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If you were to ask Scar a week ago how he felt about his soulbond, he’d have told you that he was happy. If it was going to be anyone, Grian was who he wanted, no questions asked. And was he happy, stuck in this weird freaky death game that he no one else seemed to remember having happened twice before? No, maybe not, but hey. Grian had won the first one. At the expense of his life, but still!
But now, if you asked him about his soulbond? It could burn in hell for all he gives a shit.
BigB. What on earth did he have that Scar didn’t. Cookies? Scar could make cookies. Maybe he was a little caught up on the panda thing, but cookies, he could do.
It was the secrecy he couldn’t quite comprehend. At least tell him. He could have his own feelings spared, then, and save himself the embarrassment. He could stop being such an idiot then, get over him, and just deal with the fact that their health was bound. That way he could avoid the utter humiliation of thinking they were happy, while Grian was running around behind his back.
Betrayal, right? That’s the right word? For the void where his heart should be? He can’t cry, his soul is almost a desert. This feeling is so foreign to him. He’s the happy one, or at least disarmingly confident for as long as he can be.
But now he can’t shake the feeling of being watched. Grian chose someone over him, so why can’t he shift this feeling? He’s perfectly alone, and perfectly aware of it, but he feels the distinct pin pricks of eyes on his back. He turns, slowly, emptying his free hand.
Nothing.
Is he hallucinating in Grian’s absence?
No, surely not. He half wonders what to say to Grian when he returns to the base. If he returns to the base. A big sign, maybe. A statement to show that he seriously doesn’t care. Too cliche, and Scar definitely does care. Maybe he should pretend it never happened, and play the fool. But it doesn’t fit.
He won’t say anything. He knows that. It’ll be between them, a magnetic repulsion that used to be attraction. He’d lie next to him in bed, but never close like they were before. Like a barrier of thorns, sparing his pride. He wouldn’t make a scene, but Grian would know that he had severely fucked up.
Scar had walked in on it, and the image seared his mind still. Quiet sighs and whispered promises, promises that scar himself was supposed to hold true. Stolen kisses, heavy looks, the unmistakable stench of infidelity in the air.
Could he have done more? Loved him better? Perhaps, but Grian had never looked at him that way, never kissed him with the same tenderness. He was surely delusional to think that this was his fault, but the doubt did not fail to creep in regardless. He had stood silent in that doorway, unnoticed until the shattering of the glass in his hand. He left their house, their beautiful home, unconsoled. Grian had attempted to collect himself, to speak at all, but Scar had left before a word was spoken, and paced the borders until he could think about the scene without his eyes pricking.
He returned to an empty house, ice cold and smelling of absence. The wind outside whistled louder than it ever had, and the rain poured. Everything felt louder than it ever had, every creak a cacophony. His eyes misted, and he sank to the floor without so much as a sound. It was the longest night of his life.
He was fine now. Of course he was. He didn’t care. Everything was fine. Nothing phased Scar Goodtimes. Nothing. Not even the blistering betrayal of a soulmate. Grian hadn’t yet returned home, but who needed him? Scar was fine. Completely fine. The incessant need to vomit was completely coincidental. If he now flinched at creaks, desperately longing to avoid the inevitable confrontation, whose business was that but his own? Jesus, he needed to go out again. He was losing it.
The rain had stopped, but not for him. Not yet