Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“What do you mean, we’re moving?”

Grian’s voice cracked slightly at the edges, pitched somewhere between disbelief and a brewing storm of frustration. He stood frozen in the middle of the hallway, backpack slipping from one shoulder, staring at his sister like she’d just told him the world was ending—which, in his mind, it sort of was.

Pearl shifted under the weight of his gaze, her fingers twitching as they clutched the strap of her own bag. She offered a sheepish smile, the kind that tried to be reassuring but landed somewhere closer to “please don’t yell at me.

“Mom wants us closer to her new job,” she said lightly, as though that made everything make sense. “She says the commute’s been a nightmare and, well… she found a place. So, we’re moving. Like, next week.”

Grian blinked. Hard.

“Next week?” His voice came out strangled. “We’re just—uprooting everything next week?”

“I mean, she’s been talking about it for months. You just never listen,” Pearl replied, folding her arms across her chest.

“I would’ve remembered this ,” he snapped, gesturing wildly. “School’s already halfway through the semester! I’ve got finals, clubs, rankings—I’ve got plans, Pearl!”

Pearl shrugged with the indifference of someone who had already resigned herself to the situation. “Mom says we’ll be fine. The new school’s got good programs. She even looked into the student council or whatever you’re always on about.”

Grian looked like she’d just suggested he take up underwater basket-weaving. “It’s not ‘whatever’—I’ve been working my ass off to get top of class. I’m this close to valedictorian. You think I can just stroll into a new school and pick up where I left off?”

Pearl raised an eyebrow. “You could try being less dramatic about it.”

He let out a sharp exhale, pacing a few steps before turning back to her with a desperate gleam in his eye. “Okay, what if I stayed here? With a friend? Just for the rest of the year, then I’ll move—”

She snorted. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“Yeah, right. Like Mom’s gonna let her ‘precious golden boy’ go rogue. She’d lose her mind if you so much as slept over at someone’s house without a five-paragraph itinerary.”

Grian grumbled something unintelligible under his breath and kicked lightly at the baseboard.
Pearl tilted her head, smug now. “Face it, G. You’re coming with us. Whether you like it or not.”

He scowled at her. “I hate this.”

“Yeah, well. Welcome to the club.”

The week slipped by in a dizzying blur, a chaotic storm of emotions and logistics that left Grian with barely enough time to breathe. One minute he was lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling and pretending none of it was happening, and the next he was counting down the final days in a place he’d always assumed he’d graduate from. Time, once slow and predictable in the rhythm of school bells and club meetings, now rushed past like it was trying to outrun him.

Every day was crammed full of things he didn't want to do. There were tearful goodbyes—well, tearful from the people saying goodbye to him. Grian wasn’t really the crying type. He held his composure, standing awkwardly as friends hugged him in hallways, wrote stupid messages in his yearbook even though the year wasn’t over, and promised to “keep in touch” in a tone that already sounded like farewell. He smiled through it all, said the right things, nodded when people made jokes about him dominating a new school’s leaderboards or “wowing them with that scary brain of yours,” but inside, he felt like something heavy and shapeless had settled in his chest.

He hated the uncertainty. The loss of control. At his old school, everything had a system. He knew which teachers he could impress, how to work the grading scales, how to stay one step ahead of his peers. He had a reputation there—Grian, the kid with top marks, the club president, the one who made teachers smile and students groan whenever scores were posted. He’d worked for that. Earned it.

And now he had to start over. From scratch.

The paperwork didn’t help either. His mom had him digging up every transcript, every recommendation letter, every participation certificate he’d ever earned. At one point, he found himself rooting through dusty file boxes looking for an old science fair ribbon, because “it might look good on the transfer application.” Each form he filled out, each signature scrawled onto yet another document, made it feel more real.

He spent nights packing his room in silence, bubble-wrapping his trophies and certificates like fragile proof that he’d mattered somewhere. He organized his books by subject, boxed them with care, then taped each one shut like sealing away a chapter of his life. It felt symbolic. It felt awful.

And Pearl didn’t make things easier. She was all sarcastic smiles and “it’s not that deep,” breezing through the whole ordeal like it was just a change of wallpaper. Grian envied her, in a way. She didn’t need to be the best at anything, so what did it matter where she ended up?

By the time Sunday rolled around, Grian felt like he’d aged ten years.

When his mom called up the stairs, telling him to bring his bags down and get in the car, his stomach dropped straight through the floor.
“Grian! Bags! Now!”

He stood there for a moment, staring at the suitcase by the foot of his bed. It wasn’t even fully zipped yet—he kept opening it back up to triple-check things, like a toothbrush or his calculator or the folder with his carefully sorted certificates. He hated the idea of forgetting something important, something that could cost him some invisible edge in the new academic jungle he was about to enter.

His fingers trembled slightly as he tugged the zipper shut for the final time.

Grian was running on four hours of sleep and a growing sense of dread that no amount of planning could shake. He stood in the driveway with his backpack slung over one shoulder and a suitcase at his feet, blinking blearily at the morning sun as his mom called out from the driver's seat.

“Let’s go, sweetheart! We’ve got a long drive.”

He didn't answer right away. Just stared at the car, the open trunk, the empty house behind him.

This was it. No going back.

He loaded his bags into the car with mechanical precision, hands shaking slightly. As he climbed into the passenger seat, he caught his reflection in the side mirror—his face pale, drawn tight, eyes clouded with something unreadable.

Pearl and his mom were talking, Pearl in the backseat, who occasionally glanced at Grian.

If anyone had asked him how he felt in that moment, he wouldn’t have had an answer.

He didn’t feel ready.

He didn’t feel brave.

He just felt… like a nervous wreck.

The drive was only about an hour, but to Grian, it felt like an eternity wrapped in cramped seats and tension. The hum of the road beneath the tires did little to soothe the knot in his stomach, and each mile marker they passed felt like another nail in the coffin of his old life. He stared out the window for the first few minutes, watching familiar buildings and stretches of road blur into something unrecognizable, until even those small comforts vanished, replaced by long fields, unfamiliar exits, and signs pointing toward the city where his new school—and his new life—waited.

Pearl, in stark contrast, was buzzing with energy beside him. She talked nonstop, practically vibrating with excitement, her words spilling out in a stream of enthusiasm that Grian could only barely register. Most of it was about some girl she’d apparently been messaging for weeks now. Gem, she said her name was. Grian caught the name when Pearl mentioned it for the third—or was it fourth?—time, drawing it out with a smile and a dreamy little sigh.

"She's in the year above me, but she's super nice. Like, really nice. Like—oh my god, Grian, she sent me a playlist with her actual favorite songs and said they reminded her of me. Can you believe that? Who even does that anymore?"

Grian grunted noncommittally, eyes fixed on his phone. Pearl didn’t notice, or didn’t care. She kept going.

“Apparently she’s super involved in, like, everything. Student events, prom planning committee, choir—ugh, her voice is so pretty, she sent me a clip once and I nearly died.”

Pearl and Gem. He snorted quietly to himself. The names sounded like they belonged in a cartoon duo. Or a kid’s jewelry line. The thought almost made him smile.

Almost.

Instead, he tuned her out and sank deeper into the familiar glow of his phone screen. Twitter became his refuge—an endless scroll of memes, Minecraft fan art, and chaotic takes that helped dull the ache in his chest. He liked a couple posts about the new mob vote (even if he hated the results), replied to a thread about redstone traps with a sarcastic comment, and fired off a half-hearted message to Sam and Taurtis letting them know he was on the road. Taurtis sent back a crying emoji. Sam told him not to get "weird" in the new school and also added that he’d better stay top of the leaderboard in Hypixel or he was out of the friend group.

Classic Sam.

For a few minutes, Grian lost himself in the comfort of routine. The phone warmed in his hand. The digital world didn’t care that he was leaving everything behind.

Boredom crept in halfway through the ride, and his thumb paused over the AO3 website. He glanced sideways—Pearl was still rambling, now about Gem’s hair (“It’s like—shimmery, you know? Like a character from a Studio Ghibli movie”)—before deciding she wasn’t paying enough attention to notice.

He tapped in his password, pulled up a bookmarked fic, and began reading.

It was something silly and self-indulgent. A coffee shop AU where two characters he adored kept mistaking flirtation for arguments and everyone else around them was just tired of their nonsense. Grian smirked at a particularly chaotic exchange, hiding the grin behind his hand.

This—this was fine. For now. It was an escape. Something to distract him from the growing anxiety in his chest, from the school looming in the distance, from the way his future felt like a blank document someone else was about to start writing.

Let Pearl yap.

Let the car keep moving.

He just needed this little pocket of peace a bit longer.

When the car finally turned off the main road and into a wide, winding driveway, Grian lazily swiped up to exit the fic and locked his phone with a sigh. The screen went dark, and with it, the tiny corner of comfort he’d been clinging to for the past hour disappeared. He blinked and sat up a little straighter, adjusting to the sudden jolt back into reality.

The complex they pulled into was—well, average. Generic. The kind of place you’d see a hundred copies of just off the freeway, lined with beige buildings and sad-looking bushes that had probably once been decorative. Three-story units stood in neat rows, identical in architecture, differentiated only by their building letters and the occasional potted plant outside a door. Faded red curbs wrapped around the parking lot like someone had tried to make them look sharp once and then gave up.

A few kids were playing tag near the sidewalk, their laughter echoing faintly in the warm afternoon air. Someone had chalked out hopscotch on the pavement nearby, the colors already scuffed from use. A teenager leaned on the edge of the community pool, kicking her feet in the water while scrolling through her phone. The pool itself shimmered under the sun, surrounded by a fence that had clearly seen better days.

It wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t home , either.

Grian made a face as the car rolled to a slow stop near their assigned space. He didn’t say anything—just exhaled sharply through his nose, thumbed the corner of his phone for a moment, then stuffed it into his hoodie pocket with the kind of heavy-handed finality that made Pearl glance over at him.

“We’re here,” their mom called from the front seat, like she was announcing a vacation spot instead of the start of their new lives.

Grian didn’t respond. He unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed out of the car slowly, dragging his feet just enough to make a point but not enough to get yelled at. The asphalt radiated heat beneath his shoes. He squinted up at the building they’d be calling home—unit 3B, second floor, right-hand side—and frowned at the stack of balconies, most of which were either cluttered with random junk or completely bare.

The air smelled faintly of chlorine and warm pavement. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked. A baby cried. The kind of white noise you only noticed when everything else in your head was screaming.

He ran a hand through his hair, exasperated already.

“This place looks like someone tried to copy-paste a neighborhood off Google Maps,” he muttered under his breath.

Pearl, stepping out behind him with far more enthusiasm, gave him a playful nudge. “Could’ve been worse. At least there’s a pool.”

“I don’t like pools.”

“You don’t like anything, G.”

He didn’t bother arguing.

The back of the car opened with a clunk, and their mom was already pulling out bags, chirping something about unloading quickly and how they had to meet the apartment manager in fifteen minutes to get the keys officially handed off. Pearl moved to help, chatty as ever.

Grian just stood there for a few seconds longer, rooted to the spot.

New building. New walls. New school.

New everything.

He dug his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, staring at the cracked concrete beneath his feet like it might give him a reason to turn back. It didn’t. So, with a tired sigh, he finally moved toward the trunk, shoulders heavy, heart heavier.

He didn’t say it out loud—but he missed home already.

He heaved his bag out of the trunk with both hands, the weight of it straining the strap against his shoulder. It wasn’t even that heavy—just clothes, notebooks, his laptop, a few cables tangled together in the front pocket, and a pencil case stuffed with highlighters—but it felt heavier than it should. Like it was filled with something more than just things. Like it was carrying everything he didn’t want to deal with yet.

His mom was already halfway around the back of the car, keys jangling in her hand as she checked the list she'd printed out that morning—again. She was talking, probably to both him and Pearl, though Grian only caught half of it. Something about the moving truck. Something about it being close behind them, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes out, and how they’d need to be quick if they wanted to get things inside before it got dark.

He nodded vaguely, not really listening, not really there. His mind was still back in the old house, in the old room, thinking about the dent on the wall next to his desk from where he'd bumped his chair a hundred times. Thinking about the way his bedroom window used to creak when the wind hit it just right. Thinking about the late nights on call with friends, the silence of his street, the feeling of being in a place that fit.

This new place—it didn’t fit.

He adjusted the strap on his shoulder and followed after them, dragging his feet along the sidewalk as they made their way to the staircase. The metal stairs groaned slightly as they climbed, the kind of groan that made you wonder how old the place really was. At the top, the hallway stretched out, lined with doors identical to the one they stopped in front of—3B, a peeling brass number barely hanging onto the wood.

His mom dug the key out from her purse, muttering to herself about checking the mailbox later and asking if anyone remembered to bring up the cleaning supplies from the car. Grian stood just behind her, shifting his bag from one shoulder to the other and staring blankly at the door like it might magically open to somewhere else if he wished hard enough.

It didn’t.

With a soft click, the key turned, and the door creaked open.

“Alright,” his mom said, stepping over the threshold with a bright, forced kind of cheer in her voice. “Welcome home, you two.”

Grian didn’t move right away. He watched as Pearl brushed past their mom into the apartment, already craning her neck to look around, probably mentally choosing her room. He hesitated in the doorway, his hand gripping the strap of his bag like it was a lifeline.

Then he stepped in.

The air was warm, a little stale from being shut up for so long. The carpet was a neutral gray, the kind that never quite looked clean no matter how often you vacuumed it. The walls were bare, off-white, and somehow already had scuff marks near the baseboards. The apartment was mostly empty save for a few generic fixtures: a ceiling fan wobbling slightly above the living room space, a small kitchenette with plain wood cabinets, a narrow hallway that led toward what he assumed were the bedrooms.

It was quiet—eerily so, compared to the chaos of the past few days. No voices. No boxes yet. Just the echo of their steps on the cheap floor as they walked inside.

He set his bag down just inside the door and stood there for a second longer, scanning the space.

No furniture.

No posters.

No history.

Just blank space. A reset button.

And Grian hated it.

He stuffed his hands in his hoodie pocket and sighed, already exhausted, already wishing he could fast-forward to the part where this felt normal. Where this place didn’t feel like a stranger’s apartment. Where he didn’t feel like a guest in his own life.

"Living room's bigger than I thought," Pearl said from somewhere down the hall.

"Bathroom's not bad, either," his mom chimed in.

Grian said nothing.

He just stared ahead, still standing in the doorway, still wondering if maybe—just maybe—there’d been a mistake.

He eventually wandered further into the apartment, his steps slow and deliberate, as though dragging them out might somehow delay the inevitable. Down the narrow hallway, past the bathroom, past the closet with the sliding doors that didn’t quite close right, until he reached the bedrooms.

Pearl had already claimed hers. That much was obvious—her suitcase was flung open on the floor, clothes already spilling out like she was mid-move-in montage. One of her hoodies had been tossed onto the floor like a flag of ownership. She was standing by the window with her phone in hand, chatting excitedly—probably to Gem, if he had to guess—and waving her hand around as she described something he couldn't hear.

Grian didn’t say a word. He just gave her a look and kept moving.

That left the other room, of course. The extra one. The second choice. His.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

It was smaller than his old room. Narrower, too, with a single window that faced the parking lot instead of the back lawn. The light filtering in was already muted, casting long shadows across the plain beige walls. The carpet was thin and scratchy under his socks, and the closet had a single metal rod in it, no shelving.

There was nothing personal about it. Nothing that said someone had lived here before—no lingering scent of old perfume or faded outlines where posters used to be. No little marks carved into the doorframe or tacks left behind in the walls.

It was dull. Utterly, painfully dull.

He hated it immediately.

Grian lingered in the middle of the room, arms crossed over his chest, taking it all in. The silence. The bland walls. The sense that he’d walked into a blank page and someone had stolen his pen.

He turned on his heel and walked out without a word, back down the hallway toward the front door. His bag was still where he’d dropped it earlier, slumped against the wall like it had given up waiting for him to commit. He picked it up without much care and dragged it behind him, the wheels catching on the carpet and making an irritating thunk-thunk as he pulled it down the hall.

Back in his room— his room, apparently—he dropped the bag just inside the doorway and let himself fall against the far wall with a soft grunt, sitting down with his legs pulled up and his back pressed against the drywall. The surface was cool, a little textured, and it made his shoulder blades itch. He didn’t care. He let his head fall back against it with a dull thud, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer some divine insight.

It didn’t.

So he sat there. Let the stillness settle around him like dust. For a few quiet minutes, he didn’t move. He didn’t unpack. He didn’t plan how to arrange his desk or decorate the walls or where he’d put his books. He just sat.

And then—

“Grian! Pearl! The truck’s here—I need help!”

His mom’s voice rang down the hallway, cheerful and commanding in that way only moms could manage.

He sighed, long and slow, and tilted his head toward the doorway. Pearl popped out of her room almost immediately, still chatting on her phone as she slipped on her sneakers.

“You comin’?” she asked, glancing at him from the hallway.

Grian didn’t answer right away. He pushed himself up off the wall and dusted off his pants, eyes lingering one last time on the empty space around him. Still blank. Still cold.

Then he followed her out.

It took the better part of the afternoon—no, scratch that, the entire day —to get everything even remotely settled. The moving truck showed up late, the apartment stairs made hauling furniture a complete nightmare, and it turned out that the elevator near their building had been “under repair” for at least six months, according to a neighbor who leaned out her window to tell them not to bother with it.

The sun had started to dip by the time the last box was dragged across the threshold. They hadn’t brought much with them—couldn’t, really. Their old house had been bigger, and most of their furniture had either been sold, donated, or left behind for the next family moving in. What they had now barely filled the space. A couch that sagged slightly in the middle, a wobbly dining table with two chairs, a couple of mismatched lamps, and the twin beds they’d grown up with. Pearl had somehow already thrown a throw blanket over hers and was talking about string lights.

Grian, on the other hand, didn’t care what the place looked like. It still didn’t feel like his.

When everything was finally moved inside and the front door was shut— really shut, with that final thunk that made it feel like the day was officially over—he didn’t even say anything. He just trudged to his room, kicked off his shoes, and collapsed face-first onto his bare mattress with a groan that came from somewhere deep in his soul.

The springs creaked beneath him, and the plastic wrap on the mattress crinkled slightly. He hadn’t even pulled the sheets out of the box yet. Didn’t have the energy. He buried his face into the pillow, muttered something unintelligible, and stayed like that for a long moment, letting his muscles melt into the bed.

It wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t cozy. It wasn’t familiar.

But it was horizontal, and at this point, that was enough.

Eventually, he rolled onto his side and cracked one eye open. His gaze landed on the stack of boxes lined up against the far wall—three in total, all labeled in sharp black marker: “BOOKS / DESK STUFF,” “CLOTHES,” and “PERSONAL.” That last one made his stomach twist a little. He knew what was in there—photos, little keepsakes, trinkets from friends, the stupid plastic Enderman from that convention Sam had dared him to go to.

His grimace was automatic, born of pure exhaustion and dread.

He didn’t want to unpack. He didn’t want to sort through those things and figure out where they fit in this new, alien space. He didn’t want to look at his old life while sitting in the shell of his new one.

But he also knew himself well enough to know that if he didn’t start, it would drive him insane later. He’d sit there thinking about it, picturing everything inside the boxes instead of sleeping, instead of focusing, instead of settling in.

So, with the melodramatic sigh of someone carrying the weight of the world—and maybe just a little bit of flair—he pushed himself upright and sat at the edge of the bed. He let his legs dangle off the side for a moment, staring at the boxes like they’d personally offended him.

Then, reluctantly, he got up and crossed the room.

"Time to unpack," he muttered, voice flat and resigned.

His fingers found the edge of the first box, and he pulled it toward him like it might bite.

Let the reconstruction of his life begin.

Despite how much he didn’t want to do it—how deeply and stubbornly his body yearned to just lie down and not move for the next six hours—Grian managed to convince himself to start unpacking. Once he got going, it turned out to be easier than he expected. There was something mechanical about it, something steady and mindless that kept his hands busy even while his brain wandered somewhere else entirely.

He started with the clothes. Tossed them half-heartedly into drawers and onto hangers, not bothering to fold most of them. A hoodie or two got dumped onto the edge of his bed, and his uniform stuff—cleanly folded thanks to their mom—got shoved to the back of the closet like he could pretend it didn’t exist for just a little longer.

Then it was the desk. He opened the “BOOKS / DESK STUFF” box and pulled everything out one item at a time, arranging his notebooks and textbooks in a neat stack at the corner. His mechanical pencils went in the little tray that slid out beneath the desktop, and he lined up his highlighters in rainbow order without even thinking about it. The small desk lamp he’d had since middle school—chipped on the side, a sticker of a red mushroom half peeled off—was plugged in and clicked on. It buzzed softly, the bulb flickering once before stabilizing.

And then there were the trophies.

They were nestled awkwardly in packing paper near the bottom of the “PERSONAL” box, like even the movers knew they weren’t really wanted. Three of them, all plastic and gold-painted, with little engraved plaques that read things like Top Scholar – Math League Regional 1st Place and State Debate Finalist – Grian C. One of them had a cracked base from the time Taurtis dropped it and tried to fix it with glitter glue.

He didn’t want to take them out. Really, he didn’t. But his mom had made a whole speech about how “You worked so hard for these, sweetheart, don’t just hide them in a box,” and there was something in her voice when she said it—something too proud and too insistent to argue with.

So, reluctantly, he pulled them out and placed them on the little shelf above his desk, adjusting them just enough so they wouldn’t fall off the moment he bumped the table. They looked strange here. Out of place. Like museum pieces from a past life that had nothing to do with the room they now stood in.

Finally, at the very bottom of the box, he found the photos.

They were just a few snapshots, printed on glossy paper, slightly curled at the edges from being taped up in his old room for so long. He recognized them instantly—one of them was of the three of them sitting on the lawn at Sam’s place, still in their school uniforms, Grian squinting from the sun and holding up a peace sign like an idiot. Taurtis had his arms flung around both of them, his grin huge and stupid, and Sam was mid-laugh, his head tilted back, hair a mess.

Another was from their Minecraft LAN party the summer before—controllers and snacks everywhere, Grian’s legs up on the table while Taurtis yelled at him about cheating, Sam flipping him off in the background with a mouth full of chips.

There weren’t many pictures, but they were enough. Enough to make something in his chest ache.

He stared at them for a long moment, then pulled a few thumbtacks from his pencil case and pinned them to the wall above his desk. Carefully. Deliberately. Like it would matter where he placed them. Like it might make the distance feel less real.

Once they were up, he stepped back, folding his arms and tilting his head slightly.

The room was still dull. Still plain. But with the desk set up, a few things unpacked, and those photos on the wall—he could pretend, maybe, that this wasn’t the worst place in the world.

Grian’s eyes lingered on the photos. He let out a soft breath, barely audible, and let himself smile—just barely, just for a second.

“Bet you two are goofing off without me,” he muttered under his breath. “Idiots.”

And then, quieter, almost whispered—so quiet he wasn’t even sure he meant to say it:

“I miss you.”

The words had barely left his mouth before Grian grimaced, immediately recoiling like he’d just heard someone else say it. His nose scrunched and he muttered, “Ugh, gross,” under his breath. His voice was tight and self-conscious, like he'd just been caught confessing something way too sentimental for someone who prided himself on being cool and composed and definitely not missing his friends like some kind of loser.

“Cringe,” he muttered again, a little louder this time, hoping the word would wash it all away. But it didn’t. It just echoed a little too hard in the empty room, bouncing off the plain walls and making him feel even more like an idiot.

He rubbed at the back of his neck, awkward and twitchy, before giving a quick shake of his head like he could physically toss the feeling off his shoulders. He turned toward the box still sitting open by the foot of his bed—the one marked “BEDDING”—and crouched beside it with a sigh.

His sheets were still wrinkled from being hastily packed. They smelled faintly of the old house, of laundry detergent and a scent he couldn’t quite name—something familiar and hard to explain, like the way his room used to feel after a long day. He smoothed them out over the mattress anyway, tucking the corners with practiced movements. Then came the pillowcases, a blanket, a second blanket, and finally the sad excuse for a comforter that had definitely seen better days.

He adjusted the pillows with unnecessary precision, fluffing them, shifting them, pressing down one corner like he was trying to make them feel right. They didn’t. Not quite. But it was something. It was… almost a bed now.

And then, from the very bottom of the box, he pulled out the plushie.

It was old—soft with worn-down fur and a stitched eye that had been repaired once, a little crooked now. One of the ears flopped a bit too far to the left, and the color had faded from countless washes over the years. He hesitated for a second, just holding it in his hands, fingers gripping the plush almost too tightly.

No one had ever really teased him for it. Not seriously. Taurtis had poked fun once or twice, called it “Mr. Sad Rabbit” or “The Velveteen Nerd,” but it had always been in that way that meant he understood why Grian still had it. Sam never brought it up at all—he just used it as a projectile during sleepovers whenever Grian started monologuing about test prep again.

Grian didn’t sleep well without it. He’d tried a few times, especially after they’d started high school, when he thought he was too old for that kind of thing. But the truth was, nights always felt longer without it. Sharper. Emptier.

So he set it gently on the bed, near the pillows. Not tucked in, not cradled—just there. Like a quiet fixture in the room that didn’t demand anything, didn’t judge anything. It just was.

He stood there for a few seconds, arms hanging awkwardly at his sides, staring down at the bed. The corners were mostly straight. The pillows looked fine. The plushie sat where it always sat, quiet and familiar. And still, the whole thing felt... fake. Like a stage set for a version of his life he wasn’t sure he believed in yet.

Another sigh slipped out of him, heavier this time. His shoulders sagged with it.

Whatever. He could think about all of that later.

With a practiced flop, he threw himself down onto the bed, bouncing slightly with the force. The springs groaned beneath him again, and the blanket wrinkled under his weight. He turned his head to the side, resting his cheek on one of the pillows, and let his eyes drift half shut.

The room around him was still quiet. The new apartment smell—a mix of fresh paint and dust—still clung to the air. The ceiling was blank, unfamiliar, without the little glow-in-the-dark stars he used to have up in his old room.

Maybe he could just sleep for now.

Just for a bit.

Just long enough to not feel like everything was spinning.

Chapter Text

The week passed by faster than he expected—but not in the good way. More like time was being pulled out from under him, day by day, piece by piece. He hadn’t even fully processed the fact that he lived in a new city now before his mom was already waving around school paperwork, making sure everything was filled out and submitted on time. He had to go in early for his uniform fitting, had to sign off on class placements, had to answer awkward questions from school staff who smiled too much and said things like “You’ll adjust in no time!” like it was a promise they could actually keep.

He hated the uniform.

Not in a casual “oh, school uniforms are lame” sort of way, but in the deeply visceral, soul-level rejection kind of way. The fabric was stiff and didn’t sit right on his frame, the collar made him itch, and the school crest stitched into the breast pocket was so obnoxiously large that it looked like he was being recruited into some cult of overly enthusiastic school spirit.

The pants were too long at first, then too short when they hemmed them. The blazer made his shoulders look weirdly square, like he was trying to cosplay as a filing cabinet. And don’t even get him started on the tie. He’d never tied one before in his life, and now he had three spares in his drawer “just in case.”

Still, no matter how much he mentally grumbled about it, the week kept slipping past. Orientation was done. His schedule was finalized. His alarm was set for 6:30 AM. There was no backing out now.

And so, there he stood.

In front of the mirror in his too-bright, too-small room, buttoning up the last bit of his new school uniform with a scowl on his face.

The early morning light filtered weakly through the blinds, casting pale stripes across the room. He could hear Pearl in the kitchen already, probably raiding the cereal cabinet or stealing all the milk again. The apartment still smelled faintly of cardboard and takeout. He was pretty sure no one had cooked a real meal since they moved in.

Grian squinted at himself in the mirror. His short brown hair, already stubbornly messy most days, was completely unsalvageable this morning. He'd tried flattening it with his hands. Twice. It only made it worse. Now it stuck out in odd tufts that gave him the vague look of someone who’d slept in a wind tunnel.

He eyed the hairbrush on the dresser, considered it for a moment… and then shrugged. Not worth the effort. He didn’t feel like looking nice anyway. Not today.

His glasses perched on his nose, slightly crooked, with small specks of dust and something that might have been a smudge from his pillow. He took them off, wiped them half-heartedly with the edge of his sleeve, then put them back on again. They still looked dirty. He didn't care.

He leaned in slightly toward the mirror, narrowing his eyes at his reflection like he was trying to decode a message hidden somewhere in his own face. He didn’t find anything. Just a tired kid in an itchy blazer who looked like he was playing dress-up in someone else’s life.

His lips pulled into a frown.

Not the sharp, angry kind. Just a quiet, resigned one. The kind of frown that sat heavy and slow, born out of the uncomfortable feeling of not recognizing yourself in the mirror.

This wasn’t his school. These weren’t his clothes. This wasn’t his life.

Not yet, anyway.

And even though he’d told himself he didn’t care—had said it out loud, multiple times, to both his mom and Pearl—some part of him deep down really, really didn’t want to go today.

But he didn’t have a choice.

So he stood there a little longer, silently picking himself apart with his eyes, before muttering a soft, dry, “Ugh,” and backing away from the mirror.

First days sucked.

Time to get it over with.

He finally tore himself away from the mirror with a sigh that felt like it came from somewhere deep in his bones. His shoulders were stiff, jaw tight. The air in the room felt too still, too dry—like it hadn’t quite figured out how to settle in around him yet. Like even the apartment knew he wasn’t supposed to be here.

His feet dragged slightly as he stepped out of his room, blazer sleeves brushing awkwardly against his wrists with each movement. The hallway was narrow and still unfamiliar—boxes still sat along the walls like silent reminders that this wasn’t home yet, just a space they’d been assigned to figure out. He sidestepped one marked BOOKS / PEARL’S STUFF / DON’T TOUCH with a lazy swing of his arm, barely glancing at it.

The kitchen came into view with a lazy kind of morning light slanting through the window. It lit up the laminate floors in faded streaks, catching on the edge of the cheap countertop and the metal legs of the kitchen table. The walls were still bare. His mom had said they’d get around to hanging stuff up soon, but no one had really bothered. Too tired. Too busy. Too emotionally exhausted, probably.

Pearl was already there, of course.

She was sitting at the small round table, hunched slightly forward with a bowl of cereal in front of her—one leg tucked under her, the other bouncing lightly with the beat of a song only she could hear through her headphones. Her spoon clinked rhythmically against the bowl with every bite.

She looked way too awake for this early in the morning.

Her hair was pulled back messily, but it somehow looked better than his did despite the clear lack of effort. She was still in her pajama shorts and oversized hoodie—probably wouldn’t be leaving for school for another hour. Lucky her. Different grade, different schedule. She glanced up just as he shuffled in, and her face split into a wide grin.

“Well, well, well,” she said, voice bright and smug. She pulled one earbud out and gestured toward him with her spoon, milk dripping from it and threatening to hit the table. “Look who finally decided to show his face.”

Grian rolled his eyes, but it was too early for a proper comeback. He just groaned and moved to lean against the doorway like his legs couldn’t quite be bothered to keep him upright.

“Nice tie, nerd,” Pearl added, with the same kind of affectionate meanness only a sibling could pull off.

“Shut up,” he grumbled, glancing down at the slightly crooked knot of his tie. “I didn’t ask for fashion advice from someone wearing jellyfish socks and a hoodie with ramen stains on it.”

Pearl looked delighted. “You noticed my socks. Cute.”

“I regret everything.”

“Get used to it. You look like you’re about to cry, by the way. You good?”

He raised a brow, unamused. “Do I look like I’m good?”

“No,” she said immediately. “You look like you’re walking into your execution.”

“Great. Nailed the vibe then.”

She snorted, taking another bite of cereal, the spoon clinking again. “Hey, it won’t be that bad. You’ll meet some kids. Probably annoy the hell out of them with your encyclopedic knowledge of geography or whatever. You’ll make a friend eventually.”

“Eventually,” he repeated under his breath like it was a curse.

Pearl’s voice softened slightly, just a bit. “You’ll be okay, G.”

He didn’t answer that. Just exhaled slowly, his eyes flicking to the digital clock on the microwave. He still had a few minutes before he had to head out. His stomach felt weird—nervous and tight and kind of hollow—but he didn’t mention it.

Instead, he stepped further into the kitchen, opened the cabinet with a low creak, and pulled out a bowl. He poured himself a half-hearted amount of cereal and added just enough milk to call it breakfast.

Then he sat down across from Pearl, still in his stupid uniform, still trying to ignore the way the tie chafed at his neck, and quietly began to eat.

The cereal was soggy in minutes. Neither of them said much after that.

But her grin lingered, even after she turned the music back on. And somehow, despite everything, that made the silence feel a little less unbearable.

By the time their mom finally emerged from her bedroom, Grian was already by the door, one hand braced against the wall as he fumbled with the laces of his second shoe. The morning had dragged and flown all at once—every tick of the clock feeling both like a countdown and a taunt. He’d checked the time six times already. His tie was still crooked. His blazer felt like a trap. His backpack was too heavy.

He could hear the soft scuff of his mom’s slippers on the hallway floor before she even came into view, the familiar pad of half-awake mom energy that somehow always found its way into early mornings like this. Her hair was pulled up into a loose bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face, and she was nursing a half-full travel mug of coffee like it was a lifeline.

But when she saw him standing there—mostly dressed, mostly ready, and very clearly trying to pretend he wasn’t on the verge of a breakdown—her face lit up with that warm, too-big smile that made him feel a little like a toddler posing in a Halloween costume.

“ Look at you! ” she beamed, stepping further into the room with a theatrical gasp, like she’d just witnessed something precious and rare. “My handsome boy, all dressed up and ready for the first day!”

Grian winced. He physically winced.

“Mum,” he groaned, dragging the word out like it was painful. “Don’t start.”

She only grinned harder, sipping from her mug with one hand and reaching out with the other to tug at his crooked tie. “Let me fix this before your neck ends up in a knot,” she said, already straightening it with a practiced motion. “How do you always manage to mess this up? Did you just roll out of bed and let the wind tie it for you?”

“I tried ,” he muttered, not meeting her eyes. “It’s not my fault ties are stupid.”

“Maybe, but they’re a required part of the uniform. And you’ve got to admit…” She leaned back to look him over again, eyebrows raised with mock seriousness. “You clean up pretty well, even if your hair looks like you wrestled a raccoon this morning.”

He made a face, one hand flying up instinctively to smooth down his hair, even though he already knew it was a lost cause. “Thanks, that’s great for my self-esteem.”

“Anytime, sweetie,” she said brightly, ruffling his hair further just to be annoying.

He swatted at her hand, but not very hard. There was something grounding about her being here—annoying and full of caffeine-fueled optimism, but grounding all the same. It gave him something to lean against, if only for a moment.

She reached down to grab her car keys from the bowl by the door, tossing them in the air and catching them with the ease of routine. “Alright, come on. Let’s get you to school before the traffic kicks in.”

Grian swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded, hoisting his bag over one shoulder and trying to steel himself.

This was it. No more waiting. No more preparing. No more pacing around the room trying to make the day go away by sheer force of will.

Just the drive to a school he didn’t know, full of people he’d never met, wearing clothes he didn’t feel like himself in.

He reached for the doorknob, hesitating for the barest second.

His mom caught it. She tilted her head slightly, her voice softening. “You okay?”

He hesitated again, but then nodded. “Yeah. Just… nervous.”

She smiled again, gentler this time, not the bright theatrical grin but the real one. “You’re gonna do great, kiddo.”

He didn’t believe it. Not really. But she did. And for right now, that was enough to get him out the door.

They stepped outside together, his mom locking the apartment door behind them with a quiet click as Grian adjusted the strap of his bag for what felt like the hundredth time that morning. The sky overhead was a dull, pale blue—clouds just starting to roll in, with the kind of grayness that hinted at either a drizzle later or just a miserably humid afternoon. The early morning air was cool enough to nip at his cheeks but not enough to be refreshing. It was the kind of weather that didn’t know what it wanted to be. He could relate.

The parking lot was already starting to stir with life. The apartment complex, while not exactly massive, had just enough families with school-age kids that mornings like this came with their own kind of choreography. Across the lot, a woman was helping her son—who looked no older than eight—get into the back of a minivan, his backpack nearly the size of him. Down a few spaces, a teenager in a hoodie and headphones was getting into a rusted sedan, eyes half-shut as he wordlessly accepted a lunch bag from someone who had to be his older sister.

Grian slowed as they walked toward their car, eyes flicking around.

It wasn’t like he knew any of these people. He hadn’t even been here a full week. But something about watching them move, watching the quiet rhythm of the neighborhood waking up, made him feel… like more of an outsider than he already did. Everyone here had a routine. A pattern. A place.

And here he was, standing stiffly in his unfamiliar uniform, with a bag that creaked every time he shifted it, about to walk into a school full of strangers.

His mom unlocked the car with a soft beep, and he slid into the passenger seat without a word. The faux leather was cold against the backs of his thighs, and the seatbelt scratched against the blazer fabric uncomfortably when he clicked it in.

From his spot, he could see more kids trickling out of nearby buildings—some with parents, some alone, some in groups that clearly had known each other since before the start of time.

A few wore the same school uniform as him, which startled him for a second. He hadn’t expected to see anyone else from his school yet, much less a small parade of them walking toward cars, laughing about something he couldn’t hear.

One kid even had the blazer tied around his waist instead of wearing it properly, which made Grian frown with something caught between confusion and envy. You’re allowed to do that? he thought, feeling vaguely cheated.

A girl passed by their car as his mom started the engine, adjusting her ponytail and waving back at someone across the lot. Grian glanced at her uniform skirt—same crest, same shade of navy.

So they all left around the same time, huh?
It made sense, he supposed. The school wasn’t that far. Parents probably coordinated everything to avoid the same morning rush.

Still, there was something deeply unsettling about realizing he was now part of this little unspoken ritual. That from now on, he’d be just another kid in a blazer among many, another early-morning commuter with crumpled notes in his bag and nerves in his stomach.

His mom shifted the car into reverse, her hand resting lightly on the back of his seat as she looked over her shoulder. “Looks like we’re not the only ones headed out,” she said, voice light, casual.

“Yeah,” Grian mumbled, watching the other kids with a sort of quiet detachment. “Guess not.”

He didn’t know any of their names. He didn’t know their friend groups or their classes or who sat where during lunch. But he’d probably be brushing shoulders with at least a few of them by the end of the day.

The thought made his stomach twist.

As they pulled out of the lot and joined the slow crawl of cars down the main street, Grian leaned his head against the window, watching the world blur by in smudges of gray and green.

He pulled out his phone almost automatically, his fingers already moving with the familiar muscle memory of his morning routine. Even in a brand new apartment, on the way to a brand new school, in clothes that didn't quite feel like they belonged to him—some things stayed the same. Like the comfort of scrolling through his Spotify library and pretending, just for a minute, that he had control over something .

The car’s Bluetooth connected with a soft chime, and his mom glanced at the dashboard briefly as his name popped up. She didn’t say anything at first—just sipped her coffee and adjusted the rearview mirror—but he could feel her about to say something. It was that mom silence. The kind that always came with a little smirk and a pointed observation.

Grian’s thumb hovered over the screen for a second before he selected one of his comfort songs: Orpheus Under The Influence by The Buttertones. The bass-heavy opening started playing through the car’s speakers, all moody and cool, with that slightly warped surf-noir tone that always made Grian feel like he was in a black-and-white movie walking in slow motion. He leaned back in his seat and let the music sink in, trying to will his brain to calm down.

His mom didn’t let the silence last long.

“You know,” she said, eyes still on the road but the corners of her mouth tugging up in amusement, “your music taste vexes me.”

He blinked, turning to give her an incredulous look. “ Vexes? Really?”

“Yeah,” she laughed, waving her coffee cup around like she was conducting her own point. “It’s all over the place! One minute you’re listening to, like, sad indie boys who sound like they’ve been ghosted in a haunted house—”

“That’s incredibly specific—”

“—and the next minute it’s clown rappers screaming about hatchets. And then it’s songs about, I don’t know, time-traveling deer?”

Grian snorted. “Okay, first of all, The Dear Hunter is not about time-traveling deer. It’s just a name.”

“I’m just saying!” she continued, half-laughing, half-serious now. “The difference between Insane Clown Posse and The Dear Hunter is like, an entire emotional spectrum. And somehow, you sit comfortably at both ends like it’s normal .”

“Because it is normal,” he argued, holding back a grin. “People can like more than one thing. It’s called having taste.”

“It’s called having an identity crisis in playlist form.”

He gave a dramatic gasp. “You wound me.”

“I’m just saying,” she replied, raising a brow as she changed lanes, “you’re either about to throw a molotov cocktail through a corporate window or write sad poetry in a coffee shop about someone who doesn’t know you exist.”

“Why not both?”

She laughed again, full and genuine, and even though Grian rolled his eyes, the sound helped cut through the tension coiled tight in his chest. It was easy to forget how grounding a stupid conversation like this could be—how much lighter it made things feel, if only for a moment.

“I don’t know how I raised a child with this much musical chaos,” she said finally.

He smirked. “Don’t worry. I’ll make you a mixtape of all my chaos. It’ll change your life.”

“I fear it would.”

They lapsed into a more comfortable quiet after that. The song drifted through its echoey verses, and the familiar guitar tones filled the space like a fog rolling in. Outside the window, the neighborhood passed by in little vignettes—lawns, cracked sidewalks, streetlights blinking their final sleepy warnings before the day fully took over.

And for a few minutes, wrapped in old music and shared sarcasm, Grian let himself breathe.

The familiar rhythm of the music hummed low in the background, and Grian found himself tapping his fingers against his knee—more out of nervous energy than any real connection to the beat. His mind had already drifted away from the melody, from the soft murmur of tires on pavement, even from his mom’s light humming beside him. The world outside the window had started to change, and the pit in his stomach was only getting worse.

They turned a corner, and the low, sprawling silhouette of the school came into view.

It wasn’t some towering fortress like he’d half-imagined—not an imposing, brick-covered beast with ivy crawling up the sides and ghosts of valedictorians past peering from the windows. No, it looked... normal. Maybe too normal. It was wide and flat, built in that almost suburban institutional style where every school looked vaguely the same. Rows of windows stretched along the front, too clean, too perfect, with neatly manicured hedges lining the sidewalk and a big, boring sign near the front lawn: Welcome to Hermit Hills Secondary School.

Even the font made him feel sick.

His stomach twisted up so tightly he thought it might knot in on itself. His fingers curled instinctively around the strap of his bag, tightening until his knuckles ached.

There were students everywhere—some standing around near the entrance, some walking in clusters through the open gates, some already filing through the doors in slow-moving waves. Laughter drifted across the air, light and distant, like it belonged in a different universe.

He saw a kid high-five another in a way that looked rehearsed, like something they’d been doing since childhood. Someone leaned against a tree, drinking coffee out of a thermos, scrolling on their phone. A group of girls adjusted their uniforms and took selfies in front of the school crest. And in the middle of it all, there was Grian, still in the car, still clenching his bag like it might keep him tethered to earth if he held on tight enough.

The car slowed as they pulled into the designated drop-off loop. A teacher in a bright yellow vest waved them along with all the enthusiasm of a mall cop on hour seven of a caffeine crash.

Grian grimaced, jaw tight. The school loomed closer and closer, and with it came the weight of a hundred what-ifs.

What if everyone already had their groups? What if no one talked to him? What if someone did talk to him and he said something stupid? What if he got lost, or missed a class, or forgot a name, or froze up during roll call? What if he made a first impression so bad that people remembered him for all the wrong reasons?

He gripped the strap even tighter. The canvas dug into his palm.

His mom, perceptive as always, gave him a side glance as she eased the car into a stop. “Hey,” she said softly. “You good?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the building like it might bite him.

Then he gave a tight, almost robotic nod. “Yeah. Just... thinking.”

She didn’t push. She just reached out and gently touched his shoulder. “You’ve got this.”

He didn’t say “thanks.” He wasn’t sure he could get the word out without his voice cracking.

The car in front of them moved. She inched forward and came to a full stop right in front of the main gate. Doors opened. Backpacks shuffled. Voices rose and fell.

Grian slowly reached for the handle, fingers slightly trembling.

The door creaked open with a reluctant groan as Grian stepped out of the car, the cool morning air immediately brushing against his face, sharp and sobering. He adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder again—nervously this time, almost obsessively—and muttered a quiet, nearly inaudible, “Bye,” before shutting the car door with a soft thunk .

His mom barely had time to return the farewell before the car pulled away from the curb, blending back into the slow traffic of drop-offs and honking horns. He watched her go for a moment, the red tail lights flickering in the distance until the car turned a corner and vanished entirely from sight.

And then it was just him.

Alone.

He turned toward the school and stopped dead in his tracks. His breath caught for a second, shallow in his throat. This was it—the moment everything changed. No turning back, no stalling, no 'oops, wrong place’ excuse to save him. The building loomed ahead, not monstrous, but still intimidating in the way only schools full of strangers could be. The doors were wide open, a few students already disappearing inside, but most of them still lingered around the front lawn and sidewalks, chatting in little clusters like bees orbiting different hives.

Grian stood still, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his hands curling into the sleeves of his blazer. He bit the inside of his cheek, hard, the taste of copper faint and grounding. If he kept still long enough, maybe he could blend in. Just another uniformed student with a slightly-too-big backpack and a head full of spiraling thoughts.

His eyes flicked across the courtyard, instinctively scanning the crowd.

To his left, he caught sight of a boy with short, chestnut brown hair that curled at the edges—except for a bright streak of green dyed near his temple, which caught the sunlight like a highlighter. He was animatedly talking to a girl with soft, bubblegum-pink hair that bounced when she laughed, and she seemed to be giggling at something the boy had said. He leaned in, smiling far too wide to be casual, and even from across the lawn, Grian could see the way the boy looked at her—dopey and glowing and hopelessly obvious.

Grian blinked. Well. That’s... something.

To his right, not too far off, there was a shorter boy in a mossy green hoodie, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows despite the chill. He looked relaxed, if not a little sleepy, and he was talking to someone with an enormous head of curly, burnt-orange hair. The curly-haired kid was gesturing dramatically with their hands, like they telling some wild story that only half made sense, and the boy in green was nodding along with an easy grin, like this was a regular thing between them. The two of them looked so at ease with each other, like they’d been friends for years. Grian couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy.

They all already know each other , he thought bitterly. I’m just... background noise.

He inhaled sharply, willing himself to stop spiraling. His shoes felt too tight. His uniform still clung weird around his shoulders. He hated how self-aware he felt—like every step, every breath, every glance he made was being catalogued, judged, weighed against some invisible metric of ‘fitting in.’

Still, he let his gaze return to the school doors. They were still open, yawning, waiting. The crowd was thinning, groups drifting inside at an accelerating pace.

He squared his shoulders slightly. Just enough to fake confidence, even if the knot in his stomach said otherwise.

He could… do this. Maybe.

He took a breath, then another.

And he started to walk.

The door swung open, a gentle creak as it gave way to the hum of voices inside. Grian stepped across the threshold, immediately feeling the rush of warmth and noise hit him like a wave. The sound of footsteps, chatter, lockers slamming, and the occasional burst of laughter all mingled in the air, creating a chaotic symphony that was almost too much to process. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, adding to the sterile, clinical atmosphere that schools always seemed to have. It felt... wrong. Out of place. It didn’t feel like he was supposed to be here.

For a moment, he lingered just inside the entrance, pausing as he took in the sprawling hallway in front of him. The walls were lined with lockers, most of them plastered with stickers and posters—sports teams, upcoming events, announcements about bake sales and club sign-ups. Nothing stood out. It was all so... normal. Ordinary.

Students milled about in little groups, chatting, checking their phones, or standing off to the side, waiting for something—probably for a bell to ring or a teacher to show up. None of them noticed him. Of course, why would they? He was just another face in the crowd, another student who didn’t belong yet.

He sighed, a mixture of frustration and self-pity swirling in his chest. With an involuntary groan, he reached for his pocket, pulling out his schedule like it was some kind of lifeline. It felt strangely comforting to hold, as if it would tell him where to go, when to move, and how to fit into this strange new world.

He glanced down at the paper, his eyes scanning the typed text as if it held some secret code. First period: Chemistry. Room 204. Mr. Hunt. He frowned. That wasn’t too bad. He liked science—well, the parts of it that didn’t involve too many numbers, anyway. He could deal with that.

Then he moved his gaze down the page. Second period: English. Room 308. Ms. Lorne. That seemed promising. He liked English, even if the thought of dissecting poetry or analyzing novels made him itch a little.

A couple of other classes followed, all written in neat, block letters— World History , Math , Physical Education . His stomach tightened with each new line. They all felt so... generic. None of them had anything about them that excited him. The teachers’ names didn’t ring any bells, and he had no idea what kind of students he’d be sitting next to. What if they all knew each other? What if he was the odd one out?

He felt his pulse quicken, his breath shallow. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe it was too late to back out now. He stared at the paper, as though willing it to reveal some hidden message—anything that might reassure him.

"Need help finding your first class?"

Grian jumped, startled out of his spiraling thoughts. His gaze snapped up, and he saw a tall girl standing in front of him. She had short, dark hair that framed her face in sharp angles, and her uniform was worn slightly askew—a blazer that was unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up to the elbows. She had a slightly mischievous glint in her eye, the kind that suggested she knew exactly what it was like to feel lost on the first day.

She offered him a small, knowing smile, as if she could read the confusion and anxiety written all over his face.

“Uh, yeah,” Grian muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. He glanced back at the schedule in his hands, then back at her, trying not to look as uncomfortable as he felt. “I’m just… trying to figure out where room 204 is?”

“Chemistry?” She nodded. “You’re almost there. Just follow the hallway down, past the lockers. It’s the second door on your left.”

“Thanks,” he said, trying to muster a smile in return. She waved it off like it was nothing and turned to walk away, blending back into the crowd of students.

Grian stared after her for a moment before looking back down at his schedule again. Room 204. He could do this. He had to.

With a deep breath, he stuffed the paper back into his bag, feeling the weight of it still in his hands even after it was tucked away. He turned on his heel and walked down the hallway, eyes darting back and forth between the rows of lockers and the clusters of students that seemed so comfortable in their own little worlds.

He hated this feeling—the feeling of being completely invisible and yet completely exposed at the same time. He hated how it seemed like everyone else knew exactly where they were going, exactly where they fit in, while he was just stumbling along, pretending he didn’t care when he really, really did.

But there was no turning back now. The bell would ring soon, and then he’d have to find his seat, face the inevitable awkwardness of introductions, and try to survive the first day. It was all part of the deal.

He rounded the corner and saw the door to Room 204 up ahead, the numbers gleaming under the harsh school lights. A few other students were already gathered around the door, waiting for it to open. He joined the small group, standing at the edge, trying to blend in without standing out too much.

Just get through this , he thought, feeling the familiar tightness return to his chest. You can do this. You just need to survive today. Tomorrow, maybe things will feel a little easier.

As he waited, he tried to push the uncertainty from his mind. He had his schedule. He knew the classes. He knew where to go. That was enough for now.

But when the door finally opened, and the teacher stepped out to usher them inside, Grian felt the weight of the day settle over him once again. It wasn’t just the schedule that was important now—it was everything that came with it. The classmates. The awkward silences. The weird glances. The small moments of connection that would either make or break his experience here.

He squared his shoulders, tightened his grip on his bag, and stepped into the classroom.

As Grian stepped into the classroom, the door swung shut behind him with a soft click, leaving him momentarily trapped in the threshold. The noise from the hallway seemed to fade away, replaced by a low hum of murmurs and shifting chairs. His eyes immediately darted across the room, scanning for a place to sit, or any sign of familiar faces, or anything that might anchor him in the sea of strangers that surrounded him.

It didn’t help.

The room seemed too big, too full, the walls closing in on him. The desks were arranged in neat rows, some pushed together in clusters where groups of students had already gathered. The teacher wasn’t there yet, still talking to people outside, and it seemed like most of the students were content to chat among themselves until the bell rang.

His gaze swept over the groups of kids. He noticed the same boy with the green streak in his hair right away. He was standing near the back of the room, deep in conversation with a blue-haired boy who seemed to be just as animated in his speech, his hands gesturing wildly as they both laughed at something. They seemed to be on the same wavelength, their easy banter punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter that echoed through the classroom. Grian wondered if they knew each other well, or if they were just the kind of people who clicked from the start. Either way, they had that effortless energy about them—like the kind of friendship that had been cultivated over years of shared experiences and inside jokes.

Grian glanced away, shifting his focus to another group. There, near the front of the room, he spotted a pair of boys who stood out in a way that immediately caught his attention. One of them had brown hair, but what made him interesting was the pair of oversized sunglasses perched atop his head, along with a peculiar little crown hairpin that glinted in the light. He was talking animatedly to a boy with blonde hair and a headband, the two of them standing so close together that it almost looked like they were conspiring.

But it wasn’t just the closeness that caught Grian’s eye. It was their accents.

The boy with the sunglasses—he spoke with a tone that was exaggerated, theatrical even, rolling his words in a way that made them sound almost... medieval? The accent was exaggerated, almost too much, like he was playing some kind of exaggerated role. The blonde-haired boy, too, seemed to be leaning into the same affectation, their voices blending into a strange, almost comical harmony.

“I say, my good man,” the boy with the sunglasses said, his voice dripping with mock-formality, “what news of our latest conquest? What word from the high court?”

The other boy, in turn, responded with a similar flourish. “Ah, mi’lord,” he said with a mock bow, “the word from the court is that we must prepare for the grand feast tonight. I’ve heard the jester will perform!”

The two of them burst into a fit of snickers, their laughter rising above the general murmur of the classroom as they continued their playful banter. Grian’s brow furrowed slightly at the exchange. What was that? He didn’t know whether to find it endearing or just... weird. It was like they were playing out some kind of elaborate role-play in the middle of a classroom.

But what really struck him wasn’t just the oddity of their conversation—it was the ease with which they slipped into it. The way they communicated as if it was completely natural, as if they didn’t care one bit that their accent was entirely ridiculous. And the fact that they had clearly made each other laugh so easily, so effortlessly, made something inside Grian twist.

That could never be me.

He shifted uncomfortably, looking down at his shoes for a second before his gaze wandered again. He needed to find a seat. The anxiety was beginning to gnaw at him, creeping up his spine like a shadow. The awkwardness was unbearable.

His eyes moved across the room once more, landing on a different group of students sitting near the window. They looked like they’d already formed their own little clique, their conversations flowing easily as they leaned over one another, scribbling something in notebooks or tapping away on their phones. It seemed like the same pattern everywhere—groups, cliques, people who had already settled in, already found their places, their rhythm.

And then, his gaze moved to the back of the room, where a few scattered desks were placed a little farther from the others, as though they had been left intentionally open, just waiting for someone to sit in them. It was almost as if the room itself was offering him a choice—an escape. He didn’t recognize any of the faces, but that was the point. At least there, he wouldn’t have to worry about fitting in or making a fool of himself.

Just sit somewhere, he thought, trying to calm his racing heart. Get it over with. It’s just a room. It’s just a class.

Grian hesitated for only a moment before walking to the empty desk at the back of the room. His steps were quiet, almost as if he could disappear into the shadows if he tried hard enough. When he slid into the seat, he placed his bag on the desk, letting out a shaky breath.

For a split second, the classroom felt like it had swallowed him whole. The noise from the other students faded into the background as he set his gaze forward, focusing on the blank whiteboard at the front of the class. He could still hear the laughter and chatter around him, but it felt muffled, like it was happening on the other side of a thick glass window.

Just survive the first day, he told himself. That’s all you need to do. Just make it through this hour. Then the next. Then the next…

The bell rang just then, loud and sharp, cutting through his thoughts and jolting him back to reality. The teacher entered the room, and immediately the energy shifted, everyone taking their seats with practiced ease. Grian watched as the two boys with the accents took their seats together, still snickering quietly to each other as they sat down at a desk in the middle of the room.

He tried not to stare. He tried to focus, to make it through, to be normal.

But somehow, he couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone else here had already figured it out, while he was still just trying to keep up.

Grian’s heart hammered in his chest as he pulled his notebook out, staring down at the empty page in front of him. The classroom, though bustling with chatter, seemed distant, as if a thin veil had been drawn between him and everything else. He tried to focus, tried to take in the words the teacher was saying, but the low hum of voices, the shuffle of feet, and the sharp sound of a pencil hitting a desk every now and then seemed to blur into one constant drone. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to get through this.

His eyes flicked to the whiteboard, noting the things scribbled there—lesson objectives, some class rules, a reminder to get his lab kit for chemistry. His hand moved on autopilot, copying the information as his mind wandered again. It wasn’t hard to get lost in his thoughts. He always did, especially when things got overwhelming. It was easier to focus on the little details—like the way the eraser on his pencil was starting to wear down unevenly—or the sound of his breathing in the stillness of the room.

But then, just as he was getting into his rhythm, the teacher’s voice rang out over the classroom, slicing through his thoughts with alarming clarity.

“Oh! We have a new student, too!” The teacher’s voice was bright, almost too cheerful, as if it were supposed to be exciting news.

Grian's stomach tightened at the sound of his name. He hadn’t been prepared for this, hadn’t thought about what would happen if he was called out.

"Let’s all give a warm welcome to Grian, everyone! Grian, why don’t you stand up and introduce yourself?"

The teacher's wide grin was almost too much to bear. The last thing Grian wanted was all eyes on him. He could feel the warmth creeping into his cheeks as he slowly pushed his chair back, the sound of it scraping against the floor somehow deafening. Every step he took toward the front felt like an eternity, the weight of each footfall pulling him deeper into discomfort.

He stood awkwardly in front of the class, glancing up briefly to take in the sea of faces staring at him. Some of them were looking at him with mild curiosity, others with disinterest. But all of them were looking.

His throat felt dry as he cleared it, feeling the eyes on him make his skin prickle. "Uh, hey. I’m Grian. I just transferred here." His voice came out small and unsteady, not at all how he wanted it to sound. He could feel himself shrinking under their gaze. "I’m, uh… I like writing, I guess. Yeah."

It felt lame. Like he hadn’t said anything that would make anyone care. He wanted to sink into the floor and disappear. But instead, he forced himself to stay standing, offering a weak smile. He quickly returned to his seat, his heart pounding in his chest.

The teacher’s voice brought him back to the moment, her tone light and welcoming. “Alright, Grian. Why don’t I have you sit next to… Scar!”

Grian’s eyes darted toward the front of the classroom, following the teacher’s gesture. At the table in question, a boy sat with his back to him. His hair was a deep chocolate brown, pulled back neatly into a ponytail. He seemed relaxed, leaning back slightly in his chair, with a few papers scattered in front of him on the desk.

As Grian made his way over, he couldn’t help but notice the boy’s posture—unbothered, confident. Scar. His name echoed in Grian’s mind, but before he could give it more thought, the boy turned slightly, and Grian’s gaze landed on the multitude of scars scattered across his face and hands.

It was striking. The boy’s cheeks were covered in a network of pale, silvery lines that almost seemed to glimmer under the fluorescent lights of the classroom. His hands, resting loosely on the desk, had a similar collection of marks. It wasn’t something Grian expected to see—certainly not from someone who seemed so composed and unbothered.

Grian’s eyes widened just slightly, but he quickly looked away, focusing on the empty seat next to the boy. He could feel the heat of his cheeks intensifying, his stomach knotting up with awkwardness. He wasn’t sure if he should say something or just sit in silence. What do you even say in a situation like this?

When he finally took his seat next to the boy—Scar, apparently—he could feel the weight of the moment lingering in the air between them. Scar didn’t seem to acknowledge his arrival at first, his attention focused on his notebook, where he was scribbling something with a pencil. But the silence felt thick, heavy, like it was too soon to just let things settle.

Grian didn’t know why it bothered him so much. It was just sitting next to someone, right? Just like any other first-day interaction. But the quiet stretched on, and the tension was almost palpable, like there was something unspoken that neither of them was ready to address.

Then, just as he was beginning to feel like he might suffocate under the pressure, Scar finally glanced over at him. His expression was neutral, almost unreadable, but there was a faint glimmer of something in his eyes—curiosity, maybe, or just an acknowledgment that Grian had arrived.

“You’re the new guy, huh?” Scar’s voice was low, but there was an easygoing quality to it, like he didn’t really care whether Grian answered or not.

“Yeah,” Grian muttered, his fingers curling into the edges of his notebook. "Just transferred."

Scar gave a short nod, then turned back to his papers, his pencil scratching across the page. Grian wasn’t sure what to say next, so he let the silence linger, focusing instead on the lesson that was just about to begin. His mind was too preoccupied to really absorb any of the words the teacher was saying, though. All he could think about was the fact that he was sitting next to Scar, this kid who looked like he’d been through something intense, something Grian could never quite understand.

But, at least for now, that didn’t seem to matter. The class continued, and Grian did his best to keep his focus on the lesson, the uneasy feeling in his chest settling into something more bearable as he tried to make sense of the day. Sitting next to Scar wasn’t exactly what he expected, but it was a start.

As the lesson dragged on, Grian’s attention slowly returned to the teacher, trying his best to focus on the words coming from the front of the classroom. He hadn’t been here long, but it was already clear that this class wasn’t going to be a walk in the park. There were a few concepts he’d already learned in his old school, but the way the teacher was explaining it made him want to understand it in a new way. His mind started to settle into the rhythm of the class, the questions on the board slowly becoming more familiar as he wrote down notes.

His eyes darted to the front when the teacher asked a question, raising his hand instinctively. He had the answer. He knew the material. It was a simple one, really. But as his hand went up, he saw out of the corner of his eye that Scar’s hand had already shot up, quicker than he could have expected, and with a confident air about it. The teacher didn’t hesitate, immediately turning toward Scar with a smile.

“Yes, Scar?” she asked, already knowing that he would answer.

Scar’s response came easily, his voice steady and clear as he spoke the exact answer that Grian had been about to give, word-for-word, perfectly. The class nodded along with Scar, a couple of students even scribbling notes as if it were a revelation.

Grian’s hand hovered in the air, a small, almost imperceptible sigh escaping his lips as he lowered it back down to the desk. Okay, no big deal. It wasn’t like it was some grand, groundbreaking moment. Sure, he had been the one to raise his hand first, but whatever, right? There was no need to be bothered by something so trivial.

But then, it happened again.

A couple of questions later, the teacher posed another one, and once again, Grian’s hand was the first to rise, this time a little more eagerly, thinking maybe he could get in first this time. But, no. Scar’s hand shot up once again, even quicker this time, his expression calm and almost bored, as though he knew what was coming and had already prepared the perfect answer. It was as if he was waiting for the question to be asked just so he could deliver his response with the same smooth, practiced ease.

And, once again, Scar answered first, and once again, his answer was spot-on.

Grian’s eyes narrowed just slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line. He didn’t like this. There was something about it—the way Scar answered with such confidence, as though he knew exactly what to say and when to say it. It wasn’t just about getting the answer right. It was about the fact that Scar was always one step ahead , somehow always managing to grab the spotlight before Grian even had a chance to speak.

Was this kid trying to get on his nerves?

The thought buzzed in Grian’s head like an annoying fly, distracting him more than he’d like to admit. He tried to shake it off, tried to tell himself it didn’t matter. It was just a class, right? Just a few questions, nothing to worry about. But the more it happened, the more it started to gnaw at him.

He wasn’t used to this. In his old school, Grian had been the one to answer questions before anyone else could. He had the answers, and he had the confidence that came with it. But here, in this strange, new classroom, he felt like he was always just a little bit behind. Scar had this effortless presence, as if he belonged here, as if he knew how everything worked. And Grian... didn’t.

His eyes flicked to Scar again, who was sitting next to him, completely unfazed, scribbling something in his notebook with a lazy hand. Grian barely caught a glimpse of it—just the movement of his pencil—but there was something about the calmness in his demeanor that made Grian’s frustration flare up again. Scar wasn’t just answering questions. He was doing it with ease. With style. Like it was all a game to him. Like he wasn’t even trying, and yet, here he was, stealing every chance Grian had to shine.

Grian bit his lip, trying to push down the mounting irritation. Just focus, he thought. Just keep your head down and get through the class.

But no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, it felt like Scar was always there , always just a little bit ahead of him, stealing the spotlight every time.

The bell rang at the end of the period, and Grian gathered his things with more force than necessary, trying to tamp down the frustration that had been building inside him all class. He was annoyed, but he wasn’t sure why. Scar hadn’t done anything wrong. He hadn’t been rude, or overbearing. In fact, he hadn’t said much at all beyond his answers. But still, something about him—about the way he always had the right answers before Grian even had a chance to think—was starting to drive him mad.

He could feel Scar’s presence beside him as they both packed up their things, but Grian avoided looking at him. Scar wasn’t even paying attention to him, already folding his notebook up and tossing it into his bag. Grian tried not to care, but his thoughts raced, his mind still tangled in the frustration of the past hour.

It’s just one class, he reminded himself. It doesn’t matter that much.

But as he stood up and grabbed his bag, moving toward the door, Grian couldn’t help but feel like this wasn’t just about class. It wasn’t just about the answers. It was something else, something deeper. Something that made him feel a little... less than .

“See you around, Grian,” Scar said casually, his voice smooth, like it didn’t carry any weight, like they were just two normal classmates with no tension between them at all.

Grian didn’t answer right away, his throat tight, but after a moment, he managed a stiff nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah. See you.”

And as the door shut behind him, he couldn’t help but feel like he was already losing.

The day stretched on at a snail’s pace, each class seeming to drag out longer than the last. Grian’s mind was already exhausted by the time he sat down in his second class of the day, and when he saw Scar walk in and sit down a few rows ahead of him, he could feel the frustration from the morning bubbling up again. He tried to shake it off. It wasn’t like they were going to be stuck together for every class, right? He could get through the day without getting too wound up.

But then, to his dismay, the next few periods turned out to be a cruel joke. For some reason, Grian kept ending up in the same classes as Scar. History. Math. And now, here they were again, sitting side by side in some language class, where the teacher had already begun to ask questions. Grian took a deep breath, trying to clear his mind. It’s fine. I can handle this. It’s just class.

But no. It wasn’t fine.

Every single time a question was asked, Scar’s hand shot up. Every single time, he had the answer before anyone else had even begun to process the question. And not just the right answer— the perfect answer. The kind of answer that seemed so easy, so effortless, it left Grian fuming inside.

How was he doing this? Grian was good at this. He had been the one with the answers first at his old school. He had prided himself on it. But here, Scar was some sort of answer machine—completely unbothered, as if he had memorized every single question in advance. There was no way. No way .

He has to be cheating, Grian thought, his hands gripping his pen so tightly his knuckles turned white. There’s no other explanation. He must be looking at the answers from somewhere.

But no matter how much he tried to distract himself, no matter how many times he tried to brush off Scar’s constant perfect responses, Grian couldn’t help but feel the sting of comparison. He wasn’t just annoyed anymore; he was shaken. This was his thing—his usefulness . His ability to know the answers, to be the smartest person in the room. It had always been his defining trait. It was what made him stand out. And now, here was this guy, this Scar, stealing all of it.

It didn’t make sense. How could Scar be so effortlessly good? Was he really just that smart? Was there something about this place—about these kids—that Grian hadn’t figured out yet? Or was Scar really that much better than him?

Grian forced himself to pay attention to the lesson, even as his mind kept spiraling. He tried to focus, tried to follow along with the teacher’s explanations, but every time Scar answered a question—his voice smooth, his hand raised just a little bit too fast, his answers always perfectly worded—it felt like a slap to the face. Grian gritted his teeth, trying to suppress the frustration rising in his chest.

It wasn’t fair. This was supposed to be his thing. He was supposed to be the smartest. He was supposed to have the answers. Only Grian was supposed to be the one who could ace everything without breaking a sweat.

But now? Now he was sitting here, fighting back the urge to throw his pen across the room and demand that someone explain why Scar was outshining him at every turn.

And the worst part was that Scar wasn’t even trying. He didn’t care about being the center of attention, didn’t seem to notice the way everyone was looking at him after every correct answer. He just leaned back in his chair, perfectly at ease, like he didn’t even have to try .

That made it worse. Way worse. Grian could feel his ego crumbling, just a little bit more, every time Scar casually raised his hand. And what could he do about it? Nothing. He couldn’t very well stand up and accuse Scar of cheating. Everyone would think he was petty. They’d think he was just some sore loser who couldn’t handle being upstaged.

So, Grian did the only thing he could do: he pushed the feeling down. He buried the frustration and told himself it didn’t matter. So what if Scar was answering the questions before him? So what if Scar had this... thing , this ease with the material that Grian couldn’t quite understand? It didn’t matter. It wasn’t a big deal.

But that didn’t stop the gnawing feeling in his chest, the growing sense that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as special as he had always thought. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the smartest in the room anymore.

The bell rang at the end of the period, signaling the end of yet another class where Grian had been forced to sit there, silently stewing in his own bitterness. As the students stood up and began packing their things, Grian shoved his books into his bag a little more forcefully than necessary. He could feel the heat of frustration still simmering just below the surface, the need to prove something to himself, to remind everyone— himself most of all —that he was still the best.

But then, just as he was about to turn toward the door, Scar’s voice broke through his thoughts.

“Hey,” Scar said casually, standing up from his seat beside Grian and stretching slightly. “You got any plans after school?”

Grian blinked, surprised at the question. Of all the things he had expected from Scar, this wasn’t one of them. But then again, Scar seemed to have a habit of throwing him off balance, making him feel like he was always one step behind. He didn’t know how to answer. He didn’t even want to talk to him. Not right now, at least—not while his brain was still reeling from the fact that Scar had just answered another question with flawless ease.

“Uh, no,” Grian muttered, not meeting his gaze as he slung his bag over his shoulder. “Nothing.”

Scar gave a nonchalant shrug. “Alright. See you around, I guess.”

Grian didn’t know what to make of that. He didn’t know if Scar was trying to be friendly or if he was just being polite. But either way, it didn’t matter.

He stepped out of the classroom, the weight of his frustration still heavy on his shoulders. Scar wasn’t just some random kid, some easy target for Grian to beat. He was an enigma—a person who was somehow capable of doing everything Grian had always done, but better. And that thought, the thought that Grian wasn’t the best at something anymore, stuck with him like a splinter in his mind, even as he made his way through the crowded hallways, his thoughts tangled in a mix of frustration, confusion, and—above all—doubt.

Maybe this wasn’t going to be as easy as he thought.

By the time lunch rolled around, Grian was feeling mentally drained. The day had felt like an endless cycle of trying to keep his focus in a classroom where every time he glanced to the side, he found Scar one step ahead of him, breezing through each lesson like it was nothing. The constant feeling of being outpaced, outperformed, gnawed at him, making the whole morning seem like one long, unwelcome blur. He had just barely been able to concentrate on the lessons, and his frustration was starting to bubble up in ways he didn’t want to acknowledge.

He could feel the weight of the morning’s irritations pressing down on him as he shuffled through the crowded hallway toward the cafeteria. The chatter of students, the clatter of trays, and the smell of food filled the air, but none of it could quite shake the unease twisting in his stomach.

This is stupid, he thought, his hand gripping the strap of his bag tighter. Why do I even care so much?

But despite his best efforts to brush off the annoyance, it didn’t go away. It was still there, lurking at the back of his mind, like a little voice reminding him that Scar had gotten the better of him again.

As he pushed through the double doors of the cafeteria, he scanned the room, looking for Pearl. His eyes quickly found her at a table near the corner, already sitting with her lunch spread out in front of her. She was casually chatting with a couple of other kids, one of whom Grian recognized as the girl with pink hair he’d seen earlier. Pearl’s usual bubbly energy was evident as she laughed at something the girl said, her head thrown back in that carefree way she had.

For a moment, Grian envied her. She had no problem fitting in here. No problem making friends, no problem being herself. But then, his eyes flickered over to another corner of the room, where Scar was sitting with a group of kids, laughing and talking animatedly. Scar’s presence seemed magnetic, effortlessly drawing people to him. He was sitting there, totally at ease, completely in his element, as though he belonged here more than anyone else.

Not this again, Grian thought, feeling a familiar knot tighten in his chest.

With a frustrated sigh, he made his way toward Pearl’s table, trying his best to ignore the overwhelming sense of comparison creeping up on him. He approached her, catching the tail end of her conversation with the girl with pink hair.

"Hey," Grian muttered, dropping his bag beside the empty seat next to Pearl.

Pearl turned toward him, her expression lighting up. "Oh, hey! How’s it going so far? You surviving?" she asked, her voice playful. "I mean, I’m sure you’re acing everything already, right?"

Grian gave her a half-hearted smile, the exhaustion from the day weighing on him. "Yeah, sure," he muttered, sliding into the seat beside her. "It’s fine."

He didn’t feel like getting into it. Not with Pearl, not with anyone. There was just too much swirling in his head. He reached for his lunch—some sandwich wrapped in foil—and tried to focus on that instead of the million things bouncing around in his brain.

"You know," Pearl said, her tone light but teasing, "I saw Scar in one of my other classes earlier. He’s kind of… a lot, huh?"

Grian froze mid-bite, the sandwich hovering near his mouth. Scar? He tried not to let the irritation seep into his voice. "What do you mean, 'a lot'?" he asked, his words coming out a little sharper than he intended.

Pearl didn’t seem to notice, or maybe she was too focused on her own train of thought to care. "I don’t know, just like—he’s so calm, you know? He doesn’t seem to get worked up about anything. He’s like... unbothered, I guess? I’m honestly kind of impressed."

Grian’s stomach twisted again, the feeling of inadequacy creeping in once more. He quickly looked down at his lunch, trying to hide the discomfort he was sure was now visible on his face. Unbothered ? That was exactly it. Scar didn’t get worked up about anything. He didn’t have to try, didn’t need to. He just was .

And that, somehow, was the most frustrating part of all.

"I guess," Grian muttered, trying to brush it off. "I don’t really know him all that well."

Pearl didn’t seem to notice the shift in Grian’s mood. Instead, she continued talking, completely oblivious to the storm brewing in his mind. "Well, maybe you’ll get to know him better. He’s in a couple of my classes, too, and we’ve had some decent chats. He’s actually pretty chill once you get past the whole ‘I’m effortlessly smart’ vibe." She giggled at the end of that, clearly not picking up on the fact that Grian didn’t share her amusement.

Grian’s fingers tightened around his sandwich, a sense of frustration building that he couldn’t quite explain. He didn’t want to talk about Scar, didn’t want to think about Scar, but somehow, here it was again—like some unavoidable tide rolling in. He didn’t care about how “chill” Scar was, or how effortlessly smart he came across. All Grian cared about was the fact that he was always one step behind, always the one who had to work just a little bit harder to keep up.

He forced himself to swallow the lump in his throat, trying to focus on Pearl’s words, on the conversation around him. "I’m sure," he said flatly, barely registering the words as they left his mouth. He tried to keep his tone neutral, to mask the irritation with the same practiced indifference he’d always used, but it didn’t quite work.

Pearl, ever the optimist, kept chatting, her voice like a constant hum in the background. "So, what’s next? Are you going to the library after this? I might swing by and do some reading. I’m getting pretty into this new book I started. It’s like a mix of fantasy and mystery."

Grian barely heard her, his mind still on Scar, on the way he always seemed to be just a little bit ahead. It’s not a big deal, he tried to tell himself. You’re fine. You’ve got this.

But the more he tried to push the thought away, the more it gnawed at him. He didn’t know how to feel anymore. He didn’t know if he was even good enough at this school, at this new life. He had been the golden boy before, the one everyone looked to for answers, the one who could breeze through school without breaking a sweat. Now? Now it was like he was fighting to stay afloat in a sea of people who seemed to have it all figured out—especially Scar, who, despite Grian’s best efforts, seemed to be the one who had it all too figured out.

As lunch went on, Grian found himself more distracted, more distant, until the bell rang and he was snapping out of his thoughts, barely registering that the period was over. He threw his trash away quickly, gave Pearl a quick nod, and headed out of the cafeteria, trying to shake off the lingering frustration.

He didn’t want to think about Scar. But somehow, the more he tried to push it down, the harder it became to ignore.

By the time Grian made it to his final class of the day, a sense of relief washed over him, almost tangible. He practically breathed a sigh of relief as he scanned the classroom, noting the absence of Scar. Thank the stars, finally—a class where he wouldn’t be constantly one-upped, where his every answer wouldn’t be preemptively snatched out of the air by that... that guy .

He grabbed an empty seat at the back, trying to settle into the normal rhythm of being a student. This was it. The end of the day. No more distractions, no more pressure, no more... Scar .

He pulled out his notebook and pen, trying to focus on the teacher who was now explaining the day’s lesson. But his mind kept drifting back to the past few hours. Scar had somehow managed to show up in almost every class, hovering like an unshakable cloud. Every time Grian thought he had a handle on things, Scar would somehow manage to jump in—answering questions quicker, making connections Grian had only half thought of. It was as though he was constantly out of reach, always just a little bit better.

That last class had been a little easier to deal with, though. There were no whispered comments from Scar, no quick jabs of cleverness or overly casual interruptions. It was just him, the teacher, and a room full of unfamiliar faces who hadn’t yet formed their own opinions about him. That was the one upside of being the new kid—you were a blank slate. No one had made up their mind yet.

His eyes flicked to the board, barely registering the words on it as he tried to focus. It was supposed to be a simple class. A quick review of basic algebraic concepts. But Grian found himself scribbling random notes instead of focusing. His handwriting was messy, distracted—he hated that. He was always meticulous about his notes, always precise, always organized. But now? Now everything felt like a blur.

The teacher’s voice droned on, but Grian barely heard it, the words mixing into an indistinguishable hum. He stared at the clock on the wall, watching the seconds tick by slowly. His mind kept racing, looping back to Scar. Why does it bother me so much?

He didn’t get it. He couldn’t. Scar wasn’t doing anything wrong. He wasn’t even trying to antagonize him—it was all in Grian’s head. But it didn’t stop the frustration from bubbling up. Why is it so hard to keep up?

The more Grian tried to push the thoughts aside, the more they crowded in, filling up the empty space where focus should have been. He shook his head slightly, trying to snap himself out of it. He glanced around the room, only to find his eyes landing on the clock again. It’s not a big deal, he told himself. It’s just one day. You’ll get used to it.

The problem, of course, was that he didn’t want to get used to it. He didn’t want to be okay with someone constantly outpacing him. He didn’t want to accept that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the smartest kid in the room anymore.

As the teacher’s lecture continued, Grian scribbled aimlessly in his notebook, drawing little loops and spirals at the edges of the page. It was the only thing that kept his mind occupied—kept him from completely spiraling out of control. The more he thought about it, the more his chest tightened with the growing sense of dread.

Why couldn’t he just let it go? Why couldn’t he be happy that someone else had the answers, that someone else had the upper hand for once?

"Alright, class," the teacher’s voice broke through his thoughts, and Grian looked up. "We’re going to work on a few practice problems. Pair up with the person next to you and solve them together."

Grian sighed quietly under his breath. Great. Another opportunity for someone else to do the work for him.

He glanced around the room, his eyes landing on a quiet student with short black hair and glasses who was sitting a couple rows over. The boy hadn’t said a word the entire class, keeping to himself in the corner. He seemed relatively unbothered by the chaos of the classroom, a stark contrast to Grian’s current state of internal turmoil.

Reluctantly, Grian gathered his things and moved toward the boy, trying to push his discomfort aside. At least this kid wouldn’t be showing off or trying to prove anything, right? He wasn’t Scar , at least.

He slid into the empty seat beside the boy, feeling the familiar wave of awkwardness rush over him. He opened his notebook, and the boy next to him looked up, giving a small, quiet smile.

"Hey," Grian mumbled, pulling out a pencil. "I guess we’re working together."

The boy nodded. "Looks like it," he said, his voice soft but not unfriendly. "I’m Cub."

"Grian," he replied, trying not to sound too distracted. He glanced at the board, watching as the teacher wrote up a complicated problem.

Cub didn’t seem fazed by the complexity of the question, his hand already moving to solve it. Grian glanced at him, momentarily impressed by how quickly Cub had processed the problem, but then he caught himself. Why do I care?

He quickly focused on his own paper, scribbling down the steps as the teacher had outlined them, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest.

But that didn’t last long.

As the class went on, Grian found himself sneaking glances at Cub’s work, comparing it to his own. No way, he thought. Cub’s solving it faster than me, too.

It wasn’t just Scar. It was everyone. Everyone here seemed to be so much better at this than him. They didn’t need to overthink things. They didn’t need to strain for every answer.

Grian’s pencil stilled in his hand as the realization hit him, sudden and sharp. This wasn’t just about Scar. This was about him, about his need to always be the best. To always prove that he was the smartest, the most capable.

It’s stupid, he thought bitterly, clenching his fist around the pencil. Why does it matter so much?

But no matter how hard he tried to force the thoughts away, they kept coming back, gnawing at him, until the class ended and the bell rang, signaling the end of the day.

He quickly packed up his things, barely sparing a glance at Cub as he left the classroom. He needed to get out of there. He needed to get away from it all, away from the pressure, the expectation.

The hallways were crowded as he made his way to the exit, the noise almost unbearable. He didn’t want to go home and face the empty apartment, didn’t want to deal with Pearl’s incessant questions about how his day had gone. But there was nothing else to do. He couldn’t stay here forever.

As he pushed through the doors and stepped into the cool afternoon air, he felt a strange mix of exhaustion and frustration flood through him. Another day had come and gone, and yet, it felt like he was no closer to figuring things out.

One thing was for sure—he had no idea how he was going to handle tomorrow.

Grian slid into the car, the familiar scent of his mom’s air freshener filling his nostrils. Pearl was already in the passenger seat, fiddling with her phone as usual, her headphones half hanging from her neck. She gave him a quick glance but didn’t say anything—probably absorbed in whatever drama she was reading about online.

He tossed his bag onto the floor, his mind still reeling from the whirlwind of his day. He was tired, frustrated, and, honestly, a little lost. A whole day of being overshadowed by people—first Scar, then Cub, then every class feeling like a race he couldn’t quite catch up to. It was like everyone was in the fast lane, and Grian was stuck in traffic.

His fingers hovered over his phone for a moment before he selected the song. Around the Bend by Pearl Jam. Something familiar, something easy. It was his go-to track when he needed to dial everything down, a steady rhythm that felt like a soft exhale after holding his breath too long.

He connected his phone to the car’s Bluetooth and sank back into his seat as the opening chords started to play. The music settled around him like a blanket, pulling him away from the noise of the day.

Pearl, of course, didn’t seem to notice. She was scrolling through something, eyes glued to her screen, tapping away at her phone. He didn’t mind—he wasn’t in the mood to talk, anyway. He just wanted to disappear into the music for a bit, to let it take him somewhere far away from the crowded hallways and the pressure of trying to prove something.

He stared out the window as the car pulled out of the parking lot, watching the world blur past him. The buildings, the trees, the people—everything seemed so distant, so disconnected. Maybe he was just overthinking everything. Maybe it wasn’t a big deal that Scar always seemed to get the answers first. Maybe it wasn’t a big deal that Cub seemed to breeze through the problems while Grian was still trying to figure out the formula.

But no matter how much he tried to convince himself, the feeling wouldn’t go away. It lingered in his chest like a stone that wouldn’t settle. He hated this feeling—hated the way everything felt like a race he wasn’t meant to win, even though he’d always prided himself on being able to keep up.

The song played on, and for a brief moment, he let the music wash over him, the steady beat helping to slow his heart rate. At least for now, he didn’t have to think about Scar, or school, or the gnawing anxiety that had taken root in him.

Just the music, and the quiet hum of the car engine.

Pearl shifted in her seat, pulling one of her earbuds out and turning to him. “You okay?” she asked, a flicker of concern in her voice.

Grian hesitated for a moment, debating whether or not to tell her the truth. He could say he was fine—he always said he was fine. But something about today felt different. The whole day had felt... off.

“Yeah, just tired,” he said, shrugging. He didn’t want to get into it. He didn’t want to talk about Scar or school or feeling like he was already losing before the race had even started.

Pearl nodded, her attention already shifting back to her phone as the song continued to play softly in the background. Grian sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, leaning back against the seat, trying to clear his mind.

Tomorrow was another day. Maybe things would be different. Maybe Scar wouldn’t be in all his classes. Maybe he’d find a way to breathe through it all.

The ride back to the apartment felt almost surreal this time—faster, somehow, even though it was the same route they'd taken that morning. Grian stared out the window, watching the familiar sights blur past him. It felt like everything was moving in fast-forward, like the world was just... rushing by while he stayed stuck in place. His fingers drummed lightly on the seat, a subconscious rhythm he couldn’t shake.

When the car finally rolled to a stop in front of the apartment complex, Grian barely registered it. His mind was still back in that chaotic sea of students at school, caught between the nagging frustration and the quiet embarrassment of not being enough . Pearl was already out of the car, headed toward the stairs, chattering away about something—probably something she’d seen on her phone, but Grian didn’t catch any of it. He was too busy tuning everything else out.

He followed her in silence, his steps feeling heavy as they climbed the stairs to their new apartment. It was a simple building, nothing flashy, but it had a certain familiarity now, as if it was slowly becoming part of his new routine. He glanced at the walls, the hallway, all the same dull gray that had greeted him this morning. Nothing had changed, but everything felt different.

When they reached the door, Pearl swung it open with a loud creak, stepping inside without even looking back. Grian hesitated for a moment in the doorway, taking in the quiet. It was almost too quiet. The apartment felt empty, even with Pearl moving around and talking at full volume.

He didn’t wait for her to call out to him. Instead, he slid past her, his feet carrying him quickly to his room. He didn’t even look back as he stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him.

The room felt like it belonged to someone else. The walls were still mostly bare, the boxes still sitting haphazardly against them, but it was his now, for better or worse. He dropped his bag onto the floor with a heavy thud and immediately started to peel off his uniform—feeling the weight of the day finally settling into his bones. His mind was still buzzing from the constant pressure of school, of Scar, of everyone else. Everything was a mess, and he was tired of pretending it wasn’t.

He walked over to the bed, his footsteps slow as he ran his fingers over the edge of the mattress. His room was empty, save for the minimal furniture. Barely any personal touches yet. No posters. It felt like he hadn’t fully moved in, like he hadn’t fully decided if he was even going to stay.

He stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do. The silence in the apartment seemed to press in on him, louder than the chaos of the school day.

With a sigh, he collapsed onto the bed, his back sinking into the mattress. The room was cold, and the sheets felt stiff, unfamiliar. He stared up at the ceiling, his mind racing again. He hadn’t gotten a single thing right today. Not a single thing. His thoughts flitted between moments at school—the way Scar had answered every question before he could even think of a response, the way the other students had barely noticed him as they went about their day. The small, nagging feeling that he was just... out of place here.

It wasn’t just school. It was everything.

A soft knock at the door made him flinch. He sat up quickly, heart racing for a second before he realized it was just Pearl.

“Hey,” she called from the other side, her voice muffled by the door. “You alright in there?”

Grian didn’t answer immediately, staring at the door. He wanted to say something, to let out the frustration that had been building up all day, but he didn’t. Instead, he swallowed, taking a deep breath. “Yeah, just... tired.”

“Okay,” Pearl replied, her tone softening slightly. There was a pause, and Grian imagined her standing there, probably with that look of concern she always wore when she thought something was off. He wasn’t sure if he liked it or if it made everything worse.

“Okay,” she said again, quieter this time, before he heard her footsteps retreat down the hall.

Grian let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He pulled the covers over himself, curling up into a ball, wishing for the day to end, wishing he could just sleep through everything.

The world outside his room continued without him. Pearl, their mom, the world outside the apartment. They were all just moving on, while he sat here, stuck in his own mind, unsure of what came next.

The quiet hum of the refrigerator downstairs was the only sound that filled the room, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Grian allowed himself to sink into it, letting the weight of the day pull him under. Maybe tomorrow would be better. Maybe he’d find a way to be more than just another face in the crowd.

But for now, he just needed to breathe.

Chapter Text

Saturday morning arrived not with the slow, blissful ease that usually accompanied weekends, but with Grian bolting upright in bed, heart hammering in his chest. Light spilled through his half-closed blinds, brighter than he expected—far too bright for someone who should've been out the door already. His eyes darted toward the clock, and when he saw the time—8:43 AM—he leapt to his feet like a man possessed.

Panic laced every movement. He scrambled for his uniform, nearly knocking over the cup of pens on his desk in the process. One bounced off the corner and rolled underneath his bed, but he didn’t have time to deal with it. He barely managed to shove on his binder, shrugging on his blazer over his wrinkled button-up, managing to do up only half the buttons before grabbing his bag. His hair stuck out in every possible direction, and his glasses were slightly crooked from where he'd yanked them onto his face in a frenzy.

He shoved his feet into mismatched socks and slipped on his shoes without tying them. His heart was thudding so hard it nearly drowned out the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the chirping of birds outside. Why was it so quiet? Why wasn’t anyone else up?

As he charged out of his room, his panic only intensified. The hallway was silent. The living room empty. No signs of his mom grabbing her purse or Pearl wolfing down cereal. The lights were still off, and the morning sun glinted off the floor in lazy streaks. Something was wrong. He was the only one awake, and it was almost nine.

Grian made a beeline for Pearl’s room, banging on her door with a wild urgency. “Pearl!” he called, knocking again when she didn’t answer. “Pearl, come on, get up! We’re late—”

The door cracked open, and Pearl stood there in an oversized t-shirt, her eyes barely open and her hair a complete mess. She stared at him like he’d just asked her to run a marathon barefoot. “Why,” she said, voice thick with sleep, “are you screaming at me?”

Grian looked at her with wild-eyed exasperation. “We’re late for school! You’re not dressed, I’m not dressed, Mom’s not even up—”

Pearl blinked. Once. Twice. Then she squinted at him, the fog of sleep slowly lifting from her face. A pause. And then—snort.

“Grian,” she said, stepping back into the doorway and crossing her arms. “It’s Saturday.”

He froze, his brain doing the math in real time. Friday. Yesterday had been Friday. He’d suffered through double math and that godforsaken quiz in English—of course it was Saturday. The realization hit him like a slap to the face.

Pearl’s snort turned into a short burst of laughter. “You woke me up because you thought it was a school day? Are you serious right now?”

Grian looked down at himself—still half-dressed in his school uniform, blazer half-buttoned, collar askew, socks mismatched and shoes untied—and groaned loudly, dragging both hands down his face.

“Ugh,” he muttered, already feeling the sting of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. “I—I didn’t sleep well, okay? I thought I missed the alarm. My body just—panicked!”

Pearl was full-on laughing now, leaning against the doorframe, eyes scrunched shut. “You idiot,” she wheezed. “You absolute nerd. You’re so obsessed with school you can’t even take a single day off.”

Grian huffed and turned around, storming back to his room with as much dignity as he could muster in his disheveled state. “Shut up,” he mumbled under his breath. Behind him, Pearl was still laughing, loud and delighted, even as she closed her door again.

He slumped back onto his bed, tugging off his blazer and tossing it to the floor, where it landed with a sad little thump. His heart was finally starting to calm down, but now it was just being replaced with annoyance—and maybe a little self-directed shame.

He grabbed the nearest pillow and buried his face in it, letting out another groan.

All that panic. All that chaos. For a Saturday.

Maybe today, he'd actually let himself sleep in next time. Maybe.

Probably not.

He lay in bed for a while, trying to will his heartbeat back into a calm rhythm, arms curled tightly around one of the pillows he’d thrown himself into. The embarrassment still burned beneath his skin like a mild sunburn, the remnants of adrenaline keeping him wide awake despite every desperate attempt to drift off again. His room was dim and quiet save for the soft hum of electricity and the occasional murmur of neighbors through the apartment walls.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Rolled over. Shifted his weight. Let out a long, slow sigh. Nothing helped.

Fine. Whatever. No problem. He knew how to handle this. He'd seen videos on it—those kinds with overly calm voiceovers and gentle ambient music. He knew the exact one: “Guaranteed to Make You Fall Asleep in 5 Minutes.” He’d watched it before once, ironically. Now he pulled it up for real, volume low, tucking his phone beside his pillow like it might somehow beam peace directly into his brain.

The soothing voice started in.

“You’re safe… you’re warm… you’re drifting… deeper… and deeper…”

Grian blinked up at the ceiling. He was definitely not drifting.

Still, he tried. He followed the instructions. He focused on his breathing. He imagined a soft meadow. Or a calm river. Or whatever else he was told to do. He even tried counting sheep—literally counting sheep in his mind, one by one, jumping some invisible fence.

It didn’t work.

It wasn’t even like he had energy. He didn’t. He felt tired . His eyes were heavy, limbs aching in that distinctly sluggish way, but sleep just refused to come. His brain buzzed restlessly behind his forehead, thinking about the day before, the coming week, the stupid way Scar kept raising his hand right before him, the look on Pearl’s face when she started laughing. He thought about Sam and Taurtis again, about how far away they were now. About how quiet everything had become.

The sleep video rolled into the next one, and he let it play for a few more minutes before aggressively swiping it away.

He groaned, scrubbing his face with both hands. “This is so dumb,” he muttered into the void.

Eventually, he gave up altogether. Sleep clearly wasn’t coming back, and the longer he laid there trying, the more annoyed he got. It felt like a punishment somehow, being wide awake when he wanted to be unconscious. If he couldn't sleep, he could at least eat.

With another sigh, he sat up, kicked off the rest of his school uniform—his blazer and pants now a crumpled heap by his desk—and tugged on some sweatpants and a hoodie instead. The floor was cold beneath his feet, and he winced as he stepped into the hall, still squinting against the brightness of the day.

The apartment was quiet again, no sign of his mom or Pearl yet. They were probably both still sleeping. Lucky them.

He wandered into the kitchen, flipping on the light with a sluggish hand. The refrigerator made a tired noise as he opened it, and he scanned the shelves for something remotely appealing. Milk. Some eggs. Leftover takeout from two nights ago. The dregs of a half-eaten yogurt. Not inspiring.

After a few seconds of mental debate, he pulled out a carton of eggs and a slice of bread from the pantry, tossing it into the toaster. Simple enough.

He stood by the stove, watching the egg cook in the pan with a spatula in hand, mind drifting aimlessly again. The sizzle was the only sound in the room, oddly comforting. No teacher calling on him, no weirdly flawless boy named Scar raising his hand faster, no laughter at his expense—just breakfast. The kind of silence that felt like a reset.

When the toast popped, he jumped a little, then chuckled quietly to himself. He plated the egg on the toast and made himself a lazy open-faced sandwich, grabbing a chipped mug from the cabinet and filling it with hot water and whatever tea bag he could find first.

It wasn’t the kind of morning he’d planned. It definitely wasn’t the relaxing Saturday he deserved after his first day in a new school. But as he took a bite of his slapdash breakfast and leaned against the counter in the stillness, it was... tolerable.

Grian leaned back in the chair at the kitchen table, breakfast plate pushed slightly off to the side, half a crust of toast still uneaten. His tea had gone lukewarm, forgotten somewhere between his tenth blink at the wall and his fifth sigh into his hands. He shifted his weight, slid his phone out from under his thigh, and thumbed it awake.

It was already well into the morning, light pouring in through the blinds in warm stripes, catching on the dust in the air. Everyone else in the apartment was still asleep, judging by the silence—Pearl had likely fallen back into bed with a vengeance, and their mom probably wouldn’t stir until at least another hour. It gave him space. Space enough to think. Or spiral. He hadn’t decided which yet.

Out of habit, he opened his messages.

The group chat between him, Sam, and Taurtis sat at the top of his inbox, labeled with the cringiest name they could never agree to change—"3 Idiots (But Grian is the Worst One)"—with a string of emojis trailing after it that no one remembered adding.

He hadn’t messaged them since the move. Not really. Just a few awkward check-ins, some shared memes, and the occasional “lol” in response to something dumb Sam said. But not real conversation. Not the way it used to be. He didn’t want to admit that the distance was already weighing on him like a thick coat, too warm and suffocating in all the wrong ways.

But it was Saturday. That felt like a good excuse to say something . To pretend, for a second, that things weren’t so different now.

He cracked his knuckles dramatically—because even though no one could see him, he had to feel like he was doing something productive—and tapped out a simple message.

[grian]: good morning

He stared at it for a second. It looked kind of lame on its own. So he added a sleepy face emoji. Then deleted it. Then added a sun emoji. Deleted that too. No, it was fine as is. Plain. Safe.

He hit send.

The reply came so fast it made him flinch—almost like Sam had been waiting .

[sam]: why are u up so early??? wtf you are not getting the worm dawg

Grian physically recoiled, brows drawing together in visible pain. “Oh god,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face. He could practically hear Sam’s voice saying that out loud. That ridiculous tone. That chaotic glee. The kind of tone that said “I’m going to make this your problem now.”

And, god, he missed it.

Still, he cringed. Full-body, sharp exhale, shoulders tensing kind of cringe. Sam would say something like that. Sam always said something like that. Taurtis would probably chime in with something worse, and then they’d start ganging up on him in perfect, awful harmony. The same as always.

He stared at his phone for a few seconds, chewing the inside of his cheek. Then, before he could think too hard, he typed again:

[grian]: thought it was a school day and woke everyone up

Pause.

[grian]: pearl wanted to commit murder. pretty sure she still does.

Another pause. Then:

[grian]: anyway how are you guys

It wasn’t much. But it felt like enough for now. Something normal. Something familiar. His fingers hovered over the screen, waiting, watching the little "typing..." icon blink into existence for a second. And somehow, even that tiny dot made his chest ache a little less.

The reply came through a minute or so later, a soft vibration against Grian’s palm as he scrolled idly through a news article he wasn’t really reading. He tapped over to messages, already feeling the familiar twinge in his chest before he even opened it.

[sam]: we had a sleepover so taurtis is dead asleep 😭

There was a stupid crying emoji at the end, all dramatic like Sam always was about literally everything. Grian’s eyes lingered on the message, that subtle pinch between his brows deepening.

Of course they’d had a sleepover.

He tilted the phone slightly in his hand, watching the screen tilt with it, the words swimming a bit before settling back into place. He shifted in his seat, the wood creaking beneath him, suddenly hyper-aware of how small the kitchen felt when it was just him. His cereal had long since turned to mush in its bowl, and the silence was starting to ring in his ears.

He rubbed the back of his neck and leaned back in the chair, letting his head fall against the wall behind him with a soft thud. A sleepover. Right. He should’ve figured. It was Friday night, after all, and that used to mean something.

Back when he lived just a few blocks away, they’d spent nearly every Friday at one of their houses—taking turns, ordering cheap pizza, staying up way too late playing whatever weird, obscure game Taurtis had found online or building in Minecraft until the sun came up. They had their dumb little rituals: Sam always brought weird snacks he swore by, Taurtis always insisted on a scary movie that none of them actually watched, and Grian… Grian was the one who usually fell asleep first, curled in a nest of blankets and half-watching his friends argue over which Pokémon generation had the best starters.

Now, he wasn’t even invited. Not that they were trying to exclude him—he knew that. Logically. But knowing didn’t stop the sting that bloomed somewhere between his ribs.

It wasn’t malicious. Just distance. Just… life moving on. Without him.

He shifted again, this time sitting up straighter, arms folded tightly across his chest like that might hold something inside. He reread the message, then locked his phone. He didn’t want to reply. Not yet.

The quiet in the apartment felt different now. Heavy. He could still hear the faint tick of the wall clock and the hum of the fridge, but somehow it all felt muffled, like he was underwater.

He thought about what they might be doing now—still sleeping, probably, curled up in a pile of blankets on Sam’s floor. He imagined Taurtis’s absurd shark-print pajama pants, Sam’s snoring (which he always denied), the sound of Taurtis laughing until he couldn’t breathe. The kind of laughter Grian could usually get out of him by making the dumbest joke possible.

He swallowed hard and ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake the ache off. It was stupid to feel this way. They were still his friends. They hadn’t forgotten about him.

But still… he wasn’t there.

And the empty seat across from him didn’t let him forget it.

Grian stared down at the soggy mess in his bowl, the last few spoonfuls of what used to be cereal slowly sinking further into the milk. It didn’t taste like anything anymore—just bland, limp oats that dissolved the second he put them in his mouth. He chewed anyway, more out of habit than hunger, spoon clinking softly against the ceramic every few seconds.

His eyes were distant, unfocused, watching the way the cereal swirled lazily in the bowl with each movement. He wasn’t really here—not in the kitchen, not in this tiny apartment with its dim yellow light and faint smell of fresh paint and cardboard. He was still somewhere else, lost in the silence left behind by a sleepover he hadn’t even known was happening. One message, one emoji, and suddenly his whole chest felt too full and too empty all at once.

He sniffed, barely noticing he had, and shifted in his chair. The cold from the floor seeped into his bare feet, grounding him just a little, but not enough to stop his thoughts from spinning. His eyes lingered on the counter where the half-full box of cereal sat slumped over, lid open, a small tear at the corner. Even the box looked tired.

The spoon paused halfway to his mouth as he heard a soft shuffle of footsteps down the hall, quiet but distinct against the creaking floorboards. He didn’t look up at first—he already knew who it was. Pearl was the only other one who’d wake up this early, and her steps were familiar, practiced, like she’d memorized exactly where the floor creaked worst and how to avoid them most of the time.

But not this morning.

A moment later, her bedroom door creaked open with a reluctant groan, and then: the telltale thump of socked feet against wood as she padded toward the kitchen. Grian finally glanced up, just in time to see Pearl yawning into her hand, her hair a half-tangled mess and her oversized T-shirt hanging loosely off one shoulder. Her eyes squinted slightly in the morning light, adjusting to the brightness like she was half-blind.

“Morning,” she muttered through a yawn, voice scratchy with sleep.

Grian grunted a response, more of a noise than an actual word. He shoved another spoonful of mush into his mouth, trying not to look as pitiful as he felt.

Pearl didn’t respond right away. She made her way to the fridge, pulling it open and rummaging through the shelves with little success. The carton of juice she finally settled on was nearly empty—she sighed dramatically before pouring the last of it into a cup and leaning against the counter, sipping in silence.

She watched him for a moment over the rim of her cup. Grian could feel it, the way her eyes lingered, the way her brows knit together just slightly. Pearl had always been better at reading him than he liked to admit.

“...You’re up early,” she said finally.

“Thought it was a school day,” he mumbled into his cereal.

Pearl made a face like she was about to laugh again, but then she seemed to think better of it. “Right. That whole mess.”

He didn’t respond, just kept scraping at the bottom of the bowl, trying to act like the remaining mush was worth the effort.

“You good?” she asked, after another moment passed. Her voice was softer this time—not teasing, not loud, just... concerned.

Grian hesitated, staring at the milk-rimmed edge of the bowl. “Yeah,” he said eventually. “Just tired.”

Pearl didn’t push. She just nodded slowly and wandered over to the pantry, already looking for something to snack on.

And Grian, spoon still in hand, let himself listen to the quiet hum of the apartment again. He didn’t feel better, not really. 

Eventually, after sitting at the table long enough for the milk in his bowl to turn room temperature and unpleasantly warm, Grian sighed through his nose and pushed the bowl away with the back of his spoon. The spoon clinked softly against the ceramic, breaking the stillness. He got to his feet with the energy of someone preparing for battle rather than basic chores, grabbing the bowl and the nearly-empty milk carton before shuffling over to the sink.

He dumped the rest of the milk, watching it swirl down the drain with a weird kind of finality. The bowl followed, water running as he scrubbed it clean with the sponge. His hands moved on autopilot, muscle memory guiding him through the motions his mind had already checked out of. Even drying the bowl and setting it aside in the drying rack felt hollow, like a performance he was just doing to fill time.

Still slightly damp from wiping his hands on a dishtowel, Grian turned and started toward his room, intent on finally sitting down to sort through his PC setup. At least that was something he could control—wires, ports, neatly labeled folders, all things that made sense. It would be quiet, and safe, and maybe he could squeeze in a bit of time on a server or something. Familiarity was better than this slow, gnawing ache of being in a new place that didn’t want him yet.

But before he could even reach the hallway, Pearl’s voice cut through the air like a pin popping a balloon.

“Hey, Grian.”

His body froze mid-step, and he turned around slowly, brows raising slightly. “What?”

She was still leaning against the kitchen counter with her juice in one hand, her other braced on the edge behind her. Her eyes lit up mischievously as she offered him a grin that Grian instinctively didn’t trust.

“I’m gonna go hang out with Gem today,” she said cheerfully, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “So you should go find someone to hang out with too. I’m sure there’s someone in the complex. It’s a big place! There’s a pool, a clubhouse—maybe even a gamer or two if you’re lucky.”

Grian stared at her, frozen in place like she’d just suggested he go run a marathon barefoot.

She took another sip of her juice, then added with faux seriousness, “No sitting on your PC all day. That’s an official big sister ruling.”

He visibly cringed, shoulders tensing up like she’d just told him he had to do public karaoke. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Pearl chirped, spinning slightly so she could rinse her cup and set it in the sink. “C’mon, you’ll feel better if you meet someone. Fresh air, sunlight, social interaction... all that good, terrifying stuff.”

Grian’s lips pressed into a tight, uncertain line as he hovered in the hallway. His fingers curled slightly at his sides. Socializing with random strangers in an apartment complex was basically his worst nightmare. What was he supposed to do, just wander around asking, “Hey, do you wanna be friends?”

He mumbled something that sounded vaguely like “ugh” and scuffed his socked foot against the floor.

Pearl shot him a look over her shoulder. “Don’t give me that. You’re clever. Use that weird little charm you pull out sometimes.”

“I don’t have a weird little charm.”

“Yes, you do,” she said, grabbing her phone and keys. “Now go loiter by the vending machines or something. Maybe someone your age will also be loitering.”

He groaned and let his head thunk lightly against the wall. “This is actually the worst.”

Pearl rolled her eyes, already halfway to the door. “It’s not the worst. Living in a new place doesn’t mean the end of the world. Just give it a shot. You’re not gonna die from saying hi to someone.”

She paused as she slipped on her shoes, then gave him a parting smirk. “Probably.”

And with that, she was out the door, leaving Grian standing in the hallway, staring at nothing in particular, feeling like he'd just been handed a challenge he didn’t ask for and definitely wasn’t ready to complete.

Socializing. In person. With strangers.

He groaned again, louder this time, and slowly made his way toward his room, dragging his feet like a prisoner on his way to a cell. Maybe he’d change into something less “I just rolled out of bed and hate the world” before he braved the wilds of the apartment complex. Or maybe—maybe he'd fake a nap and pretend he tried.

Yeah. Maybe.

Grian stood in front of his closet, hands on his hips like the fate of the world depended on the fabric he was about to select. The doors hung open lazily, revealing a limited array of clothes—most still rumpled from the move and hastily shoved onto hangers or folded in stacks that already leaned sideways. He sighed. There weren’t many options. Not any that felt right , anyway.

He crouched and rifled through a half-unpacked box labeled CLOTHES, GRIAN, DUH , fingers brushing past hoodies he didn’t want to sweat in and jeans that felt too stiff for what he imagined would be an already awkward trip outside. Eventually, he tugged out a slightly oversized, soft cotton shirt—muted blue, vintage style, with a washed-out print of a band he didn’t actually listen to but had bought with Sam and Taurtis during one of their weekend thrift hauls. He had liked the way it fit then, loose and relaxed, like he could disappear into it if he wanted.

Next, he grabbed a pair of black pants—baggy, slightly too long at the hem so they pooled over his socks in a way that was either fashionable or lazy depending on the day. For him, it was usually both.

He changed quickly, tugging the shirt over his head and pulling the pants on, then turned to glance at the full-length mirror leaning against his bedroom wall. The reflection that greeted him was... fine. Acceptable. Not a total disaster. His shirt draped over his frame, sleeves brushing just above his elbows, and the black pants kept the whole look balanced. He gave himself a faint nod—he didn’t look like a try-hard, and that was good enough for whatever “go outside and meet people” meant.

Still, there was something about his hair that bothered him—fluffy and crooked and clearly slept-on—so he shuffled into the bathroom. The overhead light buzzed to life with an unforgiving brightness that made him wince, and he leaned over the sink, grabbing the comb and turning the faucet on.

He cupped water into his hands, then ran it through his short brown hair, trying to tame the stubborn tufts that stuck up at the sides. It didn’t help much, but it gave him something to do with his hands. He gave a few half-hearted swipes with the comb, blinking water out of his eyes as he fixed his fringe. It wasn't perfect, but it looked... passable.

Finally, he reached over and grabbed his glasses off the sink’s edge, sliding them onto his face. The lenses were smudged—of course—so he pulled them back off and cleaned them with the hem of his shirt until he could see clearly again.

Now dressed, glasses in place, and vaguely presentable, he looked at himself one last time.

He looked like a kid trying not to look like a kid. A soft blur of color and fabric. Safe. Detached. Like maybe, if he had to talk to someone, he could keep this version of himself in front like a shield.

He exhaled slowly and turned away, his reflection disappearing behind him as he stepped out of the bathroom and back into the hallway.

Okay. He was dressed. He was technically ready. Now he just had to figure out what the hell to do next.

As Grian stepped quietly back into the hallway, still adjusting the way his shirt hung over his shoulders, he paused. A soft click and the faint creak of a door made him glance up just in time to see his mother’s bedroom door slowly creak open.

She emerged with a sluggish gait, her pajama pants twisted at the ankle and her t-shirt wrinkled in a way that said she hadn’t moved from bed in a few hours. Her hair was a mess—flat on one side, sticking up on the other—and her eyes were half-lidded with that unmistakable early-morning confusion.

They stood there, face-to-face in the hallway’s dim light, like two ghosts passing in a fog. Grian held his breath, unsure if she’d even registered his presence yet.

She blinked slowly, once. Twice. Then squinted at him, like her eyes were just now adjusting to light and color. Her mouth tugged into something faintly resembling approval—maybe because he was actually dressed and not still hiding in bed like usual.

Then, without a word, she gave a slow nod and turned around. The door shut behind her with a soft thump , leaving Grian standing there with a raised brow.

“...Okay,” he muttered under his breath. He figured she wasn’t really awake enough to remember that entire exchange. For all he knew, she thought she’d dreamt him.

Shrugging it off, he padded back into his room to finish getting ready. His shoes were by the door, loosely tied from the last time he’d worn them, and he shoved his feet into them without bothering to adjust the laces.

He reached toward the nightstand for his phone—sliding it into his pocket—and glanced around to double check if he had everything. Bag? No need. Water bottle? Nah. Keys?

...Keys.

Grian blinked, glancing around the room again and not spotting them. He rubbed his temple. They were somewhere —maybe in a box, maybe in his jacket from yesterday, maybe buried beneath the pile of tech stuff he hadn’t unpacked.

But did it really matter?

He stepped out of the room, walking through the quiet apartment and opening the front door. A wave of warm air hit him immediately, making him squint.

He paused on the threshold for a beat, then let the door swing shut behind him. No keys. Oh well. He’d just knock later. Surely someone would let him back in.

And if not?

Well… it was too late now.

Grian stepped out into the sunlight, the apartment door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality that made him wince slightly. He reached into his pocket, fishing out his phone, and instinctively opened his messages first—still nothing new from Sam or Taurtis. Typical. His fingers moved without thought, switching over to Twitter, then Discord, then back to his home screen. Just noise. Distractions.

As he started walking toward the stairwell, the sunlight came in full force, harsh and direct, spilling across the pavement in pale streaks that made him lift a hand and squint. The air was warm, tinged with the scent of concrete and something vaguely floral—probably from the bushes planted along the edge of the apartment sidewalk.

He blinked slowly, dragging his feet for a few moments as his eyes adjusted. His fingers hovered over his screen, but his mind had already started to wander.

Okay… what now? Where did kids hang out again?

He came to a slow stop at the base of the stairs and looked around. The apartment complex wasn’t huge , but it was big enough to have a couple clusters of buildings with shared walkways, patches of grass, and little concrete corners where bikes were locked up and people left out flower pots.

There were a few scattered sounds drifting from across the complex—the distant squeak of a swing set, the dull thud of a basketball somewhere, the low hum of conversation. Nothing particularly inviting, but not entirely unapproachable either.

He glanced down one walkway and saw what looked like a tiny playground: a plastic slide, the kind that was bright red and always a little too hot to touch in the summer, with a couple kids sitting beneath it, fiddling with handheld consoles. Too young.

Farther down the row of buildings was a grassy spot with a picnic table, where a pair of teenagers were leaning over something between them—maybe cards, or a phone. That felt… closer to his age. Maybe.

He stared for a long moment, tapping the edge of his phone against his leg. He didn’t know them. He didn’t want to just walk up and awkwardly hover. What was he even supposed to say? Hi, I’m the new kid. I’m here because my sister told me not to sit at my PC and rot in my room today. Yeah, that’d go over well.

He sighed and took a slow, tentative step toward the sidewalk, then stopped again.

Maybe if he walked around for a bit, got a better lay of the land. Maybe someone else would appear—someone a little less absorbed in whatever they were doing. Or maybe he’d get lucky and run into one of those weird kids from school. The ones with the weird accents or the streaks in their hair. Scar.

Grian grimaced at the thought. Not that lucky.

Still scrolling aimlessly through his phone, he began to walk—not really in any particular direction, just somewhere he could pretend he was doing something purposeful. The light still made him squint, and he could feel it warming the back of his neck.

This already felt like a bad idea.

Grian had wandered aimlessly for a while, meandering past the mailboxes, down the stretch of cracked sidewalk that looped around one of the apartment buildings, and eventually over toward a patch of communal space nestled between two rows of units. There wasn’t much—just a few metal benches, one of those rock-filled grills no one ever used, and some patchy grass that struggled to stay green under the weight of summer heat.

He didn’t really know what he was looking for. A distraction, maybe. Some excuse not to go back inside just yet. Sitting on the bench felt like the easiest thing to do.

He slumped down heavily, the metal frame creaking faintly beneath him. The sun had warmed the seat enough that it was mildly uncomfortable, but he didn’t bother shifting. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and, without really thinking, opened one of the mindless mobile games he’d downloaded months ago but barely touched. Block Blast , or Block Smash , or whatever it was called. Something with colors and tiles that made satisfying clicks when he dragged them around. It didn’t require brainpower, which was the point.

His thumb moved lazily over the screen, rotating blocks, lining them up, watching them vanish. Click. Click. Click. His mind wandered—he wondered if Sam and Taurtis were still asleep, if Pearl was already hanging out with Gem. If his mom had finally gotten up properly or was just lazing in bed like she did on her days off. He considered sending another message in the group chat but decided against it.

Then he heard footsteps.

They weren’t the heavy, echoing kind of an adult, or the chaotic sprint of little kids. No, these were slower, more deliberate—like someone coming right toward him. He didn’t look up at first. Probably someone heading past. But the footsteps stopped directly in front of the bench, close enough that he felt the shadow fall across his screen. Grian blinked, then glanced up.

Two boys stood there. One of them had short, slightly messy brown hair with a bright green streak dyed through the front, framing his face in a way that looked almost intentional, like he wanted to be noticed. His grin was wide and self-assured, bordering on cocky. The other boy beside him had a mop of tousled blonde hair and a freckled face, with a kind of cautious curiosity in his expression, like he wasn’t entirely sure what was going on, but he was going with it anyway.

“Hey!” the green-streaked boy greeted cheerfully, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pockets. “You’re Grian, right?”

Grian blinked again, thumb pausing mid-tap on his game. “Uh. Yeah?” he said slowly, the word curling up like a question.

The boy nodded enthusiastically. “Thought so. I’m Joel,” he said, thumbing toward himself before gesturing to his companion, “and this is Jimmy.”

Jimmy offered a small nod, then shoved his hands into his pockets as well, rocking on his heels a little.

Joel, however, was still smiling like he’d just decided something. “You look like you need friends.”

Grian blinked. “What?”

Before he could process that, Jimmy chimed in, his voice loud and a little too honest: “Yeah, you kinda look like you have no friends with the way you’re sittin’—like, all hunched and stuff—”

He was cut off by a smack! —Joel had reached over and clapped him on the back of the head with a practiced kind of ease that screamed this isn’t the first time I’ve had to do this.

“Jimmy!” Joel hissed, half-exasperated and half-laughing. “That’s not how we do the ‘welcoming’ thing!”

Jimmy winced and rubbed the back of his head, glaring. “Ow! Okay, damn , I’m just saying—”

“Yeah, don’t,” Joel said with a shake of his head before turning his attention back to Grian, still smiling, but with a slightly more apologetic tilt to it now. “Ignore him. His mouth runs faster than his brain.”

Grian stared at them, unsure if he should be insulted or entertained. “Uh… thanks?” he muttered, shifting a little on the bench.

Joel plopped down beside him uninvited, arms resting loosely on his knees. “So. You new here, right? Moved in, what, yesterday?”

“Day before,” Grian corrected without thinking.

“Close enough,” Joel said. “Me and Jimmy live in the building across from yours. We’ve seen you around.”

“Kind of hard to miss,” Jimmy added, sitting down on Grian’s other side. “You’ve got that ‘new kid who hasn’t figured out where to stand yet’ vibe.”

“Jimmy.”

“Okay, okay,” Jimmy said, putting his hands up in mock surrender. “No more commentary.”

Joel rolled his eyes again, but there was a weird kind of ease between the two that Grian couldn’t help but notice. He shifted again, glancing between them, unsure of what he was supposed to say. He wasn’t used to being approached—especially not by people his own age who seemed to know who he was before he’d even introduced himself.

“Anyway,” Joel said, turning back to him. “We were gonna go hang out by the courts. Sometimes there’s a group that plays pickup games, sometimes not. You wanna come?”

Grian hesitated. He could say no. He could go back inside, boot up his PC, lose himself in games and messages and not have to worry about whatever this was. But he’d already spent the past couple days holed up in his room feeling miserable.

“…Sure,” he said, quietly. “Why not.”

Joel grinned wider. “Cool. Come on, then.”

And just like that, Grian stood up and followed.

They wandered through the apartment complex, passing buildings and parking lots, their footsteps muffled by the uneven concrete beneath them. Joel and Jimmy had naturally fallen into step beside each other, chatting animatedly about something Grian wasn’t really listening to. Their voices blended into the background noise—laughing, the occasional bark from a nearby yard, the buzz of someone’s AC unit rattling against the wall.

Grian trailed just a little behind, his arms folded and his eyes on the ground, zoning out completely. There was something vaguely soothing about letting his body move on autopilot. Step. Step. Another step. His mind drifted somewhere else entirely—toward absolutely nothing of importance, just floating in that soft, half-aware haze.

He vaguely registered Joel saying something and turning to face him, voice a little louder, like he was asking for input.

“You good with that?” Joel asked brightly, head tilted a little over his shoulder.

“Uh… yeah, sure,” Grian muttered without thinking, still more focused on the way the sun made the sidewalk shimmer in places than on the actual words being exchanged.

That was his mistake.

Because the next words to pierce his fog were, in Joel’s cheerful voice, “Alright! So Grian has officially given us explicit permission to harvest his organs—!”

Grian’s head snapped up so fast he nearly tripped on a raised crack in the sidewalk. “Whuh—what!?”

Joel grinned over his shoulder like the cat who’d swallowed the canary, hands casually folded behind his head as if nothing strange had been said at all.

Jimmy, on the other hand, absolutely lost it .

He barked out a loud, unrestrained laugh, clutching his stomach as if the weight of the joke had physically knocked the air out of him. “ So you weren’t listening!” he wheezed between gasps of laughter, pointing at Grian like he’d just caught him in a crime. “You totally zoned out, man!”

“I did not give permission for organ harvesting!” Grian snapped, heat rising to his face as he caught up with them.

“Did you or did you not say ‘yeah, sure’ to a question you didn’t hear?” Joel asked, adopting an exaggeratedly serious tone. “Legally, I think that holds up.”

“It does not! ” Grian practically yelped, half horrified, half exasperated. “That’s not how anything works!”

“Eh,” Joel said, with a dismissive wave of his hand, “you’re in deep now, buddy. The black market boys will be here any day.”

“Dibs on your kidneys,” Jimmy added helpfully, still grinning.

“You guys are freaks, ” Grian grumbled, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets as they turned the corner around a parked van.

Joel snorted. “Maybe. But we’re freaks who invited you to hang out instead of leaving you to rot on that sad little bench.”

Grian couldn’t help it—he laughed. Just a little. Just a breath of sound escaping his nose, but it surprised him anyway.

“Okay, fair,” he muttered.

They kept walking. Jimmy launched into a new story about how he’d nearly fallen off his bike trying to race a squirrel—Joel immediately accused him of embellishing—and Grian, for once, let himself listen.

When they finally reached the courts—a cracked and faded set of basketball hoops near the edge of the apartment complex—Grian let his attention drift again, his eyes wandering past the scuffed-up blacktop and worn white lines. The courts bled into the edges of a small park, the kind wedged between residential buildings to satisfy the bare minimum requirements for "community space." Still, it had a certain charm in the late morning light, the sun filtering down through thin tree branches and throwing soft shadows across the mulch and grass.

He took a moment to take it all in, gaze drifting over the swings, the slides, the ancient metal merry-go-round that hadn’t been properly oiled in years. This area had life. Not just the echoes of kids from earlier in the morning, but teens —his age, maybe a little older—scattered around the space in small, uneven clumps, as if everyone had claimed their corner of the park and weren’t planning to move for a while.

His eyes caught on someone immediately recognizable— that guy again, the one with the moss-green hoodie who he'd noticed at school the other day. The sleepy one. He was draped over one of the swing seats like he didn’t have a spine, lazily rocking himself back and forth with a foot dragging through the mulch. He was talking to another teen who stood nearby, wearing a plain black face mask. Grian couldn’t hear the conversation, but he saw the way the hoodie guy suddenly burst into laughter, leaning too far back on the swing and nearly tumbling off. He caught himself at the last second with a panicked-sounding, “ whoa— ” and both of them cracked up.

The park was more crowded than he expected, and Grian’s eyes kept flicking, cataloguing faces, groups, voices drifting in and out of earshot. Near the playhouse at the far end of the park—a little wooden structure that had clearly been graffitied and climbed on more than it had ever been played in—stood another cluster.

A boy with a full-face mask was leaned against the outer wall of the playhouse, the kind of mask that looked like it was stolen right off the cover of a game—bulky, angular, almost like the Doom Slayer’s helmet. He wasn’t tall, but he had presence, his arms folded and body tilted just slightly forward in casual conversation with another guy lounging next to him, wearing an open Hawaiian shirt over a graphic tee like it was the middle of July instead of a mild spring afternoon.

They were talking about something animatedly, gesturing with their hands, the kid in the mask occasionally nodding along while Hawaiian Shirt Guy mimed some kind of wild story with exaggerated arm movements.

The air smelled faintly of sweat, grass, and fast food wrappers someone had ditched under a bench nearby. Grian shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glancing at Joel and Jimmy—who were still laughing about something he’d zoned out for—then back toward the clusters of teens.

There was a lot more going on around here than he thought. For the first time since moving, he felt something twinge in his chest. Not quite nerves. Not quite hope.

But maybe something in between.

As they crossed the cracked edge of the court into the actual park, Joel’s stride became looser, almost like he was returning to familiar territory. Grian trailed slightly behind, stuffing his hands into his pockets and trying not to look too out of place, which—judging by the sharp glances he was getting from a few other teens—probably wasn’t working. Joel raised an arm suddenly and called out toward one of the lounging figures by the old playhouse.

“Yo! Xavier, c’mere!”

One of the boys—the shorter figure with broad shoulders and that unmistakable, bulky Doom Slayer-esque mask—turned sharply at the name. Even through the hard black visor, Grian could feel the intensity of his stare. The boy didn’t hesitate, peeling away from his casual lean against the playhouse to approach them, his movements deliberate and sure. Behind him, the teen in the bright, floral Hawaiian shirt pushed off from where he’d been leaning, hands tucked behind his head as he followed with a swagger that practically radiated summer break energy.

The masked boy—Xavier, clearly—stopped a few feet in front of them, arms folded. He turned his helmeted gaze toward Joel, then glanced at Grian with a measured tilt of his head. “Hey, Joel. What’s up?” His voice was clear despite the mask, a little gravelly, but not unfriendly.

Joel, of course, was beaming. “This is Grian! You know, the new kid I told you about?”

Xavier gave a short nod and turned back toward Grian, taking him in with another quiet tilt of the head. Grian had the distinct feeling of being scanned, like Xavier could tell he was seconds away from bolting. Grian knew he was stiff, awkward, probably standing like a deer caught in headlights—but what could he do ? His words felt locked in his throat.

“Hey,” Xavier said simply, his tone softening slightly. “I’m Xavier. This here’s Kayden.”

The boy in the Hawaiian shirt stepped up next to him, flashing a grin so bright it could’ve passed for stage lighting. “Or, you know, you can call me Keralis! ” he said, extending a hand with a flourish like he was welcoming Grian to a game show. Then he gestured toward Xavier with exaggerated showmanship. “And this fella here? This is Shashwhammy! ”

Xavier didn’t miss a beat. “It’s Xisuma,” he corrected calmly, like he’d said it a hundred times before and was prepared to say it a hundred more.

Kayden—Keralis, apparently—laughed, slapping a hand onto Xavier’s shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, okay, Xisuma ,” he said, drawing out the name like he was still not entirely convinced.

Joel nudged Grian lightly with his elbow, shooting him a grin that was both encouraging and expectant. “Your turn, dude.”

Grian blinked, very aware of all eyes on him. He opened his mouth, faltered, then cleared his throat awkwardly. “I… uh… yeah. Grian. I’m… Grian.”

The silence that followed wasn’t unkind—more like a beat of patience. Xavier stared for a second longer, then nodded again, this time with something like approval. “Cool,” he said simply, as if Grian’s awkwardness was just part of the vibe and not anything to be ashamed of. “If you ever need anything, feel free to ask any of us. Seriously.”

Kayden gave a thumbs-up, leaning into Grian’s space just enough to be a little chaotic. “Yeah, man! We’re friendly locals. Mostly. Xavier here might look like a discount space marine, but he’s actually a total softie.”

Xavier didn’t respond to that, only letting out a quiet exhale through his mask. Grian, caught somewhere between a laugh and a cringe, gave a small nod, his shoulders starting to ease.

Xavier gave a short nod of acknowledgment, then lifted his hand and pointed behind him with a flick of his head, gesturing back toward the park and the weathered old basketball court that had clearly been reclaimed by the neighborhood teens. The court was faded, with one hoop missing its net entirely and a long crack cutting jaggedly through the concrete, but it still seemed to be the chosen hangout spot. A few kids were already scattered around the area, sitting on the metal bleachers or lazing under the sparse shade of a tree, but it was clear the main crowd hadn’t arrived yet.

“If you want,” Xavier began, his voice calm and unbothered, “everyone’s gonna be meeting up here in like… an hour or so.” He turned slightly toward the court, eyes—presumably—flicking over the space behind him as he spoke. “We usually all gather here on weekends. Chill out, play some pickup games, talk nonsense. That kind of thing.”

He turned back to face Grian, pausing for a moment like he was trying to gauge how overwhelmed he might be. “It’s nothing formal or anything,” he added. “But it’s a good way to meet people. Get introduced to the rest of the hermits. You seem alright, so... might as well come by.”

Grian stared at him, unsure of what to say. First of all, hermits? Really? Second of all. An hour? That meant... sticking around. Maybe even talking to more people. People who already knew each other. Who already had inside jokes and nicknames and comfortable rhythms. He didn’t know if he could slot himself into something like that without feeling like an imposter. His stomach twisted slightly at the thought, but he gave a short, quick nod anyway, almost before he’d fully made the decision.

Xavier seemed to take that as confirmation. Though his face was completely obscured by the heavy-duty mask, there was something about the shift in his posture—something in the slight tilt of his head, the easy way his shoulders relaxed—that suggested he was smiling behind the visor. A flicker of approval. Encouragement. Maybe even a little bit of welcome.

“Cool,” Xavier said simply, and turned as if to walk back toward the park. “See you then, Grian.”

It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t pressure. Just a casual statement of fact, like he expected Grian would come—not because he had to, but because he belonged.

And that… was something Grian hadn’t felt in a while.

As Kayden gave an exaggerated stretch and followed after Xavier, the two disappearing with ease into the loosely scattered crowd, Grian barely had a second to exhale before a sudden movement snapped him back to the present. Jimmy practically bounced into his line of sight, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie and an expectant grin stretched across his face like he was a golden retriever waiting to be praised.

“So!” Jimmy chirped, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. “That was Xisuma. What’d ya think?”

Grian blinked a few times, startled by the sudden attention and still trying to process the interaction. He hadn’t expected a masked teen to be so… chill. So normal. Not intimidating or standoffish, just… someone quietly existing with confidence and a weird sort of gentleness under all that armor.

“He’s… cool,” Grian finally managed, his voice just a little too stiff, but honest. “Yeah. Cool.”

Jimmy let out a pleased noise like that answer had somehow passed a secret test. “Right? He’s like that all the time. Never yells, barely ever swears—he’s got this zen thing going on, like a teacher in an action movie who could kill you with a spoon but instead teaches you the value of inner peace.”

“...Huh,” Grian said, trying to picture it. “That’s... oddly specific.”

Jimmy just grinned wider, unbothered.

Behind them, Joel let out a low hum, his voice more casual as he leaned against the back of the bench, one foot kicking lazily at the dirt. “Glad to hear you think he’s cool. People usually freak out a little the first time they see the mask.”

“I mean—” Grian hesitated. “Yeah, it’s kind of intense. But I don’t know. He didn’t feel... threatening.”

Joel lifted a brow in approval. “Good read. Some people take forever to get past the whole ‘Doomslayer’ aesthetic.” He straightened slightly, then looked down at Grian with a crooked smile. “So, we’ve got about an hour to kill before the rest of the crew starts showing up.”

He jerked his head toward the nearest patch of shade, where a few picnic tables sat under the drooping branches of a tired-looking tree. “Wanna hang out over there? Chat a bit, get you used to the chaos before it arrives?”

Grian hesitated for only a moment, then nodded slowly, the motion small but deliberate.

“Yeah,” he said. “Sure. That sounds… good.”

They stayed under the tree for a good while—time slipping past like sand through fingers—Grian seated between Joel and Jimmy at the weathered picnic table, the three of them half-lounging in the late morning sun. The air was warm but not unbearable, birds chattered from the trees, and the quiet hum of weekend life carried faintly on the breeze—distant laughter, the thump of a basketball on pavement, the occasional bark of a dog.

Joel and Jimmy did most of the talking, which Grian didn’t mind. In fact, he was more than content to listen, soaking in the banter that bounced effortlessly between the two. Joel told stories like he was performing stand-up comedy—elaborate, animated, with dramatic reenactments and exaggerated hand gestures that made Jimmy snort his drink at least twice. Jimmy, in turn, interrupted constantly with sarcastic commentary and chaotic energy, leaning forward across the table whenever he got excited, voice rising in pitch as he argued or added his own version of the story.

Every now and then, they would glance toward Grian, checking if he was following, if he had anything to say. And he would offer a short comment, or a laugh, or a quiet “that’s insane,” just enough to let them know he was still there and still listening. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk—he just wasn’t used to it yet. But they didn’t seem to mind. They kept the pace going without making it awkward, letting him exist in the conversation without pressuring him to perform in it.

Grian sat with one leg tucked under the other, nervously twisting the edge of his sleeve between his fingers as he looked out toward the playset. At some point, more people had started to trickle in. It wasn’t obvious at first—just a few at a time. A group of three over by the swings. A couple sitting on the jungle gym, legs dangling. He saw that sleepy kid with the moss-green hoodie from earlier lounging beneath the slide, head tilted back against the metal, eyes half-lidded. Another pair were chatting nearby, one of them perched on the monkey bars like it was a throne.

The quiet buzz in Grian’s stomach intensified. It was all happening slowly, but undeniably. The meeting—or whatever it was—was beginning to take shape.

Jimmy was in the middle of explaining how he accidentally kicked a soccer ball straight into the face of someone’s dad last summer when Joel abruptly glanced toward the playset and stood up.

“Oh—looks like it’s starting,” Joel said, brushing crumbs off his jeans and tilting his head in the direction of the growing group. “C’mon, G.”

Jimmy stood as well, stretching his arms up and yawning dramatically. “You’ll want to get in before people claim all the good spots. And before Impulse tries to run introductions—his memory is, like, terrible.”

Joel chuckled, already starting toward the park. “Yeah, last time he called Zedaph ‘Zebra.’”

“Twice,” Jimmy added, pointing for emphasis. “In the same sentence.”

Grian blinked, startled, and stood too quickly—his knees bumping the underside of the table before he steadied himself. He gave a small nod, clutching the strap of his bag and falling in step behind them.

His heart was beating a little too fast, his hands a little clammy, but his feet moved anyway. 

As they crossed the open stretch of grass separating them from the playset, the murmur of voices ahead grew louder—laughter, inside jokes, bits of shouted conversation weaving through the warm afternoon air. It was a casual gathering, people lounging around in little clusters, some sprawled out on the mulch beneath the jungle gym, others perched like gargoyles along the wooden rails of the playhouse. A few were tossing a hacky sack back and forth in a loose circle. It looked… alive. Comfortable. Established.

Grian hesitated for half a second as they neared, instinctively tugging at the hem of his shirt before quickening his pace to keep up with Joel and Jimmy, who seemed entirely at ease in the growing crowd.

“Let’s grab a spot before the vultures do,” Joel muttered to Jimmy, scanning for a relatively quiet section of the park not already claimed by lawn chairs or chaotic teens.

“There—under the tree next to the bike rack,” Jimmy pointed. “Shade and proximity to escape routes. I approve.”

They made a beeline for the space, weaving through the growing group, nodding greetings to people as they passed. Joel high-fived that kid he had been talking to yesterday in school that Grian had spotted him with, and exchanged a few words with a lanky kid in a- dress suit?? Grian, meanwhile, kept his head down, trailing just a step behind them.

Once they’d reached the tree, Joel flopped down unceremoniously into the grass, stretching his legs out and leaning back on his elbows. Jimmy joined him a moment later, sitting cross-legged and digging through his hoodie pocket for what turned out to be a half-crushed granola bar.

“Alright,” Joel said, gesturing around the gathering like a game show host. “Welcome to the Menagerie. Please keep your arms inside the ride at all times.”

Jimmy snorted, then turned to Grian. “I’m not saying we’re the weirdest group around, but if there was a contest…”

“You’d definitely lose,” Joel cut in, smirking. “Because you don’t even go to Hermit Hills. You’re like—Hermit Hills-adjacent. A Hermit tourist.”

Jimmy gasped with mock outrage, dramatically clutching his chest. “Excuse you! I totally qualify. Just because I take online classes doesn’t mean I’m not a real Hermit!”

“You’re like a DLC character,” Joel said with a grin. “Optional, but fun if you download him.”

Grian couldn’t help it—he let out a small laugh, caught off guard by the sheer absurdity of it. The joke was silly, juvenile even, but it landed just right. Jimmy grinned triumphantly at him like he’d won something, while Joel shot him a wink.

“And look,” Joel added, nudging Grian with the side of his foot, “you’re already part of the banter. Next thing you know, you’ll be getting roasted in Discord like the rest of us.”

Grian smiled faintly, glancing out at the park again. The crowd had grown, faces blurring together in color and motion, but from here in the shade—beside two people who, inexplicably, hadn’t made him feel like a total outsider—he didn’t feel as overwhelmed.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

Eventually, after what felt like ages of half-chaotic chatter and side conversations swirling like summer wind, Xavier finally stood up from where he had been leaning against the playhouse railing. With a smooth motion, he stepped up onto one of the nearby picnic tables, the sound of his shoes thudding lightly against the wood as he perched comfortably near the edge. He surveyed the loose circle of teens spread around the park and clapped his gloved hands together a few times—not loud, but with enough purpose that the nearest heads turned.

“Alright, hey—yo!” he called out, projecting his voice just enough to cut through the hum of ambient noise. “Can everyone calm it for, like, five seconds?”

The group didn’t fall silent immediately. Some still talked in low murmurs, others half-listened, half-scrolled on their phones. Xavier’s eyes narrowed slightly behind the mirrored surface of his mask, and he turned his head sharply toward a scene unfolding off to the left—where a boy with a puppet on one hand was jabbing it insistently toward another teen.

The teen being jabbed had enormous, vividly orange hair that couldn’t be missed from any angle, and wore the face of someone far too used to this kind of shenanigan. They swatted at the puppet half-heartedly, muttering something under their breath, while the puppeteer leaned in, voice pitched in some ridiculous accent.

Xavier tilted his head toward them with deliberate emphasis. “Joe,” he said, voice dry but edged with the faintest hint of amusement, “stop tormenting Cleo.”

The boy with the puppet—Joe, apparently—immediately straightened up and lowered the sock creature with exaggerated slowness, wearing the very picture of faux innocence. “Wasn’t tormenting,” he said in a sing-song voice. “It’s character development.”

“Character development happens with consent,” Xavier replied without missing a beat, which earned a ripple of laughter from nearby teens and a muffled “thank you” from Cleo.

Once the snickering settled, Xavier looked back over the group. “Alright,” he began, now with a bit more seriousness in his voice. “Welcome to the weekly Hermit Meeting, people. You know the drill—we go over stuff, we make plans, we settle disputes about who’s hogging the community realm storage, and then Jimmy gets roasted until he runs away crying.”

“Hey!” Jimmy called from his spot under the tree, where he was currently halfway through his second granola bar. “That only happened once!”

“Twice,” Joel corrected, and Xavier held up a finger in agreement before continuing.

“But this time,” Xavier said, his tone brightening, “we’ve actually got something new to celebrate. A proper introduction!”

He turned slightly and gestured toward Grian, who froze just slightly as all eyes began to subtly shift in his direction. Some curious, some indifferent, and a few with warm smiles. The weight of sudden attention was like a drop of cold water down his back.

“I wanted to introduce you guys properly to Grian,” Xavier continued, with a tone that walked the line between formal and friendly. “He just started at Hermit Hills, and he’s new to the area, so don’t be weird— Joe —and make him feel welcome.”

“Too late,” Joe said cheerfully, lifting the puppet again to wave at Grian. “He already watched me pretend to be a French butler with a sock on my hand. I peaked early.”

“You peaked in third grade,” Cleo muttered, and a few people laughed.

Xavier ignored the side comments and returned his focus to Grian. “Anyway, he’s cool. Be decent. That’s it.”

There was a scattered chorus of greetings after that—some genuine, some playful. A “Yo, Grian!” here, a few nods and waves, even a couple people giving enthusiastic finger guns. It wasn’t overwhelming, though. Somehow, it was more like being wrapped in a light layer of noise rather than being buried under it.

Grian managed a nod, maybe a bit awkward, but he was smiling faintly. His stomach was tight with nerves, sure, but also… something else. Something closer to hope.

He could feel it shifting, little by little—the day, the mood, the people. Like maybe this whole 'Hermit meeting' thing was the start of something real.

As the meeting wound down, the energy of the group softened, shifting from wild jokes and chaotic teasing into something more relaxed. People were standing in clusters now, laughing in smaller bursts, or settling down on benches and in the grass as the early evening sun warmed the air. Some kids had wandered off to the edge of the park, kicking around a soccer ball or climbing half-heartedly onto the playground equipment.

Grian stayed where he was near the picnic tables, half-seated on the bench Joel had dragged him to earlier. He was listening in on Kayden and Cleo arguing—lightheartedly—about the logistics of installing a second crafting station in their shared server space, when he felt it. A tap. Light but deliberate.

Someone poked him in the shoulder.

He blinked, twisting slightly as he turned to see who it was—half-expecting Joel or Jimmy again.

But it wasn’t.

There, standing just a little too close in that effortlessly casual way, was him .

Scar.

Grian’s brain stalled for a beat, as if buffering. The boy from class. The one who had stolen every answer right from under his hand, like it was nothing . The boy with the easy voice and quicker wit. Scar, with the ponytail and the scarred-up hands and the grin that made it impossible to tell if he was mocking you or inviting you to laugh along.

“Hey!” Scar chirped, voice chipper, bright, and totally at ease—as if they hadn’t been locked in a one-sided academic battle all week. “I thought I should, you know, properly introduce myself.”

Grian blinked again, and his heart did a strange little thud against his ribs. He had spent the last few days oscillating between annoyance and grudging admiration whenever Scar answered a question perfectly or joked with a teacher like it was second nature. And now here he was, like nothing at all had happened. Just... being friendly.

Scar held out a hand. “Scar,” he said with a tilt of his head and that same easy grin. “Which you probably already knew, considering you’ve looked like you wanted to throw a textbook at me for at least three days straight.”

Grian opened his mouth. Closed it. Then finally said, “I—what? I have not .”

Scar just laughed. “It’s okay, I’d probably be annoyed too. I kind of talk a lot in class. Well, everywhere, really.” He paused for a second, as if considering that. “No, yeah, it’s a personality trait. Unfortunate, but here we are.”

Grian found himself... speechless. Not because Scar was being rude—he wasn’t. In fact, it was worse. He was being nice . Likeable. Warm. The kind of person you couldn’t hate, even if you tried.

He hesitated, then took the offered hand, shaking it a little too formally. “I’m Grian,” he said, even though it felt silly to say it again. “But you knew that.”

“I did,” Scar said with a nod. “Joel said you were cool. Which, to be fair, I figured already—‘cool’ in the ‘secretly plotting world domination’ kind of way.”

Grian squinted. “That’s not a thing.”

“Oh, but it is, ” Scar replied, completely serious for about two seconds before breaking into a grin again. “Anyway—nice to meet you properly, Grian. I’ve seen you around a lot this week, and figured it was overdue.”

It felt like there was more weight in those words than the casual tone let on. Grian nodded slowly, still not quite sure what to say, but feeling a weird warmth rising in his chest all the same.

Scar tilted his head toward the parking lot. “I’m heading out in a bit, but hey—are you coming to the next meeting?”

“...Probably,” Grian said, voice quieter than before.

“Cool.” Scar gave him a quick, two-fingered salute before stepping back. “See you then, evil genius.”

And just like that, he was walking off again, hoodie shifting in the breeze, hands in his pockets like he hadn’t just completely derailed Grian’s entire understanding of who his rival was supposed to be.

Grian stood still for a moment longer, vaguely aware of Joel and Jimmy laughing about something in the distance.

He had no idea what had just happened.

But for some reason, his heart wouldn’t stop fluttering.

Immediately, Grian shut that thought down—slammed the mental door on it, locked it, and metaphorically threw the key into a river.

No. Nope. Absolutely not. He was not going to start thinking that Scar was nice. He was not going to fall into that trap, into the lulling rhythm of Scar’s easy conversation or the strange warmth in his voice when he said Grian’s name like they were already friends. That would be idiotic .

Scar was his rival . Full stop. That wasn’t up for debate. That boy was dangerous—not in the evil mastermind kind of way, but in the charm-your-socks-off-and-smile-while-he-beats-you-at-everything kind of way. The worst kind. The kind who distracted you with his friendliness, lulled you into thinking he was just a laid-back, goofy guy—only to steal every right answer and nail every assignment with seemingly no effort. Like he wasn’t even trying.

And now here he was, being nice? Smiling? Offering his hand and joking like they were equals?

Yeah, right. Grian wasn’t buying it.

“Nice,” he muttered to himself bitterly as he turned and walked back toward the group, Joel and Jimmy still chatting nearby. “You think you can butter me up, Scar? I see right through you.”

He could already picture it—Scar sitting at his desk, that annoyingly confident half-smile on his face as he raised his hand a full two seconds faster than Grian could, every single time. Just trying to get him off his game. That had to be what this whole friendliness act was about. Distract the competition. Charm the enemy into a false sense of security.

“I know what you’re doing,” Grian grumbled under his breath. “You want me to stop trying. You want me to let my guard down.”

He shook his head firmly, as if to physically dislodge the fleeting thought of Scar’s genuinely amused laugh or the way he’d said ‘evil genius’ with a kind of warm fondness, like it was already an inside joke. No. He wasn’t going to remember that. He wasn’t going to analyze every word Scar said to try and decode if it was sincere or a trap. He wasn’t going to care about the way Scar’s eyes crinkled just a little when he smiled.

Nope. Not happening. Shut it down, brain. We are not doing this.

He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand through his hair as if the force of the motion could physically knock the thoughts out of his head. This was war. Academic war. Scar was the opponent. The competition. The obstacle to overcome.

Not… not nice .

Not funny .

Not weirdly comforting to talk to for only a few minutes .

Grian gave his head one final, decisive shake as he prepared to walk home, steeling himself.

This isn’t over, Scar, he thought. You may have charmed the others. But I’m on to you.

And if his chest still felt a little warm with the memory of Scar’s smile—well. That was no one’s business but his own. 

Grian lingered for a moment after the gathering had dispersed, standing just outside the circle of the park where the last bits of sunlight filtered in through the trees. The wind had picked up just a little, brushing through the leaves above, making everything feel strangely… peaceful. For once, he didn’t feel like he had to rush away. It had gone better than expected. He had talked, participated—even laughed a few times.

Still, eventually, he gave a short wave to Joel and Jimmy, who had stayed behind to finish some inside joke-turned-debate about whether a creeper could be considered cute in any context. Joel—grinning like always—held up his phone and waved it. “Yo, don’t forget to add us later, alright?”

“Yeah!” Jimmy chimed in. “We wanna spam you with memes or whatever. Y’know, real friendship stuff.”

Grian chuckled, a bit awkwardly but genuinely. “Yeah, yeah. I will.”

“Promise?” Joel raised an eyebrow, teasing.

Grian nodded with a small smirk. “Promise.”

Both of them had shared their Discord tags—Joel’s being something ridiculous like Smallishbeans, and Jimmy’s a chaotic combination of letters and numbers that Grian knew he’d have to triple-check before typing in. He tucked the paper with their tags into his pocket, safe and secure, then turned away and began his walk home.

The sun was dipping lower in the sky now, and the air had cooled a bit, making his skin prickle under his oversized t-shirt. It was quiet on the walk—just the soft hum of cars in the distance, and the gentle thud of his shoes against the pavement. A part of him felt lighter. Not fully relaxed, but lighter. Less like the new kid, more like someone who could belong, maybe.

As he rounded the corner toward his apartment complex, he spotted a familiar figure walking in the opposite direction, headed toward him on the sidewalk. It took him a second to recognize the messy brown ponytail and the distinct bounce in her step—Pearl.

“Oh,” he said, blinking in surprise as they neared each other. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” she replied with a grin. She looked cheerful, a bit windblown and slightly flushed from walking. “Where’ve you been?”

“Park,” Grian said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Joel and Jimmy dragged me out.”

“Oh, those two,” Pearl laughed. “Figures.”

“You know them?”

“Kind of. Gem introduced me to some of the Hermits today. We went out for food, then met up with a couple of them. Guess what?”

Grian raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Gem’s a Hermit too.”

Grian stopped walking for a moment. “Wait—what? Gem ?”

“Yup!” Pearl looked pleased with herself.

“Huh,” Grian said, eyes wide. “Small world.”

“No kidding,” she said, bumping his shoulder with hers lightly. “Looks like you’re not as much of a loner as you thought.”

“I wasn’t—okay, I kind of was,” he muttered.

Pearl snorted. “Told you to go find someone to talk to. Proud of you.”

Grian rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue. He let out a breath, watching it puff faintly into the cooling air.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “It wasn’t… terrible.”

They walked the rest of the way side by side, falling into a comfortable rhythm, their steps echoing against the sidewalk as the last rays of orange sunlight dipped behind the buildings. It had been a weird day—long, unpredictable, and full of more new people than he usually tolerated—but somehow, against all odds, it felt okay.

Maybe even good.

By the time they reached their apartment building, the sky had turned a soft purplish gray, streaked with the last remnants of daylight. The hum of the city had mellowed into something quieter—more subdued. The streets were mostly clear now, just the occasional person passing by, and the familiar squeak of someone dragging a rolling grocery cart down the sidewalk.

Grian and Pearl approached the stairwell entrance, both slightly winded from the walk back—though neither would admit it. Their building was one of those older ones: yellowing brick, rusted stair rails, the kind of place where you could hear someone’s vacuum through the floorboards on a Sunday morning. Still, it was home.

Grian reached into his pocket first, instinctively patting around for the keys. His steps slowed.

“…Shoot.”

Pearl glanced over. “What?”

“I, uh… don’t have my keys,” he muttered, pulling his hand back out and giving her a sheepish look. “I left them on my desk.”

Pearl rolled her eyes. “Seriously?”

Grian opened his mouth to defend himself, then thought better of it and shut it again. “Yes.”

“Well,” she sighed, digging into the front pocket of her shorts with a sliver of hope. “Maybe I have mine—”

Silence. Then a pause. Then a frustrated huff.

“Nope,” she said flatly. “Mine are on my bookshelf. We’re the worst.”

They stared at the apartment door for a beat like maybe, somehow, it would sense their regret and open anyway.

It didn’t.

“Great teamwork,” Grian muttered.

“Oh, please. I told you to grab your keys this morning.”

Grian narrowed his eyes. “No you didn’t.”

“I definitely did. In my head. Which counts. ”

He gave her a deadpan stare, but it quickly cracked into a short laugh. Pearl smirked.

“Well,” she said after a moment, glancing at the door again, “guess there’s only one thing to do.”

And so she knocked. Three sharp raps on the door, just loud enough to echo slightly down the hallway.

For a moment, they waited in silence. Then the muffled sound of something shifting inside—footsteps, and the familiar clunk of their mom’s slippers against the wood floor.

The door swung open.

Their mom stood there, wrapped in a hoodie two sizes too big, with one earbud still in and a bemused look on her face.

“You two forget your keys?” she asked, deadpan, as she looked between them.

Pearl gave a sheepish grin. “Maybe.”

“Possibly,” Grian added, holding up two fingers for extra dramatic emphasis. “A joint failure.”

Their mom sighed, though the corners of her mouth twitched like she was trying not to smile. “You’re lucky I was home. Get in.”

They hurried past her into the apartment, the door closing behind them with a click. As they toed off their shoes, Grian glanced over at Pearl with a knowing look.

“That could’ve been worse.”

Pearl smirked again. “Only because she was home. Next time, we’re climbing through a window.”

“I hate that idea.”

“Should’ve brought your keys, then.”

And with that, they disappeared deeper into the apartment, the hallway lights buzzing faintly overhead, the evening drawing slowly to a close behind them.

Chapter Text

There was absolutely no way Grian had stayed up until four in the morning last night playing Minecraft. No evidence, no witnesses, and he had already decided to take that information to the grave. If anyone asked, he went to bed at a totally responsible time after setting up his PC. Nothing to see here. Maybe just a little light testing to make sure the shaders were working. A few minutes messing with redstone. A short chat with Sam and Taurtis.

Okay, maybe a lot of chat. And maybe the sun was starting to rise when he finally shut off his monitor. But again—no proof. That was between him and his dark under-eye circles.

The only thing pulling him back to the real world was the persistent ache behind his eyes and the thin ray of sunlight filtering through a gap in his curtains, stabbing him directly in the face like some sort of divine punishment. Grian groaned, an utterly pitiful sound muffled by the tangle of blankets he was curled up in. He tried to sink deeper, wrapping himself tighter in the cocoon of warmth like maybe, if he concentrated hard enough, he could undo the passage of time itself.

No such luck.

After a few more minutes of pretending the outside world didn’t exist, he cracked one eye open, and then the other, blinking groggily as he reached for his phone with the blind certainty of someone who’d done this exact movement a thousand times. He brought the screen close to his face, wincing at the brightness, and checked the time.

1:36 P.M.

He blinked again.

Stared at the numbers.

Let out a low, defeated exhale and dropped his arm back against the bed.

“…Well. Fuck.”

Any chance of salvaging a productive morning had long since gone up in smoke. The whole day was practically halfway over, and he was still buried in his bed like a recently exhumed fossil.

Eventually—slowly, like peeling off a particularly stubborn sticker—he forced himself upright. The room was quiet except for the distant hum of a neighbor’s TV, and the occasional soft whir of his PC still idling in the corner. It still had that faint new-desk smell mixed with the subtle warmth of electronics that had run all night. On the screen, his wallpaper of some obscure pixel art landscape glowed faintly through the energy-saving dim.

He rubbed at his face, palms pressing against his eyes until he saw little sparkles behind his eyelids, then dropped his hands with a sigh. His limbs felt like they were made of jelly. His head was stuffed with cotton. But he was awake. Technically.

Barely.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he sat on the edge and just existed there for a second. Shirt rumpled, hair sticking up at strange angles, socks mismatched, mind trying to remember where he’d even left his glasses.

He finally convinced his legs to move, muscles protesting as he pushed himself up from the edge of his bed. A yawn crept out before he could stifle it, and he stumbled a few steps before catching himself against the desk. His hand landed on a familiar shape — the thin, slightly crooked metal arms of his glasses.

“Thank god,” he muttered, slipping them onto his face. The world snapped into focus with that familiar clarity, though the lenses were a little smudged from sitting out all night. He made a mental note to clean them later, but for now, he just squinted through the fingerprints.

The light from the window was harsher now, casting golden slats across the floor and washing out the pixelated wallpaper on his monitor. It was officially afternoon, and the apartment had begun to buzz — the distant sounds of dishes in the kitchen, Pearl’s voice humming something from her room, and the occasional squeak of the old hallway floorboards. Sunday, in all its slow-burning inevitability.

He didn’t want to change, and honestly? If left to his own devices, he would’ve stayed in his loose pajama pants and oversized hoodie all day, maybe throwing the hood up and refusing to make eye contact with the world. But he remembered — faintly — his mom saying something about needing to go shopping. Probably groceries. Possibly clothes. He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that it meant leaving the house, which meant he needed to put in at least a little bit of effort.

His stomach twisted, slightly, as he turned back to the bed to dig through the scattered pile of yesterday’s clothes and some half-folded laundry he never finished putting away. He hesitated for a long moment before reaching under his pillow and pulling out his binder.

That part of the routine was always… complicated. Quiet. Deliberate. He’d had it for a while now — washed carefully, kept folded, tucked away when it wasn’t on him — and even though it was just fabric, it always felt like more than that. Like armor. Like a small layer of control in a world that so often made him feel like he didn’t belong in his own body. Even though Pearl and his mom were perfectly fine with him being trans, just.. hiding it gave him a bit of comfort.

He took a breath, one hand bracing against the wall as he stepped out of his pajama pants and pulled off his hoodie and shirt. The room felt colder without the layers, and he didn’t dare look in the mirror. Not yet. He worked silently, tugging on the binder in practiced movements, adjusting the straps, the seams, flattening everything down until it felt… bearable.

Not perfect. Never perfect. But quieter. Quieter in his skin.

He let out a slow breath, then reached for clothes that felt comfortable — baggy black pants, a dark t-shirt with some obscure band logo that he, Sam, and Taurtis had found in a thrift shop a few months back. The cotton was soft and familiar, stretched in places, worn but loved. He pulled it on quickly, ran his hands through his hair once in a poor excuse for brushing it, and finally stepped back from the bed.

Okay. That was the hard part. Now he just had to survive a Sunday out in the world. Shopping, maybe a crowd. Maybe some awkward cashier interactions. He tried not to think too hard about that. Just take it one step at a time.

He grabbed his phone from his nightstand, tucked it into his pocket, and headed toward the door.

He padded softly into the kitchen, the chill of the tile floor seeping through his socks. The apartment was quiet aside from the distant hum of the fridge and the low creak of floorboards settling under his weight. The light pouring in through the half-closed blinds painted stripes across the countertops, catching on a few forgotten crumbs and a lonely coffee mug from the day before. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for — maybe something to eat, maybe just an excuse to feel awake — but before he could open the fridge, a door creaked behind him.

Pearl’s door.

He turned slightly, and sure enough, her door cracked open, her familiar mess of half-curled hair poking through first. Her face followed a moment later, grinning like a fox, her eyes gleaming with amusement.

“ Griba! ” she chirped, dragging the name out with the dramatic flair of someone who had been waiting all day for the moment to weaponize it. “I thought you died in there.”

Her voice was light, teasing, and completely devoid of concern — like this was just another day, just another jab between siblings. She stepped further into the hallway, leaning against the doorframe in her pajama pants and a slightly oversized hoodie, one sock hanging halfway off her foot like she hadn’t quite finished getting dressed. Her grin widened. “Like, full-on body decomposing, room becoming a biohazard situation. I was about to send in a search party.”

Grian blinked at her, expression blank for a beat as his brain struggled to come online. Then, with a slow, deadpan delivery, he muttered, “I woke up five minutes ago. ”

Pearl let out a snort and disappeared briefly into her room again, only to re-emerge seconds later with her phone in hand. “It’s nearly two. You slept through an entire morning and half of a day. You missed my epic showdown with the laundry pile and the philosophical discussion I had with Mom about bread crust.”

She leaned against the wall near the kitchen now, scrolling lazily through something on her screen. Grian raised an eyebrow as he opened the fridge and stared blankly into its underwhelming contents. “Thrilling.”

Pearl clicked her tongue. “You joke, but you’ve missed the rise and fall of civilizations. I’ve aged thirty years waiting for you to emerge.”

He rolled his eyes, grabbing a container of leftover rice and setting it on the counter. “Dramatic as ever.”

“And you’re as grumpy as ever when you’ve just woken up,” she shot back, crossing her arms. “Go on, eat something. Mom said she wants to go shopping soon, so you better not fall asleep standing up or she’ll drag you out in your slippers.”

Grian made a quiet noise of protest as he opened a drawer for a fork. “She would do that.”

Pearl nodded solemnly. “She really would. I speak from experience.”

Grian, now half-lucid and holding a cold container of leftover rice like it was a precious artifact, blinked slowly at Pearl as she leaned smugly against the kitchen doorway, still scrolling through her phone like she hadn’t just insulted him within an inch of his life.

He turned, setting the rice down with a bit more force than necessary, and squinted at her with as much theatrical judgement as he could muster before caffeine. His hand gestured lazily in her direction, fingers fluttering as if to frame the sight before him.

“Okay—hold on,” he said, voice still rough and thick with sleep. “You cannot stand there, looking like you just crawled out of the grave, and tell me I look dead.”

Pearl glanced up, smugness giving way to mock-offense. “Excuse me?”

“No, no, no—don’t ‘excuse me’ me,” Grian continued, eyes narrowing slightly. “You look like you’ve been buried in that hoodie for eighty-four years and only just emerged to haunt the living. You can’t throw the ‘I thought you died in your room’ card when you look like the undead crypt-keeper of the hallway.”

Pearl gasped, clutching her chest dramatically. “How dare! This hoodie is vintage. ”

“It’s pilled. It’s got more fuzz than structural integrity.”

“I’m cozy!” she insisted, turning slightly as if to model the stretched sleeves and aggressively worn cuffs. “You wish you had this kind of comfort.”

Grian gave her a flat stare. “Your hair is doing that thing where it’s pointing in three separate cardinal directions. Like a broken compass.”

“I was going for ‘effortless chaos,’ thank you very much.”

“Well, you nailed it. You look like you just rolled out of bed and into a dimension where time doesn’t exist.”

Pearl grinned, undeterred, brushing past him and patting him on the shoulder. “Still doesn’t change the fact that I was up before you.”

“Yeah, haunting the apartment, probably. I bet if we checked the walls, they’d be lined with claw marks and whispers of ‘Grian, wake up…’”

She laughed, opening the fridge behind him. “Next time I’ll bring a bell and chains for the full ghost-of-Christmas-past experience.”

“You already sound like chains clanking when you drag yourself to the kitchen in those slippers,” he muttered, sitting down with his cold rice like a defeated man.

Pearl gave him a look over her shoulder. “You’re just jealous I’ve perfected the art of being a morning cryptid.”

Grian shoved a forkful of rice into his mouth and mumbled, “At least cryptids are consistent.”

The rest of their so-called "morning" dragged by in a haze of half-hearted motions and low-effort routine. Grian sat hunched over at the kitchen table, shoulders rounded and head down, slowly picking through the cold, clumpy rice with the dull determination of someone far too tired to care how depressing it looked. It tasted like cardboard and regret — some vaguely soy-sauce flavored punishment for staying up too late — but he kept chewing anyway. The only sounds in the kitchen were the rhythmic scrape of his fork against the plastic takeout container and the occasional shuffle of Pearl’s feet as she meandered around, humming aimlessly.

The world outside was bright, warm, full of life. Inside their kitchen? Utterly still. The clock ticked past 2 p.m. and no one dared acknowledge how much of the day had already slipped past. At one point, Pearl dropped a spoon and didn’t even flinch when it clattered across the tile. Grian didn’t look up from his rice. They were operating in full weekend-afterburner mode — that fragile, delicate state where the body is technically awake but the soul has not yet caught up.

Eventually, Grian gave up. He scraped the last few miserable grains into a sad little pile, sighed, and stood with all the grace of a very elderly cat. He shuffled to the trash can and dumped the container with a quiet thud, not even bothering to rinse it out. As he turned to drag himself back to his room and hopefully nap until Tuesday, he heard the unmistakable click of a door unlatching behind him.

His mother’s door creaked open with all the subtlety of a theater curtain, and she emerged in full mom-mode: purse slung over her shoulder, sunglasses perched on her head, and that specific look on her face that meant Grian was about to get voluntold into something he didn’t ask for.

“ Grian! ” she called out, exasperation already layered into his name. “Gosh, I would’ve liked to go shopping ages ago!”

Grian barely had time to respond before she crossed the living room in record time and gave him a soft but firm shove back toward the front door, like she was guiding an errant duckling. “Shoes. Now. Let’s go.”

He stumbled slightly, flailing. “Wait—what about Pearl? She’s not ready!”

As if on cue, Pearl peeked around the hallway corner, already halfway back to her bedroom, her grin so smug it practically glowed. She lifted her hand and gave Grian a small, wiggly wave — a mock-salute goodbye that only added insult to injury.

“ I’m staying home! ” she sang, practically skipping out of sight. “Gem’s gonna call, remember? Sorry not sorry!”

Grian’s jaw dropped. “What—no— why am I the one going? ”

“Because you’re the one who said he needed new clothes,” his mom called back, pulling the door open with one hand while rummaging through her bag with the other. “And because your sister has the social skills to schedule her hangouts. Now let’s move.”

“But—!” he tried one more time, but it was no use.

Pearl just cackled from the safety of her room, and Grian, now reluctantly jamming his feet into his sneakers, muttered something about betrayal under his breath.

It wasn’t long before they were in the car, the soft click of the seatbelt and the purr of the engine breaking the still air of the afternoon. The streets were half-busy — just enough traffic to be irritating, not enough to be a real problem — and the sun was still hanging in that middle place in the sky where it wasn’t quite golden hour, but it was on its way there. Their mom drove with practiced ease, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming her fingers absentmindedly against the steering column. Grian slouched in the passenger seat, phone tilted slightly toward him, scrolling through his feed like it might reveal something new and interesting the fifth time around.

He liked this part of car rides — the quiet. The hum of tires on pavement, the occasional blinker click, the subtle shift of the vehicle as it turned corners. It was peaceful in a low-pressure way. No demands. No eye contact. Just space to breathe. He leaned his head against the window and let the rhythm of the motion lull his thoughts into something slow and soft.

That is, until—

“So.”

One word. Light, casual. But it sliced through the silence like a needle.

Grian didn’t look up, but his thumb stopped scrolling. Please don’t ask anything weird, please don’t ask anything weird—

“Any luck finding friends yet?”

He nearly dropped his phone.

“What?” he choked, sitting up straighter like he'd just been caught watching something cursed. “ What?? ”

His mom glanced over, brows raised in that way only mothers could master — a perfect blend of genuine curiosity and quiet amusement. “You heard me.”

“I— I have friends,” Grian sputtered, already half-defensive, half-embarrassed. His ears felt hot. “Sam and Taurtis— we talk all the time. Literally played Minecraft with them last night.”

“I meant here, sweetheart,” she clarified, still looking at the road but clearly watching his reaction from the corner of her eye. “You know. In person.”

Grian sank a little further into his seat like the fabric might just open up and swallow him whole. He gripped his phone tighter, resisting the very teenage urge to groan dramatically and throw himself out the passenger window.

“I don’t need in-person friends,” he mumbled, eyes flicking back to the screen even though he wasn’t reading it anymore. “I’m good.”

“You’ve been here for a week. You can’t just lock yourself in your room forever. You’re too charming for that.”

“Mom, no. ” He turned to her, eyes wide with horror. “Do not call me charming.”

“Why not? You are.”

“I play Minecraft! That is not charming.”

She laughed — actually laughed — and Grian groaned loudly, sinking even deeper in his seat like maybe if he curled into a ball small enough, the universe would forget he existed.

“C’mon, I’m not trying to embarrass you,” she said gently. “I just want to make sure you’re settling in, that’s all. I know it’s been a big change.”

He didn’t answer right away. His fingers moved again, scrolling aimlessly. Eventually, after a long pause, he muttered, “There’s some people.”

“Oh?”

“Joel and Jimmy. They’re, uh, loud. But not in a bad way.”

“Sounds promising.”

“And there’s this group they’re part of. The Hermits. It’s like… a neighborhood friend thing. I dunno. They do these weird meetings in the park.”

She smiled. “That actually sounds adorable.”

“I met like ten people in one sitting and forgot half their names.”

“Still counts.”

Grian huffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched up just slightly. “Also Scar was there.”

She tilted her head. “Scar?”

“My academic nemesis,” he said flatly.

“…It’s been a week.”

“You weren’t there. He’s too good.”

She snorted, reaching to turn on the blinker. “Well, maybe your nemesis could also be a friend.”

He glared. “Why would you curse me like that?”

“Because friendship sometimes comes disguised as competition,” she said, pulling into a parking space like she’d just dropped ancient wisdom.

Grian groaned again, forehead hitting the dashboard.

“I should’ve stayed asleep.”

Grian reluctantly stepped out of the car with a grunt, stretching his legs like he’d just been released from a cage instead of a fifteen-minute car ride. The air was warm and slightly sticky, thick with the smell of car exhaust and whatever faint floral scent the nearby landscaping was trying to convince people was "pleasant." He slung his bag over one shoulder and trudged after his mom as she headed toward the wide glass doors of the department store, which glinted in the afternoon sun like a portal to fluorescent doom.

He wasn’t exactly thrilled to be here.

Grocery shopping was fine. Tolerable, even, when it was just essentials and they were in and out in twenty minutes. But today? Today came with a cursed add-on.

Clothes shopping.

His least favorite kind of shopping. Grian could already hear the suspiciously cheerful voice of some fitting room attendant asking, “Are you finding everything okay?” while he was stuck in some cramped stall trying to squeeze into jeans that didn’t fit and pretending not to panic under department store lighting that made him look like a sickly Victorian ghost.

As they passed through the automatic doors, a gust of artificially cooled air blasted against his face. His mom paused just inside to grab a cart, her hand tapping the bar with a familiar rhythm while she reached into her purse for the shopping list she’d scribbled out that morning.

“Alright,” she said, eyes scanning the paper. “We need shampoo, trash bags, something for dinner tonight… and clothes.”

Grian suppressed a full-body shudder.

“Maybe we can do the clothes last?” he suggested hopefully, already plotting how he might sneak past the racks unnoticed if he kept his head down and walked fast enough.

His mom gave him a knowing look over the list, but didn’t argue. “Fine. Essentials first. Then clothes.”

He exhaled in relief, even if it was temporary. He followed her through the wide aisles, the faint squeak of the cart wheels joining the ambient hum of pop music and the buzz of overhead lights. The store was moderately busy — not enough to feel claustrophobic, but just enough to require navigating around the occasional distracted adult or sprinting child with a juice pouch.

Grian kept close, but not too close. He didn’t need to look like some awkward baby duck following his mom, but also… he didn’t want to get lost in this retail labyrinth. He kept himself distracted by fiddling with his phone, checking Discord notifications from Sam and Taurtis. Sam had sent a screenshot of some cursed redstone contraption that looked vaguely like a toaster. Taurtis had replied only with “pls kill it.”

Grian snorted quietly to himself.

“Alright,” his mom said as she tossed a couple bottles of shampoo into the cart. “Now, what kind of stuff do you actually want to eat this week?”

“Uhh…” Grian looked up, blinking. “The microwaveable rice I already suffer on?”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Fine. Real food. Something that doesn’t come in a packet.”

They moved through the store steadily — canned food, fresh produce, some frozen meals that were “technically cooking” by Grian’s definition. And each step brought them closer to the inevitable.

The clothing section loomed like a brightly lit final boss.

Racks upon racks of neatly folded jeans, walls of t-shirts printed with weird slogans and colors that screamed I am trying too hard to be quirky. There was an entire display of button-ups arranged by color gradient, and mannequins that looked far too confident for wearing clothes Grian would rather die than try on.

He slowed his steps, dragging his feet a little.

“You said you needed new shirts,” his mom said over her shoulder, already steering the cart toward the men’s section.

“Need is… subjective.”

“You’ve been wearing the same three for a week.”

“They’re good shirts!”

“They all have bleach stains.”

He sighed heavily, but didn’t argue. She was right. He knew she was right. Still, that didn’t make this any easier.

Grian browsed with the enthusiasm of someone walking into a dentist’s office — wary, irritable, and absolutely certain he didn’t belong there. He trailed behind his mom as she picked through the racks with practiced ease, flipping hangers and tugging out shirts like it was second nature. He, on the other hand, lingered near the edge of the men's section, arms crossed, eyes scanning rows of clothing like they might leap out and bite him.

He hated this part. All of it. The too-bright lights that made every color look worse than it actually was. The stiffness of the tags rubbing against his skin when he dared try something on. The way his stomach twisted just thinking about the fitting rooms and the risk of someone catching him staring at the sizing chart like it was written in another language.

It wasn’t that he hated clothes. He just hated shopping for them — especially like this, in places where everything felt a little too gendered, a little too binary, a little too rigid. Shirts with aggressively large sleeves. Pants with pockets that were somehow either a black hole or completely decorative. Nothing ever seemed to fit right, not the way he wanted it to.

Still, he did need some new shirts.

So with a resigned sigh, he moved further into the racks and began flipping through the options with sluggish fingers, half-heartedly skimming over the usual suspects. Sports logos. Weird graphic prints with dogs in sunglasses. “Funny” t-shirts that had probably been considered edgy in 2012. A rainbow assortment of plain tees in neon colors he wouldn’t be caught dead in.

But eventually — finally — something decent caught his eye.

Tucked behind a pile of fluorescent gym shirts was a faded black tee with the unmistakable bold white font of a Blondie album cover sprawled across the chest. The edges were just a little worn, and the fabric felt soft — not that itchy, starched cotton that made his skin crawl. He tugged it off the rack carefully, holding it up to inspect it. It didn’t scream anything too loudly. It didn’t draw attention. Just a cool band shirt. He could live with that.

Not far behind it, he found another shirt. This one was a dusty red color, featuring a slightly vintage Dr Pepper logo that looked like it had been printed twenty years ago. It was probably meant to be ironic. Grian didn’t really care. He just liked the color. It felt lived-in. Comfortable. It had that thrifted vibe he usually went for when Sam or Taurtis dragged him out to secondhand shops.

He glanced around the racks a little more, but that was about it. Everything else either had weird scratchy glitter ink, cringy slogans like I paused my game to be here, or weirdly aggressive eagles.

Two shirts. That was all he had to show for this ordeal.

He looked toward where his mom was still browsing — now deep in conversation with herself over the relative value of zip-up hoodies versus pullovers. Grian held the two shirts loosely in one hand and gave a slow, reluctant nod.

“Okay,” he muttered under his breath. “Fine. I’ll survive this.”

He headed toward her to show what he’d picked out, hoping — begging — she wouldn’t ask him to try them on in-store.

He drifted through the maze of clothes, weaving between racks with the slow, shuffling gait of a man trudging toward his own doom. It took him longer than he liked to admit, but eventually — finally — he returned with his two meager finds. In one hand, he held the soft black Blondie t-shirt, the white print cracked slightly like it had been worn-in just enough to be cool without trying. In the other, the faded Dr Pepper tee, its red color muted in a way that didn’t scream for attention, which was exactly the kind of vibe Grian always hoped to project.

He wandered back toward the front of the clothing section, where his mom had now stationed herself in front of a rack of jackets, eyeing a gray zip-up like she was mentally weighing its practicality against how many coupons she still had in her wallet. She was the type to get lost in little internal debates like that, completely unaware of how long she'd been standing in the same spot — half shopping, half mentally reconfiguring the entire household budget.

Grian hesitated a moment, standing a few feet away with the shirts dangling from one arm like laundry he’d just pulled off the floor. He considered just throwing them into the cart and walking away. Present them without comment. Minimal interaction. Get in, get out.

But… no. That would get him The Look. The "I'm trying to be involved in your life and you just dumped this on me like you're seventeen going on mysterious roommate" look. He couldn’t handle The Look today.

So instead, he took a small step forward and nudged her lightly with his elbow, careful not to jostle her too hard — just enough to get her attention.

“Here,” he muttered, half-under his breath, and thrust the shirts toward her like a peace offering.

His mom blinked, turning to look down at the bundle in his hands. She took the shirts delicately, holding each one up for inspection with the air of someone evaluating fine artwork.

“Ooh. This Blondie one’s nice,” she said, giving a small nod of approval. “Good band.”

Grian shrugged. “They’re alright.”

“And this Dr Pepper shirt…” she smiled faintly, amused. “You going for the retro-cool vibe?”

Grian rolled his eyes.

She turned the shirts over one more time before neatly folding them over the edge of the cart, giving a little pat like they’d passed some unspoken test.

“Just those two?”

He nodded. “They’re the only ones that didn’t make me want to die, you know.”

“Well, if you’re happy with them,” she said, clearly satisfied, and turned back to the cart.

Grian took that as a signal that he’d completed his mission and immediately stuffed his hands back into his pockets, ready to mentally check out again until they hit the grocery aisles.

Small victories. Two decent shirts, one intact sense of dignity, and only minimal embarrassment.

Not bad for a Sunday.

It had taken longer than he’d expected to get through the rest of the store. Grian’s legs were starting to ache from the slow shuffle of pushing the cart down too many fluorescent-lit aisles, his binder tugging a little uncomfortably under his hoodie. His phone had become his lifeline during the whole ordeal — something to focus on while his mom debated brands of cereal and tried to match up her coupons with weekly sales like it was some kind of math puzzle. He wasn’t complaining, not really. He was just tired.

Now they were finally in line, the cart filled with neatly stacked boxes and his two hard-won t-shirts folded carefully at the top. His mom was busy double-checking the total on the self-checkout screen, flipping through the last of her coupons, and Grian had all but tuned out everything else.

He stood just slightly behind her, eyes fixed on his phone screen, thumb scrolling without really absorbing anything. The buzz of the store — muffled music overhead, beeping registers, the clatter of carts — all blended into background noise. He was perfectly content fading into that gray space until they could leave.

Until someone spoke next to him.

“Hi. You’re that new kid, right?”

Grian blinked, turning slightly to glance to his side. His brain scrambled to catch up with reality as he stared at the kid now standing awkwardly next to him. He was lanky, maybe just a touch taller than Grian, with slightly messy black hair that curled faintly at the edges and a pale fake tuxedo printed on his t-shirt. His arms hung awkwardly at his sides like he hadn’t quite figured out what to do with them in a casual conversation.

“Oh, gosh, wait, that sounded weird. Kinda stalkery—” the kid quickly backtracked, laughing nervously and raising both hands in a clumsy gesture of surrender. “I just—uh—y’know, people talk, and I’ve seen you around at school and stuff, and I didn’t mean it in, like, a creepy way, I just—”

Grian snorted. He couldn’t help it.

“Grian,” he offered, cutting in before the guy could dig himself any deeper into his own spiral. “I’m Grian.”

The boy visibly relaxed, like a string had just been cut loose inside him. “Oh! Okay, yeah, great. Cool. Awesome,” he said, nodding fast. “Um—I’m Matteo. But, like, everyone calls me Mumbo. Even some of the teachers, which is… weird, but kinda fun. So, yeah. Mumbo.”

He paused like he expected that name to ring a bell — like maybe Grian had already heard of him somehow. Grian hadn’t, but he nodded anyway, tucking his phone away and giving him his full attention now.

“Mumbo,” he repeated, raising an eyebrow slightly. “Like… jumbo with an ‘M’?”

“Exactly like that,” Mumbo said with a grin, clearly pleased that he didn’t have to explain it further. “Except, you know, much cooler. At least, I tell people it’s cooler.”

Grian huffed a quiet laugh, not quite a full chuckle, but something close. “Right. Well, nice to meet you, Mumbo.”

“Yeah! You too.” Mumbo rocked a little on his heels, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do now that the introduction part was over. “So, uh… are you coming to the next Hermit meeting? Xavier said he was gonna try to organize something for Friday, and I think Joel’s got some weird plan that involves snacks and a projector, since we might hang out at someone’s place..”

Grian tilted his head, surprised. “You’re a Hermit?”

Mumbo smiled. “Yeah, kind of. I’ve been going for a while now. I, ehm, just missed last time. My mom had me go shopping with her. Haha, sorta- sorta like now!”

They sort of stared at each other blankly.

“Well,” he said after a moment, “I guess I’ll see you Friday, then.”

Mumbo lit up like a switch had flipped. “Yeah! Totally. Awesome. See you then.”

Grian watched him retreat back to wherever he’d come from, the tuxedo shirt swaying a little with every step. He turned back to the cart just as his mom tapped the final receipt button and turned toward him, bags already swinging from her hands.

“Friend?” she asked, in that too-smooth way she always did when she thought she was being subtle.

Grian rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

“Maybe.”

They made it back to the car without much trouble. The grocery bags rustled and crinkled in the trunk as Grian closed it with a soft thud, letting his breath out in a quiet huff. His arms were sore from carrying too much, and the lingering chill of the store's overactive air conditioning had finally settled into his skin. He climbed into the passenger seat with the worn-out air of someone preparing for hibernation and let his whole body sag against the seatbelt. The door closed with a satisfying thunk, and he buckled in just as his mom turned the key in the ignition.

They drove in relative silence, save for the light buzz of the radio and the low hum of the tires against asphalt. His mom was focused on the road, and Grian was glad for it—he didn’t want to be prodded into any more awkward conversations. Not after the Matteo incident. Or, Mumbo, he corrected himself internally. Still weird. Still kind of endearing.

He pulled out his phone and opened Discord, letting the cool glow of the screen ease him back into a place that didn’t demand grocery store small talk or family banter. The notifications were quiet for now, a few stray messages in private chats, a couple group mentions he didn’t feel like checking yet.

Then his eyes narrowed slightly.

A new message. From Joel.

It was a Discord server invite, no message attached—just a link and the name of the server:

‘Hermits’

Grian blinked, tilting his phone slightly like that would help him understand it better. That was fast. He hadn’t even had time to finish decompressing from today and already he was being absorbed into one of those weird little community groups. Day one of knowing Joel, and he was being ushered into what sounded suspiciously like an inner circle.

No explanation. Just Hermits.

Grian hovered for a second, his thumb resting near the “accept” button. He could ignore it. Or wait a bit. Or pretend he didn’t see it until the weekend. That would be smart.

But he didn’t.

“Oh well,” he muttered aloud, barely audible under the sound of the car’s heater. “Okay.”

He tapped the link.

The loading wheel spun for a moment and then he was in. The server icon was a pixelated green H. There were maybe… ten or twelve members online, not including him. A mess of hastily named channels filled the sidebar—“#general,” “#media,” “#vents,” “#forbidden-voice,” and “#placementlist.” Grian snorted. The place looked like it had been cobbled together in one night by feral animals, which he supposed wasn’t far off from the truth.

There were no pinned messages. No roles. No rules. Just an open chat and whatever chaos he’d walked into.

A few people sent welcome messages almost immediately, his tag lighting up in quick succession:

<SolidarityJimmy>: yoooo welcome new guy!!!
<bigbst4tz2>: welcome welcome :]
<Mumbo>: HEY GRIAN MADE IT!!
<Xisuma>: welcome in o7

He barely had time to process those before another one popped up.

<Goodtimeswithscar> : Hey! Welcome in Grian : D

Grian stared.

HIM.

Of course. The one person who could never leave him alone. The guy . That Scar . That infuriating, smug, obnoxiously charming rival of his, apparently now existing in yet another corner of Grian’s life like a virus in the system.

He groaned quietly, dragging his hand down his face and sinking further into the passenger seat like he could melt through it.

Scar. Here. In this dumb, chaotic little Discord server. The same Scar who had been sitting next to him in algebra acting like Grian didn’t totally know what game he was playing. The same Scar who had waltzed in on day one with those annoyingly perfect teeth and messy hair and said, “You’re the new guy.” Like he owned the place.

He swore the guy was haunting him.

Grian didn't reply right away. He watched the message hover there at the bottom of the chat like it was taunting him. That goofy little ": D" at the end made his stomach twist in that weird way he didn't want to think too hard about.

He typed.

Paused.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Deleted again.

Instead, he flicked back to Twitter and pretended he didn’t see it, even though the server pinged again with someone asking if he played any games and if he was free Friday.

His mom glanced over at him for a second at a red light. “Everything okay?”

Grian forced a shrug, thumb still hovering over the app.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just.. something.”

His mom glanced over at him during a red light, eyebrow arched in quiet suspicion. “What do you mean, just something ?”

Grian groaned softly and leaned his head back against the window. He could already feel it—the impending interrogation. The way her voice subtly sharpened when she knew he was being vague on purpose.

“I…” He hesitated, trying to put the vague irritation into words without sounding like he was spiraling over something dumb. “It’s this guy. At school.”

That alone made her hum, intrigued.

Grian scowled at his reflection in the car window and dragged his thumb down his phone screen again, watching Scar’s stupid little welcome message remain pinned at the bottom. That cheerful little smiley face mocked him. “He’s just—ugh. We’ve got classes together. Math, at least. And he’s so…”

He trailed off, searching for the right word. One that wouldn’t sound like he was just jealous.

“… pretentious. ” Grian finally landed on it like a slap. “Like, the worst kind of ‘I know I’m good at everything’ guy. He walks into a room and acts like he’s already got it all figured out, and everyone else is just trying to catch up.”

His mom stayed quiet, giving him space, but she didn’t look convinced.

“And his name, ” Grian added, throwing his hands up slightly. “Scar. Scar. Who names their kid that? Like, are you kidding me? It sounds like a cartoon villain or a bad video game handle or—ugh, I don’t know. It’s just weird.”

There was a beat of silence. Then:

“Are you sure that’s not just a nickname?”

“I don’t care if it is! ” Grian snapped, more flustered than angry. “It’s what everyone calls him, and it’s ridiculous. ”

His mom glanced at him again—just a short look this time, but Grian could see the corners of her mouth twitching. She was amused. Great.

“He said hi to you or something?”

Grian slouched further down in the seat and muttered, “He welcomed me to a Discord server.”

“Oh no,” she said with exaggerated horror. “How dare he.”

Grian threw a hand over his face. “You don’t understand. This guy has been on my nerves since the first day of school. He was already being weird in person, now he’s here too? He’s following me across platforms. He’s like mold. Internet mold.”

His mom gave a short laugh under her breath and didn’t say anything else.

Grian could feel the heat rising to his cheeks. He hated how dumb he sounded. But still—there was just something about that guy. Something cocky and self-satisfied and annoyingly hard to ignore. Something that made Grian feel like he was always two steps behind, like Scar was constantly in on some joke that Grian wasn’t.

He stared at the screen again. At that message. At that dumb little ": D".

And he sighed. Again. Louder this time.

“Whatever,” he muttered, almost to himself. “It’s nothing.”

When they finally pulled into the driveway, the car rolled to a soft stop, tires crunching over gravel and loose leaves. Grian unbuckled with a slow click of his seatbelt and sat there for a moment longer than necessary, staring blankly at the screen of his phone where it still rested in his palm. That little Discord server icon blinked innocently back at him—quiet now, but almost certainly waiting to stir up more chaos the moment he let his guard down.

He tucked the phone away, climbing out into the late afternoon air, which had warmed considerably since they’d first left. It smelled faintly of sunbaked pavement and someone grilling meat down the street. The air felt thick, like it was trying to hold onto summer a little longer than it should.

Wordlessly, he helped unload the car. The trunk opened with a hollow pop and Grian grabbed two of the lighter bags—one containing bread, the other his new shirts stuffed among some shampoo and discount Easter candy. His arms still ached a little from earlier, but he didn’t complain. He followed his mom into the house, the door creaking shut behind him as they crossed the threshold into the cool, dim kitchen.

Inside, he moved with practiced ease, unpacking groceries into their proper places. Milk in the fridge, cans in the pantry, fruit on the counter. He barely registered what he was doing, running on autopilot while his mind drifted elsewhere. His phone was on the table, screen up, quiet. Too quiet.

He paused halfway through unbagging a box of cereal, casting a sidelong glance at the device like it might lunge at him the second he looked away. He felt ridiculous for being so on edge—but he couldn’t shake it. That server. That guy. Scar.

Something about all of this sat wrong. Not in the overt, “red flags waving” kind of way—but in that subtle, insidious way that sets your instincts off without giving you a clear reason why. Grian wasn’t paranoid. He was cautious . There was a difference.

He finished up in the kitchen and carried the bag with his shirts upstairs, tossing them on the bed before folding them quickly and tucking them into a drawer. Even that didn’t distract him. The silence of his room felt too still, too waiting. Like something was watching.

Another glance at the phone.

Still nothing.

He crossed the room and picked it up anyway.

Maybe he was being insane. But no—no, this wasn’t nothing. Scar wasn’t just some random guy with a weird name and a smug smile. He had something going on—something under the surface—and Grian could feel it like static in the air. He didn’t know what yet, but he was going to find out. That was a promise.

Because if there was one thing Grian knew how to do, it was get to the bottom of things.

Eventually, after the last of the groceries were tucked away, dinner plans were vaguely mentioned and then dropped, and his mom had wandered off to fold laundry or doomscroll on her phone in peace, Grian was finally given the freedom to retreat to his room. He didn’t say much—just offered a noncommittal “I’m gonna go upstairs” that barely earned a nod—and slipped away with the kind of practiced quiet you only get when you’ve been a teenager trying not to start any unnecessary conversations.

The moment his door shut behind him with a soft click, he exhaled through his nose, long and slow. His room was still the same as always—books half-stacked on the desk, fairy lights twinkling faintly under the lofted bed, a slightly-off smell of old tea leaves from the cup he forgot to wash. Comforting. Familiar.

He tossed his phone on the bed and flopped down beside it, letting the mattress catch his full weight. The Discord server was still up, the icon quietly mocking him at the top of the screen. Scar hadn’t messaged again, but that didn’t stop the thought of him from spinning wildly in Grian’s head like some terrible wheel of doom.

After a moment, he rolled over and opened his private group chat. The one with the two people he could trust to help him figure out whether or not he was being completely delusional.

<Grian>: yall online? hop on vc i need to talk abt smthn stupid.

He didn’t wait long. Taurtis replied almost immediately with a thumbs-up emoji and the words “Gimme 2 mins,” and Sam followed shortly after with a “logging on nowww” that made Grian’s lips twitch. He really did pick the right people to be stuck with.

A few minutes later, the familiar bloop of the Discord call starting filled his room, and he reached for his headset. He threw it on, adjusted the mic with one hand, and clicked “Join.”

“Grian!” Taurtis’s voice came through first, slightly too loud and distorted like he was still fixing his settings.

“Dude, it’s been one day ,” Sam added with a laugh, “what kind of chaos did you get into already?”

“God, I missed your chaos,” Taurtis chimed in again. “This better not be about that one guy from chem who said mitochondria was a spirit animal or something.”

Grian groaned, a long and theatrical noise that made Sam snort. “No, it’s not that. It’s…” He sighed, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling as if the popcorn texture could give him guidance. “Okay. So. There’s this guy. He’s in like three of my classes. Shows up day one, sits next to me, and acts like he already knows who I am. Not in the celebrity way, like, not weird —well, it is weird—but like... like he already gets me. Like we’re playing some game and I just didn’t get the rules.”

There was a pause on the other end of the call.

Sam broke the silence first. “Okay… that is weird.”

“RIGHT?” Grian said, sitting up again. “And today? Today I get sent a Discord server invite. Out of nowhere. No explanation, nothing. Just ‘Hermits.’ And it’s got like- bunch of people in it, all with weird usernames and cursed channel names and—God, I don’t even know. And Scar is there.”

“Oh no,” Taurtis said flatly. “Is that his real name?”

“That’s what I said!” Grian burst out, gesturing wildly despite no one being able to see him. “Who names their kid Scar? Who is this guy?? And why does he have this perfectly curated friend group and the audacity to send me a welcome message like we’ve been friends for years?”

“So you joined,” Sam said, tone amused but not unkind.

“I—yes. I did. Shut up. ” Grian slumped forward until his forehead rested against the desk. “I don’t know what to do with this. It feels like I’m getting lured into something.”

“Well,” Taurtis said slowly, “maybe he’s just... friendly?”

“No. No. This guy is not just friendly. This guy is like a walking enigma wrapped in mystery wrapped in a guy who probably has an ironic sticker collection.”

“You like him,” Sam said, smug.

“I do not —!” Grian sat bolt upright. “I think he’s suspicious. ”

“You think he’s cute.”

Grian made a sound like a cat being stepped on. “I am not talking to either of you anymore.”

“Bet he’s got dimples,” Taurtis muttered.

“He does but that’s not the point!”

They were both laughing now, unhelpful and horrible as usual, and Grian let his head fall back against the chair with a loud groan. 

“Listen—listen, I don’t like him like that,” Grian said, the words tumbling out in a frantic mess, hands flailing even though no one could see them. His voice was pitched just a little too high, the same way it got when he was trying too hard not to sound defensive—which, unfortunately, only made him sound more guilty.

Sam hummed knowingly through the headset, clearly not buying it. “Sure you don’t.”

“I’m serious!” Grian cried, almost falling out of his chair as he twisted to glare at the screen like his indignation could travel through the call. “I don’t! He’s—he’s a rival, Sam! You get that, right? Like… like an archnemesis in a comic book! A foil! He’s chaotic good, I’m... whatever the opposite of that is, like, lawful neurotic! He’s been trying to one-up me since the second he laid eyes on me! That’s not likeable, that’s infuriating! ”

“You’re doing a lot of yelling for someone who doesn’t like him,” Sam said lightly.

Grian let out an incoherent groan and slumped back in his chair, dragging his hands down his face. “You’re not listening,” he said, voice muffled behind his palms. “It’s not about liking. It’s about—God, it’s about being completely and utterly derailed by this guy. He talks to me like we’re friends, he smiles like he knows exactly what kind of reaction he’s going to get, and then he wins, Sam. He keeps winning. In chemistry. In group work. In— God, even in Discord servers!”

There was a brief pause.

Taurtis finally chimed in. “Okay, but like… do you actually hate it? Or do you just hate that you don’t hate it?”

“I do hate it!” Grian cried, exasperated. “I hate how he smiles like he’s already solved me like a puzzle! I hate how he’s weirdly good at science, but he acts like a golden retriever! And I especially hate how he made me laugh in class a couple days ago and then gave me this look like he’d been waiting for it!”

Sam made a low whistle. “Oh, yeah. You’re so doomed.”

“I’m not! ” Grian insisted again, but it was a losing battle. “I don’t—I don’t like him. Not like that. He’s a rival. A thorn in my side. The kind of person I need to beat just to sleep at night.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m being tormented, not courted! ”

“You’re being both,” Taurtis added, not helping in the slightest. “And you’re loving every second of it.”

Grian opened his mouth to argue—and then closed it again, because he couldn’t think of a single thing to say that didn’t sound wildly unconvincing, even to himself.

He glared at the ceiling like it had personally wronged him, and slumped so far in his chair that his feet left the floor.

“…He’s just so smug, ” Grian muttered under his breath, voice much smaller now. “Smug and sparkly and- and he walks like he owns the hallway even when he trips over his own feet. I don’t get people like that. I never have.”

“You don’t have to get him,” Sam said gently. “But you might have to accept that you’re very, very into this whole ‘rival’ thing.”

Grian buried his face in his hands and groaned again. The worst part was: they weren’t wrong.