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Sometimes Grian feels like he's stuck in the desert.
Sometimes he wakes up in a sweat, and he can't remember why. He vaguely feels the absence of heat, and he feels like he's missing something. He also feels awful, like he's just murdered someone, or something crazy like that. as he gains consciousness, he realizes that could've actually been it. When that happens, he doesn't fall back asleep.
Sometimes he wakes up in a sweat, and he does remember why. Remembers from just moments ago the hot summer sun, bright and high in the sky. The harsh blinding light and warmth reflecting off the golden sand, burning his skin and eyes. He remembers the feeling of skin beneath his hands, beneath his fists.
He remembers the drop, falling, wind in his feathers tucked tightly against his back.
He remembers that smile, remaining long after it should have disappeared, and the moment it was gone, replaced by nothing.
He remembers those red eyes, looking at him with care he never had anywhere else. He remembers when those red eyes no longer carrying such care, replaced by nothing.
He doesn't see green eyes or flushed skin, blood flowing through, not out.
He can't even look at Scar anymore. If he does, he's bombarded with flashbacks to a ring of cactus, blood spilling over the sand. He can't look at his skin without seeing how it's burst open, red and black and blue and gray.
He doesn't want to feel that skin beneath his hands or his fists. He doesn't want to see that red bright against that yellow and gray, the sand and his skin. He doesn't want to fall, he wants to spread his wings and soar.
He doesn't want to hurt him.
Thankfully, the desert is long gone.
Sometimes Scar feels like he's stuck in the desert.
Sometimes he wakes up and regrets it. He would've much rather stayed asleep, where things haven't changed.
He remembers the feeling of skin beneath his hands, beneath his lips.
He remembers long, cold, freezing cold nights, huddled together for warmth. He remembers other freezing cold nights, huddled together for other reasons.
He remembers the lovely smile that warmed him in the way the desert's blistering heat could not. He remembers the laugh that filled the air with a hypnotic melody, even as it was harsh and loud, celebrating a successful trap, or softer and quieter, celebrating a peaceful moment, a joke, a purposeful misspeak he made just so he could hear that sweet sound. He remembers the burning touch, the sweet taste, the desire, the passion, the want, the need.
He remembers the red, amplifying his emotions. The lust to see more red. Blood, guts, poppies, feathers, sweaters.
He sees red, turned away from him. He doesn't think he's seen Grian's face after that first night back, filled with tears and apologies spilling out.
All he wants in that moment is to pull him close. Say something silly, he knows he's saying it wrong, but he wants to say it anyway, to hear that melody and chiding comment. To press their lips together until they no longer feel heat or cold around them, just each other.
He wants him.
But the desert is long gone.