Chapter Text
It was easy to think that leaving the country would fix all of Grian’s problems.
But of course, life’s not that easy, now is it?
So even now as he stands in the airport, gnawing at his bottom lip as he slips through the final stretch of arrival security, passport gripped tightly in hand, Grian is hyper-aware of everything.
Every person he sees and each he doesn’t see is potentially one of them . Even the toddler with sandy hair stuffing chocolate into its mouth. Who knows, they might have recruited the toddler’s parents and brought the little kid along with them. Grian couldn’t be too cautious.
Someone’s eyes meet his for a second as he steps off the escalator, and his throat runs dry like sandpaper. For a flash of a second the face is shadowed by a hooded cloak and the eyes are purple, piercing into his own like they know .
But then they’re brown again and it’s just some guy on a business call.
He pauses to breathe, standing metres from the doors to exit the airport.
In for three, hold for three, out for three.
A familiar rhythm.
“breathe, grian,” the boy encourage, kneeling in front of him. hands on his shoulders, brown eyes soft and familiar. blond hair. “breathe, mmk? in for three, hold for three, out for three, got it? you can do it, grian, look we can do it together-”
A shiver runs through him, and he has to refocus his breathing and count again to push the blond haired boy from his mind. It takes a minute, but eventually Grian can feel his fingers again.
He drops the backpack from his shoulder to his hands, shoving the passport into one of the hidden pockets in the main compartment, zipping it tight. He pulls out his wallet - old, leather and wearing as it is, it’s never failed him.
Leaving the country was his last ditch attempt at escaping; the ‘go big or go home’ mentality incarnate.
Grian had been planning it for months; applied for his visa, working extra jobs, snagging cash when he could, saving, slowly moving all money from digital to physical. Eventually he’d had enough to get a plane ticket and as much as he could live off until he got a job,
or until he was caught.
He slips out of the airport, tightening the straps on his backpack absent-mindedly. It’s at least an hour’s walk to a town far enough from the airport, but the walk didn’t bother him. It’s cheaper than getting a taxi, and definitely less risky.
So Grian sets off East, not bothering to look at maps for the fear if he knows where he is going then so will they. Instead he walks through block after block, turning corners when he can, using shortcuts and alleyways, cutting through parks - anything and everything to make his path a mess.
It takes an hour for him to reach an area with shops and not just houses, and it would’ve taken less if he hadn’t gone such a messy path, but it was a necessity.
By the time he makes it to the heart of the town - suburb? city? - the clock is ticking around to half past seven in the morning, the sun a welcoming feeling on his cold face.
Grian would’ve liked a coffee, but coffee was risky. Getting coffee required waiting. Waiting meant more time for them to catch up, or find him.
So instead he roams the city.
He buys a few pieces of clothing - all from different shops, all paid in cash. A new red shirt, a bandanna, and a new pair of black jeans. They feel familiar. He ignores it.
He also buys a CD - Frank Sinatra, of all things. ‘The very best of Frank Sinatra’ . It was ten bucks and for some reason, he felt like it was right.
A few books joined the growing collection in his backpack, and a fresh pack of torch batteries from the hardware store.
In between buying items, Grian does his best to make his trail as confusing as possible. He doubles back down streets on the opposite side, slips through stores just to use their back door, walks in circles, even climbs from one fire escape to the adjacent on the third story.
The more he treks, the more Grian knows he needs to eat. And get a coffee.
There’s a pack of muesli bars and some other food stuffed into his backpack, but those are last resort, and considering the amount of cafes and coffee shops littering the city it made sense to just visit one.
He ends up in an all-sorts kind of store.
Grian pushes the door open, wincing as the bells above the door chime softly, slipping inside. Shelves were lined with crystals - bowls of amethyst, of rose quartz, little fabric bags for different selections - and others with books. A fridge in the back stocked milk, soft drinks and juice.
It’s the kind of store you found in the middle of nowhere, yet here it was, in the suburbs.
Grian slips down the aisle to the crystals, intrigued, and as he does he makes eye contact with the man behind the counter…
ᯓ ✈︎
Scar was having a normal day, well, a relatively normal day.
His leg braces were functioning, the weather was nice, the flow of customers had been steady- honestly, he was having a great day!
However, there was something… odd , about this guy.
This guy being the blond haired boy - probably his age, if he had to gamble - with a white collared shirt and red sweater, dark grey pants and a backpack, pulling at his sleeves.
He was twitchy.
Not in the thief way, or the shy way. In the anxious way.
Still, that wasn’t exactly odd.
What was odd was how he’d glanced to the door seven times in the two minutes he’d been in the shop, and yes- Scar had counted.
When he makes eye contact - dark eyes, too dark to tell the colour - Scar sees the strange man flinch and pale. He gives a good-salesman-wave and a good-salesman-smile - Scar’s a very good salesman, and has the perfect wave and smile down to a T - but the man doesn’t reciprocate either.
Instead he turns quickly to look at the crystals again.
Scar’s smile melts.
“Rude-” he mumbles very quietly, so only he can hear, a mild twinge of offense curling in his stomach before vanishing seconds later. He gazes out of the corner of his eye.
The man’s inspecting the crystal bags. Each bag has a collection of a few gemstones with the energy they supposedly manifest; strength, wisdom, balance- and so on and so forth. The bag the man was currently cradling was a ‘protection’ bag, which contained amethyst, smoky quartz and black tourmaline.
Scar shrugs minutely to himself, but continues observing.
After taking the small bag in hand, the man moves to the non-fiction book section, crouching to read the book spines like he has something in mind. His fingers prie a book out of the section. A survival guide.
Scar turns a bit, eyes narrowing.
“Do you need anything?” Scar chirps, smiling and leaning over the counter. The man spins to face him faster than Scar can blink, growing pale and rigid. He stares for a moment, before shaking his head. “No? Coffee? Hot chocolate?”
The man blinks slowly, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly.
Scar takes this as a win and doesn’t bother to stop his lips from curling up further.
“Tea… please?” The man breathes, quiet.
He shifts in place, pulling at the lapel of his shirt, glancing again. His other hand grips the protection crystals like they can help him. Who knows, they might.
Scar’s smile turns soft and he nods slowly, pushing off the counter. This guy looks so… lost. Like he’s escaped something. Like he’s runaway . “Kind?”
The man blinks. “Uh- English breakfast? With milk.”
Scar nods and pressed the little lever to boil the kettle, glancing to the other customers - all on separate tables, absorbed in their phones, books, laptops or staring into their coffee - when he remembers they’re there.
He gestures to the table out of sight from the windows, and tilts his head to the man, who slowly takes a seat, sitting rigid and tense.
Scar brings him his teacup and the little metal milk jug, placing them down on the table as they wait for the kettle. He turns to the man. “I’m Scar.”
The man blinks languidly, in the way that’s confused, not tired. “I’m G,” he replies, but his words are slow and calculated, as though he has to think about it. Scar smiles.
“Do you need help, G ?” Scar murmurs very quietly, his eyes softening. There’s something about this guy - the twitchy, runaway demeanor perhaps - that reminds him of a stray kitten.
The man- G, shakes his head. He gives Scar the tiniest of smiles, nothing more than a turn of the lips. Instead of leaving the table, Scar pauses. He licks his lips.
“Why are you running?” He asks, and then realises what he’s said. The words aren’t said in a harsh way, but they still are a bit. And it’s a bit offensive. But Scar doesn’t have time to think about it, not when G goes white as a sheet and freezes like he’s been paused.
It’s obvious to Scar then, that G is running from something, or someone.
“I’m sorry,” he apologises in a rush. “You just look- I shouldn’t have- it’s just-” Scar splutters, leaning back away from the table, watching G’s face. The other’s eyes - dark and void - are locked on him.
“It’s fine-” G rasps, but the words land heavy and flat, like everything is really not fine.
Scar stands there for a moment, the silence metallic-tasting and awkward. The kettle plays a four note tune to signal it’s done.
“Do you need a place to sleep?” Scar finally breathes, the words escaping him with the rest of his nerves. “Clearly you’re running from something, and I’d be a rude man to not offer.”
G stares at him, contemplating.
He shakes his head.
Scar nods.
He fills the teapot with the boiling water and teabags.
ᯓ ✈︎
Grian takes a tentative sip of his tea once the flavour is strong and he’s poured in the milk. It’s been a while - years even - since he’s had a cup of tea with milk. Or at least, one that didn’t taste bitter on his tongue because everything did.
The man behind the counter - Scar - returns to his duties like he hadn’t almost given Grian a heart attack. Not that he knows that, of course.
Grian doesn’t trust him.
When Scar asked why he was running, Grian thought he was done for. They’d found him. He’d wanted a coffee, come in here, ordered tea, and now he was going to be dragged back.
They’d probably actually cut off his tongue this time.
But now Grian doesn’t think Scar is one of them.
But at the same time, every justification he comes up with is squashed by a rebuttal.
The way he acts, all smiley and warm, surely he couldn’t be one. But then, Grian had met more cheerful people in purple cloaks.
He doesn’t realise he’s finished his tea until he goes to take another sip and is met with air. He fills the cup and begins to drink again.
Grian ends up staying there for a few hours.
He exhausts his current teapot, and drinks another two to go with it - which is an absurd amount of tea to have in such a short time, but he’s missed it.
By the time he moves to the counter to pay for his drinks and trinkets the sun is slipping down in the sky.
“Thirty-one dollars thanks,” Scar tells him with a smile, and Grian stops where he is, fingers in his wallet. He lifts his head.
“That can’t be right-” he replies, tilting his head ever so slightly. “The book, the crystals and the three pots of tea?”
Scar nods slowly. “The book and the crystals. The tea’s on me.”
Grian blinks.
Confusion engulfs him.
“Wha- why?”
The other man shrugs, that insufferably kind smile on his face again. “I dunno. I figure it’s the least I can do.”
He reaches over and takes the money from Grian who’s still standing, frozen in place and staring. Grian blinks and stammers out a ‘thank you’, before rushing to the door.
He steps outside, listens to the door close, and breathes .
The night is chilly, but not cold. A breeze licks down his neck. The streetlights are on, but the sky isn’t black yet. He turns to look left and right, debating which way to go, when he sees it.
A figure.
Nothing more than a silhouette.
In the middle of the road, maybe fifty metres out, staring directly at him. Cloak flowing in the wind, hood over its face. Standing rigid in place.
Watching .
Grian turns and runs back into the shop.
Air escapes him, all oxygen extinguished from his lungs. His breathing turns fast and uncoordinated, not deep and not effective. His vision blurs with panic tears. His fingers grip his backpack straps. His body shakes .
The figure is gone.
He knows, instantly, that it wasn’t real.
He turns.
Scar is staring at him, eyes wide, frozen in place where he’s bent over the cash register.
Their eyes meet.
Neither talks.
A minute passes.
“Do you need a place to stay?” Scar repeats, the offer lingering in the air.
Grian’s heart is still racing, his breathing is still uneven, and his eyes are still unfocused.
He nods.