be a comfort, a sign that everything’s fine, but to Grian they’re not. Everything catches like a bur on his skin, twisting his mood into a knot of tension he nurses bitterly, like it’s something of value he should preserve. He’s envious of them and their laughter, and he hates it.

When Scar eventually stirs, it’s late afternoon. He wakes up slow, consciousness filling him up like water poured into a glass, relaxed in a way that makes a private, guarded part of Grian glad. He’s not jerking awake, quick-pulsed and frightened. He’s not pulling out of one nightmare, opening his eyes into another. He’s been resting, deeply, and Grian knows that’s what Scar needs.

“Nice nap?” he asks, pulling his knees up to his chest and circling his arms around them.

Scar nods, yawning large as he sits up, rubbing the heel of his palms against his eyelids.

“Didn’t realise how much I needed it,” he mutters, clearing his throat to dislodge the growl that curled into it while he was asleep.

“We’re gonna stay another night,” Grian explains, answering the question he knows Scar’s about to ask. “Karl made the call. If it matters.”

Scar nods, still sleep-relaxed, yawning again. “Good.”

“They’ve been up to something. Kept hearing great big noises, like they’re chucking things about.” Grian jerks his chin in the direction of the main room.

“You didn’t go see?” Scar asks, tone casual, reminding Grian so much of the morning conversations they used to have on lazy Sundays, sprawled out on Scar’s enormous bed.

The question catches Grian sideways, causing him to tense up, guilty, as Scar smiles slow.

“Did you keep guard over me, Grian?”

His head tilts to the side, genuinely curious. The question feels odd—Grian hadn’t been thinking about it that way, but now that it’s asked he can’t exactly deny that’s what it looks like. He feels his cheeks go hot, tightening his arms around his knees, the uncertain shame of whether or not he’s about to get in trouble making him reluctant to answer.

“They’re not exactly my number one fans right now,” he says at length. “I didn’t want to third wheel where I’m not wanted.”

He’s so focused on deflecting Scar’s question that he almost misses the fond smile that passes over his face. He’d been so sure that Scar would chastise him that it shocks him to see Scar smothering his grin before it has a chance to manifest further.

“Third wheeling a trio… that’s just a car, isn’t it?”

“Scar,” Grian snorts, but his relief that he’s passed Scar’s scrutiny makes him smile despite himself.

Scar chuckles, rubbing the stubble on his jaw for a moment as he thinks. Grian watches him, quiet, wanting to reach out and touch it himself. He knows the way Scar’s stubble feels—against his palms, and his cheeks, and the inside of his thighs. It’s difficult to reconcile with the part of him that wonders if he’ll ever feel it again.

“Do you think that really works for them?” Scar asks at last, interrupting Grian’s wistful yearning with a carefully neutral voice. “That three peas in a pod routine?”

All at once Grian remembers Quackity musing after Scar’s availability back at the rusted-out trailer, and the jealousy from that conversation comes rushing back tenfold. It’s stupid and pointless to feel this way, he knows that. He and Scar aren’t together, they’re not discussing the nature of their relationship. Scar isn’t the one who cheated in the first place.

And yet, Grian can’t help but feel jealous and possessive anyway.

There’s too much to unpack and not enough time for him to process any of it, so Grian does what he does best and pushes it aside, letting it fall off his priorities to fester unattended in the background. Instead, he lowers his head onto his arms as they rest atop his knees, muttering low and dismissive, “I don’t think it matters.”

He can feel Scar’s eyes on him, even as he keeps his own locked on the far wall of the room. He doesn’t want to know what Scar is thinking, but it’s easy to guess—the obvious ‘what if’ that he knows they’re both circling around. The idea that in some universe, one where he’d made different, more honest choices, maybe Grian could’ve openly had two partners as well. That he could have spared them both the hurt, if he’d simply just told Scar the truth.

It wouldn’t have worked like that, Grian is certain.

It’s not what he or Scar would’ve wanted.

And yet…

“Do you think you can stand up?” he asks, desperate to change the subject before it has the chance to metastasize any further.

Scar shifts on the mattress, testing his knees as he bends his legs before he gives a small nod. “If you give me a hand.”

Brushing himself off, Grian stands, making his way over to Scar in a few short steps. Together they get Scar back on his feet, and after a minute of balancing and waiting for him to acclimate after a long day of laying down, they decide to make their way into the main room.

They proceed cautiously towards the sounds of the trio’s voices, Scar leaning heavily on Grian and both of them trying not to be obvious about it.

Grian doesn’t know what he was expecting when they enter the living room. He’d heard the three of them moving constantly, presumably dragging things around all afternoon. He’d entertained the idea that maybe they were playing some sort of game or fortifying the windows and doors, but his assumptions leave him surprised at the reality.

Before them lies an almost fully furnished living space.

It’s cobbled together, made of salvaged wood pallets and broken furniture, mostly likely pulled out from the nearby houses. Grian counts seating enough for five, all arranged around the brick fireplace. The plywood that had been wedged up against it to keep out the draft has been removed, a wood pile made from broken chairs and scrap lumber organised semi-neatly beside its hearth. It’s meagre and makeshift, but Grian can see the effort that went into it—a peace offering, maybe, after the accusations hurled at him on the front steps earlier.

“Well, hello there,” Scar greets, the pleasant surprise in his voice evident as they step further into the room. “My, my, gentlemen. Now what do we have here?”

Sapnap stands up first, hands tucking into his pockets as he approaches. He shoots a glance back towards Karl and Quackity, both standing at the table and sorting through the cans he and Karl had pilfered earlier. When he meets Grian’s eyes, there’s something apologetic in them.

“We figured… since we’re staying another night, we might as well make the place more, y’know… liveable.”

It’s a kindness that Grian hadn’t anticipated, and all at once he feels awful for reacting so strongly earlier. He tries to find something to say in response, but then Scar steps away from his side, and his attention immediately turns to follow him. He’s anxious as he waits for him to stumble, but when Scar takes another few steps, as casual and confident as ever, the relief that swells in his chest is palpable.

The seats the trio have made aren’t elaborate—simple benches more than anything—but Scar sits without complaint, patting the space beside him as he looks Grian’s way. “Making a house a home, now that’s just genius. I like you boys, you’ve got a good style.”

Before Grian can sit down next to Scar, Quackity is inserting himself into the space, putting his knee on the seat as he shuffles over. “We like you too, handsome,” he says, familiar and fond.

It reignites the jealousy Scar’s question had sparked back in the bedroom, and Grian tries to tamp it down, tightening his jaw in a way he hopes isn’t noticeable to the others. He knows he can’t afford to turn his nose up at the trio’s efforts at reconciliation, but it’s hard to remember that when he sees Quackity next to Scar, smiling bright and eager and far too friendly.

Next to Scar, oblivious to Grian’s turmoil, Quackity holds up two cans in his hands. “Now, are you canned Alphagetti guys, or Beefaroni?”

“And, totally unrelated,” Karl pipes up from behind them, still standing at the table sorting supplies. “Do either of you fine gentlemen know how to start a fire?”

Grian doesn’t want to say it—knows it’s petty beyond compare—but the words come out of him anyway.

“We do. Don’t we, Scar?”

He looks at Scar pointedly, and there’s only a split second of confusion on his face before recognition sets in. His hand moves absently down to his pocket, where Grian knows the lighter Scar used to set his car alight still resides. There’s a guilty twist on Scar’s features that Grian wishes he could relish, but most of him is anxious about having spoken up at all. Stupid, knee-jerk behaviour. Always acting first and thinking after.

Hesitant, Scar pulls the lighter out of his pocket, turning it over in his hand. He considers something as he looks down at it, expression morphing from upset to resolute.

“You could say we’re both experts at letting things go up in flames,” he answers, meeting Grian’s eyes.

It hurts more than Grian would like to admit.

Resolute, he steps forward and snatches up the lighter, quick, before he moves over to the empty fireplace. He busies himself to keep from spiraling, rejection curling around his heart. He knows he brought this on himself, knows it might’ve been alright if he’d just kept his mouth shut and been nice, but he’s never been good under pressure. And watching Scar interact with the trio... with Quackity—smiling and laughing and happier than he’d ever been while travelling with him… it gets under his skin.

It makes it hard to breathe.

Grian stays kneeling as he starts snapping the smallest pieces of wood into kindling. Try as he might to stay focused, he can’t stop his thoughts from wandering. Behind him, Quackity continues chatting Scar up, and Scar replies to him easily. He’s always been friendly. Sometimes more friendly than Grian can stand. People like Scar, drawn in by his natural, easygoing charm. When they’d first gotten together, in those easy days, rife with insecurity, Grian had felt sure he was only a passing interest—a blip in Scar’s life that would come and go and hardly be missed.

Now, he’s well aware that he’s made himself memorable; unforgettable for all the wrong reasons.

He’s spiraling. He knows he is. Balanced on the very edge of a panic attack.

For every piece of kindling he splits, another thought, another worry, another insecurity—all with Quackity’s bright, eager laughter running in the background. It’s nothing Grian wants to hear—his leading questions, his teasing replies, the affable way he keeps Scar engaged, the conversation carrying on and on and on as Grian's kindling piles up until his fingernails hurt and he can’t take it anymore. Can’t take the talking and the laughing and the flirting—

“Will you knock it off already?” he snaps, throwing his gaze angrily over his shoulder, twisting around only to be met by Quackity’s exaggerated expression of surprise.

Somehow, it only makes Grian angrier.

“For f*ck’s sake, could you be any more annoying about your little crush? He’s clearly not into you, so just give it a rest already.”

The silence barely has time to settle before Quackity is smiling, wolfish, as he leans forward. His chin nestles in the palm of his hand, elbow planted on his knee, eyes narrowed as his canines peek through the edge of his grin. He’s enjoying this, and Grian seethes.

“Jealous much?”

Karl laughs at that, and Sapnap hoots like they’re in grade school, mocking and immature. It infuriates Grian, pushing the bitterness coagulating in his chest up into his throat until he feels like he’ll choke on it. It feels juvenile. It is juvenile.

He doesn’t want any part of it.

“Light your own fire,” he snaps, tossing the lighter with excessive force into the soot-black back of the fireplace and getting to his feet as he storms towards the door.

He’s outside before he can take a proper breath, the door slamming loud behind him. He can hear Quackity laughing through the wall, loud and callous, followed by the cheerful voices of Karl and Sapnap encouraging it. Their voices are muffled by the door and the plaster and the plywood, but clear enough that he can tell that they’re all in on it. A united front.

It’s ridiculous and childish. He’s overreacting and he knows it, but he hates feeling like he’s being ganged up on by obnoxious teenagers.

The sand scuffs under his feet, kicking up dust as he paces out into the middle of the gravel yard and stares angrily up at the darkening sky. He won’t give them the satisfaction of hearing him yell, so he merely compresses his hands into fists until they’re clenched tight enough he can feel the sting of his nail biting into his palms.

He wishes they didn’t have the power to bother him so much. He wishes he didn’t care.

He wishes they would just leave Scar alone.

“Grian?”

He turns to find Scar standing on the top stair outside the door, looking reluctant to step down and approach him. He watches Grian with a mix of weariness and concern, one hand steadying himself against the door frame, the other favouring his hip.

It’s humiliating to be followed, but the knowledge that Scar came after him ignites something in Grian’s chest.

He could’ve stayed inside but he didn’t.

He came out.

For him.

“I don’t know why you let him talk to you like that. All fawning and cute.” The words are out of Grian, sharp and possessive, before he can even think to temper them into something less needy. His tone is edged in anger—the desire for attention and reassurance shot through with how badly he wants to make a scene. The over-reactive boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. It doesn’t matter to him right now. Anything to stake his claim and make his priority clear.

Scar looks at him in the early evening light, not rising to the bait as much as surrendering to it.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

His neutrality is incendiary, burning up inside Grian’s chest until it hurts.

“Because I hate it.”

The words are out of Grian before he can consider them, reckless in a way that has him regretting them the moment they leave his lips. It’s stupid and insecure. So grade school he might as well have been stomping his foot as he said it. Like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

Scar looks at him and says nothing, and Grian feels the pressure of his attention like a weight. It wasn’t the right thing to say and it was the worst way to say it, but he doesn’t want to take it back. The trio don’t know Scar like he does. They haven’t spent years alongside him, through laughter and tears and everything in between. They aren’t friends, they aren’t close.

“They’re kids, Grian,” Scar eventually sighs, something he’s already pointed out before.

It isn’t reassuring. Not when Grian’s insecurity is running rampant, and certainly not when he keeps catching them—Quackity—expressing interest in Scar in a way that makes his stomach tie itself in knots.

But he can’t say that, well aware he has no leg to stand on. If anything, pursuing it further will force a painful conversation about intent and boundaries that he doesn’t want to have.

The silence stretches, heavy, no one around to break it for them. Even the trio are quiet inside, no muffled words or laughter trailing out through the door. Grian doesn’t know what to do, vulnerable and on the edge of rejection. He doesn’t want to hear Scar explain that he has no right to feel the way he does, as true as it may be.

“I’m going back in,” Scar says at last, and it’s detached in a way that throws Grian off. He’s unsure how to respond, so convinced they were about to have a fight that he feels weirdly robbed now that it’s not about to happen. “Are you coming, or do you need a minute?”

Grian stays silent, looking stubbornly towards the horizon, hands crammed into his pockets.

“Alright,” Scar says, exhaling the word with a sigh. “Suit yourself.”

The door closes behind him, and Grian is left outside with the sand and the stars.

He feels the hot pressure of his emotions in his cheeks and the tips of his ears, twisting foolish and short-sighted as he rides out the petulance of his feelings.

It’s not his fault. None of this is his fault. It’s Quackity and his wandering eyes and open appreciation. It’s Karl and Sapnap, who let it happen with fond, besotted smiles. It’s Scar, who laughs politely and doesn’t take it as seriously as he should.

It’s the apocalypse’s fault for putting them in this situation in the first place.

He tries to curb his emotions with those empty reassurances, repeating them over and over like a mantra in his head.

It takes him some time to settle back down. Once the initial crest of his jealousy and anger passes, he’s left feeling increasingly ridiculous—a grown man throwing a fit that he now has to walk back inside and acknowledge. He presses the heels of his palms against his eyelids with a groan. Already, he can imagine the snide grin mirrored across three smug faces.

When Grian finally pushes his embarrassment far enough away to step back into the house, he finds a domestic scene settled around the fire. Karl, Sapnap, and Quackity are sitting together on one of the pallet benches, their arms wrapped around one another, legs overlapped, and crisscrossed in a comfortable looking tangle. Across from them, Scar has one of his legs propped up on a makeshift footstool, with the air that he’s been taken care of.

“Oh good,” Scar says as Grian deadbolts the front door behind him, cheerful in the way he gets when he’s putting on a performance for people. “We got our soap opera dramatics out of the way just in time for dinner.”

Grian can see Sapnap whisper something to Quackity while looking at him, and it stings in a way that reminds him of secondary school, but rather than pushing back, he simply sits on the edge of the seat that’s been left for him, taking pains to leave everyone in the room at ample distance.

He leans in only far enough forward to see what’s been jammed into the coals of the fire, finding a skillet and a saucepan sitting on the embers. One holds canned spaghetti and sauce, while the other has a slow bubbling white paste that Grian recognizes as grits. It’s not a great looking dinner, but it’s the best they have, and he’s far from turning his nose up at a hot meal.

“Looks good,” he says, affecting a tone that sounds polite, a half-hearted attempt to bridge the gap formed after his outburst.

They share the meal in relative civility, sharing cutlery and eating directly out of the pans. After a time the conversation returns, tentative at first, and then relaxing as the truce extends. Karl has no problems speaking whatever thought is on his mind and Scar, as always, is a natural conversationalist. Quackity keeps up easily with his quick wit and sense of humour, and once he gets going he continually elbows Sapnap, egging him into eventually joining in. Their banter is easy and natural, and their brightness and laughter recover almost as if it had never gone away.

If any of them notice that Grian is barely participating, they don’t mention it.

Eventually they finish eating and the conversation tapers off naturally. Quackity starts yawning, and despite his day spent sleeping, Scar echoes each and every one. It prompts Karl to use the rim of the skillet to pull the logs in the fire apart, distributing the flames so that it will burn itself out faster.

“So who’s on first watch?” Quackity asks at last, and Grian knows the expectation will be on him to volunteer. Some penance for his little production.

“I’ll take it.”

Surprising him, it’s Sapnap who speaks up, stretching his arms above his head as he rises to his feet. He pops the joints in his wrists and shoulders before he shakes them out, shifting his weight from foot to foot and looking around the group. “I’m a late-night guy, so I don’t think I’d be able to sleep yet anyhow.”

“That’s mighty nice of you. Real nice, in fact,” Scar says, smiling in earnest. Grian can see him schooling his expression, bracing as he prepares to get to his feet. He knows Scar is hoping his legs will take mercy on him and not buckle under the sudden shift in pressure, he’s said as much during previous flare-ups. “I know I slept like a log today, but if I can be honest, I’m still beat. You know, all those health experts were right when they said it—all this nice outdoor air really does a number on you. Number two killer, after smoking.”

It’s a lie, and a pointless one, talking just for the sake of it, to hide any pain he might be feeling.

Grian frowns to himself, wondering what they’ll do in the morning if Scar isn’t feeling any better. His anxiety immediately starts to creep up when his spiral is interrupted by Scar gallantly holding his hand out to him.

“Ready to call it a night?”

The chivalry catches on something soft in Grian’s chest, even though knows Scar’s only doing it as a disguise for what he really needs. All the same, he reaches out automatically, letting Scar use his hand not to hold, but as the leverage he needs to help get himself back on his feet.

“G’night fellas,” Karl says with a sleep-soft smile, looking tired himself as he leans into Quackity’s side.

Before they turn away, Grian makes eye contact with Quackity, who’s remained quiet as they start to say their goodnights. There’s no way he can make himself apologise when he still feels the sting of his insecurity, but he doesn’t want to let things fester between them, knowing he needs to be the bigger man.

He takes a breath and does his best. “Sleep well, Big Q. Sweet dreams.”

The corners of Quackity’s mouth quirk, his expression carefully schooled but still a little wry. “Yeah. Same to you.”

Grian figures that’s as good as it’s going to get for now.

It’s a short walk down the hall, the door closing quiet behind them as they feel their way into bed. They move in silence, maneuvering in the dark until Scar is laying on his side and Grian is spooned into the bend of his legs and the curve of his chest. They don’t talk, no hushed conversation about the day, no low words about Grian’s behaviour, and no questions about Scar’s pain. The silence stretches, and in its inescapable presence, Grian does the only thing he can think to do.

He eases himself back by centimetres, feigning discomfort as he tries to push for some physical reassurance.

“Small mattress,” he mumbles as an excuse, elbow bent to serve as a pillow under his head.

A moment of stillness passes, Grian holding his breath, uncertain. Then, by way of answer, Scar shifts forward, his arm looping around Grian’s waist, pulling him back so their bodies fit snug together. The contact is muffled through layers of clothing, neither of them having bothered to get undressed, but they’re still close enough that it makes Grian’s heart race.

Hopeful—and needy despite himself—Grian lets his spine uncurl, flattening his shoulders out flush to Scar’s chest as he presses his hips back into Scar’s.

“I had fun this morning,” he whispers, thinking back to how well the day has started. The softness, the slow indulgence—it felt so much like they used to be.

He misses it more than ever.

Behind him, Scar catches himself on a sigh, voice low in the dark as he answers, “And you were a lot all night.”

A part of Grian can’t help but fall back into how things used to be, playful as long as he’s safe and warm in Scar’s arms. He wears a teasing grin as he nudges himself back against Scar.

“Can you blame me?”

When only silence meets him as a response, Scar unyielding behind him, Grian deflates a little. It takes a few moments before he tries another approach, sighing, intentionally dramatic as he runs his fingertips over Scar’s knuckles. He lifts them, pressing his lips against them, just barely short of a kiss, prompting with a whisper, “Scar…?”

He doesn’t hear the acknowledging hum, but he feels its implication rumbled through Scar’s chest pressed against his spine. Scar’s forearm flexes as his arm shifts around him with purpose. His palm presses flat to Grian’s abdomen, body moving behind him as he rolls his hips forward with a clear, obvious intent.

The burst of adrenaline that floods Grian’s system is like a firecracker lit in every one of his arteries. Glad for the darkness to hide his smile, Grian arches his body fluidly to move with Scar. A selfish, haughty part of him feels vindicated—the trio can try all they like, but Scar is still his. He always has been. And as Scar pushes forward again, Grian lets himself moan aloud, clear and intentional in the poorly contained privacy of their room.

Leisurely, Scar’s hand shifts, tugging up the layers of Grian’s sweatshirt to expose a sliver of his stomach. He strokes his thumb gently along the soft vulnerability of his belly, slow and soothing. It sends a shock through Grian, a tenderness he wasn’t expecting. He feels his body start to respond as Scar grinds against him again, his heat unmistakable.

He’s giddy, ready to take whatever Scar gives him, craving the connection, his body on fire.

He thinks to the trio outside, close enough that they definitely can hear them. He doesn’t care. Let them listen in and understand that even if he and Scar aren’t together anymore, it’s still only Grian who shares his bed, only Grian held tight his arms, only Grian who he follows out into the darkness. Not them. Not anyone else.

“Think you’ve proved your point?” Scar mumbles into the back of his neck. “Happy now?”

The words catch him off guard. Blindsided.

Scar’s tone is cold, and the abrupt stillness that falls between them is colder still. Grian’s not prepared for the way Scar removes his hand, smoothing his shirt layers back down before all at once his contact is gone. Suddenly, Scar is rolling over to lay on his back, letting his breath out in a long, heavy sigh.

“Goodnight, Grian.”

It’s final, no room for negotiation.

Grian doesn’t know what to do. Guilt crawls up inside him, feeling like somehow Scar heard his thoughts and was disgusted by the notion. He’s humiliated, body hot with embarrassment. They settle into silence, Grian laying stiff and uncomfortable at Scar’s side.

In time, Scar’s breathing slows and evens out. He falls asleep, and beside him Grian lays wide awake, staring up at the ceiling in the dark, not knowing what Scar wants, and not knowing what he needs either.

Chapter 14: Chapter 14

Chapter Text

“You’re being so f*cking selfish.”

The words are shouted, angry, Sapnap’s expression sour with frustration. He glares at Grian across the makeshift living room, and Grian looks back at him with forced neutrality.

It’s mid-morning, and sunlight is streaming in through the gaps in the barricaded window. Sapnap is standing by the front door, shoulders squared, arms folded tight across his chest while Karl and Quackity sit together on one of the pallet seats, Karl eating a cold pop tart, the foil crinkling in his hand as he takes a cautious bite in the uneasy silence.

“Yesterday. Yesterday we said that we’d be moving on. And then we stayed another night ‘cause you threw a f*cking tantrum, and now you’re saying we’re going to be staying a couple more?”

Sapnap throws his arms out wide before he lets them fall to his sides, fingers curled into loose fists.

“You’re just declaring this sh*t like you’re the one who gets to call the shots, and it’s pissing me off.”

“Sap c’mon,” Quackity cautions from the sideline, clearly able to hear the anger mounting in his boyfriend’s tone. The expression on his face is empathetic, however, mouth twisted in disapproval as he eyes Grian from where he sits. “Let’s be chill.”

“No, this is bullsh*t!” Sapnap insists, looking towards Karl for support before he quickly pivots his attention back to Grian. “You’re not the boss here,” he adds, forceful, and it rankles Grian just as much as it intimidates him. For all that Sapnap is on the short side, barely a head taller than him, he’s still a force to be reckoned with when he gets fired up.

“He never said he was,” Karl remarks blandly, keeping his tone aloof and neutral as he takes another bite of his breakfast. “All the same, it is a pretty strong suggestion you’ve made, Grian.”

Despite presenting himself as almost frustratingly uninvested in the scene Sapnap is causing, Karl has his attention fully on Grian, sleepy eyes belaying an intent focus. Grian can feel himself being slowly pressed into a corner, sinking back one metaphorical step at a time. His statement is being picked apart, the declaration that they’d be staying in the house another few days met with an immediate resistance that he’d somewhat anticipated, but hadn’t expected to raise quite so much contention.

It’s not like he has a choice, however.

Scar’s symptoms had worsened overnight. To the point where his joints are so badly inflamed that he hadn’t been able to sit up or roll over without wincing through pained breaths when Grian had woken him up.

It had Grian’s hands twitching, itching to pass him his medications, hating that he had nothing to offer him. Not for the first time, he’d felt sick and guilty about the situation surrounding their departure from Scar’s apartment. Maybe, if things had been different, Scar would’ve had time to properly pack.

Or maybe he would’ve been one of the first to die.

At this point, Grian doesn’t know which would’ve been kinder.

It’s that same sense of responsibility and guilt that had Grian volunteering to go speak to the trio on Scar’s behalf. He’d assuaged Scar’s concerns, assuring him that he’d handle it, and then broke the decision to the boys face-to-face. A declaration—no room for debate, no room to argue.

“I’m not making a suggestion,” Grian says flatly, watching as Karl balls up the foil wrapping from his breakfast before he tosses it into the ashy fireplace. “We’re going to stay another day or two. It doesn’t make sense to move yet.”

“It doesn’t make sense to stay here!” Sapnap exclaims, pressing one hand to his chest, the other spreading wide as he looks angrily at Grian and then pivots towards his two partners. “We’d just be sitting here wasting rations day by day until desperation would drive us out. I’m telling you guys, he’s up to something. No f*cking way he really thinks sitting here indefinitely is the right call.”

Grian scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Right, my insidious plan to keep us in a safe, googlie-free location, with beds to sleep in and a roof over our heads. How dastardly.”

Despite his dismissal, it’s clear Sapnap’s tirade has gotten to his companions, both of them looking torn with indecision over the situation. It sets Grian on edge, unsure how much he can keep from disclosing without making things worse.

The last thing he wants to do is reveal that Scar is their weakest link. If nothing else than for the sake of Scar’s dignity.

He owes him that much, at least.

“Is there something here?” Karl asks, addressing Grian in a way that seems genuinely curious. “Are you looking? Is that it?”

“Karl, that’s not it, c’mon. There’s nothing in this sh*thole, we’ve explored enough to know that much,” Quackity dismisses, shaking his head as he rejects the question.

For a moment Grian nearly convinces himself that Quackity is on his side. That hope is short-lived however, his stomach dropping as Quackity looks at him and asks, blunt, “Who are you waiting for?”

The question catches Grian off guard.

Everything about it reeks of distrust and paranoia. How on earth would he and Scar communicate with anyone outside the group without attracting attention? And why the hell would they do it in the first place? The sheer absurdity of it sparks a deeply satisfied, bitter validation in Grian’s chest—the proof he needed to confirm he isn't the only one with apprehensions lurking in the back of his head.

“Who do you think?” Grian challenges without answering the question.

“It just seems like you were really pushing for us to get us here as fast as possible, and now you’re in no hurry to move on,” Quackity deflects in a perfectly level tone, acting like he has the higher moral ground. “Put yourself in our shoes—how do you think that comes off?”

“I’m in an organ harvesting cult that’s in league with the zombies,” Grian scoffs, rolling his eyes at the absurdity of it all. “Is that what you want to hear?”

“You’re the one saying it,” Quackity pressures, relentless. “I just asked a question. You started making all these wild leaps.”

Grian doesn’t have time for this, resenting how he’s been pushed so effortlessly onto his back foot by Quackity’s clever questioning. The validation of the trio’s mistrust doesn’t benefit him, and he still doesn’t want to out Scar to people who could not only be a threat, but have just shown that they don't see them as equals.

“Are we in court?” Grian snaps. “Am I on trial? There’s no hidden meeting with some ragtag party of bandits waiting in the wings. We’re just tired. It’s not a secret. And frankly, I’m sick of you three acting like we’re holding you back. I’ve said it before, but clearly it bears repeating—you can leave without us. Go ahead. No one’s going to stop you.”

It’s a bold ultimatum, one that Grian’s sure Scar wouldn’t appreciate, seeing as he's made it abundantly clear they benefit from the strength in numbers.

Quackity gives Karl a look, loaded. He then makes a gesture that communicates something Karl clearly understands, but Grian can’t decipher. It feels damning.

It feels like he’s been caught.

It’s a feeling he’s been experiencing way too often.

“I think we should talk to Scar,” Karl says at last, gentle but firm in a way that’s clear he wants to put an end to this argument.

“Scar’s going to agree with me,” Grian mutters anyway.

“Then checking in with him shouldn’t be a problem.”

The words sting. Grian feels their persuasion pressing down on him like a knee on his throat. It’s unfair—like the social rules he used to know and understand no longer apply, and he can’t yet parse the new ones.

He hates that Karl and Quackity seem to have adapted so quickly.

“We’re not hiding anything,” he insists, and it sounds guiltier than if he had simply stayed silent.

“I’m sure you’re not,” Karl agrees, and it’s painfully clear that he doesn’t believe him.

Sapnap snorts in disbelief, shaking his head and turning away from the group. “I’m getting our things ready,” he tells Karl, his mind clearly made up as he begins to pack up their belongings, gathering the things they’ve strewn across the floor. “We can head out when you’re done with this bullsh*t.”

Karl stands up, reaching out to rest a hand on his shoulder before he kisses his cheek, a gesture Sapnap doesn’t return but leans easily into, his forehead momentarily pressing against Karl’s. It’s a soft moment that Grian isn’t sure he’s supposed to see, and he darts his gaze away before they can turn their eyes on him.

Envy settles atop his chest. He wishes he could share a moment like that with Scar; something tender and gentle, just for them. Hell, he wishes he could just have a chance to speak to him ahead of Karl right now. Just long enough to get ahead of the half-truth he needs Scar to pick up and run with so their cover-up doesn’t fall apart in front of him.

Instead, all he can do is stay a step ahead of Karl, being the first to open the bedroom door. He speaks loudly into the space when it’s only an inch ajar, announcing, “We’ve got a visitor, Scar.”

Luckily, Scar is sitting up when Karl enters, looking less visibly pained than he did when Grian left him.

“Morning, gentlemen,” he says, cheerful to the point of strain. “Making quite a din out there! Hard for a man to get his beauty sleep.” He pauses, smiling as he teases, “You barging in here to get me to settle where we go for breakfast?”

Karl looks a little surprised, Scar’s affable greeting catching him off guard following his tense exchange with Grian.

“I’ve always been a Denny’s guy, myself,” Scar continues, undaunted. “But most of the folks I know are pretty passionate about IHOP. Grian’s a Waffle House guy though. Aren’t ya, Grian?”

“Scar,” Karl says at last, speaking carefully, with the tone of a professional mediator. “Can I talk with you about something?”

Scar’s eyebrows raise up but he speaks with an easy smile, nodding as he motions Karl into the room. “Of course, of course. Come right on in.”

The moment sticks, silence permeating the air. Karl looks between Scar and Grian, his gaze lingering and his intention clear.

“In private,” he adds, and it rankles Grian like a scab rubbed wrong.

“In private, of course,” Scar echoes, magnanimous.

Scar’s clever eyes meet Grian’s, communicating volumes in a glance. Grian can read his confidence and he wants to believe in him, wants to place his trust in Scar fully and walk away without concern. Scar’s never had a problem with words, never struggled to get his point across—to convince people that he’s speaking rationally and with the best possible motive. If anyone can hold his own in a conversation, it’s him.

Grian still struggles to let go, though. Afraid that leaving him alone even just for a second will cause him to slip and fall without Grian there to catch him.

“We’ll call you back in a minute,” Scar asserts, and the gentleness of it slices into something resistant in Grian. The strength of his reaction surprising even himself, his spine straightening as he plants his feet firmly in place.

“We’re not doing this behind-doors bullsh*t, Scar,” Grian declares, firm, with a resolution that clearly catches Karl off guard. “Anything Karl can say in front of you, he can say in front of me. There’s nothing to hide.”

Karl’s expression is inscrutable, betrayed only by the way he bites his lower lip for a moment. There’s obvious consideration on his face, weighing the pros and cons of outing what Grian’s already said in front of him on the off-chance that he and Scar aren’t on the same page. Whatever conclusion he comes to, he does so by exhaling heavily, shaking his hands out before he drags his focus back to Scar.

“We need to talk about where we go from here as a cohort,” he says, speaking frankly, without his usual lighthearted manner of speech. His words are focused in a way Grian hasn’t heard from him before, eyes unusually sharp. “Because the problem is: from the way I see it—we all had a plan we agreed on. It was a good plan, and we liked the plan. But now I’m hearing from Grian that the plan’s changed. And, listen, I’m not trying to make a scene, but I don’t remember us talking about changing the plan. So you can see why I’m keen to talk this out before we jump to any wild conclusions about secrets and hidden agendas.”

He pauses, sighing as he pushes a hand back through his hair, sweeping loose curls out of his eyes. “Just… walk a mile in my shoes here, Scar. You can see why this is making an issue for me and my boys, right?”

To his credit, Scar nods, patient to a fault despite how painfully Karl has trod directly onto the crux of the matter. His smile is self-effacing and relaxed, charming in a way that begs to be trusted and understood.

Grian keeps his arms crossed and mouth shut.

“I understand your frustration, believe me,” Scar sympathizes, and nothing about his words sound anything less than genuine. “It was by no means our intention to upset you or your lovely boys, and I’m sure Grian didn’t intend to go out of his way to stomp all over you on my behalf.”

Grian would snap something in his own defense, but he’s immediately distracted by the way Scar pats the edge of the mattress, magnanimously motioning for Karl to come over.

Grian’s eyes go wide, mouth dry. Well aware of what Scar’s doing. What he’s about to admit.

“Take a seat, Karl.”

Without questioning him, Karl does as requested. He sits down on the bed, landing heavy on the squeaking springs, crossing his legs and settling his hands on his knees. Easy and comfortable.

“Alright,” Scar approves, nodding. “Now stand up. Can you do that?”

Karl hesitates, clearly confused by the question, co*cking his head to the side.

Ultimately, he shrugs. “Well, yeah.”

He rocks forward smoothly, hands moving to push himself up, legs unbending as he gets to his feet without a smidgen of effort.

Scar smiles, earnest as he looks up at Karl. “Right now, I can’t.”

Karl stands still for a moment, body stiff, face moving through several complicated expressions. By the doorway, Grian bites the inside of his cheek. His hands are pressed tight into fists, hating himself, hating the situation, and hating how Scar has to reveal his vulnerabilities like this. He can see Karl working through the revelation bit by bit and it sits sour in his stomach.

“You were walking fine yesterday,” Karl says at last. Quiet, curious.

“It’s like that,” Scar explains. “I get good days and bad. Yesterday wasn’t great, but—”

“The bike…” Karl works out, reaching the conclusion faster than Scar has a chance to speak it. He lifts his hand, fingers pushing back through his hair again before he half-turns, sitting down on the edge of the mattress once more. “The f*cking bike. You already—when you met us—”

Scar nods. There’s a patience to him that Grian has never been able to understand. The ability to calmly explain himself; to not lash out in frustration or irritation when faced with the abled assumptions of everyone around him. Grian knows for a fact that he’d never be able to conduct himself in the same way, no matter how hard he tried.

“sh*t,” Karl breathes at length, tilting his head forward, the heels of his palms pressing against his eyelids. “That explains Grian, then.”

He drops his hands into his lap, and despite who the apology is about, Grian might as well not even be there as Karl turns towards Scar and says, sincere, “I’m sorry, man. He was trying to protect your privacy and—sh*t, we really assumed the worst, there.”

Scar laughs half heartedly, shrugging with the easy nonchalance that’s born from years of experience.

“That doesn’t really sound like Grian,” he excuses, eyes meeting Grian’s briefly, their corners creased with a smile that looks forced. “I don’t think he cares either way.”

“Pff, are you kidding? He cares a lot, dude.” Karl’s reply is quick, sounding more like himself now that there’s an explanation that assuages his doubts. He looks back towards Grian, smiling warm and encouraging, his gaze expectant as he insists, “Tell him how crazy you got trying to cover for him.”

Grian can feel Scar watching him intently, face kept carefully neutral. It makes him feel like he’s been caught, pinned in a position he can’t stomach or stand. It reminds him of moments back during their time together as a couple—loud exclamations from friends and colleagues, encouraging a kiss, a hug, a hand-hold. Demanding physical affection from Grian as if he had something to prove—not to Scar, but to them. He’d hated it then, when he and Scar had meant something to each other. He hates it even more now, when what they have is now only a ghost of what it was.

“It doesn’t matter,” he dismisses, cutting his words with impatience. “You get it now at least, right? He can’t get up, we can’t make him move.”

“Yeah man, I get it,” Karl soothes, like everything’s easy now. Drama resolved without incident. A part of Grian recoils at it—distressed that all it took was the truth to defuse their situation. It’s an uncomfortable reminder of how his lying got him to where he is today, and how much easier honesty can be.

Unaware of his spiraling thoughts, Karl gets back up from the mattress, smoothing down the creases in his pants. “Don’t worry, I’ll talk to Sap and Q. They’ll understand when I tell them it’s physically impossible.”

“You really think that?” Grian mutters, thick with sarcasm and unable to bite his tongue.

Karl pauses, considering. There’s determination in the way he squares his shoulders. His tone serious, words pointed as he clarifies, “We’re not monsters.”

Something about it rankles Grian, jangling like an alarm inside his head. It tugs at that suspicious part of him that he can’t let go, paranoia creeping up on him. The hairs rise on the back of his neck, his heart setting an anxious pace that makes him want to run.

Instead, he steps out from in front of the door, gesturing towards it impatiently. “Go defuse your bomb, then.”

The air is thick between them. Then, miraculously, Karl bends.

“They’re a lot, but they mean well,” he admits, chuckling gently. “We had a rough start when all hell broke loose, and I know that means they can come across pretty strong now. Especially Sapnap. You’ll get used to them though, I promise.”

Grian doesn’t respond. He has nothing to say in return, wanting to keep the line clear between them segmented and sectioned. No tenderness bridging between them. No attachments.

It isn’t worth the risk of an inevitable betrayal.

Seeing that Grian isn’t interested in conversation, Karl simply shrugs and walks past him, a hand patting his shoulder—just once—before he leaves him alone with Scar.

The moment he’s gone the room falls silent. Scar’s fixed grins falters at last, and he lets out a long, slow breath.

“Grian—” he starts, weary, as though he’s preparing for a well-rehearsed but exhausted apology.

Grian cuts Scar off. “How many supplies do you think we have?”

It’s silly, he knows. Avoiding talking about the important things this far into the end of the world. Despite having been so desperate to talk to Scar alone, now he repels it like something vile, afraid of how much a little honesty might open a floodgate he won’t know how to shut.

Instead, he distracts Scar by dragging him into his pondering—imagining a hypothetical where he can heave Scar up on his feet and carry him far away from these strangers who smile too wide and speak too earnestly and share too enthusiastically.

“Supplies…?” Scar repeats, breaking his initial surprised silence with careful words, like cautious footsteps on ice too thin to support a person’s weight. “For all five of us?”

Grian shakes his head, sharp violence in the motion. “Just two.”

It’s meant to be a thought experiment—a distraction—more for Grian’s sake than Scar’s. Obviously Grian knows there’s no way they could leave right now, not with the amount of pain Scar is in. It’s a game, like the would-you-rathers they played earlier during their trek. However, something passes across Scar’s face that indicates he’s not on the same page; maybe not even on the same chapter. It’s an emotion Grian doesn’t know how to read—deep-rooted, vulnerable, and raw.

“The water’s gonna run out quick, but the food will last, if you ration it.” Scar answers, voice dull and lifeless.

“We’ll find water easy,” Grian reassures, trying to get Scar to warm back up to the idea. “We’re not that far from civilization.”

There’s something wretched and resigned written across Scar’s features. It’s a warning sign Grian doesn’t catch, too caught up in his own spiteful, self-righteous machinations. He’s daydreaming, planning out a future that will never come to fruition. No more polite sidelining to a trio he doesn’t like or trust. Just him and Scar. No more extras to worry about. No one he’ll need to protect Scar and his overly trusting nature from.

It’s the only kind of escapism that Grian can allow himself in a hellscape like this.

“Which of them are you leaving with, then?”

The question strikes Grian like an open-palm slap across the face.

It hits hard and unexpected, tearing into a part of him he hadn’t even known was vulnerably exposed.

Wide eyes meet Scar’s and find a hooded expression looking back at him, his face schooled into careful nonchalance. With a pang, Grian wonders if his months of sneaking around and neglect taught Scar to look like that.

“What are you saying?” he hears himself ask, like he’s far removed from his own body, unmoored and untethered, yanked out of his own skin by the implication that Scar would assume a lack of loyalty from him. “Scar…”

Scar’s eyes slant away, fists curled loose in his lap, humiliation burning on his cheeks as he does his best to breathe through the emotions he’s struggling with.

“I didn’t really see any of them as your type, but I guess you got closer to them than I thought,” he says, quiet. “It wouldn’t be the first time I didn’t notice something like that,” he adds, sounding more disappointed in himself than anyone else.

The words are a simple acceptance of the reality of the situation as Scar sees it, but they still cut into Grian, deep and accusing. It takes him a moment to collect himself, forced to fully reckon with the depth of the distrust he’s laid into Scar. The rot he’s infested into their foundation, larger and far more catastrophic than he could have ever imagined when he first slipped into the warmth of a stranger’s bed.

“Is that really what you think of me?” he whispers, words just a breath above silent.

Scar merely shrugs a heavy shoulder.

“To be honest… nowadays, I feel like I barely know you.”

It’s a painful realisation, to recognize that Scar no longer feels for him like he used to. The hurt is made even more potent by how much he’d been trying to protect Scar only minutes before. He knows he has no one to blame for it but himself, he knows that. But that doesn’t stop it from hurting all the same.

His throat feels tight with emotion, tongue swollen in his mouth, but he can’t let it linger like this. He can’t.

“I’m not gonna leave you,” He says—promises, to the best of his ability. “I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t do that, Scar.”

Silence stretches between them, uncomfortable and incriminating.

“Okay,” Scar replies at last, lackluster.

There’s so much more Grian wants to say. A confession, an admittance, even something mean and spiteful. However, somehow, he feels like no matter what he says now, it won’t make a difference. Scar’s made up his mind. Maybe fairly, maybe not.

That’s all there is to it.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he repeats, but his reassurance falls flat when he can’t muster up more than a timid voice to say it with.

This time, Scar says nothing at all.

Together, they descend into silence.

The rest of the morning and much of the afternoon pass, slow and uneventful. With the decision made to stay for at least another day, the tension between the party ebbs.

Instead, the focus shifts to making a more palatable temporary home for the five of them.

Karl spearheads the initiative, enthusiastic and outspoken about his vision for their space. He and Sapnap drift in and out of the house, pulling out the old counters and mildewed shelves from the kitchen and bringing in the few items of interest that they found in the surrounding homes. There’s no power, so together they clean out the fireplace and scavenge enough scrap wood to stock it for the evening. At one point, Karl carries in a large framed painting of two horses standing in a field that he proudly puts up on the hearth. He and Sapnap laugh about it, daydreaming about another life where they meet as horse ranchers in the midwest.

Quackity is gone the longest. Grian had watched as he smooth-talked Scar into borrowing his rifle—fond eyes belaying a sharp, calculating smile. Scar had handed over his weapon with ease and Grian had had to bite his tongue from saying something about trust and betrayal that he knew Scar wouldn’t appreciate, especially coming from him. Instead, he’d stood back and watched Quackity leave with the gun under his arm, and Sapnap’s walkie clipped to his belt.

Quackity had checked in regularly over the radio until he’d finally returned late in the afternoon, with his shadow stretching out long behind him. Instead of gear or supplies, Quackity comes back carrying a plastic egg crate full of paperback novels and old magazines. These, he proudly dumps onto their pallet benches, which have been dressed with threadbare throw pillows and old curtain fabric that Sapnap and Karl found in the neighbouring homes while he was gone.

The set up looks nice. Cosy. The trio seem proud of it—they laugh and talk constantly, their enthusiasm and mirth filling the space.

Grian doesn’t contribute to it at all, instead alternating between sitting with Scar in moody silence, and pacing the hallway outside their bedroom door. He feels awkward, not so much unwelcome as he is a non-integral part to the dynamic the trio have going. Karl invites him into their conversation, but more often than not Grian simply can’t keep up with their rapid-fire banter and loud, laughing voices. He feels like he’s back in his first years of university—too nervous to participate, and too worried about missing something important to completely check out.

Meanwhile, Scar sleeps off and on. It’s not unusual for him to pass the time napping while he waits for the ache in his legs to subside. It had happened often at the start of their relationship—mostly on bad days, when Scar had forgotten to fill his prescriptions.

It had gotten better once Grian had taken up getting them filled for him, though; more inclined at keeping track of minutiae like that.

Not that it matters now, when there’s not even a bottle of ibuprofen to their name.

If they were back at Scar’s apartment there were medications he could be taking. He would’ve been able to use his cane… his chair…

Grian tries not to dwell on it, but he feels powerless not being able to help him.

The afternoon drags on and the sun sets. Sapnap starts a fire, and they discuss rations for the night, eventually agreeing to let Quackity use a bit of their water to make dough out of flour they brought in large ziplock bags. He works industriously, using their skillet to cook unseasoned flatbreads—too thick to be proper tortillas—that they scoop canned chilli onto. Quackity narrates while he cooks, speaking out like he’s entertaining a studio audience. Karl and Sapnap play along, cheering him on and making salacious comments that have Quackity laughing through his blush and batting them away with fond affection.

It twists something jealous in Grian’s guts, but try as he might he can’t look away, wishing that he had the benefit of youth to keep him that hopeful in the face of everything they’re up against.

Once the food is prepared, Scar manages to join them in the main room. With Grian and Sapnap’s help, and Scar’s arms draped across both their shoulders, he lets the two of them help him across the floor before they carefully sit him down. Karl fusses over making his seat comfortable, arranging their blankets around him for support.

It’s clear that the trio are trying their best to make up for the earlier assumptions they’d made and the hostilities that had arisen from it. They’re overcompensating to the point of treating Scar like something fragile, which sets Grian on edge. It’s a tendency he’s used to seeing from well-meaning strangers that Grian knows Scar doesn’t appreciate, but in this case Scar swallows it down with civility.

There is a moment when Scar catches Grian's attention over the trio’s heads, however. Raising his eyebrows at their antics, leaving Grian to try not to read too much into the shared commiseration, despite the way it warms him inside out.

Unfortunately, the heady feeling of sharing a secret look doesn’t last long because Quackity seems determined to win Scar over. He’s been talkative and friendly towards him from the start, but now he’s laughing loud at every little thing that Scar says and hanging off his every word.

It shouldn’t make Grian insecure, but it does. Maybe that's why Quackity does it, prodding at Grian's childish outburst from the day before. It doesn't matter why when Grian can't stop himself from feeling the way he does, even when he knows he no longer has any right to. The group sits together on their makeshift seats around the fireplace, eating dinner and chatting, and Grian feels a spike of jealousy that seizes his chest every time Quackity looks over at Scar, every time he offers him another serving, every time he smiles at him.

It makes Grian feel petty and territorial.

It makes him feel alone.

Once they finish eating, they all settle back together to watch the fire burn. There’s a comfort that runs between the trio, who sit with their arms and legs overlapped on top of each other, leaning shoulder to shoulder to shoulder in a pile. Sapnap had found twist ties in one of the mildewed drawers earlier that day, and Karl had inexpertly turned them into rings—engagement rings, he’d declared proudly. There’s one on each of their ring fingers now, child-like but profound. Sapnap keeps touching Karl’s, over and over, and Karl smiles at him softly each time.

Grian wants to think it’s stupid, wants to roll his eyes at the whole performance, but some part of him knows how much it stems from his own longing. It’s not that he and Scar were ever on the road to marriage—not when Grian had waved away every conversation Scar had tried to start about commitment—but it tugs at a feeling he can’t smother. His desperate desire to have even a fraction of the open, unabashed affection that the trio share so easily between one another.

He’s about to open his mouth and say something he’ll regret when Quackity abruptly hops to his feet, crossing the room and gathering up the pile of reading material he’d scavenged earlier that day.

He sits back down, this time next to Scar, offering the collection to him like a kid at show and tell, enthusiastic with his prize. The novels aren’t good—detective mysteries, some suspense thrillers, and a few syrupy romance novels. Plus, the magazines are several years old, some of them torn and crumpled, but the majority intact.

The magazines turn out to all be aimed at women, boasting high fashion, makeup, and modelling. Grian braces himself, preparing for the inevitable dismissive comment from at least one of the trio, but all he’s met with is unabashed enthusiasm from Karl, who pulls half the stack into his lap, easily folding back the glossy cover as he begins flipping through the pages.

“I think, out of everything, I’m going to miss dressing up nice most of all,” Karl remarks wistfully as he looks through spreads of runway highlights from fashion weeks long past. He hums as he flips pages, lingering on sheer, diaphanous evening gowns, cropped bolero jackets, and high-waisted flared corduroys.

“Have you thought about that sh*t yet?” Quackity asks, elbowing Scar, conspiratorial in his question. “What you’re gonna miss most?”

It’s a macabre question, and Scar raises his eyebrows at it. Yet again, he glances in Grian’s direction, as if to confirm they’re both on the same dreary page.

“I don’t know if we’ve thought that far ahead,” he admits after a pause, choosing his words carefully. There’s a deep well of sadness they’re all carefully skirting, one Grian doesn’t think the other three are quite aware of yet. For the first time since their meeting he becomes all too aware of their youth. The naivety of their questions. ‘Kids,’ Scar had called them.

“I’m gonna miss bagel bites,” Sapnap bemoans, arms crossed behind his head. He’s reclining, resting across Karl’s lap as Karl continues to leaf through the magazines, one hand absently combing through Sapnap’s tangled hair. “Hot pockets, pizza rolls… the whole frozen pizza spectrum, really.”

“The internet,” Karl offers, looking up, the expression in his eyes faraway and dreamy. “Spotify. Livestreams. 10 hour long YouTube playlists of people unboxing expensive designer advent calendars…”

“Dude, the internet’s not gonna go anywhere,” Sapnap insists, tilting his head back to look up at Karl.

“Are you crazy? Of course it will,” Quackity snickers, rolling his eyes in a fond way.

“No way,” Sapnap persists, dogged. “Nobody’s gonna flip the big ‘kill the internet’ switch right before they turn, dumbass. It’ll just keep… broadcasting, or whatever.”

“I think people need to be around to keep it running,” Scar muses, mildly matter-of-fact. “It’s not self… imposed…? Self-inferred…? Self—what’s the word, Grian?”

“Self-sustaining,” Grian supplies easily, innately knowing Scar’s intention. “And he’s right. If it’s not down already, it will be soon.”

“No way, that’s nuts,” Sapnap mourns, regret kicking in instantly. “sh*t. How are we gonna—? Oh my god… f*ck, we’re never gonna see p*rn again.”

“That’s my boy,” Karl chuckles, affectionate, dipping his head down as he smooths Sapnap’s hair back and kisses his forehead. “One track mind.”

“I’m serious,” Sapnap groans. “If I’d known—”

“You would’ve what? Jerked off more?” Quackity teases, cackling. “C’mon babe, don’t be like that in front of our new friends. They still have some respect for you.”

“This is f*cking ludicrous,” Sapnap grumbles, huffing despite the small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Like burning the Library of Alexandria.”

Karl shakes his head, overly indulgent in his boyfriend’s antics. He continues stroking Sapnap’s hair as he finishes one magazine and then reaches for the next, far more engrossed than Grian would’ve expected from him.

“I’m gonna miss nice spa days,” Karl adds after several minutes of silence have passed. “A long soak in the tub. Lo-fi beats. Doing my nails.” He turns his hands over, inspecting his fingertips, folding them flat against his palms. His nail polish, alternating bright blue and orange, is chipped—some of the paint flaked off completely.

Something about it stirs an emotion in Grian; a longing to sympathise without wanting to expose the vulnerability that it would force him into. He looks away without saying a word, instead getting to his feet so he can stoke the fire.

“Did you always paint them?” The sound of Scar’s voice, deep and ponderous, startles Grian.

There’s genuine curiosity in his question, and though Grian keeps his eyes resolutely on the fire, he can picture Scar leaning forward in his seat, studying Karl’s hands with interest.

“Mm,” Karl says, relaxed and at-ease. “Whenever I remembered. I’d forget a lot—but yeah, I loved it. Love it.”

“Huh…”

Karl laughs, unbothered. “No shade on you rough-and-tumble lads or anything. I love me a gritty guy, just… mans loves to feel pretty sometimes, y’know?”

Grian’s mouth feels dry. He keeps his head down, not sure why the conversation is distressing him as much as it is. Something about Karl’s openness, the lack of concern in his tone, carefree and unafraid as he speaks. He’s confident as he shows off something Grian has never allowed himself to look at as anything more than a fleeting peek caught in the corner of his eye.

There’s nothing wrong with it, he just…

“I always wanted to try it.”

Scar’s confession wrenches Grian’s head around with a twist so strong he feels a pinch in his shoulders. He tries not to look any particular way, but he’s sure he must look like a fool, mouth parted in shock. He can’t help himself, riveted at the casual way Scar says the words.

Inclined across the space between their seats, Scar has Karl’s hand delicately cradled in his palm, turning his fingertips towards the fire to get a better look.

“Why didn’t you?” Karl asks, voicing the question before Grian can.

Scar shrugs a shoulder, letting Karl’s hand go as he sits back.

“Just never got around to it,” he admits. “Thought I had all the time in the world. And I mean—I didn’t really know where to get started.”

I could’ve told you, Grian wants to say. Fragile and sensitive. Another missed connection between them. Something that he no doubt fostered.

Grian thinks about a makeup bag pushed into the back of his bathroom cabinet. He thinks about kitten heels with rhinestones on the toes. He thinks about drag nights at local bars he paid the cover for, but then hovered just outside the entrance, too nervous to step all the way in.

He thinks about a piece of himself he never had the chance to properly explore, and how it’s now being brought up between Scar and a man who, just a few days ago, was a complete stranger.

He bites his tongue so hard it hurts.

With the slap of glossy pages flipping shut, Karl sits up. He gets to his feet in a fluid motion, somehow managing not to jostle Sapnap as he moves. Grian turns to watch him leave the room, not knowing what’s happening. He looks to Scar, but Scar merely mirrors his confusion, the two of them simmering in uncertainty until Karl returns a moment later, his backpack held against his chest as he digs into one of its deepest pockets.

“Ain’t this your lucky night,” he announces cheerfully.

Without hesitating he sits back down, tucking his backpack against his feet and holding out his hands, several bottles of nail polish cupped in his palms. When he’s met with silence, Karl scoots forward, moving to sit cross legged on the floor in front of Scar. He holds up the colours he has—bright blue, purple, orange, pink, and something glossy flecked with glitter.

Grian feels the lump forming in his throat, something choked and asphyxiating as he watches the scene unfold like a pariah lurking in the rafters.

Scar doesn’t try to hide his smile, letting Karl press the bottles into his hands, one by one. Leaning back, Karl yanks one of the cushions off his seat, tucking it under himself before he digs back into his backpack. After a moment of searching, he produces a nail file.

It’s the first time Grian really realises that the trio had time to properly pack. Unlike him and Scar, who left with what Grian had shoved into his backseat, they brought things with them—proper things. Items to make living bearable, beyond the essentials. Little things, nostalgic and warm.

A feeling he can’t explain festers in Grian’s chest at the revelation. Another jab to stoke the fires.

“I don’t have black,” Karl apologises. “I know a lot of guys like to start with it… but I wasn’t thinking I’d be doing manicures in the apocalypse.”

Scar chuckles, rotating through the colours in his hands, the glass bottles clacking together before he turns one towards Karl.

“Orange is my favourite,” he explains, pausing before he reconsiders. “Or should I go for blue…?”

“You can have both,” Quackity pipes up, semi-absorbed in one of the romance novels he’d found. He’s angled himself towards the fire to take better advantage of the light, legs stretched out on the seat. “Hot guy perks. Right, Karl?”

“That’s what people in the industry call it,” Karl quips in confirmation, taking the bottles back from Scar and setting the orange and blue aside.

He looks gentle, almost reverent, as he takes Scar’s right hand in his, smoothing his thumbs over Scar’s knuckles, briefly massaging his palm before he flattens Scar’s fingers out and begins tending to his nails with the rasp of the file. Karl doesn’t have small hands by any means, he’s not diminutive, but Scar’s hand dwarfs his all the same.

“The boys don’t let me paint their nails,” he says conversationally as he moves from one nail to the next. It must be easier work than he expects, Grian thinks. Scar wasn’t fastidious, but he took care of himself prior to the apocalypse. He has nice hands—or, at least, Grian had always thought so.

If Karl compliments them, he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

“I let you! Once,” Sapnap insists. In Karl’s absence, he’s spread out on the pallet seat, paging through the magazines himself, laying on his back as he holds it up to catch the firelight.

“For our very first date,” Karl confides to Scar like it’s tantalising gossip. “And he’d picked the paint all off by the next time I saw him.”

“Not a nail polish guy, what can I say?” Sapnap shrugs, dismissive of the fact.

The trio titter, and Grian finds himself phasing their conversation out as he stares at Scar’s bright smile. His enthusiasm for the moment is clear, letting Karl do his work as he patiently watches Karl work. It’s clear that they’re sharing a good moment, something everyone is enjoying.

Grian doesn’t want to be the wet blanket. He doesn’t want to bring the collective mood down.

He turns to poke another wedge of wood into the fire, wishing he was anywhere else in the world but here, with a stranger painting his boyfriend’s—ex-boyfriend’s nails.

In another world, this could’ve been something he and Scar shared together. Something Grian could introduce Scar to and teach him about. Instead, the whole situation sits sour in his stomach; hopeless nostalgia for a life that never existed.

As the painting session drags on, Grian tries—again and again—to involve himself. He opens his mouth, hesitating over a compliment or commiseration, but every time he makes an attempt, he can’t get his voice out. What’s the use when none of them seem to care that he’s been silent all this time? When not even Scar has looked his way once since Karl graced his attention on him.

By the time Scar’s nails are dry and it’s time for bed, Grian is lost in his own misery. It’s unfair. It’s stupid. He knows the way he’s reacting is irrational, and yet…

When they finally retire to their room, he makes every effort not to speak. He’s quiet as he shrugs off his sweater and pulls his feet out of his shoes, padding forward in socked feet to their bed and laying down with ample distance between Scar and himself.

If Scar notices, he makes no comment on it—appreciating the amiability of the moment as if everything is fine. Scar lays on his back, one hand resting on his chest, and the other raised as he admires the daubs of colour on his nails in the dim moonlight sifting in through the window. Even Grian can admit that Karl did a good job, the paint neat and even, with nothing spilled over onto Scar’s cuticles.

“Can’t believe it took me until the apocalypse to try this,” Scar muses quietly after a lengthy pause, letting his hand drop to his side and half-chuckling in the dimness.

Grian says nothing, weirdly tangled in his own emotions, caught like a flower petal pressed flat between heavy pages, compressed flat and frozen. He doesn’t know how to fix this. Doesn’t know how to reorient himself so that he’s the him he used to be. Or, at least, always wanted to be; the one that Scar fell in love with.

Resolutely he keeps his eyes closed, feigning sleep.

He knows full well Scar won’t buy it.

“They’re nice boys,” Scar adds, low and conversational, in the deep, rumbling tone Grian’s familiar with from a hundred nights of past pillow talk. “We really lucked out with them, I think.”

“I still feel like they’re up to something.”

It’s a stupid thing to say, after so long in silence, with no grounds except jealousy on which to say it. The words are out of him before he can help himself.

Even as he says them, he knows he’s f*cked up.

“You still want to pick at this?” Scar asks, sombre in the darkness. “Really?”

Grian says nothing, knowing any word will incite an argument—wishing, too late, that he’d just kept pretending to sleep.

“Do you honestly think they’re suspicious, or do you just not like it when I have friends?” Scar asks after enough silence has passed. “Because I know what this feels like, and I’m not sure you’ll like the answer.”

The question burns, incriminating and hot on the back of Grian’s neck, making him feel wretched. The memory of too many arguments about the amount of time Scar would spend with Cub, and his easy affection for Pearl. The way his openly fond nature would pick at Grian like a scab. How, the more distance Grian had put between them, the more paradoxically possessive he’d gotten over Scar’s affections. A cover-up for the way he’d been going around behind Scar’s back—thinking the worst of him because he’d been doing the worst himself.

Grian bites his tongue, hands clasped in tight fists, body tense, waiting for the moment to pass.

Eventually Scar sighs, surrendering to the futility of the moment.

“G’night, Grian,” he relents, curt—not angry, but close enough to it to feel damning.

Without another word, Scar turns over, mattress springs squeaking as he moves to face away from Grian, looking out towards the stained, empty floor of the room.

Sooner than Grian would’ve guessed, his breathing evens out; slow, steady inhales and deep, heavy exhales. It’s a rhythm Grian is familiar with, but it offers him no comfort when they’ve gone to bed having solved nothing. He stares at the scuffed plaster of the wall in front of him as he lays awake, letting his mind rush through a hundred different scenarios.

On the one hand, he could try for a change. It wouldn’t take much to pretend nothing was wrong. He could embrace the trio and at the very least act like he didn’t believe they were out to stab them in the back. Scar would like that, he thinks. And maybe it’d be easier that way, to lie and go about like they were all trusting and happy and normal. To bury his jealousy and will away his possessiveness, hide all of it behind a smile and sweet words.

On the other hand, all it takes is one false move, one tiny mistake in the midst of this apocalypse, to lose everything that matters to him in an instant. Despite how much he knows Scar wants it, he can’t afford to place his trust in the wrong people.

He lies awake until even the boys outside are asleep, Sapnap’s snores shaking the thin walls placed between them. He thinks about his options. He thinks about their future. He thinks about Scar, and himself, and the trio that has come between them.

He thinks, hard, about which road to take next.