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thetomorrowshow · 27 days ago

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love is such a drag ch. 3

hehehe they go on a date.....

cw: an unnamed character uses homophobic and transphobic slurs

Grian pulls into a parking space slowly, peering over the dash to ensure that he doesn't hit the piled-up snow in front of the curb.

Here he is.

The Cheesecake Factory.

He's been doing vocal warm-ups in the car for the entire drive (ten minutes), pitching his voice gradually higher until he feels comfortable in a higher register. Luckily, his voice already isn't the deepest, and he's never found it too difficult to flip up to his Ariana voice.

He'd spent a little too much time picking out his outfit, but he's happy with his choice. One of his classic looks—a magenta skirt that stops about three inches above his knees, almost pencil-thin, which works well to accentuate hips that he doesn't really have. He's matched it with a lacy white crop top, a pale pink cardigan halfway buttoned up over it to protect his bare stomach from the cold. His winter coat is his normal black one, but he thinks it could pass as a girl's coat, so he decides to wear it inside instead of leaving it in the car (and that way, if he gets cold during the date, he won't have to borrow the man's jacket or anything grossly romantic like that).

Grian checks his make-up one last time in the rearview mirror. It looks good, subtle in a non-subtle way. A typical face of make-up, a dab of light lipstick, some autumn-toned eyeshadow (which compliments his skin and eyes) and a bit of mascara. Nothing too special, the biggest flair being a bit of glitter here and there.

There's a bit of a spot where he hasn't quite blended it right, where it leads to his neck. He clicks his tongue, reaches into his little purse for his beauty blender.

He dabs at his chin, fixing the lacking spot, then closely examines his skin for any other irregularities in his make-up. Too much glitter here, perhaps? Uneven mascara? Or—

He's procrastinating.

Right.

This doesn't have to be a long date. An hour. Long enough that he can get his food, eat some of it, and bring the rest home in a take-out box.

Besides, this man won't notice if his make-up isn't quite right. After all, he's oblivious enough that he didn't realize Grian wasn't a girl.

So Grian does one more vocal warm-up, just a quick sentence in his girl voice, and pushes the car door open with the toe of his sneaker, hopping out onto the asphalt.

Pearl has been trying to convince him to let her get the car jacked up, but if they did that he would have to jump to get out of the car, and it's a 2004 silver Ford Focus and that would just look ridiculous. He isn’t strong enough to defend such an ugly car, and he isn’t tall enough to get into and out of it.

He slips his purse onto his shoulder (after, of course, stowing away his phone and his beauty blender and his keys) and clicks the lock button on the inside of the door before pushing it shut.

He can go on a date, for goodness’ sake. He's going to be fine.

And if all goes poorly, Mumbo's going to fake an emergency.

Grian picks his way around the snow, grimacing as he can already feel his converse soak through. He hates wet socks. Does anybody like wet socks? Probably weird people. The kind of people that Mumbo goes on dates with.

Should he wait outside?

Grian looks around at the cars, none of which look quite like what he's imagining. In his mind, he sees the man pull up in a Ferrari, or a Tesla, or something fancy to match his gold-tipped cane. Everything here is pretty average, with the most expensive being some sort of Volkswagen thing.

Then, as he's waiting, a car pulls in.

It isn't anything that he expected. It's a station wagon, older than Grian, some of the brownish-red paint on the sides peeling. The windshield is cracked, a long line along the bottom, sending a distortion through the little parrot plushie sitting on the dash.

The license plate is bent, and as Grian watches this car pull in a little too fast and the tires hit the curb, he can guess why.

The driver doesn't bother with backing up and trying again. He parks it there, and Grian almost can't bear to look.

That can't be him.

That can't be.

But the door opens, and in a maneuver that almost cracks the windshield even more, the driver pulls a cane out over the shoulder of the passenger seat, familiarly gold-tipped and used to push open the door a bit further.

“Sorry I'm late!”

The man scrambles out of the car, tugging soft leather gloves off his hands and stuffing them into the pocket of his brown leather jacket. “I had to make a stop—took longer than I expected—how are you?”

He looks pretty much the way Grian remembers. His brown hair is just the tiniest bit long—it still looks fine, but it's meant to be shaved short on the sides, he thinks, and it’s started to outgrow that sheared state. The same brown scar trails down the side of his face, but that doesn't stop his face from stretching in a wide smile, teeth even and almost sparkling.

He's good-looking, at least. Grian isn't going on a date with someone who looks like they just crawled out of the ocean and was instantly bit by a zombie.

Honestly, though, the date with that one sea-monster-from-the-dead-looking man wasn't his worst date ever.

The man hurries forward, his cane almost slipping on a patch of ice, and halts just before he reaches Grian, slightly out of breath, one side of the collar of his leather jacket tucked in.

The man doesn't notice his errant clothing, just stares at Grian, mouth slightly open and green eyes wide.

“Hi,” the man breathes. “I—well—um . . . should—go in?”

Oh, this man is absolutely enamored.

Grian will be able to order anything he wants.

The man insists that Grian go first, so Grian starts down the sidewalk toward the restaurant, checking behind himself to make sure that the man's cane doesn't slip again.

The man, of course, hurries ahead right as they come to the restaurant and pulls open the door before Grian can even reach for it, and he flashes another toothy smile as he nods his head for Grian to pass.

Grian steps in and moves to the side, pretending to check his phone while he waits for the man to figure out their seating. He isn't going to give any impression that he's willing to pay.

Soon enough, a waiter leads them to a small booth, tucked away near the back of the dining room.

Great, they aren't sitting in public view? He was hoping to be more visible to the other diners, deterring this man from any unwanted displays of affection.

He sits reluctantly, on the end of the booth seat closer to the door, leaving no room for his date to sit beside him. He isn't taking chances with this one.

Luckily, his date doesn't try to squeeze in next to him, settling down (slowly) in the seat opposite. The waiter leading them sets down two menus, then steps back with a cheeky grin.

“Can I get you two anything to drink?” he asks, and Grian's date practically bounces up in his seat.

“Two Strawberry Blossoms,” he says, clearly quite excited.

And that—

Nope!

No, that's alcohol, that's got to be alcohol. Grian is underage, he can't get carded right now.

He hadn't even thought to bring his fake ID. They were going to the Cheesecake Factory, for goodness’ sake!

Not only that, but both his real and his fake have his face and name. It would entirely blow his cover to have to pull out his ID.

“Just—just pepsi, please,” Grian says before the waiter can ask for his ID.

“But—”

“Pepsi,” Grian says firmly, ignoring his date's protests.

The waiter nods, and when he reaches out for the other man's ID, the man shrugs morosely, looking quite like Grian had just confessed to being a drag queen.

He needs to stop thinking about blowing his cover if he doesn't want to actually blow his cover.

“I'll just have ginger ale, I guess,” the man says dramatically, valiantly going for a smile through his clear disappointment. His shoulders are hunched, his face the picture of weary-but-I-shall-do-it, his eyes somehow still sparkling through the hair that has drooped into his face.

Grian stares.

How can this man exude the same energy as six different cartoon characters combined? How can this man be the Voltron of over-expressive cartoons?

Why is he on a date with Voltron?

“I just want to be sober,” he finds himself explaining, even though he doesn't owe Voltron an explanation. “With driving in this weather, you know?”

The man perks up, reanimated by the simple sentence, even his hair seeming revitalized. “That makes sense!” he declares. He pushes Grian's menu toward him, fingers tapping on the plastic. “Is there anything—oh, wait, almost forgot!”

He unzips his jacket all the way. There’s a pocket on the inside of his jacket, and from it, the man pulls out an entire vase.

It’s thin, and red, and there’s a handful of multi-colored wildflowers stuck in it, and Grian can’t help but stare.

“How—how did that fit—?”

The man doesn’t answer, just places the vase between them with an odd flick of his wrist, then beams at Grian.

“Flowers!” he says, as if that explains and makes up for the absolutely insane act of pulling a whole vase of flowers out of your jacket.

Grian’s got to give him points for creativity.

“I was hoping they’d have pink and white,” the man says with a shrug, “but it is January, so I suppose I can’t expect the flowers to have much variety. But I think red and purple are just as nice—sunset colors, you know?”

“Mhm,” Grian answers absently (even though those are not, actually, sunset colors), his eyes darting from the vase to his date’s jacket. There’s no way. That had to have been some sleight of hand, or something.

He dated a magician in high school. Grian had been highly impressed by the tricks he performed, until they went on a date to the city-level robotics championship (to support Mumbo, of course) and Mumbo had been so distracted watching his magic tricks that he nearly lost the points that carried his team to the win. The next day, he awkwardly informed Grian that the magic his boyfriend was performing was actually a weird cover for ulterior motives, and that one trick that involved him dropping his phone and picking it back up to find the chosen playing card inside his phone case was part of an elaborate ruse to take pictures of Grian’s feet.

Maybe Mumbo wasn’t the only one serial-dating fetishists.

“I . . . they reminded me of you,” the man says, something bashful in his face as he sneaks glances at Grian over the top of his unfolded menu. “So I grabbed them. That’s why I was late.”

That’s. . . .

That’s actually very sweet.

When Grian doesn’t respond, the man clears his throat. “So. Um. Is there an appetizer you’d like?”

Grian flips open his menu, resolutely ignoring the flowers between them. He can’t find anything about this man sweet, or cute, or anything. He is the enemy. Grian’s just here for the free food.

“Er, the spinach dip?” Grian suggests, picking the first thing he sees. Spinach dip is always delicious (even if it hurts his stomach something awful every time he eats it).

“Perfect!” the man grins at him, and it’s quite a nice grin. It’s big, and lopsided, and his lips crack just the slightest bit to show his teeth.

Grian almost smiles back.

He doesn’t, but it’s close.

Grian’s been to the Cheesecake Factory twice in his life—once as a middle-schooler for his birthday (after he had won a coupon), and then again with Mumbo back when they were sixteen and they both scored jobs at Texas Roadhouse, as a treat with their first ever paychecks. He’s wanted to go back ever since, fascinated by the expansive menu. His first time, he’d gotten some boring pasta or something. With Mumbo, he’d tried the cheeseburger spring rolls. This time around, he knows exactly what he wants.

The Macaroni and Cheese Burger.

His mouth is watering just thinking about it. It sounds horrendous. It sounds beautiful. It sounds like everything he needs to make this date well worth his time.

“So! Do you live on campus?”

Grian’s eyes dart up—his date has set down his menu, fingers steepled before him, waiting for Grian to answer.

A simple, basic, getting-to-know-you question.

He can do that.

He can do this. He has to keep his eyes on the prize. Macaroni and Cheese Burger. He’s playing Ariana because it gives him the chance to taste his dreams.

How on earth does small talk work?

Two days later finds Grian back at the Aquetown bar, a blue drink set in front of him at the booth where he'd decided to sit.

He's not here as Ariana, this time. He's done with creeps for the night.

He'd worked a show at one of his normal venues. He wasn't the main feature of the show—he works with a group of five other guys, and there's generally three or four of them together at one show. Grian's pulled his own show several times, of course, even though he hasn't got near as much experience under his belt as some of his fellow performers—though, that may be part of the draw. Grian usually plays Ariana as a young, relatively innocent pop star, and there are plenty who find that desirable.

That does, unfortunately, bring in some . . . less than savory characters. Grian can usually shrug it off, worm his way out of uncomfortable situations, but tonight hadn't been a good crowd at all.

He'd left as soon as he had finished, exchanging grimaces with the two others that had performed, not even taking the time to change more than throwing on a set of sweats over his Ariana getup. In the car, he'd unclipped his hair extensions, and he wiped off the lipstick with a napkin once he sat down in the bar, but he really just looks a mess. His base makeup and eyes are still done, a bit of blush highlighting his cheekbones, and there’s still glitter in his hair, and—

Grian frowns at his own reflection in the dark screen of his phone. His dangly earrings. He unscrews those and shoves them in his sweatpants pocket, surely losing the back of at least one of them.

He really does love dressing up as Ariana. Drag is one of his passions! There are just are some nights where he can’t stand to be in it a second longer.

His hoodie is baggy enough to hide his cleavage, luckily. And the white tennis shoes he'd worn on stage are innocuous enough to not be out of the ordinary.

Stressful night, he texts Mumbo. Stopped for a bite.

As if on cue, his food arrives: nothing fancy, just some chicken fingers and fries. He starts on them, too tired to worry about washing his hands of the sweat and glitter left on them from the show.

Despite the night, his thoughts are elsewhere.

Namely, on the date with the man.

He had never figured out the man's name, because he had been so stupidly polite that he barely talked about himself. He just listened to Grian, eyes fixed on him, occasionally making an excited comment, utterly enraptured in whatever few stories Grian felt safe telling.

And when he had talked, it hadn't been bragging. It hadn't been overplayed boasts, or clearly false stories.

It had been a surprisingly informative discussion about what an Imagineer was (which was the man's dream job).

Which . . . that was kind of cute. Come on, who didn't secretly dream about finding a man who was attractive but hadn't lost his sense of whimsy? A man who loved cartoons and would sing in the car at the top of his lungs? A man who elected not to talk about himself in place of weaving an interesting and factual tale about the Disney parks?

It was nice. It was nice, for once, to have a guy that was actually nice.

Of course, Grian had ghosted him. There was no such thing as a man that perfect. And even if there was, there's no way such a man would be interested in him. Even if the man's intentions seemed perfectly genuine and chivalrous, at the end of the day he'd been on a date with Ariana, not Grian. He liked Ariana. He wouldn't have given the time of day to Grian.

He feels maybe a little bit gloomy, then. Not really, because he isn't actually into this nameless man, but it had been fun and now he probably won't ever go to the Cheesecake Factory again. Or anywhere else expensive.

Such depressing thoughts, combined with the mediocre bar food, keep him distracted enough that he doesn't notice the shadow of a person approaching him.

“Hey, fag!”

Grian winces, pushes his still-sweaty bangs out of his eyes and looks up.

The man before him is an older guy, his hair graying, his once-handsome face now a bit weathered, laugh lines carved around his eyes. He isn't laughing, his face twisted in a sneer.

There's another man behind him, a bit shabbier than this one, but just as condescending.

“Leave the dress-up to the girls,” the first says, and Grian should have just skipped grabbing dinner and gone home. Going out for food is one of his favorite comforts, but it isn't worth this.

“Or do you think you're a girl?” The man leers. “Tranny.”

Grian stares at them.

Just a level, tired stare, praying that the men will get bored with the non-reaction and leave.

He's way too tired to deal with this. And he needs to take off all his make-up when he gets home, still, which is probably the worst part of all of this. There’s so much he needs to do before he gets into bed.

He isn't hurt. He isn't even really offended. He's just so tired, and everything feels just a little too overwhelming, and he isn't too surprised when his itchy eyes start to burn with tears.

“Even his drink is girly,” the second man says, picking up whatever blue thing it was that he'd ordered. He swirls it a little, then spits in it.

A tear slips from his eyes, as frustrating as it is.

One of them touches his hair, pulls at it a little bit, and Grian just knows he's saying something about its length, and it isn’t that long, really, he’s been meaning to get a haircut but this works so much better with the extensions and why can’t they leave—

“Hey! What's going on, here?”

The two men step away quickly, and Grian hurries to rub his napkin over his face (which he'd avoided, not wanting to use the cheap napkin on his skin), scrubbing off as much make-up as possible while drying his tears.

He knows that voice.

He knows that voice, and he is keeping his face covered as much as possible.

A tall, rakishly handsome man with a scar trailing down his face stands before the men, leaning heavily on a gold-tipped cane, looking oddly intimidating in his green waistcoat and button-up shirt.

Because of course he does. Because Grian’s night can’t get any worse.

It’s the man, the one that asked Ariana out on a date in this very bar, and why didn't Grian think he might be a regular patron here?

“Nothing,” both men say at the same time, but one of them shoots a smirk toward Grian.

The man seems entirely unimpressed. “Sure,” he says. “I think it's time for you two to head out.”

“What? We're just chatting with—”

“You can't do that!”

Grian's former date draws himself up self-importantly. “I happen to know the owner of this establishment,” he declares, “and if you aren't gone in thirty seconds, I will be informing him that you are not welcome back.”

With surprisingly few additional mutinous mutters, both bullies leave, and Grian lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

Great. He can wait a couple minutes, then leave as well. Then he can go home and rant to Mumbo about how terrible the night was while he gets cleaned up. Mumbo will know just what to say.

But the man, curse him, slides into the seat opposite Grian and holds out a hand.

“My name's Scar,” he says, and that cannot be true.

Scar? Scar? It has to be a nickname.

Grian coughs into the napkin, unable to restrain his surprise. “For real?”

Grian does not shake his hand, and after a moment, Scar turns it into a smoothing of his hair (which would be cool, if he hadn't held his hand across the table for a solid ten seconds before).

Scar smiles winningly. “Born and raised! I'm sorry about those guys. If it helps, I'm here every weekend and I've never seen them.”

“Do you really know the owner?”

“Yep! He's one of my mom's friends, consulted me on the interior, all that. I even worked here for a while!”

Grian doesn't pull down the napkin, instead choosing to scrub at his eyes with it. At least his make-up is a decent bit more excessive than it was on the date, though the rhinestones pull off with little jabs of pain as they get caught.

“I like your make-up,” Scar says, in a tone of voice so chipper that Grian isn't sure if he's being honest or lying to try and boost Grian's mood.

He shrugs. “I don't usually wear make-up.”

“You're good at it, though. I don't know the first thing about make-up—I wouldn't be able to tell a foundation from a—well, what's that little screwdriver thing that they use on the eyes?”

Despite himself, Grian snorts. “What? Like—mascara?”

Scar shrugs. “Maybe! But it's just amazing that you can do that. Whatever those other guys said, they're absolutely wrong. And terrible people, if I may be so bold.”

Scar stands again, grimacing as he shifts his weight to his cane. Grian had assumed it was cosmetic, but he definitely needs it for some purpose.

“I'll let you get back to your dinner,” Scar tells him, offering a soft, warm smile. It’s a nice smile, just like it was on the date, genuine and happy and well-meaning. “I ought to head home, anyway. My roommate hates it when I drive after midnight. See you around, I hope!”

With that, he leaves, picking up a backpack from a table a few booths away from Grian, giving a nod to the barista before exiting the building.

No.

Grian lets his face fall to the table.

No, no, no, no, no!

Why is that man so—so nice? So well-intentioned?

Grian's never dated nice guys before. He's dated quite a few bad boys, the kinds with motorcycles and leather jackets and cigarettes. He'd even been a bad boy himself for a few months his senior year of high school, but his sunglasses became eyeliner and his leather jacket became boobs and cute skirts before too long.

And then he'd gone through a phase of only dating bears, but that had never coalesced into anything substantial. He and Mumbo had gone on one date, back in high school, but they were both looking for the same kind of man and that kind of man was not each other. In fact, after that date with Mumbo, Grian had entirely written off the idea of dating nice guys, seeing as Mumbo fell firmly in that category in his mind and he and Mumbo are nowhere near romantically compatible, codependent as they are.

Scar is different, though. Different from every man he's been on dates with. Scar is nice, chivalrous, caring—and that isn't to say Grian's had a ton of bad relationships where his partners weren't those things, but Scar is all those things to everyone. He respects Ariana and her decisions and seems genuinely interested in getting to know her; he protects random men he doesn’t know from harassment and does his best to help them calm down.

He smiles the same way to both of them.

Scar is kind, plain and simple. He's kind, and has a good heart, yet is totally secure in his masculinity. What kind of man can stand up to bullies while wearing a waistcoat, swagger with unreachable confidence around a bar that he doesn't own or work at, then turn around and gush about Disney parks and movies?

After a long moment of contemplating, Grian decides that he isn't attracted to Scar. Not really. He's just . . . the man is odd, is all, and he wants to know more!

So he stands, chicken and fries forgotten, and heads up to the bar.

The woman tending the bar raises a brow, flicking her blond hair behind her shoulder. “Need another?”

Grian hops onto a barstool, his toes barely touching the ground. “No, I have a question.”

He looks back toward the door, back toward where Scar had just exited.

“That man,” he asks slowly. “Scar. Do you know him?”

“Oh, yeah. He used to work here. We exercise together, sometimes.”

Grian leans forward. “What's he like?”

The smile on the woman's face is calculating, knowing. “Scar . . . boy, the stories I could tell.”

#hermitcraft smp #hermitcraft #scarian #grian #gtws #goodtimeswithscar #ariana griande #hermitcraft fanfic #lisad #mas writes #grian: please God send me the perfect man #scar: well hello there #grian: ..... please God send me a different one #also the bartender is false!!#as far as i know false will never reappear #ummm still have chronic pain real bad #anyways lmk what you think #love you guys

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