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Grian is sat on the dusty floor of a dilapidated shack as Scar prepares their dinner beyond its walls. He shifts his leg forward and hisses at the stinging pain that flares up as the rough denim of his jeans irritates the wound hiding beneath it. Dread and shame coil in his gut. How could he have been so careless? All this time keeping Scar out of trouble, and in the end it's his own folly that takes them both out. He shakes his head, eyebrows furrowed. Scar would tell him not to rush to such dire conclusions. Not without seeing the damage for himself. The dirty blonde grips the hem of his pant leg, knuckles white in anticipation, and closes his eyes as he gingerly rolls up the fabric.
A dozen worst case scenarios race through his mind. Losing himself to the virus and turning Scar, too. Scar insisting they should go out together. Having to kill himself. Scar having to go on without him. Grian knows that his companion is no stranger to hardship and survival. Even so, he can’t help the overwhelming instinct to protect him from harm, whether physical or emotional. And this would constitute both. Grian draws a deep breath and reluctantly, his eyelids slide open.
His heart drops like a stone into his stomach.
The edges of broken skin where the undead’s nails had dug in has already begun to turn a concerning gray. The veins around it are soaking up the infection, sending webs of black sprawling across his skin. A few drops of moisture fall from his eyes and darken the cloth. He blinks hard. His heart is in his throat, and there’s a roaring in his ears.
“Oh god.”
He doesn’t know how long he sits there on the grimy floor with his head hung in between his knees, just trying to catch his breath. It must be at least half an hour, because when he looks up, the room is washed in a beautiful golden light from the sunset.
Maybe he can fix this. Amputate the leg. They don’t have any weapons that are sharp or clean enough to get the job done, but maybe they can find one before the virus spreads too far. The all too familiar cold hand of reality strikes Grian. They would only have a few days, and they’re in the middle of a goddamn forest. Where would they find such a tool?
Numbly, he stands and wipes the tears from his face as he pushes open the flimsy wooden door with a creak.
The comforting sound of bubbling broth and a crackling fire greets him. As he passes through the doorway, his scarred companion glances up from the pot he’s stirring and his face lights up into that easy, familiar smile.
“Hey, G! I was just about to getcha. Dinner’s almost ready!”
But Grian’s gaze is fixed on the leaf-littered forest floor. His breath hitches. Scar’s grin fades into a look of mild confusion mixed with concern.
“Grian? What’s wrong?”
He finally meets Scar’s eyes- wide, questioning, safe- and almost breaks down crying again. Instead, he walks forward, feeling as if he’s wading through mud, and collapses across from Scar in front of the impromptu cooking setup. He draws his knees to his chest and stares into the fire.
“Oh, Scar,” Grian murmurs, voice barely a whisper. Scar straightens up, the wooden ladle he’s still holding dripping soup onto the floor as he turns his full attention to his smaller companion. Grian swallows down the lump in his throat. It doesn’t help to quell the choked quality his voice has taken on. “I-I really messed up.”
Scar sets the spoon inside the pot. “What do you mean?”
“That zombie that got a hold of my leg,” Grian starts. He doesn’t want to say it, but he knows Scar won’t put the pieces together unless he does. He always assumes the best. It’s something Grian has always loved about him; something he always wished he could be more like.
Scar nods carefully. “I remember.”
“It-it got its nails in. And…” He slides his leg forward and pulls up the cuff of his jeans. He can hear Scar inhale sharply. Grian can’t look up at him, even though the sight of the blackened flesh makes him feel like he’s about to puke. “I’m so, so sorry, Scar.”
Scar is silent for a moment, but eventually, his voice comes out softer than Grian has heard it in a long time. “What are you sorry for?”
“I-I’ve killed us. I’m infected, which means I’m dead, which means you’re dead-”
Scar chuckles humorlessly. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
Grian’s vision is so blurred with tears that he doesn’t even notice Scar has moved closer until he feels that familiar, solid warmth at his side. He leans into it instinctively, and an arm wraps around his shoulders.
“It’s okay, though,” Scar utters into his dirty blonde hair. “It’s not your fault. And besides, you’ve kept me alive way longer than I’d be able to make it on my own.”
Grian doesn’t think he’d be able to respond even if he wanted to. His throat burns unbearably as he tries and fails to keep his tears in this time. A sob wracks his body, and Scar gently rubs circles into his arm.
“It’s okay,” his partner repeats. “I’ll be with you until the end. We can do whatever we want before then! Really make it count.”
The question comes out more blunt than he means it to. “Aren’t you scared of dying?”
A puff of warm air ruffles a few strands of his hair as Scar sighs slightly. “Of course. Are you?”
“No,” Grian admits. “Just of hurting you.”
Scar frowns, though Grian can’t see it. “You should really worry about yourself, sometimes.”
“Yeah, well. It’s a bit late for that.”
“Maybe. You could never hurt me, though.”
“Tell that to the virus,” Grian mutters grimly.
“Hey.” Scar pulls away, only to grab both of Grian’s shoulders. The smaller man looks up at him weakly. “I’ve lived a lot of my life with an expiration date hanging over my head. Trust me, I know it’s easy to let the doom and gloom set in. But no matter how little time you think or know you have, that’s no way to live. So let’s make the most of it!”
As he stares up at the man before him, he sees it. The pain behind those sage eyes- the carefully tucked away fear and insecurity and anger. And in spite of it all, that same saccharine smile. And Grian understands that Scar doesn’t hide his agony, he just decides not to let it hold power over him. He chooses hope and goodness every day because he knows how limited his time is. He is so, so strong, and Grian is overwhelmed with adoration for this stupid, strange man. He wants to be like him, but all he feels is guilt and shame that he can’t muster the same power within himself to defy reality. How pitiful is he?
Scar must sense his thoughts spiraling, because he squeezes Grian’s shoulders gently. “Hey, what’s something you’ve always wanted to do?”
Grian leans forward, feeling too weak to support himself in his position. Scar lets him, shifting his arms to wrap around him in a hug instead. Grian buries his face into his partner’s chest and says, “Don’t laugh.”
“Never,” comes the immediate response.
“...I’ve always wanted to go to a spa.”
The brunet smiles softly. “That sounds lovely! Very relaxing. Tell you what; tomorrow, let’s have a spa day. We can go find a lake and do mud facials and maybe we can even find a cucumber to slice up-”
Grian snorts, bringing his own arms up to embrace his Scar. “Okay, okay.”
Scar takes the chuckle as a victory, and squeezes Grian tightly. They stay sitting and talking for a while- long after the last of the daylight fades from the treeline and the campfire casts stretching shadows far into the woods. Scar stays up with Grian until the smaller man can no longer physically keep his eyes open, exhausted from the long day of travel. The blonde ends up using his thigh as a pillow, and Scar runs his fingers through Grian’s hair absently as a dull ache makes itself known in his heart and body. The scarred man stares off into the threatening dark of the forest until the embers of their fire fade completely. When he settles down to sleep, he knows it won’t come easily.