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The server was worried for Grian. Turns out he didn’t even have to be interacting with any of them to know this, the constant communicator messaging and ignored attempts at physical check-ins and random gifts left at his door more than enough to give it away without his having to so much as even see another hermit. It wouldn’t have been hard to guess, either- hermitcraft had always been a close-knit server. One member suddenly playing isolation was sure to raise some alarms.
In this instance though, it was for the best. Grian wasn’t entirely sure how they hadn’t figured that out yet, but they would soon enough.
It had been two months since the ordeal that was ‘third life’ had finished, spitting its contestants back out like rotten meat right back where it had stolen them from in the first place. Grian still remembers waking back up at spawn, heart still racing in time with the wind that had rushed past him. Remembers sitting up, finding all the other kidnapped hermits there as well, all apparently kicked back home at the same time. Remembers the look on Doc’s face as he walked by and saw them all, back in server as suddenly and mysteriously as they had vanished.
Grian knew that adjusting back to the now seemingly mundane hermitcraft server had been hard for his fellow third lifers. Everything was different, physically and otherwise. The third lifers had to get used to a server that couldn’t permakill them again, had to accept that their friends-turned-enemies were friends once again, had to face the effects the third life server had had on all of them. And the distress that had overtaken the server’s remaining inhabitants when third life started couldn’t be ignored either.
But they were managing. Abandoned builds were being started anew. Xisuma’s constant checks to make sure everyone was accounted for in the server started lessening. Soldiers on opposing sides of a war none of them ever wanted to fight were beginning to talk together again, laugh together again. Wounds that were large enough to leave scars were at least beginning to heal.
Grian was happy for them. Truly, he was! They had been his friends before third life, he still wished them well. Even if he had burned all of his bridges to them.
Because if they were the wounded, then Grian was the sword- or, more accurately, the TNT. Swords and gunpowder don’t get hurt, they cause it. You can’t heal a sword, only sharpen it. You can’t diffuse gunpowder, only set it off.
He appreciated that the others still cared, that they were still trying to help him. But he also knew there was nothing they could do. They were looking to get back a version of Grian that didn’t exist anymore, one that had gotten snatched away from hermitcraft and ended up buried in the desert.
For a while, he had tried anyway. Tried to be that version of Grian from before third life. He hadn’t been doing too well at it, still shying away from most of the other hermits, talking mostly to Scar. But he had been trying, and he had thought that maybe, just maybe, he could do this. Get used to hermitcraft again, leave third life behind. Be the Grian from before.
It’s a hazy blur to him now, the day he realized why healing would never work for him. He had just been talking to Scar about nothing important when Mumbo walked in. Something he owed Scar, or something he was returning, Grian couldn’t remember anymore. Scar had made a joke about lateness. Mumbo had punched his shoulder in response, like friends do, lightly, with no malice.
Grian doesn’t remember when he pulled his sword, only that he had, only that the tip was dripping red, only that Mumbo was suddenly three blocks back from Scar and clutching at a cut on the back of his hand.
He does remember how they were staring at him, Scar and Mumbo, expressions filled with shock and fear. Like they didn’t recognize him. Like he was a threat.
Grian had disappeared into the Nether for three days after that, avoiding the search parties that inevitably came through looking for him. He ignored every message that came through on his communicator, deleting them without so much as a glance. The only thing that kept him from chucking the thing into the nearest lava lake was the fact that without it no one would be able to know if he was still in the server, still ‘safe’. He couldn’t do that to hermitcraft again, not when everyone was starting to heal.
Eventually, he returned to his base. The only reason he hadn’t stayed in the Nether was because having nothing to do was driving him mad. He still refused to talk to anyone, dashing off before anyone could get too close, but it was okay. It was for the best. It was for their safety.
And it had all been going just fine until Grian made the crucial mistake of sleeping. His fault. You were most vulnerable when you were unresponsive, after all, and he didn’t have a partner to watch his sleeping back anymore.
Ironic that it was said partner who he woke up to find in his bedroom, the closest any hermit had gotten to him since Mumbo met his blade.
Scar was simply sitting on the ground beside Grian’s bed, giving no reaction when Grian jerks awake, eyes instead fixed on the messy bouquet he’s holding in one hand. Poppies and lilacs.
As Grian watches, Scar lightly runs the fingers of his free hand over the petals, smiling softly to himself. He pulls a flower pot out of his inventory, dropping it down haphazardly in the middle of Grian’s floor before carefully fitting the bouquet into it. Only then does he turn to Grian, soft smile still in place.
“Good morning, my friend.”
Grian weighs his options. He could try to make a break for it, but Scar had to already know that was a possibility, he’d be prepared for it. Even if Grian did manage to escape, Scar would likely just remain here, waiting and ready for his next chance to peacefully back Grian into a corner. And Grian really doesn’t want to go back to hiding in the Nether.
So. This was happening, then.
Before Scar can say another word, Grian reaches into his inventory and pulls out his sword, tossing it as far across the room as he can manage. The clanging noise it makes as it smacks the ground echoes. Grian tries not to flinch. It’s stupid to be without a weapon, but he doesn’t want to risk this conversation with it. What little word or action would it take to set him off again, to have him attacking his friend and third life ally? He didn’t know.
Scar watches the sword as it hits the ground. “Well that was unnecessary.”
“It’s for your safety.”
“You’re not going to hurt me,” Scar glances back to Grian, expression open and genuine, “and if you do, it’s going to be an accident. I forgive you.”
Grian frowns. An accident? He’s fairly certain people don’t accidentally draw their swords and accidentally attack their friends with them. “What do you want, Scar?”
“To help you.” Scar says, and there’s that lilt in his voice like he’s about to sell you paper for enchanted diamond. It’s familiar. Like sand in his shoes, and burning sun, and a simple palace built on a mountain of terrible business prospects shared with a conman who could’ve made it to the moon on charisma alone.
And Grian would’ve followed him; still would. Call that charisma. Call that something else.
“You can’t help me.” Grian answers bluntly. He doesn’t want to hurt Scar, not again. “Don’t bother trying. Please.”
“I can try. This isn’t healthy, Grian. Hiding away and ignoring everyone. We’re worried.” Scar shifts closer to the bed, resting his hand against the covers, his fingertips just nearly touching Grian’s. “I’m worried.”
Grian looks down at Scar’s hand. Close enough to hold. He curls his fingers tighter around the edge of his blanket instead, pulling away from it. “This is… this is for the best. To keep you safe.”
To keep you all safe. To keep you, Scar , safe.
Scar moves then, pushing himself off the ground and settling on the edge of the bed. He’s opposite Grian, eyes still on him, hand still close but not reaching. “Why do you think this is keeping us safe? All it’s doing is hurting you.”
“What do you mean, ‘why’?” Grian looks away from Scar, towards the wall instead. “You were there when I was setting TNT traps every week, when I attacked Mumbo. I’m a danger to others.”
“Everyone was trying to kill everyone in third life, that was what we were stuck with.” Scar responds. “And you didn’t attack Mumbo. You reacted to what you saw as a threat after spending so long in a place where a punch was never a goodwill gesture.”
“That doesn’t make it better! I still hurt him!” Grian yells, still turned away from Scar, unwilling to meet his gaze. He closes his eyes instead, ignoring that Scar’s there too; living, dying, dead. “And I was green when I set most of those traps! I had no right or reason to be doing that. That wasn’t third life that was- that was- that was just me . I-”
Silence. It isn’t a sentence Grian wants to finish. Scar lets it stretch for a minute, giving Grian his time. Grian just uses it to wonder why Scar’s even here at all. Victim to none but Grian and a poorly timed jump, bound to Grian by nothing more than guilt and opportunity. Scar should hate Grian. Scar is far too close with far too little weapons to hate Grian.
“What is it Grian?” How does he say his name so softly? Like it’s a blessing, not a curse?
“I’m a monster.” It’s a resigned truth. What else do you call someone who murders their friends and strangers alike, who draws blood at the slightest provocation? Third life had just been an excuse to hide behind, and now that it’s over the truth is plain.
Scar didn’t answer immediately, and Grian can’t help but turn to look at him once again. Part of him wonders if it’s still too late to run, to escape Scar’s response, to escape the moment he realizes Grian’s right and trying to help was a mistake.
But he knows he can’t. Not when he sees the way Scar is actually looking at him, as if he had just told him magic was cancelled. There is no hatred in his expression, no malice. Only pain.
“I’m sorry.” Grian tacks on, voice just barely over a whisper. Nothing he has done can be fixed with a sorry. Nothing he is can be changed with a sorry. But he has to offer something to Scar, and sorry is all he has.
“Oh, Grian.” Scar scoots closer to Grian. He reaches out, disentangling Grian’s fingers from his blanket, taking Grian’s hands in his own. It’s a light hold, one Grian could pull away from easily if he so chose. He doesn’t. “My dear friend. You are no monster.”
“Scar-”
“We all did things in that server we never would have done elsewhere. It was survival, for the green and yellow and red lives alike. And we’re all still recovering from it.” Scar briefly flashes an abashed smile. “I nearly shot Ren when I saw him the other day. None of us are over what happened, and that’s okay.”
Grian shakes his head. “Mumbo wasn’t part of third life.”
“We were.” Scar moves even closer, looking down at where he’s still holding Grian’s hands. “It’s easy to perceive a punch as an attack. Mumbo’s already forgiven you, all he’s been is worried.”
“I’m not even the one he ‘attacked’.”
Scar looks up, wearing a small smile. “But I am. And, well, I think you did pretty well protecting me.”
Time stops for a bit, or, at least, Grian assumes it must. It doesn’t feel like it’s still moving. He just needs a moment, to make sense of what had just been said. Unfortunate he keeps getting caught on his smile instead. It’s small. It’s sweet. It’s secret. Why is it being shared with him?
Time starts again only when Grian realizes his name is being said repeatedly. He also realizes it’s not just his name, but ‘love’s and ‘dear’s as well. He also realizes that at some point Scar’s hands had migrated to his cheeks, warm where they lightly cup his face.
Grian’s missed a lot. This is bad, every missed moment carries a chance of him attacking or being attacked. Is this an attack?
“This is why you can’t hole yourself away like this. You think genuine affection is an attack.” Scar says in a tone somewhere between amused and concerned, because apparently Grian had been saying those things out loud. “You’re moving into my base until you stop being so sad.”
“What? No, I-”
“You’re not a monster, Grian, it’s not going to hurt anyone to have you out of lonely man town.” Scar reiterates. His next motion is slow, as if giving Grian a chance to stop him. Grian doesn’t, and then Scar’s softly kissing his forehead, and Scar’s hands are still on his face, and Scar’s leg is pressing against his where it lays on the bed, and Scar is so close to Grian who has been so far that some desperate part of Grian’s mind hopes they can just stay there, like this, forever.
They can’t, of course, and too soon Scar pulls away. But he moves immediately to lean his forehead against Grian’s, still smiling as he once again meets Grian’s eyes, and Grian can live with this, he thinks.
“I want you there, too.” Scar adds, and Grian believes him, not just because it’s him, not just because it’s Scar of Monopoly Mountain and fae-like charm, but because of how close they still are, because of the flowers in the vase on the floor, because of the echoing memory at the end of the server when they had both been fighting to lose.
“Alright.” Grian concedes, quietly. It would be a lie to say he fully agrees with Scar, that he’s not a threat, that his actions from third life can be forgiven. But he’s willing to try again, to try and heal.
And then Scar grins at him, looking overjoyed by his answer, launching into a spiel Grian’s fairly certain he had prepared beforehand about how glad he is Grian accepted, that it’ll be great, listing off activities that make the whole thing sound like an oddly therapeutic slumber party. Grian just closes his eyes, listening to him ramble.
Yeah.
He can try again.