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Grian Goodtimes @xelquagoodtimes . 15m
Looking good in the stands today, hoping for some @Goodtimes. Good luck, Purple Pandas!!! (@ScottMajorOFC, @SolidarityGaming, @Ethoslab, we’re rooting for you!)
[Image ID: Grian, an average-height avian man with short dark blond hair, black eyes, and light skin, is sitting on a set of red bleachers. His wings, which are black, are tucked behind his back. Around him are five others—Bdubs, a short man with tan skin, close-cropped black hair, black eyes, and a wide smile; Pearl, a tall woman with shoulder-length brown hair, blue eyes, and light skin; Gem, a medium-height woman with curly orange hair, green eyes, and freckled light skin with triangular green scales on her cheeks; Cleo, a tall zombie woman with long, wavy ginger hair, blue eyes, and green skin marked with stitches; and Tango, a medium-height blazeborn man with choppy blond hair, red eyes, and light skin with a faint reddish tinge to it. They all have purple shirts with panda faces in dark purple and white on. Bdubs has a purple foam finger, and Pearl, Cleo, and Tango all have purple baseball caps on. Everyone is smiling.]
The Championships were in full swing, and Grian leaned against the railing to watch as his husband and the other players prepared at the Terra Swoop Force platform.
He wished he could have been on the platform with him. Technically, he was meant to be there. Unfortunately, he’d been sick for the past couple of weeks, throwing up every morning and every night at sunset almost like a clock. It was bad. Thankfully, they’d settled it somewhat. It hadn’t been in time for the Championships, though—he was under the minimum weight for the games (everyone took a physical, and he just hadn’t met the requirements, and the organizers wanted to cover their bases). So, instead, Scott had subbed in for his sake, because it was too close to the deadline.
While Grian couldn’t play the Championship with his husband, though, he could still attend them. A few of the other Hermits (okay, five other Hermits) had tagged along. He was sharing a bleacher bench with Bdubs, Pearl, Gem, Cleo, and Tango. At some point, someone had gotten kettle corn, and Tango and Cleo were currently throwing pieces at Bdubs. All of them were trying to catch pieces in their mouths. There was a man bellowing out about hot dogs, wandering up and down the stands.
Leaning back, Grian settled in his seat. Scar had brought one of his little seat pads with him. For the past couple of days, his hips had been bugging him. They were still bugging him. Mostly his left hip, really, radiating from the middle of his hip and stretching down to his knee and up his lower back. Whatever. He’d dealt with worse. Going through growth spurts with his wings had been awful. Plus, he’d been attacked by mobs, been spawn camped, there was the whole thing with Sam—he’d survived plenty. He could handle a little bit of hip pain for three hours or so.
Besides, Pearl had been nice enough to grab him a hot dog with everything he wanted, even though it was a really weird request. He knew it was a request as he asked for it. Along with drinking orange juice (even though he hated orange juice and it made him gag) by the gallon as of late, he’d wanted relish on it. Relish. Grian also hated pickles. Which relish was made of. He didn’t even really eat hot dogs with mustard, either. Ketchup, sure. But all three with bits of popcorn sprinkled on top with orange juice as a chaser? It was weird.
Wolfing down another one of his weird hot dogs, Grian glanced up at the screens. For yet more safety reasons, audience members weren’t allowed to be on the same platform as the Terra Swoop players. If Ace Race came around, then they might be able to catch a glimpse of them all flying by. Currently, Scar was having a hard time getting the armor over the braces on his legs, because he had to shift them into flying mode and there had been some kind of disaster with his usual armor that meant they hadn’t been able to prep it beforehand.
Really, it was ridiculous. There were plenty of players who needed “atypical” armor for Terra Swoop Force. Avians like Philza, False, Pearl, even Grian himself, who would need to have larger packs on their backs for their bound wings. Phantoms like Bdubs who needed to have specialized armor and bindings for their fragile wings. Cat hybrids, dog hybrids, creeper and slime mutants, blazeborns, even someone like Gem or Fwhip, whose codes had been affected and now had dragon scales and other features that could change how the armor fit them. That the organizers had only one set of armor for Scar that they constantly had to repaint every time he gamed was…kind of odd.
Also kind of odd, it didn’t make Grian mad.
Well, it did make him mad.
But mostly, it just made him want to cry.
As he finished the last bite of his hot dog, Grian wiped off his face with a napkin and paused. “You’ve gone through six hot dogs in the past hour. That’s more than normal. You alright, Griba?” Pearl asked, worriedly.
“I’m more worried about his stomach, really.” Gem commented. “That much grease and rich food right after being sick for a whole month? That can’t be good for you!”
“I swear it feels like I’m eating for three of me.” He groaned, rolling his eyes. Everyone looked at him. Shrugging, Grian turned back to the screens. “Oh, hey! They’re starting!”
True to his word, they were starting. Grian settled his arms on the railing, looking ahead. All thoughts of his food (or, his stomach’s perceived lack of food) were forgotten. So were any thoughts about doing things like, say, thinking about what was around him. Who was around him.
Looking back, it would have been obvious. It was obvious. A man with a hoodie pulled up over his hair, his ears. The red and blue headphones settled around his neck. Sure, the clothes were different—a dark brown jacket, blue jeans with a few rips at the knees, combat boots with red and blue laces—but the way he walked through the crowd, the way he followed Grian and the others to their seats and then lingered a few bleacher rows above them, the fact that he had beelined right to Grian as soon as he knew the attention was on the screens. It was obvious. Still, hindsight was twenty-twenty. Or, really, hindsight was a couple dozen of the most expensive cameras that Scott and the Championship organizers could get.
There was an arm wrapped around Grian’s throat before he even had the chance to really process it. The cold barrel of a gun pressed to his cheek. Stiffening, he tilted his head to the side. There was a face inches from his, black eyes with bags underneath them and brown hair sticking out from under the hoodie. Swallowing, Grian stared at him.
“Sam?” He croaked out. His stomach flipped. It didn’t stop, either, churning as his breath caught in his throat.
“Hey, Gree-on. What’s up? We haven’t talked in a while.” The gun traced under his jawline, pressing to his carotid artery. With another gulp, Grian gripped the railing. His knuckles went bloodless. In his chest, his heart started pounding. Copper flooded his mouth. Grian swallowed again. Pressing the gun into Grian’s neck, Sam grinned slyly, “Now, I’d hate for there to be a mess. Wouldn’t you? So how about we—”
Grian made the mistake of coughing, turned to look at Sam—
Apparently Gem was right.
The hot dogs did not agree with his delicate stomach.
Staggering back, Sam squealed in disgust. The others turned to look over, and Gem and Pearl’s eyes widened. He didn’t see what happened next, because Sam aimed the gun at him, swearing violently. The others lunged. Then, suddenly, there was a sharp crack! The gun went off. Ears ringing, he staggered back, hands pressed to his head as he cried out. Someone caught his arm. He turned, found Bdubs. Bdubs pulled him back, supporting him between him and then dragging him back. Tango and Cleo shoved themselves between them and Sam, shouting if he had to guess. The world was spinning and ringing.
Wavering, Grian slumped to the side with a groan.
Bdubs caught him before his head smashed into the ground.
“Scar, wait—”
“No, Grian!”
Scar? Why was Scar trying to—who was stopping Scar? What had happened? What—
“Grian!” Where was his husband? Why weren’t they letting him close?
There were bright lights above his head, beaming down into his eyes. Wincing, Grian stared up above his head. He couldn’t breathe. There was something fixed to his face. “What are you doing to him?” Gem? Why was Gem panicking? What happened?
Why did his head hurt so much?
“Did you know?” Bdubs demanded, voice pitching up in a panic. “Scar!”
“How was I meant to—”
A warm hand wrapped around his. Tilting his head to the side, Grian blinked past the blurriness. His eyes found a familiar green gaze, gentle and soft and—there were still people shouting, he really didn’t want to hear, people were talking to Scar and—
The world dropped out again.
When he woke up, he was lying in a hospital bed.
Tilting his head to the side, he found Scar sitting at his bedside, holding his hand. Huh. Normally, this is the other way around. Swallowing thickly, Grian choked out, “Did you win?”
Scar’s head shot up, green eyes widening and then falling on his face. Cracking a smile, Grian watched him. Scar didn’t return the smile. When he didn’t, Grian dropped the smile and looked at him. With a gulp, Scar looked down at their linked fingers. Then, he croaked, “Did you know?”
“Did I know?” Grian prompted, looking at him in confusion. Carefully, Scar massaged his fingers, kneading his palm. When he started playing with Grian’s wedding ring, his breath hitched. “Are you—did something happen, Scar?”
“Did you know?” Scar repeated. Looking up, eyes filling with tears, he asked, “Did you know about the—the baby?”
“The baby?” Grian froze. Pulling his hand from Scar’s, hearing the oxygen monitor beep as his breathing quickened, he braced his hands against his stomach. His heart skipped a few beats. “No, that’s not—I—Sam—”
“The baby’s fine, the baby’s okay,” Scar said, scrambling to take his hands away from his stomach. “The baby’s okay. I just—you didn’t know?”
“No, I—” Breath hitching, Grian stared at him. His vision was blurring. “I didn’t know. I forgot—I forgot this could even happen.”
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s okay.” Scar said, frantically. “The medics checked you over. The baby’s fine. According to them, you only passed out because of a vasovagal response. It was the heat, the shock of the situation, probably also the fact that you hur-honk—you threw up all over Sam.” He waved one hand around. Looking at him, Grian clutched the hand of Scar’s hand that he still had.
“Are you okay?”
“Am I okay?” Pulling away, Scar stood up. He began to pace around. Running his hands into his hair, he glanced at Grian a few times, stumbling over his words before eventually stopping, taking a breath, and speaking again. “Grian, I’m fine. I am. I just—you’re asking me if I’m okay? You almost got shot!”
“I’m aware.” Grian said, resting a hand over his stomach. Thinking, he mused, I guess I know why I’ve been sick as of late. And why I was eating such weird food. “Scar, I’m alive. I’m here. It’s okay.”
Scar glanced at him. Lips drawn into a thin line, he raised a hand to his mouth, stopped his pacing, and then murmured, “You almost weren’t. Both of you almost weren’t, and I can’t—I didn’t even know.”
Grian tried to push himself up. Quickly, Scar went to his side, setting a hand on his forearm. Their gazes met. “I didn’t know, either. It’s okay. This sort of thing is—it’s new. It’s definitely not how I wanted to find out. But we’re here, we’re okay,” He pulled one of Scar’s hands to his belly, pressing it against his shirt. Scar’s eyes flicked up to his face. Again, he swallowed. “We’re all here.”
Scar burst into tears, leaning in to press his forehead to Grian’s. He gently kissed Grian’s cheek, then his jaw, before resting his head on his husband’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re okay. I really am.” He whispered. “End, I love you.”
Laughing, Grian rested his cheek against Scar’s hair, closing his eyes.