#aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

Grian buries his face in his hands. He never should have signed up for this. Out of the ten-some other players in the immediate vicinity, why couldn’t he have blown up anyone else? Why couldn’t he end up with loyalty pledged to Tango, or Etho, or literally any other player on the server?

“C’mon, Grian,” Scar wheedles. “Nobody’s gonna attack! We have the cactus walls, and the lava moat, and the alarm system you rigged today! Even if someone did try to take some sand, we’d know.”

“Right. The alarm system that consists of a bunch of bells and string, which goes off at the slightest breeze. I have so much faith in it.”

“Great, we’re on the same page! So it’ll be totally safe for us to sleep together.” “Scar! I will push you off my mountain!”

“Hey! I resent that—it’s as much my mountain as it is yours.”

Grian lifts his head. Enough of Scar is visible that he can see the self-satisfied smirk on his face.

And somehow, he’s half tempted to agree with Scar just to get him to go to bed.

It is pretty chilly out, after all. And he’s very tired. He’d only volunteered to take first watch because he really didn’t want to be woken up in the middle of a sleep cycle. First watch just means staying up a couple of extra hours and then sleeping soundly.

He glances at Scar again, who—oh, he’s making the puppy-dog eyes—

“Fine,” Grian grumbles, hauling himself to his feet. Scar scrambles up as well and runs for the house, sand flying behind him.

“At least shake the blankets out!” calls Grian. Scar ignores him.

Does he really want to get into bed with a madman? All it takes is the Red haze getting to Scar, and he’s dead in an instant. No armor, no weapon, nothing to protect him from being stabbed in the gut by his supposed ally.

Then a bitingly cold gust of wind blows sand in his nostrils, and Grian decides he’s rather fed up with all this desert stuff and would much rather be asleep, Scar or no. They should be safe to not worry about watches until tomorrow—after all, Scar’s done nothing to torment anyone (other than Grian) this week! Never mind that it’s Monday night. 

He heads inside, shucking off his sweater right outside the door to shake it off. His bedroom is the first one on the left, putting Scar deeper in the house and therefore safer, so he turns to go in there—

Of course. Scar’s in his bed.

He’d held onto some strand of hope that maybe Scar had been joking about sleeping together, maybe he’d just been trying to get Grian to go to sleep so he could set out on some dastardly scheme without anyone to hold him back. But Scar’s there, blanket pulled up to his chin, a nightcap (where did he get that?) on his head.

“Why, hello there, Grian!” Scar grins at him. “Ready for some sleepy-times-with-Scar? I’ve been warming the bed up for you.”

Grian almost walks right back out the door. Suddenly, being on watch doesn’t sound that bad.

This might be the last full night of sleep he gets for a while.

“All right. Ground rules,” Grian says, shutting the bedroom door behind him. Scar cheers, arms up in the air, the blanket falling off to reveal a grey six-pack and copious amounts of sand.

“Scar! Put a shirt on! That’s the first rule, wear clothes!”

“But-but-but skin contact, Grian!”

“I am putting my foot down! Clothes on in bed!”

Muttering darkly to himself, Scar rolls out of bed, wearing nothing but his nightcap and a pair of shorts. Grian takes the opportunity to tear the sheets and covers off the bed, shaking them out before stretching them back over the thin mattress. He really ought to change the sheets, but he doesn’t have the wool nor the time to make an extra set. They’ll have to make do with this for now, and maybe he can take a moment tomorrow to wash them.

Scar’s put on a t-shirt, which Grian supposes is the best he’s going to get. He kicks off his shoes and socks, strips out of his jeans and dusts his legs off. There’s enough sand clinging to his leg hair that his skin has practically changed color, a clear line separating the brown and starkly pale from where his socks had been. That’s just awful. Of all places, why on earth did Scar have to pick the worst one?

He can dip into the river to bathe tomorrow, and maybe he can convince Scar to wash off as well (not likely, seeing as Scar has as much aversion to a bath as a feral cat, but it’s worth a try).

He’s washing the sheets anyway. It won’t be a problem to get them this little bit dirtier.

Grian climbs into bed, and Scar hops in next to him immediately. “Second ground rule—” Grian starts, but before he can finish, Scar has almost entirely enveloped him in a burning hot hug.

He can feel the tension just ooze out of Scar’s body as they lie there, Scar’s body burning his at every place they touch. The man sighs, burying his nose in Grian’s hair.

And Grian. . . .

Grian relaxes too.

Just a bit! And it’s just—it’s really just because he’s lying down, and he’s been so terribly tired. No other reason.

Still. He’s hesitant to push Scar away. He does, of course, sitting up to pull up the covers and thereby disrupting Scar’s hold.

“Second rule,” he repeats. “No touching. No cuddling, hugging, or anything of the sort.”

“That’s a bad rule.”

Grian sighs. “Oh yeah? Why?”

Scar gestures wildly, almost knocking the candle off the bedside table. Grian leans over him and grabs it just in time, blows out the flame. “Well—well, the whole reason we’re sleeping together is for shared body warmth! No touching totally ruins that!”

Grian shouldn’t give in easily. He really shouldn’t. But now bereft of Scar’s touch, he feels even colder than before. All the burning points of contact are just numb, now. And Grian really wants to be warm.

“All right, fine.”

Scar tackles him before he can even lie all the way down. Grian decides to just accept it, honestly. What else can he do?

“Third rule: no talking. We are here to sleep.”

Scar nods, releasing Grian for a moment to mime zipping up his lips.

Good. Grian lays back against his pillow, pulling the blanket up to his collarbone, and sighs. It’s not too bad, really. At least this way, if someone comes to kill them in their sleep, they’ll go out together.

That’s . . . a weird thought to have. Grian’s in the middle of decidedly not analyzing it when something ice cold presses against his legs.

He definitely does not screech as he kicks against it. “Scar! Get your cold feet away from me!”

“I’m sorry! It’s just that I’ve been so cold ever since I died, and you’re like a mini space heater over here!”

Grian groans, trying to maneuver his legs in such a way that as much of the covers as possible are between his legs and Scar’s. “I’m about to bring back rule number two, so behave.”

Scar falls silent again, and Grian tries to relax (in his arms). It’s not difficult to feel the pull of sleep. It’s not difficult to let sleep claim him, his limbs heavy and brain slowing to a soupy mush. It feels so nice to not be poised for battle, not be planning their next move. He hasn’t felt this peaceful in weeks.

“Grian?” comes a whisper from beside him.

He’s suddenly aware that he’s been drifting. He's not sure how long it’s been. Hours? Minutes?

“Rule number three,” he grouses.

A shifting of the covers, pulling them taut. “Sorry. Don’t worry about it!”

Reluctantly, Grian drags his eyes open. The world is still dark, the air as still as before. Scar had started to ask a question, and curse him for it because he knows that Grian’s too curious to let it go now. He has to know what Scar wanted. “No. Wha’ is it?”

“What do you miss most about Hermitcraft?”

Hermitcraft. He hasn’t properly thought about it in a while. It’s not that he’d forgotten it, but the longer they spend in 3rd Life, the farther away it is in his mind. This is—what, the sixth week?

Six weeks since he last did anything with his mansion. Six weeks since he restocked the Barge.

“My diamonds,” he says after a moment. “I was so rich, Scar. I had stacks of diamond blocks. Not that I don’t miss other things,” he adds. “Good community, and my mansion, and all that. I just miss the security of so much money.”

Scar hums into his hair, a shiver running down Grian’s back at the tingly feeling. A minute passes, and while Grian’s still barely keeping his eyes open he’s also still curious.

“What about you? What do you miss?”

“Jellie,” Scar says instantly, some sort of wistful longing in his voice that Grian hasn’t ever heard from him.

It’s understandable, of course. It’s his cat. It’s just that the entire time they’ve been playing this death game, Scar has never wanted something as badly as he wants Jellie right now. It’s touching, in a way—the idea that his love for that cat is so strong that even his Red name can’t make it waver.

And in another way, it’s annoying. Because somehow, Scar has retained the capacity to love and want and he’s only felt that way about a cat.

And Grian is definitely not jealous of a cat, of all things. That would be—that would be ridiculous. Wouldn’t it?

If he were fully awake right now, he’d probably stomp off to his creeper farm or go dig sand for a couple of hours until he's completely forgotten about these gnawing feelings and can focus.

But sleepy Grian acknowledges them, holds them close to his chest, and lets himself feel how desperately he wants to be wanted.

Right now, he’s as close to Scar as he can get, head pressed against his chest and strong arms around him. If anyone happened upon them right now, they would instantly assume the obvious.

Yet Grian’s never felt more alone.

“Scar,” he whispers before he can stop himself. “If I wasn’t here, would you miss me?”

Scar's been shuffling around every couple of seconds, so it’s apparent when he goes utterly still.

“Um. You’ve taken me a bit by surprise here, G,” Scar laughs nervously. Sleepy Grian takes that exact moment as a chance to listen to the rational side of Grian’s brain, which is screaming for him to shut up, run away, hide.

“Sorry,” Grian immediately says, face burning. “I—forget I said anything—”

Then Scar presses a kiss into his dirty hair, and Grian’s brain short-circuits.

“Of course I would miss you,” Scar murmurs. “I mean, we all would, but I would miss you the most. I didn’t put you on a llama and carry you away to the desert for nothing.”

Scar’s voice sounds so very fond that Grian can’t help it when his stomach flips a little. He pushes his head up against Scar’s chin, curls a little closer into his body. Scar really is as cold as he’d said. Grian finds himself wondering if he runs warmer normally, which of course makes his brain send him all sorts of ways he can find out when they get back to Hermitcraft.

Not that that will ever happen. This is—this doesn’t mean anything. It’s just two bros, cuddling and falling asleep together. Hermitcraft—and even just tomorrow—will be back to normal.

And perhaps most importantly, Grian cannot allow Scar to become a weakness. He cannot let their enemies see him like this, exhausted and yearning and lonely. He has to be strong to keep the both of them safe.

For now, though, he can just pretend like the game doesn’t exist. He can press closer to Scar, his skin burning in such a good way, and live in Scar’s arms.

In the morning, things will go back to normal.

MAN, FINAL SPACE MEANS A LOT TO ME YOU CAN'T JUST- AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGHH.