Chapter Text
Grian’s been switching between hiding under his covers and pacing around his megabase.
Scar’s in the same boat. There’s little comfort he finds in the fact his friend is equally as in trouble as he does. In the long run it doesn’t matter because at the end of the day they’re both going to be at the top of Doc’s list.
They kind of… messed up. Big time.
His anxiety’s been constant. He knows anxiety attacks aren’t supposed to last this long. Grian’s sure he’s been having them constantly. He isn’t sure where one stops and another starts, or if he’s awake or asleep or somewhere between dead and alive. He really isn’t sure.
One thing he knows is he’s terrified.
Even worse than that--
“Oh Coders, ” Grian cries out when his communicator dings with: <Docm77 has joined the game>
Grian isn’t the strongest soldier. This just might be it for him.
He finds his way under his covers. He begins to pace, glitching out in place as he thinks about flying to Doc’s perimeter and talking to him straight-on. Would it be better to accept his death with dignity? To be honest with Doc about their mistake?
…
…Yeah, he’s not too sure. He’s shaking too bad that his choice is made up for him anyways. He turns his lights off. All of them. He snatches the covers off of his bed and takes them with him into his small closet. Pushing past the abundance of red sweaters, Grian buries himself between them and throws the blanket over his head.
“This is it. This is my life now,” he speaks aloud.
And then he makes himself comfortable.
--
His new life isn’t so bad. It’s warm in the closet. It’s too bad his body is in a constant state of shivering. His stomach is burning with hunger, and he has not nearly drank enough water. He doesn’t think he’s used the bathroom since early this morning. As if his dehydration wasn’t evident enough.
Still, there’s not much he can do about it. The closet isn’t really awful, but he really wishes he had thought to bring some snacks. Maybe Mumbo could bring it to him.
Then again, Mumbo’s an awfully bad liar. He’ll just give him away, won’t he? Like back in his season six prank war when Mumbo lost it in front of Doc? Yeah, he’ll take his chances with staying in the closet alone.
Maybe he should’ve snuck off to Pearl’s. They’d lived together before, right?
<Grian> Pearl pearl pearl pearl pearl HELP
<Pearlescentmoon> flew into glass again?
<Grian> No.
<Grian> Asshole
<Grian> no i need help
<Grian> or this is the last you’ll see of me
<Pearlescentmoon> Would I be so lucky?
<Grian> you can’t say that to me
<Grian> not when our reuniting arc was just last season
<Pearlescentmoon> See? So last season.
<Pearlescentmoon> I’m over it.
<Grian> I hate you
<Grian> please let me move in
<Grian> I’m in hiding
<Pearlescentmoon> no thanks
<Pearlescentmoon> i’ve had enough time sharing a room with you, thank you
<Grian> you won’t even know I’m there!
<Pearlescentmoon> You believe that?
<Grian> …
<Grian> I’ll pay rent.
<Pearlescentmoon> nah mate you’re not rich enough. Good luck finding a roommate
<Grian> if i’m not dead before then
<Pearlescentmoon> who’s gonna kill you, silly?
Grian’s fingers were stumbling with a response when he feels his base shake.
There’s no earthquakes on Hermitcraft. Which could only be--
“Grian?”
I’ve lived a good life, haven’t I?
His heart is hammering frantically somewhere deep in his chest. It drums so loudly in his ears it rivals the shaking of his megabase. He’s hidden far-away in his private quarters, but oh, he must be coming closer and quicker.
Suddenly, he wishes he brought a bucket inside with him.
Then, he hears it.
There’s a creak to his floorboards. The one, stubborn piece that always gives way underneath a footstep. There’s a scuffing of heavy workman’s boots.
“Grian?” a distinct, German-accented voice rings out.
Grian’s dead fucking meat.
His panic makes him want to hyperventilate. He settles for holding his breath, but then his chest is burning more than his racing heart makes him burn. His lungs spasm underneath it, and he forcefully shoves a blanket into his mouth and bites down on it hard.
There’s a slight wheeze to his breathing now. It whistles in his ears.
The floorboards creak. Closer, closer. Grian can hear him. He can hear Doc’s breathing, so can he hear his?
He pauses. There’s a shadow in place of his typical bedroom lights. Everything was shut off, but there’s still natural daylight streaming in. Or, there was, at least, until a few moments ago.
The closet door rattles.
Grian throws a blanket over him just in time to see those white doors forcefully yanked apart.
You know, Grian’s a bit of a small guy. Comes with avian territory. So, theoretically, there’s a possibility Doc won’t even be able to see him. It’s dark inside of the closet. Plus, why would Grian be in a closet, anyways?
That breathing is louder now. It sucks in air between gritted teeth, and the floorboard creaks once more. He’s moving, perhaps? Grian tries to hold his own breath as his chest threatens to spasm with a cough. He’s about to forcefully exhale against his will when something wraps around his ankle - cold, hard, unforgiving, and then Grian’s being exposed to the outside world.
Doc’s metal arm grabs him and yanks him back so quickly his eyes hardly have a chance to adjust to the change in scenery. His wings pillar out helplessly as they drag against his hardwood floor. He catches one sight of Doc and his stoically grim face, and he’s stunned.
Slowly, he flips himself up, tries to stand up, but Doc is relentless. He’s forced Grian into some sort of awkward position. He can’t push himself up besides with his hands, but even then, it’s an awkward angle. Doc has a death grip on his ankle and he doesn’t look like he has any plans of letting go. It’s a death sentence looking up at him from the pitted angle. Stands something along submission and how Doc’s won, and Grian can’t have him feeling like he’s won when Grian needs to escape with his life in tact.
“Have I told you,” Grian pants out. He’s still wheezing, by the way. It might be a permanent fixture to his voice now, he isn’t sure. “...You’re very handsome. And so strong? Have you been working out?”
“Grian,” Doc huffs, and holy nether below, Grian’s spine is burning. Sweat is running down him, and his body is flashing hot-and-cold. Oh, wow, is he seeing spots? Everywhere? He knows Doc is still standing there with that angry, pinched face of his, but all he sees is a mess of green. And dark. And now, little white spots here and there and--
Grian really should’ve gotten out of here when he had the chance.
His heart flutters around inside of his chest. If it was any other sort of situation, Grian might’ve been able to pass them off as nervous butterflies. That couldn’t be farther than reality as Grian’s heart is slamming into his rib cage walls like a bird trapped inside of a glass box. If he hadn’t just came down from an anxiety attack, he would’ve been having one now.
Doc is his friend and has put up with him for a long time. He’s a considerate guy at times, but now… now Grian’s really pushed him far. There isn’t any telling how he'd react. There isn’t any telling what kind of desert storm is unfolding behind that flaming mechanical eye. The only word he’s said is Grian’s name. It sounds less like English or German and more like something animalistic.
Grian has been through worse. He has lived through worse and came out unscathed. He could potentially live here, too, if he played his cards right.
“Do something new with the elytra? Looks--” Grian’s air is punched out of him when Doc lets go of his ankle only after Grian’s gotten used to the weight held in the air. He falls down with a noise not unlike a comedic splat! He recovers quickly like a bug that’s been flipped rightside up and scrambles to his feet.
The sudden staggering upwards has his head in a tizzy. His stomach is burning alive with anxious little butterflies that elongate the fact he hasn’t eaten anything proper all day. He’s been too distracted for it.
“Looks nice,” Grian finishes. He might just be panting. Doc still hasn’t offered much of a word. “Hey. So. What do I owe the pleasure?”
“What. Did. You. Do. ”
Doc’s words are so punched and bitter that Grian shrivels up in response. He laughs because what else is he supposed to do? He can’t really answer him. Not properly, anyways. He simply doesn’t have a good answer for him. Nothing that would stop him from tearing him apart.
“Hm?” he hums. A little too long to not be irritating. He bats his eyelashes for good measure, but his charm might’ve been lost a couple redstone explosions ago. “Today? Not much.”
And that’s not a lie. He’s been a little pit of anxiety all day. He tried burying himself in some distractions, but his mind and heart could never fall into place with his body. It was hopeless.
“And you?” Grian asks conversationally as if there isn’t steam pouring out of Doc’s ears.
“Oh,” Doc says, and now he’s grinning. It’s fake. Something like a predator’s way of drawing in its prey. “Oh, not much!”
His tone has not been this cheery since - since - he doesn’t even know. Has he ever heard him this cheery?
“I was off server,” Doc says through tight-pressed lips.
“Did you visit the festival in commonplace? I heard it was nice this time of year.” Biding his time here may be merely holding off the inevitable. Doc plays along with his small-talk far too easily for it to be worth Grian’s interest. He continues anyway. Foolishly.
Well, Grian’s never claimed to be a genius.
Doc is. Doc’s a genius in all sorts of the word. He’s playful with it. Most of his discoveries are for teasing others or his own personal gain. His intelligence goes unmatched. Hermitcraft is chock full of geniuses in all sorts of respective fields. Grian’s intelligence lies elsewhere in his clever pranks and wit, but he can’t compare to world eaters and redstone prowess.
He can’t compare to whatever storm is swirling inside of Doc’s head.
“I hope you had fun,” Grian blubbers in continuation when Doc doesn’t speak. There’s a vein bulging on his forehead. Grian worries it might pop, and then Grian will really be in trouble. “You know? I’m kinda jealous. Maybe I’ll go--”
It was an easy chance at escape, and Grian wasn’t letting it go. He didn’t like to go off-server, not outside of visiting Jimmy and MCC from time to time. But he’d do anything to get away from Doc and his almost bursting vein.
Grian darts out of the closet. He spins, not wanting to keep his back exposed to Doc for any longer than he has to.
“You look pretty stressed,” he says, earning an actual growl for that one. “So - so I’ll leave you to it! Bye bye now--!” Grian’s wings spread out and with one flap, he is gone.
He just hardly catches a strained, “What the heck, man,” before the wind covers up his words and takes it away.
Grian doesn’t look behind him. The wind is loud in his ears as he flies up out of his castle and begins barreling it towards Scarland. Mumbo isn’t on the server because of course he’s not when Grian needs him. Traitor!
Hopefully Mumbo’s enjoying his off-server time because he might not be seeing him anytime soon!
Or. Or, ever, even.
He’s just gotta go.
Grian swoops through Scarland and hollers Scar’s name. He doubles through the streets, but the man is nowhere to be found. Grian can’t really blame him either. He, too, was tucked away into hiding mere moments ago.
His feet trip over one another as he makes a rough landing. He makes a rough descent into the carefully paved road and cups his hands around his mouth. His chest pangs with the effort of screaming. Flying is second nature, and sure he’s panicking - a little, but since when was breathing this hard?
“Scar, seriously, pal,” he says. It’s no longer a call. He might be whispering. His hands find their placement against the wall as his knees threaten to buckle underneath his weight. He shouldn’t have stopped because now his momentum is gone, and he’s crumbling at his feet.
His hands desperately squeeze at the delicately placed blocks as he pants haphazardly against it. When his forehead knocks gently against the wall, a cool presence greets him and only then is he aware of the coursing heat through his body. He feels as if he’s being burnt from the inside out.
The wall is cool, and Grian allows himself to collapse against it, if only for a moment of rest. His heart is still panging with the adrenaline. He has to find Scar, he has to find someone to keep him safe before Doc tears him limb for limb, and he can’t even blame him because--
His stomach is boiling. His vision’s going blurry and dark simultaneously, and oh void, he’s gonna go down in these streets alone.
Grian’s breath hisses between his clenched teeth as he tries again to call out Scar’s name. When he tries, the second he opens his mouth, he’s retching into the neatly polished street.
Grian’s knees buckle completely. Bile burns all through his stomach and his throat, and he hasn’t eaten. How long had he spent in that closet? His body has nothing to give, but his stomach is expelling anyways. He pulls himself up as soon as it’s done. His hands clamp over his mouth to try and stop it.
His anxiety’s turned him into this mess. He hasn’t slept, he hasn’t eaten. His muscles are stiff and fatigued from lack of movement. His day’s passed him by quicker than he’s realized. He can’t even remember if he’s gotten up to use the bathroom or if he was too terrified to.
Air gushes around him. Grian can’t pick up his head. He’s on all fours on the ground, and his body is trembling with spent energy he doesn’t possess. His heart exalts. Pearl, maybe, she’d gotten his message and come to get him? Or Scar, maybe Scar really was here and not across the server like he had thought.
He tries to lift his head up to meet Scar, Pearl, whoever came to save him, but when he turns, he sees green and a mix of flaring red.
Doc stands in the street.
There isn’t any warning before Grian retches this time. Spit slowly trails down his lip until it’s pooling at his chin. He can’t even react to his presence, even as his heart moves something quick and awful inside of his chest.
“Grian,” Doc calls hesitantly, and no, no, no, this can’t be it.
Grian’s spent a lot of his life running, and every time he’s been caught, it’s been for nothing good. He’s left a lot of his mistakes long behind him and he needs to do it again or else he’s dead, he’s dead and all of this fight was for nothing.
He raises himself up weakly. These weary bones of his tremble underneath every miniscule movement, but there is no slowing back in life or death. He’s got to get out of here before it’s too late.
Pearl’s at home waiting for him. Isn’t she? Isn’t that who he was flying after?
Oh… But Pearl wasn’t here. She was--
There’s an answer beyond his reach. His mind is fuzzy and sticky like heavy mud. Doc is still standing in place as if dumbfounded. Grian wonders if he’s trying to draw him out.
Grian may be a fool, but he isn’t easy bait. Grian struggles to straighten up his back and stare him head-on. Grian won’t be going down without a fight.
“Grian, man, what the hell?” Doc sounds so tired. He’s a good actor when he wants to be. He’s pissed. Grian can see it all over his flaming eye and his huffing mouth. “Where’s Scar? I--”
Grian snarls his teeth in a way he can only hope is threatening even after Doc’s caught him in a more than compromising position. His wings struggle to spread out behind him. He’s gearing for flight, but his muscles are throbbing with an agonizing tremor. They haven’t felt this bad since he bound them for a while back when he first joined in season Six. His muscles cramp with a white heat that can’t possibly be good for long-term.
Doc calls his name out and has the audacity to play confused. He asks if he should call someone, as if he needs the back-up. Grian’s about to run himself into the ground on his own. He shakes his head to his question, despite it not being a yes or no question. Grian doesn’t dare backing up, not until Doc is the one to take the first step forward, and then with a flash, Grian’s off.
His wings don’t pick him up as easily as last time. He charges past Doc, ducking in through the underneath of his legs. The move is a practiced one Grian usually demonstrates with a simplistic ease, but his leg bends too slowly. His quad is trembling the moment his knee bends from a locked position. His knee scrapes hard enough to tear his pantleg open.
Using his palms and too-fatigued wings, Grian pushes himself up off the ground just in time for a weight to register against his back.
His head is too fuzzy to properly acknowledge the hand for what it is. Grian screams upon reflective instinct, and it must be something terrifying because Doc lets him go like he’s scalding hot. Grian doesn’t wait to rub in his intimidating wings. He picks himself up running, trying and failing after three bad jumps before he’s taking himself up into the sky.
Grian doesn’t know where he’s going, or if there’s really anywhere he could go. His mind doesn’t leave him any space to think properly. He’s flapping uselessly to try and manage any distance between them at all.
There isn’t much at all he can do. He catches the sight of something blurry and colorful, vaguely human shaped, and Grian’s wings make the choice for him to suddenly swoop down.
(In his confused brain, he doesn’t think to question someone waiting for him in that open Perimeter.)
Grian makes a disastrous stoop down low. His wings are flailing to slow his quick descent down, down, until he’s almost a splatter of flesh against pavement. His wings catch the air in a smooth push of wind, and Grian rides it until his feet are kicking out. His foot hits the floor, and he doesn’t stop running. His wings are still flapping too quickly, and now he’s just running himself over into the ground. He’s made smoother landings as an avian for the majority of his life, but the exhaust over him has made him a sloppy flier and a sloppier lander.
His feet don’t stop hitting against the ground until he’s crashing against that spot of color he had seen from above. He didn’t care who he found, he just needed someone. He crashes roughly against an armored chest just as his eyes flutter shut.
“Whoa! Whoa, there,” Tango’s hoarse voice rings out. Grian whimpers, squeezing his eyes shut even tighter, and pushes his cheek against Tango’s chestplate.
“Doc’s crazy,” Grian says. He’s panting horribly. “You’ve gotta--” Grian breaks off as he gasps for air. Tango manhandles a grip on Grian’s arms and tries to help keep his head up. His head is too full of light to keep up, so he keeps himself bent over even as the air refuses to come into his lungs. His hands tighten around Tango’s arms until his talons are outstretched and threatening to break through skin.
“Cool it, cool it,” Tango says. “What’s happening?”
“Doc--” Grian thinks he hears something and whips his head around. There’s no one there, but he can’t stop twirling. Looking over his shoulder to ensure Doc isn’t about to pop out of the bushes. “Doc’s trying to kill me. I br--” Would Tango still help him? If he knew Grian was at fault? He shakes his head as if to get rid of the thought. “I need you to hide me. I don’t know what he’s gonna--”
Tango laughs. His voice booms like an anvil crashing over him. Grian’s nails break skin, if the wetness coating his hands is any indicator of. He forces his head to lift up, despite the overwhelming nausea coursing over him.
“Tango,” Grian rasps pathetically. There’s spit in the corner of his lip, threatening to trail out. He’s about to be sick. “I’m not playing. Please .”
“Why do you think Doc’s gonna hurt you?” Tango asks instead of helping him, instead of doing anything worthwhile. His heart splinters and he pushes Tango this time, but he still doesn’t budge.
“Help, help, just - just take me to your base? Please? I’ll owe you! Whatever you want, netherite? I have netherite. Just take me somewhere safe.” Grian has all but offered his life on the line and practically endless servitude. Tango finally jumps to action and reaches around to grab onto his wrist as if he’s going to do a fireman’s carry. Grian fidgets, stepping back to try and help him getting him up and over. While he’s not fond of being carried, he’s got no choice of getting out of here otherwise.
Grian starts to pull himself up when he hears a rocket firing. His talons dig in sharply as he pivots where a flash of green and a pink, butterfly elytra starts coursing towards him.
“Dammit, Tango, now !” Grian barks. Tango reaches around, digging his own grip onto Grian in return, but instead of lifting him up and over, he yanks him close.
Grian goes with it, expecting Tango to lift him up bridal style, but all Tango does is grab his wrists and yank them towards his chest.
“Tango?” Grian asks, eyes blown wide. He struggles in Tango’s grasp, to move, to get away, but he doesn’t budge, nor his iron grip. His eyes begin to well, his vision blurring, and the last clear picture he sees is Tango’s sorrowful expression. “Tango, you…”
“Man has unlimited diamonds, ” Tango says. “Or… had. ”
When Grian finally learns to twist away from Tango, it’s too late.
He shifts backwards to try and put some distance, and instead he hits a different wall. He freezes immediately, knowing damn well who remains behind him.
“You got him from here, Doc?” Tango asks.
“Traitor,” Grian spits, even as the two begin to converse over his shoulder as if he’s not even there. A hand wraps around his midsection, careful to avoid his wings, and Tango finally lets go of his wrists. Once freed, Grian sends a well aimed punch to Tango’s nose before he’s fully yanked back and hoisted up by Doc.
Doc does what Tango failed to do, swiping Grian’s back-of-the-knee with his foot until he’s tossing him up into his arms and using one hand to keep one wrist captive. His other raises high, ready to bang against Doc’s own head, but he keeps it far to avoid him from grabbing it, too.
“Fuck,” Tango curses. His hands are covering his nose for a moment as he groans in pain. When he lowers it, a red splash of blood is revealed. “Fuck, get him out of here.”
Tango’s eyes flash dangerously. Blazeborn rage remains behind his pupils, ready to take over. Grian isn’t sure which fury he would rather face. Both are horrible picks. If he had his way, he’d choose neither. Which is why…
“Let go!” Grian roars as he tries to wedge a foot up into Doc’s face. It’s a stretch to be wiggling around like a worm out of soil in his hands. If he’s dropped from this height, it’ll do some horrible damage to his wings. It’s a risk he’s willing to take when Coders know what waits for him at Doc’s wrath. “Let go, Doc, I didn’t mean--”
When he shifts to face Doc, he isn’t expecting the pitiful expression as if he, too, feels remorse for what he’s about to do.