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angeart · 5 months

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And 29!

--from ao3 wrapped [writers edition]

29: Favorite line/passage you wrote this year?

this is a very interesting question! and also very difficult, given the amount of things i've written in combination with my bad memory. so of course i went and dug through things, overthinking this, even though, really, i know exactly what to answer. still, let me take the long route. (because i'm an idiot and there's no other way.)

so first i'll ramble about things i like.

starting with the phrase that always makes me weak, and i don't think i use it enough, but characters just dissipating into giggles—that exact wording. like. c'mon. that. whenever i get to use it, i'm so happy. it's such a lack of control and overflow of joy. the best thing ever.

but if we move into specific passages... (i go on a bit of a tangent, so the rest is under the line-) (dancing scene at the end there and a bit of a hmtb spoiler/sneakpeek/preview for you guys)

i looked over the cursed forest au fic (even with death haunting your footsteps, your flowers will bloom again), looking for pretty sentences, and the problem is, that fic is full of pretty sentences. (i honestly don't know how i did that, but it does make me happy.) something about words like the warzone of his good intentions, you know? (i had more. i'm trying to be concise.) (i promise.)

but really, there's one phrase in that fic that i do think about sometimes still. so it needs to be mentioned. here:

It still hurts, to be treated so gently, but unlike everything else, it hurts in a way he thinks he might be able to survive.

------

i also want to bring up a sentence from Elegy that lives in my head rent-free (this is from chapter 3, which i'm aware is unreleased as of now, but shh):

The grief is a guillotine, and he’s bending forward, hair falling away from his neck, baring skin and bracing for impact.

there's just something about that that refuses to let me go.

------

but! i also enjoyed writing happy things. (shocking)

especially this passage from these flowers will wither (like you and me), but they're not dead yet was very fun to write:

Grian grins at him, something bright and cheeky. “Do you want to try that again?”

There’s a pause when Scar attempts to recalibrate. (He fails.) (He absolutely fails.)

He tries to grab something rational in him, tries to tell himself that Grian means dancing. But his traitorous heart supplies a wholly different answer to him.

Scar pushes himself up and, with fingers sliding along Grian’s jaw, he presses his lips to Grian’s.

(They’re warm. They’re chapped. They’re Grian Grian Grian Grian.)

He feels the vibration of Grian’s laughter against him before he really registers the sound.

“That’s not what I meant,” Grian scolds, but there’s no bite in it; he sounds entirely too pleased and amused, even as he piles a handful of sand on top of Scar’s head in playful revenge.

------

and this honestly now brings me to hmtb. which is where we anchor.

believe it or not, there is a happy scene that i can't stop thinking about (just the sheer power of it, across all the pain and messes and saddness—scar making grian laugh like this.)

------ hmtb chapter 49:

Scar looks at him innocently and presents his question: “What is a romp, Impulse?”

Grian bursts out laughing.

A big, toothy grin spreads across Scar’s face at the sound.

Impulse’s eyes briefly flit to Mumbo and he feels his face get hot. “I— What— That’s not fair!” he whines. “That’s not a truth, that’s a, Scar, I’m not a dictionary!”

At that, Grian laughs harder, bending over. His giggles tip over proper cackling, a bit breathless around the edges, and Scar thinks it’s the most wonderful sound in the whole world.

------ and of course this moment from chapter 47:

Neither of them can help it; their lips treacherously stretch into smiles where they’re pressed against each other, before they both helplessly dissipate into giggles, feeling lightheaded and high.

“What are we doing,” Grian huffs out through his laughter.

“Kissing,” Scar replies cheerfully and demonstratingly places three kisses along Grian’s jaw.

It’s the best thing in the world.

------

bet you didn't expect me to pull out the happy scenes out of this mess of a fic. ha.

but also! one the things i really like and enjoy is throwing anything to do with explosives, tnt, fire, etc, at scar and grian. like this:

Skin tingling and heart feeling like TNT on the verge of explosion, Scar moves to follow him, blindly, willingly, the way he’d follow him anywhere.

and this:

Watching him, Scar laughs quietly. He thinks of the sound the flint and steel makes, of the little click, of the hiss of TNT as it readies itself to cause damage. It sounds like his heart feels. He thinks of sparks that catch on leaves and grass and bark, a tree going up in flames, the catastrophic heat spreading violently to anything it touches, and he wonders if that is how Grian’s heart feels.

------

now, since i'm already rambly. there is one bit of hmtb i keep thinking back to constantly. and it's a particular conversation from chapter 21 (the talk in the middle of a crisis). this bit in particular:

“He wasn’t afraid then. He knew you could kill him, but he wasn’t scared. And you know what, Grian? You didn’t kill him,” he finishes softly.

“I… didn’t kill him?” Grian repeats, dazed and wobbly.

“He wasn’t scared, and you didn’t kill him”

(you guys should keep this in mind too. it might get a callout sometime, uhhhhh, around chapter 100 or so at this rate—)

(don't worry about that, ofc.)

and now for the real answer. (wow.)

because here's the thing. you're asking what's my favourite passage. and really, i love all those other things too, but there's one particular bit of writing that hits closer than any other.

the dancing bits.

the heartachy, complicated, painful dancing bits.

and yes, this ties to the whole fic i wrote about them dancing in the desert, but listen. the purely-hmtb bits? those? those. okay?

here we go:

------ hmtb chapter 37: call of the desert

Scar sighs a little and says: “I miss it.”

“Scar,” Grian’s voice is absolutely unsteady.

They haven’t really talked about the desert, not since it was over.

Nobody ever talks about life games, if they can avoid it.

But now Grian sits here and he has to forcefully remind himself that the skin over his knuckles isn’t torn raw and that Scar’s blood isn’t coating his hands and he has to accept that Scar misses the desert and Grian also misses it, in a way, and it’s all so dizzying, it makes him lightheaded.

“We used to dance,” Scar says thoughtfully. “Why don’t we do it anymore?”

“I forgot how,” Grian barely manages to get out. He didn’t forget. In fact, he remembers every step Scar taught him. He remembers them stumbling together into a fall, a small giggling heap on top of the warm sand, limbs tangled. He remembers the moment when Scar grinned wildly at him, joy bright in his eyes, as they completed a couple of steps without a hitch for the first time. He remembers how they laughed and danced, giddy and high on life in a world that promised nothing but death.

He doesn’t want to remember. It hurts his heart.

“I can teach you again,” Scar suggests softly.

The pain in Grian’s heart just gets worse.

Scar reaches for Grian’s hand, then. Even if they’re both sitting on Grian’s bed and they can’t dance like this, he still slides his fingers underneath Grian’s palm and brings it up, in exactly the same way he held it when they danced. With curved lips, he hums a melody.

Grian looks at him, absolutely wretched. His hand twitches in Scar’s grasp, but he doesn’t pull it away. “Scar,” he half-whispers, in a miserable tone. He meant to say stop, but he can’t bring himself to. So he just pleads, using Scar’s name itself, hoping the other man will get it.

Scar studies Grian for a second, before he lowers their hands. He huffs out a small laugh. “It’s okay. We can leave it for some other time.”

Grian purses his lips. He doesn’t say there won’t be another time. He doesn’t say he doesn’t want this. He doesn’t say that something in him desperately wants this, actually, please Scar please.

------

but, you know what. it isn't over.

this answer has been long enough. i know. i know. (i appreciate and love everyone who bothered to read this far <3 ) but. but there's more.

there is more, and it's so closely related, these scenes are entwined and live snugly side-by-side in my heart. but. here's the thing.

this next bit is 1,2k long, and it's from a chapter that, as of now, hasn't been released yet. for the curious, greedy, hungry souls (love you all to bits), here it is:

------ hmtb chapter [unspecified]

Scar blinks and recalibrates under the scrutiny. His eyes dart to the jukebox and he lets a smile spread across his lips, as he reaches out a hand to Grian. “Hey, G, you wanna dance?”

Grian’s eyes widen a fraction, thrown off by the abrupt suggestion. “I’m… not sure,” he manages to say, eyes dropping to Scar’s invitingly outstretched hand, palm-up and ready for him.

His emotions wrangle in him—a need to be close, to give in, to accept everything Scar’s giving him, pushed violently against the sharp memories of sand and desert, something happy tiding over into blood and pain and misery.

He flexes his fingers, pulls them into a fist and then stretches them out, trying to unknot the tension and release the slight tremble that courses through them. His throat feels dry, all of a sudden.

“It’s okay,” Scar says in the softest tone that never fails to tug at Grian’s heart. “I can lead.”

The music turns mildly cacophonic, askew and sick. It buzzes and pitches and tilts, in a way music isn’t supposed to be able to. And Grian realises that he’s told Scar before that he forgot how to dance.

Scar taught him all the steps, back in the desert. A lot of hours spent in the stifling air upon sun-warmed evening sand, stumbling and laughing and holding onto each other. Their skin was more tanned then. Their eyes were brighter, their souls wilder. They felt unstoppable.

Grian feels anything but right now.

He doesn’t know if he can take it.

But Scar’s reaching out to him and Grian finds that he cannot turn away from it, his body shackled and chained, unable to resist. And so even if everything in him screams no, he still finds himself reaching back, meeting Scar’s hands with his own trembling fingers, trepidation sinking its teeth into him.

Scar’s smile brightens and oh, maybe it’s not trepidation that Grian feels.

He feels Scar’s fingers take hold of his hand, secure and warm; they pull at him, but not in a destabilising way. It’s the opposite: they tell Grian exactly where to be. Scar’s other arm finds Grian torso and seamlessly slides across to his back, sending shivers down Grian’s spine; his wings stretch out and shudder, before they fall back, feathers lightly brushing over Scar’s skin.

Everything about this is electrifying, and it’s driving Grian haywire.

He thinks maybe he needs to stop thinking. Maybe he needs to give in to the part of him that wants to let Scar have control of the two of them now; the part of him that wants to trust and believe that he’s safe; the part of him that craves affection with ugly, hungry desperation.

Scar leans closer and with a rumbling baritone wrapped in velvet, he checks: “Ready?”

Running on nothing but instinct, Grian squeezes at Scar’s hand.

With a low chuckle, Scar lets go of Grian’s back and Grian almost gasps at the abrupt loss—but all Scar does is guide Grian’s free hand to his waist. “Like this,” he murmurs, his voice just a step away from purring, and then his hand slots back against Grian’s spine.

A trembling breath leaves Grian’s lips and he dips his head, leaning forwards, inching closer to Scar. He feels the response in the way Scar’s touch on his back turns firm, accepting the new closeness with reverent neediness. He can’t see Scar’s face, but he can tell Scar’s lips are curved in a smile, cheeks slightly dimpling.

He almost wishes to look, but he can’t, he can’t, it’s too much.

He takes a deep breath though his nose. The air isn’t dry and hot. The ground doesn’t shift underneath his feet.

It hasn’t shifted underneath his feet in ages, but right now in this very moment, a part of Grian distantly thinks that it should. That if they’re going to dance, it should be atop a mountain, feet sinking into sand.

They’re standing on carpeted floor, and the music disc is one they didn’t have in the desert, the sounds of it wrapping around them in a rhythm completely discordant to the fast beating of Grian’s heart.

With gentle and deliberate move, Scar directs them to sway. Their feet shift, steady on the solid floor, something learned and simple. Scar leads them in careful, basic steps, the ones he used at the very beginning to teach Grian. Back when even that was too much, and Grian kept stepping on his feet, and Scar kept catching him.

Scar doesn’t need to catch Grian now, because Grian knows these steps. They’re imbued in his muscle memory, something sunken and anchored, a part of his soul that’s reserved for things that feel like home.

Testingly, Scar throws in something more complex. He pulls Grian along, turning them in circles, every step confident and filled with joy. The music is the background rhythm, but they’re both locked somewhere else, in a fragment of a memory—something that used to be; something that Scar believes could be again.

With a curve to his lips, Scar hums and remarks: “You said you don’t remember.”

Grian’s breath hitches and it’s only now that he lifts his head to meet Scar’s gaze. Despite that, his feet do not stumble; he doesn’t need to watch where he steps, he knows it all by heart. His gaze anchors in green eyes and something rises within him so tidally and overwhelmingly that he feels hot wetness blur his vision all of a sudden. “How could I forget?” he manages past the lump in his throat.

Scar gently lets go of Grian’s hand and instead reaches to touch Grian’s jaw, brushing his thumb soothingly over Grian’s cheek as he takes in the raw, ravaging emotion in Grian’s eyes.

Grian moves his suddenly free arm around Scar, fingers finding purchase in the fabric of Scar’s shirt, digging into it until he has a firm grip. His lungs spasm in his chest, his heart stutters, his wings droop then lift and spread. A loose feather drops to the floor and Scar sidesteps it expertly, as if it was somehow too precious to damage.

“You remember,” Scar murmurs, an odd inflection to his voice.

Grian’s skin buzzes where Scar touches it; a tingling, warm sensation spreads from Scar’s fingertips and robs Grian of breath. “Of course,” he murmurs, quiet, destabilised.

Scar’s eyes crinkle in joy, lips spreading into a bright, toothy smile that ends in dimpled skin as he looks at Grian. He makes no attempt to call out Grian’s earlier lie; he seems content in knowing that this is the truth, warm and alive underneath his fingers, guided by his steps. “Oh, I wouldn’t mind teaching you again, but this makes me so happy!” he admits openly, fractionally heightening their tempo as he leads them in spinning circles, everything in him attuned to the music even as it becomes nothing more than a background noise.

Grian isn’t ready for those words. Nor for the way Scar looks at him.

He feels like he’s drowning, and Scar’s both his sea and his oxygen.

Scar starts humming in tune, the happy expression lingering on his face, and it’s only then that the discordant rhythm of the song disentangles and starts making sense to Grian. It’s only the reverb of Scar’s voice that puts coherency into Grian’s existence; into their steps across the carpet that doesn’t give underneath their weight; into the way the room sways around them, full of warm shadows and flickering flames and muted colours not quite matching sand.

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