Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It starts with the fire alarm.

This whole mess— call it what you will, the beginning after the end, the post credits scene, the peek behind the curtain post happily ever after… well, it starts with a terribly cold and irritable Scaramouche, the dead of night, and a fire alarm. 

Life had never been kind to Scaramouche.

Not much had been kind to him at all, in fact. Such is the case for most people. Still, the days when he lays in bed with nothing but the bare bones of the stars and a life that slips him by, he thinks perhaps it has been overly cruel to him. He was dealt a good hand in the beginning, though now he feels as though he has spent the last few years trying to salvage his tattered deck of cards as if he’s been playing a losing game all this time.

Sometimes he can no longer distinguish the patterns between the reds and the blacks. Or maybe he has no cards anymore, except for a set of jacks that he never seems able to see clearly. Always out of focus. 

Even as he stands outside in the blistering cold of September, he thinks it rings true. It’s day one and three quarters of senior year— his last year of college. He’s exhausted by the assignments that haven’t hit yet, living by the calendar already too full to manage. He’s a medical student, gathering work experience at a nearby hospital through residency. He works mostly around in the Trauma Department and while it’s exciting work, it can get exhausting quick. 

He’s in his last year at college before he takes a year off to finish up his residency. His schedule is a little more than packed at the moment from balancing classes. His residency akin to weights on his shoulders and his part time job as breakable pottery on his hands. 

“Is that you, Scara?” 

Scaramouche turns squinting through the pitch black void of the sky to identify the voice. Childe’s neon orange hair is like a satellite in the dark, navigating around other grumbly students waiting in the asphalt in nothing but pajamas and the occasional pillow and blanket— both of which are a major fire safety hazard. 

“Oh good,” Childe smiles brightly, “I was worried I lost you in the crowd, comrade.”

“This is absurd,” Scaramouche replies raspily, “first day of senior year and some idiot,” he raises his voice loudly, letting it echo through the flooded streets of campus and through the sleepy evacuating students, “decided to set off the fire alarm at two in morning?”

Scaramouche hopes that whoever set the alarm off can hear him and feel terribly ashamed of themselves. It’s freezing outside, raising the bare hair on his arm to stick upright and chilling him to the bone. There’s faint chattering outside as the general public of the students began to get more lucid with the biting air. Phone flashlights light up, making the crowd of students look like a sea of obsessed fangirls at a concert.

“The year has just begun, come on, Scara.” Childe slaps him on the back, snickering while he watches the way Scaramouche’s jaw ticks in annoyance. “Cut ‘em some slack. Oh, speaking of… how did your finals go?”

Scaramouche groans, rubbing his eyes in irritation as he pats down his shorts pockets. “They went fine. And Russia?”

“Colder than usual. It almost wasn’t worth it,” Childe mentions. He frowns as he watches Scaramouche’s jaw twitch as he gives up patting down his pockets, “Teucer’s doing fine and Tonia is at that age that she has a stick up her ass– love ‘em to death, though. What are you looking for?” 

Some administrator has perched on top of the stone steps to the dormitories, reading out a notice that the apartments weren’t safe until tomorrow morning due to prolonged inspection. 

Scaramouche’s gaze flickers over to him as the crowd mumbles in discontent. He nudges the staff around the building, looking annoyed.

“My car keys. What, you expect me to hang around you until the building is secure? Which, I’m sure it is– some pathetic fool probably burned their pot brownies.”

“Well, you don’t know that,” Mona huffs, materializing out of what looks like nowhere in the dark. Fischl is by her side, and Scaramouche can feel the impending headache at just the sight of the girl.

Mona’s eyes twinkle like stars in the night as she hugs her pillow to her chest with a thin tank top and oversized pajama pants. It's her favorite pair of pajamas - soft grey cotton with a tiny black cat print on them and they hug her body.

“Finally, I found you. Nice to see you again, Scara. It wouldn’t kill you to have some manners. ”

“And it wouldn’t hurt you to have some self respect,” Scaramouche crosses his arms, “heard you went back to your ex again–”

“Quiet,” the girl demands, “that’s— you know that’s different. Maybe if you weren’t so stuck up, you would know that too. I wasn’t going to… she misunderstood, and you know it—”

“Where are you staying for the night, Megistus?” Childe interrupts, motioning to the sealed off apartments. “I’ll be crashing at Scara’s.”

“No you will not be,” Scaramouche replies, bewildered.

“Fischl and I are pooling our money to rent a hotel out for the night,” Mona sniffs, “I got a job offer a month ago, but I need to send another portfolio by the end of this week so they have a better understanding of my work. It’ll be harder considering we’re about to crash at a hotel with no wifi but… I suppose I can manage.”

“I forgot all about post graduation,” Childe rubs his cheek, “I have a few interviews lined up, but the industry is really tight knit, so I’m scouting the best options there are. Most are over in New York City, but I’m used to the cold, so if anything, it’s really an advantage… And you, Fischl? Scara?”

“Volunteer work,” Scaramouche rasps, “Continue my residency. Maybe get myself a sugar daddy to pay for it– I mean, I’ve got the face.”

“You’re still working at the same hospital, Scara?” Mona says hesitantly, “I would’ve thought you transferred after… you know.”

Scaramouche shrugs, leaving the silence cold and chilling. The mostly empty space of the outside school campus is entirely too small now. He fixes his gaze on a sign just behind Mona’s stray, unregarded curl. He can see the frown on Mona’s face melt into concern. Nausea builds up in his throat as he squints at the sign. He can feel the chill of the air all too well on his skin under the thin, oversized shirt. 

It’s a pity that he attended Northwood University, a prestigious school that was filled with people whose first choice was a fraternity college. Word travels fast–especially in Michigan. It doesn’t matter how long something happened or how long you spent trying to get over it. It doesn’t matter if you used to sit on the floor of your bathroom and cry so hard you puke, because whatever happened will stick to you like crazy glue.

But it’s not like Northwood University is hell on earth. He has friends; Mona, whom he met in his first year and the two hit it off instantly by badmouthing their literature professor. He roomed with her for two years before she moved in with Fischl, who she met at one of Northwood University’s traditional end-of-semester parties.

Scaramouche hated those parties. The ones with too much alcohol and music so loud that you can feel your heart beat to the rhythm of the drums and some poor girl drinking her fears. He went twice. Ever.

The first time he went was right after the incident. When he was knee deep in denial and high at every turn and drunk every minute of every day– never sober. Never giving himself time to think, or to process, or to understand what he had went through. But the second time, he met Childe.

Childe, with a flaming personality who found him sulking on the balcony of the party house and assumed he was going to commit suicide and panicked. 

They hadn’t hit it off right away, not with Scaramouche’s clipped sentences and Childe’s warm exterior. They were in different majors, different friend groups, and it had only been through a lot of arguing and petty pranks and jokes on the other to get them to where they were now. He had moved in with Childe the same year that Mona moved in with Fischl, so he didn’t live by himself for too long– Childe, a frat boy with a kind heart and ambitions that flew over the heads of most. 

He was a concoction of man that Scaramouche didn’t even know was possible. Over the years, Childe had dragged him out to every event imaginable– his hockey tournaments, end of year award ceremonies, school dances. He’d made him tag along to a month-long road trip before Scaramouche started his residency, claiming that Scaramouche’s schedule would be too packed later on so it’s now or never. 

That trip had been just talk, at first. They were broke college students with no plans other than to live their dream careers and do whatever they want as long as it isn’t killing themselves or starving to death. They lived in a sleepy city, where Scaramouche had taken up the part-time job of working long hours in a convenience store.

The job provided him with a extra disheveled room in the property upstairs– where Childe and him would most likely stay tonight, actually– In addition to college and his work at the hospital, he would work long shifts under the deteriorating ugly store light, cleaning and restocking and performing otherwise menial tasks. It wasn’t exciting work, and the pay was hardly even enough to fund a road trip for a week. 

But that wasn’t the point. The point was that Childe knew Scaramouche like the back of his hand, and it’s why he fishes his own car keys out his slacks and presses it into Scaramouche’s dainty hand. 

“Whatever,” Scaramouche says, closing his fist around the cool metal. “I’m out of here. Bye.”

He shoves off the ground, leaving the small group to talk amongst themselves. Cold air presses against his exposed skin, leaving blushing red skin and frostbit tips. He’s probably going to drive to the hospital and scrub in–  there’s no use sleeping now, not when his head gets like this. He might as well get some more hours in. 

He huffs, shivering in his plain shorts and a T-shirt. Childe’s car is cold to the touch as he unlocks it and steps in, cranking the heat up to an ungodly amount. He’s always been much more tolerant to high temperatures than cold ones. He clambers in gracelessly, revving on the gas and pulling out. It’s quiet in the car, and it’s quiet in his head as he drives to Michigan Reed Hospital. 

Michigan Reed Hospital– the one thing that fucked Scaramouche’s life up. The hospital that appears in his nightmares and his dreams. It had been his dream school, once upon a time.

A school to create a new life for him, a roundabout way of forgetting his mother and everything that came before and after her. Everything that was once was his and just isn’t, anymore. And in a fucked way, he had accomplished just that– a new life, for sure, where his family line doesn’t butt heads with his social life and stays contained over telephone calls and postcards and headlines from the Japanese news networks on television. It had created a new life, a new Scaramouche, but a much worse one.

One that was so fucked in the head that he would often be, too far away from reality to think straight. One that he would never really be sure of the time that had passed between that day at Michigan Reed Hospital and wherever he was then. Prolonged refusal to seek therapy had only fucked him up more, but it had turned him from mindless and miserable to angry– irritable. In for the long run with a scowl and a sneer and knife in his back.

The incident— the Michigan Reed Hospital Shooting— was the only thing that Michigan could talk about for weeks, months, milking every drop out of it and interviewing everyone who was involved. Scaramouche always refused interviews or the press’s attention, but he was so heavily involved that all other eyewitness accounts had mentioned his name anyway– and yet, even with all of America talking about it, he never got a word from his hometown in Japan. 

But he did hear words from Northwood University. Lots of them. Rumors piled on rumors piled on lies and the itching for a good tale that someone is thrown to the dogs for entertainment. He’d really heard it all, but the most prominent of all– why did irritable, infamous Scaramouche stay at the facility that traumatized him?

Why did he not take advantage of their hospitality and run away? No one seemed sure. A little bit too confused if they wanted to be honest with themselves. There were theories, of course. Some said he didn’t want to get into trouble. Why didn’t he leave when the hospital would’ve gladly allowed him to sever the ties his name has with it. Why didn’t he leave when no one could bear to look at him for the next few months?

But he couldn’t leave— not when he was the only one who really knew what happened in that cold hospital hallway. Because the only other person who knew the real story was dead.

Scaramouche parks the car on the side of the road, looking up at the looming hospital. It towers over him with the same kind of life that the home from Monster House possesses. He reclines his seat, shutting the car off as he looks through the car window.  There’s not much to look at – just a small lot with a few parked cars. The street lights cast enough light on it for people to see where they’re going. 

It’s quiet in the car as he sinks lower and lower into his seat. It’s only fairly damp outside, small dewy drops on Childe’s windshield that he absolutely will not be cleaning off. He doesn’t really want to go inside. Not today, at least. There’s no special occasion; it’s not the anniversary, it’s not any kind of inciting event. He just doesn’t want to. But he’s never missed his weekly hours, and he’s lacking a few. 

Even when he was drowning in misery, he never missed his hours. Even if he’s not at the same department he used to be in. He’s not living in a shared apartment littered with moments of time and life and wisps of breadcrumbs and glass coke bottles and some run down diner next door. He’s twenty-one, sitting in Childe’s sad excuse for a car that's littered with Crit Theory reports that were never turned in and empty cans of redbull. 

He’s twenty-one. He’s sitting in a car, and there’s no point in missing a day now. He’s over it. 

Scaramouche takes a deep breath, sitting upright in his car as he reaches for the button to unlock the car doors. He flicks it, hearing the gentle click of the car door mechanisms.

Just as he reaches for his seatbelt, his car door is thrust open. Scaramouche freezes.

“Apologies,” the man pants. He’s out of breath. “Please drive.”

His voice is raspy from what Scaramouche assumes is exhaustion or something like that. He pulls himself quickly into the car, slamming the door shut, breathily heavily and looking at Scaramouche like he’s his last reprieve.

Scaramouche snaps out of it as shouting rings through the square, directed to the guy in the passenger seat. Someone’s screaming at him, swinging a bat threateningly. 

One strong swing hits Childe’s car, shattering the window on his side. The boy’s hands grip the car door, white knuckled as the armed guy rears his arm again. 

Scaramouche looks, frozen at the man, and then back to the hospital— and then he steps on the gas.

He kicks the car into start, the engine whirring to life. He puts the car in gear, revving the engine and speeding down the street. A car  gives chase as Scaramouche grunts, pressing down on the gas and taking a sharp left turn.

The boy gasps, thrown to the left in haste. “Careful, please–”

“We’re in the middle of a car chase, you're telling me to be careful?” Scaramouche hisses.

The car follows, screeching as they pass. Scaramouche curses under his breath as the tires squeal and skid across pavement. His foot presses against the accelerator hard enough to make his hands shake and the car swerves dangerously close to another vehicle. He glances in the side view mirror, adrenaline flooding into his veins in a way that reminded far, far too much of–

The other car pulls up next to him, shouting something inaudible. Scaramouche flips him off.

”That guy you got—“ Someone pokes their head out of the other car, and Scaramouche recoils in disgust at his monstrous appearance, “sabotaged us, he did! Just pull the fuckin’ car over!”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Scaramouche hisses darkly. He doesn’t even know who the guy is, and yet right now he would rather kill myself than give him up. He’s in Scaramouche’s (Childe’s) car, and he will stay there, damn it. 

The boy beside him locks himself in the seat as Scaramouche curses under his breath, entranced in the way they’re racing around corners at the speed limit. He merges onto the express-way and stomps on the acceleration. The streets are empty in the dead of the night, and Scaramouche pushes Childe’s car to its limit. His head isn’t clear enough to think of sending Childe mental apologies for frying his engine. 

“Take a left here!” The stranger gasps, and Scaramouche eyes the road he means. His hair is whipping around his face, into his eyes and all the places that it shouldn’t. 

“Why?”

The stranger’s eyes are weirdly intense. The wind is roaring through the shattered window, nearly eating up his words. “Do you trust me?”

“What?” Scaramouche questions. The question is so stupid, so dumb that it knocks him out of his focus, “What the hell? Of course not!”

The time to take the turn is nearly gone, and yet— nobody tells Scaramouche what he cant and can do. He yanks that son of a bitch steering wheel with a might that could rival hades; and turns the car left. 

Turn might be an underestimation. It was more of a very lucky drift. 

Even so, his heart races in time with the roar of the engine beneath him and the wind whipping past his face from the window. His veins are on fire as the boy next to him laughs, soft, thrilled in the thrill of the chase, the wind, the euphoria. 

Scaramouche hisses, scanning the road to an exit to the express-way. He hates adrenaline, the panic it fills him with– once upon a time, he used to be an adrenaline junkie. Used to chase the thrill and the feeling like he was nothing but a wisp in time, to feel like he was the everything within the space of nothing. And then he got fucked in the head and the idea of adrenaline was associated with blood and death and the smell of antiseptic– you could feel sorry for him, he thinks, but he doesn’t care.

Not anymore, because he knows better than anyone that nothing comes from wishing on stars, or the apologies people sing, however sorry they are.

Glass is shattered all over the dashboard, and blood drips from his hand from the shards imbedded into the gear shift. The pain is grounding. 

The turn he made made them exist I-95– never mind how he got on there anyway, and Scaramouche squints trying to look through his rear view mirror. He slows the car to a crawl. Scaramouche glances briefly in his rearview mirror, pulling Childe’s busted and overheated car off the road and onto the dead grass of the winter. 

The man’s breathing slowly steadies. As he leans back against his seat, Scaramouche looks at him– really looks at him. He’s enchanting. 

He has a soft face, thin nose and chin that are sculpted into lines by years of hard work. His hair is pulled into a ponytail, silver in the moonlight and his face full and handsome. His eyes are like blood red, the kind that would cause a war to be declared with mere glances.

– the perfect mix of a strong gaze and soft adoration. His features are sharp but delicate; alluring enough so you want to kiss them and hold onto them for eternity. The kind of thing that could make anyone’s heart melt from just seeing it. Fortunately for them, Scaramouche is not just anyone.

“What,” Scaramouche lets his hands fall from the steering wheel, suddenly tired beyond belief. The adrenaline rushing out of his body is a sickly familiar feeling. “was that.”

“That was you saving my life,” the man replies, and Scaramouche blinks. His voice is like a melody, soothing over a burn he didn’t know he had. His voice is softer than most, the kind you’d see used to sing the final movement of Stravinsky’s Septet on the Needles. “Kazuha. Kaedehara Kazuha,” he introduces.

“I don’t care for your name,” Scaramouche dismisses, “and you have no need for mine. Get out of the car.”

Kazuha seems wholly undeterred. “You’re Childe’s roommate, I presume?”

Scaramouche squints as if trying to decide whether to be angry, impressed, or just confused. He decides on all of them.

He unlocks the car door again, giving the stranger a thinly veiled look of contempt. The stranger’s knowing gaze is like twigs to a sparking fire of self-explanation in Scaramouche’s stomach. “Listen, I didn’t do all that because you told me to, I did it because… because…”

“Because?” 

“Maybe I just didn’t want some random car chasing me,” Scaramouche snaps. “And this isn’t even my car. It’s Childe’s. And you need to get out of it.”

“I sincerely hope you do not think I believe that. It’s almost insulting to think so.” Kazuha replies, smiling slightly. “You could have just told me to piss off and find someone else.”

“But I didn’t, so you better be grateful,” Scaramouche grumbles back. He can feel the stranger’s eyes digging into his skin. “You can start repaying me by getting out of the car.”

Kazuha leans against the passenger side window without moving from his spot, watching the other with a curious expression.

Scaramouche doesn’t bother to hide his annoyance. The stranger’s hair and part of his face is obscured by a large, cotton grey hoodie. He could see light hair, seemingly pulled back on the side. Wisps of red strands infect the pure white, subtly falling out from the all encompassing hoodie that he’s chosen to wear.

“Surely you wouldn’t be so cruel as to make me walk home on my own— say perhaps, those men come back? You are willing to make me walk back all the way from I-95?”

”Yes?”

Kazuha’s eyebrows disappear into his hair. He looks nearly impressed.

Scaramouche wants to scoff. He tears his eyes away from the red strands and looks into his equally as red eyes. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“On the contrary,” Kazuha replies. “I think your laugh would sound pleasant to me. I am prone to think it would suit your face.”

“Are you flirting with me?”

Kazuha’s smile widens, a charming divot in his cheek. “If I am, I apologize for overstepping. You mentioned repayment— there must be another way for me to repay you that does not endanger my being.”

“You are utterly risibile.” 

“Perhaps with a poem?” Kazuha offers, “I’m rather talented in the art of Haiku. Allow me to spin one for you, for I suppose I am rather inspired—“

“Spare me your flowery words,” Scaramouche crosses his arms, “tell me who those men were.”

“Ah.” Kazuha blinks, “those were… the Kettering University’s hockey team.”

Kettering University— truly the bane of Scaramouche’s existence.

Ever since he’d met and became rather unwilling friends with Childe, he’s been dragged to all kinds of outings and otherwise unimportant events hosted by their school. Award ceremonies, assemblies, celebratory parties, even academic discussions about literature, and all sorts of meaningless events. At some point it had begun to grate on his nerves.

They always manage to drag him back to campus for more meetings, or get him to attend some ridiculous event where he has to play the role of an honored guest. This is something Scaramouche never particularly indulged in, and they are not exactly enjoyable— but they are tolerable enough that he doesn’t complain. 

But amongst all that, Scaramouche has been dragged to more hockey games than he could count on his fingers and his toes. Most of that is due to because Childe is part of the infamous Northwood University’s hockey team. 

Childe plays left wing on the field– generally a position that requires you to work well with your partner on the right wing, and Childe is exceptionally good at that. Scaramouche has been lounging in the stands for as long as he can remember, never taking much too notice of the other players on the team.

He knew Childe, and the man who mirrored him on the right wing– Arataki Itto. Though Itto had left halfway through last year, so Childe had been having more meets than usual to accompany the new player, who was a man that Scaramouche was not fond of. (No matter how many times Childe tries to tell him that Kaeya is not as bad as he thinks). 

But because he’s been to meets— and subsequently does not pay attention to the players or the game or really anything, it’s easy for him to know when something big has happened on the ice. Most of which comes from the games between Kettering and Northwood. 

Kettering University’s hockey team was loud, brash, aggressive and otherwise people Scaramouche would not willingly associate with. He’s seen Childe get dragged away from bashing someone’s skull in enough times for him to commit it to memory. So he’s not entirely surprised to hear that their hockey team has gone cuckoo. 

“I supposed I had offended them somehow,” Kazuha hums, “and they were attempting to exact revenge. Truly, I have not a clue. Perhaps it may have something to do with the turnout of yesterday’s game, which—“

“Hold on a second,—“ Scaramouche interrupts, “you mean to tell me… you’re part of Northwood’s hockey team. You.”

“I play Center,” Kazuha smiles. 

Scaramouche squints, racking his brain for the little hockey knowledge he’s retained. While goaltender is arguably hockey's most difficult position to play and excel, particularly as the level of play accelerates— the center's role is the most important to the action on the ice.

Centers are involved with most faceoffs, and are consequently supposed to have an idea where they want the puck to go from those faceoffs, how to move the puck forward for offensive scoring chances and devote just as much protecting against those goal opportunities on their team's defensive end.

In normal terms, this guy is incredibly good at hockey. 

Someone honks their horn, some random car on the street that’s speeding down the road at a rate that’s probably illegal. The noise snaps Scaramouche out of his thoughts.

He scoffs, tugging his eyes away from the stranger. He was supposed to head to Michigan Reed Hospital and scrub in, get in a few more hours as a makeshift trauma nurse and then hit a few hours of sleep before his classes tomorrow. It’s not a healthy schedule, but it’s one he can rely on. 

He’s never missed his weekly hours at the hospital, and he’s not about to start now; not on the account of some soft hearted delinquent hockey player sitting in his car. Either Kazuha walk home from the hospital, or he sits in the lobby and waits for Scaramouche to finish his hours to drive him home, or he walks home now. 

“I’ll walk,” Kazuha replies, when Scaramouche tells him such; “truthfully, I don’t want to burden you more than I have today. Thank you— truly. Most people wouldn’t have helped a stranger.”

I wouldn’t have either. 

“You fail to forget that I am just as much of a stranger to you as you are to me. I could have kidnapped you if I wished. I still could.”

Kazuha pauses while opening the car door. “I would hardly consider us strangers. It would be hard to maintain anonymity with someone after you’ve engaged in a car chase with them.”

Amber red meets sapphire blue, and Kazuha offers him a slight smile. “I’ll see you around campus, then.”

Scaramouche pulls the car away at the speed of light, because fuck that. It’s almost four in the morning now, and his class is at nine— he has enough time to get his hours in. 

He feels a little bad as he drives the car down to Michigan Reed Hospital– about making Kazuha walk, but they’re strangers. They’re strangers and Scaramouche owes him nothing. 

Right. 

It’s day one of his final year, and it’s time to go out with a bang. And if it tells tales that his first day was accompanied by an impromptu car chase and a fire alarm, it’s his business.

Even as Scaramouche scrubs in, exchanging his thin shirt for the standard blue scrubs and the spare black turtleneck he keeps in his locker for this purpose specifically. The operating room was generally cold– colder than most of the hospital, though sometimes it’s warmed up in light of a specific procedure. He grabs most of what he’d need. Through fast paced, hours long shifts and organized chaos as a result of nurses and surgeons trying to keep their patients alive, it’s difficult to head back to grab something he’d forgotten. 

Thankfully, it’s a slow night in the hospital. Usually big accidents flood them with patients, but it looks like someone has taken mercy on Scaramouche’s cluttered mind and blessed him with something more quiet for the next few hours– the shift report he got from the night nurse was blessedly more stable and slow, though he’s well aware that it could change at any second.

He knows that more than anybody. It’s hard for him, on days, to walk by the same areas and the same spot where he felt like his soul was ripped from him. But he gets by. He has to get by.

“Quiet board today, Scara?” 

Scaramouche looks up. Venti is smiling bashfully at him, cheeks pulled back in a charming smile with a dimple. 

“Tighnari’s trying to get me to do charts.” Venti fake-gags, his eyes twinkling in a way that only he can in the midst of a hospital in the dead of night. “I am not doing charts.”

Scaramouche ignores him. He’s known Venti for a while now– he would go as far as to say Venti probably has seen the worst of him. He met him on his first few days of residency and left a disastrous impression on him. Still, as bizarre as it was, they formed an unwilling friendship, which only got closer after the incident. He supposes Kazuha was right in that regard; it’s hard to keep anonymity with someone who was with you when the world burned down. 

He can’t remember exactly what pushed him to pursue something in the medical field– maybe it was just an option on the table that didn't sound as bad as the others.

Saving lives– making himself useful. Proving his worth. It didn’t matter that he never really excelled in those areas in school or that the ones he did excel at were of no use beyond what was required for survival in any given society. He had a knack for figuring out the right balance of chemistry, anatomy, and biology– all the things most people would be interested in finding useful. 

Miko hadn’t cared what he did, so long as he wasn’t a bum living in the basement. And his mother… she didn’t care, but she never did. Scaramouche often wondered if she even knew his name. He wouldn’t be surprised if she forgot by now– as much as he could tell himself he didn’t care, what he would miss most about his life before he moved into this apartment is a lack of memories from his home. 

It’s not like it mattered much in the grand scheme of things. The only person who could have made a difference in his life was dead now, anyway. 

“-- Level three trauma response. ETA ten minutes.”

“And there,” Venti bashfully smiles at the intercom overhead, like it could see him, “goes your quiet night.”

“Spare me,” Scaramouche replies dryly. “I had to deal with some delinquent in my car–  Childe’s car. Needed to get away from some guys or something.”

The Trauma center is bustling with people putting on newer surgical masks, and Scaramouche himself weasels himself into the non-surgical medical gown. Venti walks with him, though he’s not generally meant to be on the same level as the operating rooms. Venti works more with the pediatric center.

“Was he cute?”

“Venti, I am not having this conversation with you.”

Surgical nurses and paramedics roll the stretcher in, a bloodied and heavily injured young man laying on the makeshift bed. The wheels, the breathing, the heavy beeping– it’s background music to Scaramouche.

A surgical nurse makes eye contact with him. “Paramedics found him unconscious. Mechanisms of injury are unknown. Take his vitals— quickly.”

Scaramouche snaps into action, pushing past the cluster of nurses and surgeons crowding around the guy. It’s stressful enough when he’s doing it on his own, but more so as he wrestles his way to strap the machine onto the guy’s arm.

“Scara, was he cute?”

“Venti, this is not really–” Scaramouche grits his teeth through the bustle, addressing the doctor in the room. “Tachycardic in the 140’s, BP holding in the 90’s. Respiratory effort… absent breath sounds on the right. Air bubbling on the side of the wound. Get him intubated— did the paramedics place occlusive dressing over the wound?

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“Did the paramedics place occlusive dressing over the wound?”

The paramedic stutters some answer that Scaramouche doesn’t bother to hear, pulling his bloodied gloves away from the guy. The intercom is alerted again– this time with more incoming trauma. MVC with a 30-minute extrication time.

So much for his quiet evening.

“Raiden, there’s a chest contusion and a head CT is showing a depressed skull fracture– temporal epidural hematoma. He needs to be moved to the O.R.” Someone says, and Scaramouche drags his eyes away from Venti, who is still in the room.

Scaramouche’s breath is heavy as the patient is strapped securely on the stretcher, rushing out the door and to the operating room. Scaramouche stands still for a second, remembering the words of the head surgeon. He has to get to the operating room. The patient’s GCS is 14 in the field, probably 12 by now– his motor exams are intact. He can be saved, if Scaramouche and the rest of the trauma team act fast.

Even so, he pauses in the doorway and meets Venti’s gaze, who smiles at him.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I guess he was.”

Chapter Text

Never in Scaramouche’s sad, pathetic life, would he ever go to a hockey game willingly. 

Going for Childe is one thing, but to sit up in his bed and pull his coat on of his own violation and sit in the car and drive to the stadium without rhyme or reason… that’s another. 

It’s totally different, and that’s what Scaramouche had told Venti. It’s ludicrous, it’s ridiculous, it’s so absurd that it was more possible that he had been kidnapped overnight and replaced with a clone created by the U.S government. 

It’s been roughly a week into the new semester, and Venti is sick. And Scaramouche does not deal well with sick people.

There are machines beeping in every corner of Michigan Reed Hospital, IV pumps and heart monitors. Slow, steady, reliable beeping that’s going to drive Scaramouche crazy if Venti doesn’t do it first.

Scaramouche disinfects his hands again, pulling on a new pair of clean surgical gloves. His mask is down, hanging loosely around his neck. He’s checking in on a patient in the high dependency unit, weaving around the personal support workers present in the hospital, doing more of the menial tasks like bathing, washing, and changing incontinence briefs. 

“Scara, consider it a favor for an old friend. Come on, please!”

Scaramouche spares him a glance as he keeps walking. Venti shivers, clad in his hospital gown— not often does Scaramouche see him in one, considering, well… he works there.

“I would not call you an old friend. I wouldn’t even call you a friend, but I would call you old.” Scaramouche says bluntly. “Find someone else to suck up to you or make yourself useful and head to the sickroom and get yourself treated. You’re a walking biohazard– I head to the operating theater in an hour and I can’t babysit you.”

Venti sighed. “You are no fun, you know that? This is important to me. Please?” He pouted, making the kind of face women swoon over right up until the time when they want to slap him with their bare hands for being so goddamn stupid. Which happened more often than people would believe. Or maybe he wasn’t so easily swayed by the pretty smiles or handsome faces. 

“I don’t go to hockey games–”

“You go for Childe!”

“That’s different,” Scaramouche snaps. “I’m forced to go or he sets a padlock on the coffee machine. And seeing how you are fine walking through the halls in your current condition, I’m sure you have no problem attending the game.”

“But this isn’t for me, it’s for Xiao,” Venti pleads, trailing behind Scaramouche like some kind of unfed puppy. “Please? Please, please? You just need to be there in my stead.”

Scaramouche stops in his tracks. He doesn’t know if he cares enough to tell Venti that Xiao probably doesn’t care if Scaramouche doesn’t show up because he seeks Venti’s support, not his. 

“I’m not going,” Scaramouche says with an air of finality. He stops in front of the door to the patient, Venti’s pleading face parked in front of him as if it’s going to stop him. “Venti, move. I have a patient who had a V-tach last night and then had 4 milligrams of epinephrine injected into her. Move it.”

Venti sniffles. “Tell me you’ll consider it at the least.”

Scaramouche purses his lips. “Fine. I’ll consider it. Happy?”

Scaramouche will not be considering shit. He can’t stand hockey games, or games in general. The roar of the crowd, the commotion from the stands, it makes him feel trapped, confined, even though the arena is enormous enough that he should be able to walk around if he wanted to. It just makes his skin crawl.

The noise from all the bodies packed together, the lights flashing off the ice, the screaming fans shouting and chanting names — he is absolutely sick of it. The constant stream of people pouring in and out of the stands is exhausting and frankly, infuriating. There are only so many things he can take before he's just about fed up.

Besides, going to the game means he’ll catch of glimpse of Kazuha again and fuck if that sounds like an invitation for disaster on the ice. 

But Venti takes it anyway, content with his answer. Scaramouche breathes deeply, watching Venti stumble away in his peripheral vision. He adjusts his turtleneck and his blue scrubs and opens the door. 

He’s never been a fan of dealing with patients. Social interaction is more stressful than it should have to be, and it doesn't help that the patient is always under the impression that he needs to do something every time he starts talking or asking questions. Oftentimes, Niwa would take care of whatever patient Scaramouche had been assigned to check in on while Scaramouche worked with the kids and the elderly– he was good at that. But that can’t happen anymore, because Niwa isn’t here to do it for him.

The room is cold when he steps in. He hasn’t got much to do except check in with her and take her vitals. He can do that. 

The girl’s eyes snap to him the moment he steps inside. She’s hooked up to an IV, half lidded emerald eyes and her brown hair tangled in what looked like it might have been an intricate updo.

“Homayani?” Scaramouche asked simply, and the girl nodded. “Raiden. I’ll be your nurse for right now. I’ll need to take your vitals, so if you’re panicked, scared, or any other emotion that will otherwise impact your blood pressure or heart rate, stop.”

The girl might’ve laughed. Scaramouche wasn’t sure, nor did he care all that much, because it wasn’t intended to be a joke. They were required to introduce themselves by last name, as disgusted Scaramouche was with it. He oughta get it changed soon– it was far more trouble than it was worth. 

“You’re very pretty,” The girl rasps, and Scaramouche is almost taken aback at how destroyed her voice sounds. Or maybe that’s how she sounds normally. “I’m Dunyarzard.”

I know that, Scaramouche wants to say, but he doesn’t. He spares her a glance as he straps the machine onto her ivory skin. “I’m not into women.”

“I am.” 

“... Cool.”

This is terrible. It makes his stomach twist in a way he wishes he could make go away, just so he could go back home and marry his bed. The two sit in awkward silence for a second longer before the sphygmomanometer beeps and his eyes snap down. 

“What is it?” 

“... Your blood pressure.” Scaramouche replies.

She laughs, and her laugh is sweet and melodic. She’s a pretty girl, sure, but there are probably other prettier girls than her out there. Maybe a million others out there. “I meant the numbers.”

Scaramouche looks down at the machine. “132 over 75. Diastolic is a little low.”

“I don’t… know what any of that means.” 

Scaramouche ignores her. This must be hell on earth, he thinks. He unwraps the machine, starting to focus on taking her respiratory rate, temperature, and oxygen saturation. 

But she looks like she has something to say, and Scaramouche wishes she would spit it out already. He looks up repeatedly, watching her expression shift each time he catches her staring. A growing feeling of uncomfortableness twists in his chest.

One that reminds him eerily of Mona and the look on her face when she would find him lying in a bathtub covered with bruises and scratches after another night of destroying himself and he feels like he should do something about it. But he doesn’t.

He continues his work, even though it feels like hours when only seconds passed. When he finally finishes, he coughs awkwardly as he notes Dunyarzard’s respiratory rate of 13 per minute and a solid 98% for her oxygen saturation.

Now is the time he should ask her if there’s anything he could get her to help her feel at more ease. But when Scaramouche himself feels like he’s being impaled each second he stays in here, he could really care less about her comfort.  

So he just stands up and gets ready to leave– the sooner this is over, the better. As he turns around he hears her voice call; “If– If it’s not too much trouble…”

Scaramouche pauses, looking back at her. He crosses his arms, looking down at her. “What do you need?”

Dunyarzard smiles uneasily. “Do you know when that… other nurse is coming back? She usually stays and talks with me. Green hair?”

Green hair. There’s only two people Scaramouche knows with green hair and both of them work at this hospital. One is a guy– Baizhu, and so it must be Collei. “She’s busy.”

“Of course,” Dunyarzard croaks, “I mean– I wasn’t… could you just… talk with me instead? I’m– I’m sorry. I guess I’m scared.”

Scaramouche inhales deeply. He has to head to the operating theater in an hour, but he’s not heartless. And… Niwa would have stayed. It’s a memory of brown hair and red locks and a smile that makes Scaramouche nod curtly, pulling up a chair and sitting awkwardly. Dunyarzard looks immensely relieved. 

“Thank you so much. It’s just that… I guess I don’t feel very safe in this hospital,” she laughs weaky. “There was a shooting here not too long ago– wait, I’m sorry. That’s… that’s insensitive. I didn’t mean to undermine the hospital’s safety or– or… I’m sorry if you were involved in it… um, you weren’t, right?”

Was he involved in it? 

He was involved in every sense of the word. 

It hadn’t been him they had shot, and yet it felt like he was the one the bullet had hit. Even now, hours later, even after it was all over and everyone left, he can still hear the gunshots echoing throughout the empty halls and

– blood. So much blood. In the end, all it took was an elevator, a gun, and a lie to tear his life apart. They had debated giving Scaramouche a Lasker award for his heroic actions during the shooting, but it was ultimately decided that it would have been too offensive. Thank god, too, because if they knew what had actually happened between Niwa getting shot and Scaramouche trying to save his life– inches away from that elevator that he still refuses to use, he would not be getting any kind of award.

He was a mess for the months after. Nightmares, panic attacks, reddened hands, a cold hallway and even colder skin. He was cold for months after, and nothing would warm him up. Not the towels and heaters that Mona or Childe would provide. Nothing to help him forget about the nightmares and panic attacks and the aching loss that he carries around with him like baggage. Things that will always follow him.

Nothing to help him almost forget about the shaking voice and shaky hands and the cold, clammy skin and the burning gaze on him. To forgo the endless pulling of his hair and hoping and sitting and crying to some god that his mom would hear him sobbing across the world and learn to care. 

He never got better. He just got better at handling it. He gets moments of happiness, but that’s it. Just moments. His days of peace are few and far in between.

“No,” Scaramouche says. The lie tastes sweet on his tongue. “I wasn’t.”

“Oh, good,” Dunyarzard rasps, relieved and a smile playing on her lips. “I was worried I was insensitive just then. Um… why don’t you tell me something? Like… sorry again, but I heard you and your friend arguing outside my door.”

Oh, good. A change of topic. “He was being insufferable. He wants me to go to some hockey game to support some guy he likes because he’s sick. And I won’t.”

“Why not?” Dunyarzard asks.

“I just don’t,” Scaramouche insists. “I don’t do that kind of thing. Idle hobbies are not for me. And… there might be this… guy there.”

He trails off, feeling silly, and wondering if his face is betraying him. Dunyarzard seems to be listening intently to him though, as if she is very interested in hearing about this mysterious, unnamed guy who is apparently important enough for Scaramouche to mention him. 

“Do you not like him?”

“No,” Scaramouche says bluntly. “No– he’s… sure, he’s hot. And his hands are really nice. And his voice. But he’s weird.” He pauses before adding, “And rude. You know he shoved himself into my car and told me to engage in some car chase?”

Dunyarzard laughs, a throaty sound. “He sounds like a very interesting fellow. You mentioned he was weird. Why? You mean he has an odd mannerism or something?” 

Scaramouche feels stupid talking about him with her. He doesn’t know how to explain this. How to explain that Kazuha is just as mortal as Niwa is, and one shot is all it will take should he get attached– that he can feel history repeating itself. That he can hear his mother whispering in his ear that you shan’t make a deal with the devil because then you will be stuck in a world where history repeats and rhymes. And how he was the fool that didn’t listen.

“He has a funny way of talking,” Scaramouche finds himself saying. “He talks like a stranger I should know. There’s just this… vibe around him. Like he could be anything from a murderer to an actor.”

“That does not mean anything. Most people have a strange manner of speaking. And you do seem rather fond of him,” Dunyarzard observes with mild amusement. 

“I do not–”

“I think you should go,” Dunyarzard says thoughtfully. “If nothing else, maybe you can figure out how you feel about him.”

“I know how I feel about him,” Scaramouche glares. “And it isn’t positive.”

“Come on, just give it a shot,” Dunyarzard protests. “He’s cute, allegedly… and he’s interested—“

“Okay, first of all—“

“— and when life closes one door, it opens another. And this is just one of those doors. Seize the opportunity!”

“Right. First of all, when life shuts a door, you open it back up. That's how doors work. Secondly, I’m not into him and he’s not into me. I don’t…” he gestures wildly, “do hockey players.”

“Raiden,” Dunyarzard interrupts. “Think about it.”

He pauses, chewing on his lip as he mulls over the words. Dunyarzard’s gaze is too intense, too foreboding in a room as cold as this and it feels only right to stiffly nod his head. 

“I’ll think about it,” he concedes.

Well, now you know how Scaramouche ended up in the stands of a hockey game.

The game is going fantastic, from what Scaramouche can see. The players have heavy helmets and pads and a red and black uniform and everything just works. The announcer is shouting, the referees are roaring, the crowd is cheering. The freezing temperatures are diluted by the close knit fog of people and he can see Fischl and Mona huddled together at the edge of the bleachers. He glances briefly at the person he’s sat next to, who might just be the loudest supporter at this game. 

He has chalk maroon hair, and what looks like sharpie dots under his eyes. Scaramouche doubts they're real moles. The point is that this guy is loud, and it’s grating on his nerves.

Still Scaramouche tries to keep a light mood and pointedly does not look towards the center of the ice in case he catches a glimpse of red eyes and an all knowing grin. There's always plenty for him to do besides look over there, anyways. He keeps up with the team and takes notes about their plays to tell Childe, later. 

In the first half, Childe manages to score a goal and Xiao manages to block several. There’s a brief intermission when the puck slides off the ice and into the stands, but it’s fixed when someone goes and gets it. He doesn’t entirely enjoy the experience, having to crane his neck over other students to see the game, but it’s not a terrible experience. 

The game gets far rougher as the clock steadily runs out of time. It's 2-1, in favor of Northwood University, but the other team is getting desperate– playing as dirty as you can in a game on the ice. That’s why– maybe that’s why, when Kettering University starts playing dirty, Scaramouche takes notice so much quicker than the crowd, then the players. He’s seen the meets, he’s seen what a Kettering University hockey player looks like before they cross-check someone, because often the player will have eyes on the game, the puck– not the player.

When someone in a green uniform cross checks someone on Northwood’s side and no penalty is called– Scaramouche can’t help it. It’s reflexive.

“That’s a foul,” he mutters, mostly to himself, but the guy next to him— sharpie mole, hears him. 

The guy next to him blinks. Which, personally, Scaramouche thinks absurd. He’s been talking this whole game but oh, when Scaramouche does it, it’s a problem— still, the guy is already turning around, eyes wide like they are about to pop out of his skull. 

“What?” The guy shouts over the noise and Scaramouche feels a vein snap somewhere.

“Cross-checking–” Scaramouche tries to convey, “he cross-checked the center– you can’t… it’s a foul. It’s forcefully checking– the thing… the thing he did when he grabbed his stick–”

“Nevermind that,” the guy grabs him by his arms and Scaramouche feels himself get lightheaded at the sudden touch. “You’re certain it was a foul?”

“Yes– yes...” Scaramouche grits, trying to wrestle out of the man’s hold, and he pays him no mind. He instead leans over to someone, whispering something to the girl on his right who had two stunningly long pink ponytails. 

There’s roughly twenty minutes on the clock. It’ll be pretty miraculous if the foul manages to get called before the game progresses too much– especially if Kettering University wins before the foul can get called. Childe is lining up a shot– Scaramouche can’t watch. It’s adrenaline addicting, the thrill of chase for a chance to win– but it also makes him feel sick. 

He hates adrenaline, because… because–

Scaramouche thinks he’s going to throw up. 

Sometimes, when… when– what was he thinking? What was… he can’t think properly. The cheering from the crowd sounds more like panicked shouting. Each hit of the stick against the ice sounds more like a gunshot each and every time. The red of the uniforms is the blood in the rink, and it splatters onto the ground like spilled paint, so red it looks like someone had painted a bloody mural over the pristine white of the ice. He can barely hear anything. All he can see is the blood. Red and brown. 

No one will ever let Scaramouche forget this feeling forever. But, God, it’d be a relief if they did, for one single moment. Just moments. He gets moments. 

It feels like a storm is brewing, throwing him to the water’s edge with the wind coming out of the cloud by night, chilling and killing ghosts of him. And by the night-tide, lay him, by his sepulcher there by the sea– by his tomb by the sounding sea.

It's been months since the gunshots, the shooting. Months since Niwa Hisahide was killed by the elevator. And here he is. Nauseous at a school rally. 

It feels like he’s had a year-long headache. Most of the time it's this steady, existential hum, easy to drown out with a little bit of effort and daily medication. Until the hum starts to build, growing louder and sharper and impossible to ignore, leading up to the anniversary. On that day, it's a thudding bass, a violently crashing crescendo pounding through his skull.

There are things that the media doesn’t tell you. They won’t ever tell you that he spends a lot of time googling the massacre, because it’s just not something you’re supposed to do. He’s seen people say that victims avoid the topic of it or get sick at first sight– and say you do. You could get sick at the idea of it, but you can’t get obsessed. 

It's something like a hobby. Or maybe an addiction. It started about a month after the shooting, on one of the many nights when the thought of sleeping in his dark bedroom was too frightening to fathom. He’d walked down the hall, to the living room, and logged on to the desktop for the first time in weeks. 

One link led to another. And another. And another.

With every article or blog post, he became more anxious, more panicked. His heart was pounding and there were tears pricking his eyes. But–  he couldn't stop clicking. He knew he needed to. He knew it wasn't good for him. He knew. He knew.

He had shoved his desk in repressed anger. Violently enough that the monitor cracked against the wall. Even now, he frequents Tumblr pages and message boards reading messages about the Michigan Reed Hospital shooting from people who didn’t live through it. True crime junkies– there was a fandom wiki for it. 

He’d read that, too. And then he was disgusted. Disgust turned into despair, then to rage. Because no matter how many times the wiki would be updated in the near future, no matter how many times it’s edited and refined to contain every detail, it missed things– things that can’t be encapsulated by a wiki. Things he can’t ever forget.

The wiki could never really include things like the shock in his body when he sat and wondered why some guy was shooting the ER schedule board– because the idea of him shooting people didn’t quite register. How therapy can’t take away the months he wasted on the tremors that developed in his hands afterwards so he could continue to perform surgery when needed to– not that he would, anymore. It became hard afterwards, when he tried to save Niwa’s life by doing the same thing.

Or the months he spent crying himself to sleep because his mother wouldn’t help him. Or the day he came home wasted drunk, breaking his promise to never reach out and called her in desperation to hear her voice soothe him. She hadn’t picked up, and that was the day Scaramouche gave himself a scar over his heart by clawing at it with his nails so much.

It felt like everything was infinitely sped up. Someone crashes through someone else’s back, and a second person through his side. Scaramouche pushes his way through the crowd– he can’t be here. He needs to get out.

There’s bile in his throat as he rushes past students who seem to have been waiting there for this moment. His hand is clamped tightly around his mouth, but he doesn’t think about the consequences. He thinks about getting away before people catch on. The hallways seem to blur before his eyes, but he doesn’t slow down until he sees the door at the end of the hall open. 

When he reaches the sink, he vomits.

Damn you, Dunyarzard. That girl is dead when Scaramouche gets his hands on her. He hasn’t been to a real hockey game in months. Even meets– they’re quiet. For the team to practice (and Scaramouche to watch inattentively) but he hasn’t been to a real game in so long. Why did he think it’d be different? Because some guy was there? Because some girl told him to go?

Fuck them. Fuck them all– he doesn’t get a picture perfect ending. He isn’t even going to pretend he gets one. 

He haphazardly wipes his mouth, letting the water run clear. He rinses his mouth, letting the sink cover the sound, splashing cold water onto his face, trying to focus. This is the reason he avoids thinking about his life. This is why he’d rather be dead than do anything with these people. It’s easier if he pretends they don’t exist. Even yet, he can’t seem to wash away the taste. He grips the sink with both hands, hunched over as he stares into the mirror and attempts to govern his own soulless blue eyes and silk hair.

Nobody has spotted him, which is good. He doesn’t want to look anyone in the eye right now. They’ve seen, anyway, and the idea makes him sicker. He shouldn’t care, but he does. He hates them all. The entire universe. And himself most of all.

He should just die already so he wouldn’t have to deal with this mess anymore– better to be under the ground than to deal with this, this… feelings nonsense. So that would be better, too. Better for everyone. If that could ever happen. But it won’t, because Scaramouche couldn’t be so lucky.

He’s panting as he stares himself down in the mirror. Sweaty from the panic attack, wet from the water, the tremors in his hand that Nahida worked so hard to get rid of. He drops his head, looking back up through the lipstick stained, cracked $20 mirror. His eyes stray from himself to the back, where someone stands.

Scaramouche’s back straightens. He whirls around. “You.”

Kazuha’s eyes flit to the tremors in his hands to the haunted look in his eye.  “Excuse me for intruding… Is everything alright?”

Of course he’s here. Of course– of course, because god forbid Scaramouche have a day of peace.

“Allergic reaction.” Scaramouche croaks as a reply. The lie is sweet on his tongue, and yet totally unbelievable. 

“This doesn’t seem like any kind of allergic reaction I’ve seen.”

“To people,” Scaramouche snarls, “and you especially. How long have you been standing there and watching me like some creep?”

“I apologized,” Kazuha insists, taking a few steps towards him. Scaramouche takes a step back in defiance, his hand loosely gripping the sink.  “You probably saved my life that day. I thought it only fair if I helped you, because I… I thought I heard–”

“Heard what?” Scaramouche snaps, “nothing. I’m not some– some damsel, Kaedehara –”

“I did not say you were,” Kazuha replies calmly. His eyes flick to the grip that Scaramouche has on the sink, taking another step. “You are… I may be out of line, but I think quite the opposite. You would have to be rather strong to… well—“

Of course he knows.

Scaramouche wonders if there’s anyone on campus that doesn’t know. It’s unfair to take it out on Kazuha. The anger and humiliation of becoming whatever this is… it’s not fair, not to Kazuha. And yet Scaramouche is not fair, has never been fair, and he will continue to be an asshole for as long as he lives. God bless America. 

“So that’s what it is!” Scaramouche cackles. He sees Kazuha blink rapidly at the change of mood and tone, his posture more alert and wary. “I was strong, I was— I was a survivor. What does that make everyone else? What does it make everyone else— you think, you think I’m alive because I was clever and smart, like they were idiots, they were stupid, they messed up—“

“I didn’t say that,” Kazuha says firmly, “They are not exclusive terms.”

“You can fuck right off!” Scaramouche laughs, mockingly. His laugh is chilling and cold and sharp in his own ears.

His chest is tightening, and he forces himself to breathe deeply through his nose. The words hit the air, bitter and freezing with rage, but it does nothing to lessen the feeling of fear running through his veins. This is the worst feeling in the world, to lose control, to feel as though no one can do anything to fix him, not even himself. Again; perhaps it’s for the better.

Kazuha looks stressed. His fists are clenched and his jaw set hard and eyes are narrowed. He’s supposed to be on the ice right now, but he had to escort Yoimiyia to the clinic after she had been hit rather hard on her shinbone. He had been on his way back— he had time, since there was a penalty called for some idiot who cross-checked. They’re probably waiting for him up there.

It wasn’t supposed to be a hard decision, between letting everyone down, hundreds of parents and students and a whole game riding on his shoulders and this boy he met a not long ago, who, at first glance, seemed deranged. And yet it was. How very unfair. 

He seemed wholly at home, under broken scenery and chairs and the cracking of the paint, beyond the eye where others find familiarity. But he doesn’t have the comfort of time being on his side to ponder it properly. 

“Are you ever listening to me? Of course you’re not,” Scaramouche snorts. It’s an ugly sound. “Get out of here. Go running back to your game— have fun losing, too. And don’t come crying to me when your friends get upset that you ditched the game.”

He’s a total asshole. An asshole who spits assumptions of people he doesn’t know, and of things he refuses to know and everything in between. It’s not someone Kazuha would want to be associated with. 

But he wasn’t like this when Kazuha first met him. Granted, he doesn’t know him, but— the witty and yet humanely tolerable version of him in the car is not so far from the one he’s seeing now; as if every bad quality of his is turned to the maximum on some kind of character trait creator. Or perhaps Kazuha just caught him at a bad time. 

So, Kazuha makes a bad decision. A terrible decision. The visage of Tomo that lays languidly across the bench in the locker looks at him disapprovingly. 

Scaramouche is panting, now sitting on the floor with his back to the walls with peeling white paint. He’s slumped over on the ground, staring at Kazuha with a kind of vigor that doesn’t fit on his face. It awkwardly twists his face.

“That dyed?” Scaramouche asks heavily, nodding to Kazuha’s streak of blood red hair.

Kazuha’s hand involuntarily threads his fingers through his hair. “Genetic, I’m afraid.”

“Well fuck me, I guess.” Scaramouche mutters, “What are you still doing here? Didn’t I tell you to leave?”

“You did, yes.” Kazuha says warily, as if the tiniest movement would set him off. Scaramouche doesn’t seem to react particularly when Kazuha walks toward him, because he was curious. Because he didn’t seem like a person who got so easily hurt. He should be out on the ice, helping his team win– especially after the penalty got called, not in the locker room when a guy who looks like he just dug his way out of heaven with no regrets. 

“Scaramouche, was it?” Kazuha kneels in front of Scaramouche, observing his every facial feature. Scaramouche gives no reaction besides staring into his blood-red eyes with a sort of neutral expression, “Follow me.”

And that– that was his not-so first impression of Kaedehara Kazuha, he thinks. He lets Kazuha pull him up, a heavy sigh on the tip of his lips as Kazuha strips off his shoulder and shin pads.

He has an iron grip on his wrist as he drags him out of the locker room. He sheds his hockey jersey halfway through, shoving the bulkly, ugly material into Scaramouche’s hands.

Scaramouche snorts, “They couldn’t have given you a better jersey?”

Kazuha frowns, “What’s wrong with it?”

Scaramouche holds the white, decidedly horrific thing up. “If I had to wear something as ugly as this, I’d kill myself.”

He would rather be seen wearing that one jersey that playboy football players give their girlfriends. Kazuha’s eyebrows raise, but he doesn’t say anything further. 

He can hear the live commentary from the ice rink even from here. Kazuha tugs him further— Scaramouche skips his in person classes far too much for know the school well enough to deduce where they’re going. They pass by the vacant orchestra room, trophies encased in glass, banners on the walls.

When he realizes where Kazuha has brought him, it’s a second late. A second too late. 

The floor falls out from below him and he’s up to his neck in water, spluttering and spitting out disgusting, chlorinated water. His vision is blurry and stinging from the salt. With some effort, he pushes his hair strands out from his eyes. 

His chest burns with the effort, but he slicks his hair back with his hand. His clothing is soaked. 

He’s chest deep in a pool.

Northwood’s swimming center. The vacant campus pool room, to be more specific. It’s empty, terrifyingly cold and smells awful. Kazuha is at the pools edge, torn between concern and amusement.

 His eyes lock onto Kazuha.

“You pushed me in.” He says.

Kazuha seems to realize the sudden calm, neutrally and faux tone of voice is a danger sign. He inches back slightly. “No, I did not.”

“Yes, you did.”

“You fell.”

“Because you pushed me in.” Scaramouche replies calmly. 

Kazuha waits for him to snap again, like he did in the bathroom. It doesn’t happen. No— but what does happen is almost worse. Kazuha is squatting near the pools edge, face to face with a very wet Scaramouche. He looks a bit like a cat.

Kazuha should have seen it coming. 

Scaramouche’s evil cackling bounces off the walls as Kazuha crashes into the water. He gasps up for air again, coughing weakly when Scaramouche shoves him under again.

Surely this is murder. 

Scaramouche’s snickers double when he attempts to get out of the pool. Scaramouche’s hand grabs hold of his lapel as Kazuha pushes himself out of the pool, shaking his hair like a wet dog.

Kazuha pauses, feeling the hand. “Scara, do not.”

”Asking a lot from me,” Scaramouche smiles, half out of the water as he grabs into Kazuha’s lapel.

Kazuha looks back briefly, amusement evident in every carved line of his face. “I came here to show you something, and you push me into the pool.”

”You pushed me first.”

”I did not push you—“

A deafening groan comes from somewhere across the school, presumably from the rink. Mixed in are cheers, lots of shouting, and lots, lots of boos.

Kazuha and Scaramouche share a look as Kazuha clambers out of the water. He shakes himself off like a dog, and Scaramouche swims to the edge of the pool. 

“I think,” Kazuha says, pushing up his wet sleeves, “we lost the game.” He doesn’t seem upset or burdened by the idea that his absence might have caused that.

“Really.”

“Yes,” Kazuha, the decidedly not-stranger, said, looking at him. “Ah, it’s a pity. I quite liked the look of a smile on you.”

“You’re absurd.” Scaramouche says, incredulous. Kazuha’s eyes don’t leave his face. 

“Maybe,” Kazuha replies, smiling, “But I was right.” he says, getting up and beginning to look for his right shoe, which got lost when Scaramouche threw it. “Your laugh is pleasant to hear.”

Scaramouche lays his head on his arms, still in the pool at the edge. He’s not smiling, not anymore, but… Kazuha’s smile is warm. 

Scaramouche opens his mouth, frowning. Guilt bubbles up in his stomach when he remembers earlier— taking out his irritation at being so weak on Kazuha. But Kazuha shakes his head.

His smile is warm, but the red strings on his head are like a corpse, tainting his white hair like blood. They’re like a bad memory to Scaramouche, tailing him like an ex he left back in Japan.

He can’t run from himself forever, he thinks. Because he said it earlier— he gets moments. Just moments of reprieve. And that’s what this is. A moment.

The present is unkind. So is the past. That’s life for you.

Chapter Text

To understand, you have to know the truth. And so he tells the truth, or the best version of the truth he can give. 

And so the truth is this; it was an exceptionally ordinary day. It's a boring day with no new procedures for Scaramouche to perform, except the mental ones he does on himself to prepare for social interaction with patients. It’s a terribly slow day. It’s an okay day, so far. It’s a bearable day. 

It’s a Tuesday. 

In the ER, he can hear rounds of women dissolving into tears and clinging mournfully onto gurney’s with a body. Someone’s on the phone in the main lobby, and Scaramouche is in the locker room, scrubbing in as he pulls the blue scrubs over his tight black turtleneck. 

Despite what people seem to think, hospitals don’t smell religiously of antiseptic– at least, no good hospital will. You’re more likely to smell the death that permeates the air rather than antiseptic. But he’s not particularly excited to smell that today either– yesterday was hectic, and the blame for it goes to a rather bloody car crash on the I-95 route.

The lobby was crowded with visitors trying to get ahold of their families— overbearingly so. He feels almost bad for Venti, who was given the job of crowd control and locating missing loved ones that might’ve been in the morgue or in an O.R or a trauma unit– even for Scaramouche, that day was a lot to deal with. The moment he would step out of the trauma unit with his hands stained with blood and sweat on his skin he’d be crowded with a crying mother. 

He’d always wondered– if he was in the trauma unit, would his mother look like that? Like she just lost everything she’s known, a grief so powerful it could only be removed by death itself– he wonders, would she hug his body; oh, he wonders how that would feel.

“Raiden— are you listening to me? Head to the main lobby with Venti and try to get some blood donations for the blood bank.” 

“No,” he replies– he doesn’t even have to think about it, “Niwa’s already doing it. You know I can’t stand people.”

 “That’s exactly why– look, you can’t just do this forever. Niwa won’t be here when you’ve finished residency and moved on. You’ve got to learn to deal with people.”

“Are you done?” Scaramouche snaps, pulling on a pair of clean surgical gloves. His pager is flickering on the edge of death due to corrupt batteries– he oughta ask Childe to pick up some triple-A batteries for him. “Because I have an eight year old with a comminuted fibula fracture waiting for me and unless you can get me into one of the trauma rooms to do something more exciting, leave me alone.”

Niwa won’t be here when you’ve finished residency. What a joke.

Scaramouche is here because he likes the work, sure. But he would prioritize Niwa over wherever he goes after residency– he would follow him to the end of the world. He would never stop caring about him— not Niwa, who gave him a shot at happiness before anyone else. To imply he’d lose touch with Niwa after this, well… it’s almost insulting. 

“Look,” she sighs, “Get Venti to take over for your patient, so go to the main lobby— fuck, take Niwa with you if you want. Just go, please?”

“Venti’s not good with kids.” Scaramouche replies irritatingly, as he finishes pulling on the shirt and turns to face her. “And my skill set does not lie with interaction with people.”

When his eyes land on her, he blinks. She’s not looking at him anymore; she seems preoccupied with something, staring at her pager. It’s rapidly blinking something. When she notices him staring, she stuffs the thing away deep into her pockets. Scaramouche doesn’t comment on it yet, but he feels his eyebrows furrow.

She inhales, straightening her back, “Your skill set is predominant in the TICU, not setting bones. You’re useless either way, so move it.” 

“What was on the pager?” He reaches to feel his own pager. There’s very few codes Scaramouche has to care about, one of being code blue– if code blue gets called, he’s offered himself to be one of the few people to respond to it as a fairly experienced trauma nurse. Strangely, his is silent.

“Nothing– Nothing, Raiden.” she stresses, “Just… think they’re doing a drill of some sort. Um… I’m gonna– just go check out whatever this… is. Just go find Venti like I said, okay?”

The dismissal is suspicious, but if Scaramouche’s own pager doesn’t beep, he doesn’t care, nor particularly. He shoves past the girl— whomever she is, to go find Venti. Find Venti, and then go meet with Niwa in the main lobby and try not to kill himself out of pure irritation. Solid plan.

He walks past trauma rooms and gurneys, taking the elevator down to the floor Venti typically works on. He picks at a small thread on his blue scrubs, crossing his arms as he waits. What a headache.

The air around him seems heavier than usual. It doesn’t help that every nurse he encounters looks like they want to stab him first thing in the morning, no matter that he had just arrived after his shift. Though that seems to be a common occurrence when you are the prodigal resident with an infamously bad temper. The elevator doors open, and Scaramouche excuses himself past people to reach where Venti should be.

He doesn’t often make trips down to the pediatric center, and when he does, they’re often for Venti and no one else. Scaramouche generally sticks to the O.R on the second floor or TICU– trauma intensive care unit on the floor above. Venti stays by Pediatrics, and Niwa stays by the Coronary Care Unit– which is for heart patients who need monitoring.  

Venti’s not even there yet, so Scaramouche busies himself with trying to flag down one of the pediatrics. It takes a moment before he notices the man sitting in one of the chairs outside of the room. He glances up sharply when he notices him, eyes flicking over his body— but only briefly. Scaramouche pushes it out of his mind.

“Scaramouche,” a girl says, and he turns to see a young intern, a girl with matcha green hair and bright smile. “Everything okay in trauma?”

Collei. 

There’s very few people who Scaramouche tolerates in this hospital– sure, he can plaster on that fake convincing smile to anyone who stops him– which makes the fact that he is actually willing to talk to someone so unusual. He met her on his first few days, ironically enough, whilst she had a panic attack in the elevator. You’d think that for someone with medical based trauma, she’d pursue a different career.

“I’m trying to be like Tighnari,” She had said then,  “I owe a lot to him.”

“That’s stupid,” Scaramouche had bluntly answered. “You mean the stuck up, know it all? I’d rather you be dead than become a clone of him.”

She had laughed then, a twinkling sound and a contrast to her shot eyes and dust ridden cheeks. When she’d stopped laughing, there was something about her that reminded him of Tighnari, in the way she tilted her head at him or stared into his eyes like they were an endless mystery and the way her breath hitched every once in a while. It was hard not to feel protective of her.

“I’ve got eleazar,” Collei had explained, looking shameful, “I’m not… very good with hospitals. I’ve– I’ve been in them my whole life, so… I don’t know. I guess… being in one is akin to a bad dream.”

“Oh, yeah,” Scaramouche had airily nodded, “I know. Met this guy last year at med school– well, let’s just say I’ve got a crazy ex who was obsessed with practicing surgeries on me.”

“What– seriously?”

“Yeah,” Scaramouche had laughed mockingly then, “Even got the ugly back scars to prove it. All that practice and he still didn’t make it in the industry.”

They weren’t friends, but they weren’t strangers either– they were two people that worked in the same hospital and had gotten to know each other over the months, through mutual acquaintances who happened to be working at the same place, and the occasional lunch together here and there when the opportunity presented itself. 

“I’m here for Venti.” He ignores her question. She doesn’t need to know he hasn’t stepped foot inside a trauma unit yet at all today, though the irritation on his face should give it away– nor does he care for small talk, and fortunately, Collei doesn’t seem put off by it.

“Oh, he should be back soon,” Collei blinks, “what do you need him for?”

“Patient in the O.R needs surgery– dangerously low hemoglobin and hematocrit levels and he needs a blood transfusion. Unfortunately,” he mutters, “we are running a little low on our blood tank, and I am the fool the universe took pity on.”

God, he hates not being in the trauma department. It’s uncannily slow in the other areas– he can’t live without that rush of euphoric adrenaline, that high-paced feeling of being in a rush to save someone’s life and the reward of doing so– it makes him feel useful. He could get high on it.

He craves that feeling so deeply; the adrenaline, the fear, the anticipation… it’s a drug. One which he has been addicted to for over six months now. He loves the feeling of the need for action. Sometimes, when he’s exhausted from another case or a particularly bad call, he will be able to doze off in the trauma waiting room when it’s vacant. And when he wakes up with his head resting against one shoulder or the other, he feels like he did something good.

“Where’s Tighnari?” he asks flatly. He’s almost always wherever Collei is, and he’s not going to pretend he’s here for Collei.

Collei smiles proudly, “Tighnari went to check something out. Something on his pager– he trusted me enough to leave me here by myself.”

“Nevermind,” Scaramouche decides. Everyone in this hospital is incompetent. “When he gets back, tell him to come find me.”

He nods to her then, leaving the area. Scaramouche is already out of earshot, Venti isn’t here, Tighnari will take care of the little kid, and Niwa is already covering the job in the main lobby, so Scaramouche is a free man; a free man heading to his home, that is— if his home was in the hospital. The Trauma Care Unit. 

Scaramouche has never felt more fulfilled than he does when he’s assisting licensed surgeons in the O.R or working in the Trauma Care Unit. It’s his home– the I.V bags are his pillows, the cot his bed, the walls his shelter. It’s him– if his mother could see him in action then, she would not have allowed him to thrown himself to the streets. 

It’s quiet on this floor– and Scaramouche hums to himself as he walks through clean, pristine white hallways. There are barely any people around, it’s rather vacant; normal, for this floor at least. It’s a stark difference to the O.R and the TICU, where people are generally in a more hectic mood. It’s a change, though not all unpleasant. 

Scaramouche loved working in the hospital. There wasn’t a whole lot he loved, despite whatever Mona claims she sees within him. Sure, he loves the TICU and the salads Mona makes on Thursdays, and the little doll he has sitting on his bed, and the hobby he’s picked up– cooking– when he’s not working a shift at the hospital. But even then, it’s not a lot. It’s certainly better than going places with Mona– nevermind the questions of Scaramouche and Mona being related, but rather the more annoying ones of Mona getting asked out every ten minutes. He remembers, very vividly, the first and last time he went to a hockey game.

He shudders. What a terrifying experience. You’d think the players have never seen a woman before the way they drooled over her– aside from a few people, of course. Some guy who looked like he was cosplaying Niwa and a few others. Seriously. Never again.

Scaramouche hums, running his hand across the walls of the hallway. He feels more at home in the hospital than he does at home– and it feels like he can safely say he’s starting to move on and distance himself from the aching and bleeding scabs of a family line he ripped himself off from. Oftentimes he feels like a stranger, but also not as much as he did when he first went through the process. Now he knows what it's like to be someone else. It’s easier to get lost within himself. It’s better. Easier for him to feel that way now, than it was before. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, but he knows it’s been a while. 

The walls have a sense of permanence that he craves– the kind Miko and Ei never had. There’s still pain and death there in this world, but it’s not so intense as before– which is ironic, considering people die all around him now, but at least now he’s not the one dying– and now, he has Niwa.

Oh, Niwa.

Niwa, who took him in when Scaramouche had run away from home and had nothing to his name but a backpack full of identification and a water bottle. Niwa, who gave Scaramouche a chance when he saw him lying hurt on steel, unforgiving train tracks. He owes it to Niwa. 

His first friend in years. It was because of him that he was able to stand tall under the weight of his wounds and be able to move on with his life. He’s done worse than be grateful, but it feels nice nonetheless. Niwa, whom he loves with everything he has left. That means more than he can say. 

And god help anyone who says otherwise. Niwa gave him a purpose when nobody else did.

Speaking of— perhaps Scaramouche has a minute to spare before he heads to the trauma center. The quiet ambience starts to fade away as he makes his way back down to the core of the building, the usual ruckus loud and glaringly in his face. 

He stops still. 

Scaramouche has been here long enough to start to notice certain things— like the beeping of machines are which ones, who is stationed where and who is urgently asking for whatever they may need. There’s ruckus in the air, but it’s not the right kind. 

No. No, something is wrong. 

He peers around the corner. Everything seems fine in the O.R, the surgeons and their teams operating away. Nobody seems phased or rushed. 

An uncomfortable feeling curls in his gut. Something is wrong. His gaze moves side to side, scanning the area to pinpoint the source of the unease. He doesn’t know what, exactly, he knows, just that there’s something about this whole situation that’s off, somehow, though he can’t put a finger on just how that is. The machines beep and whirr along, the lights flicker.

But everything seems fine. Nurses and doctors and surgeons and interns and fellow residents are working about, holding clipboards or fastening masks and surgical gowns, pushing gurneys, looking down at their pagers; I t’s all fairly normal. 

And yet… 

Scaramouche purses his lips. Perhaps he should meet up with Niwa before heading back to the Trauma center, and if Niwa doesn’t feel it, then— a gut feeling is exactly that; a feeling. 

Someone says hello to him in the hallway as he shoves himself past his co-workers. The more he walks, the more relaxed he gets. It’s not often people say hello to him; he’s not the friendliest face that walks these halls, but he’s the person you want around in times of emergency and that alone is enough for interns to suck to him. Right now, though, look at him— all taut over nothing. Perhaps it was the antsy behavior and lack of adrenaline that set him up.

His gut feeling isn’t always right. He was constantly paranoid when he had fled from home, convinced that anyone who asked for his name was someone sent by Miko. That was where Kunikuzushi became Scaramouche. 

And yet, he’s perfectly fine, dare he say, happy— here. No one’s come to ruin him all over again. He’s doing okay, despite what he had thought. 

The door to the lobby comes in view as he pushes past the double doors of the hospital. He places a hand on the knob and turns it, walking in and scanning the place for blue scrubs and brown hair.

“Niwa–” Scaramouche starts to call, a slight smile on his face. There’s a muffled noise, and for a second everything is suspended. The world stops for a second.

And then it restarts.

The first noise in this new world is the sound of gunshots.

Someone– someone is shooting at the ER schedule board. Why would— Why would you shoot there?

Scaramouche stares in stunned disbelief, not quite believing what just happened, the events still not sinking in yet. A few nurses near him drop to the floor, blood pooling as people scatter. There’s still gunshots. Why– 

“-- Dead!” Someone screams. “He shot– he shot Blanche– she’s dead, oh my god–”

 A woman collapses next to Scaramouche, her arm hanging limp, a wound oozing bright red blood. Her face is gray with fear, mouth open wide, screaming words that don’t make sense anymore. A couple more gunshots ring out, and another scream. One of the nurses is lying on the ground, her legs crumpled underneath her. Her eyes are wide and terrified. A lot of them start crying, sobbing loudly for no apparent reason. 

Someone tackles Scaramouche to the ground. All he can think about is how much his heart hurts. He doesn’t fight back.

“Move—“ The person shouts, “here… here, Scara–”

The same person grabs his wrist. Adrenaline rushes through him like a drug; he can feel his pulse throbbing in time with his pounding heart. His hands are shaking and he can’t take a single breath.  It doesn't matter how much he gasps or breathes in.

Teal flashes within his kaleidoscopic vision. The hand in his is familiar, like he’s thumbing the shattered glass pieces of a vase he used to love. 

You always think, when you see things like this happen in TV shows or movies, that you’ll be different. You’ll be the hero, the savior, the person who will save the world with no help from anyone but yourself. You'll be on top of the world, and everyone below you will have their heads buried in the sand.

You never think that you’re going to be a person that runs away.

You never think that you are the unlovable coward, who is present in every zombie apocalypse movie or any TV show warning humanity about the reckoning. Scaramouche didn’t know who he thought he’d be— maybe he’d die a heroic death and word would come back to his mother in Japan, where she would make an altar for him, and pray every time she stepped inside her home.

But in the end, none of that happened because Venti has an iron grip on his wrist and they’re barreling through the hallways powered on nothing but adrenaline and fear.

Venti shoves him inside some ward. The heat from his skin seeps into his bones and he can feel blood rushing to his face as the sweat dries. He feels dizzy, his head spinning. His face is uncharacteristically serious, his skin flushed and sweaty. His eyes are wide in panic. His braids whip the air as he locks the door to the ward with trembling hands. 

“Venti–” Scaramouche says, stumbling to find footage. His mind feels foggy. “That wasn’t– that wasn’t… real, that–”

Venti’s terrified sky blue eyes hold no solace. He looks defeated, collapsing onto the small cot in the ward. He curls onto himself, trying to find some level of footing. He doesn’t respond.

“You–” Scaramouche swallows, bracing himself against the wooden door. His mind feels too cloudy for words, but he has to say something, somehow. “Do the rest of the staff… does the hospital— do they know? Does– does Niwa–”

“Scara,” Venti whispers hysterically, “did you check your pager at all today?”

Scaramouche stares at him heavily. A gunshot off in the distance and he flinches violently. Venti crashes against the cart. 

“Just… think they’re doing a drill of some sort. Um… I’m gonna– just go check out whatever this… is. Just go find Venti like I said, okay?”

“Tighnari went to check something out. Something on his pager– he trusted me enough to leave me here by myself.”

The dots connect quicker than he can take. His hands work quicker than his brain. He pulls his dark blue pager out of his scrubs. He fumbles with it for a few seconds, his mind not quite pulled together. There, on the small, green screen are the letters that make his blood run cold.

Code silver. Initiate lockdown procedure.

Scaramouche feels his heart stop. There’s a shooter in the building. There’s an active shooter loose in the building.

Scaramouche swallows. The air is heavy in the ward– too thick with panic to move. It feels like both of them are stuck there, frozen in time – waiting for some unknown assailant to emerge from the stairwell. Waiting. Waiting for death. 

They work here, at the hospital. They’re supposed to have the situation under control. Supposed to be the ones who take care of you and ensure your safety. But Scaramouche has no power here– not in this tightly locked ward, not with Venti, not with anything. He’s not the prodigal resident Kunikuzushi Raiden right now– he’s Scaramouche, and he’s scared.

“We’ll be fine,” Venti croaks, “I’m sure they called the police– they’re, they’re on their way. You know, they’re probably already here– they’re working on saving us and–”

“Shut up,” Scaramouche says flatly, “No one’s coming. No one’s coming, and you know it!”

“You don’t know that–”

“They cut the power!” Scaramouche shouts. He feels panicked. Like they’ve been left in a tomb, or trapped inside a nightmare– and the only thing keeping them alive is that whoever it is hasn’t come here yet. “The police– they cut the power, Venti! Who is going to save us if— if the elevators don’t work?”

Venti shifts. His face is pale, and yet he’s trying to keep some semblance of uniformity. “Stop– stop, you’re scaring me, Scara– you’re scaring me! Lower your voice, what if he finds us–”

“And you want me to stay here, like a sitting duck, he could just– he could just walk in and shoot us, Venti, I–”

He's disrupted by another gunshot, much closer.  He flinches violently, then forces himself to calm down when he sees Venti’s hand trembling as he reaches towards him for support.

Venti’s shaking, too. He tries to hide it behind a fake smile, but it doesn't fool Scaramouche.

it sounds far away, muffled somehow by the thick door between them and the shooter. And yet, it comes from closer to them than before. Venti and Scaramouche sit together in panicked silence. They’re both crowded under the hospital cot, facing each other.

“I’m not,” Scaramouche says stiffly, trying to bypass his fear, “I can’t stay here, not like this– he could just come in and–”

“Where– where are you going?” Venti whispers. Scaramouche is trembling, pushing himself off the floor. His hands are shaking, sweaty and sickly. He peers through the small window on the door. 

“What– what is it?”

Scaramouche can’t breathe. Panic is setting in fully now. It doesn’t feel real yet. He can feel his heart in his throat and every breath sends waves of agony to his chest. He’s being pulled down by a heavy weight as he struggles to swim upwards. It weighs him down and forces him to the ground where it suffocates him.

“I–” Scaramouche inhales, “There’s– a dead nurse. She’s dead– but there’s no one else, and–”

His trembling hand finds its way to the handle. He bites his lip. He’s going to find Niwa– even Tighnari would be a pleasant face to see right now. He can’t be in charge right now. 

The lights are off in the hospital. There are bodies on the floor, equipment tossed, glass shattered. Scaramouche bites his lip and tries not to fall apart.

“Wait–” Venti stumbles to his feet behind him. Scaramouche stops, halfway through the door. He’s hunched over, taking small, tentative steps. “I’m– I’m coming with.”

He tries not to think about the fact that he could be killed at any moment. Or maybe it’s already happening. And Venti, standing beside him shaking so hard he can barely hold himself upright. Venti takes his hand. Scaramouche lets him.

They creep along in silence. He doesn’t dare to speak. Venti’s unstable, fearful breathing and his own stifled inhales are his music. A song without words or lyrics or bassline, a melody that’s lost its tempo because of the lack of rhythm, an instrument left out in the rain for all to hear. 

Scaramouche and Venti stick to the wall of the hospital hallway as they move. Scaramouche leads, Venti sticking like glue behind him and peeking over his right shoulder. His heartbeat is in his ears, drowning out all sound around them. It’s just the two of them and everything around them feels like an empty, chillingly quiet morgue. 

One hour ago he was getting ready to scrub in. Two hours ago he was sitting at home, finishing up that dumb movie that Mona wanted to watch. Three hours ago he was trying to convince Mona to make him that salad that she’s good at making.

Venti stifles a whimper. Scaramouche inhales shakily. 

“Venti, if you don’t– if you don’t pull yourself together, I am going to break down.” Scaramouche whispers unsteadily over his shoulder, “So– pull yourself together. I’m saying… please.”

He feels Venti nod shakily. It’s like a horror movie, the destroyed and flickering hallways and eerie silence. The power is out, the elevators are broken. The shooter is on this floor. There is no escape route. 

He hopes Mona is trying to get to him. He hopes his mother is catching a plane to the U.S right now. He hopes Niwa is alive. He hopes and he hopes and he knows it’s futile, and yet he hopes anyway. As if hope is anything in comparison to a gun.

The main lobby door comes into view. He can feel Venti tightly grip his arm. Scaramouche inhales. The duo are still hunched over, grappling the wall like it’s their last hope. He knows, realistically, the shooter could be in there.

But he needs to know Niwa is okay.

The double doors are wide open, inviting him to look in. Scaramouche shuffles quietly into view, holding his breath. 

There’s children, women, men– visitors. Bystanders. They’re crowded on the floor– a lot of them. His eyes pan over to the ER schedule board, passing through the copious amounts of–

“No,” he breathes, “No, no, no, no, no–”

Niwa’s covered in blood.

He’s slumped against the wall, heavily bleeding. There’s a gunshot wound in his right chest area, covered with a poor attempt of packing. He can’t tell when he moved to his side, when he started applying pressure to his wound. 

For the second time in a day, his world stops.

Scaramouche presses his hands into the wound. “Can you— can you hear me? Please– Niwa, Niwa— Venti, Venti, I need, I need–” He shakily inhales. He can save Niwa’s life, he can do it, he can— he can, but he needs to get it together.

“Bandages,” Scaramouche says heavily, pulling himself together, “Packing– I need to pack the wound, and I– supplemental oxygen, he needs–”

He tucks his hair behind his ear. He’s stuck looking into the wide expanse of Niwa Hisahide’s honey brown eyes. Niwa is hissing in pain, his hands clawing weakly at Scaramouche. He was probably in gut-wrenching pain, and yet–-

He’d never been one for dramatics. Niwa had never been one for screaming in pain or groaning constantly and it rings true as he does nothing but match Scaramouche’s frantic breathing and stare at him with something Scaramouche has never been able to figure out.

“You,” Scaramouche looks down, sweating. “You are gonna be fine, you hear me? You don’t get to die on me.” 

Niwa nods in pain, unable to talk as Scaramouche places an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. He wipes the sweat off Niwa’s face. “You don’t– you don’t get to leave me,” Scaramouche continues. His gloves are soaked in blood, trembling as he cares for the wound. “You do not, Niwa. If you do, then I– I  will go out of my mind.”

“Scara–” Venti whimpers.

“Shut up, please, Venti!” Scaramouche shouts. He doesn’t look up at him. There’s tears sliding down Scaramouche’s face, clouding his vision. He can’t keep working on Niwa like this. “I’m—“

He knows he should be saying something reassuring, but he can’t think of anything. Despite being the one being treated, there is a soft smile on Niwa’s lips, as if he can understand the desperation in Scaramouche.

He wonders briefly, as he packs more on the wound– what he looks like to the visitors. The nurses, the staff, the people who are in charge of saving your loved ones– the people who always seem to have it together; what does it look like, to see one of them break down?

To the world, nurses and doctors and midwives are untouchable, angels sent to save your friends and family. They aren’t seen as people– this serves as an uncomfortable reminder; Scaramouche’s tears are proof of humanity. 

To see a trauma nurse crying and hunched over another doctor; people. They’re people. Scaramouche knew Niwa. And he will continue to know Niwa, forever, and ever, because Niwa is not dying. 

“Venti, I–” Scaramouche breathes heavily, looking up. Venti is shaken, braids undone, watching Niwa’s pale face with terror. “Venti, he needs surgery. Niwa needs– I need to get him,” he swallows, “to an O.R. And I will– I am going to perform surgery on him.”

“You’re not a surgeon,” Venti says softly.

“No, I’m– I’m not,” Scaramouche looks up, breaking eye contact with Niwa. “but I’m the closest damn thing we have to one. There’s— there’s no attending on this floor. But there’s– there’s me, and he’s stable enough to… to move, if I can find an anesthesiologist–”

“It’s too risky, Scara–”

“And he’s going to die if I don’t!” Scaramouche shouts. He can see some of the children flinch, some of the adults swallow thickly. “Venti, I can’t lose him. Not Niwa.”

Niwa, who saved him on the train tracks. Not only from physical injuries, but nursed his aching heart back to something that could beat on its own. And if he couldn’t save Niwa from something like a gunshot– what good is a prodigal nurse if he can’t save Niwa?

“You,” Scaramouche points at him with a blood soaked finger, panicked, “stay here. You stay with these– these other people. I will take– I will take Niwa to the O.R.”

Niwa’s not heavy. It’s the first thing he thinks of. 

“You’re lighter than light, more delicate than glass,” Niwa had said, smiling, “Like a butterfly in the air, as light as dust but just as fragile. your wings are so fragile they would break under the slightest pressure. The world could shatter them, yet you live. You live in the air because you want to.

“God,” Scaramouche had whispered back, but he was smiling as he laid in the dark of Niwa’s apartment. “You don’t ever shut up, do you?”

“Hypocrite,” Scaramouche whispers now, “you’re just as light as me.”

Venti watches him go. Scaramouche is half-dragging, half-carrying Niwa. Blood is pooling wherever Niwa steps, running down his body. He looks more dead than alive. But he’s still savable; Venti knows it, and Scaramouche knows it. Scaramouche needs to treat him, get blood from the blood bank, transfuse him– and then perform a pericardial repair. 

It’s still terrifying in the hospital. To walk around knowing he could be shot at any second– but he needs to live right now. So he can make sure Niwa does.

There’s copious amounts of blood trailing them. There’s been panic and tears streaming down his face since a long time ago, but a real sob is yet to leave him. He can’t lose control yet. Just a little longer until he can perform surgery on him. A little longer, and he can collapse. So he bites his lip to stop himself from crying and trudges on. 

When the door to the O.R comes in view, he feels something lift off his chest. It’s up to him now. He can do this– he’s here, he’s made it. 

“You’re going to be fine,” Scaramouche chokes out quietly, “I— Niwa, I’m just gonna– lay you down here…”

He lowers Niwa with shaking arms outside the O.R. He needs to get the O.R set up first, run to the blood bank, run a transfusion– one thing at a time. He needs to do everything. Because Niwa has no one else he could turn to now. He won’t let him die without a fight.

“On the floor?” He could imagine Niwa joking softly, “how very gentlemanly.”

He looks back down at Niwa’s blood-soaked body. He can’t talk, but his honey golden eyes are wide with terror.

“Three minutes, okay?” Scaramouche says thickly, “three minutes– just three minutes to set up the O.R. I need– just three minutes. Stay alive for three more minutes.”

Niwa breathes heavily, nodding as if he was trying to say okay.

Scaramouche spares him one last look before he tumbles into the freezing O.R room. He’s working on autopilot. You would need an anesthesiologist, other nurses, more time, but he doesn’t have any of that. Niwa doesn’t have that kind of time.

His hands are shaking as he arranges scalpels. He takes another steadying breath, and moves on, turning off light after light, and starts to scrub in. He's been shaking for hours, but if anyone can pull this off, it’s him.

Now, you need to pay attention. Listen closely to what he says next, because this part, this next part is what the media got wrong. 

This part is what got printed in newspapers and interviews and it’s the precise thing that got Scaramouche labeled as some kind of small town hero— but he’s not a hero. He was useless. For all that talk about saving his life— Niwa is dead. He died. He can’t change that.

He’s fumbling with the tools. His whole body shakes, but he’s going to finish this. If there’s even a slight chance they both made it through this night, he has to do this. There’s very little and too much running through his head at this moment– of all he has to do, all he has done. No one can help him right now besides his own two hands.

There’s a loud crash outside the O.R room. 

Scaramouche stops dead still.  

A scalpel falls from his hands. He manages to catch it before it clatters on the ground. Slowly, quietly, and with a sinking heart, he manages to turn around. Someone is pointing a gun at Niwa.

It’s that same man he saw earlier today. The one who looked at when he was talking to Collei. He’s silent, quieter than the hum of the elevators, but he looks up at Scaramouche. The singular light in the O.R is buzzing. It’s almost too low to hear over the sound of his blood rushing inside his ears. He looks up. The ceiling is a blur. There is not enough air. It is all he wants and he is so scared that it's impossible to move.

“Wait— wait. Don’t shoot,” Scaramouche manages. It’s increasingly hard to speak, “You know me. This morning– we, we…”

Niwa’s hissing in pain and Scaramouche is unsteadily breathing in pure terror. Recognition flickers like lightning in his eyes. Scaramouche sees the reflection of himself on the shiny metal surface of the gun. He can’t recognize himself. 

It doesn’t matter who you were before. Fear changes people.

Fear makes you act in a way you wouldn’t– makes the sweet violent, the tough vulnerable. The brave, weak. It makes Scaramouche into something he won’t forgive himself for. It made him into a coward.

The man slowly steps forward. His hands are calloused, reloading the gun in his hands. He looks like the weight of the world has fallen on his shoulders. He looks like– he has a kind of sweet look. Like he was a father. 

It’s instinctual, shutting his eyes so tight he sees spots. Scaramouche bites his lip to stifle a cry. He stays like that– with his eyes shut so tight he can feel himself shaking. With tears leaking at the corner of his eyes. 

He flinches violently, still– but he does not move. Even when he hears the gunshot go off. Even when he stays standing after the gunshot. Even when he knows who has been shot. When he knows what has happened.

When the footsteps recede, he opens his eyes. And he can’t stop himself from bawling so loud he feels his heart breaking. 

He can barely see Niwa through his cloudy vision. He’s still alive, miraculously, but he’s been shot once more in his stomach. His hands are trembling, trying to take off the oxygen mask. He wants to talk.

“No,” Scaramouche breathes, “No, no, no, you bitch, I’m– somebody get a fucking medic!”

He stumbles into the open space of the lobby. He can’t stop himself from crying– he doesn’t care if he’s the medic. He wants back that idea that a medic can solve everything, because right now he has no power. The walls around him spin wildly. It isn't pain, but it's like all his insides have been ripped out.

“Goddamn it!” Scaramouche shouts, He kicks the O.R door, feeling it rattle dangerously. “I was– I was so close, I was— so close—“

Niwa’s taken the oxygen mask off. His eyes are honey brown– always that sweet honey brown. That gentle color of love, so golden you can just fall in, and never have to worry about how it'll turn out – not ever.

“—Kuni,” he says hoarsely. His voice is drenched in pain. “Listen. I’m going to die.”

“No, I–” Scaramouche whirls around. There’s only so much he can fool himself of– he can lie to himself, to Venti. But he can’t lie to Niwa. He’s sobbing and wailing and his grief is ugly, “Stop. I was so close, I was– I could’ve–“

“Kuni,” Niwa croaks, “stop. You– you did all you could.”

Scaramouche collapses next to him. He pulls Niwa’s head into his lap, holding onto him with some kind of lifeline. He did all he could– and yet, it wasn’t enough. And now, he holds onto Niwa like if he clings on hard enough, he’ll come back. 

He stood by and let Niwa get shot. He didn’t jump in front of the bullet. How is he meant to live with that?

He had stood there, almost done something. Almost. The rest of his life might have turned out differently if he had. But he hadn’t. He just watched. Paralyzed. He can feel himself breaking apart. Tearing at the seams. 

There were things Scaramouche can’t ever explain to someone else. Like the emotion he felt the night after Niwa found him bruised and bleeding on train tracks. How it felt to take a shower after a week on the run– to wear Niwa’s fluffy bathrobe and slow dance with him in the kitchen to Andrew Belle’s In my veins.

“Don’t– apologize,” Niwa rasps, “you did… you did everything right. I just– … you did everything right. Don’t spend the next three years blaming yourself. I know you will.”

Niwa isn’t coming home ever again. He won’t ever see his honey brown eyes in the mirror. There was crimson blood dripping from his chest, his stomach. It looked odd, to see something as gruesome as a bullet wound in someone as sweet as Niwa. Misplaced.

“I won’t,” Scaramouche says, but he will. He’s trying to keep a semblance of character up. But it’s hard to remain in confidence when he’s crying and his voice is shredded. 

“You will.”

“Stop,” Scaramouche replies angrily, “That’s not fair. Who are you to tell me– to, to… you won’t even see it!”

“Kuni, listen to me... please,” Niwa’s looking at him. “There is not– a single thing you could have done differently that would have saved me. You’re perfect. You’re human. Don’t cry.”

Scaramouche doesn’t remember a single moment in his life where he cried harder than he did then.

Not one moment, that he cried so much he felt his chest collapsing. He wasn’t ready to let go of Niwa– and never would he be, but he didn’t have time. Because he couldn’t fix Niwa. No one could. Because Niwa was dead. He died. 

He stayed there, with Niwa until the cops burst through the door. He would’ve been glad if he was shot.

There was irony in the situation. Scaramouche could have saved Niwa. He could have, he would have, if Niwa wasn’t shot once more. If Scaramouche had placed Niwa inside the O.R instead of outside, where someone could see him. If Scaramouche had been shot instead– he could have still saved Niwa’s life. He could have. 

It doesn’t matter if Niwa doesn’t blame him, because objectively, truthfully, it is his fault. His fault, for not correcting anyone when everyone assumed that Niwa had died during surgery, And Scaramouche was revered as a hero– they didn’t see that Scaramouche stood by when Niwa was shot a second time.

There’s so much no one knows. Not because they didn’t care, but because Scaramouche never gave an interview. He didn’t talk about how he drowned himself in liquor the same night and turned himself into someone he swore he wouldn’t be. How he became loose lipped, fluid, turned into a Scaramouche that he could’ve been— campus students liked thag Scaramouche. The pretty one with no bad attitude and a liking for alcohol. They say it’s a pity that he lasted for one night.

Months of isolation, of pain so unimaginable it felt like he couldn’t breathe. Months of torture and not one call from his mother. Not one. 

He had been shot twice. Once in the stomach, and one in the chest. Niwa stayed calm throughout the whole thing. He was the perfect patient. 

He was dead.

Niwa died. And no matter how much crying, tearing himself apart from the inside, wailing to his mother’s voicemail he does, he can’t change that. 

“Bad day, Scara?” 

Scaramouche stares unblinkingly at the wall. He doesn’t move to answer Childe.

His jaw is clenched so tightly his teeth are beginning to ache. It takes him several long minutes before his hands grip the cold sheets tightly as if it holds some kind of truth he doesn’t dare voice out loud. His eyes are still fixed on the wall opposite

He hears Childe sigh. “There’s dinner in the fridge when you’re hungry. I made Jueyun Chili soup. And don’t come downstairs yet if you can’t handle it— I mean, I, uh— I just have some friends over. Hockey friends.”

Scaramouche ignores him, and Childe shuts the door. He’s long given up bringing the food up here, oftentimes Scaramouche won’t even look at it, and it’s sits there like a corpse. 

He’s been laying awake for hours. He’s afraid of sleeping. His dreams, after the shooting, began to increase in violence. It could range from seeing his friends being stabbed to a shooting in a grocery store to a serial killer chasing him in the woods. Never once could he catch reprieve in his sleep. 

The back of his eyelids are painted with gore and gruesome corpses and violence. The sounds of creaking doors, of gunshots, and packing products. The smell of fresh gloves and antiseptic. He runs and stumbles and crawls awa from a past he didn’t want, and from a future that was uncertain. His dreams aren’t safe. 

He doesn’t know how long he lays like that, unmoving in his bed. His head is pounding and he’s gripped with the sudden urge to rewatch this dumb movie he watched a year ago. To curl up in someone’s arms. — but he doesn’t, because he's alone, but he’s fine because he’s always been alone. The thought comes with bitter satisfaction, spreading like poison through his veins. The pain hurts, but it’s familiar, and so he clings to it with every fiber of his being.

Eventually, though, hunger gets the better of him. He mentally prepares himself for whatever he will face in the rest of the apartment, stuffing his hands into his pockets and shuffling out to the kitchen. He can hear the faint laughter and chatter the second he opens his door. Doing his best to ignore it, he goes straight to the kitchen and looks for the dinner Childe had prepared earlier.

“Oh, Scara,” Childe calls from the living room. The apartment is doused of its lights, the only source coming from the bright T.V that the pair had saved up for. “Are you feeling any better?”

Scara shoots him a look. He grabs his designated chopsticks— not that Childe has a pair, considering he can’t use them. Childe’s friends are piled up on the couch, watching him intently. Most of them know Scaramouche quite well, now, considering he shows up to the meets as if they’re his prayers.

“Won’t you join, then?” Childe pleads, “we’re, uh— watching previous recordings of Kettering University’s hockey team’s winning games. To research.”

Scaramouche’s eyes trail to the scattered VHS tapes on the floor of their living room, “No.”

“Please, Scara,” Childe whines, “ten minutes max, man— what’s better, being miserable in your room versus being miserable out here?”

Scaramouche surrenders. He doesn’t have the willpower to argue back with Childe. He wedges himself between someone he doesn’t know and the couch corner, settling in with a heavy blanket draped over his shoulder and his soup in his lap. The hockey player closest to the player lowers the volume so it doesn’t grate on his nerves. 

In retrospect, it takes him ridiculously long to realize who he’s sitting next to. 

Kazuha is looking at him with a kind of warmth that doesn’t belong in a place Childe has been. Kazuha is sharing the same blanket he is, and he doesn’t have enough left in him to protest it. 

He’s heavy with exhaustion, half awake as he listens haphazardly to the sound of excited commentary about the game they’re reviewing. His head is fuzzy, and Kazuha is just so warm. 

It’s almost instinctual, the way he lets his head drop onto Kazuha’s chest. His heartbeat is like a lullaby, one that is layered over his Bassline. His chest vibrates when he lets out occasional hums and chuckles. 

The harsh light from the T.V does barely anything to chase away the darkness and it's even colder than before. But for once – despite already feeling the hollow sensation that always nestles against his heart whenever he begins to fall asleep – he feels light and warm. Sleep has never come easy to him, but his eyelids grow heavy, body relaxing into Kazuha’s. A hand comes to rest in his hair, carding through messy strands as sleep washes over him. It’s the first time in a very long time that he doesn’t fall asleep cold and alone.

“Kazuha—“ he slurs quietly, mumbling into Kazuha’s shirt. 

Kazuha starts separating the light bits of his hair from the rest, “shush,” he hums, and it’s terribly comforting. He can feel himself melt into Kazuha’s embrace as if he hasn’t been touched in years. “Go to sleep, Scara.”

And he does. 

He wonders how anyone can be like Kazuha— to be so in love with the world you can live through the okay days and bad nights and come out with such a soft heart. He wants to be like that. He wants, and he wants, but certain things you can’t get from wishing on stars. 

It makes him panic slightly, to see how easily he melts into Kazuha’s embrace as if he didn’t spend months building up a metal fence with barbed wire around his heart. It’s slightly worrying, how Kazuha entered his life holding a pair of wire cutters and bandages. 

His life has always felt like he’s stranded in the middle of the ocean, on nothing but a breaking apart raft with the occasional debris floating past him. The shooting split his raft in half— and Kazuha’s presence makes him feel like anything from a tsunami or storm to a lifeboat and rescue squad is going to show up. He’ll drown in Kazuha, or Kazuha will pull him out of the water. 

Chapter Text

Some things are constant. The sun and the moon. Newton’s apple and the law of gravity. The ever-present chill of the hockey bleachers. 

He’s never considered hockey to be his comfort sport. The game is a tool to use for yourself and other ends. That’s all there is to it, but even so he can’t seem to understand how it’s the nasty, gum ridden steel bleachers that he runs to when he’s in inner turmoil. 

The ice is barren of people, cold frost climbing up the stairs and onto his skin. It won’t be vacant for long, because he knows Kettering University has booked Northwood University’s ice rink for themselves— he’s certain it’s an attempt to get on their nerves, and it’s one that’s working. Childe had been in one of his rare, foul moods since morning. Truly, if that is what Scaramouche looks like all the time, he really oughta fix his attitude.

He doubts Kettering University will actually show up, so he’s fine sitting quietly in the topmost stands next to the littered packets and abandoned backpacks. No one will bother him, not up here, not in the place where lost things go. 

He barely slept, staying up just between the dark and the morning light. His coffee is cold, not quite bitter enough and so it went forgotten.

Scaramouche stares at his phone screen in the midst of the arena. Anytime his foot nudges a crinkle of the paper that’s crumpled on the floor— someone’s unfortunate Organic Chemistry homework, it resounds  uncomfortably loud.

On his phone is a countdown to doomsday: a plane ticket scheduled on the 16th, a plane that’ll fly him back to a place that turns him into the worst version of himself. 

If it were up to him, he wouldn’t go back home to Japan, would break the letter of the law if it meant he could dig his roots out of Japanese soil. But it wasn’t up to him, so cutting ties from the Raiden family line would be like trying to uproot an ancient tree.

Scaramouche sighed, squinting at the way his breath curled visibly in the air. His phone shuts off with the shutter noise. 

“A penny for your thoughts?” Kazuha’s smooth, amused voice cuts through the forest of self-loathing. 

Scaramouche glances up, watching Kazuha settle in next to him with a loose gait. He leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees and watching Scaramouche with a steady gaze. He has a calm curiosity that’s almost unnerving and he seems more relaxed than most people, but even at ease he still exudes an aura of cautiousness. Scaramouche knows better than to take any chances.

“How did you find me?” Scaramouche narrows his eyes, leaning back and crossing his arms. His voice carries like a foghorn through the empty arena.

“You’re not exactly subtle,” Kazuha replies, searching his face with a faint smile. His fingers are toying loosely with a small, blood red chip. Kazuha’s gaze follows Scaramouche’s line of sight, stopping his movements to show it to him properly.

“Careful,” Kazuha murmurs as he hands it to Scaramouche, “they don’t give replacements.”

“What is it?” 

“Sobriety coin,” Kazuha explains simply, “eight months clean.”

Scaramouche glances up briefly, turning the small chip over in his hand. It’s a solid, grounding weight. “Didn’t peg you as a drug addict.”

“Because I’m not,” Kazuha replies, “well, I suppose… I’m trying not to be.”

Scaramouche hands the coin back, letting their hands carelessly brush. Their eyes meet briefly before Scaramouche sighs heavily and stiffly rearranges himself, “I’m… I’m going home. For a week. That’s why I’m sulking up here, in god’s graveyard.”

“Congratulations,” Kazuha replies after a moment, his laid-back demeanor returning easily, “for the break? I haven’t seen my mother in quite some time.”

“I don’t need your congratulations,” he snaps. “I need your condolences. You think I want to see that evil witch again?” 

Scaramouche wonders what it would feel like, treading the same steps and the passing the same hotels he slept in when he was making his great escape— like revisiting resin casts of his footprints, placing his foot back inside the cavity to see if they still fit. 

“I take it then that you have a strained relationship with your family?” Kazuha observed, eying the way Scaramouche’s lip curls at the idea of it.

“Strained? We’re both adults. You can say dogshit, ‘cause it is.” 

“That bad?” Kazuha’s brow furrows, “I’m astounded. I’ve always found a mother’s love to be unconditional.”

“More like unconditionally absent,” Scaramouche scoffs. Very little in his life is unconditional, and love is certainly not one of them. The closest someone like him could get to love is obsession.

“I’m glad to see you find some humor in it,” Kazuha replies, bemused. His nails run over his sobriety chip, fiddling with it and tracing the engravings. 

“Oh, hardly,” Scaramouche snorts, “imagine you’re me— say, you decide you’ll run away but you can’t commit to it. So you play a game called, how-far-away-from-home-can-I-get-until-someone-notices-I’m-gone-and-takes-action, and now you are sitting in Michigan, American, across the whole world, and have been for the past fourteen months or so.”

“And not one call?” Kazuha blinks at him. It’s a pointless answer, because clearly not, if Scaramouche is sitting next to him, solid and grounding.

“Not one,” Scaramouche confirms, smiling an airy and cynical grin. “Looks like I’m winning so far. Got a fourteen month and six thousand mile lead. Well— I suppose not anymore. I did say I’m heading home… for the holidays. Though I think she thinks I’m just in a hotel down the street and not in the United States of America.”

In retrospect, if someone had told him that playing this one sided game of cat and mouse that consisted of a sleeping cat and a mouse that wanted to be caught would result in him fucking his life up, he wouldn’t have done it. 

Parents always tell their kids horror stories to discourage them from wandering too far off— things like, the river is haunted or the house by the lake is a monster house, so don’t go there. They never say don’t leave or else you might get caught up in a shooting and lose the one person who put up with your shit.

It’s a real fear, he thinks. From a young age he’s seen the fear of monsters under beds and in closets hammered into kids. Nobody ever teaches you to be scared of a gun. You just are. 

“Would you like some words of advice?” Kazuha offers, “or something to distract you? I can offer both— I am a man of many talents.”

“I’m sure,” Scaramouche’s eyes flicker to Kazuha’s hands, big and rough and very attractive. 

“Keep your head while you’re there,” Kazuha says after a moment, choosing to ignore Scaramouche burning holes into his hands or just not noticing it, “keep a store of common sense and consult it at every minute. Have a friendly conversation with it. With this, I think you will survive.”

Scaramouche nods along as if that makes any sense to him whatsoever, “and your so-called distraction?”

Kazuha smiles— he practically glows, bright enough for the two of them. 

Scaramouche was right, in the end: the Kettering University hockey team never showed up. It’s desolate. It’s just them. Two people in a barren ice arena, some patches melted and others watery. 

“You know how to skate?” 

“To a degree,” Scaramouche says airily. He won’t ever admit the only time he’s skated was some hotshot’s wedding back in Japan when he was eight. Even then, his mother had tied his skates for him and he’d been too scared to skate on the ice by himself.

“You aren’t going to skate?” 

Tiny, eight year old Scaramouche— or really whoever he was at the time, because Kunikuzushi, Scaramouche and Kabukimono did not exist until much later— had shook his head. “I’m afraid.”

Scaramouche was never given a name, not precisely, so he chose ones for himself as he grew up— names he scraped from the bottle of the barrel and wore around his neck like a chain. Sometimes it causes a serious identity crisis.

“Well,” Miko had smiled, “how are you going to learn? You don’t think anyone is going to hold your hand, do you?” 

“Mama will,” Scaramouche, that little boy, had protested. But even then, he hadn’t believed it and he was sure Miko hadn’t either. 

And so she had gracefully skated off, not caring to help him off his small island of reprieve surrounded by ice and everything else that was considered the unknown to an eight year old boy. 

Kazuha huffs silent laughter, fogging in the air as he watches Scaramouche’s slender fingers fumble with the laces on his skates. 

“Eyes off my legs, you animal,” Scaramouche mutters. 

“Sorry,” Kazuha softly chuckles, and the noise is so attractive that Scaramouche can feel his face heating up. “Allow me to help.”

Kazuha’s hands, calloused and rough from holding a hockey stick since birth, encase him, pulling them away from the knot he’s accidentally tied. Experienced fingers loosen the knot, starting to tie the laces.

“Those two pegs on this end, your goal.” Kazuha explains, not looking up. Scaramouche squints at the pegs in the ice, like a makeshift goal. “The space between the uprooted ice are mine. There— is this tight enough?”

Scaramouche glances down briefly, “Sure.”

Kazuha skates back and Scaramouche bats his hands away, standing up on his own. He hasn’t skated in years, but he remembers Yae Miko skating away from him like the back of his hand. If he looks past the feelings of despair and his blood running cold it invoked in him, he could remember the way she skated; how her heel pushed off, the way she angled herself to support all points. 

“You move like a figure skater.” 

Scaramouche looks up, the way Kazuha’s eyes have a glint of something, be it awe or surprise, he hasn’t got a clue.  

“Careful,” Scaramouche warns raspily, “you’ll drop the puck if you keep staring.”

Kazuha’s laugh is light, the way he glides on the ice fruitlessly. There’s something in the air between them as Kazuha hands him a hockey stick, making sure Scaramouche’s grip was firm and certain. 

“But try not to overdo it,” Kazuha warrants, “it may rough up your hands.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Scaramouche wrinkles his nose, looking at the stick with disdain, “I know. I have the hands of a princess. Let’s get on with it.”

Kazuha does not go easy on him. 

Scaramouche, to his credit, makes sure to give as much pain as he can, giving his own hands an outlet for tension and exerting all his strength on this one sport he’s never done before. It’s like playing soccer, really – but there’s no ball, only ice and snow. 

Scaramouche loses, over, and over, and over again— he doesn’t get the puck in his goal one time. In his defense, Kazuha doesn’t score that much either— but that’s in part to the revelation that Scaramouche’s strength is in his nimble speed, not his hand-eye coordination. 

It’s a weird kind of weight off his chest as Kazuha and him taunt each other from across the ice, egging the other on to make a move and faking each other out, it feels like they’re stuck in their own small glass orb. It’s as if Scaramouche is a drowning ship in a bottle, and Kazuha is the crack in the glass to let the water flow out.

When Scaramouche’s hit sends the puck off the ice and into Kazuha’s shin, he laughs– a real laugh. The kind of laugh that makes Kazuha feel like his world stopped for the briefest second. It doesn’t matter if his leg is in agonizing pain, just that it’s too brutal for a laugh that beautiful to be unheard by so many.

That’s the turning point: Scaramouche sends the puck skidding just barely out of reach of Kazuha’s hockey stick, letting it hit the wall and skid back onto the ice. He cheers, then, whoops out of mocking glee– and again ten minutes later, when he scores again, and again, and again.

When Kazuha goes to retrieve the puck for the third time, he says, “This is unfair. I can’t concentrate,” he protests, laughing, “you’ve done something to me, I am sure of it.”

“Oh,” Scaramouche drawls, grinning with teeth, “I see. I know what’s going on here.”

“Care to enlighten me, then?” Kazuha replies, eyeing the dangerous way Scaramouche smiles, like a viper.

“Kazuha, Kazuha,” Scaramouche’s eyes glitter dangerously, and lord does Kazuha think that screams danger, “you’ve fallen in love with me, obviously.”

“Do not–”

“Deny all you like,” Scaramouche cackles, snorting at the way Kazuha yanks the hockey stick out his hand in an effort to stop his laughing fit, “You’re madly in love with me. What other possible explanation–”

“--There’s plenty of others, I’m certain–”

“-- You’re just in denial, you fool–”

Scaramouche shouts as Kazuha chases him across the ice, picking up speed as the two playfully bump into each other. He ducks away from Kazuha’s clumsy attempt at stealing the puck from in between his feet, who is trying very hard not to laugh at Scaramouche being so utterly ridiculous and petty. They’re going to fall together at this rate, the way they're so entangled in their battle for the stupid puck. 

They go round and round the rink in their struggle for the small thing. It’s no longer a game of skill, rather, a game of brute force: it’s a race.

It’s dumb, it’s petty, the way Kazuha yanks the hockey stick out of Scaramouche’s hands and holds it out of reach, or the way Scaramouche body blocks him, or the way the puck is between their feet and they’re both so close to each other, trying to wedge their stick in there to get it out. 

It’s a weird, childish kind of joy that gives him hope, that maybe, one day, he’s capable of falling in love with the world he’s grown to hate, the tragic beauty that is life, so fully flawed and thoroughly perfect.

But for now, trying is enough. Just breathing, existing, living. 

Scaramouche has the rest of the day off. Kazuha does too, and so it’s perfect. Their friends are in class, but Scaramouche hasn’t got any classes today, and Kazuha feels like the missing piece of the puzzle.

He had suggested go-karting, but Scaramouche, ex-adrenaline junkie and now adrenaline-repulsed, shut that down quickly. 

They hop from karaoke sessions on the roof of a double-decker bus, over-exaggerated and dramatic singing sessions against the raging wind. They run from arcade to arcade, trying their hands at every claw machine in a ten mile radius from the campus. Scaramouche makes him play Surgeon Simulator and Kazuha challenges him on the ice hockey table. On the outskirts of town, they crowd into a photobooth.

The pictures go on in the back of Scaramouche’s clear phone case.

”I could write poetry about this,” Kazuha says, watching the way Scaramouche criticizes the Surgeon Simulator game. 

Scaramouche pauses his rant, scrutinizing Kazuha with indigo eyes. “Of course you write poetry. I don’t know what I was expecting.”

”Please be kind,” Kazuha replies, “Poetry is a beautiful art form. Because I cannot help when inspiration strikes, I carry around sticky notes—“

Scaramouche looks aghast as Kazuha pulls a sticky note and a pen. At Scaramouche’s bewildered look, he adds, “I put them all in a jar.” 

“How does that make it any better?”

It’s a spoken statement, like Scaramouche refuses to ask questions.

“You are the sun. I am never awake at sunrise.”

Scaramouche pauses, and Kazuha can feel the incredulous look on his face bleed into his words, “Are you seriously spinning poetry right now?”

“I said I can’t help when inspiration strikes,” Kazuha replies, and then continues. “I sleep through days and folds of parchment, and late hours by the light… and you are—“

“This is ridiculous.”

“A constant,” Kazuha says, placing a hand over his heart. “You sing by my windowsill. One second, Scara, don’t leave yet— I need to write this one down.”

They go everywhere you can possibly go in a town that’s falling apart. They chat on the bars of an expansive playground, and Scaramouche makes Kazuha do every childish thing he never had the chance to– petty things like those balloon dart games and an walk-in pottery class, and he laughs with him, because they fit so perfectly together, like two puzzle pieces. They go to a clinic and get professionally measured for no reason if not for Kazuha to give him that knowing smile when he’s announced to be slightly taller.

They’re certain things he does with Kazuha that he never did with Niwa, because he ran out of time. If Scaramouche had known Niwa was going to die, he would have taken the time to do everything he could.

There’s so much he reminisces on, the things and the comfort he could have offered Niwa in his last moments. He’s sorry for all he said and all he didn't say: sorry for not hugging Niwa more, because he had thought he had more time. He had so many memories he could offer to him, with the body, the mind and his virtue.

Kazuha is not Niwa– no matter the similarities. No one can be Niwa, sure– but Niwa could never be Kazuha, either. He keeps the two separate from each other.

Kazuha is different, in a way so unlike Mona’s astral stars and slender figure, different from Childe’s speckled face and flaming locks. And definitely so very different from Dottore’s scalpels and dry texts.

He thinks his relationship with Dottore was a fever dream, sometimes– Dottore was too similar to Scaramouche himself for them to work. He was just as cynical as him, but not angrier. Dottore didn’t care about righting his wrongs or fighting injustice. He was never loving, not with Scaramouche, not with anybody– but he was kind when he needed something. That was Dottore’s greatest gift. He could be ruthless when he needed to be: cold, cruel and manipulative. The latter was a lot easier on the heart than the former.

Scaramouche dated Dottore at a time when he was trying to destroy himself. His life was spiraling out of control – no, his entire existence had been spiraling into madness in a matter of months, but it started when he got that text from Dottore. It was so innocuous at first. 

Scaramouche could tell the whole story, but it’s not that important; everything in his life became so insignificant, so unimportant compared to the shooting. 

Dottore was a medical student he met, like him, trying to build himself up from the ground. He was often never actually performing surgeries because medical officers found him unstable to be doing so– more so than Scaramouche, who had freshly run away from home and his hormones were all over the place. 

Scaramouche blames his blindsightedness on Love. Love, the thing that tears him apart and builds him back together. Love, the ocean of poison in a desert. Love, that made him run away– love, that made him stay.

He knows the concept of running away is not new; for truly, he was like the ‘deserted boat on a desolate shore’ from Julius Caesar: which may sound like a line from a theatrical romance. But he did not see any romance in his situation then.

Scaramouche has had a very unfortunate life. He’s even heading back home in a few weeks, when the break starts. He had fought everything he had left in him to refuse as best he can, but that's often not the case—at least not for him.

“Will you come, then?” Miko had yawned over the phone. Scaramouche had forced himself to swallow down the nausea he felt at the sound of her voice.

“No,” He had said.

“No?” There had been a hint of surprise in her voice, but Scaramouche was certain she was faking it– there’s not a whole lot about this woman that’s real. 

“No,” Scaramouche had confirmed, fighting to keep his head above water. “I’m not coming home,” He remembers his eyes scanning over the site in his hand, Miko in his airpods and his fingers anxiously scrolling on the book a flight page. “And it’s not– it’s not my home. Not anymore. I ran away… remember?”

“Oh,” Miko had said, “That. Yes, I suppose you did… would you like me to get your mother on the phone?” The smile in her voice was so prominent. “She misses you dearly.”

“Stop,” Scaramouche had said coldly, “you’re trying to get in my head.”

“Now why would I do that?” Miko had laughed, “and you said you ran away. How could I get in your head from over here? If you can’t afford the trip here, just say it.”

“And if I was? Would you pay for it, huh?” Scaramouche had spat with so much poison, so much disdain on this woman that he would have damned her to hell if he could.

“No.” Miko had hummed, “No, I wouldn’t. Ah, look. Ei is home.”

But she had gotten to his head. There was disgust and nausea swirling in his gut as he entered his personal information, each box and information causing him to get second thoughts about what he’s doing. The plane ticket price was abysmal, costing more than a full paycheck.

“Five days,” Scaramouche had said, looking at the plane ticket with feelings of intense dizziness.

“Five days,” Miko hums, “It’s not a lot of time, don’t you think?”

It’s perfect, Scaramouche had wanted to reply, shutting off his phone and crawling in bed, Just enough time for me to get the rest of my belongings and then try not to kill myself out of despair.

The screenshot of the plane ticket that he sent to Mona feels like a tattoo of a death row sentence. It sits, taunting him, reminding him of what lies ahead. What a joke. 

He often feels as though he’s too young to be this miserable– all that you see on social media about being your golden age, enjoying your crazy, wild early twenties– did he miss out somewhere? He must have. He doubts his graduating class would ever have the need to stick their head out the window and damn everyone in his life to hell. Did everyone else have such a poor relationship with their mother– and was the only thing that ever resulted from such a relationship is an empty nest of regret?

”You know,” Kazuha says suddenly, “I always found you to be a bit familiar.”

“Probably the news,” Scaramouche replies, “they had an obsession with turning me into some kind of damsel in distress… well, I say they can shove that up their ugly, monstrously hideous—“

”No, perhaps not the news,” Kazuha cuts in thoughtfully. “Did you recall ever using the watchdog service at Northwood?”

“Watchdog?” 

“Ah,” Kazuha blinks, “our class project was the watchdog service. It’s purpose was to help students feel more safe on campus. It was essentially someone who would walk you home if you felt unsafe, or drive you if were drunk.”

Scaramouche straightens, an evil grin on his face. “Can you request certain people?”

”Yes,” Kazuha replies, “anyone in our class or one of the volunteers— oh, Scara, do not.”

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“Your face gives it away.” 

Scaramouche instantly schools his face back into its ever-present resting bitch expression, the neutral and bored looking one that majority of campus sees. The Scaramouche that that is more of a doll than human.

“I have a game coming up soon,” Kazuha says thoughtfully, and Scaramouche shakes himself out of his head, “Just after the break, I believe… would you come?”

Scaramouche stares at him, looking away after a while to focus on the Operation game they had laid out in front of them. He squeezes the game tweezers in respite. 

“I don’t know,” Scaramouche says warily, “I don’t… do adrenaline.”

Kazuha chuckles as Scaramouche returns to the game at hand, his ever-steady hand lowering like a crane onto the game board. The laugh makes Scaramouche’s cheeks heat up.

“It’s alright,” Kauzha hums, “you don’t have to be there if you don’t want to. I thought it would be nice to have your support.”

“You have my support,” Scaramouche says sullenly, his eyes not leaving the board game. Kazuha already pulled out the wish bone, and Scaramouche focuses on the broken heart, trying to lower the tweezers to pull it out without triggering the alarm system.

“I’d like to have you in person, too.” Kazuha’s eyes never leave Scaramouche, who tsks at the words, but his face is bright red, “I often stare at people in the stands during the breaks. No one is quite as pleasant to look at as you.”

Scaramouche gawks, his hand losing the grip on the tweezers and the broken heart topples out of his control and sets off the alarm system. His face is flushed, hair in disarray as Kazuha laughs. 

“You’re losing,” Kazuha says, unable to suppress a smile, “turns out I am better than you.”

“Are not,” Scaramouche snaps, “I just– I’m…  I’m distracted, that’s all. You must have drugged me, or something.”

Kazuha takes the small, metal tweezers out of Scaramouche’s slender hands. “I know what happened to you,” he says, and his smile is prominent even as he tears his eyes away from Scaramouche’s face, adjusting himself on the library chair. “You’ve fallen in love with me.”

Scaramouche stares, stares, and stares.

What a bastard. And then he smiles, begrudgingly. Well played.

Chapter Text

Kazuha kissed a boy when he was eight. 

And that was just about how deep it was— Teppei was a boy he kissed when he was eight. He’s had very few serious relationships— and the one he had that lasted forever had ended in ashes.

Kazuha doesn’t mind talking about it, but he knows better than to dwell; Tomo was sweet, he was kind, but he was overly ambitious. Always reaching for the next big thing, the next goal, the next leap. He was forever reaching for something Kazuha couldn’t see; jumping off a cliff to land in the water that Kazuha didn’t notice. 

Kazuha himself never stopped working long enough to think about what he wanted from life. It was all he could do just to keep going and going, and going. Tomo had been Kazuha’s teenage love, always so happy, so bright. He had gotten comfortable with him— he’s certain he loved him.

Tomo loved him too, Kazuha thinks, but he doesn’t think Tomo cared. If Tomo cared, he wouldn’t have offered him weed, opioids, or heroin, to deal with his problems. He would have offered a shoulder— because while Tomo is here no longer, Kazuha’s struggle to sobriety still is. And that’s not to say Tomo is dead, no, Tomo is off to a school in England, where he can chase the things that Kazuha doesn’t.

He loved Tomo, he thinks. Because Tomo was still kind, sweet, loving— he helped Kazuha in perhaps the only way he knew. It’s not a grudge that Kazuha holds.

He’s lost in thought as he pulls his shirt over his head, pulling the heavy hockey gear over his body. A door slams behind him, echoing and grating on his nerves uncomfortably. He ducks his head, watching his teammates from the corner of his eye. 

Childe collapses unceremoniously onto the bench, looking glum. 

“Childe?” Kazuha blinks, twisting. Childe’s eyes are dead looking— more so than usual. 

“Don’t mind him,” Kaeya smiles, and Kazuha’s eyes snap to him immediately, “thoughts on the upcoming game? It’s a big one, isn’t it?”

“Understatement of the century,” someone scoffs from within the maze of boys’ lockers and sweaty clothing torn about, “it determines whether or not we go to nationals— nationals, man! You better play clean, Kaedehara.”

“Hey now,” Childe interjects, breaking out of him slump,, “it’s a joint effort. No need to put so much pressure on a guy.”

“I don’t mind,” Kazuha replies, “but Childe is right. We should focus on our game today rather than dwell on the future.”

“Ever so wise,” Yelan says, leaning against the door to the boy’s locker room. “I’m surprised you don’t have a girlfriend, Kaedehara…. with that charisma, you’re a real smooth talker.”

“Are you aware this is the men’s locker room?” Kaeya raises an eyebrow, despite being fully clothed. 

“Can it, Alberich,” Yelan pushes herself off her shoulder, sauntering into the room with her student council badge on display. Yelan doesn’t like wearing it, not really— she works backstage anyways, content to handle the dirty work without the spotlight on her. “It’s your monthly inspection.”

“Hey, we’re— nobody’s doing drugs in here anymore, Yelan,” Childe protests, and yet Yelan throws him a unimpressed look that fills the room with a kind of displeased hum. “and I’m pretty sure Kaedehara does have a girlfriend, with the way he’s been skipping class—“

Pandemonium at its finest, Kazuha thinks. His teammates are on him in seconds, hounding him for answers, congratulating him, muttering finally under their breaths or clapping his back and ruffling his hair. He can hardly get a word out over the hearty whooping and celebrating— not that he has anything to say besides deny it.  

No one’s teased him about having a girlfriend or not since he was in third grade. Or at least, not to his face. 

“I can’t believe it,” Childe groans, “ Kaedehara, before me? I must be unattractive, or something.”

“Actually,” Kaeya says thoughtfully with a light twinkle in his eyes, “I’m surprised it took so long for someone to fall for the flowery words.”

“It’s really not like that,” Kazuha insists, and rolls the sleeves of his jersey up a little higher, “the heart wants what it wants, and ever so much the things that are out of my reach.”

“Who is it?” one of his teammates shouted from the back, and in Kazuha’s vision is indignant sapphire eyes and downturned lips. His chest clenches and he feels his lips curl up in fondness, forming a romantic feeling in his heart. 

“Oh,” Childe inspects Kazuha’s face before he goes back to pulling his shirt down, “he’s down bad.”

“Utterly enamored,” Kaeya agrees, and Kazuha shakes his head at him. 

Kazuha’s lips are sealed for the sake of Scaramouche’s privacy. He pulls his skates on without another word, taking his hockey stick from Kaeya and not glancing twice at the expectant look on his face. 

Scaramouche is an oath to him— he’s a promise. A kind of dream you don’t wake up from. The kind of deal you make with the devil that you don’t tell your friends about— Kazuha hasn’t uttered a word to Heizou or Gorou, and certainly not Childe. He thinks Childe would kill him if he found out that Kazuha would sacrifice them all for his roommate: nevermind the roommate being so deep in self loathing he can barely do anything other than work shifts at the hospital and go to work. He doesn’t think he’s seen Scaramouche attend classes once.

And yet— Scaramouche is… someone who needs to be seen. But Kazuha will respect that privacy: because Scaramouche deserves some peace before his hockey team starts acting like middle school boys around him. 

The stands are packed as he enters the gym turned ice arena— full of families he doesn’t recognize, unfamiliar faces blurred into a smudge of the rainbow. The team skates onto the ice, hearing the roaring of the crowd and cheering as the two teams get into place. The opponent is not Kettering University, no, perhaps he’d been spared today; but rather, WSU. They haven’t got the most attractive hockey team, nor the cleanest record of hockey games— which is actually more of a stain on their reputation than an honor.

It’ll be like this, Kazuha thinks as his team stands silent while the American national anthem plays,  This is what it’ll look like at the game that will determine who goes to nationals. It’s an exciting prospect. His eyes drift among the stands, as if he’ll see Scaramouche there, though he knows he won’t. He can feel Childe’s teasing words and Kaeya’s support under the hot collar of his hockey jersey. They burn into him, melding him.

The hockey game begins as Kazuha does a face-off with the other team and swatting the puck to Childe, who is pounced on by sweaty, blocky WSU players. And they don’t leave him alone either, not when the puck is out of Childe’s reach and back into Kazuha’s.

He sweats profusely, breathing heavily as the game plays on. He’s gone up against some tough teams in years prior, people who are too physical, people who get penalty after penalty and don’t bat an eye. It feels worse, though, when you have something on your mind. 

The game is uncharacteristically rough: they have very little chance to win the game now, with the frustrating way that Childe is being targeted. He’s constantly surrounded by people and he can tell by the way Childe’s jaw ticks that he’s getting hot with frustration. He can feel bruises forming on his shins, can feel his hands getting unusually sore and cramped with the white knuckled grip on his stick. 

They’re down 12-18. They’re losing badly— terribly. Kazuha has been cross-checked too many times with too few fouls called and taken too many sticks to his shins. Childe is getting targeted, too many people focusing on him rather than where the puck is. 

He keeps his eyes trained forward. Take the breaths and keep going. He’s done it all plenty of times. He’s used to the ache. He’s used to the tension, and the hurt. He’s used to winning, and he’s used to losing.

The puck slides to Kazuha, who body blocks the oncoming opponent. His stick angles, ready to hit it to the left wing as his eyes flicker back up to the stands. 

“— You’ve fallen in love with me, obviously.”

And he misses. 

Kazuha stands there on the ice, watching the puck be stolen from the opposing team with ten minutes left on the clock. Northwood’s team continues to play, coordinating as flawlessly as they can with one of their most crucial players having a poorly timed epiphany. 

Kazuha has had crushes before. He never had to deal with an aha moment for them, even with Tomo it was a gradual realization. But what reason is there for Kazuha to keep searching the crowd for a face he knows he won’t see? 

The game passes in a blur after that. He’s overly conscious of every time his eyes flicker to the stands, each time he sees the sharp edge of blue ice and his mind runs to someone specific. They lose the game horribly anyway— 14-28 and certainly not in Northwood’s favor. Kazuha can feel bruises forming on his legs. 

He has a shift to work at three, and then a fluid dynamics lecture an hour before that. The air in the locker room is tense as everyone changes back, stripping off layers of protection and grumbling under their breath: some talk about certain plays that were particularly cool, most of them from the grace-saving goalie of Northwood. 

Kazuha’s back in his loose gray sweater in seconds, making quick work of his hair. He thumbs the sobriety coin in his slacks as he wishes his team a good break— it’s the third to last game until the big game, anyway— and breaks off into campus. He settles down in his car, parked on the outskirts of the medical building. He sinks comfortably in the driver's seat. 

He stays there for a second, just breathing in whatever he needs to. He takes a moment: he always needs one, after a hockey game. When he opens his phone again, he sees a message from Scaramouche, one from his mother, and a few reminders from his school to attend his lecture.

Scaramouche’s text is simple, dry, asking if he was willing to come over around nine. Kazuha answers him with a leap in his heart, sending a quick yes. He also sends a smaller message underneath before he can think better of it— we lost the game. 

Scaramouche’s reply is instantaneous, and he can practically hear the snort. 

— Not surprised, comes Scaramouche’s reply, you were dogshit at table hockey.

The message is small, it’s Scaramouche messing with him, and it’s all that and more. 

Kazuha isn’t perfect, not by any means. He thinks of Tomo, of someone running too fast for him to keep up and too ambitious for him to run alongside him. He doesn’t want to be Scaramouche’s Tomo. He doesn’t want to be Scaramouche’s Dottore, and worst of all, he doesn’t want to be Scaramouche’s Niwa.

Scaramouche has issues: parental issues, past relationship issues, gun related issues; he’s the walking equation of a lifetime. A tangled bunch of wires he doesn’t know how to untangle. 

Was there even wires for him to untangle? Kazuha remembers this book he read when he was younger: Maniac Magee. About an orphaned boy who became a local legend in some small town— the book was centered on racism and equality, but the thing about Magee in the book, he could untangle anything. Any knot or wire, he’s got it. When he had read that book in middle school, he had thought the feature to be cool, but otherwise useless. 

But that’s the thing— Magee didn’t just untangle actual knots and laces and flagpole wires. He untangled feelings of despair from his loved ones, untangled prejudice in his small town. He could untangle people. 

Love can’t fix Scaramouche, he knows that. But love can keep him going— and Scaramouche is already teetering on the edge of something terrible, as if he’s letting the wind decide if he should heal or destroy himself more. 

He can’t fix Scaramouche— not that there is anything to be fixed, only mended, but he can push him in the right direction. And he’s headed there, too— towards that cliff edge once more, and yet without a parachute, you fall. 

And Scaramouche’s feelings remain quiet in the dust: unable to be read, to be heard. Scaramouche needs a friend, first and foremost: so why should Kazuha soil that? What good is done from potentially ruining that? 

If anyone knows anything about Scaramouche— well, he knows where to go. Childe picks up on the third ring. His voice is back to its preppy frat-boy sound.

  “Hello?”

“Childe,” Kazuha hums. His heart is beating in his throat, “tell me about Scaramouche.”

“You and everyone else. You can just google him, man—“ 

“I don’t want the everyone else’s opinion of him,” Kazuha interrupts, “I want yours.”

Childe’s heave is heavy through the speakers. There’s rustling on the other end, presumably Childe getting comfortable in the commons room, “He’s annoying to have a conversation with. I mean… if you manage to have one at all. What about him? Something happened to him? No, wait…”

Childe is quiet on the other line, before he pipes up again. It’s in the early hours of the day, the sun barely up. He doubts there’s anyone in the commons at all at six in the morning. “Is it him?”

“Yes,” Kazuha answers painfully honestly, “but…”

“You’re afraid that confessing is going to only destroy him more?” Childe laughs, “oh man, I had a similar problem with him. He’s like that— you see him lose control, you see him fall and trip. You see him sink and crack. But you don’t see him break— stubborn idiot, he is.”

Childe’s right, of course. He stands on the edge of death and yet considers things like suicide to be wholly beneath him. 

“You wanna know how we met?” Childe laughs suddenly, a warm noise over the phone, “he was drinking himself to death. He wasn’t addicted or anything, but if he tells you he never had a problem with alcohol, he’s totally lying.”

Childe had found Scaramouche wasted, drunk off his ass on the porch and looking like he was ready to rope it. He had looked like he’d seen it all— still in his scrubs, and blood splattered on his hands and knees. Childe didn’t know it then, but that had been Niwa’s blood. 

What he also didn’t know was that Scaramouche was destroying himself at that moment— drinking more than his body could handle. He might not have been about to jump off the roof, but he was killing himself in a different way. 

Childe likes to think that his long, overdramatized speech about the wonders of life actually did help Scaramouche. But that’s not particularly important right now. 

“Listen, Kaedehara,” Childe shifts, “I say go for it.”

“Pardon?”

“Bring him flowers, throw pebbles on his window, tell him to let down his hair— have sex in the kitchen, I don’t know,” Childe says. Kazuha can hear the barest clicking of a pen and rustling of papers and canvas backpacks on the other end of the line. “whatever happens, happens. I used to think happy wasn’t a word in his vocabulary, you know, amongst the other words that don’t exist for him. Like the words take a break or murder is illegal.”

Kazuha hums— that is true. Scaramouche could survive a plane crash and still trudge his way to his shifts. While his stubbornness is endearing, it can often be worrying. 

“Hey, I’ve seen him at his worst, Kaedehara,” Childe continues, “but I haven’t seen him at his happiest. If something happens, it happens. If it doesn’t, then it doesn’t. Remember that girl I was crazy over last year?”

Kazuha pauses, watching the rain drops on his windshield race to the bottom. He racks his brain, sinking into his driver’s seat. “Lenore?”

Childe had been smitten with her. It was the only thing the hockey team could hear about: between team lunches, meets, practices, games, karaoke-strategy nights, it would be Lenore this and Lenore that.

Lenore was a stunningly pretty Russian girl who had captured Childe’s heart nearly instantly. Kazuha had gotten the chance to meet her very few times before Childe and her fell apart and she stopped showing up to the meets; not that she showed up very much, anyway. 

Lenore was…. a beacon of light for Childe. His mother adored her, his siblings captured instantly by the way she moved: her heavy skirts and dresses, her long silk hair. Lenore was bait, and Childe was a hook, line, sinker. 

“Well, she dumped me,” Childe laughs warmly, “because she realized I wasn’t one of those frat boys. She called me one of the cringe loser types of frat boys.”

“She wasn’t entirely mistaken.”

“Hey, watch it.” Childe replies jokingly, “but… well, I guess what I’m getting at is that Scaramouche is your Lenore.”

“Scaramouche doesn’t care about that kind of thing,” Kazuha protests. He chips away at the leather on the steering wheel, watching students leave classes, hoarded with paperwork or half asleep. 

“Scaramouche doesn’t care about a lot of things,” Childe replies, “but he does care about you— which, by the way, congratulations. It took me months to convince him to let me do his laundry. He’s your Lenore. Don’t let him go.”

Tomo had been forever running towards something Kazuha could never see. Scaramouche is running away from something, and towards nothing at all. And this time, Kazuha is determined to keep up. 

“I don’t think medical work is for me,” Venti says thoughtfully, “maybe I should become an idol.”

Scaramouche spares him a glance as Venti pulls sterilized surgical gloves onto him, careful to avoid skin contact. The E.R is rushing, superiors giving orders to people in the E.R and ICU. The intercom is still blaring overheard, trying to relay as much information with as little words as possible; from what Scaramouche can gather over Venti’s idle thinking, it’s a bridge collapse. 

“Prep the hospital, mass casualties, there'll be a flood of incoming patients— move, people!” Someone shouts, and Scaramouche recognizes her as someone he’s often butted heads with. He doesn’t even know her name. 

In the first few months of Scaramouche’s residency here, he’d gotten into a bad argument with her: they were tearing at each other with poison in their mouths, scratching and clawing each other’s throats. It was a constant race to the end. 

She was still above him in status at the hospital, though. It didn’t matter if Scaramouche performed a procedure better than her or assisted in surgery more cleanly— she’d banned him from the TICU with no rhyme and reason, and he spent the next week as an attending. She was almost as petty as Scaramouche was.

Read: almost. 

Very little compared to the horror of interacting with people: nevermind for a week straight. And so Scaramouche superglued her gas cap shut.

It’s in the past now, though: there’s over fourty injured: the E.R is rushed, packed to the brim— Scaramouche ignores Venti, walking past him to see the faint glimmer of the ambulance— forty injured. There’s more on the way. 

“Raiden—?” she squints, “what are you— get moving! You are the one person who needs to be in a TICU right now— are the triages laid out?”

“We’re rotating O.Rs, there’s a surgeon in each,” Scaramouche purses his lips, “I need more than two O.Rs.”

“Two and three are general,” she says, “cardio in five and neuro in four— make yourself useful, Raiden!”

It’s overwhelming, sometimes, like this— when the hospital gets so full that people are getting grouped together. No time to think about what to do, where to go. Scaramouche is navigating through the packed hallway: trays and nurses and attendings and IV drops and everything in between. Clipboards, charts, papers— and a little boy. 

Scaramouche stops. 

He’s wearing a heavy, large dark blue jumper: clearly one of his mother or father’s. He’s covered in soot and dirt and is banged up a little, but otherwise he seems alright: though Scaramouche hasn’t personally examined him. He could have soot in his throat and need an intubation as soon as possible, chest pains that—

Scaramouche squints. He wonders when he got so fucked up that he starts internally dissecting lost kids rather than helping them. 

Scaramouche is cold, sure, but he’s not so far displaced from reality to be considered heartless. The boy’s eyes are wide and large under tousled black hair when Scaramouche approaches him. He’s young, far too young to be in a place as dreadful as this. He’s meant to be in the waiting room anyway, with the other families. 

“Hey,” Scaramouche smiles at him, making sure his voice is gentle, softer than his normally cutting edge rasp. “where’s your mom? Your dad?”

The kid shakes his head. “Don’t know.”

“And your mama?”

The boy gets distracted by a cart rolling by, nurses pushing past Scaramouche kneeling in the middle of the hallway and a boy so young. Scaramouche gently shakes his arm again, trying to get his attention. 

The boy gestures to his chest. “Mama has a hole in her chest.”

Scaramouche’s blood chills. 

He looks to the right, the ICU closed tightly: where he was originally heading. Scaramouche holds the boy’s hand, opening the door to the ICU. He can’t join them now even if he wanted to, considering his gloves are now unsterilized. On the gurney lay a young, battered woman. From what Scaramouche could see, she had some sort of penetrating chest injury, Hemothorax— there was a surgical resident and a cardiothoracic surgeon that Scaramouche didn’t know. They were performing an emergency thoracotomy. 

Scaramouche shuts the door. “Um… Mama is taking a nap right now. What’s your name?”

“I’m Ruu,” he says, “will mama wake up, soon?”

“Yes,” Scaramouche says uncertainly, “she’ll be just fine. She’s just a little tired… that’s all.”

Only a real monster would tell a little kid that their mother is having an emergency procedure to save her life. Scaramouche leads the little boy away from the rush and ruckus in the hall, his small hand tightly gripping Scaramouche’s gloved one. People push and shove past the two— and so Scaramouche relents. 

He picks Ruu up, balancing him on his arm the way a mother normally does. Ruu seems to enjoy it a lot more, grabbing handfuls of Scaramouche’s eye-strain blue scrubs.

“Where’s your mama? Is she also taking a nap?” Ruu says quietly. 

Scaramouche purses his lips, placing Ruu into an on-call room. Ruu settles on the bed, and Scaramouche rummages through the drawers to see if anyone had left any wipes or bandages— he finds his own makeup wipes, generally for his red eyeliner. There’s a small, ever so tiny packet of tissue paper and a small water bottle. 

It’ll do, enough for Scaramouche to wipe the grime off his face as gently as he can. Ruu squirms under his touch, but otherwise stays still. When Scaramouche finishes, does the gravity of Ruu’s question register.

Where is his mama? 

Scaramouche breathes out slowly. He didn’t even realize he was holding it until he exhaled through his nose. It is much too early for the world to be this cruel to him. It feels like it’s been years since he last saw her. He’s seen his world end and be rebuilt with nothing but bricks and mortar— if he comes back to his mother now, what will she see? 

What do you see? Scaramouche desperately wants to ask Ruu, What are you perceiving when you look at me?

There was snow on the ground that day. When he packed his childhood into a backpack and left with nothing but a note of his existence taped to his drawer. Snow in the air, trapping cars and planes and everything in between. Snow, between planes of land and ice and stretching the miles between Scaramouche and Ei. 

“I don’t know,” Scaramouche answers, “She could be.”

“Oh,” Ruu frowns, “well, I hope she wakes up soon. Can we find my dad?”

Scaramouche nods, taking a swing of the water. It’s oddly bitter on his tongue. 

He wipes his mouth, pulling his hair back into a tiny, miniscule and laughing pathetic ponytail. Ruu’s pale, shaky hand finds its way back into Scaramouche’s scrubs, his body supported against Scaramouche’s side. 

“You have a nice face,” Ruu says, gazing intently at Scaramouche’s face. “Do you have a boyfriend, miss? My mama says pretty girls get boyfriends.”

“I’m not a girl,” Scaramouche chastises. His grip on Ruu is tighter as he weaves through the crowd, heading directly towards the waiting room of the victims. He passes Venti, who’s behind the front desk. His eyebrows raise at the sight of a small boy clutching to Scaramouche’s scrubs, “and I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“You must,” Ruu insists, “my mama doesn’t lie.”

Scaramouche shifts uncomfortably. He’s not fond of the idea of ruining this kid’s whole perception of his mother: but what can he say? Anyone even knowing Dottore’s name is a hate crime in on itself, Childe is too repulsive to consider, Mona is a woman—

“You got me,” Scaramouche smiles at him. “Guess I do have one. You see your dad anywhere?”

Scaramouche stops, letting Ruu squint around the room of tired, stressed families of the victims. Ruu’s face is pained as he shakes his head.

“That’s okay,” Scaramouche says gently, “we can keep looking.”

He hikes Ruu a little farther up— the waiting room is packed with worried families, trying to flag down any nurse that walks past in hopes to track down where their loved one is. Scaramouche hopes that Ruu’s presence at his hip will be enough to keep the adults away from him. 

He doesn’t normally go in here when big accidents like this happen. He stays away, working with incoming Trauma in the TICU and far, far away from the worried families looking for wives and husbands and sons and daughters.

He can’t stand it. 

He can’t stand the idea of having to tell a father that his daughter is dead. Even worse, he can’t reassure people their kid is okay— their son is okay, telling a mother that her kid is safe. It makes him want to vomit. Niwa was always better at that.

Scaramouche can’t help but get lost in the idea of the past co-existing with his present. He can’t help but plead with world, with god, to give him another shot. He wants one more opportunity. He wants a redo.

Sometimes, it feels like he can still touch t what used to be his: like he’s on a carousel, and his old life is just out of reach. The smell of his mother’s silk clothing. A hand larger  than his own, careful against his skin. Dark hair and lavender lightning. 

“Tell me about your boyfriend,” Ruu insists. 

Scaramouche stiffens, trying to create a fake boyfriend in his mind. His head flits instantly to mint blue locks, piercingly ugly red eyes and a mouth of shark teeth. He shudders. Perhaps that was the harm in having your first relationship with Dottore. 

“He’s calm,” Scaramouche says uncertainly, trying to describe a man he thinks is the opposite of Dottore— everything he wished he could’ve had in Dottore. 

“Affable, kind of breezy,” Scaramouche thinks, “patient with me. Didn’t use me as a cutting board for practicing surgeries.”

“What does aff— affable mean?” Ruu scrunches his nose, letting Scaramouche drag the two around to an operating room. Perhaps his dad is also in care. 

“It means easy to talk to,” Scaramouche replies, “friendly. Do you know your dad’s name, Ruu?”

Ruu nods absentmindedly, playing with the bare, feebly discolored strands of Scaramouche’s hair. Scaramouche knocks on the ICU, poking his head in. One of the nurses’ flit to him in the door, taking note of the young boy on his hip. 

No luck, there either—Scaramouche purses his lips. He’s running out of places to try. 

“What does he look like? Is he as pretty?”

“‘Course,” Scaramouche says, starting to make his way back to the post-surgery ward. He’s almost offended— Scaramouche would never date an ugly guy. “He’s handsome. Say, handsome.”

“Han—“ Ruu scrunches his nose, “too hard.”

Scaramouche smiles easily. He’s always found himself to be kinder, looser around children. He gets along with the elderly and the youth just fine— sweetly, even. And perhaps he can put on a smiling face for the people in between, but it’s not the same, is it?

“That’s okay,” Scaramouche hums lightly, “it doesn’t matter, anyway… I guess he’s um, not too tall—“

Childe’s height is less than ideal. Often Scaramouche finds himself getting a neck cramp just trying to hold a conversation with him, and the same goes for Dottore: even more so. 

“— But still taller than me,” Scaramouche decides, now that he’s constructing his dream guy. “Very patient with me. Mild-mannered, but he can take control of a situation if needed to. Um, reflective and modest, but not a push-over.”

He’s lost in his thoughts, trying to construct someone he could see himself with. The guy who’s forming in his mind sounds substantially lame and pathetic: but Scaramouche doesn’t need someone to match his anger at the world, for he has plenty for both: just someone to douse to fire. 

He’s dazed, trying to list anything else he may have missed, when Ruu’s excited voice calls out, “That’s him— that’s my dad!”

Scaramouche blinks. A tall, aged japanese man is leaning heavily against the wall, dark black hair the same color of Ruu’s matted from the grime of the bridge collapse. 

Scaramouche almost feels relieved.  (And disappointed).

The man is all smiles and sweet, taking Ruu from Scaramouche’s aching hip and showering him with praise and love for finding his little boy. He laughs, too, when Scaramouche gives him his son’s bag and scarf, which are far more precious than any gold he’s ever held. It’s almost too much, all at once. (It is.) It makes his skin prickle uncomfortably and the corners of his eyes burn.

Ruu looks up at Scaramouche through the tangle of black curls on top of his head, his bright blue eyes big, trusting. It makes something twist painfully in Scaramouche’s stomach. 

It’s unfair— unfair, unfair, unfair. 

He never got to be in a position like Ruu’s. Never had his mother pat his hair, braid it and dress him in the morning. It’s bitter on his tongue— what would it feel like? 

Scaramouche wants his mother— not the mother he has, but the mother he wished she was. One that would take a ticket to America and hug him and tell him how strong he is for still being here after the shooting:  when he could have killed himself the first moment he got, because grief is infinitely more terrible than death. 

But isn’t he just like that? That idea, for he did lie as well: just now. Lied to Ruu, made up a stupid perfect guy to entertain him; was that so hard for his mother to do? To lie and say she cares, even if it cut her a million times to say so: because Scaramouche just lied, partook in a conversation that made Scaramouche feel more alone than ever. He doesn’t even know a guy like that—

He pauses.  Mild-mannered, polite, modest, patient. Tall, handsome, affable. 

Don’t you know someone like that?

Scaramouche is going to puke. This has to be some kind of sick, fucked up joke the world is playing on him. There’s nausea in this throat, standing in the middle of the hallway with a single thought of Kaedehara Kazuha in his head. 

The single idea, the thought in of itself of getting attached to someone is enough to make him physically ill. But Kazuha, with his smile like a lightbulb in the darkness and his laughter like a warm breeze, was enough to pull Scaramouche towards him like a moth flying into a flame.

He feels inexplicably lost. Scaramouche wouldn’t— no, of course. He doesn’t like someone— not Kaedehara. It’s infatuation, that’s all. 

Yes, Scaramouche reasons, that must be it. Call it whatever you will: obsession, the negative side effects of being touch-starved and attention deprived, anything but love. 

Yet still does the nagging feeling persist, even with his own explanation. He thinks, now, would be the moment when he would call his mother for advice, but seeing as that is not an option— perhaps his mother’s friend would be sufficient… yes, he thinks, Nahida would do. But Nahida is not an option– not at this time, when she’s probably snuggled up on charpai under a warm night in Pakistan. He’d have to wait for her to wake up.

The last time he’d called Nahida– well, it was a fiasco on his end. He was a tightly wound mess of heartache and sandpaper grating on his lungs. When you apply for a job, it’s not uncommon for a background check to be run on you. And certain things you can’t erase from the internet: like public cancellations, criminal records, and the fact that you were involved in one of the most blood chilling massacres in America.

Scaramouche remembers his heart dropping– even the photo, just the photo, of him at Niwa’s funeral was enough to make him itch all over. A crude photo of him in a jet black suit and an expression so neutral that you’d think he had no feelings. What the photo doesn’t show is how ugly his expression became when it was just him and Niwa: the things he said to that coffin that can’t be shown by a photo. His mind was a blank slate of grief and guilt. He wasn’t ready to pick up the pieces, so he stayed in bed for several days, watching as they grew colder. 

But that photo– being used against him in an interview– well, damn him if he didn’t lose it. Nahida had spent hours on the phone with him.

He feels dazed, as he makes his way back to TICU. Too many thoughts running around his mind and no Ruu to ground him to reality. He needs to get his head back into a working atmosphere, shake himself loose of threads and cloth and pick up a new pair of surgical gloves.

He scrubs in again, washing his hands and having Venti over to help him put on a pair of sterilized gloves. Scaramouche says nothing throughout it all. Venti’s face is twisted in concern, watching the way Scaramouche destroys himself in work. 

He shuffles around outside, getting ready to receive the patient from the paramedics. It’s a young girl this time, with long blonde hair and freckles. Her hair is matted with blood, green eyes heavily lidded as the trauma team rushes her inside– Scaramouche there with them, despite his head cloudy.

“Raiden–? Raiden!” 

“Temporal bone fracture,” Scaramouche says on autopilot, he’s slightly more aware of what’s happening around him now. The rush of the doctors and surgeons and nurses in an effort to save her life. “may have torn her dura.”

“Epidural hemorrhage,” Someone mutters, “she’ll need surgery to evacuate the bleeding.”

Scaramouche looks down at her, finding her green eyes wide, glassy and afraid. They lock briefly– right now, she is his patient, and he is responsible for her life. He can’t afford to zone out– not like this, when people need him. It’s like standing in a raging storm, waiting for the wind to blow you into the ground. 

“Set up an O.R,” Scaramouche says shortly, “you there– get an anesthesiologist, get Tighnari and pack the bleeding for him. I’ll assist.”

People are rushing around him, trying to maintain the girl while an emergency surgery gets set up. The girl’s chances of surviving are slim– Resection, cranial reconstruction, calvarial graft– but she doesn’t need to know that.

And assisting in surgery is good for him: it makes his brain so hectic, so busy that he can’t afford time to space out. He’s overloaded with tasks and the intensity of the O.R that his own thoughts and worries feel like they’re floating in space. It’s a coping mechanism– he can recognize that, at least. 

It helps, though– on the days that Scaramouche is angry at himself for still not being over Niwa, or his mother, or anything that happened in between then. It feels like he’s beating a dead horse.

He knows, logically, it was something traumatic, not something you cry over twice and get over. It’s something he’ll still be getting over when he’s thirty, fourty, fifty. It’s going to hurt, it’s going to ache, and it’s never going to stop. And if assisting in the O.R can get that shit away from him for more than ten seconds, it’s worth it. There were some things that couldn’t be fixed with just a knife or a scalpel. Scaramouche is no fool, he knows that much. But if there isn’t anything else in the world that can make the pain go away—that can get him to stop thinking about it, at least for a while— it’s all worth it. 

“Someone else assist,” someone says, “Raiden, you’re needed elsewhere.” 

Scaramouche stares coldly at him– gray hair, wrinkles– he oughta be in the grave already. “I’m assisting.”

“No, you aren’t,” the man says. Scaramouche narrows his eyes to read the small tag on his clothing. Dr. Pierce. “Go talk to Tighnari and have him walk you through a pericardial repair. I’ll get a different surgeon.”

Scaramouche doesn’t do pericardial repairs, and for very good reason. He hasn’t performed one since Niwa’s murder. He’s assisted and been assisted with other surgeries, but not pericardial repairs– he rejects each and every one of them. He doesn’t think he’ll do one ever in his life again. And to hell with Niwa for that, too–  leaving and taking not only himself away from Scaramouche, but pieces of his life. 

“I’m assisting. Move, Pierce.”

“The pericardial repair, Raiden,” Pierce warns. The young girl groans weakly, her heartbeat unstable and the sounds of the heart monitor like a clock in his ears. 

“Fine,” Scaramouche says icily, crossing his arms. Pierce stares firmly at him, “I won’t assist. Happy? But I’m not doing the pericardial repair. Have someone else do it.”

“No one is as qualified–”

“I don’t care,” Scaramouche snaps bluntly, “I don’t give a fuck. Not one, do you hear me? Find someone else.” 

He twists on his heel, shoving past nurses and carts and papers. His skin feels like it’s on fire.

He needs to be in an O.R right now. His mind is a mess, hopping from one issue to another like wild rabbits– his mother, to Kazuha, to Niwa: he needs to find a way to shut it off. Give him a second of normalcy and peace, which only an O.R can provide.

Scaramouche purses his lips. He scrubs out, tugging off his blue scrubs and disposing of his blood-ridden gloves. His loose black sweatpants are back on, hanging around his hips. He knows he’s being dumb– he has to get over this soon, this irrational fear of a pericardial repair. But he’s scared– he can admit it, at least. He’s terrified. Because if he succeeds; if the surgery goes flawlessly, it means he could have done it on Niwa. He would have lived.

Scaramouche grits his teeth. He feels as though he’s hopped through a million emotions and feelings in the past four hours: and he’s late for his shift at the grocery store, tired of this damn hospital and surgeries and blood and treatment. He wants to go home and take a clean, cold shower. 

He sits in his car, breathing heavily. He slumps over, letting his head hit the wheel of his car. The leather is unforgiving to his skin, rubbing angrily across his forehead. Wow, this is– truly pathetic. Scaramouche is moping in his car: how utterly risible.

He goes back to Japan in a week, his flight booked for the 16th: just after his quarter-finals. Kazuha’s nationals game is on the 21st, and his plane ticket back is early hours of the same day; so if he wants to go, it’d be a close thing, but… he could, reasonably, make it. 

And he wants to go. He wants to do the stupid things that typical high school girlfriends do for their boyfriends: he wants the dumb pom-poms, the foam finger, and the kiss afterward. He wants it so bad. He wants it all. 

Scaramouche breathes out slowly. If he wants to be able to make it to Kazuha’s nationals game, he needs to take baby steps. Build up his tolerance for adrenaline and prolonged skin-to-skin contact. There’s another smaller, less competitive hockey game coming up in a few days from now: just short of his plane ticket. If he can go there, maybe… maybe he stands a chance. 

He steels himself. Baby steps, Scaramouche. Having his week planned out in front of him quells the thunderstorm in his mind only barely, still whirling with emotions that don’t belong there and mixing with every other thought that prolonged it’s stay. His fingers find his phone quickly, dialing Kazuha’s number with a hunger that seems unmatched.

He picks up on the second ring. There’s loud noises in the back, yelling, shouting, and otherwise commotion that makes Scaramouche’s already impending headache worsen. The noises quieten down after a second, presumably Kazuha moving to a quieter location.

“Scaramouche.” 

His voice filters through the earpiece, and Scaramouche turns his head, still resting on the steering wheel, towards his phone on the gear shift, “Kazuha.”

He’s sure his voice is wrecked, tired from the shitshow of a shift he had. Kazuha picks up on it immediately– he’s like that, a man who can read Scaramouche scarily well. “What’s wrong?”

Scaramouche takes a deep breath, rubbing his temples, “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“You sound like you are about to cry.”

“No, I’m not,” Scaramouche grits out. He lies flatly as always, but this time it’s because of his own exhaustion rather than anything he has said, though it doesn’t seem like it was possible to get any more exhausted. The headache has finally subsided enough that it no longer feels like he can’t breathe right and his chest aches, though he doesn’t really know why, as if an airtight container had been left open inside of him.

The line goes silent for several seconds, “You are not fooling me, I am afraid.”

It’s frustrating, the way Scaramouche knows he sees right through him. But there’s nothing left but anger, frustration, and bitterness for him to see. 

Scaramouche swallows the lump in his throat. “It was just a bad day, that’s all. I’ve had worse. I assume we’re still on for movie night?”

His words aren’t convincing. He knows, though. He feels the way his throat aches, and his skin prickles with goosebumps as he presses his thumb against it and tries to ease the tension by rubbing his eyes. 

“Yes,” Kazuha replies, seemingly smiling, “we are. I can order us some food– there’s a small Chinese restaurant near here, the owner is rather lovely. I find her view on cultural cuisine to be refreshing and a refreshing change of pace. I once had the pleasure of having a very introspective conversation with her over the variance of Japanese and Chinese dining traditions…”

Scaramouche lets Kazuha drone on, putting the car in drive and pulling out of Michigan Reed hospital’s shitty parking area for employees. Kazuha’s voice is melodic in his ear, soothing over his fears. Scaramouche’s hands twitch on the wheel at the thought of his earlier musings. 

“Oh,” Kazuha says suddenly, “I hope you are not under the impression that I have dropped the matter of your poor mood. We can talk about it when you get here, if you’d like.”

Scaramouche groans as an answer, which is enough to Kazuha, who continues to describe the dissimilarities between cultural dining traditions to a half-responding Scaramouche.

Despite all he’s done to ease his nerves, there’s a pit in his stomach. He has a terrible, terrible feeling about all of this. 

The next two weeks couldn’t pass quicker.

Chapter Text

“You know, no one’s forcing you to go. I don’t understand why you’ve gotten yourself all worked up.”

Scaramouche glares at her. Mona is every bit as annoying as she was when he first met her. Her incessant chatter and headache inducing speech patterns only serve to make him feel worse than he already does. Though he feels as if someone took a mallet and hammered his head into the ground repeatedly, they’ve always been on speaking terms.

“It’s not about being forced,” he replies irritably, “I don’t think someone like you could understand.”

“Is that so,” Mona sniffs, “fine, but bother not to call me then.”

Scaramouche shifts, shooting daggers with his eyes in her general direction. He’s been fully dressed and sitting on Childe’s gaming chair for over an hour now. His sneakers are held loosely in his right hand as he stares at them with disdain. 

Childe has already left the house, embodying the pinnacle image of a late college boy: complete with the half cooked toast in his mouth, his tie undone, and mismatched socks. The only difference is that it’s nearly three in the afternoon and not six in the morning. 

The game starts at four, so Scaramouche should be there at three to find a good seat, but he’s so ridden with anxiety that he’s been sitting fully dressed for the past hour. 

“You’re not helping,” Scaramouche says, sapphire irises icy with scorn. 

“Oh, is that what I’m meant to be doing?” Mona raises an eyebrow thoughtfully. The dark blue silk of her blouse ripples over her shoulders in a way that would entice any man that wasn’t Scaramouche and makes him ever so glad she is not accompanying him. 

Scaramouche turns away from her wordlessly: he can’t be bothered to beseech her with a response. Adrenaline used to be his bread and butter once upon a time, and now he can’t even think about crowds and skin-on-skin touch without getting nauseous. 

He moves for the first time in slightly over an hour, giving Mona a brief glance before he heads downstairs to pick up a glass of water. The T.V is still running, some news channel covering a mass casualty. He lets it run in the back, filling up a cold glass of water from the dispenser: he can’t stand the taste of tap water. It makes him gag, and call him whatever you’d like– picky, entitled, or anything worse, he’d snort paprika and soy sauce before he drinks tap water.

Mona is still upstairs, hanging around normally as she does. He thinks, briefly, as he flips through T.V channels in all kinds of languages, he should call Nahida now. 

He wants to drop by Kazuha’s again before the game, like they planned, but Scaramouche just feels bed-ridden with anxiety. He wants to go– he does. He does, he does, he does: and yet, he doesn’t. 

It’s funny, that way. The plans you make when you don’t want to go because you know once upon a time you would have wanted to go. This is a baby step, and yet it feels like a leap to him. He finishes his glass, shutting the television off. He’s prepared for every possibility– down to his outfit: baggy cargo pants and a short tank top for when he inevitably overheats from a panic attack, an anxiety attack, a trauma response, or anything in between. Really, it’s all fair game.

There’s a disgusting mixture of anxiety spiking through his veins, a dull ache in his heart, and an overwhelmingly terrible feeling of wanting to cry. His bones, his blood and his body feel heavy from the cold from the floorboards— seeping into his very being.

He doesn’t bother saying goodbye to Mona, too lazy to offer her anything more than ringing the doorbell a few times to signal that he’s leaving. He grabs his car keys, a zip-up hoodie, his phone and a pair of earbuds. He sits in his car for a few minutes, trying to decide whether or not he goes and drives to Kazuha’s as planned, or he drives off a cliff. One looks much more appealing than the other.

He wants to break something, and he wants to cry. He does neither.

He feels disgustingly pathetic. He lets his phone connect to the bluetooth speakers of the car, ready to play something that will negate the feeling of wanting to drive this car into an unfortunate telephone poll. He doesn’t, though– he ought to call Nahida before all else. 

He sends Kazuha a small text to signify he’s on his way, and then rings Nahida before he can think better of it. He knows a scandalized, much more calm version of him is baffled at how easily he folded, but his nerves are going haywire and he would prefer that Kazuha not see him like that. Even thinking about their first encounter in the boys locker room is enough to make him cringe with embarrassment.

Nahida’s voice is thick with sleep when she picks up. There’s the clattering of pots and pans, the dragging of wood against concrete in the back. “Hello?”

“Buer,” Scaramouche says, “Wake up. It’s me.”

“Oh,” she says, “Scaramouche. I wasn’t expecting you to call so early. Is everything alright? And— how many times do I have to tell you? It’s Nahida, not Buer.”

“Whatever,” Scaramouche replies, “I don’t care. And I’m fine. I need— ugh, I need… some… words of wisdom.”

Nahida’s giggle is clear as day. “You can say you need help, Scara. It’s not belittling to me.”

Scaramouche breathes heavily through his nose for a brief moment. He absolutely hates this— the feeling of helplessness, to rely on someone. He shudders. He hates the feeling of… feelings. 

“Is everything alright?” Nahida asks again, probably sandwiching her phone between her ear and shoulder. Mornings in Pakistan tended to be slower than usual: if she slept on the roof that night, she’d have to put the charpai away— which was a sport in itself. 

“I don’t know.”

“Is this related to…?”

“Kind of,” Scaramouche replies, frustrated, “I don’t know— Buer, I… wow, this is terrible. Can’t you pull the phone away from your ear or something?”

“It’s that bad?” Nahida’s voice comes from other line, alarmed. She seems to sit up straighter, the noise of running water in the back.

“I think I… like a guy,” he gags. He can hear Nahida’s small huff of amusement, “so now I’m on my way to his hockey game—“

“—but you can’t stand adrenaline or skin to skin contact,” Nahida finishes thoughtfully— Scaramouche has called about this before, “interesting.”

The line goes quiet for a long while, nothing but the breathing and noncommittal thinking on Nahida’s end and the occasional excess sounds of driving on Scaramouche’s end. The silence gives way to thought.

As long as he continued like this, he would keep going. He’s waited for a moment like this forever: where he gets to this point. Yet he keeps on waiting, though he knows it’ll never happen: that feeling of doing something, anything, without being worried that he’ll drown in everything he has piled at the door. He watches cars speed past his window as he waits for the light to turn green: bicycles and motorbikes for one moment, look completely familiar to him. The next they seemed utterly strange.

He can see the humble beginnings of Kazuha’s apartment complex come into view. The lights are on, loud laughter leaking out from the crack under the door. If he squints, he can see Kazuha in the window. 

Nahida is still thinking, letting out noncommittal hums every now and then when Scaramouche leans back and crosses his arms.

“Well? Are you going to say anything?”

“Oh,” she says, “my apologies, I… suppose I didn’t realize I got lost in thought. I think…. the course of truth lies only through a zigzag course through the disputations of rival theories.”

“And that means?” Scaramouche asks impatiently, eyes flickering to Kazuha’s laughing face through the window.

“You won’t know until you try,” she says simply, “so try, Scaramouche. Try again and again and again. I’m certain you remember what you told me the night Niwa died? You said, ‘I’m sorry for—“

“—not hugging Niwa longer because I thought we had more time,” Scaramouche finishes, feeling oddly empty. “Yeah. And what of it?”

He remembers that call. Pieces of that night come back to him with shattered edges: the shooting, the club, and then crying to Nahida on the phone so hard he almost puked. He remembers now: his voice sounding like it belonged to someone else entirely, a man he didn’t recognize until that moment to be him. He was so used to speaking in an emotionless monotone. 

“You have him right now, so hold onto him,” Nahida stresses, “ Scaramouche, this baggage you carry— it will not go away for a long time. It may never go away. It’s not a thing you cry twice over and move on from. It will plague you, it will hurt you, and it will test your grip on your loved ones. So dig your claws into that boy, and don’t ever let him go.”

“How does this relate?” Scaramouche rubs his temple, “I need you to tell me to— not go to the game. Tell me to— to—“

His eyes raise again to see Kazuha smile warmly through the window, looking off at something or someone that’s not in Scaramouche’s line of sight. Bile rises in his throat. 

He doesn’t wait for Nahida to say something. He doesn’t do anything. He just sits there, sits in his car, and waits for the time to pass. He waits for the game to start to have the excuse that he was officially late and not going to make it. He watches the digital clock on the car and prays for it to move quicker, for the minutes to speed him by in a blur. When Nahida collects her thoughts again, he’s still sitting there, just watching the time progress so painfully slow.

“Tell me it’s a bad idea.”

“I can’t,” Nahida says, “It’s— you and I both know you can’t hide forever. You may as well start the long, arduous process of exposure therapy.”

“Buer,” Scaramouche interrupts, picking obsessively at the leather of his car. He can feel his palms sweating nervously, “tell me not to go.”

Nahida sighs, but she doesn't say anything more. He knows he’ll turn into a mess when the game begins, and yet it feels as though he’s destroying himself more by sitting here and doing nothing. Hockey stadiums– the ice, the rink, they’re homely to him only when no-one else is there, because he doesn’t belong there. He doesn’t fit in that place, that room, with those people. The walls look cold and unforgiving than familiar, like they could crumble away and swallow him up without a second thought.

“Don’t go.”  Nahida says quietly, and yet the coldness in his stomach stays there.

The words are of little comfort. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel, nails biting into the rubber until they bleed, and all he can hear is blood rushing in his ears. He’s afraid; he never has been before and there’s an inexplicable fear clawing at him. He wants – no, he desperately needs – for this to be the one time where something good happens. The first moment that proves that he can do this. But he knows all too well that sometimes life doesn’t work out that way.

“It’s a hockey game,” Nahida says, “A hockey game at a regular college with regular people playing. Nothing will happen. Believe in it.”

Well– that’s the thing, isn’t it? A hospital is that too, a regular building with regular employees and regular patients. It’s not like there's an itinerary for what gets shot up. You just have to cross your fingers and pray that the meteorite misses your house.

And that’s what he does, too. He bids Nahida goodbye, slamming the door shut behind him as he crawls ungracefully out of the car. Each step feels like a world away from his safe space, sending an uncomfortable itch down his spine. 

He’s worried about all that could go wrong— all that will go wrong. He remembers, vividly, this kind of paranoia. A paranoia he hasn’t felt since he first ran away. The kind that eats at you and feeds on your fear. The kind that takes away your common sense and rips it apart like deer to a lion. 

The train tracks had been unforgiving on his skin, so much colder than anything he’s felt before. They had been harsher than Miko’s words, and felt lonelier than Ei’s presence. They were a cruel reminder of just how far he’s ran. 

There was blood, too— dripping from cuts and bruises he’d acquired from jumping off the train ungracefully. He had been traveling across the country— a plane ticket from Japan only took him as far as the far east coast of America. He’d landed in Dallas airport in Virginia, and then spent a week cab-hopping, hostel renting, and surviving on 7-11 slushies and candy bars to make his way a little further.

He remembers squinting at a road sign nearby. Looks like Michigan is as far as he could crawl, bleed, and fight to. 

He’s refused help from any employee who asked. He was terrified— what if it was someone Miko had hired to drag him back? Back to silent rooms and empty conversations and dinner parties and everything he detested? And so Scaramouche had cut his hair; changed his name, overhauled the way he dressed. Gone were his long, strikingly violet locks and white silks. In its place was sleek, short midnight hair and a terrible temper.

“Oh— are you okay? Can you hear me?”

Scaramouche remembers looking up blearily, shoving himself away from the outstretched arm and the concerned golden eyes. 

“Stay still, alright? I’m getting help—“ Scaramouche’s vision blurs, wavers and refocuses. The stranger looks like the sun. “Hey, eyes on me. What’s your name?”

Scaramouche had coughed blood, staining dehydrated lips with incriminating dark red. “I don’t… know.”

“That’s okay,” the stranger had said, “I’m Niwa Hisahide. Stay awake, alright?”

The not-stranger had scooped Scaramouche up, frighteningly light, and held him all the way to his small, two bedroom apartment because Scaramouche, even in his battered, shredded state had kicked and screamed at the idea of getting professional treatment. He’d been laid down and he dreamt on that not-stranger’s dark red blankets. He wishes he’d never woken up from that dream. 

He stares now, at Kazuha’s relieved face and the commotion behind him. The cool air stings like needles on his arm, staring at Kazuha with dead eyes and a hand on the doorknob.

“Scaramouche,” Kazuha smiles now, “you made it. You had me worried.”

“What can I say,” Scaramouche replies flatly, as if he hadn’t been digging his claws into his arm a second ago, “I’m a man of my word.”

“So you are,” Kazuha replies, calmly. He tugs Scaramouche inside, letting him slip off his shoes. There’s a few people here already that Scaramouche doesn’t recognize, and a few he does. His eyes scan over some of the hockey players he knows in passing, his gaze landing on—

“It’s you!” The boy blurts— the one with fake moles and hair so maroon it oughta be a wig. His eyes are wide as he stares at Scaramouche, only barely through the door.

“It’s you,” Scaramouche shudders, recoiling in disgust.

“Ah, you’re already acquainted with Heizou?” Kazuha asks, blinking between them, “how wonderful.”

“No— this is that one guy!” Heizou points repeatedly, juggling the plate of chips in his off hand, “that guy who called the foul during the VSU game— the hockey fanboy!”

“The what?” Scaramouche repeats, scandalized. 

There’s another girl in the room— with long, flowing locks of platinum pink hair. She pipes up then, “I thought you had said that was a girl?” 

“Actually, I do remember that as well.” Kazuha adds, amused as his eyes flick between Scaramouche’s sulk and Heizou’s accusatory pointing.

Scaramouche’s hands twitch. Kazuha takes that moment to introduce him to everyone in the room: Sangonomiya, a calm and sweet paramedic with a particular affinity for blood, Shikanoin, a terrible, over-the-top cringe-worthy Osamu Dazai wannabe criminology major– then there was Gorou, a photography major with a slight obsession with dogs.

Heizou brings out chips and soda, falling into easy conversation. There’s a chessboard and snakes and ladders scattered on the ground, amongst other games and VHS tapes. Scaramouche looks away– he can’t remember the last time he played a game that wasn’t a mind game on himself. He remembers the last time he visited Nahida, and she had brought out her tattered, falling apart Ludo board. It may have been the worst two hours of his life.

Kazuha’s friends talk about Kazuha’s upcoming hockey game or about the competition for nationals that’s coming in a week– Heizou talks about planning a party should Northwood win: something small, a few friends, drinks, and one of those disco balls with the fractured lights that illuminate everyone’s flaws. They jump topic to topic, Scaramouche chipping in his own two cents every now and then. Somewhere along the way, Kazuha slips his hockey jersey into Scaramouche’s hands. 

“Scara,” Kazuha says lazily, watching Shikanoin lose to Sangonomiya— who happened to be scarily good at strategy games. “could I be so bold?”

Scaramouche hums disdainfully in response. He feels much more calm now— sitting here in Kazuha’s presence. The waves of panic have receded into a dull, small pond. 

Kazuha shoves something large and made of an uncomfortable, terrible leather material into his hands. He thumbs slender fingers over the article, tracing the stitches and embroidered words. Kazuha’s family name is engraved into the jacket, in big bold letters and printed in dark red. 

“You aren’t obligated to wear it, of course,” Kazuha says, watching Scaramouche’s face intently, “but I do hope you at least hold onto it for me.”

It takes him a moment of blinking before comprehension dawns on him. Kazuha’s face is nervous, searching Scaramouche’s face for any sign of discomfort or disinterest. Scaramouche is aware he has the world’s most intensely terrible resting bitch face– he knows. He knows that he looks like the devil’s wife when he hasn’t got something showing on his face. The full lips, the narrowed eyes, the porcelain skin and sloped nose– all of his features contribute to the curse, resulting in a living shadow of himself. 

Scaramouche looks at Kazuha, raising his eyebrow, “Would you like me to wear a pair of matching fuzzy pom poms, too?”

It’s a stupid thing to say, and one he would not expect from someone who wears the color black every day. But the way his heart speeds up just slightly when Kazuha smiles with that one dimple– it’s enough to make him disregard feeling stupid about asking.

But Kazuha– damn that boy, he looks lost in thought. 

“It would be a nice look,” Kazuha muses, “my own personal cheerleader. Isn’t that a pleasing thought?”

This guy is fucking crazy.

The next hour passes in a blur– Kazuha’s friends are inviting, and they dull the nausea in Scaramouche's chest. A small part of him wants to tell them to go away and leave him alone—he feels as though he can breathe a little better once they’re gone – but a larger part of him is grateful for this distraction.

The minutes trickle past them, the weight of time’s pressure only feeling heavier. Scaramouche dozes off at some point, too– content to listen to the sound of laughter from the kitchen from people he doesn’t know. Kazuha stays awake– he has to, considering it’s his game. He traces Scaramouche’s face as he sleeps, watching his restless movements that transcended sleep. Even when he wakes, a half hour later, he sits side by side with Kazuha. They head out briefly afterwards, Scaramouche cuddling up in Kazuha’s jersey.

Scaramouche’s chest is warm. It’s a feeling he hasn’t seen in ages, and it’s a wonderful sensation that makes him almost happy for the first time in years. His chest feels like it’s filled with molten gold. It makes his body feel light like helium, the weight of which washes away as soon as his eyes are opened. He can smell the earthy scent of grass and soil and the sweet scents that come with freshly mown hay and newly plowed fields as they all pile into Heizou’s car. 

The engine hums with excitement, and there’s the sound of people laughing somewhere in the background of the car. Scaramouche leans his head against the window as Heizou turns up the radio on the radio, trying to hear what’s playing. He settles for just humming along as they drive to campus.

“You alright?” Kazuha hums, “You seem distracted.”

“Yeah,” Scaramouche inhales, leaning into Kazuha. “I’m… I’m okay.”

He’s not. The warm, happy feeling in his chest dissipates with every mile the car travels towards campus. Heizou drives them to the stadium and Scaramouche climbs into the bleachers— Heizou keeping a firm grip on his back to push him through the crowd— with the rest of the spectators while Kazuha runs off to change. Kokomi and Gorou split off elsewhere, bidding hasty goodbyes to Heizou. 

Scaramouche settles onto the front of the bleachers– as close he can get to the action without being suffocated by people. He catches some surprised and confused looks at the jersey on his back– it’s to be expected: Kazuha is well known.

Heizou is next to him again– though this time, not as a stranger. He keeps Scaramouche grounded as the game begins and Kazuha and his team skate onto the ice– looking enchantingly handsome with his hair tied and an uncharacteristically solemn look on his face. 

In the first half, Kauzha and one of his teammates both manage to score two goals each, and there’s a brief intermission, the teams meeting on the sidelines as the band and orchestra perform a very inappropriately timed instrumental cover of Kali Uchis’ Moonlight. Scaramouche leans back, letting out a breath of air he didn’t know he was keeping.

The match had been going on for at least fifteen minutes, and the gameplay was fierce, but clean. Scaramouche’s nausea would erupt at certain points again– mostly when either team would score and the crowd would scream with relief or groan with disappointment. The only thing keeping him at bay was the prominent, ever-overbearing smell of Kazuha’s cologne on his jacket. The students were right in their interest, whenever Scaramouche could bear to watch – both teams were pulling out good moves and were matched in strength. The deciding factor would be the time.

Kazuha’s grin was sharp and feral as he scored again, and he caught Kazuha’s eye, who’s expression softened into a smile. A group of girls sitting near Scaramouche shout back, screaming and blushing. Scaramouche's intense, scrunched up face drops into a unimpressed look, and Kazuha lets out a laugh on the ice.

Heizou’s snort is loud in his ear over the ruckus of the stadium. “Man, Kazuha’s really got it today, huh?”

Another section of the stadium erupts in groans as the puck slides out of reach of Childe, bypassing Kaeya and into the goal. Kazuha is shoved lightly, buckling into Childe briefly and Scaramouche’s breathing picks up.

But– he’s fine. He’s upright a second later, back in the game as the puck resets. Howls of disappointment continue, reacting appropriately to whatever is happening on the ice. The game gets rougher and quicker as the clock races them. It’s 10-21 in favor of Northwood University, but the other team is pushing hard. The players are starting to play dirty– Scaramouche scowls at the fouls piling up, the jabs to skates and shins and shoulder-checking. 

There’s two minutes on the clock, counting down to the end. Heizou is pre-celebrating, shouting, That’s it, call the game– and Scaramouche feels inclined to agree. His chest feels light, lighter than before. Nothing bad happened. Nothing at all.

He pushes himself upright, forcing himself to watch the rest of the game– though It’ll be pretty insane if the other team manages to score twice in such a short time period– especially when the puck is in NWU’s possession. Especially with the puck in Kazuha’s possession. Kazuha steadies himself, lining his stick to pass to defense. The clock counts down.

It counts down, and then it doesn’t. Not for Scaramouche.

A player crashes into Kazuha– he stumbles, the puck sliding widely out of his control. He slips– crashing into Childe next to him. There’s a pained cry, and then a second person’s knee jabs into him, his stick hitting Kazuha in the head. Hard. The game goes on briefly– not until Kaeya abandons post to rush over. He’s the first to reach them, shaking Kazuha and shouting.

Scaramouche feels like he can’t breathe. People are crowding around Kazuha and Childe and the other two people involved– Scaramouche can see blood on the ice. Blood on the stick. Blood.

Scaramouche’s nausea comes back in full force. He feels bile in his throat, and he’s already out of his seat before Heizou pulls him back.

“Stop– stop!” Heizou shouts, “They need a medic! You’re only going to make it worse—“

“I am a medic!” Scaramouche shouts back. His throat is tight, clogged with panic, “I’m–“

He whips around. Kazuha’s head is bleeding— so prominent against his white hair. Blood drops onto the ice, smearing against clothing and skates like a crime scene. He’s conscious.

But in a lot of pain. Kazuha groans, trying to turn onto his side before Childe presses him down with panicked fingers, shouting something. His vision is dark but hey— at least they win. He would have been rather embarrassed if they lost the one game he managed to get Scaramouche to come to.

His head throbs. He doesn’t recall hitting the ground, but there’s metal in his mouth, exploding pain in his head. It feels like he’s been shot. 

Childe is hissing in pain next to him, clutching his ribs. Kaeya is frantically shouting for a paramedic, for someone to call 911. He doesn’t understand, not until he sees the massive pool of blood around his head. His eyes squint, focusing barely onto the hockey stick laying innocently a meter away. Noises are muffled, his ears ring, and the stadium is blinding to him as Kaeya hoists him up, holding him upright. 

“Kazuha?” Kaeya asks, and his voice sounds like it’s underwater. Kazuha’s head swims. He tries to turn his head, and bile rises in his throat. “Try not to move so much. You—“

“I…” Kazuha coughs heavily, “Who…?”

“Childe got a pretty bad hit to the ribs, but he’ll be just fine,” Kaeya says, cushioning Kazuha’s head with his hands. Blood soaks into Kaeya’s gloves, “and you… we called 911, but the paramedics can’t seem to get through the crowd—“

Kazuha grabs a handful of Kaeya’s jersey, “K…Kaeya, Do not— under any circumstance, let Scaramouche treat me.”

Childe squints next to him. He’s conscious too, still struggling to get up on the ice. Every movement he makes causes Kazuha’s head to spin as Childe talks, clutching his chest in pain, “What?” 

Kazuha’s hands are cold— terrifyingly cold against the ice, “Not… not Scaramouche.”

His head burns, his skull feeling like he had a passenger plane sitting on his cranium. His vision swirls between blurred and clear– maybe it’s the dirt and copious amounts of blood on his face that Kaeya tries to wipe away. His ears are ringing, which only makes his head hurt more. 

He can’t explain it— not in detail right now. But If Scaramouche treats him— it’s another to add to the list. He doesn’t need to put Scaramouche in a position where he has to help someone he loves. Not again.

Scaramouche, however— pushing his way through the crowd, rolling up the sleeves of Kazuha’s jersey runs into Kaeya. His hair is mussed and his eyes wide with panic. Childe intercepts him when Scaramouche makes a move to barrel towards Kazuha— bleeding liquid gold on the ice. 

“Hey, ” Childe says, holding Scaramouche urgently, “woah, hey hey hey — hey, stop. ”

Scaramouche’s gaze is ice cold, piercingly hurtful as he roughly shoves Childe’s chest. Childe coughs in pain, groaning as Scaramouche’s fist makes contact with the broken ribs. 

He staggers back and looks at Scaramouche, who is staring back with a face so dark, it could be the night sky. His eyes are like shards of black glass, glittering menacingly, “Move, Childe.”

Childe holds his chest in a futile attempt to soothe himself, gritting his teeth when Scaramouche advances again. "Ow, hey—  ow! Stop. I need you to listen, alright? He—“

Scaramouche’s eyes snap back to Kazuha again, limp and gritting his teeth in pain as Kaeya applies pressure to his bloodied head. He makes to move again, eyes glossy and scared. 

“Look— he,” Childe grabs Scaramouche’s forearms again, who makes a noise of anger. He’s still struggling— he could probably one-up Childe, but Childe is wearing skates right now and Scaramouche is not. After another painful blow to his shoulder, he rips off the bandaid, “He specifically asked for someone that wasn’t you, okay?”

Scaramouche stops then. His hand grips Childe’s arm, and Childe truly, fully, has not a single idea what might be running through his head. What thoughts grip him. At this moment: Childe wonders, if Scaramouche was always like this— with eyes as flat as a sharks, sky blue darkened with cloudy resentment. 

Scaramouche is breathing heavily. 

“He said that?”

Childe nods. There’s commotion behind him, people crowding around the fallen players. And he barely gets another word out as the paramedics rush through, pushing past Scaramouche and Childe and every other person to get to Kazuha. It’s a flood of paramedics, stretchers, everything in between. Childe catches a glimpse of Scaramouche’s expression before he himself is tugged off to the side to be tended to. 

He’s quiet as the medic sets his ribs. What a horrifying expression to see on Scaramouche.

Damn Kazuha. Damn Kazuha— and curse his ever present… Kazuha-ness — and everything in between.

Damn his ichor blood and his unyielding strength and his stupidly attractive eyes. Damn him for the way he made Scaramouche feel about him. It wasn’t fair of him to like him like this—to be so infatuated with a man who only existed in novels and manga. To love him in every aspect he could.

Scaramouche pushes through the crowd, ignoring Heizou’s shouts. The crowd parts like butter for him, and he stumbles forward. The night is cold outside the campus, and his eyes burn with the heat of a thousand burning coals, but he cannot feel any chill as he shivers beneath Kazuha’s letterman jacket.

Scaramouche has no intention of stopping, but Heizou is fast and manages to catch him by his wrist before he gets too far. He doesn’t let go as Scaramouche tries to wrench it out. Heizou is panting too, trying to catch his breath and failing completely. It takes him a few moments before he can form words again.

“Scaramouche– Scara, stop,” Heizou pants, crashing into some poor lady in the doorway. He apologizes quickly, trying to catch up to Scaramouche. “What are you doing? Where are you going?”

Scaramouche comes to an abrupt halt, letting Heizou cling onto his shoulders like some kind of kid. He fishes Heizou’s car keys out of his shorts, pushing Kazuha’s jacket off his shoulders ungracefully and throwing it angrily on the passenger seat. Heizou tails him to the other side of the car, watching with concern as Scaramouche ignites the engine.

“I’m going to Michigan Reed,” Scaramouche says shortly, “Move out of the way. I need to pull out.”

“Scara–”

Scaramouche cranks the car into drive, digging his heel onto the accelerator. The engine roars to life and he throws the vehicle into reverse. He’s out of the driveway before he even knows he is moving, taking a sharp left on a dead end street as he speeds away, the roar of his wheels echoing down the deserted streets. His breath hisses through his teeth as he accelerates further.

“Wait—“ Heizou shouts after him, “what about my car, man?”

Scaramouche’s face is locked, set in as he drives. He didn’t lie— he is heading to Michigan Reed, and he is going to do a shift. 

Blunt nails dig into the leather of the wheel, Scaramouche’s teeth worrying his bottom lip. There is a memory of his months-younger self standing in an airport, air stale and filled with a cacophony of voices from too many people cramped up in the hall. The hesitation, the longing to leave Japan— the stolen glances at the airport terminal entrance like Ei was going to barge in and scold him for even trying to leave. But that part didn’t happen, and perhaps that was the worst of all.

And yet— he was foolish. That never changed. 

Ei never named him. She never really gave him a name, not really— she barely paid him enough attention for him to require one. Kunikuzushi was a name he’d given himself in spite— He’d gone by Kabukimono for much longer. And now he was Scaramouche. He could be none of them in a year’s time. And yet, through them all, not one of them have been written down on his legal papers– because he continues to be foolish, waiting for Ei to name him still.

And he’s foolish now, too. He knows he's driving too fast down the street, pulse ticking and heart aching, but all rationality has bled away. He needs to get to Michigan Reed— it feels like a race against the clock to get there before the ambulance does: before Kazuha does. 

He stirs the car over porous asphalt. Time scatters like sand and the flat black of the night sky feels daunting as it wraps around the car. He cannot trust Kazuha in the hands of others.

The pedal eats into his toes, and the stinging pain is enough to bring abrupt clarity. His whole body seizes in panic as he slams the brakes to park the car at the curb— his seatbelt burns into his chest.

It’s silent. 

He clambers out of his car anyway. He takes Kazuha’s letterman jacket with him, too, not content to leave it lonely and cold in Heizou’s crumbling car. Under the bright, fluorescent lights of the hospital, he stumbles in, passing through the waiting room for worried fathers and trembling mothers. 

His chest feels overloaded with emotions. He can hardly breathe— each inhale feels like sandpaper on his heart, shaving him down until he’s nothing but blood. 

But Kazuha… Kazuha can bear him in all of his wilted glory, with blood crusted fingers and tear-streaked face. And that is something worth fighting for. Something worth living for. And it has truly been— so very long, since Scaramouche last lived. 

— “He specifically asked for someone that wasn’t you!”

But he thinks of me as fragile. Scaramouche thinks bitterly. The thoughts are like glycerin poison in his head. Or he doesn’t think I am capable. How laughable. 

He almost doesn’t know which one is worse. Well– if he wants to prove his worth, his usefulness (because the two are inexplicably connected in his mind)-- he’ll do just that. Still the notion of it– a million theories fly like a flock of birds through his head, each worse than the last. 

He doesn’t understand what Kazuha meant. Was he calling him weak– incapable, fragile, brittle… originally Scaramouche had assumed the worst, though now as he thinks over it a little more cautiously, he thinks it could be a lot worse.  All the more reason to help Kazuha, he thinks, if not to get an answer, and definitely not because Scaramouche likes him. He almost gags at the thought. 

“Scara?” Someone calls out, incredulous, “I thought you weren’t coming today?”

Scaramouche doesn’t respond, changing into a medical gown so quickly he can feel his fingers stuttering through the process. People are pushing past him as if he’s driftwood in the ocean. His pale yellow medical gown encompasses him the same way Kazuha’s jacket did, but scarily devoid of the warmth the latter provided. Scaramouche pushes himself outside, joining the rest of the residents as they wait for the incoming ambulance.

“Raiden?” One of the residents— or the interns, Scaramouche can never tell— squints at him, “aren’t you supposed to be at home?”

“You ask too many questions,” Scaramouche replies, shooting a dirty look. 

This is why he can’t handle the pressure and headache of taking interns, despite how many times Tighnari has asked him to. It takes a while to know Scaramouche— but when you do, you easily come to learn that he gets ticked off by the slightest of things. Which is not a good fit for taking on interns— not the way Scaramouche sees it, with residents and certified doctors being hounded with questions by their respective interns like deer to a wolf pack. 

Scaramouche turns to the group. “You two,” he points, “stay here and wait with me for the incoming case. You,” he points at a tall boy with brown hair, “page Venti and tell him to set up a CT scan.”

The last girl in the group, a young woman with dark blue hair, jumps. “What about me? I’ve always wanted to work under you.”

Scaramouche spares her a look, “You… you can get me a coffee.”

She opens her mouth, cut off by the wailing sirens that seep into the air. Scaramouche snaps out of it, rushing towards the ambulance with his heart in his throat and anticipation in his lungs. The paramedics swing the ambulance door open, and Scaramouche makes brief eye contact with them before his eyes snap to the stretcher. 

Kazuha looks handsome even in blood.

He’s conscious still, hissing silently as he struggles to reassure the paramedics he’s perfectly fine. The paramedics jump down to meet him halfway, but he pushes them aside easily. He’s rolled out, handed off from the first responders and into Scaramouche’s hands. The two interns loitering by his side rush to the other end of the stretcher. 

“I’m alright,” Kazuha is saying, “It’s just a concussion, I’ve had them before, though it was generally much less of a big deal.”

His words hold much less weight when his head is packed with gauze and blood seeps through. He looks stable enough for Scaramouche to make the executive decision to skip the TICU and roll him into a CT scan. The more certain he is that there's no heavy internal damage, the better. 

“Over here,” Scaramouche says, “CT scan. We can take vitals there.”

His hands feel like they’re on fire but he doesn’t stop running until he reaches the hospital door. A hand grips him around the shoulder and pulls him backwards, the force nearly toppling them both to the ground. One of the interns frowns, and he can see Kazuha blink rapidly at the sound of his voice. “I thought it was protocol—“

“All the TICU’s are full,” Scaramouche lies, looking over as Kazuha squints at him, “and the paramedics did a good enough job.” 

“At least do the neuro exam first,” the intern pleads, “that much is—“

Scaramouche stops walking suddenly, rolling both him and the interns, and Kazuha to an abrupt stop. He turns for a second, looking back at them both with sincere distaste in his glittering eye. 

“You want to work as my intern?” A nod. “Fine. Rule number one: don’t intervene.”

The interns are quiet after that— chillingly silent as Scaramouche routes Kazuha into somewhere that is decidedly not a TICU. Kazuha is frowning, fully conscious as Scaramouche lets the interns take his vitals. 

“Scara, I—“ Kazuha tries to say, “it’s just a concussion–”

“Sure,” one of the interns replies, “but we need to make sure there’s no internal bleeding. You could have Acute hydrocephalus, or—”

The intern trails on, rambling on for miles to showcase her knowledge. It’s a purely intern thing to do– in fact, Scaramouche himself isn’t entirely innocent of it. Still, Scaramouche tunes her out, honing onto Kazuha. Their eyes lock, and he gives him that look. The one he reserves only for him. And yet he still can’t read the expression behind it, and that frustrates him to no end. It’s a contest of wills.

“Can we— I mean, I,” one of the interns is stuttering, “could I perform the CT?”

“Sure,” Scaramouche says, tearing his eyes away from Kazuha, turning around and heading out, “he’s all yours.”

He can practically feel Kazuha’s burning gaze on his back. The longer he stays in Kazuha’s presence, the more he wants to curl up by his side and never, ever let go.

But he doesn’t want to see him– not him, not Venti, not anyone. The struggle of being touch-starved and touch-repulsed is a real problem that needs addressing. His head is pounding with a million emotions, a million unreasonable and improbable worries– he wants to shut down his body and forget everything about the last hour that had been a complete disaster. The world outside is too loud for that, and he doesn’t think he will be able to tolerate another moment. 

He feels guilty and terrible and ashamed of himself every second he has to spend away from him; the guilt overpowers all else as it becomes harder to breathe, harder to keep his eyes open. He feels so weak, like a baby bird that’s lost its nest. And yet, through it all, he feels disgusting for just… feeling. Feelings are much too of a hassle for Scaramouche. It would do him much good to surgically have them removed. 

He has known this feeling before. It was always present at the beginning and now.

It’s always there when someone new enters his life– like an unwelcome, unwanted guest, a phantom haunting the place that he once called home. As if a new face and name could somehow make up for the life he lost. As if it might erase all traces of the person who used to reside within it. And the feeling is again here, like a rude customer in his tiny, home-run shop. He doesn’t know why he thought it wouldn't be: doesn’t know why he thought this hockey game would be different, because nothing changed. Nothing ever changes.

He drags himself into an on-call room, empty and desolate. There’s bottles and wipes, an unmade bed and a small, flickering light. And he is just… here. Alone in the middle of it all.

As he reaches up to brush stiff fingertips against his sternum, unsure whether the wetness clinging to his skin is blood or traitorous tears that fell– he fears he might have finally hit a dead-end.

Chapter Text

5:32 p.m on the 15th, and Scaramouche is having an laughably terrible day. 

A impending calendar of doom is engraved like a tattoo on the inside of his brain. He’s got one day until he spends the break with Ei and her unbearable wife. Six days until Kazuha’s nationals game. Eight days until his boards exam— his end-of-residency surgical exam. The stress piles up like leaves at the end of fall, overbearing on dainty shoulders.

Scaramouche often wishes to be young again. While twenty two is far from senior citizen age, he wants to bring back all of his friends and teachers, even the strangers that filled in the background. He wants all of it back.

Because when Scaramouche was younger, he found an odd comfort in counting.

He read somewhere once, within the yellowed pages of some history textbook, in the margins between layers of text and ancient tunes, a small scribbled message from someone who came before him. It said that should you ever find yourself in trouble, look to the constellations and count your blessings. He believed it then, and it was counting up the number line that Scaramouche did when he was fretting. Never down, because counting down meant he was waiting for something to happen. Counting up meant progress. 

But now he’s older, wiser, crueler, and no one ever told him what to do if you run out of blessings to count. Or with Dottore, who had spurned him on a much different path—

“When the enemy closes all your doors, you break down the wall,” Dottore had said, all sharp teeth and smiles and otherwise looking rather uncannily like the clown from a killer movie, “is that not a sound philosophy?”

“It’d be a lot more sound if you weren’t using it to convince me to let you perform some unethical procedure on me,” Scaramouche raises an eyebrow at the syringe in Dottore’s gloved hand.

Scaramouche squints. Dottore is close to the last thing he wants on his mind right now. 

Scaramouche is sitting outside in the staff cafeteria; a small quaint little place in the courtyard— staring down at his hands. They were cold and he couldn't feel his fingers, but he didn't care, as long as no one could see them. He couldn't let anyone know how bad this was for him. The thought made his body tremble a little bit. 

In his hands, is a large white binder with labeling and sharp edges of barely torn off plastic. His feet are propped up on the edge of the table, his back against the edge of the courtyard. His sandwich is uneaten, laying like a dead bird in front of him. Across the stagnant, murky surface of the fountain in the middle, clusters of lotus leaves shudder in the breeze. They send aloft a cacophony of rustling sounds his way.

“There you are,” Venti says, stopping in front of him. Scaramouche cranes his head up, focusing on Venti’s crossed arms and trying to block out the blinding sun behind him. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, my friend!”

Scaramouche’s face is unimpressed as Venti leans over him, half-sitting. “You’re hiding from us.”

“Hiding,” Scaramouche scoffs, jeering, “I don’t hide.”

He pushes Venti off, glaring at the sandwich as if it did personal wrong to him. Venti lets out a boisterous sigh, placing his tray of suspicious looking food down and plopping onto the concrete seat. It’s his way of attempting to wrestle some level of vulnerability out of Scaramouche.

Scaramouche looks at him. He’s not playing Venti’s game, he doesn’t plan on it, so he goes back to the charts. And then glares back at him. 

“Nothing is wrong.” Scaramouche crosses his arms, because he can read Venti like a poorly constructed poem.

“I know that,” Venti smiles, sipping on his drink. His braids fall limply around his face, lightly blowing in the breeze. His eyes twinkle, his face tilted as if he was trying to find an angle that would show him through the crack of Scaramouche’s exterior.

“So…” Scaramouche trails off, pinching the bridge of his nose, “why are you here?”

Venti sighs, shaking his drink to try the last drops of his terrible concoction of a drink into his mouth. Scaramouche can never be sure of what drink it is— a punch of apple extract, creamer top and a poorly hand-drawn design in the cream. He does it himself every morning in the lobby of the hospital, using a sanded down toothpick and lots of concentration. 

He’s bad at it every time. Scaramouche glances down at the sad design. It’s a bunny this time, or it’s a dog. It’s always terrible, and he tries every morning. He never gets better. 

“Scaramouche,” Venti says, “you, my friend, are doing charts. Nobody does charts unless they want to kill themselves.”

Scaramouche glares back. The charts-based suicide method aside, perhaps Venti does know him scarily well. Venti is punch with apple extract, creamer top and terrible foam designs: Venti is evenings, and Scaramouche is everything but. 

Scaramouche met Venti on his first day at Northwood University. Since Scaramouche had to wait until a new term to enroll, and with very little credits transferred over under his name to avoid being tracked, through a series of rather unfortunate events, he was forced to retake a gym class. 

And with the beginning of a new semester, a new class— comes the ever-dreaded fitness testing. 

It’s not as if Scaramouche is physically weak. He’s capable, more than necessarily normal. He’s strong in matters that aren’t of the heart. No— the problem was that his endurance wasn’t very good. 

And Scaramouche had freshly run away from Japan. Niwa was his chaperone to every grocery store and soon Venti was to be his bodyguard for 7-11’s lit by gross yellow lights. Scaramouche, tired, sick, and exhausted, didn’t fight it. America wasn’t his ideal destination: no, far from it. All that talk about land of the free or land of opportunity is water under the bridge when you’ve run across the world on your own two feet. He’s sure there’s someone who’s life applies to that American Dream ideology, but it’s not his. It was just the country the furthest away from Japan. 

But that gym class in America, Michigan, Northwood University– that fitness test was something he won’t forget. He was tired and jet-lagged when they did the ever infamous pacer test. And– as jet-lagged, sick, annoyed as he was with his life, he still did just enough to pass, because he takes nothing less.

“Name, please!” Someone had asked him right after, and Scaramouche was breathing too heavily to mumble out a response. The boy had jet black hair, braided and twisted into a little sad attempt at an updo on the back of his head. He was smiling brightly, twinkling teal eyes and a clipboard with the class roster on his hip. He was meant to record the scores of the class.

“Raiden,” Scaramouche heaves, trying to seem indifferent. He squints at him, giving the boy a second to find his name. He seems young, though his tag marks him as a few years above him. He has light freckles, though an otherwise youthful face of a trouble-maker.

“I’m Venti,” The boy smiles, all tooth and a slightly crooked, but nonetheless charming smile.

Scaramouche dismissively scoffs him off, looking away. He wasn’t here to make friends. He was here because it’s where his metaphorical game of Ludo ended. It was probably someplace good for him in the world. And if it was a nice place, it would be easier to let go of the place that had never been home. He could finally see the stars again. Not just the reinforced windows of his home and the glare of double-edged glass.

“Didn’t ask.” 

He doesn’t seem deterred by Scaramouche’s cold shoulder. He chews idly on the edge of his pen, trying to find him on the roster. He hums thoughtfully, eyes scanning the page as he rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. 

“Found you!” He exclaims happily, looking back up. He has a bandaid on his cheek, a soft tan color with a bright, ugly apple in the smack middle. If Scaramouche were a worse person, he would tell him so, “Alright, your score, if you please.”

“Forty-nine,” Scaramouche replies, brushing the sweat out of silk locks. Venti looks confused for a second, glancing back down at him. “I just barely passed.”

He always did forty-nine. Scaramouche was granted in this life, a very poor endurance. He could pack a punch, beat someone up, there was no doubt about it. 

But running? Well. 

Venti had opened his mouth briefly before glancing back down at the clipboard. He seems to be debating something, flipping the page again to check something. He glances back down again, looking around the room, then back down to Scaramouche. 

“Well, actually…” he laughed bashfully, “you… didn’t actually pass. Um,” Venti scratches his cheek, “forty-nine is the passing score for girls. You’re listed as a guy, so yours would be seventy, not forty-nine. You’ll have to do it again.”

It was the first time he had ever failed anything. 

It was a blow to the stomach. His heart had dropped like lead and he almost lost his breath at how fast it went down. And once again, the ingrained habit of self defense took command. There was no ideology to his sinking mind, just a certain sensibility to upkeep himself in front of someone who wasn’t even here.

–But there was a silver lining. It was also the first time he had been identified as a male on school records.

It was the first, it was the end, it was everything. It was a sweet validation at last. It was liberation, it was… it seemed like the world had turned upside down at that moment. His head had been a melting pot of emotions– disappointment, nausea, panic. And yet, somewhere in there, there was relief. Pure, unadulterated relief. Satisfaction and euphoria danced in a messy tangle of limbs. And Scaramouche— ever so weak to his heart, couldn’t help the tears. 

Venti had panicked immediately. Thinking he was crying over failing the indescribably insignificant pacer test, he sat there with tissues and patted his back over and over and over again, trailed him around campus like some lost cat. Since he was a senior, he had the liberty to come sit with Scaramouche in his lectures. 

While it must’ve annoyed Scaramouche at one point, Venti’s company wasn’t exactly unpleasant to have. Though he stuck to Scaramouche like a moth to the flame, fortunately for Scaramouche, he could be fairly humorous at times.

The professors didn’t mind Venti lounging like a cat around him either. The student council president didn’t mind too much either—it’s not like Venti was that much of an ass, after all. He could be polite when he wanted to be, and he wasn’t exactly rude either. But months build up over time, and maybe, Scaramouche thinks, squinting at Venti now, it’s time to hire a hitman on him. 

“What’s going on over here?” 

The duo’s eyes snap to the voice. Hanyuuda Chizuru, in all her annoyingly frustrating glory, crosses her arms. She’s in the standard blue scrubs, but like Scaramouche, she had a turtleneck underneath. She gives Scaramouche a brief glance of acknowledgment: not that they know each other very well, but they have a mutual acquaintanceship through Lumine: and so Scaramouche has to behave himself.

“Scaramouche is doing charts,” Venti blurts, pointing a finger at him. Scaramouche startles, indignation sparking in his stomach.

Chizuru looks at him sharply. “What? Why?”

“Well, that’s what I'm trying to figure out,” Venti replies, sulkily, “Hey… you don’t think we should admit him? To keep an eye, you know? No sane person does charts willingly, so—“

“Who’s doing charts?” Someone else’s voice cuts in through the conversation like butter— and Scaramouche’s impending headache worsens. A quick glance confirms his thoughts— some nurse by the name of Ying'er, he thinks, blinked owlishly at the trio. 

Scaramouche’s lip twists. His arm aches like a bitch, he has a headache, he’s barely slept in two days, and all he wants to do is lie down and maybe illegally administer himself some morphine. He flutters his eyes away from Ying'er, groaning as he rubs his head. 

The past two days have been… eventful, to say.

Kazuha is still admitted, and as loathed as he is to admit it, he’s not actually… talked to him yet. I mean, Does Scaramouche eat his lunch outside Kazuha’s room? Yes. Does Scaramouche personally oversee Kazuha’s medication? Also yes. Is Scaramouche—

“Are those Kazuha’s charts?”

— Currently doing Kazuha’s charts? Yes.

The hospital provides its employees and staff almost everything they need to pretty much live within its walls. Showers, beds in on-call rooms, food— when Scaramouche called it a second home, it falls just short of a joke now.

He clenched his teeth, his head burning as a jolt of pain ran him through. He’s barely slept, barely gone home— and on top of it all, his flight to Inazuma is tomorrow. His bags are packed neatly and cleanly, courteous of Childe. Scaramouche would have ripped his hair out and tinkered with the weather before packing a neat suitcase.

That was the only time in the last 48 hours that he’s been home. He took the time out of his self-packed day to lay out clothing, toiletries, medication, and small other trinkets into a light blue luggage travel case for Childe to wrangle neatly into the space. His carry-on is more versatile— airpods, a switch to play Mario Kart, chargers, and a small keychain of an Aranara that Kazuha had bought him from the arcade. He’d packed that one on his own.

Childe, to his credit, had kept his word. Much like Kazuha, he had also refused professional medical treatment— Hockey players, Scaramouche had truly never understood them— and Scaramouche was given the opportunity to perform the most unpleasant, liberatingly terrible exam on Childe at his request. 

“Yes,” Scaramouche answers flatly. He tightens his grip on the binder, even as Venti looks at him with an expression too serious for a face adorned with smile lines.

“I didn’t know he was—” Venti starts, and then cuts himself off. He seems tentative in his thinking now, observing Scaramouche’s face as if the slightest movement were to set him off. “Do you… want to take a day off?”

“No,” Scaramouche grits his teeth. “I’m fine. I am. He’s not—“

Chizuru’s eyebrows shoot through the roof. Her arms are crossed coldly, staring Venti down. The latter shrinks under his gaze, letting out a nervous laugh. The tension in the air is like a dam cracking, dangerous spurts of water spilling through. 

“And why,” Chizuru says, “would Scaramouche need a day off? Care to enlighten me?”

“Well!” Venti laughs, “it’s his boyfriend, isn’t it? I would imagine—“

“Your boyfriend?” Ying'er and Chizuru eyes snap to Scaramouche, who sits up straighter at the attention.

“He is not—“ Scaramouche hisses, “Venti.”

“What?” Venti blurts defensively. He scratches his cheek with his finger nervously, teal eyes darting between the people gathered at the table. 

Chizuru’s lock onto Scaramouche. She seems to be assessing him, though not without an eyedrop’s worth of pity buried in her gaze. Scaramouche can feel his eye twitch: pity from anyone is bad enough, but he especially doesn’t care for Chizuru’s. 

“Raiden,” Chizuru starts, “I think it would be too risky to send you to work in a TICU. Your emotions are all over the place—“

“What?” Scaramouche interrupts, bewildered. “No, you fool, you… you’re just… confused. And I am more than fine. I can work.”

“How can we be confused with such an obvious statement?” Ying'er asks, “if there is a romantic relationship between you and a patient, you are bound to be stressed out for the well-being—“

“There is no romantic relationship.” Scaramouche wants to tear his hair out. His eye is twitching with annoyance— rumors are one thing, but to be suspended from working in the trauma intensive care unit because Kazuha got his ass busted and landed in the hospital? That’s just unreasonable. “Look— can we please keep our hands out of my personal affairs? I’ve probably got a TICU patient bleeding out somewhere without me.”

He snaps Kazuha’s binder shut with a soft click and lifts it with minimal effort. Chizuru intercepts him easily, thrusting her hand out as if she’s a police officer and he’s a criminal on the run. Her piercing gaze stops Scaramouche dead in his tracks, glass eyes flickering up to hers.

“Stop,” she says, “I cannot let you.”

“Be serious,” Scaramouche replies, turning to go around her. She moves again, gripping his shoulders with an intensity that freaks even him out. 

Chizuru’s gaze is disapproving and weirdly concerned. Her eye is a dull red gem, and cascades of black hair flow past her face. “Raiden. I can’t have anyone distracted working in the ICU today. I suggest you stick to chart work.”

Chart work. The level of torture below hell itself. Nobody wanted to do chart work— or at least none of them had any interest in admitting as much. Charting was like counting corpses or something equally repulsive and yet necessary.  

“Don’t make me laugh,” Scaramouche says, “Even my distracted work is better than your best.” 

Venti huffs a light laugh behind him, the sound is like tinkling bells and is almost lost in the buzz of conversation around them. One ice cold look from Chizuru shuts him silent, his mouth snapping closed with a clack and he humbly returns his attention to his lunch. 

“Raiden,” Chizuru continues, “Someone has to do charts– and I’m expecting a certain level of emotion in you now. You’re the perfect candidate. No one’s life is in your hands, and you would be doing work that needs to get done.”

“You know what else needs to get done? Your nose. I hope you’re considering plastic surgery.”

Venti bursts out laughing again. His laughter dissolves after Chizuru’s eyes snap to him, coughing awkwardly and taking a bite of whatever poor concoction they were serving for the staff.

“Very mature of you, Raiden.” Chizuru says. “If you’re going to act like this… just now, I was going to let you work in the ICU on a condition.”

“No– sorry, I didn’t mean to say that,” Scaramouche backtracks, “not out loud, anyway.”

Venti is nearly crying with the effort to contain his laughter. Another sharp look from Chizuru, and he grabs his economy friendly polypropylene lunch tray and twists his body around so he can’t see the duo. His body is shaking still, his back to Scaramouche.

“Look,” Chizuru sighs, pulling Scaramouche’s attention away from Venti. “I don’t know exactly what’s gotten you all– inattentive,” she says slowly, “but if it is Kazuha… and I’m sure it is, don’t try to argue with me– you practically live outside his hospital door– if you go check in with him and fix whatever’s going on in here,” She gestures to his head, “I’ll let you scrub in again. Until then, I want you far away from the O.R floor.”

Scaramouche crosses his arms. There is nothing but the sound of chatter, and a few quiet voices murmuring, as well as the soft hum of the hospital intercom going off nearby. The sounds of the hospital are constant. There are other sounds here that are just as frequent, like pagers beeping, or people crying with grief or relief, or the soft thumping of Scaramouche’s heart.

His mind has been ablaze with thoughts for the past few hours— perhaps chart work is truly the safest option. He hasn’t been able to get a moment by himself only for the last few days. His head feels scorching whenever he thinks of clouds, airplane tickets and terminals, the feeling akin to a match that was lit against his bare back and used to set his nerves on fire. He thinks of cold mornings and dead silent dinners– and all he left behind in Japan next to his own grave. And he’s going back the day after tomorrow, back to evenings and wilting camellias and the overbearing feeling of being alone: so forgive him for being a little distracted.

He nods to Chizuru anyway, turning around and heading to Kazuha’s room, which stands like a dead weight of heavy evidence. He doesn’t look inside it to see if Kazuha is awake or not, keeping his face stoic and neutral. He could be sleeping away still, bandages wrapped tightly around his head, or he could be wide awake and thinking. He doesn’t know which one is worse. 

It matters very little to Scaramouche. He knows that it’s really only a matter of time before Scaramouche cracks and runs into his hospital room, so he’s savoring the last bits of his dignity before that happens and the power imbalance between them tilts again. Kazuha’s room– room 1116, is barely open, but enough so it feels as though it’s inviting him inside.

Scaramouche cracks open his door. Sunlight pours in immediately, the cai spilling like ink on parchment throughout the room. Even when the evening winds down to a crawl, Scaramouche finds himself taking deep breaths.

He is startled. Kazuha is awake, thinking hard with his singular blue pen and writing all over his hospital sheets. If Scaramouche looks closer, past the fibers of guilt and anger, he can make out some of the words. It seems only fitting for Kazuha’s hospital sheets to have handwritten senseless words and flowery sentences of poetry on them. 

Scaramouche doesn’t even really mind poetry. In fact, he’d be a hypocrite to hate it. He’s written very few lines himself, between the dawn and the dusk during the time known commonly as twilight. They were moments of reprieve, when his grief tasted more beautiful and less like agony. 

Kazuha’s red eyes meet him steadily at the door. Scaramouche’s hands tap impatiently on the knob, waiting for Kazuha to say something. There’s chipped pieces of him that wish for Kazuha to pretend like nothing happened, though he knew it was cruel to be so optimistic. Though in his solitude, his wishes were so idiotically optimistic despite his pessimistic attitude that they bordered on prayer.

Kazuha’s head is littered with bandages and things that don’t belong on his face. He opens his mouth, fiddling with the blue pen in his hand.

“Your hair has gotten much longer.”

Scaramouche’s hand flies up instantly, letting indigo strands fall lifelessly through his fingers. Kazuha’s far from wrong: his previous sleek jelly-cut had morphed into a very short, crude wolf-cut that ended just at the nape of his neck. Just another thing on his mile long list of things to fix. 

“You’re not mad.” Scaramouche says instead, scanning Kazuha’s face for the slightest twitch of emotion. 

Kazuha has every right to be upset. In fact, he would also have the court of the law on his side. Kazuha had made it explicitly clear that he would not accept treatment from Scaramouche— Michigan law states and strictly upkeeps the patient's right to refusal.  And what had Scaramouche done? 

“No,” Kazuha answers, “but you are.”

“… No,” Scaramouche inhales, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You are,” Kazuha replies, faintly amused. “Please do not assume I can’t tell, because I can.”

“You have bandages wrapped around your head right now,” Scaramouche replies, eyeing his head, “your so-called intuition holds very little weight to me.”

Kazuha doesn’t seem to be fazed by the icy exterior. His head tilts, flat red eyes of a shark digging into Scaramouche. “That’s quite alright,” he says softly, “you can keep your attitude. I can handle it.” I can handle you. 

And Scaramouche… just doesn’t know what to say. He feels as though he’s partaking in a game with Kazuha that he didn’t even know he was playing. Perhaps Chizuru was right for him to do chart work, the way his emotions are haywire. His pride stubbornly holds onto petty anger, yet his heart turns traitor. 

He has always been one to look upon himself from below, and yet hold himself above everyone else in public; but Kazuha is looking at him with clear eyes and slight smile and honest intentions. There's a voice in his mind commentating on how much he admires the way that Kazuha takes all of these losses gracefully, no matter how much he loses. The voice is almost mocking, but also strangely sincere— he doesn't want to think about where it comes from. 

He doesn’t even know what he’s upset about. It’s like a melting pot of reasons, he thinks— something similar to what Nahida would say. Emotions aren’t a cause and effect, they’re ugly, messy, and painfully annoying. Not for the first time, Scaramouche entertains the thought of having them surgically removed.

“I’m glad to see you’re back to yourself,” Scaramouche replies, narrowing his eyes at him. He turns himself around, fiddling with the door, “I’ll be going. Ring that bell if you need a nurse.”

“Why would I need a nurse when I have you?” Kazuha says lightly. 

Scaramouche grits his jaw, shifting in his place and squinting at the ceiling. His arms are crossed in front of him defensively, a makeshift shield to protect his heart from anything that might be coming. “I’m going.”

“Won’t you lend me a moment?” Kazuha asks pleasantly, “If I were to, say, have a question regarding my stay…”

“Ask your attending physician.” Scaramouche answers, “I have somewhere to be.”

He really doesn’t. Not that he’d admit that. Anywhere is better than here, where the tension is cheap diamonds and sour milk, so heavy even the air itself seems to ache with it. 

“Well, then I ask for your non-professional opinion,” Kazuha replies, a slight smile on his face. “Do you suppose… in your non-professional, perfectly personal judgement, I’d be cleared to play in the qualifiers?”

Childe asked him the same, ugly question when he saw him briefly. The qualifiers— always can Kazuha play? And not is Kazuha still sentient after getting a very bad blow to his temporal lobe? 

Scaramouche never understood hockey players. What does it matter if Kazuha can compete? To act like Kettering University is above pouring gasoline by the gallon onto Northwood university’s ice rink to prevent any preparation is nearly insulting. 

Not only that, but it’s in a week— just after the break. Isn’t it the kind of thing you don’t have to worry about until the night before? 

In fact, Scaramouche can feel himself get a headache just thinking about it– to come back from dealing with Miko and Ei during the weekend (which is a can of beans he can’t even stand to look at) to Kazuha’s hockey game (as if hockey games have ever gone well for him) to his upcoming final boards exam.

It feels cherry-picked out of a kindergartner’s homework. Study for the single most important exam of his life, or attend the qualifiers. And yet while he thinks his decision wasn’t the right one, he would make it again. 

You, Scaramouche thinks, have an astounding amount of nerve to ask me that.

But he doesn’t say it out loud, no. Speaking the bitter words into existence means admitting defeat at the hands of someone who cares little about winning. It’s… humiliating. Scaramouche said he wasn’t angry and he will stick to his words, lest Kazuha gain the upper hand on him again.

“Yes,” Scaramouche replies, laughing out a short bark through clenched teeth as he rolls his eyes, “you and your utterly risible obsession with hockey– yes, you fool. You will be able to play.”

Kazuha is quiet again. The world continues on around them, unaware that they exist any longer and that a world of change has begun in the space above their heads. Scaramouche stares out across the vastness of the room with an expression of detached interest. 

And that should be the end of it for Scaramouche. He’s established common ground with Kazuha and his emotions would be sedated enough for Chizuru to place trust in his hands again. And yet… it doesn’t feel like a victory. To leave things like this between them, like some sort of fragile truce—it feels hollow, empty, wrong. 

“You’re going home tomorrow,” Kazuha says, his eyes boring into Scaramouche like searching every crevice, every inch of his face, “and you’re in pain. I don’t want to fight with you.”

“So are you,” Scaramouche replies, throwing a look at the bandages wrapped like a second skin around his head. “Don’t patronize me, Kaedehara. We’re not fighting- what could we possibly even fight about?”

There’s silence flooding the room after that as their gazes hold each other’s. Scaramouche’s breath catches in his throat when he sees Kazuha’s lips part and he swallows visibly, his eyes flickering down towards his mouth for half a second before turning away again. It takes all he has to keep his expression neutral and cool.

“Okay,” Kazuha agrees, “then we are not fighting.”

There’s a few seconds before Scaramouche responds. 

“Fine then,” Scaramouche inhales, crossing his arms and fidgeting on the spot. He doesn’t say anything after that, but there’s a strange weight in his chest now, one that makes it feel too hard for him to breathe properly and his thoughts turn to dark corners as though his mind has lost its way and taken a long detour through some unknown tunnel, “We’re not fighting. I guess that means I can ask you now. Why did you do it?”

Kazuha blinks. He clearly wasn’t expecting Scaramouche– the one who avoids communication like the plague– to bring it up easily. Perhaps the stress of it reached out to his blunt, cruelly honest nature and pulled it out like a string attached to an invisible violin bow. 

“You didn’t think I’d forget?” Scaramouche closes the door behind him, snaking a look outside. The PA is going off every second, nurses and surgeons rushing through the halls. Kazuha’s expression is unreadable as ever– shrouded in the shadows of his dark hospital room. He’s made the place undeniably his– scattered ink and poetry, warm yellow light emerging from behind his gurney, his heart monitor steady and stable. His room excludes warmth and something… homely. He’s managed to do something to the room in two days that Scaramouche hasn’t been able to do with his own apartment in months.

Kazuha reaches a hand out, as if he’s beckoning Scaramouche closer. Sharp, clear sapphire meets spider-lily red, and Scaramouche wears a mask of nonchalance as he walks over. It takes some consideration and a bit of urging from Kazuha until he sits on the edge of the bed, impossibly close to Kazuha and yet not. 

Kazuha leans into Scaramouche’s space. “You are unfairly pretty. Ethereal. Cold. How am I supposed to be upset at you when you look like that?” He asked him quietly in a voice so soft that Scaramouche had to tilt his head back to hear him.

“Don’t change the subject.” Scaramouche’s eyes flicker to Kazuha’s slight smile.

“So you are upset,” Kazuha states, mildly amused again. “Ah, look. You have that subtle sneer.”

Scaramouche immediately schools his expression back into one of pure disinterest, but doesn’t quite manage to completely keep from grimacing when Kazuha’s twinkling laugh reaches his ears.

“You wished for an answer,” Kazuha asks, tugging on his hand again. Scaramouche’s gaze drops from Kazuha to their interlocked hands, which Kazuha moves slightly so he has a better view of the vandalized comforter.

There’s a poem written in ink on the sheets. It's in Kazuha's precise handwriting– and yet it’s not the only one. The more Scaramouche looks around his sheets, he sees poems scattered all around: some finished, some unfinished, short, long, simple, elegant–

“They’re mostly about you,” Kazuha says, when he sees Scaramouche’s eyes wandering. “I have a habit of hiding you in my poetry, I fear. I happen to be drawn to that divine, mischievous spark you have. Look,” he says, tugging Scaramouche’s attention to a single one off the edge of the blanket.

It’s a poem. 

Sad birds still sing, It says, and so— less bright, the stars of the night, than the eyes of Eulalie. And never a flake— that the vapor can make, with the moon-tints of purple and pearl, can vie with cold Eulalie's most unregarded curl. 

“That one’s Eulalie, ” Kazuha says, “I’m afraid I had you in mind.”

Sad birds still sing, Kazuha had written. And yet he had written poetry about his beauty in the same sentence. As if he was saying Scaramouche was not beautiful in spite of his damage, but despite it. 

“I promised that I would not hurt you,” Kazuha stated, “So I believe… what I did… was in accordance with that. I was trying to avoid putting you in a situation where you are coerced into administering care to me. But I suppose it didn’t really work— considering you came of your own volition, of course. I was… forgive me. I was thinking of you, first and foremost.”

“If I had known, of course…” Kazuha continues, “that you would feel more at ease if my care was in your hands rather than someone else’s— I would not have done it. But I couldn’t have known that if you do not talk to me, Scara. Speak with me— even if you find it hard to. Even if your voice shakes. Even now, you are silent—“

“What am I supposed to say?” Scaramouche replies, scoffing a laugh. His voice holds a tremor in it that wasn’t present before, spilling into his words like pollution in the foam waves of the ocean. 

“Anything,” Kazuha replies. They’re hair breadths away, bathed in warm yellow light from Kazuha’s personal light, cloaked in the darkness of the hospital room. “Anything to prove to me that you've not become so damaged that when someone wants to give you what you deserve, you have no idea how to respond.”

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Scaramouche whispers, “You— what do you want me to say , Kazuha? I’m not… I’m not good at talking.”

Kazuha tangles Scaramouche’s fingers further into his own if he could squeeze the words out of him if he just held on tight enough. 

He wishes keeping his distance would be easier, but being around Kazuha… It isn’t nearly as energy draining as it is when he’s around other people and he genuinely enjoys his time, feels more relaxed and calm when he’s with him. He can poke fun of him, let out dry sarcastic answers and often, not give an answer at all without getting repercussions. It feels like a safe space where he can be fully and without any consequences be himself.

Being around Kazuha makes living bearable — something more than hospitals and surgery and trauma intensive care units. And that thought terrifies him.

He almost gives in, right there and then. Kazuha’s words spark something inside of him, like a lot firework with nowhere to go. It would be so easy right now, to open up and let him in— to break the dam and let out all the emotions and feelings and thoughts that have been tearing and clawing at him for so long now. He opens his mouth and moves his tongue to form a sentence. But no sound or noise escapes his lungs, words catching in his throat before he can push them over his lips.

Kazuha accepts the silence as it is. He doesn’t push any further, just shifts into a more comfortable position.

Scaramouche swallows. “I…”

Kazuha’s patient. He’s sweet. He’s everything that Niwa was, and yet he’s everything Niwa wasn’t.

There are days that he hates Niwa Hisahide for what he did to him. For picking him up off the tracks, for giving him a life. For leaving him and taking parts of Scaramouche with him that weren’t meant to detach. Sometimes he shakes with rage, just thinking of Niwa and all he stole from Scaramouche, all the songs he ruined, the foods, the surgeries. It’s easy to hate him, and yet Scaramouche tries not to. It’s not like his mother, who he finds easier to love than to hate, and yet he puts in the effort to curse her name every morning. 

But they’re not the same. Because Kazuha is here. Niwa isn’t.

There’s a cough at the door. Scaramouche rips away from Kazuha as though he’s been burned, shoving himself away from Kazuha’s capable person and removing himself from the need to kiss him.

Kazari is standing there, squinting as though she’s walked in on something she shouldn’t have. Kazari is the intern from yesterday, the one who Scaramouche took in on a whim just to get her to shut up about protocol.

“Um—“ Kazari starts, bewildered,, “Faiza sent me— she said that I’m your intern now, so I… sorry, am I interrupting something?

Scaramouche shares a look with Kazuha, who looks amused at Scaramouche’s flustered state. “… No. Is there a problem? Nobody paged me.”

Kazari gestures over to the hallway, and Scaramouche inhales, walking around Kazuha’s gurney to her. Kazari takes a look at Kazuha before turning to Scaramouche, who squints at the commotion outside. 

“We aren’t supposed to—“ Kazari says, “um, flirt with the patients—“

“Save your breath,” Scaramouche mutters, “Care to tell me why are all the patients in the hallway?”

“Overflow from the E.R,” Kazari responds, “Hostage situation from the local Hooters.”

Scaramouche barks a laugh. “Who is shooting up a Hooters?”

“Some chick named Nora, apparently,” Chizuru is there again, pushing Scaramouche into his surgical gown and motioning for him to turn around so it could be properly tied, “move, people. Raiden— with me. I need all hands on deck. Kazari, not you— go help Ying'er.”

It’s a mess all around. Overflow from the E.R doesn’t happen often, but it does happen in situations where a girl named Nora decides to shoot up a Hooters. 

When it does, it’s enough to put everyone on high alert. Scaramouche knows it from experience, having worked at this particular hospital long enough to see the philosophical mess it makes of the art of protocol. The doctors who don’t have nurses come out to the waiting area while others try to help their patients and wait outside the ER doors. 

“Raiden, I’ve got a white female with a GSW to the right back, and a through and through to the right arm— good distal pulses. Could you come take a look?” Ying'er’s voice echoes over the commotion. Next to her is Venti, holding what are presumably charts. Scaramouche pauses in his stride. Ying'er is panicking over two sweet, small girls hooked up to wires on their chests. 

“— Irrigate the wound,” Scaramouche instructs, joining her by some of the patients. They’re all separated by privacy curtains, but he can see Venti’s pink sneakers through the curtain, “take an X-ray and order a tet-tox for both.”

Venti tugs him over again, to a patient with a bleeding leg and a pale face. He looks like a ghost, but for Venti’s benefit is still alive enough to be conscious. The man doesn’t stir even when Venti pushes him down into the chair next to his bed and takes out his pulse oximeter.

“This guy has a lower left leg deformity from a GSW. Pedal pulse seems to be intact. Paramedics said he got five of morphine in the field,” Venti chirps.

“Not enough. Probably got the tibia–” Scaramouche’s pager beeps obnoxiously. He glances at it, pulling it away from its secure place on his waist to read the message. “Tighnari is paging me to trauma two. Rule out other injuries then get him up to Radiology.”

Venti nods, steeling himself as Scaramouche pushes past blurs of people, the crowd of incoming patients and nurses filling up the halls with a cacophony of screaming and heart monitors, pagers and papers, groaning. He is not one for crowds, he thinks, but tonight, it seems unavoidable. There’s patients flooding in, and the O.R’s are filling up quickly. The neighboring hospitals– Beaumont Grace Hospital and Trinity Health are overbooked from the hostage situation and severely understaffed. It’s like a free for all.

Anyone who was involved in Michigan Reed Hospital’s shooting packed their bags and left months ago. Anyone sensible– anyone who was not Scaramouche Raiden and his support staff of Venti. It may not be personal for anyone else, but for Scaramouche…

“What,” Scaramouche says, out of breath. Tighnari is preoccupied with cops and people seeking guidance: even families that aren’t supposed to be here. That’s Venti’s job normally, to keep the families calm and to confine them to the areas they’re meant to be so they don't get in the way of the people trying to save lives– some people camp out in the hospital when they aren’t even injured. But it’s all hands on deck, and Venti is helping out and therefore sisters and brothers and mothers are running rogue. 

“Oh good, you’re here. I need you to run trauma two,” Tighnari says when Scaramouche comes into view. He pushes past the mess around him to reach Scaramouche. “Get consults and nurses on standby. Page me if you need help.”

“Wait, wait– ” Scaramouche scoffs, “by myself?”

“It’s the gunman. There’s nobody who’s willing to operate on her,” Tighnari sighs, rubbing his temple, “You might have to open her up. Get an anesthesiologist on sight, but you’ll have to operate in the TICU. The O.R’s are full.”

It clicks in place then. When you work as a trauma nurse, you get all kinds of patients. Murderers, pedophiles, assaulters, soldiers. You get it all, and you don’t get to step out, because you took an oath to do everything you could. 

But that doesn't mean you can’t get out of it. He’s seen assisting surgeons walk out of the O.R mid-operation because the idea of saving the life of someone so abysmal is unfathomable. He’s seen people preoccupy themselves with other patients to avoid having to deal with it.

Scaramouche nods. He’s already gowned and scrubbed in when he walks into the room, the girl laying on the table with half her head blown off from a self-inflicted GSW wound. 

“Nora Kaneko. Twenty two years old with a distended leg and a GSW to the chest. Get me some F.F.P and some factor VII up here,” Scaramouche says, pushing past the mess of people around her, “Did you drape her?”

“You’re running this trauma unit?” comes a voice, muffled by the masks. They do as he says anyways, looking to see if the shooter’s type and cross is back. Someone passes Scaramouche a 10-blade, who takes it and along with it, a deep breath.

“Can you think of anyone more qualified?” Scaramouche snorts, smug and with the air of someone who has won a debate and can’t be bothered to win this one, “Her pressure is 79 over 40. I have to occlude the aorta at the hiatus until we can get her pressure back up. How many units has she gotten?”

“Three units of O-Neg, one unit A-Positive type specific,” One of the nurses– Aoi, he thinks, answers him, “you’ll have to isolate the bleeder until– it’ll be a long operation. If you’ve got any prayers, say them now.”

“I’m not religious,” Scaramouche raises an eyebrow, placing his scalpel across the skin of the girl. 

“Well, if you’ve got anything to say, say it now.” 

Scaramouche hums at that, his hand twitching on the handle of the scalpel. Another nurse barges in, with a unit of F.P.P and a handful of more packs. Scaramouche thinks of Kazuha, who would probably be discharged from the hospital by the time Scaramouche is done trying to save this girl’s life. He’ll hopefully get to drive him home too, considering Scaramouche is about to reach the 80 hour work limit that Michigan Reed Hospital put in place.

“Sad birds still sing,” Scaramouche says. And then he starts to cut.

Slowly, almost lazily, Scaramouche drags his eyes up and down the blank wallpaper, gaze catching the rain falling through the window, dust stirring in the rays.

There is a moth dotting around the dim glow thrown by the television, its wings rustling against the screen every now and then. A light rainfall is drumming on the glass of the window, guided against the house front by a gust of wind. It’s cold and bleak out there, but inside the flat it's warm and cozy, heater cranked up and blankets strewn over the couch and living room floor.

“Woah, hiding again?” 

Scaramouche groans. Venti’s laugh grates on his nerves like raw sandpaper, egging on his impending headache like a cheerleader. He’s seated behind the main desk, hunched over and holding up a heavy binder of someone’s charts to hide his face whenever someone comes near.

So yes. This time he is hiding.

He finished up in the TICU an hour ago before an O.R opened up and the shooter was wheeled off. He’d dropped off the bullet casings in her body to the cops, and then set up camp in the most reasonable place he could think of being. 

This is the situation: Kazuha gets discharged soon. Very soon. Scaramouche was hoping he’d finish up right when Kazuha was about to leave so he could scrub out on account of breaking the 80 hour limit, but he clearly didn’t give his own skills enough credit, because he finished up much quicker. This is his way of avoiding getting roped into another case because as good as he is in the TICU, he cannot finish up quick enough to drive home with Kazuha.

So, he’s hiding. 

“Hey now… I don’t judge,” Venti winks, “I am savoring my last moments of freedom before I get paged to deal with the families. Or someone comes to fetch me to do it. Maybe I’ll just hide too. Got any room over there?”

Venti pops an apple toffee in his mouth. He leaned over the reception, resting his head against his arm. Scaramouche sighs lazily, leaning back in the chair and propping his feet against the inner linings of the desk. With the rain outside, the noises of people practicing medicine, the feeling of Kazuha being just a few floors away from him…  it’s comforting. There is peace here. It’s only slightly ruined when some nurse he’s never seen before bursts through the door looking like a man on a mission.

Venti ducks behind him instinctively, and Scaramouche coughs and buries his face behind the open flap of the chart.

“You owe me,” Scaramouche hisses.

“I find that to be very far from the truth, heh,” Venti scratches his cheek, mindful to keep his voice low, “He’s probably looking for you.”

“I don’t even know who that is.”

“Why don’t you go find out, then?”

Scaramouche glares daggers at Venti. His gaze is like an arrow, aimed right at his head but lacks the sharp point that causes genuine damage. It’s easy to see now, why Scaramouche has few friends in Michigan Reed and even less outside. His glare would be burning if Venti hadn’t seen the end of the world with him. 

Someone coughs. Scaramouche squints up, pushing Venti out from behind him and into plain sight. Collei is standing there in her custom brown scrubs, looking anxious and ever so worried– not unusual, not for Collei. She’s always worried about something. Always the bird in the nest with wings that work just fine and with paranoia as constraints.

Collei works under Tighnari, but if he’s being honest, he doesn’t know what that guy is teaching Collei. Collei is still the most likely in this building to kill a patient by just being in their presence. Tighnari— though Scaramouche knows him through Nahida, really, she was the one who got him into the medical program at all— is an excellent doctor. He’s effective, efficient, quick… and perhaps a bit too arrogant at times. 

Scaramouche stares at Collei’s shaking hands. She would not survive a day under Miko’s tutelage.

“Who’s patient was in trauma 4 earlier?” Collei asks, putting down a clipboard on the reception. Her fingers are playing with a blue pen like she has somewhere to be, but her gaze doesn’t leave Scaramouche. Collei never misses a day of work, and her schedule for today makes it look like nothing unusual. 

“Not mine,” Scaramouche and Venti answer simultaneously. 

“He’s not mine either,” Collei sighs, “But he– all hands are on deck here, and he was very hesitant, but he told me he was in pain, so I thought I should prescribe Phenytoin. But I– I didn’t have his chart, and it’s not exactly the most universally safe medicine, he– he could've been allergic, or… so I just prescribed him Morphine.”

“Do you have the room number?” Scaramouche takes one of Venti’s toffees, chewing on his mindlessly as he takes the clipboard from Collei’s hands. 

“Yeah,” she says, grateful. The relief in her shoulders is visible when Scaramouche takes it from her hands, looking over it lazily. “room 1116. Thank you so much.”

Kazuha’s room. Scaramouche nods slowly, looking at the medicine order. It seems in order, and Collei’s initials are neatly printed at the bottom.

Realization creeps in like a cold. 

He pushes it to the side, falling into his ever ready mindset of don’t worry until you have something to worry about. This morning, he had been reading Kazuha’s chart like it was the bible, memorizing every–

“Wait, wait– what did you say you gave him?” Scaramouche asks, eyebrows knitted together.

“Um, I gave an order for him to be started on Morphine.” Collei answers offhandedly, playing a very sad game of thumb wars with Venti, “I’m sorry. is there… a problem?”

“You gave him Morphine?”

Collei seems to notice something is wrong. Scaramouche is looking at her like he’s seen a ghost. His throat constricts as he tries to swallow down the anxious feeling that has already begun to settle in between the bones of his rib cage. A cold sensation washes over him, as if realization hasn't fully set in until now.

It feels like swimming in the middle of the ocean. The act of keeping his body near the surface already drains enough energy, and keeping his head above the surface takes even more. And so he stays just below the surface, water sloshing around his body and pressing against his face and leaking into his mouth. He only comes up for air when his lungs are screaming at him, burning and seizing, begging him not to let them starve when the critical air is just inches above his head.

Kazuha’s charts come back to him in a blur. Shots of his medical history and details of his drug addiction come to Scaramouche in a slideshow presentation, and with it, a bright, shiny, hard-won sobriety coin. A sobriety coin earned after fighting a very difficult Morphine addiction.

Scaramouche is out of his hiding spot in seconds. He’s pushing past mothers that cling onto him, wives and husbands that beg for their loved ones to be safe. It’s possible that Kazuha doesn’t rekindle his addiction to Morphine, but Scaramouche doesn’t know how much Collei gave him. Or if Kazuha knows what Collei ordered.

Too many emotions are pulling at him from every side, tearing him in every direction and he's afraid he might rip in half if he doesn't get the turmoil of feelings under control soon. Anxiety spikes through his veins as he tugs his surgical gown off, clad in nothing but blue scrubs and his hair in a tiny ponytail. The elevator feels slower than usual, stuffed with loved ones missing their other halves.

This is why crowd control is so important in a hospital– because someone might accidently prescribe morphine to a guy you think you’re a little in love with who’s battling a morphine addiction because they didn’t have his charts and decided to go with the safest option that no one is allergic to but didn’t consider the possibility of addiction.

Scaramouche squints. What a mouthful.

He bursts through Kazuha’s hospital door, breathily heavily. Kazuha turns around slightly, a band in his mouth as he gathers his hair into a messy updo. He’s out of his hospital pajamas, back in his soft grey crewneck and looking perfectly fine.

“Scara?” He muffles out. His hand grabs the band from his mouth, bringing it up to the tuft of hair. His room is still dark, but Scaramouche can see the discharge paperwork strewn on the bed. He’s holding a small braid of his own hair in his hand, trying to attempt a more intricate style than normal. 

“Oh, damn you,” Scaramouche heaves, “You– has anyone come in here to administer anything?” 

“No,” Kazuha smiles, “Did you miss me that much? I feel flattered.” 

“Can it, Kaedehara,” Scaramouche snaps, but his facade drops after a second. Exhaustion and relief kick in like drugs in his system, “I just– I…”

There are moments that you realize. Moments when you think about it, or when you think you know, and when you know you know it. And then there are moments like this, when it bubbles up and you are forced to reflect. Scaramouche’s fingers twitch with the electricity under his fingertips and he practically throws himself into Kazuha’s arms.

And then Scaramouche kisses him. 

He kisses Kazuha so fiercely it would seem that they were lovers separated by years. Kazuha laughs because of the way he’s kissing him, a little rough but not ungentle— words escaping Scaramouche’s mind as they do every time, like a stream of water from a faucet. 

Kazuha smells like fresh linen and fauna from the plants around his gurney, guiding the dainty hands of Scaramouche to hold Kazuha’s half-done hair in place.

“Hold that for me,” Kazuha murmurs against his lips, and then he dives in to kiss Scaramouche again, much deeper and lovelier than before. His hands are cupping Scaramouche’s face like a demand, smiling into every kiss he steals. 

Kazuha has so many things to say, all those wonderful words and compliments, that are now lost somewhere behind Scaramouche’s closed eyes and flushed skin. He is the sun, and this is its eternal spring, and the sea around them is its everlasting summer. It is a symphony of love. 

They pull away, eventually. When Scaramouche looks back up, Kazuha is smiling, and he thinks—

Say, if we were to ask ourselves what is beautiful – and if there are those who would tell us it was only beauty in itself – what then of love and joy and everything that makes up life?

But there— there, past the gunfire and the grief and the gold, there’s a silver lining in Kazuha’s smile. 

11:54 p.m on the 15th. Scaramouche is having an absolutely brilliant day. Yet he mustn’t get ahead of himself— he thinks, smiling. There are still six minutes remaining.

Chapter Text

Dottore had been Scaramouche’s first love. As ridiculous as it sounds.

When you think of first loves, you think of someone of liquid gold. Someone made entirely of love, so pure it overflows and rushes like honey through the dirty streets of Michigan. You think of innocence, of the beginning of a long and treacherous journey. 

Your first love is someone with a lantern sending you off with a tearful wave. They are your first dance partner who carves the handles on your waist before handing you off. And when you look back on those days that were like dreams, the ones you can still see clearly even after all these years, you think you could’ve worked in another world.

Oh, but not Dottore. Dottore was someone you didn’t want to fall in love with.

Dottore wasn’t made of love. He was made of lust– lust for success, for control, for sex. He was made of greed. When you meet people who are both selfish and stupidly greedy, it’s a recipe for everything terrible. Dottore made up Scaramouche’s first love, and he also made up half of everything that came afterwards.

He didn’t love anyone except himself and his surgical priorities. He had no heart, no empathy, no compassion to give. He was a monster, in every sense of the word, so Scaramouche can forgive him for being a little bit of a prick. He probably couldn’t help it. 

Scaramouche met Dottore at a time when he was desperate to be loved. Neither were too fond of each other in the beginning, but they understood each other on a level past personalities. Their obsession with getting ahead, their determination not to let their emotions get the best of them. Scaramouche and Dottore were a toxic cocktail of two extremes– Dottore was Scaramouche in his worst form. It was a chemical romance of two sides of the same coin. And maybe they should’ve just stayed on opposite ends of that coin until one of them died. 

Over time, they had gotten to know each other better. They studied together– very often. Dottore was more ambitious than him, straying from the material more. But he was charismatic, in that way that dictators are. His words were weapons, his charm a love potion. They can make you believe anything– and they could make Scaramouche believe he was in love. Maybe he really was. That’s the thing– anything, no matter how bizarre, how far fetched: nothing sounds crazy from the mouth of a charismatic man.

Studying turned into make out sessions, which turned quickly to quick hook-ups. There was never a label, but it was obvious what they were after the heated arguments turned into sex and the sex ended with them tangled together in bed, soft and sweet.

And then those entanglements– whenever Scaramouche would be napping away, tired— would lead into Scaramouche getting his body cut open for Dottore to study more intensely. For those far-fetched ideas that the university would reject, Dottore had no funding for research resources anymore, and so Scaramouche was his closest thing.

But those surgeries would lead to another argument. It was a rinse and repeat cycle. 

And Scaramouche just… allowed it.

Scaramouche doesn’t know if Dottore loved him, or the body he could provide: for sex, and for surgery practice. Dottore would say he loved Scaramouche– and he did often, usually after the arguments, or the hook-ups. Whenever Scaramouche was at his lowest. But he needed it. 

He doesn’t think anyone could understand. He’d lost Niwa– he’d lost everything. Dottore was his one and only everything. He was dealing with the nuclear fallout of trauma from a shooting, and Dottore, his pillar of support. He needed Dottore. 

They could have been so good together. A power couple– but Dottore was too far gone, and Scaramouche might’ve been too damaged. And he was over it, at a point. He was done with trying to get Dottore to talk him through promising surgery or with sex. When he regained his dignity, and looked at himself through a pair of new eyes: it was suddenly the most pathetic he felt in a while. Looking at himself– tearing himself apart because he didn’t know what else to do, and Dottore standing by and letting it happen– that wasn’t love. 

“What would you know about love, Scaramouche?”

Scaramouche let out a light humorless breath of laughter. “I don’t claim to be some god of love. But whatever it is, it’s surely not this.”

If Dottore loved him truly, it was not in a way Scaramouche could understand. 

Dottore was lazing on his couch, gold jewelry on his wrists and a silk white button up. There’s proof of him in Scaramouche’s apartment: his clothes in hangers in Scaramouche’s closet, his textbooks on shelves, his mug– test tubes and his scalpel kit on the TV table. It’s disgusting. All of it.

“Don’t tell me you’ve caught feelings.” Dottore raises an eyebrow. His voice is reverberating, uncomfortably deep. It grates on Scaramouche's chest.

“This is meant to be a relationship,” Scaramouche’s lips twitched. If Dottore’s words had hurt him, he didn’t let it show. “And you– you said you loved me.”

“And?”

“And you lied.”

Dottore doesn’t say anything. Arguments are commonplace for them, afterall. And no one ever won them, either. It went like this: Scaramouche would get upset at something Dottore did– often related to non consensual surgeries–  and Dottore would give back just enough for Scaramouche to crawl to him again and again and again.

“Well?” Scaramouche said, “Are you going to say something? Or are you going to sit there and let me sneer at you until you beckon me to your lap for the billionth time? Because I am not going to play your game of charades anymore. I’m done. We’re done.”

“We fight about this every week. Just save it and come here,” Dottore replies. He puts his book down, and true to his word, he pats his leg for Scaramouche to settle in. Usually, he does. He gives in almost every time. But Scaramouche doesn’t move a muscle.

In fact, his anger flares up. His temper is like gasoline on an open flame. No matter what happens, it gets lit. He will not be tamed so easily this time. 

“Do you get off on stringing me along?” Scaramouche sneers, “is that what this is to you? You and your crazy experiments get you hard?“

“I grow tired of your constant cry for attention,” Dottore takes a sip of his coffee, turning back to his book. “If you want to sleep with me, I suggest you just say that instead. It would save us a lot of time.”

There’s rage kindling in Scaramouche’s stomach– so fierce it brings tears to his eyes. Or perhaps those are tears of pain; because hadn’t Scaramouche, at one point, too, loved Dottore? He isn’t sure. But anger is a poison polluting his blood, fury so strong it makes Scaramouche choke on it. How dare he, he thinks– allow Scaramouche to fall so far, to let Scaramouche break into a million pieces and then sell the pieces? 

Nights of crying into Dottore’s shoulder about everything terrible in his life is so much worse when he realizes Dottore was looking at him like a puzzle he could solve. A medical mystery. Those were his feelings. His life, his agony, his. No one can look at it other than him. It makes his blood boil– to allow himself to be made a mess of. His hands tremble and it’s not until Scaramouche feels tears sting his eyes does he realize he is practically standing there, panting with rage. Oh, how dare he.

“Get out,” Scaramouche says. 

Finally, that gets Dottore’s attention. But it’s too late– the fury bubbles up and takes control, and Scaramouche kicks him in his leg, grabbing handfuls of Dottore’s shirts and shoving him to the door. 

“I said,” Scaramouche shouts, “Get out!” 

He grabs Dottore’s shirts, pants, and his shoes on the way, aiming at Dottore’s head. He throws Dottore’s favorite mug at him, rips his portraits and medical achievements off the wall and balls them up in his hands. His textbooks ripped, clawing Dottore's blankets and pillows off his bed. 

“Scaramouche–”

“I have had–” Scaramouche hisses, “I have had enough of you! Enough! How dare you, how– you sick fuck, I’m sick of it! How long until you get out of my apartment, my room, my head– you bitch, get out!”

It’s pathetic. He’s pathetic, but it eases the burns on his heart to rip Dottore’s chargers off the wall and throw them at him, his brushes, jewelry, his phone and toothbrush. Ripping polaroids of them off his fridge as if he’s turned his apartment into a rage room. His only regret is not being able to punch Dottore properly.

Dottore had stumbled over the threshold, catching his belongings from Scaramouche easily. It only infuriates him more. Dottore had overstayed his perpetual stay in his head, decorating his head with trinkets. He wishes he could go back in time, now– save himself the trouble. But it doesn’t matter: even if he returns to the past, no one’s waiting for him there anymore.

So no, he doesn’t do relationships. His life feels weirdly stretched thin right now, but it’s something he won’t budge on.

His light blue suitcase is fully packed, complete with a shimmery violet ribbon tied around the handle to signal that it’s his. He’s been apprehensive of going home since he arrived in Michigan at the end of last july. He knows nothing will happen to him that hasn’t happened already, but the idea hurts alone. He thinks it would be easier for all of them if Ei had just gone ahead with Miko’s idea of disowning him years ago.

It’s a long flight– almost two days worth of traveling, between his individual flights and two layovers, one in Maine, the other in Dubai, before he lands in Osaka, Japan. He’ll take a train to Kyoto. Thankfully, the train ride is slightly long– enough for him to call Kazuha and gather his bearings. Kazuha’s been discharged already, getting back in the groove of playing on the ice again before his qualifiers. 

He’s already notified the hospital that he won’t be available for emergencies for the next two weeks— Venti wished him well, and promised to call as much as possible despite the timezone difference. 

Scaramouche leaves tonight, around nine. It’s only halfway through the day as of right now, and so Scaramouche shoves his trunk into the back of Kazuha’s car and lets him drive around Michigan.

Of course Kazuha is worried about Scaramouche– if you know him at all, you’d be chewing your fingernails in sickened concern. He’s made Scaramouche promise to call twice per day, and even more if needed– it could be in the dead of night and Kazuha would pick up. It could be seconds long, just a I'm alive and Kazuha would be satiated. It could be hours of nothing but voicemails.

The thought alone terrifies him, but he has no choice but to keep this promise, since Kazuha won't let him walk away from their arrangement without checking on him at least once.

Scaramouche’s schedule is stacked full. If he lives past this, his flight back to Michigan is only hours before Kazuha’s qualifiers game. Any delay could cost him.

His board exam only days after. It feels like something is brewing on the horizon– miles away from him, Ei is expecting him. Miko’s been sending his texts throughout the day, letting him know she’ll pick him up from the airport and take the train with him. Each new notification feels like a bomb being dropped on his heart, nuclear decay spreading like wildfire though his body. 

He can’t even pretend that it’s not happening.

Scaramouche woke up that morning, tired from his on-call night shift at the hospital, around midday. He hardly ever sleeps in, anyway. The coffee machine has a padlock on it, courtesy of Childe trying to maintain Scaramouche’s health. The sight boils unfriendly blisters in his stomach, and he fixed himself a cup of tea instead. 

Childe had made breakfast for him, a home cooked meal in the fridge next to the tupperware for his travel lunch. A small note was pinned to the fridge, letting Scaramouche know Childe had already left for classes and that he wished him a safe flight. 

Mona had come over not long after, lazing around on his couch while he packed and repacked and ruined all of Childe’s work. She’s worried about him, he can tell. He can tell in the way her eyes track his fidgeting fingers or his eyes stray to the cabinet with alcohol. But she doesn’t say anything, because nothing she could say would be different from something Scaramouche has heard a thousand times before. 

She studied lazily on the couch— it’s her final semester before her graduation and she gets her bachelors. Scaramouche has one more semester to go— the ever present annoyance of a masters’ degree in biology— and this semester was Kazuha and Childe’s last if they make it into qualifiers. It’s oddly bittersweet to see the passage of time. 

Kazuha had come over only an hour after. They piled silently into Scaramouche’s car, and unsaid goes the agreement to head to the ice rink. It’s freezing outside, so Kazuha takes the long route to the rink to allow the car to warm up. 

It’s cold today. The stone in Scaramouche’s stomach falls deeper and deeper. 

The windows fog up with the breath of the morning, some song on the radio that Scaramouche can’t identify. Scaramouche’s face is stoic, neutral. It’s hard for even Kazuha to know what he’s thinking, but it’s probably nothing good. 

“Are you scared?” Kazuha hums. The vipers work hard in front of them, pushing frost off the edges of the shield. 

Scaramouche’s face remains still. He’s slouched into the seat, a gray jacket a few sizes too big over his shirt. It bunches up unpleasantly the more that Scaramouche sinks into the car seat, “terrified.”

Kazuha is beyond concerned— not that something will happen to Scaramouche— he’s more, far more than capable of taking care of himself than anyone gives him credit for. But Scaramouche’s worst enemy is himself, his shadow and his thoughts. 

“Of what?” Kazuha hums. He knows Scaramouche detests it, but it’s easier to find the root of the problem when Scaramouche can properly identify the issue. Saying it out loud is scary for him, Kazuha is well aware: saying it out loud is cementing it in stone, as if it’s really happening right then. He deals with similar problem.

“It feels like my life is about to end,” Scaramouche says bitterly and a little too harshly, as if he can’t believe he’s being asked a question. The words sound like an accusation, but they’re also so much closer than Kazuha could ever have hoped for. His fingers drum impatiently on the arm rest. “Well? I’m doing it. I’m grabbing the rest of my things and then I’m never going back there. Shouldn’t you be congratulating me?”

He doesn’t sound very proud. And Kazuha isn’t either— he’s worried. There aren’t any other feelings that describe how he’s feeling, he’s sure. But this is different, something else has crept its way inside Kazuha’s chest and taken hold of his heart. 

Scaramouche looks up. Kazuha’s gaze is fixated on his face, watching every miniscule change. He doesn’t know what Scaramouche sees in his eyes, but his face twists unpleasantly. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” Scaramouche scoffs, pulling his legs closer together to his chest, pressed up against the dashboard.  “You know how much I hate that kind of stuff, it makes me sick.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Kazuha replies, amused slightly. Scaramouche is a force of nature all his own. A storm in human form, and Kauzha is the smitten man who stands outside with an umbrella and watches the rain pour down. 

“You were going to.”

“No, I wasn’t.” Kazuha replies patiently. He’s well aware Scaramouche despises pity as if it personally did him wrong. “I was going to ask if you were alright. Surely that’s not a crime?”

“Look— this,” Scaramouche turns to him suddenly, his eyes flicking around to make sure no one is peeking into their car. He lowers his voice, motioning to the space between them, “This is not a relationship, this is not—“

“Scaramouche,” Kazuha’s cuts in, incredulous. His eyes flick over to him, looking at him as much as he can while safely driving.

“If I say it’s not a relationship, then it’s not!” Scaramouche curls into himself. “What’s the problem? Aren’t you all about setting boundaries or whatever–”

“I see,” Kazuha replies, “So was I wrong in assuming you have feelings for me?”

“What–” Scaramouche scoffs, “I’m– we’re not talking about this.” he decides, crossing his arms. He brings his bare knees up to his chest like a shield, scrapes and bandages crisscrossing like tattoos. “I say it’s not a relationship. End of story.”

Kazuha feels increasingly frustrated. Scaramouche is hard enough to wrangle a response out of, but it’s even more upsetting when he shuts off half way through a conversation. He’s a brick wall, a shelf of books with one book that’s a secret lever to a room no one knows exists.

He knows Scaramouche has been hurt before by people. But it’s entirely unfair for Scaramouche to invalidate Kazuha’s feelings for it. 

“So you don’t have feelings for me?” Kazuha parks the car in an empty parking garage, close to the ice rink. He can see the lights of the rink from here, bright blue and seemingly deserted. “Forgive me. I don’t believe you.”

“Excuse me?”

Scaramouche’s eyes are flat and cold, his shoulders drawn in as if they were shrinking into him. His voice is low and rough, almost growly. It sounds wrong without any sort of emotion behind it, and when the words leave his mouth, Kazuha sees that they feel just as wrong. 

Kazuha turns to face him. The air between them is thick with tension, like a blanket made of electricity held between them. His arms are crossed, still, stagnant. Kazuha can see every inch of his face, the lines etched there with a kind of permanent sorrow. He adjusts himself so they’re facing each other– Kazuha will wrangle some level of vulnerability from him today. 

He won’t let Scaramouche slip away to Kazuha’s garden of runaway lovers.

“I may be out of line,” Kazuha says firmly, “but I find it difficult to believe someone who kissed me with the fervor of an angry lover could ever be indifferent toward me.” He feels he has earned the right to this moment of honesty, even if it hurts him to do so. 

Scaramouche cringes at the word kiss, as if he couldn’t believe he did that. He splutters a few words, bewildered at the confession. He seems uncertain of what course of action he wants to take before throwing his hands in the air, reaching for the door handle. Kazuha locks the car’s doors before he can open it. 

“I never said,” Scaramouche hisses, he spits the words out through gritted teeth, pointedly not looking at Kazuha. “that I… was indifferent to you. I don’t– I don’t want to talk about this, Kazuha. I can only deal with one crisis at a time.”

Kazuha lets the silence spread like poison gas through his car for only a moment. Scaramouche looks distressed, though he really isn’t trying to hide it from Kazuha. His adamant refusal to communicate what he feels pains Kazuha more than he’d care to admit. He wonders briefly, why every important moment he shares with Scaramouche takes place in a car. There’s a metaphor in there, somewhere, he’s sure. 

“You know, I didn’t have a very good relationship with my father,” Kazuha offers– he takes the first step, as if he was extending a hand to Scaramouche to take, “I would like to think he loved me. But I fear his love was suffocating. His expectations were weighted and his concern was limiting. I have made peace with him for a long time now, but it wasn’t easy, because he passed on before I could find closure.”

Scaramouche is staring at him with the kind of look that twists Kazuha’s heartstrings– and yet he returns the looks with a firm, level look. He can see Scaramouche play with the rings on his fingers, trying to find the stars in Kazuha’s eyes. It would be endearing in different circumstances. 

“Because that’s the kind of person I am,” Kazuha continues, “I am not asking you to forgive everything that happened to you before. I’m asking you to try - so you can have an after.”

Scaramouche nods slightly, slowly. He doesn’t say anything more– only watches Kazuha carefully, as though he needs permission to speak. If Scaramouche was truly, fully, uncomfortable with the idea of being in a relationship, Kazuha would respect it. But that’s not the case, and it’s fortunate that both of them know that. The first step to solving a problem is acknowledging that it’s there.

Kazuha wonders often if it gets tiring for Scaramouche to be so angry all the time. He knows far too well the crushing weight on your shoulders to seek justice all the time– that divine, forest wildfire spark of Scaramouche’s has survived snowstorms, tsunamis, rain. He’s burning the candle at both ends.

“It’s not that easy,” Scaramouche swallows. His voice is thick and heavy.

“I know,” Kazuha reaches across the gear shift, pulling Scaramouche off his seat and into his arms. “But try anyway.”

He knows he’s done it— wrangled that bit of vulnerability from Scaramouche when he laughs, a bitter, watery sound into the material of Kazuha’s hoodie.

“My life sucks,” Scaramouche smiles, resentful and bitter, “I got fucked up real good, right?”

Kazuha holds him a little tighter. Scaramouche snakes his own arms around Kazuha, burying himself in the weirdly comforting smell of his clothes. “My mother is… a real piece of work. If we… date, you won’t be able to have one of those meet the parents thing.”

“You could meet mine,” Kazuha replies, sifting Scaramouche’s violet locks, “Perhaps not my biological parents, but I do happen to know a very lovely woman who thinks herself my guardian.”

Kazuha hasn’t seen Beidou in a while, actually. They call fairly regularly, but he hasn’t visited her in a while. Perhaps he should take his opportunity to pay her a visit. He could fill her in about Scaramouche, his studies, his hockey team. The thought makes him happy. Perhaps it’s a week of reconciliation: he should give Tomo a call while he’s at it. 

“And I might leave Michigan,” Scaramouche says suddenly, “I— Nothing is definitive, but I think… I might need to get away from all of it. If I pass my board exam, I might… move to Chicago. Or something.”

“Then I’ll come with,” Kazuha counters, “though… you’ll be leaving Niwa’s grave here. It’s something to consider.”

“He left me first,” Scaramouche replies, burning holes into the windshield. “And I’m— I’m selfish. And really private, and easily bored. Will any of that be a problem?”

“No,” Kazuha smiles into his hair, “it won’t.”

The duo sit there, together, quietly. Scaramouche sits embedded into Kazuha, melting into him like snow. His eyes are scanning the gray, musty ceiling of the parking garage. Frost climbs the windows of Kazuha’s car like mold, obscuring his view. He lets his head fall against Kazuha’s chest— Kazuha knows that Scaramouche likes these kinds of moments. This kind of peace, this undeniable comfort in the midst of the unforgiving winter.  

“Is it unfair of me?” Scaramouche says suddenly, “to hate them sometimes?”

He means his mother— or Niwa. You could never be too sure with him. Or perhaps he means the media, the U.S government, the shooter. 

“No,” Kazuha says. Scaramouche curls up against him a little more, practically sitting on his lap, “far from it. But I think anger is hard to hold onto… I think eventually your clasp on it will slip. You should put it down somewhere before it falls.”

Scaramouche scoffs— Kazuha knows how it irritates him when he speaks in metaphors, and yet he finds it endearing to a point. Scaramouche looks up, squinting at Kazuha’s smiling face. 

“How precious you are to me,” Scaramouche says, soft, so characteristically unlike him. Yet his voice is like a medication, like a heater in a blistering cold. “If you die, I’ll have to hate you too. So don’t die on me, and… I think I can love you.”

The car is full of whispers, he thinks, full of sighs. The way Scaramouche talks as if he’s ripped Kazuha’s chest open and murmurs directly to his heart. 

“So, until then,” Scaramouche traces Kazuha’s collarbones, “please keep loving me.”

“It won’t be a problem,” Kazuha finds himself saying, and it feels as though the car shudders with the weight of the confession, “I’m afraid I’ll love you forever.”

It sucks to say goodbye. Even if it’s only for a week or two. Days can be slow when you’re alone. Scaramouche crawls back to his seat, letting Kazuha ignite the engine of the car as his warning alarm goes off— he oughta be at the airport soon. 

There’s a lot Kazuha wishes he could still say. How he wishes to grab Scaramouche’s hands and beg him to keep fighting no matter what life throws his way: to take it all and then some more, and then keep going. 

The car ride is silent, rain pouring down and freezing halfway. They drive up to the airport together, and Kazuha buys Scaramouche Mcdonald’s on the way. Scaramouche advises him to take the three hour drive to Wisconsin to visit Beidou and Ningguang. 

“I hate this stuff,” Scaramouche sniffs, wrinkling his nose at the slushie. It’s sweet, cold, a bit like the ice gola that Nahida made for him once. He likes it better without the sweet syrup, “I don’t like sweet things.”

“You’re the one that wanted it,” Kazuha laughs. Scaramouche throws him a glare without any real heat behind it. 

“I know,” Scaramouche says, and then his whole demeanor changes. His tone is more bitter, more resentful, “I know. I’ve always hated these things.”

“Why’d you get it, then?” Kazuha asks. The airport comes into view, bustling with cars and people departing for home and arriving. Suitcases lounge like corpses around the perimeter of Sawyer International Airport. 

“I don’t know,” Scaramouche’s eyes stare not at the airport, but at the slushie in his hand. “I guess I thought it would taste different.”

Kazuha frowns and looks out of the window. The clouds are darker than before, and the world seems darker still. The sun has already started dipping below them. Kazuha struggles to find a parking spot, and Scaramouche pretending to see one every few seconds to throw him off wasn’t the most helpful, though it was amusing. He does finally manage to find one, and he lifts Scaramouche’s suitcase from the trunk, and the two share a look.

Kazuha buys him a coffee from the airport cafe to make up for the terrible slushie. He gets himself a steaming, sweet hot chocolate, blowing the steam off lightly and into Scaramouche’s face. He wrinkles his nose, but he doesn’t say anything– he blows a raspberry right back at Kazuha, who laughs at the petty behavior.

Scaramouche checks in, and they collapse next to one of the extravagant windows in the cafe. They have a little bit before Scaramouche has to say goodbye. It’s cold, and frost creeps up the windows as rain clouds march in. There are snow flurries too; white, fluffy, feathery flakes that look like they've been plucked from a painting.

“You’ve got everything?” 

Scaramouche nods slowly. He swallows distinctly, and though Kazuha has never seen him cry, he has the oddest feeling that perhaps Scaramouche is trying not to. 

“Call me,” Kazuha replies quietly. He can’t make Scaramouche do anything, but he knows better than anyone how important it is for both of them to be there when each other needs them. “And if at any moment, you feel as though you cannot do it, fly straight back to Michigan. And facetime me twice a day.”

There’s no words from Kazuha that can ease the ache in Scaramouche’s chest. He opens his arm, a silent offering. And Scaramouche indulges– he tucks his face into Kazuha’s neck and squeezes around his waist, craving the comfort, as if tucking away the last of his sanity for him to retrieve later. 

They stay like that a while, hidden away in the shadows of the airport’s cafe. There are people milling about, some shouting in anger or crying in relief; and while Scaramouche would normally be interested by their bustling activity and drama, it seems to Kazuha that Scaramouche seems preoccupied with tracing the lines of Kazuha’s hand. 

“Will you go see your step-mother?”

“Beidou and Ningguang?” Kazuha asks, Scaramouche nods, sipping his coffee. “I would like to. My schedule has been very hectic recently. The hockey team has an awards ceremony coming up after the big game. They’ve been torn between setting that up and practicing for qualifiers. It would be very difficult, but immensely appreciated if I was to be given any time to myself.”

“You should,” Scaramouche replies, “I was thinking of meeting up with Buer between Dubai and Japan.”

“Buer?” Kazuha racks his memory. He’s heard the name from Scaramouche before, but can’t seem to place it right now. The name sounds foreign in his mouth.

“My mother’s friend,” Scaramouche says curtly, “but she’s more of a mother than Ei ever could be. Ei hates me. Actually,” he pauses, “I don’t think she remembers me enough to hate me. Miko definitely hates me, though. 1-800-I-Hate-My-Wife’s-Kid — that’s the number Miko used to call every morning. It’s whatever, though. I don’t care. I think she’s just like that to make sure I don’t turn out to be as heartless as Ei. Good luck to her, I say. From poisoned seeds sprout poisoned fruits.”

Kazuha’s eyebrows raise. “Is that a real number?”

“No,” Scaramouche says darkly, “but if it is, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

It's comfortable, and the two chatter casually.  They know each other well enough by now that they don't need to say much of anything – but they do anyway. The two of them are content with each other’s presence, for as long as possible. The quiet comfort is like medication, and yet there is no pressure between them to fill it with something, and yet it doesn't stop them from talking at times as if nothing else exists in the world but them.

They can’t stay like that forever though, because eventually Scaramouche’s flight starts boarding and they clamber out of the chairs ungracefully. Scaramouche’s carry-on is a small bag around the curve of his shoulder, the charms on it bumping into his arm every time he turns around to make sure Kazuha is there.

The drop off area is like a death arena. Once Scaramouche is cleared to go ahead and pass on through to the escalators, the air between them thickens again. People push past them, and yet Scaramouche has eyes only for Kazuha. 

A lump forms in Kazuha’s throat. It’s never easy saying goodbye, even if it's just for a week or two. Scaramouche speaks as though he is someone who has never loved before and is being forced to compromise, faux confidence but settled determined coating his words.

“You said something earlier,” Scaramouche starts hesitantly, “about… forgiving this place for what it’s done to me.”

Kazuha’s eyebrows raise. He nods once, pushing a stray violet lock behind Scaramouche’s ear. There’s a small, star tattoo there, hidden just below his ear and peeking out from his hair. The strand falls out anyway.

“I already forgave this worthless world a while ago,” Scaramouche admits, “because it gave me you.”

Ah.

Kazuha’s own smile must be something to see, he thinks. There’s very little that can convey his feelings as of right now– and Kazuha’s endless supply of words seems to fail him. Scaramouche does that to him; make him feel like a kitchen wrecked with love, a table full of baked goods and the pots and pans stacked on the shelf and the counters wiped clean. Bluebells sprout outside the windows of Kazuha’s head, honeybees outside and guarding his garden.

“I know we aren’t dating,” Kazuha closes his eyes and takes the leap. “But could I kiss you?”

Scaramouche smiles against Kazuha’s lips; Kazuha steals another kiss, and another, and another– cupping Scaramouche’s face like glass. This kiss is different from last time, and Kazuha’s creative writing degree fails him time and time again. It feels as though the sun has washed his world in yellow, the seeds sprouting green and his bluebells budding in the sweet impatience of june.

“You taste like hot chocolate,” Scaramouche says, quietly. He doesn’t like sweet things. He never does.

“How is it?” Kazuha asks, pulling apart. They’re hair breadths apart, and it feels like a lifetime passes between them in that moment. Scaramouche’s face is less taut. 

And then laughs, a real laugh– not a bitter one, not a fake one, a genuine one.

“Still terrible,” Scaramouche smiles, and it feels like the sun is beating down on them. Languid light that bounces off Scaramouche’s hair, warm skin on Kazuha’s and cool linen between them. A gentle humming of the airport around them, clover, jasmine and aster on Scaramouche’s jacket. Fig-blue dusk in the windows of the airport and rosemary green in his heart.

The intercom is like a bell, pulling Scaramouche away from him.

“Go get your closure, lover,” Kazuha whispers into the pulse of Scaramouche’s neck, “and come back to me with the rest of you.”

Kazuha thinks they are a catastrophe. All he hopes is that they will be a pretty one.

The whole flight was terrible. 

He plugs in his earbuds and puts on some random youtuber talking about petty drama– plays imessage chess with Venti, and tries to tune out what the hell he’s flying towards. The city below him feels weirdly inconsequential, and Michigan Reed Hospital is just another speck in the sight. 

It’s hard to cling onto reason as he sleeps though the majority of the flight. He holds onto the memory of Kazuha’s kiss as though it’s his lifeline. He could have built the pyramids with the same effort. 

He lays back and tries to let go of yesterday and tomorrow.

He gets stuck lost in Maine’s airport during the first layover. The only thing worse would be if someone needed a doctor on board, and yet it would still be more interesting.

Still he tredges on, the flight across the Atlantic perhaps even more taxing than the first. He calls Venti between the flights– then, after forty minutes, he continues on. Dubai passes him by, and he thinks briefly– he could stop here, call Buer and beg her to take him to Pakistan instead. He’s sick, knowing he’s gonna walk into his childhood home and feel it all rush back to him, knowing he’s gonna feel like a teenager who’s sick and tired of being forced into silent dinners and confined to his room all over again. But he doesn’t let himself think about that, because thinking about things isn’t helping. 

Amongst one of the flights, his seat partner is a young girl: no more than thirteen. She’s wearing flames on her bright red dress, a staple amongst the greys and whites she’s surrounded with. She was quiescent up until the plane took off.

He’s sulking in his chair as always; watching The Italian Job on the small screen ahead of him. She looks over at him multiple times, squinting to analyze his face over and over again and looking away as soon as he takes notice. Her mother tugs her back every now and then, tucking her hair away behind her ear, though it falls out each time. It’s useless.

“I’m sorry about her,” the mother apologizes again and again, each time. 

Scaramouche ignores them; but later, much later– amongst the inky sky and reclined seats, the girl is awake in the dead of the night when her mother is asleep. She kicks her legs and sticks her tongue out, trying to shake Scaramouche out of his stoic face.

Eventually, he cracks. “What the hell are you doing?”

“You talk,” she blinks, scrambling back. Her eyes get starry and big with curiosity, misplaced and too large to be cramped in a place so tiny. She leans forward, silk hair falling around her face.

“Of course I do,” Scaramouche replies, looking down at her from the corner of his eye, “I’m not a statue.”

She opens her mouth, pausing, “And you said a bad word. My mom says you shouldn’t say bad words.”

“My mom didn’t teach me that.”

“Well, you mustn’t had a very good mom, then,” she replies smartly.

Of course he didn’t. But he’s not going to be the loser that trauma dumps onto the bright ray of sunshine next to him. 

Scaramouche stares at the little girl next to him. She’s glowing, happy to one-up him. She looks sweet, and then the weight of it all comes crushing down on him— he doesn’t see her, but rather himself as a kid again. 

I am really fucked up. 

Kazuha told him to put down his anger, lest his grip loosen— and yet, he keeps hold of everything, just in case. Anger can be a useful emotion, but oh, is it tiring. But he can’t put it down— he forgets who he is without the anger. 

He wasn’t born angry. No, he thinks, he was sweet as a kid. With big bright blue eyes and dressed in white silks and veils and willing to go anywhere his mother let him. 

There’s a memory that floats up: something that might’ve changed the trajectory of his life. He was nine or eight, waiting for his mother to pick him up from school. He waited past the bell, waited until even the faculty who were watching him had to go home. He waited, and he waited for his mother to come get him.

Staff told him she wasn’t coming. He ignored them, because she was his mother. She had forgotten him, he would come to realize. She forgot to come get him; and it happens to other students too, but for Scaramouche— it was just different. It was different.

Even in Michigan, Scaramouche feels like he’s still waiting.

He has no idea what he’s doing to say to her— he knows he won’t be able to stay holed up in his room for forever, no matter what he says he would do. So— what? What does he owe her, for what he’s become? This cruel, heartless, monstrously lonely thing— does he give her credit or blame?

He knows what Kazuha is scared of; he thinks Scaramouche is going to destroy himself further, as if he’s going to stand in Ei’s living room and take it all as if he’s some kind of cutting board. There’s relief in giving into destruction, but Scaramouche will not fall victim to the addiction again. 

His anger is a weapon, a double edged knife welded from the ugliest parts of him. To hold it cuts him, but it wards off anyone who poses a threat— his anger is a child born from years of neglect and injustice. It is a knife he stole from the kitchen of his childhood home, trying to make himself a meal because no one was ever home. It’s the ugly, wrinkled bed sheets he set himself because he couldn’t reach all of the corners himself; it’s having to stack boxes on top of boxes to reach the washing machine so he could clean his clothes. It’s loneliness in its most sour form. 

It’s crying in your room because you just became a shooting survivor and your mother does not care. 

“You have a wonderful mother,” Scaramouche says.

“I do,” The girl smiles then, all tooth and with large, red braces. Her grin is blinding, “she can make anything happen. She can do anything!”

The plane is very still, dazed with moonlight and invaded by a million different perfumes. And when he dreams that night, he dreams of his younger self— Kunikuzushi, Kabukimono, a nameless kid, sitting next to him instead. He weeps in his dream and wishes he could give himself a hug, and tell him to keep going even if it may never get better. 

When he wakes up, that golden haired girl next to him is packing her things and going, like a fairy ringing past his ears and out of his life again. 

Another day passes between the travelling— he texts Venti again, or Childe. He watches a million movies, most of which Childe had recommended. He plays cuphead on his switch, letting the teen next to him play as well. He grabs coffee each time he lands, because airport food makes him feel sick. If he’s feeling bold, he’ll grab a milk bun with it. 

Baggage claim takes forever– both in Maine, Dubai, and Japan. His turquoise bag is one of the last loaded onto the tread– the violet ribbon is like a lightning indicator for him, but someone else almost grabs it, only to apologize, insisting that their bags look similar. Scaramouche keeps bumping into people, just keeps having people talk to him, ask for directions because he looks like a local, when in reality he may be more of a stranger than them. 

It’s sickening, the way he retraces his steps. He made these same flights– these same airlines, all of it, when he first ran away. He walks on a street full of footprints, and he can pick his apart from the crowd. When he left, he did not know what would happen to him– otherwise, he might have left differently. He might not have left at all.

There’s a quote he heard once: that eventually something you love is going to be taken away from you, and you will fall to the floor crying. And then however much later, when you are falling to the floor crying, thinking; I am falling to the floor crying, you know there's an element of ridiculous to it– you knew it would happen and, even worse, while you're on the floor crying, you look at the place where the wall meets the floor and you realize you didn't paint it very well. 

It’s the little cruelties that get to him. The big ones he survives, he pushes past the shit the world tosses at him and tests his will against the pain. But the wounds that he can't even tell are there– those eat at him. The days he is eating a bowl of soup and he realizes, he can't move, he can't do anything, because he thinks, something is dead in me.

His agony is not lovable. It is ugly.

He did not eat after the shooting. He did not move, he did not do anything, but stay there and beg him mom to pick up the phone. He racked up bills in the thousands trying to call overseas, and not one was answered. He worked night shifts to pay it off, and he thought then, this may be an addiction in itself.

The strange feelings that came with the silence of an unanswered call— the same ones you feel at a desolate train station, a 24/7 open market, or when you buy a fanta at a vending machine because all of the coke is sold out. 

He denied media interviews and took no part in the lawsuit. He did not look at guns and he cried during the next fourth of july, when fireworks sounded too much like gunshots. He begged Childe to blacklist any search terms regarding the shooting before he lost his mind, he did it all and so much more. 

He clung to everything, things he had and things he didn’t. 

Eventually, after the longest imaginable flights and layovers. He was nauseous from shitty airport food, mildly swollen from high altitudes, but he reaches Osaka, Japan. Miko is supposed to pick him up and they take the train to Kyoto together. 

The air of Japan is mild, plum and intricately woven with jasmine. He waits patiently for Miko to come, biting his nails as he sits down on a nearby bench. His phone rings softly— it’s Kazuha, asking if he’s landed yet. 

He answers yes, and shuts his phone off. Kazuha replies with a 8ball game, as if he could read his mind and that he needs a distraction. 

A smile creeps onto his face. He sits there for a while, exchanging texts with Kazuha and waiting for Miko. 

— How were the flights? Kazuha texts, did you eat something? 

Scaramouche bites his nail — fine, he replies, boring. Waiting for Miko.

He has a few texts from Nahida, too, mostly from yesterday when he first boarded. He replies to them, letting know he’ll call her soon. He waits there, for another hour. The sun dips below again, underneath his feet. And he waits. 

He wonders if he ever learns from his mistakes. Twice must be a pattern, and he is the fool who ignored the signs. 

Scaramouche hugs his knees to his chest— perhaps even now, he is nine years old, still waiting for his mother. 

Chapter Text

One plus one is two, there are fifty states in America, your heart pumps blood through your body, and the route from Michigan to Wisconsin was not paved with good intentions.

Kazuha yawns weakly. His neck complains at the sudden movement, still heavy after the six hour drive from Michigan. The window of his bedroom is open, letting the peach and honey air carry in the twinkling of wind chimes. 

He took up the drive to visit Beidou yesterday. Childe was more than happy to let him skip a few meets to go see Beidou and Ningguang again as long as he didn’t let himself get rusty. He left for Wisconsin roughly a day or two after he dropped Scaramouche off. He was probably still making his way across the world, leaving a wake of violence in his path, Kazuha thinks. He oughta be somewhere near the end of it though, but he hasn’t gotten a call yet. 

He generally enjoys long trips— he thinks there’s love in the sun streaming through his sunroof, eating hot soup and bread loaves in his car as he passes the world by. He used to enjoy them a lot more when he had a dosage of Morphine in his veins and a haze in his head. 

Battling an addiction isn’t easy. Similar to how writing poetry about human pain is entirely different when you are hunched over a sink, vomiting from withdrawal. Even now, often his stomach cramps and the desperation for opioids floods his head like a disease. 

It’s still a battle he fights. During the drive to Wisconsin, midday he broke out in cold sweats and a heated forehead— washing over him in waves with the need for an opioid. Kazuha takes it in stride, he knows what he signed up for when he decided to quit. But it doesn’t make it any easier.

It was a lot worse when he first quit. He lost his appetite, his sleep. The first month tasted like ash, like his world was muted colors. 

Kazuha is not perfect. Far from it. But he seems to be because of how  he handles himself— unlike Scaramouche, he doesn’t find a certain beauty in destroying himself. He is willing roommates with his sadness.

He lets his pain eat dinner with him. He does the laundry with it, does the dishes. He holds a conversation, and like all happy guests, eventually it will leave once it has had a good meal and rest. It’s just a different approach, but it’s not the only one. 

His wayward path led him through border security. Slightly irritating, but miles better than whatever TSA has going on. He arrived late last night, slept, and now he wakes in a morning made with peppermint and swirling milk in coffee. He can smell butter and croissants from downstairs— in which he sighs his hand down the smooth wood of the rail barefoot. 

The wood creaks, the windows open and wind breathing into the curtains. Beidou is eating at the dinner table, croissant and coffee in her hand that Ningguang probably made. She wears a perfume of pages, the scent of the nearby lake on the tips of her fingers. Her hair is windswept, but her smile stays steady. 

“Kazuha!” She grins, “glad to see you awake. Long drive?”

“Yes,” Kazuha replies pleasantly, “Thank you for letting me stay on such short notice.” He takes a seat at the table across from her, waving off her offer of coffee. 

“Eh, don’t mention it,” She replied, “You’ll always have a place here. So why’d you come? You said you weren’t gonna come over this break. Something about a… tournament?”

Kazuha nods conversationally, getting up to look in her fridge. She has a lot of fish, but it’s alright. Kazuha quite likes seafood.

Kazuha feels at peace standing barefoot in Beidou and Ningguang’s kitchen. Ningguang is most likely at work, though she’s due anytime to come home as of now. He has fond memories of this house— late June, early July, playing board games and reading the dusty books on the shelves. Attending cram school and getting his first pair of skates. He would take up late nights by the nearest CVS pharmacy or go sailing by the ocean with Beidou if she asked. 

If there was one thing Kazuha always has been, it’s loved. Beidou and Ningguang, his mother, and even his father in his own way. He’s never had to feel that empty feeling of loneliness, of being unloved by the people who were supposed to love you most. 

And still he fell into the hands of addiction. It can happen to anyone, he thinks. The right circumstances can breed the wrong actions. 

He doesn’t think Tomo thought Kazuha would get hooked on opioids the first he offered some to Kazuha. Tomo had been a sweet, hardworking and ambitious boy that Kazuha had seen the sun in. Drugs were just a thing Tomo had been overly researching at that time: he would have moved on from it in a month and hooked on a different subject. 

But he offered some of his study material to Kazuha, who was grieving the loss of his father. He understands Tomo didn’t mean for Kazuha to treat opioids as if they were the sweetness of June. He understands Tomo didn’t mean it. 

He chooses to believe Tomo didn’t mean it. 

Kazuha straightens, his heart unfurling traitorously. He’s firmly planted in the kitchen, fixing himself something to eat. There’s flowers in a vase next to him, like paint brushes dipped in vermillion. Small, mundane things stick out to him— a grocery list on the fridge: desert peaches, grapefruit juice, bread and milk. 

The mundanity of it all causes an ache in his heart. The house phone rings once, twice, and Beidou stands to get it. Kazuha bids her a nod, deciding now is the perfect time to unpack. She busies herself with the phone, complaining loudly to Ningguang about something and Kazuha heads upstairs. 

He should hurry it up, he thinks, Scaramouche ought to call soon. 

He pulls shirts and hoodies and socks out of his very light luggage, his toothbrush and a small, sturdy canon camera. He takes out his skates— yes, he packed them— his shin pads, a portable stick and puck. If the nearby rink hasn’t been torn down yet, he’ll pay it a visit. 

Kazuha loves the ice. 

More than anything, hockey is something that is undeniably his; the warm sun rays spilling through the windows of the rink and onto the ice floor, the clattering of hockey sticks mid game, and the rushing roar of the crowd.

Even the glass separators— between the players and the viewers (Usually Scaramouche) that Kazuha has blown on and drawn a heart with the fog that remained in the wake of his breath. (Usually directed towards Scaramouche).

Hockey is a feeling to him— as if wisterias flourish between the cracks of the ice and vines grow through the windows— it’s paired with the smaller things, like a really solid guitar riff. The sun painting murals on the ice or holding the door open for the ice dance group that comes in after his practice. 

It’s warmer in Wisconsin than it is in Michigan. He grabs his phone, placing it into his mouth with grace before he swings himself out of the window. It’s something Kazuha has remembered doing since forever— clambering out of his small, quaint window and onto the awning of their home. Even then, Kazuha thinks, his heart yearned for more.

He waits patiently for Scaramouche to call. Minutes pass him by, in which he tends to a small bird who had been stuck in the gutter of the home. He hums a few tunes, laying silently on the small awning and entirely content with the sun on his face. 

It’s peaceful. This quietness is not as bad as it used to be. He has lived through worse. 

The sun is high now, its rays warming up and causing him to feel as if someone is rubbing their palm against his face. He doesn't mind it much, though. The heat makes him sleepy, so he shuts his eyes and allows himself a brief nap before his phone begins to vibrate again. 

“Hey, Kazuha,” Scaramouche says, grinning. Kazuha could hear the smile in his voice.

“Hello, Scara,” Kazuha replies. He can hear his own voice go through the speaker, warm and comforting and accompanied with the familiar cracking of the phone quality, “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” He replies, “I’m on the way to Kyoto now. Miko’s… with me.”

“Oh, she came?” Kazuha hums, “I regret to say, but I wasn’t expecting it.”

Kazuha can hear Scaramouche shift on the other end. “Well, it’s not like I had high hopes either. She said she would, so she did. If she didn’t, I would have taken great pleasure in tearing her apart bit by bit.”

“Then I take it as she’s still alive?” Kazuha says. 

“Unfortunately,” Scaramouche lets out an airy laugh, “as are you, Kaedehara.”

“Fortunately, I managed to arrive alive,” Kazuha replied. He lets the bird he saved earlier chirp on his finger, a heavy and dependable weight of mass on his hand. “Or perhaps I am just as dead as the average man.”

Scaramouche inhales through his nose on the other end, “Never thought there would be a day where I would be glad to hear your senseless rhythmical compositions.”

“Rhythmical compositions,” Kazuha smiles, “I’m afraid I haven’t heard that one before. You have a remarkable mind.”

“Huh,” comes Scaramouche’s reply, “You’re even more irritating than I originally assumed.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad. Beidou has many of my childhood poetry books here and I look forward to reading them.” Kazuha comments. His phone slides down the awning slightly, blown in the sweet air of Wisconsin. Oh, how he loves the midwest.

Scaramouche’s voice is breathy with amusement, "You and your books. I bet you could spend all day with your nose buried in one." 

Kazuha lets the bird fly away. "Perhaps I could. But I prefer spending my time with you."

“Oh, cut it out with the flirting,” Scaramouche snaps. Kazuha could hear rain coming from his end of the call, ruffling of something .  “Spare me the trouble and save it for whichever unfortunate fool you decide to date.”

Kazuha forgot all about the not-dating rule of Scaramouche’s. “Alright, then I suppose I will.”

Scaramouche shifts on the other end. He seems satiated, if not a little uncomfortable with Kazuha agreeing so quickly. 

“Scaramouche.”

“What?” Scaramouche replies. His voice is breathy, a little different than the usual rough grate of his voice. It sounds as if the plates of earth are cracking beneath his feet, the rivers flooding around his legs and separating ichor from rose blood. 

Kazuha plays a tune on a nearby leaf. The sound is monotone, but not flat. “Please go out with me.”

“You are insane. No.”

Kazuha smiles at the quick shut down.

Scaramouche’s presence is making him crave a bottle of ink. He thinks he could write something very beautiful right now. He can smell Beidou cooking something from inside— barbecuing fish, most likely. Spices tingle his nose and a few kids down the block yell and shout with the water hose. The call lapses into comfortable silence before Kazuha speaks up again.

“Have you called Buer yet?” Kazuha asks. He makes sure to carefully pronounce the name— his question is nearly lost over the barrage of noise from Scaramouche’s end.

“No,” Scaramouche replies briskly, “I’ll call later. She’s going to nag me and I’m not in the mood to hear it. If I get lectured right now, the next person I see is in for a very, very bad day.”

“Then I suppose you should bribe the train conductor to go quicker?” Kazuha smiles. 

“Is your learning curve a horizontal line?” Scaramouche says, and Kazuha can practically hear the irritation morphing into his face, “I don’t even have enough money left to consider tipping him. Which I wouldn’t.” 

“You wouldn’t tip him?” Kazuha replies, searching for a new leaf. He can hear smoke coming from inside the house– probably Beidou smoking. 

“What need does he have for it?” Scaramouche laughs breathily through the phone, “I’m sure getting to watch all these insignificant people argue and run around like headless chickens is payment enough.”

“How cynical.”

“Oh, I know well. You would prefer to be one of said headless chickens,” Scaramouche snickers, “You already look the part.”

Kazuha’s eyebrows raise. He hears a sprinkler go off somewhere to his right. “This is the first I’ve heard of any complaints against my appearance. In fact, I distinctly remember—”

“Stop, ” Scaramouche interrupts, “let’s not talk about the things I say when I’m too tired to think straight.”

Kazuha laughs. Flowers bloom between his ribcage; lilacs, wisterias, daisies all dipped in the color in Scaramouche’s eyes. The thing about Scaramouche– he was wildly uncomfortable as a person. His existence itself felt misplaced, and that should be a bad thing. 

He keeps Kazuha on the edge of his toes; not quite running, like Tomo, but nevertheless moving towards something. Not fast, as if he was stalling to really leave– It’s enough for Kazuha to keep up with, because you can never really be with someone who’s heart is set somewhere away from you. You can only keep up with someone for so long before you give out. 

Kazuha’s heart feels set ablaze when they make eye contact, with every breath that mingles together. Wherever Scaramouche’s eyes decide to rest, that area of Kazuha feels like something he should cherish.

He kept Kazuha on the tips of his feet. He’s unsettling, and yet; captivating, so, so captivating. His stormy personality, his face, his body; like lavender. 

He’s like dark summers, honeyed and sulky, full of pomegranates and thunderstorms and rain pattering down on the windows of his childhood home. Wisterias, promises, and board games in the safety of the attic when the power goes out. Cinematic, passionate, and yet melancholic and tragic; lightning across the sky when the cul-de-sac is full of kids in the neighbor’s bouncy house.

Every touch of his is a game, every brush of fingertips more bold and daunting as if he was daring Kazuha to make a move. Scaramouche offers him something that Kazuha does not think he has felt in a long, long time. Something to replace the high the opioids gave him without the burden of addiction. 

Tomo wasn’t like that.

Tomo was the best of the ambitious and the worst of the unattached. He placed his ambition over Kazuha– which he understands, but it hurt nonetheless. He hopes Tomo is doing well–  Tomo was too sweet, a golden retriever packed full of unbounding energy and kindness to be alone forever. Kazuha just couldn’t keep up with his goals.

Kazuha craved the energy, the freedom and the kind of forever love that comes with tragedies. 

He lays languidly on the small awning, playing a leaf in his mouth and his hair is toyed with by the wind; he thinks of Tomo right now– did he find someone who could keep up with him? Where was he? What was he doing? 

It was that kind of question that would keep Kazuha up at certain times in life. When he couldn’t sleep, he would throw open his window and let the cool wind in. He would look at the moon through a curtain of clouds, crickets playing a lullaby through the air and let himself light a small, orange salt lamp in the corner of his room as he took a hit of Morphine. Everything would be quiet, and at peace, and the questions wouldn’t bother him anymore.

But he lays here, now, with Scaramouche on speaker. He finds that the question doesn't bother him as much as it did before.

“Scaramouche,” he calls once again.

“What?” is the response that comes through. Kazuha lets himself savor the moment for a second longer. 

“Miko’s not with you, is she?”

Kazuha can hear Scaramouche go still. The rustling stops. It feels like everything in Japan may have stopped alongside Scaramouche. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the train he was probably on came to a stop as well. 

“Why did you lie?” Kazuha replies to the silence, and it’s not meant to be accustory— not in the slightest, but the edges are rougher than he wanted them to be.

Scaramouche seems to inhale on the other end. “If I told you she wasn’t here and that I was fine, you wouldn't have believed me. But you would have believed me if I told you she was here.”

“Because one is a lie, am I right?” Kazuha asks calmly. The pile of leaves near him has considerably dimmed as he checked the quality of them.

“Stop– stop that,” Scaramouche hisses, his voice lowers substantially, as if he was trying not to be heard, “this is meant to be our break. I want you to not worry about me while you’re relaxing. Not that I require worrying about.”

“I don’t think I could stop worrying about you even if you asked me to,” Kazuha responded pleasantly. 

“Will you stop saying things like that? It’s embarrassing. Save it for someone who cares.” Scaramouche sneers. His voice cuts out a little through the terrible phone quality and Kazuha looks to the petri dish near him as if it would fix the problem.

“You don’t like it when I flirt with you,” Kazuha replies, more like a statement than a question.

“I don’t want you to. You’re supposed to flirt with people you want to date. Unless you’re Childe and think with your dick constantly.”

“I do want to be with you,” Kazuha responded calmly, “I thought I made that clear. Unless you don’t want to—“

“That’s the problem,” Scaramouche rasps. His voice cuts over Kazuha’s on the phone, flickering now and then. Kazuha can practically hear him rubbing his temple. “I want to. I don’t normally want things, so this is kind of a new feeling.  All it is… is that I don’t need you thinking you want to be with me without understanding what a shitshow it’s going to be.”

And then Kazuha laughs. Warmth blooms in his chest at the words, like liquid sunset. His laughter is spare change, twinkling in the air. He nudges at the edge of the awning in humor, noticing the year-old blunts stacked in the gutter.

“Scara,” Kazuha smiles, “Perhaps you could be kind enough to recall how we met.”

Scaramouche shifts on the other end. “A car chase,” he responds uncomfortably, “And then the next time we saw each other, we fought. And then you pushed me into a pool.”

“I did not push you.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Scara,” Kazuha smothers his own smile. The last time they had this exact conversation was when it happened— and Kazuha will maintain his innocence no matter what Scaramouche said happened. “All I am trying to say is that… I am not going to expect something from you that we never had in the first place.”

Kazuha thinks normality is a privilege that has been long robbed from both of them. If this is a shitshow waiting to happen— Kazuha wants front row seats.

He waits patiently for a response. Communication is far from Scaramouche’s strong suit, but Kazuha fully intends to be with him. And if that means he has to wait forever on a silent call, so be it. 

“Alright up there, Kazuha?” 

Smoke reaches his nose. He blinks. He looks down, brown hair just in the peripheral of his vision and blocked by the awning. Beidou takes another drag of her cigar, hanging out of the window boldly. 

“Oh,” Kazuha replies warmly, “Hello, Beidou.”

Senseless noise emits from Scaramouche’s end of the line— probably the train, but it drowns out whatever Scaramouche says in the midst of it. Kazuha nods at Beidou, motioning to the phone. She takes another drag of her cigar, blowing the smoke sky high as Kazuha asks Scaramouche to repeat himself.

“I said,” Scaramouche said irritatingly, “Is that Beidou.”

“Yes,” Kazuha answers, “would you like to talk to her? I am sure she’d love to meet you.”

“Right now?” Scaramouche laughs breathily, entirely unhumorous and more like he was laughing at Kazuha, “How hilarious. Maybe later, when the connection is better. I’ll talk to you soon, Kazuha.”

He’s eager to hang up. Probably because as soon as Kazuha whittles a response out of him for the relationship thing, he’s going to ask where Miko is. It’s alright, Kazuha thinks— his quest for Scaramouche to be more open isn't meant to make him uncomfortable around him. 

“Call me again when you reach the estate, please,” Kazuha reminds gently, “Take care of yourself.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Scaramouche dismisses, a scoff on his lips. He hangs the phone up. 

Kazuha doesn’t realize how much he misses Scaramouche until he disconnects the call. 

Kazuha shivers lightly. The warm, honey spring air has chilled with the amount of time he spent up on the awning. He pushes himself upright on his palms and starts to maneuver back inside– Beidou scooches to the left for Kazuha to swing himself back into his room. She claps him heartily on the back when he’s fully back inside his room again, thumbing a leaf he took alongside him.

“That wasn’t Tomo,” She says.

“No,” Kazuha says. He deems shutting his window unneeded, rather just turning on the various salt-lamps around his room that cast his childhood bedroom into a rather pleasant, warm orange glow. “It wasn’t.”

Kazuha has never called Tomo since he whisked himself off to England. Kazuha makes amends with the past. That’s the reason he’s never felt compelled to call Tomo and check on him. He hopes he’s doing well, though. 

“Oh, great,” Beidou ruffles his hair, a crooked grin on her face, “No offense, but you guys always looked like cousins.”

Kazuha flutters his eyes shut, “Beidou.”

Beidou snorts, a hearty sound in the cool of the room. She doesn’t ask more than that, but he can feel the question brimming on her lips. Kazuha hums, grabbing his earlier discarded skates. 

He wants to be with Scaramouche. He accepted the disaster that would be made of him when he realized it. He wants Scaramouche. Even the parts he doesn’t understand. The parts Scaramouche refuses to give.

The day outside is oblique, as if it paused itself during Kazuha’s phone call and waited for him to finish. He knows this town by heart— he takes the quick fifteen minute trip down to the community ice center. It’s barren, as it usually is in a small town; but ice is ice, and Kazuha doesn’t discriminate.

The doors are open for him to come in, and his eyes pass over the plaques on the wall. Back when he lived here, there was a local hockey team assembled from nothing but people who had passion for the game. Beidou had funded them, and it was when Kazuha played left, and Tomo played right.

Kazuha wonders briefly what happened to the other teammates. He left midway to make the trip down to Michigan, but looking at the plaques on the wall— perhaps they really didn’t continue after Kazuha left. Or maybe they didn’t win anything ever after that. That would be rather depressing. 

He ties his skates while sitting in a living memory. He dictates himself a goal by using markers, and begins to warm up. 

He finds himself looking up at the bleachers a little too much to be coincidental. 

It really does not come as a surprise that he misses Scaramouche. But his absence in the stands– as Kazuha twirls the puck with his stick– settles unkindly in his stomach. Even if Kazuha didn’t really know him back then, there would still be moments that stuck with him. 

Moments when arguments would erupt on the ice during practice and Kazuha would look up, only to see Scaramouche smiling like a moon’s crescent, luminescent within the unlit rink. Like melodrama in eternal motion. 

Sometimes Childe would have Scaramouche come into play as a mediator when fights got particularly out of hand. He would walk down to the edge of the stadium, separated by the glass barrier. Even then, Kazuha thought the way the ice flakes from the rink laid upon him made it look as if his hair was tangled with stars. And then he would open his mouth and say something cruel with that sharp tongue of his, like there was electricity cracking under his skin.

Kazuha thought he was beautiful, even then. 

He was terrible, but he was a good person when it counted. No matter how much he claimed he wasn’t.

He stops on the ice. He’s been gripped with the urge to go somewhere— really, anywhere. Somewhere freeing: somewhere to travel, like Scaramouche. Perhaps he’ll head out the rink and wherever his feet take him. Maybe he’ll make a map to get lost.

He passes by the plaques on the wall again as he exits the rink. The names engraved in gold— Kazuha’s included, makes him smile. They feel like memories encased in amber, like a testament to whatever would be great enough to be preserved forever. 

There is a pull in his heart.

There is a good kind of sadness, Kazuha thinks. There is the kind of sadness that tears you apart and rips your core in half. The kind that is heavy and numbs your head in the way that opioids do. And then there is the kind that crashes like soft beach waves in your lungs and washes away the pain. 

Kazuha sits down at the edge of the wall and ice, the plaque hanging above his head.  His knees are propped up, his feet still on the ice. His stick lay across his lap. 

He feels like losing and gaining at the same time. He hasn’t quite decided whether or not it’s a good feeling. But it’s a feeling he thinks he’s missed, and it’s over— through grief, love, and even with a still ongoing battle with addiction, a wave of warm sunshine floods his chest.

He wasn’t expecting to get so emotional over returning to his teenage home. Well— he is only human, after all.

He grips his hockey stick again. The rink has the sun's rays painting murals onto the ice, as if inviting him back on. The plaque is cold against his skin as he stands up, casting it a look— Tomo’s name is written right below his. A boy he spent his teenage years chasing after, trying to keep up with a never ending fiery trail of ambition. 

Kazuha wishes him well. He does, truly. But he’s moving on, and he’s going in a separate direction from Tomo. He’s not going to chase after Scaramouche— he thinks he’s going to walk right alongside him. He thinks Scaramouche is going to wait for him. 

Right now, though, he’s craving some fish. 

He missed his train and it wasn’t his fault. 

Scaramouche would like to make it abundantly clear that it was in no way his fault that the train left without him when he exited the airport— in case you think it was his fault, because it wasn’t.

He spent so long waiting for Miko to show up that he missed his bullet train to Kyoto. He could take a taxi, but getting into a stranger's car when the sun was six feet below the earth just sounded like a monumentally bad idea. 

He was left with a few ideas— book a hotel for the night and wait for the next train, stoop to the lowest of the low and become a hitchhiker, or call his mother and tell her what happened.

He’d rather illegally administer himself nicotine before he calls his mother. As much as he would like to snitch on Miko, he’s sure she didn’t show up because—

because… she was trying to get him riled up. Yes, he thinks, that’s all. So if he calls his mother to snitch on her, she’ll know that she got to him. And he doesn’t want to see her you played right into my trap face. 

Still, it’s hard to feel like he won when he sits in the nearest building— a church, ironically enough. He doesn’t want to go back to the airport, he can’t get home, and he can't call his mother. He really was out of options. 

He sits at the very back of the empty church, only a handful of elderly people listening in or whatever small kids coming from cram school or late activities. It’s nearly midnight for him, so it’s not crowded. He had propped his knees up against the wood ahead of him, eyes trained on the pastor. 

He doesn’t know what to do, so he sits there for an hour. It doesn’t feel like he’s won. 

The pastor pays him no mind. He continues on as ever, but he does ask Scaramouche if he’s okay at some point— Nobody who’s okay would sit through three sermons and pray at none and say nothing and sit there like they’ve lost all idea of direction. The pastor’s eyes linger on his face longer than they need to, though, and he realizes that this is probably the first time he’s been here in years. 

Niwa’s funeral was at a church, and even then– Scaramouche attended only after everyone had left. No one deserved to look at his grief– he kept it private, because people love to ruin things. Even now, he can recall the cool press of the wooden coffin, the edges of it already frayed with loose threads of wood and he remembers thinking how terrible it was for Niwa to be buried in such a ugly thing.

He had laid his head down on the coffin, cold against his cheek– right where Niwa’s heart would be if it was his body and not a wooden box. He had clutched white lilies to his heart and said nothing. Did nothing. Sometimes grief is numbing. And sometimes silence is more eloquent than words.

Multiple prayers come and go, and he prays at none. He’s not religious, but he sits there anyway. His chest feels clogged up with terrible emotions and the loneliness of it all chokes his throat. Eventually, though— he slips out in the middle of the fifth prayer there. 

He doesn’t know where to go. He doesn’t even know what to do. 

So he just… starts walking to Kyoto. It’s the last idea he had. He drags his luggage behind him— in the pouring rain, in the storm. He’s drenched with water coming down like torrents, but it’s the only idea he has. 

He hasn’t got an unlimited idea pool or something. He’s not perfect. Nobody is. Well, there was this one guy— Scaramouche’s imaginary friend— but he killed him when he was eight. 

But that’s not really what he thinks about. He’s soaked to the bone, his airpods hidden below his hair and his hood pulled up. He stops occasionally at rest stops, his arm aching from pulling his luggage all the way. He walks for thirty minutes, tired, shivering, wet— and then for an hour, and another.

He keeps going. Cars pass him by, bright white headlights illuminating his path for brief seconds when they pass by him. And still he keeps going. 

He trudged on, on and on— because if Scaramouche has learned anything, it’s that it’s okay if you die in the end as long as you fought first. Even if the world gives up on you, you head on. At the next rest stop, though, he calls Kazuha before continuing on. 

He’s absolutely certain Kazuha picked up on his labored breathing and the noise of rain, but he didn’t say anything. Perhaps Kazuha thought he was on the train, and well— Scaramouche didn’t correct him. It’s not really lying, that way. But he’s glad Kazuha never said anything, because if he asked why Scaramouche was walking in the rain with his luggage behind him, he might’ve started crying. 

He feels bad for it anyway. He didn’t used to feel bad about lying or stealing because Scaramouche had always been known for his sharp tongue and cunning mind— but there was something about Kazuha that left him feeling vulnerable. Kazuha, with his quiet grace and gentle spirit. 

Scaramouche raises his eyebrows as he takes step after step. Oh, Scaramouche missed him. Kazuha had a way of making it feel like he was going to be fine. He could really, really use that feeling right now— but his connection is terrible. So he’s on his own.

Sometimes, though— Scaramouche wonders what living actually feels like. He never asks anyone, only slightly terrified that whatever his life is right now– this mess of a person he is, this ugly, angry thing—  is exactly how he's supposed to be feeling. But the thought creeps up on him ever so often and no matter what he does, he can't get rid of it. He often feels as though he is someone who did not die at a time when he should have died.

And all this time he’s got right now— just trekking to Kyoto, has given him space to think about it. His life, where he’s been and where he’s going. Even the things he tried not to think about, like what he’s going to say to his mother and her girlfriend. Or what excuse he's going to give when someone asks him why it looks like he killed himself months ago and he's whatever’s left. 

I met a guy I really liked and then the guy died because my workplace got shot up. 

Scaramouche squints. That’s no good. 

Well, who’s to say she deserves an explanation at all? Yes, Scaramouche thinks, she doesn’t get one. 

(He says this, and yet isn’t he the one who went into medical hoping that his choice of career would please her?)

Perhaps she would save him the effort and she already knew. Well, actually— if she knew already, he might break down. Because it means she knew the whole time that Scaramouche was clawing at the phone begging for her to pick up. 

When he was younger, Scaramouche remembers— he grew up in an empty house. His mother was never home, on account of official business or whatever. He was never sure what official business really meant, but whatever it was, it meant that she was never home. 

He would wake up to an empty house, which in itself, wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. He would wait in front of the door for nearly half the day, but there was no one to wait for. He might have been ten at most. 

So he figured it out by himself. His laundry, his food, even the bills that would be delivered, he’d fill out under Ei’s name. He did it all by himself through trial and error– like finding out that he was supposed to separate whites and colors in the laundry after he ruined his veils and silks.

He did it all, and yet… the one thing Scaramouche could never figure out how to do was to replicate the warmth his mother excluded. And he tried– houseplants, a small stray cat he found, fish, his neighbors– none of it was the same.

Whenever he did see his mother, she would be accompanied by her girlfriend— a woman so utterly despicable and truly ugly on the inside. The only good idea she ever had was telling Ei to just disown him and throw him in an orphanage if she didn’t have time for him. 

Back then, he thought the idea was cruel and monstrous. Now though, he understands if she had listened to Miko— Scaramouche would have been saved from a lot of senseless damage. But he wouldn’t go as far as to say he misjudged Miko. In fact, he would say he didn’t judge her enough. 

He remembers, when he was young, a memory that bubbles up through the haze. He couldn’t have been more than twelve. 

Nobody had been home, as usual. The house was cold, empty in a way that Scaramouche hated. He had crawled out into the empty expanse of their backyard, wandering around aimlessly looking for something; perhaps it's a testament that he doesn't even remember what he was seeking out. Eventually, he wandered far enough into the woods of their backyard. He doesn’t remember being scared, but he does remember thinking that if he died here, it would take a few weeks for anyone to notice he was gone.

Eventually, though– he tripped over something. Tangled roots perhaps, or a twig, or his shoelace. He went tumbling down, a bare gasp escaping him as he went crashing down the hill of dead leaves and branches and all other things unkind to a child’s bare knees. His left leg got messed up pretty badly then. He remembers he landed in a creek, hitting his knee against a stone pretty hard. Bruises bloomed nearly instantly, blood clotting and his hands scraped raw. 

He had laid there in pain for only a few minutes– and he was overtaken by the urge to call for his mom. Or his mom’s girlfriend, or for anyone else he knew wasn’t there. Instead he had stumbled up, and limped to his neighbor’s house. He didn’t even know who lived there, but surely– they wouldn’t turn away a young, injured boy?

He could patch up cuts and bruises, but his leg was in a much more sorry state, and he felt as though going to the nearest clinic would only result in more questions.

And… he had been right. The neighbors were sweet, gentle things next door. A mother, a father with three children. They had all crowded around Scaramouche in the living room.

“How did you get hurt? The mother asked, gently shooing her youngest away from Scaramouche’s face. He was all up in his business, tracing the near-perfect slope of his nose with a chubby finger. 

“I fell.” is all he said.

The father had frowned. He had rubbed Scaramouche’s back as he hissed. The antiseptic stung like hell, burning into his skin. “Why not go to your mom?” 

“She’s not home right now,” Scaramouche had replied. It felt bad to lie to them, but it wasn’t really a lie. She wasn’t home. He just neglected to mention she was hardly home.

“They left you home alone? Cool!” The middle child had flopped onto the couch with him, puffing out his cheeks with air. He interlocked their arms before their mother pulled him away again. “My mom never lets us be on our own. Your mom is so awesome. Wanna be friends? Maybe she’ll tell my mom to let us stay home alone.”

The boy had hair made of straw, dressed in bright greens and dull browns of cotton. He was a stark contrast to Scaramouche’s indigo hair, clad in white and lavender silks. He took the boys offer, along with one to stay until his mom came to pick him up. 

Scaramouche agreed. He didn’t tell them that it would be another week or two until his mother was back. He didn’t say anything because he was greedy. 

Watching them interact became somewhat of a guilty pleasure for him. Taking note of the fond smiles that slipped out of the mother and father, the careful protectiveness of their children, the ability to know when the others’ were lying. The dumb arguments between them that lead to someone being grounded, not kicked out of the house.

They were a family in the way that Scaramouche had grown up thinking wasn’t actually real. The kind he would stare jealousy at in the movies and insist to himself that they were a thing of fiction. 

Even as he got older, he would revel in the way Childe would dote on his siblings; he’d watch with quiet fascination. He was okay with watching, Scaramouche would say then– and this is where it came from. From the week he spent in his neighbors’ home, watching as they argued and fought and still made up after. 

He watched for a week– with bitter envy curled in his stomach and fingers digging into his palm. He watched as the youngest boy– with hair weaved of the sun, hurt himself by accident. He watched as the mother kissed her boy and cradled his hand as if it was the hand that created the world. 

Something burned within his heart at the sight. 

It was so ridiculously stupid, but Scaramouche just… couldn't take it after that. He left that same night, bidding them farewell and telling them that his mother was home, so he had to go. He went home, and it was there he waited until Ei came back for the weekend.

And he didn’t say a word of it. Of the week he spent in another family’s home, looking at everything he didn’t have— he just pretended he’d been home the whole time.

It had been his little secret. The week he spent in a home that almost felt like another world. But it was this memory that was so substantial to him– because it was the first time he had considered that perhaps…  there was something he had done. Something he had done to make himself unworthy of that kind of love.

Scaramouche shakes himself out of his thoughts. It doesn’t matter. He’s almost there, anyway. It’s not a good time to have self-pitying thoughts in his head.

That house had been abandoned by that family for years now. His suitcase rumbles over stone pavement as he takes another moment to catch his breath. It’s nearly 3 A.M his time now, which is good for him. He can sneak in undetected and worry about greeting them in the morning. 

He steps up, feeling the sinking stone in his gut twist uncomfortably at the sight of his childhood home. Water seeps in the small canal– Kyoto was a more traditional town, so everything was a bit more tight knit. Still, water runs off the small awning and onto his hair as Scaramouche swallows, stepping forward. 

He forgoes knocking. Knocking would defeat the whole purpose of sneaking in. The wood has somehow stayed intact all these years. 

He opens the door. It’s dark inside, and it’s terribly quiet. This house was always quiet.

Scaramouche swallows. He slips off his shoes, his socks miraculously dry despite the rain outside. His lifts his suitcase up to the wood, careful to not make any noise. He leaves his suitcase at the door– it’s a problem for a later time, really– before he takes silent steps into the home. 

Everything is… exactly how he left it. Or perhaps exactly how he remembered it. There isn’t much difference between the two.

He makes his way through the hallway into the living room. Nothing seems to have changed. It’s too clean, too empty– like every other room here in this house. No photos to be found in dusty boxes, or any kind of trinkets to be picked up off the floor. No pictures of anyone at all in the hallway, or hanging on the walls. None of the pictures that he’d taken with his cheap polaroid. No one in the kitchen.

All there is Ei and Miko’s shoes stacked neatly by the corner, the only testament that says that they live here. But it’s enough to prove that they really do live here. He hasn’t got the wrong address. 

Odd. 

Scaramouche bites his lip. He heads upstairs, silently– careful not to awake anyone. He pushes open his mother’s bedroom door, praying that she doesn’t wake. He really just needs to know if… if anyone is even here.

Her bed lay empty. He pulls back as though burned, a lump in his throat as he calls out throughout the wooden estate, letting his voice ring through the quiet.

But it’s silent, and the only thing Scaramouche knows for sure is that this house is dead. No one answers him. The only sound is his own ragged breathing and dripping footsteps, echoing through the empty hallways.

The silence stretches on.

And then– then it hits him. No one is here. No one was here for him. He flew across the entire world to see his mother, and no one… no one was there. It’s still raining, though lighter than before. For a few moments, he just stands there, before reality sinks in. 

It hits him so abruptly, he almost trips over his own feet. A pain surges through his chest, spreading to the rest of the body as if he was struck by lightning. His vision grows fuzzy as he stumbles away from the door.

Nobody was here.

His hands come up to his chest, pressing down onto his heart as if trying to extinguish the sharp pain flaring. His lungs refusing to function how they are supposed to, anguish and rage piling up like leaves on his front door of a heart. 

He feels like screaming all of the sudden, breaking something– a vase, a desk, anything. He feels like running onto the street and yelling at someone to run him over. Running away from home because his house is empty, and then returning to an empty house– well, it’s just irony, isn’t it?

“I came,” he chokes, “all this way–”

The words clog in his throat. Tears spring to his eyes quicker than anger can. He straightens, ripping his airpods from his ears and throwing them to the ground. They clatter loudly. 

“And you’re not even here?” His scream is deafening, angry— his voice reverberates around the wood. 

His hands fumbles for his phone before his brain can even form a coherent thought and figure out what to do now, mind muddled and hazy with panic and lack of air, fingers blindly searching for the right contact. The display feels soothing against his heated skin when he presses it against his ear.

It rings only a few times before someone answers. 

“Hello?”

“Kazuha,” Scaramouche laughs. The sound is a half-gasp, an ugly, loudly angry cackle. He falls limp against the wall. “Kazuha, Kazuha, you’ll never believe it—“

“Scaramouche?” Kazuha seems to straighten on the other end. The use of his entire name, and not the first half— grounds him slightly. There’s the quiet rustling of clothing. “Is everything alright?” 

“She’s not here,” Scaramouche spat, “She’s… why is she not here, Kazuha? Where is she? What is more important?”

Kazuha frowns on the other line, “I’m not sure I understand. Where are you?” 

“Home!” Scaramouche cackles, “I’m home! I’m…”

Scaramouche stares at the empty bed. It doesn’t feel like home. It felt more like a museum of things he left behind, encased in glass and with a small description of what it meant to him. 

But perhaps it was home. What is home— if not the very first place you learn to run away from? Or perhaps if he asked Kazuha, he would say it’s not where you are from, but where you are wanted. 

Yes, Scaramouche breathes. Kazuha would say that. The thought of Kazuha is calming. 

He wants to drown in Kazuha. Until he’s chest deep and he can’t feel his heart hurt anymore. 

“Scaramouche,” Kazuha says firmly. His voice is more sturdy, and his environment quieter. He must’ve moved somewhere more private, “Where are you?”

“Next to a door.” Scaramouche swallows. He doesn’t know if there’s much more he can say. 

“Where does it go?”

“It stays where it is, I think.” Scaramouche replies. He can feel Kazuha breathe on the other end— as if Scaramouche is no longer off the rails despite not really doing anything. But really, he would argue, a calm Scaramouche is infinitely more terrifying than an angry one. 

“I’m going to stay on call with you,” Kazuha decides, “only if you wish for me to, of course. But I think… there must be an explanation. Perhaps she’ll be back by morning.”

Scaramouche can hate himself for it later. Right now, he thinks— if he stays one more second in this cold house by himself, he’s going to go insane. He nods before realizing Kazuha can’t see him. Well, that won’t do. 

It feels good to be taken care of. If Kazuha tells him she might be back by morning, he’ll stay until the morning. He can feel his scandalized ego jump at the thought of taking orders, but he’s not really in the right headspace to worry about it. 

“Turn your camera on,” Scaramouche said. 

“I’m in a restaurant,” Kazuha replies. 

“I’ll consider going out with you.”

Kazuha’s camera is on in seconds. He’s propped up in a dimly light, yellow restaurant. It looks to be Chinese, and Kazuha is wedged in a small booth by the side. He has quite a bit of privacy— his phone is by the other end, while he samples a dish. 

Scaramouche curls up in his own bed. His clothes are sticking uncomfortably to his skin, but he… he’s tired. unbearably so. His bangs are soaking still, and they fall unnaturally into his eyes as he tries to blink them out. Kazuha takes notice as he takes another bite of his food— which looks to be some kind of seafood. 

“Why are you wet?” Kazuha’s eyebrows furrow through the camera. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Scaramouche mutters, “I don’t want to talk about it. Tell me something.”

Kazuha eyes the way Scaramouche sinks into his bed, quiet and looking impossibly small. He looks terribly tired, in a way that Scaramouche just isn’t. His gaze holds a faux imitation of his usual intense, flat glare. 

“Forgive me, lover,” Kazuha murmurs. He blows on the food in front of him, taking a bite of the steaming fish.

“I usually solve my problems by letting them devour me,” Scaramouche rasps, “You told me to try to let go of my anger, did you not? This is me trying , you fool. Otherwise I would be slicing this building to shreds.”

You are my home, he wants to shake Kazuha by his shoulders. do you not understand? I miss you so much it’s nauseating. I want to rip my heart out and crush it because of you. I’m trying for you. I’m trying so hard. I want to like you, like you forever, like, like, like— like, he says, because he is terrified of using a stronger word. 

Kazuha’s eyes bore into him. Scaramouche, half in love with him, and unspeakably lonely, wavers only slightly at the eye contact. Scaramouche swallows, because in his world— there is nothing more intimate than being understood. 

“Well,” Kazuha smiles then, putting down his food— and his smile is so warm, Scaramouche almost cries. “then I suppose it is my duty, as your poet.” 

So much of Scaramouche’s life is incredibly different than what it was a year ago. And yet, he feels more like himself than ever before. He understands better than most, that these moments— these are the days that must happen to him. 

He stares at Kazuha through his cracked phone screen. Most of what he’s saying goes right in one ear and out the other, but he keeps the room filled with noise. 

The soul will become dyed with the color of it’s pain, he thinks. Kazuha has suffered, of course. He’s known pain well. He fights, even now— and claw marks are left on him from the sharp nails of addiction. 

But he’s good to me, Scaramouche realizes, and it’s all I need.

Sleep comes to him in nearly half an hour. He’s out cold in twenty more. Whatever comes with dawn— what he has to face at daybreak, the absence, the presence, the existence of his mother—

Well, it’s a fight for tomorrow. 

Chapter Text

It had been pitch black when Scaramouche ran away from home.

The sun was hiding, and even on that night— when he packed his life away and slipped out into the dead grass, it felt as if the moon was missing too. The stars were snatched from the sky, leaving him with a pitch black, lonely and empty canvas stretching over his home. 

Tally marks had been scratched onto the underside of his desk as if his room was a prison. His clothes still hung out on the clothesline in the backyard when he left. His dinner was still being warmed in the age-old creaky microwave. 

And that was the beauty of it. It wasn’t the night. It wasn’t a night where the stars aligned for him and his bags were packed and his loose ends tied up. It was just a night. 

A few stray notes and pencils had found their way to the floor and scattered among the leftover belongings in an attempt at making some kind of connection between what he’d done, how he’d left, and why he’d left. In the end, he left no note. He didn’t know how to vocalize his thoughts. He didn’t think anyone deserved to know of them.

He didn’t think there would ever be enough words. The days when his own mother was home, those rare, diamond studded days amongst the charcoal; when she was here, she would be unresponsive towards him and Scaramouche would clutch the edges of her door frame and ask for dinner– that, he can’t put in one letter. The way he would shake her in the middle of the night, asking her to do something. Or the nights he sat and wondered what he could do to make his mom talk to him again.

It doesn’t matter to Scaramouche if his mother loved him, because even if she did, he did not feel loved.

And that wasn’t even touching on Miko. She was a vile woman, velvet red and thick poison– the worst there is, the kind you vomit thinking about. They were a little more similar than Scaramouche liked to admit– from her, he had picked up a habit of plastering a sickly sweet smile on his face when he wanted something from someone.

And since then, he was on his own. And eventually there was no more for Scaramouche to do– he realized this on a random night in July, when there was no more audience to perform for, no more love to receive from the monthly newsletter in the mail, when the stars looked more like dust that had settled over the earth.

In the middle of the night, Scaramouche pushed open his bedroom window and scanned the ground below him. Nothing seemed out of place– the sky was dead, the warm air was hitting his skin like a blanket. He jumped, tucked, and rolled into his landing on the ground, softening the noise of his sneakers hitting the dirt.

All of his meager belongings were in a bag on his back. Scaramouche walked around the side of the house, down the garden path, and out the garden gate.  He only looked back once— when he was latching the gate behind him. 

His hometown was littered with ghosts, and when he looked back, his eyes locked onto that neighbor’s house. Though they had moved away years ago, it felt like the lights of their home were on. Scaramouche hoped whatever ghost they left behind was waving goodbye to him.

And then Scaramouche turned his back and disappeared down the path into the pitch black night. He didn’t say another word.

He wonders a lot what would have happened if he had stayed. If he had lived and loved in that small, tiny town. He wondered now, even, when he was going home– would he have seen that version of him in the window? Doing the dishes, his pre-calc homework, sitting at the window and watching his clothes wave in the air? Would he have waved to him?

“I think you would have devastated yourself,” Kazuha had said. Scaramouche had admitted one too many sins to him one night– when they lay quietly in Kazuha’s car at the nearby Petco gas station.

“That’s not an answer,” Scaramouche had replied. His arms were crossed, his fingers itching to run through Kazuha’s hair. It was a desire that in its enormity, disgusted him.

“It is,” Kazuha answered easily. “Have you ever read anything by Ursula Leguin? She said, ‘The forest is forever because it dies and dies and so it lives.’ What goes too long unchanged destroys itself.”

“I don’t know what kind of answer I was expecting from a guy who plays the harp,” Scaramouche muttered darkly. Sometimes you don’t want poetry spun about your wounds. Sometimes you just want an answer.

“Not just the harp. Most things with strings, I can play.” Kazuha replied, amused. His lips curl up in a mute smile as Scaramouche snorts.

“Anything else, oh-so mighty musician?”

Kazuha thinks for a moment. His eyebrows touch together in display of thought. “The flute. Leaves. Anything that requires blowing, I am very good at.”

“Really,” Scaramouche pressed his lips together to disguise his smile, “that must make you very popular.” 

But even so, his answer rich coming from Kazuha— a man with music and meadows inside his head even when he’s wading through the waters of grief. And yet still, Scaramouche didn’t understand. But he hoped that in every rendition of the universe, he chose to leave every time. 

His heart aches painfully at the memory of Kazuha, though. He misses him so humanely, a deep thrum in his body. And the feeling of missing Kazuha makes his anger flare up, in that ugly way of knowing you miss somebody. Does loving make him better, make him happier– or weaker? 

You don’t realize what you have until it’s missing. Kazuha doused his flame so easily. Whenever he was fired up, bitter with thick, ugly rage, it’d be Kazuha who would take the anger out of his hands like a cookie out of a child’s. Scaramouche’s heart was so full of him that it felt unfair to call it his own. 

And still, he couldn’t fathom the idea of actually being with Kazuha. What if they didn’t work out? How could he go on knowing he would have stolen Kazuha’s most precious years? 

And how could Scaramouche guarantee Kazuha won’t just… die? 

He couldn’t. And that was the thing. Kazuha wasn’t dying, but neither was Niwa until he just… did. He was dead in a matter of minutes. 

Kazuha could be hit by a car on a sunny day in August. He could contract a terminally impossible disease. He could accidentally overdose on opioids. He could pick a fight with the wrong people. So many ways for it all to go wrong. 

Even the thought of it makes him nauseated with bitter grief. It’s not to say he’s not trying— he is, he’s trying really, really hard. Trying hard to separate his past from his present. He wants all of Kazuha, his warmth, his comfort, the petrichor in his cologne. He wants his presence to pollute Kazuha’s memories like spilled ink, to be a part of his life. He wants the whole world for the simple reason that he is it - a thing to be desired, coveted.

But what Kazuha wants in return, most, is his smile. Your smile is perhaps the only real reward for being alive, he says. 

He loves being loved by Kazuha, and yet loving in return is terrifying. He doesn’t want to be there when it burns. Doesn’t want to be there to see what’s at the end of forever. He stays evermore afraid that while Kazuha and him were meant to meet, perhaps they were not meant to be.

He thinks the only person in the world who can understand this irrational, all-encompassing fear is someone you wouldn’t expect. It’s not Kazuha. It’s not even Nahida. It’s not Venti or Mona. It’s Childe, funnily enough. But he’d kill himself before he reaches out to Childe for comfort. 

Childe and Scaramouche did not get along when they first met. They had fights so often when they first moved in together that they spent more time ignoring each other than getting along. 

Even after they shared a (very unwilling) tender moment together at the cocaine-stained balcony of some frat party, they never got along for the first few months. Childe keeps saying that he’s certain his anti-suicide speech did something, but Scaramouche denies it. He was on the brink of alcohol poisoning at that moment, with blood splattered like ink on his scrubs and his veins flooded with shock and grief. He could barely feel himself breathing, let alone hear a single word Childe was saying at that moment. 

After Mona moved out, Childe had moved in. They fought over every tiny thing, most of which Scaramouche could admit was his instigation. He didn’t trust Childe at all, but at least this, he can admit. There’s no use blaming the looking glass if your face is awry. 

Eventually though… Well, they got through it. It’s not really as interesting a story to tell rather than live through it. 

They learned to tolerate each other, and Childe tried; he did, he tried hard to accommodate Scaramouche. On the days that Scaramouche would lose his head and shout and hit people, or himself, or the space of empty wall between the closet and the vanity. For the days he’d scroll endlessly through pages upon pages of results about the Michigan Reed hospital shooting and say nothing, Childe tried to accommodate. 

So when Scaramouche says Childe knows, he means that he knows.

A little while ago, Childe had padlocked the coffee machine, locked the door to his bedroom and attempted to start a nonchalant conversation. Childe always says trying to have a genuine conversation with Scaramouche is like trying to tame a beast. 

“So, comrade.”

Scaramouche had internally banged his head against the wall. He didn’t bother replying, continuing to sew the small doll in his hand. His tea had gone cold, and he’d throw it out later. 

“Hey, now,” Childe protested. He leaned over the kitchen table, “no need to give me the cold shoulder. I only wanted to set some boundaries.”

That got Scaramouche’s attention. 

“Oh, good,” Scaramouche crossed his arms, turning to face him, “You need to stop jerking off so loudly. It’s gross. And you also need to start taking your shoes off at the door because you track mud all over this apartment like some kind of rabid, measles infected dog.”

“What? I do none of that.”

“Yes, you do,” Scaramouche replied irritatingly, “you also need to stop leaving your plucked out hair all over the bathroom floor. I do not care if you’re stitching a stuffed animal out of it. It’s gross.”

“How do you know it’s not your  hair?” Childe shoots back. 

“Do you see any other ginger person living in this apartment?”

“Well,” Childe frowns. He steps out from the kitchen aisle, having a standoff with the disgruntled Scaramouche settled into the neck of the couch. “I’m just saying you can’t be sure it was me.”

“What, you’re saying it wasn’t you?” Scaramouche laughs airily. His book lays forgotten on his lap. 

“Oh, it was totally me,” Childe replied, “but I’m just saying you shouldn’t jump to conclusions. What if I had a ginger cat you didn’t know about?”

“I’d have to be seriously deranged to think that.”

Childe had coughed loudly, sliding over the couch arm to rest across from Scaramouche. He scoots over, inching towards Scaramouche nestled in the corner. Scaramouche eyes him with disdain. 

“Look, Scara—“

“What are you doing?” Scaramouche’s lip curls in disgust as Childe inches forward again, trying to hold his hand in a way that would be fitting for someone trying to have a heart-to-heart. 

“Scara,” Childe reiterated, “look. I just need to talk to you for a second. I wanted to set some boundaries regarding you and Kazuha, ‘kay? Number one. Don’t break up with him during competition season. Depressed people don’t play as well. Number two—“

“Wait,” Scaramouche’s initial disdain melts into surprise, “what?”

He doesn’t have time to unpack the feelings that unfurl in his chest at the idea. Nausea bubbles up, fighting the fear alongside it– suppressed only by the sheer joy. He’s surprised by the feelings that rear their heads– he’d thought such a thing was far beneath him at this point. But he supposes it’s a testament to how long ruined things can burn.

Childe’s eyebrows furrowed together. His face is too expressive, Scaramouche has said before. It’s a seriously negative quality. He’s like a very unfortunate Pixar character.

“You and Kazuha,” Childe reiterates, “Whatever you guys have… going on.”

“I heard, you fool,” Scaramouche sits up straighter, “have you got nothing more interesting to do in that pathetic life of yours than make up scandalous rumors against me? And Kazuha, who, for all intents and purposes, is just an acquaintance–”

Scaramouche’s upper lip wrinkles at the close contact when Childe shifted again. Nausea bubbled up when Childe’s long, slender fingers rested on his ankle. He’s always known Childe is more clingy than most, but he’s never bothered to explain that certain types of contact makes the bare shillings of haphephobia stir in his chest.

“I thought you guys were…”

“Well, whatever you thought was wrong,” Scaramouche interrupted, “there’s nothing going on. I don’t even like him like that.”

“Really,” Childe’s eyebrows shoot to the moon, his lip curling in what Scaramouche can only describe as malicious intent, “you don’t like him? Or you can’t like him?”

“Spare me the poor psychoanalysis,” Scaramouche shot back, “It’s not very kind, don’t you think?”

“You can’t just bring up kindness as a gotcha card in every conversation.”

“I’m just saying you aren’t being very sweet right now. There’s no need to get defensive.”

Childe threw the nearest thing at him, a dirty, smelly sock that belongs in the washer. Scaramouche had gagged, muttering a small gross. Childe is almost more immature than Scaramouche himself is. 

“Then let me be rude about it,” Childe replied, “Tell me how you feel, really. Don’t go dancing around it. No one can ever know what you want. And you won’t tell them.”

He doesn’t want to tell Childe what he feels. Still Scaramouche pursed his lips at that moment and pretended like the thought of Kazuha didn’t tear up his insides. He’s known Childe long enough to know that he won’t leave him alone for the sake of it, won’t leave until divinity spills like blood all over the couch.

“You’re deluded,” Scaramouche had chosen to say instead. Vulnerability tastes like ash on his tongue, like nails holding down a seesaw of power imbalance. “Why are you trying to play matchmaker anyway? Is your life so boring you feel the need to barge into mine?”

The words came out in the tiniest bit louder than he intended. They seemed to have gotten trapped in his throat, because they choked themselves off with an effort he hadn’t been expecting. 

“Well, it’s not for you only,” Childe snorts, “Kazuha said he–”

He stops. Scaramouche sits up straighter.

“Childe.”

“No, I just meant–” Childe tries, trying to diffuse the situation. But it’s too late now; the damage is already done. A storm brewed beneath Scaramouche’s skin, uncomfortable electricity in his veins and an impossible, small, delicate white flower of hope unfurling in the eye of the storm.

“Childe, what did Kazuha tell you?”

“What does it matter?” Childe replies, obviously trying to protect Kazuha’s privacy, “It’s not like it changes things, right? You’re still scared to do anything.”

He knew, because of course he knew. Scaramouche’s inability to deny it was more telling than anything he could have said. He was probably trying to get Scaramouche off his case.

And he probably succeeded. Though he’d never admit it, he was terrified of relationships. The love that would stain his skin wine-dark like plums, the things that would swallow him whole, those same things that he would reach for; greedy and desperate to be regarded as a person and not a miracle.

He’s scared and he craves it, the divinity that love grants you when it curls in your blood, the all encompassing fear of it; knowing that Kazuha could die at any moment, leave him at any second, because he’s been promised forever before only to be kneeling at a grave the next day.

But that was a conversation for another time. Because right now, Scaramouche was getting mugged. 

He’s committed suicide sixteen times in his head since this morning. He stands, hunched over his sink in a state of pitiful agitation. His mouth is set in a stiff, firm line. His phone is dead, laying languidly on the sink countertop. It must’ve run out of battery through the night when he slept on call with Kazuha. 

Moments slip by him like august wind. Another clatter comes from downstairs, but he does not react to it. Instead, he plugs in his phone to the outlet on the wall. 

He’d woken up suddenly, wary of the noises coming from the kitchen. It sure as hell isn’t his mother, for what use is she in the kitchen? The thought is laughable as it is insulting.

So, yes. He is probably getting robbed. He seriously doubts there’s anything of value to steal aside from his mother’s slippers, but he wouldn’t be surprised if those alone were insured for millions. Still, it’s his house, and he’ll be damned if he’ll be one-upped in his own domain. If anyone’s going to get rid of those ugly, 24 karat gold slippers, it will be at the hands of Scaramouche lighting them on fire and not at a pawn shop. 

He regards himself coolly in the dirty, cracked mirror with shards of glass peeking through. It’s shattered in a corner from whatever unfortunate object hit it years ago. Another crash comes from downstairs, and Scaramouche gathers himself with steely resolve. 

There’s a small crowbar hanging above the door, littered with hand-towels with a thick layer of dust on it. It seems as though Ei and Miko had left his room alone for the most part, and with it, his personal bathroom. He’s glad— if they’d gone poking around in his personal belongings— or rather, what was left of it, he would have lost it. 

Still, Scaramouche thinks the amount of dust in here is an insult in itself.

He pulls the crowbar free silently, testing the sturdy weight in his arms and gripping it tightly. Nobody is going to mug him on his watch. 

The weight is grounding in his hands as he silently tip-toes downstairs. The wood creaks traitorously under his steps, breath caught in his throat and drowsy-ness slipping further and further away from him. He fastens his hold on the crowbar, steely resolve in his stance.

You might think he’s being a little too cynically calm for someone who’s getting robbed. Well, he might answer, he doesn’t really care, that’s why. He’s been through things a million times worse, who cares if someone steals that ancient, rickety cuckoo clock on the wall? 

He tiptoes around the corner regardless. But perhaps beating someone up would do him some good. He has a lot of pent up energy, after all. If he has the time, he should see if there’s a rage room somewhere around here for him to destroy with clenched fists and hammer in hand. Maybe he can smash a window or something on the way to make his feelings more concrete and less fuzzy, too. Make things more painful, more familiar. 

The kitchen island comes into view, hard dark wood with bare scratches and years of use. His eyes flit upwards—

He stops.

Velvet as black and soft as sin, the nevermore distinctive taste of electricity— things that he left, like stuffed animals waiting on an ever-present empty bed. A whirlwind of emotions clog his throat. He can’t pick one to focus on. They’re all there. 

Her long, violet braid cascades down her shoulders like a waterfall. Sparks of purple, violet, blue— all embedded in that pool of striking shock. She’s dressed in fine silk, velvet and mahogany and she looks like she’s heavens above the common people. 

At least I’m not being mugged, he thinks. And yet being mugged would be a million times better than seeing her. 

Her expression is carefully blank— just a slight downturn at the corners of lips and brows. Like that’s supposed to mean something to him. He’s played this moment in his head for months, over and over again, planning every insult he would spit, every hair he would pull from her head, every surface of skin he would scratch and claw until she bleeds on the outside just as much as he did on the inside.

But he can’t find the words. The insults are deadweight, stuck in his throat, impossible to produce. He’d have to scream at the top of his lungs to get them out, but he fears he might start crying in anger if he opens his mouth now.

“Good morning,” she says, and her voice is like a sky of empty black, “I was planning on making breakfast.”

His eyes flit to the mess in her hands. It’s almost an insult to call it food.

He almost claws his heart out when he realizes that despite the fact that her food looks like recycled ocean trash, he still kind of wants to eat it. Because it was made by her hands— because what is love, if not your mother’s cooking?

“Unless you plan on hitting one of us, I suggest you put that down,” Miko’s voice rings out from behind him, and his head whips around. 

He realizes then, the crowbar was still raised well above his head and clutched with his hands. He lowers it slowly, but not quite letting go. 

Miko walks past him, sparing no more than a few glances. Anger flares up once again, like chains pinning him in place. 

“Where were you?” He demands. It’s getting increasingly hard to speak, “last night?”

“Out,” Miko answers.

“I wasn’t asking you.” Scaramouche snarls. He could care less if she came to pick him up or not. He could care less about the present ache in his feet from walking, the still-damp luggage and clothes.

Ei says nothing, pouring an obscene amount of sugar onto whatever she was cooking up. Scaramouche watches as she plates it, grabs a fork and a knife, and slides it onto the counter. 

“Would you like breakfast?” she asks.

“No,” he replies.

“I insist,” she says. She stands in the kitchen, looking wholly out of place. Scaramouche spares her a glance before he walks forward stiffly, sitting down in front of what he can only assume to be a sad rendition of a pancake… or waffle. He really can’t tell. 

He sits there for a moment and she slides the food a little closer. He doesn’t touch it. 

“I want an answer.” he says instead.

She observes him for a moment. Under her scrutinizing gaze, and he picks up the fork and prods at the food slightly. It’s rock hard. 

“You are not happy with me.” Ei said, her voice carefully blank, “but we are breaking bread together. Is that not a show of camaraderie and bonding?”

“Ei,” Miko interjects, looking oddly amused, “I sincerely hope you do not expect the boy to eat all of that.”

Scaramouche ignores her. “Where were you?”

“Didn’t I just say we were busy? Goodness, you must learn to listen.” Miko sighs, “Such a high-maintenance boy.”

“High maintenance?” Scaramouche scoffs, indignation starting to boil in his chest. A small, dry laugh leaves him, “I suppose it’s my fault for expecting a basic level of consideration. And I wasn’t asking you.”

Ei doesn’t respond, her face carefully expressionless and blank. Still she tries again, trying to offer him something to mend himself with. 

“We… were discussing something.” 

“More important than me?” He scoffs airily, crossing his arms.

“No,” Ei is silent for a moment. Her eyes slide to Miko before they refocus back on him, “No, perhaps not.”

The tension in the room is strong enough to build pyramids. And while that seems like a nice thought, the reality of it really isn’t. 

Scaramouche doesn’t know what to do. He misses Kazuha. He still has to call Nahida. Even a call from Venti would be nice. The grip on his anger has slipped only for a second, long enough for him to realize the freedom that comes with unclenched fists. And yet he can’t let go right now, because if he does not fight for his own justice, no one else will.  

He’s still angry. He’s going to be angry for a long time.

“Are you going to eat?”

Scaramouche spares a glance at the food. Not only was it’s appearance a FDA violation, but it literally looked more like a living organism than food. Just by staring at it he could identify the million health problems he would have. 

“No,” he says bluntly.

The barest change in Ei’s facial expression. It’s minuscule, but he notices it nonetheless. He doesn’t know what it could be. He barely knows her enough to be able to discern her expressions.

He didn't know what he was expecting when he came back here. But whatever it was, it surely must have been better than this. 

Disgust coils in his stomach the longer he stays here, near them both, the overbearing urge to blame them for all that he’s been through and all he was taught. Yet he doesn’t move, because a part of him is still happy that they’re even talking to him. That was a luxury he would have killed for. That was a luxury he died for. 

He’s unsure if his mother hates him, but he doesn’t think it possible for her to love him. But really, what’s the difference? He must’ve been loved at some point— somewhere between not at all and not enough, and once Niwa showed him a bit of affection, he was hook, line, sinker. 

“Nicely done, you two,” Miko smiles, her eyes glittering, “that was barely even passive aggressive.”

“Miko,” Ei says her name like a warning, her voice soft and yet reprimanding. Miko ignores it, rather choosing to pick up some of the cutlery from the table from her own breakfast. She places them in the sink, brushing long pink hair away from herself. 

“Kunikuzushi,” Miko hums, “I hope you haven’t made plans already. There’s a few places I’d like to go and Ei is much too tired.”

“Bring someone else,” Scaramouche snaps, “and she looks fine to me.”

A pang of annoyance shoots through Miko and she sighs. She crosses her arms over her chest, not even bothered by his rudeness. She’d been dealing with him for years, but it never got easier. 

“If you see someone along the way who you would prefer to take your place, then fine. But seeing as there is no one around except for us three, you’ll have to accompany me.” Miko replies, a headache building behind her flawless face, “and contrary to your deranged belief, Ei is tired. There’s no use taking her out.”

And who’s fault is it that I don't know her well enough to know that? 

“If he doesn’t wish to go, there is no point in dragging him out instead, Miko.” Ei replies. Her voice is soft, like… Scaramouche doesn’t even know what kind of metaphor to make. Her voice sounded like a poor imitation of a mother’s.

“Surely you don’t want him to spend the rest of his break cooped up, do you?” Miko cups her chin, “If this was a matter of things the boy wanted, he wouldn’t be here at all. Remember what we talked about, Ei.”

Scaramouche wonders what that means. He decides against asking, because that would imply he cares. And he doesn't. But the tension in the room rises at a constant rate, teetering on the edge of collapse. He wonders how long it’ll be before he snaps under its weight. 

How long until we stop pretending like we’re a normal family? Like I didn’t run away, like you didn’t forget about me for all my life? 

How long until the bubble pops?

He’ll play this game of theirs. Where they pretend as though everything is alright, like Scaramouche isn’t a ticking time bomb. But he’ll play it his way. 

He’ll entertain it as long as he can. Just long enough for him to pack his shit, take a flight back to Michigan and Kazuha and his stupid before-mentioned petrichor cologne, and never look back. The longer he stays away from them the better. No matter what Scaramouche has to deal with on this trip, he promised himself he won’t be back. His mother looks at him, and he feels his skin prickle under her gaze, but doesn’t respond otherwise. She says nothing more, only looks down at her own untouched meal.  

For now, though–

“I’ll go,” He snaps. He tries not to look at whatever expression might be on Miko’s or Ei’s face. He slides off the stool. He pushes his untouched food back, letting the fork clang noisily against the ceramic plate. He’ll go to the store, after all, really, how bad could it be?

Well. Really bad, apparently. 

The walk to the shopping street was painfully awkward, between Miko placing an order for Udon for later and ignoring him outright. He didn’t mind that too much, well, as much he couldn’t while also being annoyed by everything she did. He thinks it would have been worse if she tried to talk to him. He might’ve genuinely killed her.

The silence as they walked gave him the opportunity to look at the places he hadn’t seen in years. The streets they walked on were still clean, most of the shops open for business early in the day. Wind chimes, rustling of paper, people rushing about their daily activities, birdsong, and a faint echo from some unknown source, made it all seem peaceful and homey. The smells wafting from the various restaurants and shops made his stomach rumble. 

“Am I right in assuming the flight went well?” Miko hums. She stops at a small store, looking at the various goods piled up. The store owner recognizes her, gifting her a small paper bag to place her goods in. She starts by examining the baked goods laid out.

Scaramouche lets out a cynical huff of laughter. “Suddenly you care?”

“My, my. So prickly,” Miko replies. She sounds amused, “I was only attempting to make conversation. If you would prefer to browse in utter silence, I suppose that could be arranged too.”

Scaramouche thinks Miko is going to drive him to the point of madness.

“Is that tofu still in stock?” She hums. Her bag is still empty, taking nothing from the display.

“Not tonight, Guuji Yae,” the shopkeeper answers. The sound of nearby drunken cheers and boisterous laughter ring through bonfire smokey air, the sun peeking over the horizon. A crow situated on the nearby electrical wire shook down leaves from a hemlock tree, fluttering to the ground.

“Pity,” Miko replies. 

The sweeping arm of the early morning gets lost in the silence between them, out of both breath and body. The shop they stop at is filled with cool cotton, plants wet with dew from the night. Warm wine, clover, jasmine, aster. Flowers, cotton, fabric. Miko looks at it all and takes none. 

Scaramouche doesn’t really know what to do besides fall in step next to her in angry silence. She stops to examine a wreath of flowers with harsh rose, marred with prickly thorns, a meager flower laying languidly on sparse leaves.  

“What do you think of these?”

Scaramouche spares the flowers a glance, “they’re ugly.”

Scaramouche hopes she understood the underlying message of so are you.

Miko has enough money in her pockets to browse leisurely among the stall, taking her time with everything. There’s no buzz in the air from having to rush between working three jobs and an internship. He doesn’t know if she’s ever experienced that. Scaramouche sure has.

It was a new thing for him to experience, after spending his whole life in lonely luxury with his bills paid and all expenses covered by his mother. But the money never mattered to Scaramouche– and perhaps he sounds a bit cruel when he says this, but he honestly thinks broke people have it better than him. 

While they live in poverty, they have something money won’t ever be able to buy: a mother’s embrace. Doesn’t the hardship instill a new love for their kids, their parents, a bond unbreakable? And with a bit of luck from corporate, they’ll be able to buy the things they want. There’s no corporation that can buy Scaramouche a second chance at childhood.

After he left Japan and worked in Michigan, living in a dingy flat above the convenience store, stashing bills under a single mattress and counting pennies in jars– he understood. When he juggled an internship at the nearest hospital amongst a university education, he understood, then, too. It was terrible, stressful– often some of his worries would culminate in whether or not he could scrape together enough to make rent. It was then when he learnt about the sick subcategory of humans called landlords.

Rather be broke than be a nepotism baby. 

“Kunikuzushi,” Miko grabs his attention. She shoves the small, unladen brown bag into his hands, “I hope you don’t mind running an errand for me. Head down to the small stall down there and pick up my placed order. Run along.”

Scaramouche feels his eye twitch. Run along, she said. Oh, Scaramouche wanted to run. Run her over with a car, that is.

It’d be good to breathe some air that wasn’t hers, though. He still has a lot to think about, dwell on. Everything was so sudden, he didn’t have time to think at all. Right now, he’s upset at himself for not tearing Ei and Miko a new one when he had the chance to. Instead he got all emotional like a pussy. 

He weaves around other stall-goers, ignoring the sales-pitching of stalls selling cloth on stands or with a million trinkets on display under fluorescent lights. Painted banners, baked good, small walk-in stores with open storefronts with bright signs pass him by as he mutters a earnest apology to the elderly woman he squeezes by. 

He scrutinizes the store Miko sent him to. It’s small, inconsequential, and manned by a small girl with round glasses and fading mint hair. She runs her fingers over an intricate braid when Scaramouche plasters a sickly sweet smile on his face and stops by her.

“I’m here to pick up an order.” Oh, how far he’s fallen. Reduced to an errand boy.

She nods quickly, pushing her glasses farther up her nose. She reminds him a lot of Collei. “Name?”

Scaramouche flits his eyes up to the ceiling, fighting an internal battle to keep the smile on his face. “Yae Miko.”

“Guuji Yae?” The girl splutters, “as in– but…”

“I’m her…” Scaramouche tries not to cringe as the words form in his mouth. “Son.”

He doesn’t mind being Ei’s son. He does mind being considered Miko’s son. Actually, he thinks he might dislike the idea of being Ei’s son too. What good have either of them done for him? Perhaps he should disown himself.

She gives him a look, “You don’t look alike.”

Scaramouche is fighting demons trained in the WWE to keep the smile on his face. “Step-son,” he clarifies. Though it would be funny to imply he was illegitimate and that Yae Miko was a cheating scumbag with no honor, he doesn’t think anyone will find the same humor in it. “Could I please have the perfume… scent… whatever it is?”

“Sorry,” The girl apologizes hesitantly, “I’m Haypasia. This is my father’s business. I don’t know much about it. You’ll have to wait until he comes back.”

The smile drops. Good lord, Scaramouche is going to tear this girl limb from limb and cook her alive.

“Then why the hell did you ask for my name as if you could help me?”

The girl jumps, “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry! I wanted to feel included!”

“It’s like you want me to kill you.”

“And you didn’t look very prestigious or important so I didn’t think there would be any harm in it!”

“Excuse me?” Scaramouche looks plenty prestigious. “Did you just imply I look poor?”

“No!” She exclaims, “It was just a figure of speech. I’m sorry, I really am– look, you can have this one– free of charge! On the house!”

She grabs a random, small, blue bottle from underneath the counter and thrusts it into the bag at his hip. Well, thinks Scaramouche, It may not be the one Miko ordered, but he’s certain there's barely any difference. Besides, who is he to care if Miko didn’t get her ridiculously expensive tax-funded perfume?

Now… he just has to get out of this situation.

He plasters the sweet smile on his face again, turning on his heel and pretending there isn’t a vein bulging from his forehead. He starts to turn around, giving a half-hearted wave to her. 

“Wait,” Haypasia protests, “What about Guuji Yae’s scent?”

Scaramouche pauses, turning, “Um, why would I care?”

“You said you were her step-son!”

“That doesn’t mean I like her?”

“You should wait,” Haypasia nods furiously, “my father will be out any second. You could get her the scent and leave. It’ll take a few moments, that’s all.”

“Woman,” Scaramouche replies darkly, “if you don’t let me leave–”

“It’s Haypasia.”

“Whatever,” He replies, “refusing to let me leave is kidnapping. I seriously doubt you want to make an enemy of the nigh-invincible Raiden Ei?”

He struggles to stop himself from rolling his eyes as he practically spits her name out. He would never sic his mother onto this merchant, but she doesn’t need to know that. She also doesn’t need to know that his mother probably doesn’t care enough to intervene either.

“Exactly!” Haypasia nods furiously, “I would never want to. So I refuse to let you leave without Guuji Yae’s perfume— she’ll make a mockery of my fathers business if I were to do her any wrong.”

Scaramouche frowns, “I suppose you’re right. She is a dreadful woman. She would even publicly humiliate you. How terrible.”

Haypasia’s face gets whiter and whiter with each word that leaves his lips. Scaramouche rubs his chin— whilst he may not care what fool Miko may make of this storeowner, he places no doubt in assuming he will also be at the receiving end of it. And the next flight to Michigan doesn’t leave for a few days, so he can’t just escape it. 

“Look,” Haypasia starts, “you can browse around while father comes back. We have all sorts of scents, perfumes, specific ones to induce anger, jealousy, strength relationships, or to seduce—“

Scaramouche straightens, “seduce?”

Haypasia nods, “Yes! Here— right over here, our aphrodisiacs…”

She ushers Scaramouche over to a painfully bare shelf sprinkled with small, expensive pink glass bottles with extravagant labels. Some are more earthy, natural with herbs or just liquid in a bowl. 

Scaramouche’s face curls in distaste, “How much of this is actually legitimate?”

Haypasia fixes her glasses, “Is that a serious inquiry? Does the son of Raiden Ei have someone he wants?”

His thoughts flit to someone Scaramouche would rather die than admit. Willowy hair and a delicate face, long fingers and a warm, stockfire gaze. It’s almost insulting the way Scaramouche has to pull himself out of his thoughts.

Scaramouche offers her a thunderous glare. “No,” he says.

Haypasia doesn’t buy it, but it’s alright. She shoves a small, brown wooden vial with a cork stopper into his hands as if it’s a remedy for any disease possible. 

“This one,” she says, “it’s an aphrodisiac. Meant to enhance feelings. If the lucky girl has trouble asking you out, this oughta fix it.”

“First off, it’s not a girl. Second, it’s not him I'm worried about,” Scaramouche scoffs. Kazuha has been more than willing in his communication and feelings. “It’s me.” 

Haypasia’s eyebrows raise to the moon. Under Scaramouche’s scrutiny, she fixes her glasses with flustered cheeks and tries to dignify a response.

“I don’t understand,” She rubs her face nervously, “ you want to be the one to confess?”

Scaramouche wonders why he’s bothering to tell such a simple-minded girl his troubles. How far has he fallen? 

“No,” Scaramouche replies, “I mean yes. Look, it’s complicated.”

He squints at the vial. Would this help him express his feelings without the threat of vomiting four words in?

“Nothing is ever easy with love,” Haypasia nods seriously, “so whomever you choose has to be someone who can withstand the trials and tribulations of it.”

“Did you read that from a book?”

“Just now, when I asked you if there was someone, you got this look on your face,” Haypasia says, “the kind my father has when he thinks of my mother. The kind of look you have when you discuss it with your sister over lilied waters and roses of the evening. Love looks pretty on you, I think.”

Scaramouche’s throat feels dry. “A poet, are you?”

“No,” Haypasia replies warmly, “just a hopeless romantic.”

Kazuha has a habit of scratching a small S into the ice with his skate before he starts playing. An S for Scaramouche. 

He’s unsure when he started doing it. It felt like a good luck charm to have with him, especially in the moments that Scaramouche is miles away from him. He’s always been like this; more prone to hold onto the small things, little things if he can’t have it all. 

Scaramouche, violet-tressed, nightingale messenger of spring. The itch to sow his fingers in Scaramouche’s hair, an evening star which escapes his camera’s lens each time he tries to hold it close.

He always reminded Kazuha of a book he read when he was younger. It was about a selkie girl who fell in love with a human, and it was for her that she shed her skin and stayed on land– never to swim again. She kept her selkie skin hung up on the clothespin, swaying in the country air next to the white sheets and the plaid jumpsuit, amidst the clutter of life. It was there, each and every time, and each time she’d pass it by and make the conscious decision to stay. 

It was with that same melancholy that Kazuha kept things. And perhaps it wasn’t the best example seeing as neither him or Scaramouche were a selkie and there was no clothespin, but there was that same kind of love. 

“You’re back already, Kazuha?” 

Kazuha looks up. He’d cycled around the small, empty town and took a moment to call Childe to check in. After all, the end of semester awards ceremony and qualifiers were coming up, and time to slack off was limited. He’d reassured Childe he’d be back in time to play and that yes, he wasn’t letting himself get rusty. He really did have some great ideas on how they could utilize the strengths of their new lineup and improve their defense, and Kazuha listened intently and pitched in whenever he could. 

“You’re coming to the awards ceremony, right? The banquet?” Childe had asked. 

“I’m not sure,” Kazuha replied calmly, “I’ll be more than glad to help set it up.”

“Hey man, for what it’s worth, you can bring someone with you,” Childe winks on the other end of the line, “I was going to haul Scara by his ear, but I think he’ll go willingly if it’s you. I can just bring Zhongli.”

He’ll go willingly if it’s you. The words warm up Kazuha’s chest. He turns the cycle around a corner, his head grazing the leaves on the top of a tree. He stops briefly to pluck a leaf from his face.

“I don’t know about that,” he replies anyway, “Scara and I… it’s complicated.”

“Sure, sure,” Childe’s eyebrows are way over his head, “nothing’s easy with him, right?”

Kazuha shakes the memory off, letting it settle somewhere in his head for when he needs a conversation to dissect. Beidou is sitting on the floor, sorting through the ads on the coffee table. Ningguang has on a pair of glasses, looks every bit of the prestigious woman with her hair in intricate waves, posture straight and not a single ruffle out of place. 

“Yes,” Kazuha replies warmly. He looks back, making sure his cycle is tightly locked in place by the front door. “Hello, Ningguang.”

“Kazuha,” Ningguang greets elegantly. Kazuha gives her a nod, pulling down his hair from the bun it was thrown in. Pale rays of light shuffled across the wooden table, the smell of sweet hayricks like perfume upon the room. 

Kazuha hangs his skates up, passing a look to the flower-garden growing below the windowsill. Deep greens with morning dew as tears with heavy, dove-gray air pressed again the pane.

“How was it?” Ningguang hums.

“No more terrible than normal,” Kazuha smiles, “the rink is falling apart, but I find that it adds to the charm.”

“There are bruises on your knees, Kazuha.”

Kazuha glances down. His skates don’t take that well to the small, overgrown wreath of lilies sprouting between the cracks in the ice. It makes for a rather bumpy road.

“Go and freshen up,” Ningguang suggests elegantly, “We’ll be having guests over soon. You’re free to stay in your room until they come. I’ve had someone clean it up for you.”

“Who’s coming?”

“Some neighbors,” Beidou grins, “the Alcor staff. A few of Ningguang’s attorney friends. You should know a few people.”

Kazuha nods absentmindedly. He washes his hands in the sink before he makes his way upstairs again, passing the rose-nymph in the hallway and the framed pictures. He’s grateful for the cleaning of his childhood bedroom— even poetry incarnate, Kaedehara Kazuha, found the dust-addled walls to be a bit much. 

He flops on his bed, curling up. The withdrawal symptoms are mild today, a headache piercing through his skate practice and cutting it short. He’s not sweating, but nausea crawls up his spine as he lay and stare at his paint-chipped ceiling. 

He tries not to let it get a hold of him. His symptoms are usually mild to almost barely even there, but on occasion, they get bad. 

He stays there for quite some time— Scaramouche still needs to call him for the day, but Kazuha won’t push unless strictly necessary. Perhaps he’ll wait a while, and if no correspondence comes, he’ll ring. And even so, Kazuha is in no condition to properly upkeep a conversation. 

Another tremor blows through him. 

He’s unsure how long he lays there on his bed, composing poetry only to scrap it seconds later. Entertaining his thoughts only to let them go. Bile rises in his throat again and he resigns himself to call Scaramouche tomorrow, he promises. 

He doesn’t even notice it when guests start piling into the home. If Ningguang calls him downstairs to greet them, he doesn’t hear. Perhaps it’s on account of the fact that he ends up hunched over the sink, wiping his mouth weakly. His stomach cramps again and he groans, sniffling. 

Addiction is a brutal battle. 

He thumbs his sobriety coin again, trying to focus on the sounds of laughter and conversation from downstairs. He tries not to become a statistic.

People come and go near his door, some knocking to get a response. His light is off, the only source coming from the window. He always hates the ceiling light. It was too bright, too harsh. 

“So this is where you were.”

Kazuha blinks. He turns over lightly, finding Beidou by his doorway. Her lips are carved in a heavy grin. 

“Ningguang told me to get you. There’s a girl waiting for you downstairs.”

Whoever this girl is, she’s a bit entitled. Kazuha supposes he really does know how to pick them.

She sits down on his bed, near the foot of it. Kazuha coughs politely, sitting up straight. Beidou beckons him closer, pulling up a picture of her that she must’ve just taken. 

She’s pretty, and perhaps Kazuha would even be interested once upon a time. But Tomo and Scaramouche have ruined his love for relationships without tragedy. 

“I apologize,” Kazuha fixes her with an intense gaze, “I cannot reciprocate her advances.”

“Advances?” She laughs, “You mean to tell me you don’t remember her?”

Kazuha jogs his memory. He really doesn’t. 

“Your neighbor,” Beidou claps him on the back, “You exchanged flowers over the backyard fence once.”

A faint memory floats back to him on a boat. That summer before Tomo left, when his skates were tools for an escape, he can recall leaning over the heavy, sun soaked wooden splinters of the fence and offering the neighbors daughter a fresh rose. 

“She gave you free coffee at the cafe,” she continues, “and those empanadas for your sixteenth birthday. She was part of the hockey team.”

“Ah,” Kazuha replies warmly, “Rosalía.”

He honestly does not remember her that well. 

Beidou kicks her legs up on the bed. “How are you, Kazuha?” 

“I’m doing exceptionally good.”

“No,” Beidou frowns, “I mean, boy… barely any calls or texts, and one day you show up here again. Everything set right in Michigan?”

“I apologize,” Kazuha glances at the shoe she kicks off. She settles into his bed with surprising ease, her muscled arms cushioning her head. “However, fortunately, I’m well.”

He’s really only half-lying. 

Or maybe full-lying, because nausea hits him tenfold once more and he excuses himself weakly to the bedroom jointed bathroom. He splashes himself with cold water, trying to wake himself up from this terrible nightmare. 

Thumbing the sobriety coin usually helps. But it doesn’t help right now— not when all Kazuha really feels like doing is laying his head down on Scaramouche’s lap and perhaps sleeping for a good while.

He spits into the sink and rolls up his sleeve, ready to hurl if needed when Beidou’s voice floats in from the attached bedroom.

“Is this the guy you’re seeing? The one you called earlier on the roof?”

Kazuha pauses. He turns around, seeing her stare intently at his lock screen. When he follows her gaze, he sees her eyes burned onto a picture of Childe. His lock screen was a photo of the hockey team from last year, after the big championships. 

“No,” Kazuha replies after a moment, “That’s the hockey captain.”

“And him?” 

Kazuha looks again. She’s unlocked his phone, scrolling through his photos leisurely. Now it’s a photo of Heizou and Scaramouche at his flat, playing a rather vulgar game of scrabble.

He tries not to think about that. It was certainly an experience watching Heizou and Scaramouche claw each other's necks out of the right spelling of dacryphilia. 

“Yes,” Kazuha hums.

“Which one? Redhead?”

“Blue hair.”

Beidou whistles. Kazuha feels a sense of pride wash over him at the reaction. “And you managed to bag him?” 

“Not exactly,” Kazuha replies, “It’s… complicated.”

“Complicated how?” Beidou is still staring at the photo. Kazuha can only imagine of what thoughts are going through her head. He feels as though she has a place in his room like melodrama. Her grace was in her roughness, her hardy demeanor and commanding presence. 

Kazuha feels at a loss for words. “I’m not sure,” he decides to say, “I suppose I am just… waiting.”

“Waiting?” Beidou’s eyebrows raise to the roof. Her heavy, brown hair was full framed her face like a portrait, full of rose and sandlewood and the stench of the sea. 

“Yes,” Kazuha affirms, “I suppose he… he’s not ready for a relationship just yet. So I’m waiting.”

It’s the simplest he can boil it down to. Of course, that’s not factoring in the dead best friend and myriad of other problems. 

“And if he’s never ready?” Beidou asks, and the question weighs like cold stones in his stomach. The silence is quiet, deadly, “You can’t wait forever, Kazuha. You deserve better than that.”

Beidou pushes herself up. Kazuha says nothing as she claps him on the back in a parental fashion, sighing. “You know you can’t wait forever. How long do you intend to sit patiently? If he’s not ready soon, you ought to move on.”

The question and it’s subsequent advice settles unquietly in his stomach. It brings with it a fresh wave of nausea and a cold, cold feeling.

Kazuha lays back down. He tries not to think about it. It’s one thing to be patient until someone is ready, but only if that person wanted to be ready. There’s no use in expecting something that was never to come. 

He counts the chipped paint spots on his ceiling. Counts the bruises on his knees. And he tries not to think about it.

Chapter Text

It had been winter break at the time. 

He was holed up in a small motel in Virginia, living off scraps and trying to get just a little further from Japan. Since most students were off at that time, at home buying Christmas trees and presents for… whatever, he had quite a few hotels open with space for him. 

He was bunched up in a patchwork quilt, with nothing but his phone, his charger, and an adapter wire for it next to the fireplace. He scrolled through the various shows on netflix, murder shows, true crime documentaries, national geographic, anime movies. He didn’t pick any of it, although in a few months’ time, he would end up picking up an obsession over How To Get Away With Murder. 

He aimlessly scrolled until he landed upon the small show with a boy and his dog. Adventure Time.

Sure. Whatever. 

Nestled against the wall, he doesn’t know what thoughts went through his mind when he clicked on it. Maybe the fact that there wasn’t any sound other than his own breaths and the show, or how the light reflected across the room from the flames.

He found himself sinking into borderline dreamland as he watched the two friends laugh together, and he ended up binging the whole thing throughout the night. He was leaving again in the morning, after all. He would have time to sleep in the train… or plane. Whichever he took. 

But through the series, there was one specific song that stuck with him. 

The production was terrible, the beat didn’t match at all, the vocals were honestly ear grinding, but… 

Scaramouche is a little ashamed to admit he cried. It might have been the most emotionally moved he had been in a long, long while. He didn’t even know the name until later. Remember You. That was the name. 

But that song– that song, oh it tore up something in his heart. It was all he ever wanted to hear. All he knows is that as soon as it started playing, he began crying. It didn’t seem like anyone could hear him, which made the sobbing more embarrassing to hear but also less embarrassing to listen to than if they could have noticed.

It was everything he wanted.

To find out his relationship with his mother was all a misunderstanding, that she had sacrificed something for him the same way Simon had for Marceline– that maybe Ei, too, had lost her mind, and had left letters as proof of love for him in a drawer, shoved away for when he was old enough.

That she had sacrificed something for him and lost all memory and therefore treated him terribly. But that’s not possible, is it?

That was when the reality of his situation had settled in. Watching that dumb duet with the most depressing lyrics, the most immature animation– the weight of the moment was unbearable, and the tears flowed like a river. The words felt like a stab in his heart. 

He cried and cried, throughout the whole song, and the tears never stopped pouring. The pain in his chest only grew when the song came to its end. He tried to compose himself and calm down the sobbing in his throat before it got even worse, but it proved difficult. He cried until he could no longer feel anything. 

When he finally stopped, he still felt empty. Empty like a vacuum. Like something was inside him and couldn’t be filled, and the song made it feel like he was being pulled apart from the inside. His hands felt numb and his lungs hurt and he still felt so, so empty.

Sometimes you just need to get up and leave everything behind, start anew.

Do new things. Be someone else— be successful in a new place, so no one knows where you failed.

He always thought the hard part was starting anew, but the hard part was accepting that anything between him and his mother was now dead. That was part of the reason why he ran away. To clear his life, to be a blank slate and leave behind all those nasty feelings . 

He doesn’t know if he quite achieved that. Maybe he did. If he did, he’s certainly not happy, but not as miserable as he was before. Or maybe he is, but it’s just a different type of misery. 

Many times did Scaramouche research the idea of getting his emotions removed surgically. He even considered asking Dottore to do it— remove his Amygdala and pray the surgery removes every emotion rather than just fear, or anxiety, or whatever else. He’s sick of feeling things.

He’d do anything to shut his brain off for a little while.

The closest he ever got to the pure state of apathy and nothingness he wanted so desperately was a few months ago, when a killer seven week long headache cornered him into taking drastic measures. He had brewed a strong espresso, mixed in the worlds worst concoction of Mountain Dew and Monster energy drinks, and downed it after taking two pills of Advil. 

Needless to say, Childe had not been happy with him. 

He’d knocked himself out cold for nearly two full days, and had to be wheeled to the hospital where Venti was not happy either. He nearly got chucked in the mental ward while describing what he had consumed, so he opted to omit the part where he mixed in fizzy drinks.

That’s when the tradition of pad-locking the coffee machine came into play. Now, Scaramouche is not a big fan of coffee, really, he had tried to explain to Childe— he likes bitter tea, tea in general, but sometimes he doesn’t have time to steam the leaves and make a cup for himself in the morning. That’s all. There’s no need to lock the coffee machine.

Well, it’s still locked. So it was clearly not Scaramouche who won that argument. 

Unless he can find out the padlock combination, and believe him, he’s tried— that state of apathy is far from his reach.

Now he’s saddled with emotions like some kind of unstable horse he’s got to tame, like the one in nickelodeon shows. You know, the ones where a city girl gets sent to a ranch for being spoiled and she befriends the one horse that no one else can. And the horse is generally named midnight ride or something equally terrible. 

Scaramouche has seen a lot of those. Not because he wants to, but because there’s a small TV in the hospital wards for overnight patients or attendees with long term health conditions. He’s seen patients watching it all— shows, movies, the news, and once, porn. That had been a wild thing to walk in on, he thinks. 

“Scara?”

Scaramouche’s foot gets caught on the stair. 

It’s a moment of panic, of fear jolting through his body as his hands shoot out to balance himself.

The wood scrapes against his skin like paper, burning where it touches his skin. His eyes widen in the split second before he crashes into the ground. The fall knocks the air out of him and he lies there for a few moments with the feeling of his chest being crushed under a rock. 

For a moment, he seriously considers just dying.

“Hello?” A voice cracks out from his now discarded cell phone, “Yoo-hoo, you still there?”

“Unfortunately,” Scaramouche mutters, “”I’m fine, Venti.”

He staggers to his feet on the landing, scooping up his phone in exhaustion. He squints at the phone, Venti’s contact plastered on there like a disease he can’t avoid. 

“So,” Venti flops over on his bed over on his end of the call, the rustling making an unpleasant sound. “How's it going over there? Not gone crazy yet, I assume? Let me tell you, it can not be worse than me right now. I’m getting overworked.”

“I doubt that,” Scaramouche replies. He trudges upstairs in defeat– it’s about time he starts packing the rest of his things. If he’s really planning on never coming back, he oughta get a lead on that. Thankfully, Miko and Ei are out… somewhere. But it gives Scaramouche ample time to get his shit sorted without getting questioned. 

Although, he has to give credit where credit is due. She did leave a small note pinned to the bathroom mirror to let him know they were out and would be home soon. He didn’t know how to feel about it, so he balled it up and threw it out for the dogs or whatever animal eats paper. 

He doesn’t know what to do with himself right now, so this is what he has resorted to. He considered calling Nahida, but he knows calling her can only lead into an impromptu therapy session and he’ll be forced to sit and divulge all about his feelings (gross) and what to make of them (even grosser).

“There’s not a lot I wouldn’t do right now to be in an ICU,” Scaramouche inhales. His room feels like a battlefield right now, every inch a question. Is it something he cares about enough to take home with him? The lamp on his bedside, the one that would protect him from the monsters in the closet when he was younger– is it of any value now?

“You’re probably the only one,” Venti complains, “I think I should quit this stuff. I’m going to become an idol.”

“ Right,” Scaramouche dismisses. He props open his luggage, making space for his childhood to fit in there. Perhaps he never considered the chance that there was nothing worth taking back with him. His childhood, from the beginning, has been nothing but a long wish to be anywhere else. “I don’t really care.”

“I know,” Venti emphasizes, “which makes you the perfect person to talk about this stuff. I think I’m seriously going to quit nursing, Scara. If they make me do crowd-control one more time–”

Scaramouche scrutinizes a small packet of clothespin he had left behind. Part of him wants to pack it with him. He tucks it between some of his clothes, safely coddled between knitted sweaters and jumpers. 

“... What do you think, Scara?”

Scaramouche frowns, “You’re asking me.”

“Hey,” Scaramouche can hear Venti say from the phone, his voice nasally as he probably scrunches his nose, “I happen to value your opinion. You’re either never serious or too serious. Too sensitive–”

“I am not sensitive,” Scaramouche scoffs, affronted.

“--Or too cold-hearted. You’re a walking paradox, of course I find your opinion valuable and wholly deserving of my precious time.” Venti finishes, “Which is in low supply for me right now, with the way I’m being herded around like sheep! Now, what do you think?” 

“I think I’m going to pack this veil.”

Venti shudders on the other line, “You’re evil.”

“Nice try,” Scaramouche replies, standing up to sift through his closet for anything worthwhile. He’s flooded with memories he tried hard to forget, dusty clothes he hasn’t worn in forever. “I already met evil when I was a kid.”

Venti laughs. Scaramouche doesn’t.

He keeps looking through shirts and pants; looking for dark colors, loose fabrics, though he supposes he wouldn’t mind wearing a bit of color either. Blues, whites– he wouldn’t even mind wearing a bit of red.

Venti drones on in the back as Scaramouche sifts through his clothing. His clothes were meant to be filled with memories, not shoved in a cardboard box. Scaramouche’s fingers trace patterns in the fabric of an old, threadbare sweater he found on top of an old dresser in his closet. 

He pushes past clothing that is probably too small for him now, but leaving it behind in this sad excuse for a house feels like a sin. Perhaps he should burn it, he thinks.

As he shoves trinkets and old backpacks and age-old homework aside, he finds things he forgot. A small stash of cash he had stored away for the day he planned to buy a train ticket out of here– a travel kit, and a small list of things he wanted to do when he was gone.

The world’s shortest and saddest bucket list of things he still hasn’t accomplished. What a pyrrhic victory was his sad excuse of escapade. 

The closet walls have plum stains, empty perfume bottles he stole from Ei’s room as some kind of token, worn out heels from Miko’s closet he stole as a trophy, unread books, too big jackets. Melancholy and lethargy, or something close to it.

The things he refuses to take back with him, but leaving is too cruel of a fate; like when you refuse to throw out a sticky note you refuse to throw out even though it may have lost the stickiness– simply because of what’s written on it. 

It all smells stale and the smell has become a part of him, as has this room full of empty reminders and unsent letters. He tosses clothes onto the bed before he shoves aside an old stitched jacket and clears the wall. 

The pure blank brown wood of his closet is vandalized by a million tally marks, infinite and unending. 

He doesn’t remember making those. 

He had made tally marks under his desk, and even those were few in number. He runs his hands over the scratches, meticulously carved into the wall as if the person was painstakingly counting every day. 

How long has this been here for? What is it for? Who made it?

Scaramouche thinks he would have remembered if he had made something of this caliber. Even when the world ends for him time and time again, he continues on until it begins again in the morning. He would most certainly remember something like this.

Could his mother have done it? For what purpose? 

Scaramouche stares back up at the wall, running his fingers over the scratches and indents, trying to make sense of it all. It’s hard to tell where it ends and where it begins.

Some looked like they were made in intensity, some more calmed, each etching of the line visible. What the hell were these?

“Scaramouche?” Venti calls out again, wholly unaware of the inner turmoil Scaramouche was going through. Senseless rambling slips through his mind like sand, getting stuck in the crevices of his fingers, the folds of his skin.

“What?” He calls. He doesn’t let the confusion bleed into his voice. He stores his questions in his ribcage, stuffing it deep for whenever he’s by himself and needs something to choke on it.

“I asked if you wanted to make a group call tomorrow. Just me and you and a few others.” Venti repeats, “Not Xiao though, he’s busy helping Kazuha practice for hockey. It’s all online, so you don’t have anything to worry about.”

Scaramouche pushes the marks out of his head. He grabs a shirt, balling it up and throwing it into the suitcase. He shoves a few more things in there, tossing them unceremoniously, then turns around.

His room is not very large; it isn’t as big as Venti’s or even Kazuha’s, but it has a bed, which is better than the floor anyway. That, plus a small desk and chair, makes him a decent amount of space to ransack for things to bring back.

He grabs the edge of the drawer, pushing it open to sort through staplers and other various items strewn—

“Wait,” Scaramouche pauses, “Did you say Xiao was helping Kazuha?”

Venti pauses, “Yeah, why?”

Scaramouche turns towards his phone. “Kazuha is with his family right now. In Wisconsin.”

“You mean he was in Wisconsin,” Venti smacked his lips, chewing on the small jelly bits in whatever drink he was sipping on. “Shouldn’t you of all people know that?”

“No,” Scaramouche corrects sharply, “he is in Wisconsin. He just got there.” 

“Not anymore,” Venti whistled cheerfully, “Childe’s making him drive all the way back here. I dunno, something about nationals and getting a new player and something about chemistry. I wasn’t listening. Hey, what do you think about me taking up criminal justice with Heizou?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s what I thought too,” Venti replies glumly, “maybe I could convince Xinyan and Barbara to put in a good word for me at whatever company they work under. I have a good voice.”

“I wasn’t talking about that,” Scaramouche snaps. Venti has his full, undivided attention now and his hand falls away from the drawer. “They can’t make him drive all the way back to Michigan. He just got back with his family. This is stupid.”

“I’m not the one who’s making him do it,” Venti defends weakly. His voice is accompanied with the sharp, familiar crackle of international call disturbance that Scaramouche has grown accustomed to. “And if Kazuha has a problem with it, I mean… he would say, right?”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Scaramouche straightens, “because he’s too nice for his own good. Always trying to please some being out there. Utterly risible people pleaser Kaedehara. That’s what daddy issues does to you.”

“And mommy issues turn you into a psychopath. Wow, you guys are a match made in heaven. I think you’re blowing this out of proportion.”

Sometimes Scaramouche forgets he’s closer to Kazuha than most others. Knowing Kazuha is like… walking around in the dark with nothing but a small, flickering lantern to guide you. And yet there’s a small light in the dark guiding you somewhere. And you follow.

Kazuha was some kind of person Scaramouche hadn’t known existed. It’s been a rare experience for him to have known Kazuha the way he does, with all his innate human strangeness. 

Scaramouche turns around, ripping his eyes away from his cellphone. The sun is stinging, a sharp pain on his hands in the wake of golden diamonds in his washed out curtains. At that moment, he makes a decision. When he looks past the mauve lining of the clouds and the fabric cluttered on his desk, miles away from home—

“I’m calling Childe,” Scaramouche decides.

“Huh? Wait— What about my idol thing?” Venti protests weakly.

“Call me later,” Scaramouche replies impatiently, thumb hovering over the bright red end call button, “and don’t quit yet.”

He drops the call, the amount of money due popping up as a small bar. He sandwiches the phone between his shoulder and his ear, closing his suitcase as he dials Childe’s number. The blue case gets shoved into his closet, pressed up against some used perfume bottle of honeydew liquid and frigid cold.

Barely a moment passes between Scaramouche hanging up on Venti and calling Childe. He doesn’t stop to ponder his actions for a second, eyes lingering only at the back of his closet for a moment before he bullies his door into opening for him.

The phone rings against his ear as he goes downstairs, careful not to fall again. He shoves his way into the kitchen as he calls overseas, probably eating away at his bank account for every penny. His bank account might go into overdraft, actually, now that he thinks more about it. He already ate up a good chunk of his emergency savings just for a trip back.

Childe picks up, albeit sleepy. Venti had been wide awake, probably working a shift at the hospital, but Childe had no reason to be awake. It’s a miracle he picked up at all.

“Scara?” Childe mumbles.

“Wake up,” Scaramouche demands, “and you call Kaedehara and tell him to get his ass back in Wisconsin.”

“What?” Childe groans, “It’s so late, Scara—“

The unexpected moment, the defining collision of it all, stars slammed into broken shards and breaking galaxies with the force of it; oh, it’s anger, it’s rage— all the ugly things that Scaramouche shoved into a tiny wooden closet and expected age old wood to carry that burden forever. It feels like his house is full of gray fog, crystalizing him in a state of pure, unbridled anger.

“Tell Kazuha to turn his cheap, raggedy, abysmal car back around. He just got there, Childe. You practically made him drive up there and then right back.”

“Woah, woah,” Childe finally sobers up at Scaramouche’s words, and it sounds like he’s sitting up by the rustling of his sheets on the phone, “I didn’t tell him to drive up there. I know how important family is, Scara. But one of our players dropped out and we need him back or the whole match is gone. We could lose.”

They say lavender is supposed to soften harsh emotions. Scaramouche often wondered if it would be worth it to plant a garden worth in his bedroom, in the folds of his person. He stands in Ei and Miko’s kitchen, next to the used paint brushes by the windowsill, by desert peaches and pomegranates, the itch of spring on its tip-toes, and he thinks lavender can’t help him. 

To be as angry as Scaramouche is all the time– it’s a perilous thing, to live like this. And yet he can’t stop, because being angry is really the only thing he knows how to do.

“I don’t care,” Scaramouche inhales sharply, the mounting exasperation tightened his throat, “I don’t care about your nationals game. It’s not fair for Kaedehara to give up his break to come back for something like this.”

“You don’t care?” Childe repeats incredulously, “Scara, this game— if we win, this would be his– and our last semester at Northwood. We would be drafted into the NHL, man. It’s important for all of us. It’s practically one of the biggest exams ever. He deserves that. And if you want something, regardless if you deserve it or not, you make sacrifices. There’s no point in reaching your dreams without any effort.”

Deserverancy. Such a terrible word for a terrible thing.

“Don’t give me one of your sweaty gym-bro motivation speeches,” Scaramouche curls his lip. “Are you going to tell him to go back or am I?”  

“He chose to come back, Scara,” Childe sighed.

“Because he thinks he owes you something,” Scaramouche hisses, fixing himself. He straightens himself in a way that doesn’t matter, since no one can see him.

He leans forward on the kitchen counter, digging nails into the marble. “because that bastard collects every good deed he does as proof for whatever sins he thinks he committed by being a druggie. Tell him to go back. He’s not making that drive again. He hasn’t even– I still have to meet Beidou.”

“Is that what this is about?” Childe laughs breathlessly, “You didn’t get to meet his parents, so you’re taking it out on me?”

Scaramouche kicks the cabinet in anger. It rattles, scared, under the weight. The noise is loud, frightening. “There you go again. Always making assumptions about things you don’t know. You’re so useless, Childe. You can’t even listen properly.”

Everyone is useless, Scaramouche thinks. It would be much better if he wiped out humanity and cloned himself a million times just to get the job done. But he can’t stand being around himself either, so perhaps it would be better if they didn’t have any kind of personality. 

“That’s his family, you fool,” molten rage gripped at his heart, raising the temperature in the room to a terrible degree, “If you win the qualifiers, he’ll end up going overseas to play hockey on a national level. Who knows when he might see them again?”

“If he doesn’t come back to practice, we won’t win the qualifiers at all,” Childe argues, “he’s an essential piece to our team. We can’t have someone slacking off. It’s a team effort, Scara. You know me. You know—“ Childe sucks in a breath, “You know how much family means to me. I would never make him come if he didn’t want to.” 

“You—“ Scaramouche slams his fridge shut, “Ajax. Tell him he doesn’t have to go.”

“He wants to come.”

“Did he tell you that?” Scaramouche snarls, “Just because you can’t see your family right now doesn’t mean he doesn’t have to.”

Childe flinches. “What would you know about family, Scara?”

Scaramouche grits his teeth. He knew it was coming, that this was where they were headed and that if it went on much longer they’d be in a screaming match again. He knows that. But he has never felt like more of an outsider than he does right then. Always trying to butt into other people’s families because he doesn’t have one of his own. How utterly disgusting and pathetic.

“More than you know,” Scaramouche snaps, “Do you ever think of people other than yourself?”

“Do you?” Childe fires back.

He rips the phone from his ear. He sincerely hopes there's vodka in the fridge. 

Childe’s words go unheard as he ponders his life for a moment before he lets his phone clatter on the marble countertop, pulling out instant coffee grounds, and scouring the fridge for any fizzy drinks. He manages to find a bottle of Melon Soda and a bottle of classic Ramune. Good enough, he supposes. 

Childe’s words get cut off in the middle as Scaramouche hangs up on him without another word. Him and Childe have had fights, obviously, big ones, little ones, but they haven’t had a fight of this caliber since they first started living together. 

Scaramouche hopes he gets run over by a car. And he’s not going to that qualifiers game. Just to spite that ugly ed-sheeran wannabe. Scaramouche grits his teeth, anger coursing through his blood like a drug. He pops open the cabinet and reaches for an expensive wine glass— probably one of Miko’s, he thinks. Good— he hopes whatever devil’s incarnate worth of a drink he brews will forever taint her glass. 

Raw fury and frustration, a mix of overpowering emotions scrapes his veins bare, tears pricking at his face. He’s sure his mouth is pressed into a thin line, face scrunched up. He lets the coffee make itself before he mixes any of his special ingredients in. He’s going to need the craziest, nastiest mix of a headache fixer if he’s going to deal with Kazuha.

As the coffee brews, he picks up his phone again, popping open the small can of Melon Soda. Before he can think better of it, he lets the phone ring. Kazuha picks up on the fourth ring.

Ah, look. His coffee is done.

“Hello?” 

Kazuha’s warm, blanket soft of a voice is nearly drowned out by the roar of the car engine and the whipping of the wind nearby. A car horn honks after he speaks, and the tell-tale noise of Kazuha shutting his windows. Scaramouche nearly feels himself melt like gold in the sound alone, and yet he doesn’t– he holds onto his anger, white-knuckled and tight.

“Kazuha,” Scaramouche grits his teeth, “turn your car back around.”

His name nearly rots in Scaramouche’s mouth. He doesn't know what he’s more upset about— that fact that Kazuha is just going like it’s nothing, or that he’s a huge hypocrite. He’s not been this fired up, this upset in so long. 

“What?” Scaramouche sneers, “Cat got your tongue? You spent all this time, telling me to be better, and all that crap—“

“Scara—“

“—And here you are,” Scaramouche spits, “what? Did Childe get on his knees and beg you to come back? Did he cry, Kazuha, Kazuha, I want to win the game—“

“Scara.”

“What?” Scaramouche snaps. 

“I’m not turning the car back around. It’s important for me to be there,” Kazuha says calmly, “It was my choice to return—“

‘Was it?” Scaramouche laughs, “Or did he say, we won’t win if you don’t come back, so please–”

“What’s going on?” Kazuha asks quietly. It sounds as though he’s pulled over to the side of the road, ever the safe one. All the love flies through the window as irritation comes in through the door. 

“I’m trying to tell you,” Scaramouche bites into the phone, “I just said it. Oh my god, neither of you can listen. Why do I bother?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Kazuha interrupts, if he’s hurt by Scaramouche’s words, he doesn’t show it. “Stop. What’s happening, Scara?”

Scaramouche doesn’t know what to do with that. 

“Nothing,” Scaramouche reiterates, irritated beyond reason, “What? You’re just fine leaving them like that? What if you never see them again? Your flight crashes? Someone jumps you? You get into a crash?”

Kazuha makes a noise of understanding. “So that’s what this is about.”

“What?” Scaramouche scoffs, “What are you talking about?”

“I’m not going to die.” Kazuha says simply, as if it was obvious. His voice holds more patience than usual, and Scaramouche hates hearing it. He hates being reminded of how stupid he must be compared to anyone who isn’t him.

“I told you to turn around already,” Scaramouche grits out, his fingers curling around the phone tightly as he clenches his eyes shut and swallows down the lump forming in his throat, “go back home.”

The aches in Scaramouche’s chest lie not at all in his ribs, but in his heart. He collects himself a little tighter, trying to brute force pieces of himself together as if he was building a person using clay. 

“I’m not leaving, Scara,” Kazuha replies, and Scaramouche can only think of the expression on his face, “I’m not going to die on you.”

“This isn’t about me,” Scaramouche stresses, feeling every fiber of his being scream at him not to lose composure, “You–”

“It is,” Kazuha interrupts, inhaling, “It is, Scara. You’re terrified.”

Silence fills the room. Kazuha’s end of the line is significantly more quiet, as if he’s pulled into a parking lot of some sort rather than the side of the road. There's something else, too–  something heavy. Something heavy enough to make Scaramouche’s hands shake. It’s almost overwhelming the longer he stares at his phone, staring straight ahead at nothing.

For once, he knows exactly where he wants to be. He wants to be far away.

“That’s not fair,” Scaramouche inhales.

He can hear Kazuha’s smile on the other line, “Tell me, Scara– if we get together, do you think we would be a forever thing?”

Scaramouche burns holes into the counter-top. The silence that follows is suffocating, thick and sticky like tar against his skin, and there’s just enough caffeine in his system that if he closes his eyes he could swear that it’s the taste of smoke burning his lungs.

“Yes.” He whispers hoarsely.

“Is that what scares you?” Kazuha hums softly. 

He can feel the way his nails dig into his skin, the way his shoulders hunch. That fucking question hurts. 

“No,” Scaramouche replies, overloaded with nausea. “... I don’t know.”

“Scaramouche,” Kazuha asks again, though he seems almost hesitant, “would stopping what we have… would it help?”

He’s supposed to say yes. 

It would help. Erase the possibility of anything happening to Kazuha that would, by extension, hurt Scaramouche. Stopping whatever he has with Kazuha right now would be the best, safest option for himself. Because he needs to prioritize himself, because judging by the mess he is right now, he clearly hasn’t done it enough.

But that’s not what he wants. Perhaps Kazuha was right; Scaramouche still finds beauty in destruction. Perhaps he still wants to see himself burn. Perhaps he hasn’t changed at all. 

“What does it matter?” Scaramouche inhales, a soft mocking laugh leaving him, “It’s not what I want.”

“But would it help?” Kazuha replies quietly.

He knows what Kazuha’s thinking. Scaramouche wonders— even if it’s not what he wants, would Kazuha forcibly cut contact?

Scaramouche stops that train of thought quickly. How very unfair, he thinks, for Kazuha to come into his life, entangle himself in every aspect of Scaramouche’s thoughts, and then threaten to leave. How disgusting and neglectful. 

“No matter what, Kazuha,” Scaramouche grumbles, “Do not ever ignore me. I don’t care what you think is best for me. I don’t want it.”

“Then you have to learn to move on,” Kazuha reasons, shifting in his seat, “We can never work if you don’t put trust in us— in me, to live. This can never work if you don’t let go.”

Scaramouche swallows. The dangerous, caustic sting of Kazuha’s words rub like salt in his wounded heart. As if he’s ripping off tearing tape off his cracked heart and replacing it with stitches. Inflicting imprints on his heavy mind, fire in the wake of his fingers. 

“Scara,” Kazuha murmurs, “Let go of the illusion that it could have been any different. Some things have to end for better things to begin. Leave the past where it belongs.”

The boiling emotions inside him reach a peak, but they don’t boil over— no shout escapes him, no tear rolls down his cheek. Catharsis will forever escape Scaramouche, it seems. Instead, the emotions recede back into a dull wave, washing over worn out shores and taking back forgotten items from visitors with them. 

Scaramouche lets out a breath. It feels like he’s been holding it since Kazuha first started speaking. His anger ebbs slowly from his veins as he leans against the counter. Kazuha’s voice is quiet, and gentle, and Scaramouche believes him. He has to believe him. His hands unclench, and he brings it up to rub his thumb over his jawline. His head spins, but he’s determined not to fall apart.

Kazuha is asking a lot. Pain withers behind scintillating eyes, conflict a rushing torrent tailing every beat of his heart. 

But– that was the thing. He had spent forever trying to tredge himself out the ditches. Why should this be different, he wants to argue, what do I have that I didn’t have before? Because– that was all that plagued him months ago, weeks ago, days ago– it was over. It had been over for a long time. It was over, over, over–

It was over, wasn’t it? All of it?

And yet Scaramouche stayed glued to one place, seeing people pass him by. Even Niwa rotted in the ground, and Scaramouche stayed unmoving, still, forever reliving the same day. He would plunge his nails into the dirt, pollen gathering like ants under his fingernails desperate to uproot himself. But being forced to reflect, he had to admit perhaps he hadn’t given every attempt his full strength.

Moving on meant accepting a life without Niwa. Accepting a life in which he has learned nothing from the damage inflicted unto him, forced to confront a life without that guiding light that was Niwa Hisahide. And so he operated every day after Niwa’s death as if he was still there, slaving away in some part of the hospital Scaramouche didn’t visit. 

But now, he supposes– Kazuha is here. Something he didn’t have before. And while Kazuha can’t physically uproot him, he can steady him when Scaramouche’s feet are free from the soil of time, an unfurling scroll rolling away from him. But getting out, free from the garden of flowers around his feet and vines crawling up his legs– that’s the hard part. And it’s something only he can do.

Before, Kazuha had seemed content letting Scaramouche work through his issues at whatever pace he desired— which, at the time, was a snail’s pace due to how often Scaramouche liked to put off confronting himself. He seemed perfectly fine having to wait a millennia for Scaramouche to be ready for him. 

Now, though, he entangles himself directly with Scaramouche’s problems. Helping him see the problem. Guiding him through. He wonders why that is. 

“Would I make you happy?” Kazuha whispers into the silence of the room, and Scaramouche doesn’t know how to feel about being asked such a question. But there’s only ever one answer, and it’s the one he chooses to give.

A sharp breath of air escapes his lips, “Yes.”

Kazuha pauses, and it’s only now that Scaramouche realizes he doesn’t really know what Kazuha could be thinking. He’s a blank slate then, and it’s only now that Scaramouche comes to the conclusion that, with Kazuha’s calm demeanor, he could choose to hide his thoughts from anyone. But he doesn’t. 

He wears his emotions on his sleeve on the good days, and he slips them into his sleeve on the not so good days. The evenings he quiets, Scaramouche wants part of all of them. 

“Good,” Kazuha decides to say, gently, composed and comfortable, “Then I suppose that’s all I want.”

“How do you do this,” Scaramouche grips at his hair, hating the feeling of… feelings. There’s really no better way to describe it rather than the encompassing repulsion of emotions. “Deal with the grief and the… god, I hate feeling things. This is making me ill.”

Kazuha laughs, a warm sound. Scaramouche pictures his face scrunching in laughter, crescented lips and twinkling eyes. 

“I treasure this world. I love the people in it. It’s a conscious decision I make, each and every day. I have wanted to drown myself in grief, too. But I don’t,” He sighs, “Instead, I hold hands with it and walk through doors I did not notice were open.”

“And you, Scara—“ Kazuha shifts, “I envied you, too. You get angry when you are wronged. You do not wait years for the rage to settle in. I fell in love with my grief, and it was my downfall. Too enamored with my pain to let anger through the door of my apartment. Your problem, I believe, is that you have trouble saying goodbye to it.”

Scaramouche stares at the phone, “How did you get past it?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“I won’t.”

“Fine,” Kazuha shifts in his seat again, a smile evident in his voice, “Well, I suppose I am still working on it. However… the biggest help of all has been you, Scara.”

“You,” Kazuha says, “are a replacement for the drugs. You give me the same high they did, the same comfort— but the obsession you leave behind is not the same. Morphine left behind addiction. You leave behind love.”

Scaramouche suddenly does not feel like talking about this anymore. He lets himself bury his face in his arms, “We’re not talking about this anymore. Are you sure you went back because you wanted to? Not because Childe held you at gunpoint?”

“I sincerely hope you have a better way of changing the subject than that. I’m afraid I've never seen a poorer attempt.”

“Kazuha.”

“Yes,” Kazuha smiles, letting the subject go. He’s sure Scaramouche will ponder on it on his own at some point, “I did go back on my own violation. Though I am regretful you did not get to meet Beidou or Ningguang. Perhaps you can say hello to them at our graduation.”

“Sure,” Scaramouche replies, clipped. He should probably apologize to Childe, but he absolutely will not be doing that. He looks down at his killer concoction again, squinting at the lethal substance. Perhaps he could just leave it there and convince Miko that Ei had made it. 

“I had a good time, no matter how short lived it may have been,” Kazuha offers. 

“Did you skate?” 

“A little,” He admits, Kazuha had paused, a small, amused smile on his face. “Definitely not as much Childe had asked of me. Perhaps you could join me on the ice once more. Though I know you pretend not to know of it, you have as much grace on the ice as a figure skater.”

“Ha,” was Scaramouche’s response, a short, brutish thing. “You’re joking.”

That was how they found themselves wasting the day away, sitting together– miles, oceans apart. Kazuha leaned against his car seat in an empty parking lot, Scaramouche in his kitchen, letting the light from the small, makeshift window settle against his skin. He could hear Kazuha talking on, plugging in his location on his small, hand-held GPS again as a breeze blew through the garden, trampling flowers in its wake.

For a moment, all Scaramouche could feel was a sudden, all-consuming feeling —not for anything in particular. For everything. He could barely tell if it was a good one. 

The over-encompassing feeling of forever being denied abreaction, the melancholic relief that comes with learning to forgive what’s happened. A thief of time, twisting memories from his white-knuckled grip and spinning it into burnished gold. The things he’s experienced, been robbed of, splattered with blood and levity and every poet’s worst nightmare.

“Are you there?” Kazuha asks.

“Yes,” Scaramouche swallows. Instability plagues every word, every thought of his, and he thinks nothing would serve as well as a very good nap could as of this moment. 

Kazuha hums, starting the car engine again. “It seems though the rain has let up. It’s a rather wonderful day.”

“We fought, like, half an hour ago.” Scaramouche snaps. Though he does rather like the implication that Kazuha’s perfect day includes him. 

“Does it matter?” Kazuha smiles. “It’s going to be friday for me in…” he checks the time on the small, single analog clock in his car. Scaramouche knows the one— a shattered, barely pieces together clock on the tiny screen of Kazuha’s Acura. “six minutes. Very little could ruin a friday for me.”

“Well,” Scaramouche grumbles, “I’ll be the first. I feel more and more ill as the time I spend away from a hospital increases. You’ll have to plan my eulogy.”

He can hear Kazuha’s eyebrows raise. He shifts on his arms, trying to decipher his reflection of the granite countertop, “That wouldn’t be ideal.”

“Not to you.”

“Don’t joke about that,” Kazuha interrupts sharply, “please.”

Scaramouche rolls his eyes, scrunching his nose. “Whatever. What are you doing?”

White noise erupts from Kazuha’s end of the call like a volcano, and Scaramouche rips the phone from his ear, stopping himself from wincing in pain. There’s still sweat trickling down his spine, feeling as though he’s just ripped himself from a tub of ice. 

“Ah,” Kazuha replies, after a moment. The noise has settled down now, and Scaramouche tentatively brings the phone back to his ear, “I’ve still got quite a drive to make. For now, I’m booking my follow-up appointment. For my… head injury. Or I suppose I am trying to.”

“No wifi?” Scaramouche asks.

“Not… exactly,” Kazuha replies, and it’s only then that Scaramouche realizes that Kazuha almost sounds… bashful. “I’m not sure how to answer some of these questions. It says I need to supply a list of my allergies.

“What did you write?” 

“Please don’t laugh,” is Kazuha’s response, “I wrote dust.”

“Seriously?”

“If I’m not mistaken, dust is an allergy everyone has,” Kazuha says seriously. Scaramouche can’t believe what he is hearing right now. 

“Exactly,” Scaramouche snaps, “ because everyone has it, dust doesn’t count as an allergy, you fool. They mean specific allergies for medication. No one is giving you medication with dust in it.”

Kazuha seems to think about this for a moment. “Unless it was a very poorly cleaned facility.”

“Well– yeah,” Scaramouche frowns, “but then you should be more concerned about what medication you are receiving and not whether it contains dust. Oh my god, you are so dumb.”

“There’s no need to insult me. I’m sure you have done something of equal caliber.”

“I haven’t.”

“I’m sure you have.”

“I haven’t . And anyone saying otherwise is a liar.”

“Really?” Kazuha hums, “I recall Childe telling me something about you refusing to learn your social security number.”

First of all, Scaramouche would like to say, that is totally incomparable. 

It was a perfect plan. No one could live up to his genius. He had just moved to America, and everything he had read on his way there had said Michigan was a state of serious crime. Anyone could get mugged. The weak. The elderly. There were evil thieves with no conscience, they would say.

Scaramouche had assessed his physique critically in the bathrooms of some airports, thinking about this. He looked far from the soldier his mother had wanted. He could pack a hard punch, certainly, but he might need more than that. 

So it hit him. They can’t steal what he doesn’t have. If he doesn’t remember his social security number and he is mugged, he can’t give it if he doesn’t have it. Seriously, he was a genius. Of course, he is yet to get mugged. 

“Scara,” Kazuha catches his attention again, “It’s asking me for any past incidents I’ve had.”

Scaramouche thinks for a second, “I guess it can’t be helped. You did tell me you went into a coma when you were four.”

“ I did ? Pardon?” Kazuha seems to sit up straight, thinking about it, “I’m afraid I don’t remember that happening. Well, I suppose if I told you, it must be true. Please allow me a moment to list it down.”

“What? I just made that up!” Scaramouche coughs, tightening his grip on the phone, “ Why did you believe that?”

Kazuha pauses, “I’m not sure. Perhaps it’s a lasting effect from my coma.”

“I just said I was lying about that!”

White noise erupts again from Kazuha’s end, and Scaramouche takes the time to collect himself. He unfolds himself in a mess of aching heartstrings and a clouded dream-haze over his mind, nothing but Kazuha and another summer month to keep him company. 

He looks up, ready to head back to his room to finish packing. He might just ask Kazuha what he thinks the scratches on his wall might be. Perhaps he would have some idea. Probably some idea dipped and coated in flirty, poetic words, but any idea would be better than the one he has.

He turns, ready to head upstairs. He’s leaving the lethal concoction here, he’s decided. But as his attention turns to the paint-chipped, worn doorway to hell, Scaramouche freezes.

Blue meets purple, and a chillingly uncomfortable silence washes into the room like a tsunami. 

Neither says a word until her eyes snap to his phone. He sees her glance at it, then back to him with that same look, and for a split second, all Scaramouche can think about is running away.

“Kazuha,” Scaramouche says cautiously, because he is still on call– though unsure if Kazuha could hear him over the noise. “I’ll call you back.” 

He thinks Kazuha says something, but it’s washed away. The phone hangs limply from his hand.

The duo stare at each other for a moment longer before Scaramouche stares at her, crossing his arms. It feels like they stare at each other for minutes, hours, which mold into days and weeks into his mind. He thinks he can recall moments, only brief moments in which they had properly talked and looked at each other face to face. 

But that was it. Moments. Only ever moments. They were fleeting and served only to intensify the pain of never having anything more.

“How long have you been standing there?” He asks. The wording is kind, but his tone is not.

Ei is silent. Scaramouche doesn’t know what she’s thinking. He never does. He never has. The more he tries to let go of it, the more he finds himself dwelling on it, wondering where it went wrong for him– what he must've done wrong to be thrown away so easily.

And then he doesn’t care. Why should he? And then he curls up again, repeating the same cycle. You would think he gets tired of it.

Ei stares at him with that sort of look in her eye that Scaramouche can never place. It invokes a feeling – that kind of feeling, as if he’s six years old again and he’s done something wrong, awaiting the punishment that would never come, just because no one could be bothered enough to dish it out.

Scaramouche hadn’t even noticed she was there. He kind of wished she wasn’t. Always trampling over the few moments he had with his mother. How selfish, he thinks. 

Well, Scaramouche doesn’t care. He’s probably going to get scolded for something. He has no idea, but he’s far from wanting to find out. He starts to make his way out of the kitchen, nearly bumping shoulders with her as he–

“Kunikuzushi, I don’t think… I have really been a good mother.”

– He freezes.

About every emotion runs through him. 

Shock and disbelief hand in hand. Anger courses through him, tailed by irritation and heavy betrayal. Happiness is somewhere in there, nursing a small bit of hope behind it. Relief is at the forefront, an invisible wall that he doesn’t acknowledge. And then they’re all gone.

Scaramouche stops, “Why do you say that?”

His calm demeanor causes Ei’s face to twitch imperceptibly. She stares at him a moment longer, unsure where to go from here. Perhaps she thought he would say something else. Yell, maybe. Shout. Cry. 

The sun was setting over Kyoto.

Miko, hiding in the shadows of the living room, gives an Ei what Scaramouche can only think to be an encouraging nod. He didn’t think she needed encouragement for anything. 

Ei turns back to him, more steely in her resolve. “I’m not sure,” she says softly, and Scaramouche doesn’t know what to make of that, “perhaps it’s because I feel as though I don’t know you very well.”

The toil going through in Scaramouche’s mind is nearly unbearable. A bloodless tear of his skin, a skim of color that runs down his head. Electricity buzzing behind his eyes accompanied by a chilling breath, searching for a silver lining in it all.

“I don’t know you at all,” Scaramouche sneers, “and yet, I was a good son.”

Don’t break. Keep calm. Get out of this house. Catharsis will not come.

Ei’s brows pull together, “You were… talking to that boy, just now. I suppose it hit me then, that I have not seen you like that at all. If he is someone important to you, then I should know his name. But I do not.”

“You don’t even know my name,” Scaramouche blurts, and every emotion that’s ever piled up, starts crowding behind his heart, his eyes, his mouth, pressing on the seams and begging to be let out.

He can see them all, he can feel the weight of them, like a mountain in the back of his mind, pressing on him, crushing him and making it hard to breathe. It feels suffocating, and he wants to stop but there’s nothing left for him to do, not anymore. 

“How long have I not gone by Kunikuzushi? You don’t know me. I don’t even know me. I stopped being me a long time ago. I can’t even remember who that was.”

He’s not dead, but he should be. He should have died right alongside Niwa on the hospital floor. He’s not dead, but he’s not alive either. Often he felt like a walking corpse– like a ghost with a beating heart. 

He knows it must feel like nothing to people who didn’t know Niwa— so picture it. Close your eyes, picture your best friend, dead. 

And the dam cracks. And the walls break, and Scaramouche embraces that long-awaited catharsis with a flood of tears. Good riddance. Perhaps they could carry away these rotten emotions with them. 

“I have not known myself for a long time,” Scaramouche chokes, “Can’t you see? The pressure to be worthy destroyed me.”

And then he can’t stop crying.

“What did I do?” Scaramouche cries, and everything feels terrible.  “What did I do wrong? Mom?”

He’s being left to bleed. He’s standing in a pool of his blood, thoughts, tears— and everything else that should be his, and his alone. He’s knee deep in emotion, sinking in a quicksand of despair. 

“I thought I—“ He sobs, throat closed and tears spilling over, choking him in pain with the burning of his eyes. “I thought I had to do something helpful to be loved by you. So I became a medic. Did you know that? I helped people, and you still didn’t love me.”

“Kunikuzushi—“ Ei starts, but she stops abruptly. She doesn’t know what name to use. What name is there that can accurately describe something so disgustingly human?

He crumbles. He chokes on a cry, muffling it into his hand. He can see Miko straightening in alarm, Ei reaching forward tentatively. 

“All I really wanted,” Scaramouche hiccups out, within his tears, “was someone who wanted me. I feel as though I am a fool for thinking it would be you. How stupid is that? A mother who doesn’t want her kid?”

“I did want you,” Ei says quietly, “I did.”

“Good job, then!” Scaramouche shouts, “Because I don’t care! I never felt wanted! Who’s going to love me if you can’t?”

And there it is— the relief of all of it out in the open, trying to find salvation in something so ugly. 

“I’m sorry,” Ei says, as if it could fix anything. “You ran away because of my incompetence. And I let you run away because I assumed… freedom was what you craved. It was my mistake and I will take responsibility for it.”

“Who cares?” Scaramouche cries, and he’s crying, ugly tears from tears of not breaking down. “I’m not going to ask you to be there for me. Because it’s too late now. Did you know how many times I called you? Do you even know why?”

He whirls on Miko, watching the whole thing unfold from the shadows. “Did you know?”

“I will be there for you now,” Ei says firmly, stepping in between the two, “There were reasons I could not—“

“What reasons?” Scaramouche chokes up, “What reasons stop you from picking up a phone call?”

Oh, his heart hurts.  His head pounds, his vision blurry from tears and everything else. He just feels like dying, a little bit. Bit by bit, the steady supply of anger he relies on slips from his grasp, and he holds onto despair with every fiber in his being. 

Ei seems hesitant to say, but she resolves herself once again, that carefully constructed version of her coming back once more. “I… was unsure.”

Scaramouche hiccups, wiping his face with his hand as he waits for her to continue. He doesn’t even know why he’s bothering to hear her out. Maybe he’s still the same kid listening to that dumb Adventure Time song, waiting for some miracle to explain everything.

“I was not prepared to be a mother,” Ei replies, “because I had not done it before. It is shameful, but I… I suppose I felt as if I was not capable of it.”

Scaramouche stares at her. 

Tears slip down his face, and he doesn’t know what he looks him— snot nosed, red faced, ugly, crybaby Scaramouche. 

“You were unsure,” Scaramouche says blankly. 

“Yes,” Ei replies.

“Do you know what I went through?” Scaramouche whispers, “Did you care?”

Ei nods, and it’s a painful thing. “I knew only what the news knew. But you are still my son. It may not be believable to you, but the capacity in which I cared was unmatched.”

“Were.”

Ei looks at him. “Pardon?”

Scaramouche straightens up. He’s still crying, hot tears leaving scalding marks in their wake. His sobbing is loud, painful, and he struggled the words out, coated in anger.

“I was your son,” Scaramouche chokes, “But he died a long time ago. You don’t care. I don’t think you ever have.”

He pushes past her. Past her, past Miko, past the long-wilted flowers that six year old Scaramouche wanted to see sprout. He leaves the scratched up, expensive sofa he used to jump on, the windows he drew on, the empty rooms he sat in. 

He’s out the door in seconds, onto the dark streets of Japan. Just him. 

He runs away again. But this time, Ei watches him go.

Chapter Text

Marigolds. 

Marigolds it was, at Niwa’s funeral. Marigolds framing his teared coffin and lining the edges of his grave. Marigolds, that Scaramouche saw in a shop after he ran away from his mother and everything she didn't give him. 

Marigold, Marigold, Marigold. 

Is there a part of him that is not dead? Is there a piece of him sitting in a bar, staring at his moonlit negroni cocktail, exchanging glances with Dionysus? Somewhere, is there a glass chipping of his heart caressing the burned edges of yellowed letters in a way that is not obsessively, incessantly, nor with maddening, torturous hunger?

Scaramouche is racing the stars. 

Step after step, chasing horizons in tears, trying ever-more to be the him in that bar, forever unscarred by the terrible feeling of loving something death has touched. To love in the moments in between, because in the end, he could never blame his mother for not loving something as corrosive as him. For him, it’s a prologue. For others, it might be an epilogue. There’s hardly a way to tell. 

And all he loved, he loved alone– racing through the empty streets of Kyoto, wind wiping his tears with sharp fingers and the moon hidden by the clouds. He runs. He runs, and he doesn’t know where he is going. It’s raining. When had it begun to rain?

Feet against the stone. Face against the wind. Will against the world. 

When his days would turn to weeks, and the weeks to months, and the months to years, he would live his life through precarious glimpses in moments. The hardest part was accepting that he was still here, in a place he shouldn’t be. With someone he shouldn’t be. In the end, he was a tragic tale told by news anchors and printed in papers, a survivor of something horrid – when in actuality, in that place where the world ended, he had thought– this would not be the worst place to die in. 

So which is more a lie, he thinks– Me, or my story? 

He can hear someone’s cries in the distance. It’s only when he feels his throat hurt does he realize the person crying is him. 

He’s running. Tears hot against his face, heart in his throat, head clouded, and it’s just him, a tiny speck of man amongst a beach. Torchwood light in the distance, the sea a simmering shade of gray. And the rain, and Scaramouche. 

He’s not sure how he ended up here. The sand is no longer warmed when he arrives, but he doesn’t mind the cold—he doesn’t even mind the smell of sea-salt that lingers. The water is cool, but it hurts all the same. He stands there, unable to hear anything past the rain and the rushing water, and the beach, and the roar of the wind, and maybe himself crying. 

The boy stops where the water begins. 

His hands shake. He hasn’t cried so much since Niwa’s death. In fact, he doesn’t think he’s cried at all. 

He remembers Niwa. He doesn’t even have to think hard about it. Niwa, who cradled the skies in his arms with honey gold dripping from his bruises, a waterfall of a soul. And the destruction of Scaramouche that laid in his wake. It should have been him. It should have been Scaramouche, because he is too rotten to live a life on his own. How terrible it was, for Scaramouche to survive. 

He knows what the others had said. That Niwa Hisahide was too pure of a soul, that no one saw it coming. 

They said it must have been someone deranged to shoot up a hospital, or that he had stolen from the police station and gone rogue. Others say he was just a poor, troubled boy. But Scaramouche is a troubled boy, and yet he has never taken a life. 

He remembers the aftermath, when he stumbled out of that hospital covered in blood, the parking lot flooded with officers, helicopters circling the building. FBI agents with guns, reporters with cameras, and Scaramouche with a broken heart. 

No one knew what to say, then. Or perhaps they had something to say, but didn’t know how to. No one dared approach him that whole week, when Scaramouche looked more like a walking corpse than anything else. Everyone was at a loss for words– the therapists, Mona, Childe– and while his mother had not picked up the phone, he wondered if she would have been at a loss for words too. 

His face is cold from the rain. 

They wondered why Scaramouche stayed, why he visited Niwa’s grave every fortnight, why he doesn’t get on his knees and wonder if god is dead. Everything is doomed, so why doesn’t he find beauty in his tragedy, in the petals of the forgotten and grieved. 

They say if the sun exploded, it would take eight minutes for us to know. But when you know, what do you do? How do you do anything, knowing in the next seconds, it will be all over? How do you live on for a few moments more? For him, he thinks he would finally experience the eternal relief of knowing he’s done, it’ll all be done, he can rest. 

He sits within the sand and the sea and the rain, and he cries. The wind blows somewhere. It’s dark out, nothing but the soul of the sky and it’s ever present, doomed stars with it. 

He wonders if Kazuha is awake. He would do anything to hear his voice. He cries, and he can’t stop. But he left his phone back there, with the devils and the demons and whatever ghosts that hide in the cupboards. Perhaps it’s time for Scaramouche to let go of the illusion that it could have turned out different. What can be done, what can be said, to reverse the past?

Sand is thrown about on his lap, wind tousling his hair and the rain pouring without a second thought. The moon shifts. The clouds move. Scaramouche stays still.

Perhaps it really is time for Scaramouche to learn to move on. The color of his tears has stained his world-view in grays and blues far too long, and Scaramouche has forgotten the color of marigolds.

He shivers. Maybe this is all fake. Maybe this is a televised TV show, and he is the unassuming star. Maybe there is piano music playing in the background. Maybe it’s silent. Maybe the world failed him. Maybe he failed himself. A dozen maybes, and maybe– just maybe, they’re all true.

He stays seated within the sand until he hears footsteps behind him. 

“Hey,” a voice calls, “Get up.”

Scaramouche doesn’t move. He swallows hard, flinching only slightly as the waves lap at his toes and the man peers into his face. He doesn’t recognize the man. He must be a local. 

“Oh,” The stranger says, “wait a minute. I know you.”

Scaramouche snarls, burying his head into his arms. His head feels fuzzy, and he doesn’t know how to convey just how much he wants to be left alone right now. 

“You’re that kid,” The stranger stammers, “the— the American one. You’re him. I saw you on the news.”

He’s wispy, thin, cloaked in shadows and with fiery eyes. Scaramouche feels a little bit like dying. 

They’re both on the beach, under the rain and the weight of Scaramouche’s emotions. The man fumbles with his phone for a second, tapping away before he shoves a phone in Scaramouche’s face.

Scaramouche recoils from the harsh light, hissing as he jerks away from the man’s phone. The local moves it as Scaramouche’s face moves, and as he slowly adjusts to the light, he squints to make out the details under the dark blanket of the night– it comes into focus. 

It’s a picture of him. From the news. 

Nearly everything in the article is written in Japanese, and even if he didn’t know how to read it, he bet he could recite it word for word. His own face stares back at him, heavy eyebags and scrubs doused in blood. Niwa’s blood. It’s side by side another picture of him from the funeral, looking dead-eyed and bored as his eulogy service went on. His eyes trail down, down, down– yet another picture. This one is from after the funeral, with Scaramouche’s head on the casket and despair in every line of his body. 

“This is you, right?” 

Scaramouche stares at the pictures. He doesn’t know the name for whatever feeling is boiling in his chest. He wants to kill him, and then grab his phone and call Kazuha and tell him he can’t do it, and he’s coming back home.

He stares a little longer at the picture of him. His tie is crooked, and his red eye liner was a bit higher on his left eye than it was on the other. Had he not noticed those things that morning? 

The man nudges him with his foot. “Hey,” he insists, “say something.”

“Never seen him before,” he croaks, but it’s so quiet he doesn’t think the guy heard him.

He pokes at him with his foot again, and Scaramouche ends up swatting at his foot. He’s really, really not in the mood. 

Take a hint, Scaramouche wants to snark. Can’t this guy see that Scaramouche is clearly in the middle of a crisis? 

His tears are still dried on his face, and it’s fire, not dust, in the wake of them. Instead of waiting for an answer, though, he feels himself being tugged upright. The man is standing in front of him, holding his shoulder so tightly that his nails dig painfully into his skin. 

“Do you speak? Hello?” The man tries slowly, as if Scaramouche was a kid or something. “Did America traumatize you that bad? That you became mute? I heard that can happen.”

Get your hands off me before I kill myself in front of you and change your life forever.

Scaramouche’s voice is croaky, “Stop.”

“You can talk. Good,” he nods, “That would be kind of funny. Imagine surviving a shoot-out and then going mute.”

Scaramouche slaps his hand, “I said, stop.”

The man takes a step back. He seems more wary now, catching on every twitching of Scaramouche’s face and his jerky movements. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Scaramouche stares at him. The emotions boil up, choking him up with every drop, every word he’s heard, said, thought for the past year. He doesn't know what to do with them but they're not coming out of him like any logical train would. 

They come from him and no one else. He tries to breathe out slowly, calmly, but his lungs refuse to cooperate, they won’t let him. The anger, the bitterness that had long been boiling in his stomach, has now overflowed, flooding every corner of his body with its burning intensity. 

His eyes sting. 

He doesn’t know where he is. Who he is. What he’s meant to be doing, what he was made for. All there is the loudness in his head, all his senses are screaming at each other in a cacophony of noise. 

It's overwhelming him to the point he feels he might pass out from sheer anxiety. He tries desperately to find some way to calm himself down, to stop the thoughts pouring out of him, but to no avail.

The anger and hurt and frustration and all consuming rage and confusion. The voices, the screams and sobs he can’t seem to stop, the thoughts and the emotions are too much, too strong. He wants, wants, he doesn’t know what he wants.

The man opens his mouth again, and Scaramouche doesn’t know what happens next.

Someone hits him. Or maybe he hits someone. 

There's blood, the crunching of bones, pain blooming behind his face– the taste of copper and iron, and that voice is yelling. Skin is pulled, hair torn, and Scaramouche isn’t sure whose it is. Everything is a blur– of hands and arms and faces, punches crashing into each other. He can’t remember if he threw the first hit, or the man did. The world keeps spinning in slow motion. He doesn’t see anything except red. It is all that is real.

His head is pounding away, threatening to split his skull apart. His vision swims, blurring into a sea of color, but he can't even blink because of the blinding pain behind his eyes. He feels nauseous, dizzy and disoriented as he tries to take another step forward, then another, just to move. 

Blood is splattered across his knuckles, his shirt, his face. It might be his. It might not be his. 

It could be a god’s, and he wouldn’t know. Everything is so loud, shouting in his ears, static in his heart, and it fades into whispers after he throws punch after punch after punch after punch after punch after punch–

Maybe after hours, days, weeks, of hitting and being hit, the voices in his head fade into a gentle stream of whispers. 

And then there is silence. 

Scaramouche is numb, staring ahead blindly. Someone is softly. He thinks it might be him, but that’s impossible. He’s cried so much, what could be left?

The quiet calmness washing over him is like the reckoning. 

His mind calms, his emotions calm, everything stops. Even the voices, the flashes of images and sounds, the colors and tastes, it all stops, leaving nothing but an empty void. The void, which he has always felt comfortable in, is now disconcerting.

It settles deep inside his stomach, spreading throughout his body. He looks down, noticing for the first time how close he is to the water, almost touching the waves that lapped against his toes. There’s nothing between him and the sea.

No land, no shoreline, no sky. Just sea. He isn’t sure of anything. 

There is no anger, no sadness, no fear. No pain, no sadness, no rage, nothing that defines who he once was, but who he becomes, or what he becomes, now. Nothing changes. Everything remains the same. Niwa is still dead. 

The apathy that Scaramouche longed for is nothing but a false reality. 

He breathes quietly, sense coming back to him in moments of pure stillness. When realization sets in–

He stares at the man. He lays still, but barely alive. There’s almost more blood on him than there is on Scaramouche– Scaramouche, who’s unsure whose blood lay on whose hands.  

Well, he’s not running his mouth anymore. Checkmate, sucker. 

He stares. He can feel the cold touch of it on his palms, dripping onto his fingers. He stares at the blood on his hands. He stares at the pool forming around his feet. He feels sick– from his own actions, but within it, is the unadulterated, pure relief.

There. You’ve done it. It’s over. It’s all over. You’re okay. 

Scaramouche turns his gaze from the pool, from the blood surrounding them, towards the man. He lies unconscious, barely able to raise his head. Scaramouche stands above him, his breath uneven. He feels a strange kind of happiness well up in him. 

If he’s going to jail, maybe he’ll have enough privacy to kill himself in peace. Then it’ll be all over. If he runs from the cops, he’ll have to change his identity and leave it all behind— and still, it’ll be all over. 

It’s a quiet calmness. And it makes him want to cry all over again. 

It’s what he wanted, right? To sit by in the courtyard of some home watching cash-addicted boys eat the homes of others while he munches on stale chips. To be there after everything is done and gone, but not to suffer when it all disappears.

But…. this isn’t how he wanted it to happen. He doesn’t know if he still wants it, if it’s going to be like this. 

It’s the same problem all over again. He wanted to get his mother’s attention, and in the end, he got it— but what did it take? Niwa’s life. A shooting. A gun. And standing here, now, after it all— it was not worth it. 

They say that happiness that is not fought for is never worth it, but happiness at the cost of everything is no happiness at all. 

But what can Scaramouche do now? 

“Y-You…”

Oh, he’s alive. 

Scaramouche looks down, panic not yet set in. The man is extending a hand to him, choking on blood and everything. Scaramouche should call an ambulance. But calling an ambulance means he’s going to be arrested— and Scaramouche would rather not, so he…. what? He needs to run away, right? 

Which means Scaramouche needs to say his goodbyes first. 

This… isn’t what he wanted to happen, but now that he’s got it, what can he do? Maybe really, deep down— he wanted to get better. 

Maybe he really did want to live on. Is that what he wanted all along? 

The more Scaramouche thinks on it— he did want it. He wanted that life with Kazuha, the one where they skate on fridays and they dance on the street and they pop a soda at sunset on the curb-side and their neighbors’ kids play with the sprinkler. He wants a life that’s not tainted with blood. 

Scaramouche stuffs down a cry. He wants it. He wants, he wants— 

He wants that life where his mother visits every weekend and they struggle to rearrange the furniture and they furnish Scaramouche’s room to look like a real room, with dumb posters and fairy lights and one of those ugly, uncomfortable bean bag chairs and a rug and plants and a mirror and everything else. 

He really did want to get better.

All it took was the opportunity getting stolen from him for him to realize it. He would do anything, he wants to cry— for that chance again. 

The man coughs, going limp. He might be dead. Scaramouche might’ve… killed him. 

No, he couldn’t have, some part of Scaramouche reasons, He’s supposed to save people. Why would he kill someone? 

— But you hit him. You’re at fault. 

He started it, Scaramouche desperately counters himself, talk shit, get hit, right? 

— Are you trying to justify murdering someone because they made you mad? 

The voice sounds suspiciously like Kazuha. Scaramouche swallows, staring at the man. His face is busted, placing him in a near state of anonymity. Blood pools around his head, the same maroon splattered on Scaramouche. 

His hand twitches. 

I didn’t murder him, Scaramouche insists to himself, See? He’s alive. 

— But he won’t be if you don’t call an ambulance. 

Shut up, Scaramouche thinks to the Not-Kazuha voice in his head, You aren’t helping. 

He stays there for a moment longer. The man trembles, reaching for Scaramouche’s legs. If only Childe could see this, he thinks, he wouldn’t ever call Scaramouche a short weakling ever again. 

— If Childe could see this, he’d be disgusted. You hurt someone. 

The rain has subsided. Scaramouche calls an ambulance.

He doesn’t stay around too long. Instead, he makes a quiet, simple journey back to his family home. He takes his time. Quietly enjoys the sky, the soft violin street music, the night bazaar, and he thinks of Kazuha.

He hopes Kazuha can forgive him. He didn’t mean for this to happen— he didn’t. He hopes Kazuha knows that; that Scaramouche still wants to keep trying, but that would only be possible if he had tried just a little harder a few moments ago. If he had another chance, he would— he would do anything, to get better. 

Put forth every effort. Plant Marigolds. Perform a pericardial repair. Let Kazuha love every part of him, take any piece of his heart, lay with him in the heat of their limbs and love during the late evenings. He would try, and he would fail, and then he would try again— keep on, until he gets what he wants.

He pushes all those thoughts out of his head. It’s too late now, isn’t it?

His family home is nearly back in sight. The lights are still on. That’s weird. He would’ve thought Ei and Miko would have slept by now. Well, it doesn’t matter. He’s not going back for them. He just needs his phone, so he can call Kazuha and say goodbye.

What would he say? What could he say? There was so much in his head, and he didn’t know how to say any of it. He wants, and he wants, and there is no more to want anymore. He wants to be tangled in Kazuha’s embrace until there is no more him.

And what of Nahida? And Venti, and Childe, and all of those dumb hockey players who Scaramouche doesn’t know the name of— the ones that he watches practice hockey strategies on mondays and tuesdays. 

And the Kettering hockey team, who he bumps shoulders with in the hallways and the rapidly declining first aid kit that keeps getting used on Kazuha’s shoulders, shins, hands. 

The quicker he walks back home, the more he wonders when the police will be there. Any moment now, any second, any step. Surely, surely there must be another way to say goodbye—

What’s going on? He might have just killed somebody. He just killed somebody. 

He stops. Does he turn himself in? Does he run away? What— what are you meant to do? 

Realization is setting in. Panic is following it. Heavy breaths, quick heartbeat. Stay calm. It’s over now. There’s nothing left for him to do. 

He needs room to breathe. To think. 

He doesn’t have his phone, but he does have his apple watch. It’s barely charged and he can’t call anyone, but with a few moments of concentration, he can type a simple message— as incomprehensible as it is, with a tiny keyboard and shaking fingers. 

He only has one contact on his watch— Venti’s. The apple watch dies, and the message is sent. 

It’s okay, Scaramouche swallows, it’s all over. It’s done.

— This is a coward's way out. 

You are really not helping, Scaramouche internally snaps at the Not-Kazuha, his chest is heavy with emotions and his breathing quick, What would you have me do? 

— Not this.

Oh, very helpful, Scaramouche thinks.

The Not-Kazuha voice is hauntingly silent. Silent, silent, silent, all the way back to his home. Scaramouche is grateful. 

The house looks almost more daunting as he reaches it. As he approaches the house, he hesitates only slightly before opening the door. Miko is in the living room, who takes one look at him—

“Ei,” She called, standing up. Her voice is melodic, a hint of amusement in her tone, “He’s back.”

Scaramouche forgot all about her. Whatever, it’s not like it matters now, does it? All of this is nothing in comparison to what’s going to happen to him. 

It’s only until she looks at him— really looks at him, that her ever-present smile frowns into a questioning frown. He can feel her eyes on the blood on his clothing, though a lot of it blends into the black of his clothing. “Don’t tell me you went and got yourself hurt.”

Scaramouche pushes past her. Ei is still in the dining room, her position perfect, her face blank, but for once, Scaramouche can see emotions in her body language. Relief laughing up her leg as she sets eyes on him, playing with her hair, even as her face is set in stone.

“Wait,” Miko stops him, narrowing her eyes, “Is that blood on your clothing?”

“No,” Scaramouche lies, trying to calm his breathing, “let me go.”

He wrestles out of Miko’s hold, stumbling into the kitchen, where he must have left his phone. He doesn’t see it. 

“What on earth has gotten into you?” Miko frowns, “Especially after what Ei found—“

Why should I care what she found? Let me go before I do something really terrible to everyone here, and no one wants that. You don’t want that, right? You always did say my tantrums were annoying. 

— They were annoying. 

Watch it, Not-Kazuha, Scaramouche threatens. His chest feels tight already, and if he has to argue with this Kazuha impersonator in his head for one more second, he genuinely might lose it. 

Scaramouche whirls around, “Where is my phone?”

“Kunikuzushi,” Ei starts, as she sees him, “Please refrain from behaving in such a manner again—“

“Where is my phone?” 

His phone is missing. Where is it? He had left it on the kitchen counter when he rushed out of the house, but the small blue thing was gone now. Didn’t they understand how dire the situation was?

“You had Ei rather worried,” Miko interrupts, like Scaramouche cares, “Goodness, even I couldn’t calm her down—“

“The cops are coming.”

The room delves into silence.  Scaramouche feels like he can’t breathe. Well, there really was no way around it, was there? It’s not as if they would look away if an officer starts banging on the front door.

He can see Miko straighten, any hint of amusement draining from her figure. Ei seems unreadable, but when has she not been? 

“I did something bad,” Scaramouche says, and then it starts catching up to him— the panic, the emotions, and his hands shake. His heart jumps into his throat, and he remembers blood— blood, blood blood blood blood blood blood 

— blood. Why is blood always there? It seems to follow him like a crow crooning on his shoulder, breathing down his neck. Why had he thought he could outrun it?

“I hurt someone badly,” Scaramouche forces out, trying to stop the tears before they spill. Hasn’t he cried enough? God, he hates crying. Isn’t it all over? He thought it was over. “I did something bad. I need my phone. Move.”

“The cops are coming,” Miko repeats. Her eyes narrow, and she exchanges a look with Ei. He wishes she would just say whatever it is. Now he’s forced to play the part of the fool trying to figure out what it is, and good lord, hasn’t he embarrassed himself in front of his mom enough already? 

“Yes,” Scaramouche swallows. He hates this. He hates looking so weak in front of these people.  “I told you— I told you, I did something bad, I—“

“No,” Ei speaks for the first time, “I did. I did it. Miko, please contact my lawyer immediately.”

… What?

“Ei,” Miko says incredulously, “you cannot seriously be—“

“Miko, my lawyer,” Ei replies, “Kunikuzushi, please head to my room and refrain from coming out. I will handle this.”

He doesn’t know why, but through all of the crazy, ludicrous stuff that's happening right now, the thing that does him in is the fact that Ei has a personal lawyer. When had she gotten one? It’s the stupidest detail, the tiniest, possibly most inconsequential thing in all of this, and it's the one that finally pushes him over the edge.

“Ei,” Miko said forcefully, uncrossing her arms and tailing after Ei, who crossed the room in a few elegant strides. “You— you are going to take the fall for the boy—“

“Yes,” Ei replies, “I am. They will not arrest me, this much, I am sure of.”

“Your status, your reputation—“

“Miko,” Ei interrupts, and in her voice is a hint of a smile, “don’t you think it’s about time I began to prioritize my son over sales?”

Miko straightens, but she doesn’t go on any further. She might be Ei’s advisor, but in the end the final say does go to Ei. 

And Scaramouche…  doesn’t know what to say.

He’s, maybe, once, ever— rendered entirely speechless. But for the first time in ever, he doesn’t find anger in his mix of emotions. Only confusion, panic, relief— his words are shaking, his breathing heavy. Scaramouche pauses, finding violet eyes across a molten sea.

He straightens his posture and pretends to be braver than he feels. There are too many things still separating them– not just the dining room chairs, but the waves of crashing and wilting hurt– but therein blooms a feeling. It lingers, in between the space between his beating heart and his ribs, sitting in the hollow where his rage used to be.

When Ei’s eyes darted to him, he made a conscious effort to speak. 

“Why—“ Scaramouche started to speak and then faltered. His eyes darted to her, and then he continued in a much smaller voice: “why are you…”

Ei looks at him. There’s something in her gaze as they look at each other, mother and son, something that makes Scaramouche realize there is nothing he can do to stop her. And while he’s not sure what it is, it’s the first time he has ever been able to understand what she is thinking. 

“Earlier, you said you don’t think I care,” Ei said finally, “I disagree. And I intend to prove it.”

“What?” Scaramouche snaps, stumbling forward, “you’re— you’re doing this to prove a point? Are you crazy?”

“No,” Ei said softly, “I am doing this to protect you.”

Scaramouche snarls and he doesn’t allow his voice to waver; he has given too much away already. “I don’t need protection.” 

Ei’s gaze is piercing. “You are my son. You have always needed protecting to me. Even when… you were not here in body, when I wrongfully assumed you were gone in pursuit of freedom, I felt a nagging presence to protect you. I did not know then, but there is a name for that. Would you like to know what it is?”

Scaramouche stares at her. He swallows the lump in his throat, scorching heat behind his eyes and feeling small and horribly terrified of the answer. There is a fire that has been raging inside his chest for so long, and as time went on, he chose to believe there were fewer and fewer people who could put it out. 

“Motherhood,” She says simply, “that is called motherhood.”

Motherhood. What a small word for a big thing. 

And how cruel of her to use it in such a way, too, Scaramouche damns, and refuses to think if it was cruelty, or just the simple truth. 

It was raining outside again. Scaramouche was intimately familiar with those raindrops; he could hear them pounding against the roof of the home and seeping through the unpatched cracks. But the feeling in his chest was something unrelated and isolated. 

Scaramouche does not think he will ever forget that. Or this, for as long as he lives. And perhaps sometime after that, too. 

He wanted another chance, did he not? And his mother is the one to give it to him. How ironic. It’s so ironic, in fact, that Scaramouche starts crying again. 

…Actually, that’s probably not why.

Scaramouche does not think he can survive this. If he is lucky, perhaps he will die and be born anew. 

But he is not so lucky. And life has never been kind to him. And here Scaramouche is, damnably doomed by the gods and whatever else is laughing at him from the beyond. Who is laughing? Who isn’t? 

Scaramouche isn’t. He is crying. And he is still alive. 

It feels bittersweet to admit he wants Ei’s embrace, Kazuha’s love, another shot — he has spent so long living as though he should have died alongside Niwa, living and loving with a heart that did not beat but still, strangely, ached. He struggled to accept he was alive. 

But he is. 

He lived as though time had already made a ruinous path through the future and he trudged his way through it. This is his second chance. And his mother is giving it to him, and in return, he will give her one too. Recovery isn’t linear, he has learned, and he thinks he will continue to learn so. 

Ei steps forward again, hesitant in her movements— Scaramouche thinks, with a healthy amount of internalized disgust, she might be trying to… hug him. 

He wants it badly, and he doesn’t want to want it. He steps back on impulse, shuddering away from her arms. He picks at his fingernails. 

“Kunikuzushi,” Ei continues on, and it is cruel of her to do so, “You are loved more than you know. If it is needed, I hereby pledge all of my days to prove it so.”

Scaramouche has held it together through a lot. Through a tragedy, through an after-math, and through a prologue. But he does not hold it together now. He does not think he can. 

But he does not run. 

A chance. This is his second chance— and he’s going to get better. No matter how long it takes. Baby steps.

You can’t come in from a rainstorm and immediately expect to be dry and warm and comfortable. But you can do the little things, like take off your wet clothing, your rain boots, your wet coat, dry your hair. One small thing at a time until you’re completely dry. 

Healing starts with a choice. And it’s one he will make. He can start to accept what cannot and will not change. 

He is no longer 16 years old. He is not helpless. 

Scaramouche curls into Ei’s hold. She seems awkward, but her arms are no less warm. Miko watches from the shadows, on the phone with Ei’s personal lawyer. How interesting a pair they make, Kunikuzushi and Ei. 

This isn’t forgiveness, Scaramouche thinks, as he curls his fingers into Ei’s clothing. There would be no great speeches. Just Scaramouche staring at the small, embroidered stitches On Ei’s clothing through a blur of tears. 

Miko watches on from the edges of the shadows, an unreadable expression on her face. A stranger, only familiar from brief, inconsequential meetings that were scattered few and far in between. Unreliable little things.

Ei extends an arm to Miko as if she was inviting her into the hug. After all, this would not be possible had it not been for Miko’s guidance behind the curtain. Still, she refuses. 

“Miko,” Ei reprimands, “You won’t reconcile with him?”

“Reconcile?” Miko smiled, amusement coiling in her eyes, “heavens, Ei. This is far from reconciliation.”

There is something… bitter about the way she says it. It's not exactly bitterness in full, though. Her voice is flat, but there is also...something more. Sadness? Wistfulness? Something that is both soft and hard to discern, and just as elusive.

The silence stretches too long before Ei asks, “What do you suppose this is, then?”

Miko’s answer is a barest shrug. “Who could say? Certainly not I. But if I were to take a guess…” her eyes flicker to Scaramouche, “perhaps I would call it a truce.”

A truce. It does not sound so bad to Scaramouche– or perhaps just not as terrible as it did before. A truce at the hands of whatever divine deity took pity on him and offered him reprieve from this.

No. No, perhaps it was no deity, or fate, or the goddess Hestia intervening, or whomever was in charge of such things– the things Kazuha would spin into poetry using a spinning wheel's spindle. 

No, it was a coincidence. It seemed like a crazy reach, for coincidence to have brought Scaramouche something like this. But entire livelihoods have been built on less, so why should this be different? Who is going to find an explanation in the people who mark their years in deaths and rebirths? 

Certainly not Scaramouche Raiden. Whatever this is, it is something wholly his alone. 

Once upon a time is a double edged sword. 

“That’s a terrible opener,” Heizou snickers, and his face is horribly close to Venti’s computer. They all crowd closer, and closer yet to each other on the small space between the couch and the flat table. The lights dim, and nothing can be more romantic, but not one person in this room is worth kissing. 

“Is not, ” Venti grumbles, affronted, “Kazuha thinks it’s good! Don’t you? Tell him, Kazuha!”

“You needn’t bother,” Xiao replies, “he didn’t even hear it in the first place.”

It is a new day. Kazuha blinks at the opening, trying to piece together once upon a times and endings and epilogues and such things that gather at his feet, expectant and marveling. He reads Venti’s words of sure-footed angels and faraway lands and moons that don’t rise, and thinks Venti would do good to be a poet. 

“No, it’s good,” Kazuha replies amicably, “Ignore Heizou. Poetry is not a skill for everyone.”

Kazuha and his friends are crowded on the floor, and it’s only been a bit since Kazuha returned home. He’s sleeping off the journey in increments, so he’s not exactly sure how long it’s been. 

Venti snarks something, but Kazuha doesn’t hear it. It’s been a few days since he returned home, and with it, it’s been a few days since he last heard from Scaramouche.

His last point of contact? A measly, poorly spelled message sent through his apple watch to Venti’s half-shattered phone in the middle of a movie session. 

I’m getting arrested. 

And that was it: nothing beyond it. It was much more practical than other messages he had sent before, but it was the one that worried the most. 

“No word from Scara, yet?” Kazuha tries to seem nonchalant, and he hopes he does not come off too eager for an answer. 

Venti exchanges a look with Aether, and Kazuha gets the impression perhaps he did not do such a good job. “Um… no. Heh.”

Aether leans back, Venti’s project abandoned once more in the wake of conversation. Light filters through the blinds, catching on the edge pieces of vases and chairs and scattering rainbows over unassuming furniture. 

“I just don’t understand,” Aether replies quietly, “What could he have done? Tax fraud?”

“Murder, probably.”

“Very funny,” Heizou rolls his shoulders, and he yawns weakly as he stretches his limbs all over his friends, “I know we joke a lot about… you know,” he gives a pointed look, “Scara… murdering people, but can we get serious? He probably didn’t actually kill anyone. 

“Right,” Aether nods seriously, “and you reached this conclusion from meeting the guy, like, twice?”

“What, you think he actually killed someone, then?”

“I didn’t say that,” Aether says quickly, when Kazuha looks at him for the answer.

Kazuha sighs quietly, turning his attention back to the English project. His feet ache from the rigorous practice Childe has been putting the team through ever since he came home. If he wasn’t skating, he was dreaming of chasing fluttering pieces of prose and dripping jasmine-colored skies. 

The wind blows in through the window, and Kazuha lets himself relax in the warm, honey-glazed winds. Lush, golden drops of sun fall on the window-sill, and the quiet still-ness is evermore more beautiful. 

The group delves back into mildly uncomfortable silence as Venti picks his laptop back up, trying to find a way to tie his hook into his essay. 

“Guys,” he says gloomily, backspacing rapidly. “I think I’m just gonna quit nursing.”

“More power to you,” Aether shrugs. He reaches for the remote, surfing through whatever shows were on. 

“Scara said I probably shouldn’t, though,” Venti scrunches his nose. “And if I quit, it would just be him left. I’m his support system!”

“This isn’t about Scara,” Heizou says boredly, “he isn’t worth it.”

“He kind of is. He has my car keys.” 

Xiao, who previously held very little care for the conversation, blinks at Venti. “Why does he have your car keys?” 

“He has mine, too.” Heizou replies.

Kazuha remembers something, suddenly. Scaramouche had been driving a car when they first met; it had been hard to remember that detail under the winter dreariness, “I think he has Childe’s, as well.”

The room delves into silence. Heizou, Kazuha and Venti stare at each other in a sort of pseudo-understanding, in which Aether mutters under his breath: “Why does this guy keep stealing cars?” 

Kazuha suddenly realizes he had absolutely no idea if Scaramouche owns a car. Does he even have a license? He seems more likely to be driving an S.S Cordelia, bound for Scotland, than a Honda or something. It would be a little funny if Scaramouche was going around driving people’s cars without a license at all.

“I think he may have my hockey jacket as well,” Kazuha hums, turning his head back to look at his friends.

“No way, man,” Heizou scoffs, “he called that thing ugly, like, 40 times in one hour. Why would he keep it?”

“Well, that means he liked it,” Venti nods seriously.

“No,” Kazuha laughs, “it means he thinks it’s ugly. If he liked it, I believe he would have called it average. He just kept it because it was mine.”

“Can we talk about something other than Scaramouche for five minutes?” Aether groans, covering his face with one hand, “If I didn’t know any better, I would say you guys are more in love with him than Kazuha is. Can we get some food, please?”

“I can make something,” Kazuha offers warmly. He gets up, tossing the comforter aside and sacrificing the warmth of it. “Any preferences?”

Xiao shakes his head, and Kazuha nods, making his way over to the kitchen. It’s a small, homely thing with a single, yellowing light paint-chipped walls. The roof above the stove was bruised black and blue from the constant smoke, and the marble counters were wearing thin. 

The fridge, thankfully, had a garden of ingredients from him to pick from. The light from the fridge falls onto the fruits and vegetables like powdered gold, and Kazuha hums quietly to himself as he pulls shrimp, beef and chicken from the freezer, piling the meat into a small bowl to make the filling for his gyoza. A bit of parsley and rice joins the others in the ceramic. 

Venti’s phone is near the bowl, so he places it delicately on top of the air-fryer. Ah, air fryers. The saving grace of every college student. Most of them were broke, and so they relied on tiny, small things to get them through each day. Air fryers, public laundry, and the campus bus. If they were lucky, a friend was able to drive them to class. Those friends were few and far in between since on-campus parking passes cost almost more than rent did.

Kazuha was lucky enough to bring his car with him when he moved from Wisconsin, and luckier enough to have received his car as a gift. He shared rent with his roommate, and he picked up his studies from wherever he left off in Wisconsin by transferring his credits. 

His stomach cramps, and he pushes his sleeves up to continue cutting the meat into thin slices properly. He’s gotten fairly used to dealing with withdrawal symptoms. It never really makes it easier, though. But he gets by, because dwelling on them will do him no good.

Venti’s phone buzzes, and Kazuha looks away from it out of respect for his friend’s privacy. After the filling is made, he lays out a small wonton wrapper in the palm of his hand, ready to start the mundane and quietly fulfilling process of placing the filling into it. The window in the kitchen is open, exposing the small warm wind and allowing it to bring in the sweet sky, awash with peach, apricot, white puffs of cream clouds. 

He loves the small, gentle moments– moments when he can be alone with himself, as long as he knows that there are still others who are also waiting for him. Recently, though, he found himself more and more drawn to that feeling of companionship that Scaramouche provided–

Venti’s phone buzzes again. And again. And again, until Kazuha can really ignore it no more. 

He leans back, wonton wrapper still in his dominant hand, trying to get a look at the phone. His view is blocked by the small bowl of goat cheese, aged brie and a small pot of strawberry jam. He knocks the phone towards him slightly, just as a call comes through, and Kazuha is frozen solid for a second.

“Who is it?” Venti calls from the living room. He must’ve heard the ringing of his phone. 

It takes Kazuha a second to speak, “Scaramouche,” he answers finally. 

“What?" Venti splutters, “Answer it!”

Venti tumbles out of the comforter, and Kazuha snatches the phone to bring to him. As much as he wanted to answer it, it was still Venti’s phone. Scaramouche was calling. No– he was facetiming him. Apprehensive and relieved beyond belief, he answers it. In a few seconds as the call connects overseas, Scaramouche comes into the picture.

Oh, He looked ethereal. There really was no other way to describe him. 

Within a backdrop of a silver and pearl walls, he looked like september– and it’s odd, looking like a month, he knows– but there’s no other way to describe it, the way his hair looked like ripened blackberries, glossy like thickened wine, looking like regrets and imprecise, simple grief. Oh, the witchery of deep set eyes, ruby lips and dimpled cheeks, Kazuha thinks– his downfall of being devastatingly romantic. 

He looked every bit of of the cold divinity he held, a sweet reverie of remembrances, september air and moon dust woven in thirds in the wind, vitality and veracity. If Scaramouche carried medusa’s curse, he would stare at those watercolor eyes so his body could gaze at such perfection for all eternity–

“I want your last name.” Scaramouche blurts.

– Kazuha nearly drops the phone.

Venti shouts, and Heizou and Aether scramble to catch it. His phone stays in Kazuha’s grip, though and there’s just nothing in his head that can properly express what his thoughts are saying.

“Pardon?” Kazuha croaks.

“Seriously,” Aether mutters, “What happened to saying hello? Like normal people?”

If Aether could hear Kazuha’s thoughts one second ago, he would doubt that Kazuha would be painted as the normal one in this duo.

Scaramouche ignores Aether, instead he seems almost relieved to see Kazuha instead of Venti, and he keeps his autumn-raw eyes on Kazuha alone. His head is folded on his arms, and he seems to be in his room, on his desk. “Go out with me.”

Kazuha seriously might not survive if Scaramouche keeps talking. 

“What’s the matter?” Scaramouche says impatiently, scoffing, “Weren’t you all up in my business about having a crush on me? You weren’t lying, were you?”

A crush. It seemed too small a word. But Kazuha wasn’t about to say that out loud with all his friends here.

“Of course I wasn’t,” Kazuha’s eyes, flat and dark, bore into Scaramouche, “but this is very sudden.”

“Yeah!” Venti angles the phone toward him instead, “What’s this about you getting arrested? Dude, you can’t just text me something like that and then go MIA for the next two days.”

“Sorry,” Scaramouche says flatly, without a single drop of sorry-ness being present in his voice, “Things happened. Some of which are of too much caliber for your insect-sized brain to comprehend. I got arrested.”

“We got that part.”

Scaramouche suddenly looks very interested in the ceiling. It dawns on Kazuha that Scaramouche doesn’t know anyone here very well besides Venti, and maybe talking about this in the open with the jasmine blowing in from the window isn’t the best situation for him.

“Please excuse me,” Kazuha says lightly, and he takes the phone from its place on the table. Venti and Heizou groan, but they don’t fight the decision. As Kazuha leaves the room with the phone, he can hear Venti question with no real heat: “He called me, though…? Why does Kazuha get to question him?”

But as soon as Kazuha is alone, Scaramouche’s eyes fall back onto him. 

“Are you okay?” Kazuha asks quietly. The more he hones in on Scaramouche, he can see the barest bruise on his cheek, scratches on his arms. His fingertips are dipped in pink. 

“Yeah,” Scaramouche says, “Yeah, I am. It’s midnight for me here, so I’m just… a little tired.”

Kazuha’s brows furrowed. “Should you really be up so long?” Chivalrous concern, as always.

“It’s fine, Kazuha,” Scaramouche dismisses, “I know I promised I would call twice a day, but I… some things happened. So I’m taking what I want now.”

“And what it is that you want?” Kazuha questions, lightly amused.

“You,” Scaramouche replies, “Look, desire is disgusting. It used to be, for me. And anything that said otherwise was desire itself speaking. I don’t think I’ve ever confessed to someone like this. But desire punched me in the stomach and demanded to spit it out, so I am. Just listen, okay?”

“Nothing good sits around and soaks in your unsaid words,” Scaramouche continues, looking off in the distance, “You said that once. When you were crafting bad poetry.”

“That is uncalled for,” Kazuha smiles, but he doesn't interrupt him.

“I know,” Scaramouche looks back at him, “but you called, and you call me lover and darling and you do it at the times that you should be sleeping. I hate being called darling. I think it’s ugly and condescending. But I like when you do and I don’t like that I like when you do. I thought something was breaking, and now I’m at the edge, confessing. I love you. I love you so much I started fighting with this dumb Not-Kazuha voice in my head when I was doing something morally questionable.”

Kazuha’s eyebrows knit together. “What?”

Scaramouche ignores him, rambling on bluntly. “And I’m maybe never going to be morally good because being morally right goes against my entire brand. And I’m blunt. And bored easily, and kind of lazy, and I just got arrested. And I love you.”

The call descends into silence, and it’s quiet between them two before it’s broken by Kazuha’s warm laughter. 

He laughs at the expression on Scaramouche’s face. It was painfully clear that talking about his feelings was not his strong suit. But still the world holds its breath, reduced to echoes of footfalls on the wooden floor.

“I’m not sure,” Kazuha smiles, an amused twinkle in his eye, “I may need some time to consider this.”

Scaramouche throws him a withering glare, “Kazuha.”

Kazuha laughs again, and the sound is soft and warm to Scaramouche. Kazuha didn’t need such a speech from Scaramouche– if all he had done was text him a simple let’s go out, he would have taken it. Perhaps he didn’t even need something such as that– if Scaramouche had said nothing and simply entwined their fingers, Kazuha would have accepted it. Although…

“What about your mother?” Kazuha asks. 

“Oh,” Scaramouche blinks, “There’s a lot. You remember when we called a few days ago? I was going to ask you about these weird things I found in the back of the closet. A bunch of tally marks. I was going to ask what they might be, but she said she made them.”

“She made them?” Kazuha blinks, “what for?”

“She was counting every day I was gone,” Scaramouche admits raspily, “You don’t understand, Kazuha. There were so many. She knew I was gone the whole time. She just… she didn’t say anything because she thought I ran away because I was chasing freedom.”

“She was missing when you arrived home, was she not?” Kazuha reminds gently, “and what of that? I did not peg you the type to let these things go so easily.” 

“Shut it,” Scaramouche replies with no real heat, “She was talking with Miko, apparently. She wanted to be… a better mother. For when I came home.”

The call lapses into silence. They both sit there in quiet, auroral silence. The silence, Kazuha thinks, is essential for the sinless melancholy Scaramouche seems to be in. He gives Scaramouche time to collect his thoughts again. 

“Is that it, then?” Kazuha asks softly.

“I don’t know,” Scaramouche replies quietly, “I don’t know a lot of things right now. But I am sure of one thing, and it’s that I want to be with you. So have me, and I’ll have you, and we can figure it out from there.”

Kazuha bites back a smile, “and you called me the romantic one. I suppose you did have a sweet mouth on you all along. I wish I had recorded that.”

“Be quiet,” Scaramouche hisses, “I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, so watch what you say to me right now. And I promise I’ll explain the whole… arrested thing when I see you.”

Kazuha sighs, “I’m afraid I still can't wrap my head around it. You had me worried.”

“You and everybody else,” Scaramouche wrinkles his nose, “But don’t worry, I didn't kill anyone,” he says, and then he pauses, “But I guess it was a rather close thing.” 

“Pardon?” 

“Tomorrow,” Scaramouche crosses his arms, “It’s hard to explain over call.”

Tomorrow. How fast did the break go by? It almost doesn’t feel fathomable. Purgatory, paradise, and whatever else hid in the bewildered, Kazuha thinks, he will smile upon. Velvet bones and all of the fairy-tale thoughts Kazuha had reawaken at the idea of seeing Scaramouche again.

“There,” Kazuha hums, attracting Scaramouche’s attention back to him, “See, you survived the break.”

“Hardly,” Scaramouche mutters, “you just wait until I come out of my room. Miko is going to kill me because she found the packed suitcase in my room and now she found out I was planning on leaving forever.”

“Was?”

“Like I said,” Scaramouche crosses his arms, pointedly looking away, “I don’t know anymore. What about you? Isn’t your big game tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Kazuha nods, “Childe’s been rather rigorous in our training as of now. You’ll be attending?”

“Yeah,” Scaramouche relents roughly, “I might be a little late, but I’ll be there.”

Kazuha smiles softly, “Even if you don’t like adrenaline?”

Scaramouche flushes, a blush creeping up on his face. “Yeah,” he mumbles, “even if I don’t like adrenaline.”

“You should apologize to Childe, too,” Kazuha replies, “he’s been in a mood as of recent. Perhaps that’s why he’s been rather rough during our practice sessions.”

“I had nothing to do with that.” Scaramouche deflects.

“Scara.”

“He started it,” Scaramouche mutters darkly. “fine. I’ll consider it. Maybe. I still find it hard to believe you aren’t nervous for the game.”

“It is a big game,” Kazuha admits, letting the subject go. “I’m sure I’ll feel the anxiety tomorrow.”

“That’s right,” Scaramouche days off-handedly, as if he was remembering something, “if you win, you’ll be done with school, right? That’s what Childe said. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was lying.”

“He wasn’t lying,” Kazuha replies, amused. 

“And if you lose, your awards ceremony preparation would have been for nothing?” Scaramouche asks.

“Yes.”

“You guys better win, then,” Scaramouche replies, “because I’ve already talked too much shit to the Kettering university hockey team. Don’t embarrass me.”

Kazuha’s gaze is warm, and he can feel himself relax into that pinnacle of ease, “of course. If you’re counting on me, then I suppose I can’t afford to lose.”

“Good,” Scaramouche replies, “now check this out.”

Kazuha watches as Scaramouche starts doing some totally stupid thing where he introduces some love potion he accidentally stole from a shop down the street. 

They stay on call for a while, almost the whole night— even after Venti, Heizou and Xiao leave and Aether sleeps over on the couch, talking about the most inconsequential things. His stomach still hurts, but it’s not as bad now, or maybe he can just ignore it better. 

Kazuha shows him the bruises on his knees, and the worn torn leather of his skates, and Scaramouche sneers and says his are much worse. He shows Kazuha the cuts on his lip and the fading black eye, and sulkily he tells Kazuha about what led to his arrest. 

Apparently, he was almost put on house arrest, he says, but it would impede his flight home tomorrow and his mother was able to find a workaround. And he complains about not being able to find a local clinic to volunteer in, their loss, he says. 

They talk and they talk and they don’t stop for a long time. During the moments where they aren’t talking, Kazuha thinks back to Venti’s opener. Once upon a time. It can mean a lot of things, depending on what you choose to do with it. 

Sometimes, a person can choose to be a writer, rather than the story. You can choose to create a world in which certain things are left behind, but in exchange, you are someone who has not yet learned to care what is forgotten or remembered. 

Kazuha has never wanted to be the writer. And if he must be, then he would not like to be a cruel one. 

He would move his pen across pages hoping that of which he writes rings true. And if his words get muddled across the way, then it would be alright, since in the end, he is moving the pen. The pen would still be moving. 

Being the writer is a cruel fate. Your heartbeat alone would leave scars that people can’t remove just yet, and you leave words in their veins and things much worse than what he could conjure in his head by himself. 

He knew a writer like that, once. This writer struggled to write, sometimes— their words would get trapped in his coffin of a heart, but he had told Kazuha that as long as the pen moves, the words will be loud enough that their screams could shatter the glass coffin of a heart, made of fire and stars and ink. 

“Can you dance?” Kazuha’s father had asked him once.

Kazuha did not know then, and still he didn’t. Perhaps he was the kind to be good at dancing. Perhaps he was the kind that was chained to the floor. 

And that was okay, too. And it was okay if he wasn’t the story, or the writer— and this is what he told himself as he began down a rough journey of self improvement and rehab. He had never needed to have a story of his own. Whatever stories that man’s glass coffin heard, he would stay content to listen to.

And then slowly, he would learn to forget there were chains holding him down, and he would dance. Or maybe it was the opposite— he would learn to dance to the music of words. That would be enough, he had thought, to learn to move would be enough. 

But maybe, he thinks, nobody who is chained to the floor could love like him. The only difference would be that he knows where his chains trap him, and the writer does not know his shackles at all. 

And even Scaramouche— who tried to convince Kazuha to shackle himself to something that would not scream back at him, only to in the end find that Kazuha was the kind that would scream back louder.

That was something new, he thinks— unknowable, the lot of them, but no less scarred by whomever his writer was. If there even was one. Maybe he was the writer all along, and he was one that didn’t have a thing for screaming. 

And maybe he doesn’t know what lay ahead of him: unlike Scaramouche, who found closure, Kazuha is tethered to go on without getting any closure— but to live on because it’s what he wants to do, Tomo and morphine and bad nights and worse days be damned— he wants to live on, so he will. So he does.

And maybe that might backfire on him. Maybe one day whomever is writing his story will leave tapestries of scars on him in the shape of stories and tears. Maybe one day he’ll found out how to remove them, and he’ll live on, and he’ll leave the heart coffin of blood and flesh and glass behind.

But until then? Kazuha thinks, staring at Scaramouche, who is rambling on about something— perhaps he’ll try to learn how to dance.

He’s heard it’s fun. 

Chapter Text

Rubatosis is the word used for the unsettling awareness of your own heartbeat.

“That’s a dumb word,” Scaramouche had muttered, and with numb fingers, he had crossed out something in his notebook.

It had been October, perhaps teetering on the borderline edge of November. He was wrapped in a heavy knitted scarf, piled with layers on top of layers and still he was freezing. He really was not built for temperatures that could easily refrigerate ice cream. In fact, if he squinted at his fingers, he could probably bypass the limitations of the human mind and see the frostbite before it even formed.

He was bundled up in the corner of the bleachers again, the place he found himself most often nowadays. His laptop was open, dead and thrown aside by his feet. It was nearing its edge anyway at that time, and it really could bail on Scaramouche at any given moment.

He looks back down down at his list of words. Monachopsis. Chrysalisam. Ellipsism. Lachesism. None seemed good enough for a proper opening to his essay. He had briefly considered énouement, but he didn’t really want his essay to start off with— god forbid, french.

“What’s dumb?” A voice asks.

“French,” Scaramouche replies, without really thinking about it.

Scaramouche had looked up, then. Childe was hovering over his shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of his work. His skates were clunky and covered in ice shavings from the rink. His eyes dart to the main ice, in which he can see Northwood’s hockey team still out and about.

A few wave to him when they see him looking over, but he doesn’t think any of them deserve one back from him, so he keeps his hands shoved still into his pockets and clinging onto the warmth.

“You’re not going to wave back?” one of them shouts, and Scaramouche makes sure to keep his face very still.

These people really oughta learn that puppy-eyes only work on the weak-willed, and Scaramouche was probably crafted from the finest stones on planet earth and then some. In fact, he probably has rocks from Mars in his bloodstream.

“Leave him be,” One of them had calmly interjected, diffusing the tension– but it didn’t matter to Scaramouche whether or not they knew that Scaramouche did not regard them as friends.

“That one’s Kazuha,” Childe had pointed out, “and that’s Kaeya over there—“

“And I should care, why?” Scaramouche asks impatiently. The paper scrunches under his hand, and he takes slight care to unclench his reddened fist.

“You should,” Childe sighs, “If you don’t learn their names, how would you make a friend or two? Besides me, of course.”

Ah, right. This was fresh within Childe and Scaramouche's tentative friendship, and perhaps Childe had yet to learn Scaramouche was the most displeasurable person to be around.

He was still parading him around to his hockey team, making him diffuse tensions over fouls or introducing him with the most revolting lines. Scaramouche let it happen, just because once Childe is set on something, it takes too much energy for Scaramouche to bother stopping him.

Maybe if it had happened at any other time, Scaramouche might have made much more of an effort to cut off Childe from his life. But Childe had come in at just the right time, or technically the worst time- whichever time it may have been, to befriend Scaramouche. He struggled to even get out of bed, much less shoo Childe off, so he conveyed his displeasure through silent glares and a lot of scoffing.

But it wasn’t all bad. He supposes it’s not too terrible to have someone be there for him now that Mona couldn’t be. Mona had already put her name down as one of the leasing tenants under Fischl’s dorm, (a decision that Scaramouche hadn’t minded, really), and Scaramouche had already renewed his lease.

“I’ll try to get out of it,” Mona had said desperately, “Fischl won’t mind, she’s all talk, really, but–”

“Don’t bother,” Scaramouche had cut off blandly.

“I’m sorry,” Mona tried again, her heels clacking against the puke-white concrete of the college campus. The glitter falls off with the impact and decorates the floor instead. “If I had known this would happen, I wouldn’t have–”

“Don’t bother apologizing. I’m not mad,” Scaramouche replied, “It’s not like you knew this would happen.”

“I know,” She said, “but you need someone right now. You just went through something– something…”

“Don’t,” Scaramouche replied sharply, and Mona had fallen quiet at his tone, “I’m fine. It’ll be fine. I don’t need you to worry about me.”

But she had worried, since it had been Mona’s suggestion to let Childe move in with him. She had known that emotional appeals wouldn’t have convinced him, so she had brought up how much easier it’d be to split the rent with someone. Scaramouche– still too tired to argue, had just resigned himself.

In the end, maybe it hadn’t been too bad of a decision. They got into arguments a lot, but it was worth its weight in gold sometimes.

“Don’t make me laugh,” Scaramouche exhales, turning away from Childe. “I didn’t come here to make friends.”

“What am I, then?”

A very unfortunate side-effect, Scaramouche thinks, but he doesn’t bother saying it. Instead, he turns his prized attention back to the small note-pad on his lap again, feeling entirely unimpressed with his progress.

Childe’s eyes follow his to the small, yellowed paper. Scaramouche can see his eyebrows furrow in a display of confusion. Scaramouche tilts the paper away from Childe’s prying eyes, but he seriously doubts Childe could even understand half the words he had written.

Actually, the more he looks at his paper, the more he realizes he doesn’t even remember what half of these words mean.

“You’re working?” Childe mumbles, “But it’s the break. You aren’t going to see your family?”

Did Scaramouche mention they had just met? And rarely did Scaramouche delve into information about himself. He preferred to narrow his eyes on people below him and offer some answers if the question was interesting enough.

“You’re still working,” Scaramouche replies disinterestedly, motioning to the rink that was currently being used for practices. A chill goes up his spine again at the cold, “A bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”

“Well, yeah,” Childe pauses, “but that’s different. I already have plans to go to Russia next saturday. I’ll say hi to Tonia, Teucer and Anthon for you.”

“Don’t bother. You’re giving the team a break?”

“Yeah,” Childe replies, proud, “we’ve been doing really well.”

Yeah, really well at being bad.

Or maybe they were just so good that practice amidst the team was unbalanced on one side. The hockey team is not Northwood’s pride, but they aren’t really an embarrassment. They’re mostly known for their scathing rivalry with Kettering University, which made their games fun to attend. Or so he’s heard.

But they totally need it, Scaramouche had thought. His eyes fall onto certain players in disdain. Childe had been working them to the bone, after all. Tensions were running high and Scaramouche had been breaking up too many fights than normal.

It might have something to do with this big game or whatever that was coming in the following months, but Scaramouche truly didn't have a clue about any of that.

Whatever, he supposed. It was less work for him, meaning he could enjoy his peace at the rink without playing mock referee for a team of man children. And since the rink would be empty, maybe they would raise the damn temperature in here.

“So?” Childe urges, running a hand through his hair. “Are you not going home?”

“No.”

“Oh,” Childe says, “Do you—“

“No,” Scaramouche replies, with an air of finality. His tone seems to put an end to the conversation.

“You didn’t even let me finish,” Childe crosses his arms.

“l don’t need to,” Scaramouche rasps coolly. He’s heard the same question from a million people before. Do you not have a good relationship with your family?

It was less of a bad relationship and more of a nonexistent relationship, but Scaramouche wouldn’t say that. Rather, he would bite his tongue and give a sickly sweet smile. Or if he didn’t need anything, he’d not bother himself with giving a reply at all.

A horrid thought jumps through him. Maybe he does consider Childe his friend. Oh, god.

“Okay,” Childe frowns, and he takes an interest in the small, tiny fountain pen in his hand and the ink-splattered pages. Scaramouche turns the notebook away. “what are you working on?”

Scaramouche looks down at his homework. He has no idea.

The color of his notebook indicates it’s for sociology, but Scaramouche honestly has no clue what it’s for. There’s a chart, a few ideas bounced back and forth and certain things crossed out and others circled and elaborated on using arrows and bullet points. But beyond that, he draws a blank.

His thesis, right? Something to start his personal essay off with. He wanted to begin with defining a word and then tying in his word and then blah blah blah, so on. That was what he was doing, right?

He looks down at the list of words. Scaramouche opens his mouth, and no word comes out. Not one. Just his own silent breathing and the disgusting feeling of hearing his own heart beat. It’s going weirdly quick. Is it meant to be like that? Surely not, he thinks. Perhaps the next time he has a shift at Michigan Reed he’ll ask for a check-up on his heart.

Rubatosis. It’s still a ugly word, Scaramouche thinks. The letter B never looks good in any word.

“Scara?” Childe tries to get his attention, and Scaramouche had only stared at him for a moment longer.

His mouth had suddenly tasted very sour. He never did like talking about his family, or his plans, or the fact that they will always be hidden in his own actions like pesky termites. He also did not really like thinking about his heart. He does not like thinking about a lot of things.

He suddenly feels extremely nauseous.

“Scara? Hello? Comrade?” Childe asks, his brow furrowed, “Was it something I said? Are you okay? Do I need to call an uber?”

“No,” Scaramouche manages, “I’m fine. Leave it.”

“Did I say something I shouldn’t have?”

“Yes,” Scaramouche says plainly, even though there’s really no way for Childe to have known that. He looks down at his poor notebook again, and he crosses a few more things out.

Childe did not speak for the remainder of that day, and Scaramouche was made of stone.

When he was young, he distinctly remembers a tapestry at the end of the hall, woven with threads imported from some foreign country. 

Threads of what? Scaramouche has no idea. He’s sure Kazuha could come up with something that sounds beautiful at the end of that sentence. For him, though, it was just a rather ugly tapestry that resided at the end of a small hallway. Underneath it was a small wooden stool with a vase of Marigolds. The edge of the ceramic would always cast an unsettling gleam of paranoia onto the off-white tiles.

It was just so awful, with mis-matched colors and tassels that grazed the floor. Surely no adult with a brain would have bought something so… horrendous.

Scaramouche first thought it must have been something he made. You know, how kids sit in their rooms and patch together art and small crafts using outdated PVA glue, or draw family portraits with a sun in the corner and their family holding hands. And these fixtures would find a place on shelves or on the fridge, supported by magnets.

But his home had no such things. He doubted even he would be able to create such a tapestry. But the Marigolds in the vase, those he picked.

Scaramouche– no, at that time, he was not Scaramouche. He was not even Kunikuzushi, or Kabukimono. He was someone else entirely. In all its entirety, he was just a boy.

A boy walking through the halls, cleaning the tables, trying to find a recipe in the cookbook that used wording he knew, all that stuff. But you know that already.

Those days were the hardest, Scaramouche thought. Ghosts sleeping in his mother’s bed, ghosts tending the gardens, ghosts fixing the fixed bulbs, ghosts tussling that tapestry. Ghosts, ghosts, ghosts.

Ghosts raised him silently, quiet on-lookers like an audience in a show. Planting a seed and watching it bloom— resilient, small, tugging onto the small spills of sunshine it saw. A fighting survivor, growing more and more stable in every step, every cracked it folded into.

A boy made of stone, and his tapestry at the end of the hall. 

When he went back, he saw that dosser once again, hanging lumpy and hugging the wall with rigor. It didn’t nearly look as bad it did before. It also looked a little like… well, him. 

Threads hung loose and untied, ones of sorrow  woven alongside ones of glee. Slightly abstract, painted with hues of green and red and black and blue and every color in between. 

Scaramouche had stared at it quietly. Of course, he could have just been trying to make something out of nothing. He isn’t particularly nuanced in the healing department. He’s usually better at the I’m going to ruin my life on purpose to punish myself part.

And once that arras was finished weaving itself, like an kid’s art piece that’s done and dried, forged with PVA glue and messy hands and held up with fridge magnets, it’s simply time to move on.

But you’ll still pass that art on the fridge every time you walk into the kitchen. He’s sure there’s a metaphor in there somewhere, a proper analogy rather than this horribly convoluted one he’s thinking of.

And now— past the tapestry and the marigolds and the blood and whatever else is tainted by him, he stays there, silently, willow in his stance and drinking sunshine as it falls upon him. He feels light, yet composed. For once, the inner turmoil is quieted significantly.

It no longer feels like he’s carrying Niwa’s dead body with him wherever he goes. Maybe it just feels like Niwa is just watching over his shoulder, still there. But he is no longer being crushed by the guilt and the weight of it.

What is being crushed, though, is quite possibly the Japanese candy he packed for Childe.

His luggage lies like a deadweight, between Ei and Scaramouche. Miko is nowhere to be found, but Scaramouche isn’t too surprised about that. 

Unsure of where to look, he stares at the small blue ribbon indicator on his bags. The violet one he used was lost somewhere between then and now. Ei had insisted on accompanying him, and Scaramouche had let her. The blue looks better on his luggage, he thinks. The purple clashed a little too much.

He still took the majority of his things with him. His room was now empty of anything left that would remind her of her son. What’s left was a bed, an empty dresser, a blank desk with nothing in the drawers, and some storage boxes in his closet. Just memories and moments stored between crevices and in the cracks of the walls for her.

Oh, he also took one of Ei’s perfume bottles. That was an impulse, he swears.

Scaramouche does not feel that bad about it, though.

“You are absolutely certain that everything is in order?” She asks, and Scaramouche’s eyes snap to her again.

“Yes,” Scaramouche crosses his arms, and says nothing more. The two delve into silence again, but it doesn’t last that long. It almost would have been easier if they two stayed quiet for the rest of the goodbye, but Scaramouche has never been too lucky.

“Good. Also,” Ei adds on elegantly, unaware of Scaramouche’s stiffening figure, “I packed you lunch for the trip.”

She offers him a small, clear box with intricately framed food. Ribbons, small bows, and in the middle of it, the most inedible looking thing he has ever seen.

I think I would die if I ate this. Scaramouche doesn’t know how to describe what it looks like, but just imagine something so horrific it needs to be censored on television.

Scaramouche feels the impending headache before it comes. If he tried really hard, he could feel the future heart attack that comes with the food. “You shouldn’t have.”

“I wished to,” Ei replies, misunderstanding, and her hand is still outstretched, offering him the food. “I have heard—“

“No, I mean you literally should not have. It looks awful,” Scaramouche replies bluntly. “are you trying to kill me? You must be.”

Ei opens her mouth, and then shuts it again. Her stoic face betrays nothing, but perhaps Scaramouche has gotten a little better at reading her, because he can taste the disappointment radiating off of her in waves. He stays like that a moment more before he realizes disappointing her does not feel any better than it did before.

He sighs a little, and then he uncomfortably takes it from her hands. “Whatever,” he says, “maybe it tastes better than it looks.”

It definitely does not, and he knows that from experience. In fact, it probably tastes worse than it looks. He wonders if any of Ei’s business partners ever had to smile and endure her food just to strike a contract with her. That would be a little funny to see, he thinks.

Seriously, where did this woman learn to cook? Miko could cook just fine, from what he can remember. Anything his mother made looked like an FDA violation.

Speaking of Miko, Scaramouche has never been able to fathom how she eats everything his mother cooks without a second thought. She’ll regret that when she contracts pancreatic cancer in four years and dies and then Scaramouche will be forced to eat it. Oh, god, he thinks in horror– he can’t let that happen. Miko must stay alive.

“And you are leaving forever?”

Scaramouche’s attention is grabbed by the sudden question. His mother is burning holes into his skin with her piercing eyes, and Scaramouche struggles to provide an answer.

He frowns. She couldn’t give him an easy, silent send off, could she? But he supposes he would not like that either. As overbearing as she is being now, it’s, dare say, welcomed. Maybe just a tiny bit.

Oh, her question. That’s right.

If, once upon a time, you had asked if he was going to ever return to Kyoto, he would have spat in your face and laughed. But now—?

Well, a lot is different, isn’t it?

Scaramouche had felt ready to give up. Half out of his mind with grief, he thought not once about what he was throwing into the fire, as long as he could keep burning for a moment longer. But all that is left of it now is smoldering ash, and Scaramouche finds no beauty in burn scars.

“I don’t know,” Scaramouche mutters, rubbing his temple. “Don’t ask me that.”

“If you will not come back for me, then perhaps to return this,” Ei says, and with an elegant stroke, she undoes the red ribbon around her neck.

Her neck looks unreasonably bare without it, he thinks. His heart lays a little heavier in his chest at the sight, like osseous and sunflower in his lungs.

Scaramouche watches as she grabs his slender wrist, and with capable hands, she laces it around Scaramouche’s wrist. It clashes with his outfit, but it fits snug around his hand. It’s really a miserable looking thing, lonely on his hands. It's only companion is a small, tiny gold ring snuggled around his middle finger.

Scaramouche stares at the ribbon, and then back up at her. “People don’t wear ribbons on their wrist anymore.”

“Men do not wear it around their necks, either,” Ei says carefully, “So I did not tie it around yours.”

Oh. Oh, Scaramouche thinks.

He closes his mouth and focuses on a point just beyond her head. Maybe love is not a bad tapestry. Maybe love is an uglier ribbon on his wrist. Isn’t this what he wanted?

Why is it hard to accept it?

Multitudes and the inordinate, Scaramouche is the blinding black of the sky, pulled back to reveal a crescendo of stars. Maybe in another life, his mother and him are sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, going over the grocery list. Maybe if he tries hard enough, that can be this life.

He wonders if there is a life out there— an alternate reality that his mother had led, where he was loved the most of all. He hopes if there is, he is the also the most miserable of all. 

And he supposes it’s also time to let go of the what could’ve beens. 

“Mother,” Scaramouche cringes the moment he says it— his voice was too high. He crosses his arms and he stares at the ribbon on his wrist and tries not to look at her, “I’m sorry, okay?”

Ei blinks, clearly not expecting it. “Whatever for?”

There must be some god that is torturing him. Scaramouche stares down at his wrist still, trying to swallow down the nausea, “If I did something that made you not… like me.”

If I apologize, then you can love me again, right?

The question comes out sounding much more childish and immature than he hoped it would be. But perhaps there is no way to sound mature and disinterested while asking your mother to love you.

For a long time, asking for such a thing was akin to wishing for rain whilst dwelling in the desert, or chipping away at a rotten coffin, or Venti staying awake a whole shift or something equally unachievable. It almost doesn’t feel real, but it feels no less humiliating than he imagined it to be so in the last forty million times he dreamed this exact scenario.

It also feels a lot more vulnerable than he imagined, just waiting in the silence for an answer. All he can hope for is a bit of mercy is shown to him.

Bosom and bud, chiaroscuro and samara, and Ei's hands coming into view as they grasp at his crossed arms.

“I did not stop loving you,” she says, and Scaramouche focuses a little harder on the slight nothing just out of reach, “and the fault lies with me that you did not feel that you were. No amount of lifetimes can remedy this, and… still I will try.”

She pulls him in a quiet embrace, and Scaramouche swallows hard. He doesn’t quite pull away from her like he did last time, but he doesn't reach for her either. That part might take some time, he thinks.

“Take courage, Kunikuzushi,” Ei says quietly, “you are stalling.”

Life goes on. Had Scaramouche ever thought that things don’t change?

People pass them by, bags rolling unpleasantly against the tiled floor and checking in with security. Fathers holding daughters, lovers holding lovers, and Ei holding Scaramouche.

This a new kind of madness, a kind of feeling Scaramouche is not used to. His pain generally comes in sharp stabs, and yet— it is this kind of melancholy that washes over him in quiet waves and leaves behind memories in their wake.

And when night falls and daylight recedes, Scaramouche will leave it all behind and calmly dedicate to her all the grief he has been able to endure, and replace the empty void it leaves with maybe something a little less repulsive.

“You will be okay?” Ei asks.

“Who knows?” Scaramouche replies, pulling back from her.

The sky feels bigger than it has ever been. Let July be July, and let August be August. Scaramouche may live to grow in September.

There is strength in letting go. And perhaps one day he will find it. And until then, he will ask Kazuha to spin poetry about the notion until he finds it beautiful. As the silence between them grows, the announcement calls for his plane. Scaramouche does not move, hesitant to do anything, really.

He’s got to get a move on, though. He recognizes that. The more time he spends here the more late he will be to the qualifiers match. Or would the plane still leave at the same time even if he’s a little late to board? How does that work?

Scaramouche’s eyes snap back to Ei as she steps back, offering a gentle tilt of her head. “Goodbye, Kunikuzushi.”

“I’m not dead,” Scaramouche’s eyes narrow, “Don’t say goodbye in such a depressing manner.”

Ei smiles, “Then, I will see you soon?”

Scaramouche looks at her. “Yeah,” he says, and no more.

Scaramouche backs away only slightly, light of step and of heart. He feels no affection for the apathy he longed for— things come, things go, and Scaramouche will take this by the reins and make it preserve through the ages.

Scaramouche looks at the end of the airport tunnel, clutching his bag a little tighter. It nearly looks pitch black at the end since it was so early in the morning. He hoists his carry-on a little higher on his shoulder, and glances back to his mother.

“What’s at the end?” Scaramouche asks.

Ei’s face maintains its smile, and she parrots his words from earlier. “Who knows?”

Scaramouche stares at her. And stares, and stares, and stares, and stares, and stares until her smile is burnt into his eyes. Until he could physically never forget the way her eyes lit up for him. It’s a new feeling, but it’s a good one.

He blinks only when he feels tears forming a glaze over his eyes from the prolonged period of staring. It feels weird to leave like this, but– he’s not leaving forever, is he? Maybe she’ll even pick up his calls now. The thought of that is weirder than it has any right to be.

She watches quietly as Scaramouche steps away from her, bowing respectfully. She watches him walk away again, and it’s almost as if she was watching him run away all over again.

Except this time, he turns back to wave goodbye. 

The world burns and blurs and bends around him. the people dissolving as her eyes hone in on her son. He seems content, even while his wave is stiff and his posture uncomfortable, he has eyes for her. That might be more than she deserves.

Deverancy has always been a rather awful word, she muses. Perhaps such things might be beneath her.

The world goes on for a moment longer. She turns, finding Miko leaning against the counter of some airline easily. She must have been watching longer than Ei knew. She hums quietly, and the two exist in the same bubble.

“How long have you been eavesdropping?” Ei blinks.

“Not long,” Miko replies, crossing her arms, “I did want to give you two some privacy, after all. And I’m nearly insulted that you assume I don’t have anything better to do. Which I do, I assure you.”

Ei’s eyes draw to the small take-out box of udon placed elegantly by Miko’s feet. It seemed as though she was out picking up some food, packed neatly and tightly. 

She looks back up, a hint of disappointment in her eyes. “I was going to cook tonight, remember?”

“You were?” Miko replies, blinking, “It must have slipped my mind. Has the boy gone, then?”

“Yes,” Ei replies, “You weren’t going to say farewell?”

“Why should I? You did enough for the both of us,” Miko replies, smiling. Ei does not find the same humor in it.

Ei gives her a disapproving look, “You will not be able to avoid Kunikuzushi forever. You best start to make amends now, rather than later.”

Miko hums, but says nothing more. A few people pass them by, nodding respectfully to Ei or Miko as they scurry to planes, buses, trains, or anything else. Miko and Ei exist for a moment longer in quiet solitude before it is broken by one of them. 

“You did it,” Miko says, amused, “Before the boy arrived, you told me you wanted to begin to fix things with him, didn’t you? And so you’ve done so. Why the long face, Ei? Perhaps… you have underestimated how much his absence would affect you? Or something else? Please do not tell me it is about me picking up Udon.”

“Miko,” Ei says, hesitating— she speaks over Miko, not quite louder, just stronger. “Do I deserve this?

Deservancy, again. And it remains such a terrible word as it was the first time. 

“So irrelevant,” Miko replies, nudging the food by her foot. “Do you want it?”

Ei stares at the place where Scaramouche had stood a moment ago. She touches the bit of cloth on her clothing that was damp with his tears, and nods once. Miko seems satisfied with this answer, and she’s sure the boy– wherever he’s gone to, now, would have felt the same.

Scaramouche, though– he finds solace in the restaurants he can see in the distance, in which he places an order online, a simple bitter tea for himself. He lets himself be seen sitting off-handedly in the midst of the airport. It’s colder than it was before, but it’s grounding. He likes it.

Some kids tumble away from their parents, readjusting themselves on chairs and doing cartwheels on war-torn carpet. Scaramouche watches them with an odd sense of muted fondness. He always had a softer spot for children.

He’s not that far from Miko and Ei, yet. His terminal isn’t a heavy distance from the drop-off point, so he has more free time to go soul-searching through restaurants. Before he does that, though…

He has a few texts from Venti and Kazuha, the former sending him texts every few minutes, overly double-texting and barely waiting for a reply. Amongst his texts though, he lets Scaramouche know that the qualifiers start later in the day. Everyone’s getting ready and Kazuha already left, he wrote. All by myself :(

Scaramouche snickers. He lets Venti know he’s on his way by ignoring the mountain of informational and useless texts and replying with a picture of his terminal.

Venti texts back immediately, questions piling on top of questions. It’s honestly so annoying to receive triple texts from Venti, just because he’s too lazy to respond to each and every one of them. He reads the latest message only, and half-heartedly types a response.

He pauses, and then he glances back once more– where Ei was nearly out of sight, the view blocked by others on the small lift and the baggage. He twists his head, squinting to see her. He doesn’t see anyone, but in all fairness, he thinks she has probably left by now. He doesn’t know why that fills his mouth with a bad taste.

He hesitates for a second more, before he gets up, leaving his luggage next to his seat, Venti on read, and his bitter drink on the seat.

Sickly sweet and polite excuse me’s leave him as he gently pushes past pregnant mothers and children and simple men, the lot of them— and when he rears past the last one, just trying to see his mother one last time–

She’s still there, speaking with Miko. She doesn’t notice him, only standing poised and still within the bustling of the atmosphere of the airport. Scaramouche opens his mouth, and then he closes it again. She hadn’t left yet– why is it such a touching notion? 

Scaramouche swallows, and he thumbs the red ribbon on his wrist.

He hates her, and he loves her. He hates that he loves her. He hates that whatever life she lived without him was good. He hates that hopes the life she might live with him now will be better.

Scaramouche stares, stares, and stares. Ei continues to talk, and Scaramouche is no longer made of stone.

(5:34 A.M. Scaramouche boards the plane).

It was a bright cold day, and the clocks were striking thirteen.

Kazuha breathes out quietly. He feels his fingers dig into the cool steel of the bleachers, humming as a cough builds in his throat. 

Kazuha often feels the sea in himself. Sometimes he can feel it crash against the walls of his chest, when he’s washing the dishes, doing the laundry, vacuuming– the way it drowns his heart, makes it hard to breathe. There’s nary a moment where he can’t feel the tangible vastness of unseen trenches along the ocean floor. The ocean is within him, and so it weeps.

Kazuha loves the sea, but he doesn't like it inside him. You can only romanticize something so much until you love it no more.

Hopeless songs, endless miles of water tugged on resounding like a siren’s call in his ears. Distant crying of sunken ships, remnants of planes that are yet to be discovered. The sound of screeching metal can only be drowned out by his own humming, a hymn to drink the ocean’s grief.

He’s not sure when he started thinking of his battle with addiction this way— just thought that it would always be there– a heavy, sand sunken battle inside him, as real as the ocean, perhaps— as dependable as the ocean.

You can always rely on the sea to be there, just as Kazuha can always rely on his body to repel and want and tug at him at every waking moment of every day. And so he lives through his day, his week, his month— waiting for the ocean to halt. 

Another cough escapes him. He pulls cold palms away from the bleachers, reclining within his seat on the step, rubbing his hands together.

Truthfully, he didn’t care too much for pre-game rallies: the noise, the jubilant atmosphere and compelling aura of skirts and pom poms and girls cheering of their lungs, which are often accompanies by men cheering in a more slightly more manly way (read: a lot of people shouting let’s fucking go and nothing else). 

Regardless, though he was well known throughout campus, he felt out of place. There’s always a pre-game rally, and he’s usually in the locker room going on last-minute strategies.

But this was a big game. Naturally things would be a little different. Still, Kazuha frowns, perhaps he should start getting ready. 

He was just about to make a run for it when there was suddenly an arm looping around him, and he found himself trapped under someone’s weight as they were forced down onto the seats next to him.

“Kazuha,” the boy grinned, a wolf-like smile on his face, “I wasn’t expecting to see you here. Shouldn’t you be changing?”

“Yeah,” another voice cut in, this one with a heavy tang and drawl. “The teams usually skip these, right?”

The first boy raised an eyebrow at him, as if daring him to a challenge. “Here for a reason, Kaedehara?”

Even that much, Kazuha couldn't deny. “Maybe,” he said, and he left it at that.

Well, perhaps there was a bit more to his reasoning. He wanted to catch a glimpse of Scaramouche before the game. He knows Scaramouche said he would arrive mid-game, but perhaps he had meant pre-game-mid-game. After all, it’s not as if he has really ever been to these before—

“Now, now, leave the guy alone, won’t you?” Heizou slides in easily, hands in his pockets. Kazuha looks up to catch a glimpse of him— the edges of his hair are crisp in the morning air, curling up at the ends as if they were crowing good morning.

“Move over,” Venti, who tagged alongside Heizou, complains, “Kazuha, I got you something!”

Kazuha blinks. It’s one of Venti’s terrible foam designs. The warm mug is cupped with both hands, and it holds a strong aroma. The design is pretty bad, and Kazuha can barely make out what it’s supposed to be.

“It’s a lovely elephant.”

“But it’s a cat,” Venti murmurs questioningly, looking down at the drink. If Kazuha didn’t know any better, he would think Venti was genuinely upset over it.

Kazuha allows Heizou to take a seat next to him. Heizou rubs at his cheek, scrutinizing Kazuha. Kazuha allows him to do so, politely denying Venti’s drink. Whatever it was, it was heavy on the apple extract.

“No word from Scara?”

Kazuha’s eyes flick to his phone, still inky black and silent. “It appears not.”

“He’ll be here, man,” Heizou assures, “he’s flying across the world. After the game, how about we go out for some fried chicken, whaddya say? …No?”

“He’s probably nervous, Heizou,” Venti sticks his tongue out, pushing his braids behind his ear. “Leave him alone.”

Kazuha hums lightly as the others delve into conversation, the sky turning over a blanket of diluted cream. The bleachers were streaked with black, burned by cigarettes and matches. The rose-mary blue banners— colors of Northwood University— were tinted by the excitement and stress in the air, cutting him loose from the general hyper-focus he feels before big games.

Kettering University had already showed up to the school, big black buses full of the team and their supporters alike. They’d obviously been glowering and sneering at anyone in their way— or at least, that’s it seemed like. Kazuha is well learnt his lesson in judging by appearances.

The cutting cool of the bleachers burn into Kazuha’s hands, and Heizou sits beside him with his golden skin and maroon hair and Kazuha misses Scaramouche that much more.

He hums, leaning back as Heizou and Venti’s argument gets louder and louder. His ears have always been rather sensitive, but as the wind tousled his hair and the time went by, he found himself more at peace than he had been in a long time– and who better to share it with than his lover?

Who was, for obvious reasons, not currently here. His eyes flick to the phone again. 

There was a feeling of inevitability when Kazuha first met Scaramouche. He has no qualms about coincidences, but it did not feel that way then Kazuha and Scaramouche finally made one-on-one contact. There was the orchard-purple sense that maybe Kazuha and Scaramouche were meant to be in every world. That through any terrible distance, they were hurtling through space and their collision– beautiful, catastrophic, or anything in between, was meant to happen.

Or perhaps in certain worlds, it had not even happened yet. Kazuha hopes that in every world, there is a good ending. And if it is not a good one, then let it be a pretty one. It can always be better later.

“—uha? Kazuha!”

Kazuha blinked owlishly. Venti is unbearably close to his face, and he moves himself out of the way.

“Nice to see you back,” Venti chirps, “See? I said he was probably just zoning out and extremely dark thoughts… or something.”

“I was not thinking anything like that.”

“Come off it,” One of the other boys says, and he’s not someone Kazuha recognizes. He might be one of the boyfriends of the cheerleaders. “Childe’s calling for you in the locker room.”

Oh, he was probably part of the team. Or maybe the event organizers– perhaps the latter. Since they were lucky enough to have the qualifiers be a home game, it casted more stress on the student council and its respective members to get everyone in order– and keep everyone in order, he might add. The student council had asked Venti to help them out, but he had vehemently refused.

Kazuha’s not really sure, but Venti had grumbled something about being forced to do crowd control even off of work. He’d opted out and offered one of his juniors as a substitute. 

Looking at now, he thinks, casting a glance to Venti, who seems to be positively glowing, it was probably the right choice. 

Well, he may as well try not to make their job much harder. He nods once, bidding adieu to his friends as he walks past the preparations. The cheerleaders are sitting near the school’s marching band– their pride and joy, he might add. Northwood was always more of a fine arts school than it was a sports school, so any half-decent sports club always garnered a good bit of attention.

He gives a respectable nod to the women, averting his gaze when one of their skirts rides up a little high. The changing room, thankfully, isn’t far. It’s flooded with the team, but it’s otherwise, miraculously quiet, and Kazuha has to admit to himself that he himself was perhaps cutting it kind of close with his timing.

He pulls his locker open, checking his phone one more time before he tucks it away– no message, still. Kazuha is sure he must be on his way. He hesitates only slightly in the quiet room, the only sounds being Kazuha’s breathing, and the light shuffle of hockey gear being pulled on echoing through the room.

If this goes right, it would be his last hockey game for Northwood, last time in this locker room, on this rink. It is a very big moment, he supposes, and Kazuha has always been a sentimental person. He savors the feeling for a moment more before he pulls open his locker after inputting his combination.

Hockey gear itself is very thorough– the custom boxers is one thing, he thinks, but the knee pads are another. As he loops them around his calf, velcroing them as tightly as possible and reaching for the socks–

His fingers find something else.

He looks up, pushing past his heavy white socks to grasp the thin rice paper. Just hidden behind his sobriety coin is something he had forgotten about. It’s a thin post note, written with a half-scribbled poem on it. That isn’t new in itself– he does carry around rice paper sticky notes and a small pen whenever inspiration may strike him– but it’s the poem on it that makes him pause.

You are the sun, and I am scarcely awake at sunrise. I sleep through days and folds of parchment and late hours by the light, and you are a constant.

It’s half-finished, and yet he recognizes it. It was the poem he had written down in a haste when Scaramouche and him had gone out on their first outing, to that small, run-down arcade. Would that have counted towards their first date? 

Kazuha stares at it. And then he smiles. He thinks constants are a beautiful thing, and even more so now.

He wipes a bit of sweat from his head with the back of his hand– when did it become hot in here, he thinks off-handedly, and starts scribbling to finish the poem. Inspiration trickles in like poison as he writes, and he continues on even when a hand waves in front of his face.

“Kazuha?” Kazuha pauses mid-word to look up. Childe is standing there, looking entirely pumped-up and excited at the same time. “Is this really the time?”

“There is never not a time,” Kazuha replies coolly, but he tucks the pen away anyway. 

“Ah, well, whatever. Sasaki has a crazy bathroom problem before any game. I guess I shouldn’t judge anyone’s pre-game habits,” Childe laughs, “It’s almost game time. I’m gonna give a speech.”

“I see,” Kazuha replies agreeably, and he shifts himself so he joins the team circle in the locker room. He finishes pulling on his skate gear, tying his skates as tight as humanly possible. “Go on.”

His hands are calloused and rough, but the motions are familiar and grounding. He grabs the poem as a lucky charm as he finishes the last line of the poem quickly. Perhaps as of now, it might be the closest thing he has to Scaramouche.

“Alright, comrades,” Childe starts, “You remember our prep, I'm sure. Kettering’s goalie was a bender, so try to make him skate as many sharp turns as possible, but keep a healthy distance so a false foul doesn’t get called. Their right-winger is a duster, so Kaeya, keep him busy, use wrist-shots, and try to deke the goalie. Limit our turnovers, and–”

“We know, man.” one of the members calls out, and Kazuha hides his smile. “This is meant to be motivating. Say something epic!”

“This is motivating,” Childe laughs, “What’s more exciting than the prospect of a good match?”

“Um,” Someone responds, “winning?”

“Fine,” Kaeya chuckles, “I’ll give the speech.”

“Shut it, I’m giving the speech—“

“Too late,” Someone else says, and Kazuha stifles a silent laugh. “I’m already giving it. Our goal is to win. We want to be champions. Let–”

“This is a horrible speech,” Childe interjects.

“Yours was not any better,” Someone– Sasaki, Kazuha realizes, interjects.

“But it was also not as bad as that,” Childe mutters.

“Dude—“

“It’s been an honor to play alongside you all,” Kazuha interjects, calm and fond, partly to say his piece and to cut up the pregame bickering. It’s obvious a lot of them are nervous. “If we win, then this will be our last game together. And I wish you all well from now to wherever you go.”

The team falls silent at his words, and many adapt a bashful look on their faces, from what Kazuha guesses to be shame at fighting– no matter, though. It’s part of the charm. He wipes a bit more sweat from his brow– seriously, it was hot in here.

“Me too,” someone mumbles bashly.

“Let’s give a good fight, guys,” Childe grins, “I want to celebrate like crazy at the banquet.”

The team gives a group hug. Kazuha swallows down the melancholy.

An announcement rings like a gong through the school like a death call. He can hear the audience multiply in screams, and the hockey team gives each other one last look before they step out. Kazuha wedges the small poem into his uniform. The door at the end of the locker room hangs like a prison cell, and Kazuha grips it firmly before pushing it open.

The stadium is huge.

Blinding lights– he’s sure everyone has heard singers describe what it’s like to perform in front of an audience– he can’t pick out anyone from the crowd except from the ones at the bleacher’s edge, separated by a thin glass and away from the heavy blind audience.

It’s intimidating, but only a little bit. There’s a hush of anticipation, and it feels like the arena’s heart pulses under his feet. The way the crowd cheers as Kazuha and the others appear feels as though it’s a frozen cathedral of dreams, and he is the warrior baptized in the roar of the crowd.

His skates kiss the surface, a dance of steel on ice, and Kazuha strides toward his position. Each push of his feet feels like a mile each, crisp and clean. He plays center, so he skates towards the other teams’ center. He’s a scrawny thing, but it’s possible his muscle is hidden under layers upon layers. His hair is made of straw, an exceedingly unfortunate yellow that appears to be the result of a poor dye accident. Kazuha does not stare that long at it.

The puck, a solitary planet, lays between them like a corpse, and his breath curls like frigid mist while his heartbeat lays like a drumroll.

“Oh, it’s you,” his opponent laughs, “the drug junkie.”

Kazuha does not let it make him waver in his stance.

His eyes remain coolly on the player ahead of him, red eyes firm and set. It’s far from surprising that the Kettering team had done their homework on the opposing team– it was practically a tradition to play a game of inspector gadget and try to figure out weakness in the opposing team– whether it be of the players or their gameplay. These study sessions generally involved being at someone’s house and having a marathon of the opposing team’s previous matches or a lot of instagram digging.

It was usually more helpful to watch their previous games and analyze their gameplay, their flaws, the way their team works– he remembers letting Scaramouche sleep in his lap at one of these fairly early on, actually– but there are times when studying the player is far more of an advantage.

But those are rare– you have to know the opponent, really know them, and base your play around them, not their playstyle– their morals, their habits, their personality.

It’s tricky, and hard to get right, but it’ll either make or break the game. Kazuha has often wondered what his flaws would be. What would a countermeasure against him look like?

“Play nice,” the referee warns, and the duo’s eyes snap to him. “This is bigger than some  rivalry.”

Kazuha’s jersey feels like a second skin, but even the chill of the air bites through it. It’s all so gratifying, the cheers, the blinding lights, and Kazuha starts offering his hand to his opponent.

Threads of nervous excitement, threads of fierce resolve. He carries the dreams of his small town, his family, his own beating heart, the people he left behind in Wisconsin.

His opponent takes his hand. Their sticks lay on either side of the puck, meeting in the middle every other hit. The face off feels slower than normal, but it hushes the crowd. Their sticks clash again. It’s quiet for a moment more as they both hit the puck in respective directions. Kazuha, left, and his opponent, right.

It goes hard left.

Childe shouts in victory as he rushes off, the two teams clashing with their collective wills igniting a fire on the ice. Kazuha lets out a quiet breath of relief, but it’s a short victory. It’s a good start, that’s all.

Kazuha’s eyes darted to the stands. He catches a glimpse of Heizou, Venti and Xiao— Venti, predictably, at the edge of his seat, whooping at every action. No Scaramouche.

“Kaedehara!”

Kazuha twists around. He cannot afford to lose his head right now.

Amid the symphony of skates slicing across the ice and the echoing thud of bodies colliding, the puck danced between sticks.-- a hit from Childe. Intercepted. Shoved between people’s skates, hit to Kaeya. Stolen.

“Kazuha—“

His vision blurred, not just from the sweat and ice, but from something else entirely. It was hot. Why was it hot in a hockey arena? It was generally freezing cold.

He can feel every callous on his hand, every place that the stick digs into his palms. Someone shouts in the back as he takes stride after stride, trying to keep his eyes on the puck.

Cold, icy air cuts his cheek as it’s intercepted and tosses to a near player– it’s hard to keep your eyes on it– the crowd's deafening roar becomes a distant hum as his vision blurred– the ocean inside of him heaves and crashes against his heart. Someone shouts, and Kazuha steals the puck from the legs of another player.

He gets shoved. Childe’s open, in the corner of the arena and waving animatedly. Kazuha’s eyes flicker to him, and the moment it takes to locate Childe, there’s a swing between him and he loses sight of it slightly as he skates forward, keeping ahead and blocking any opening. It’s hit to Xiao, then–

A whistle blows. Match point. Kettering University takes the lead a minute and forty-nine seconds in.

Conditional statements are sophomore level math skills.

Scaramouche learned them when he was in his freshman year of highschool, because he had been in advanced classes. Everyone learns them when they take Geometry. Granted, they’re useless, much like everything else in math, but you learn them anyway.

Conditional statements are this– a statement that is written in P and Q: if P, then Q. The P is the hypothesis, and Q is the reached conclusion. So Q must be true whenever P is true. Really easy stuff.

Of course, it gets a little more complex than that. Alongside conditional, Scaramouche remembers there was converse, inverse, contrapositive, biconditional… there was a whole lot. Most of which he doesn’t remember now.

But of the simple conditional, here’s an example: If the rug is dirty, then the rug should be vacuumed. P and Q. Simple relationship. Even the intellectually challenged kids in Scaramouche’s class got it pretty quickly.

Here's another one. If someone says they’ll be here in ten minutes, then you expect them to be there in ten minutes. If they are not there in ten minutes, then P is not true, and so Q cannot be true. Q cannot be true without P.

Scaramouche stares at the text on his phone. Clearly, his uber driver has never learned about conditional statements. Ten minutes. What a joke.

Seriously, damn this guy. What kind of Uber driver can’t even drive on time?

He’s practically sweating from running from terminal to terminal in the last twelve hours, carrying, mind you, a luggage that weighs almost as much as a healthy forty year old. He’s breathing heavily, he’s so close to making it to the game– which must be already at roughly half-time– he’s in the states, he’s in his county, and his uber driver is going to be the reason that Scaramouche misses seeing Kazuha play in a game where his head is not busted open.

Look, he’s going as fast as he can. He already ran all the way from his terminal to the pick-up spot, waiting for his uber. He’s not going to run all the way to the campus stadium.

Still, perhaps running would be quicker than waiting for what's probably going to be a high teenager in a car.

Scaramouche groans, leaning back on his seat. He bounces his leg anxiously. Seriously, can nobody do their jobs?

He heaves a sigh, trying to relax. At this point, it’s totally out of his control. But trust that when he gets his hands on his incompetent uber driver, he’s launching into a math lesson over conditional statements. I mean, this is unacceptable. Is the general public of America like this?

To add insult to injury, there’s a Russian girl a few seats away from him that’s doing her seventeen-step skincare routine. Her luggage is wispy, loose and barely packed.

Every now and then, she smacks her lips together after applying a very generous amount of vaseline. Scaramouche understands the appeal of vaseline as much as the next person, but surely, he thinks, eyeing her— any amount bigger than a dime is unacceptable.

He sighs, checking his watch again. Whatever. If he pays the uber driver to speed, he might actually be able to catch the game. Yeah, that’s a solid plan.

Lost in his thoughts, he thumbs his phone absentmindedly. Anxiety and boredom creep in like a snake, but it’s more so nervousness than anything else. He kind of wants to be at the game. He kind of wants to be there for the winning moment, or the losing moment, whichever it will be.

He supposes he just wants to be there for all of them.

“Hey, you.”

Scaramouche looks up. The (objectively) pretty blonde girl near him is waving her hands, her voice thick and tangy with a russian drawl. It’s a weird mixture of a southern american accent and a native russian one.

Scaramouche looks at her. And then looks away.

He really doesn't care enough about this right now. Whatever it was, it clearly wasn’t life or death and Scaramouche was not yet bored enough to start entertaining strangers.

“Hey,” She tries to get his attention again, in which Scaramouche stares a little harder at the wall. She seems dejected slightly, and scoots closer to him.

His head whips to her, but before he could snap at her to get away, she starts pointing to her mouth. “Pardon, do you speak english?”

He shoots her a dirty look. “What do you want?”

“Oh, good,” she seems happy with this. Her voice sounds a little familiar to Scaramouche, but he can’t pinpoint where. “What do you use?”

Scaramouche stares at her. “Um, excuse me?”

“On your face,” She motions, “Skincare products. Your skin is very smooth. Like glowing glass.”

Glowing glass. Even Kazuha hadn’t thought of a metaphor as absurd as that one yet. He’s almost impressed.

“I have no use for such products. My skin is like this naturally.” Scaramouche answers, irritated. Though, after thinking about it a bit more, he takes a pause and adds; “Sometimes I use hyaluronic acid.”

“From The Ordinary?”

“Yes.”

The girl is still looking at him, and Scaramouche sighs in annoyance. His uber still isn’t here, and the more time that ticks by, the more disheartened he gets. He might as well kill some time. He shoots her a displeased look. “What is it? Spit it out.”

“Nothing,” She replies, still blinking owlishly, “I thought you would say soap. The last guy I dated had very good skin, but he would just say he uses soap. He had a very odd name, too. Perhaps he was just weird?”

“Did he, now,” Scaramouche mutters, feeling the headache creep in. He crosses his legs, rubbing his temple in annoyance.

“Yes,” The girl replies seriously, not taking mind to Scaramouche’s obvious irritation or simply just ignoring it, “Speaking of which, my name is Lenore.”

Scaramouche is pretty sure Childe had a girlfriend by that name. Or maybe it was a failed situationship. Whatever it was, Childe was bawling on his shoulder every other night.

“Scaramouche,” He answers shortly, sparing her a glance. Whatever– Lenore isn’t exactly a common name, but it’s not really uncommon either. There’s probably a million Lenore’s out there or something.

“My ex had a roommate by that name,” Lenore replies.

Scaramouche stares at her.

Sure, there are a million Lenore’s out there. But how many of those Lenore’s had an ex who had a roommate named Scaramouche? Just one, he bets.

He can practically tell they’re both thinking the same thing. If Scaramouche was a sixty-year old man, perhaps he’d chuckle and smile and say small world, isn’t it? But he is not a sixty-year old man. He is Scaramouche and he is teetering on the edge of immature. 

“You are better looking than I thought,” Lenore offers in greeting.

“And you are entirely average.”

Lenore laughs at the reply, taking no offense to it. Perhaps they would’ve be good friends if She hadn’t trampled all over Childe’s heart, and Scaramouche has to abide by the bro code. “Pleasure to meet you, too. You live around here?”

“No,” Scaramouche mutters, “I’m waiting for my Uber. He’s late and I have somewhere to be.” His eyes glance at the clock, “urgently.”

“I live around here,” Lenore hums, packing her things away, “I can drive you? I was just here to pick someone up, but they are not here yet.”

Scaramouche squints at her. Now that the offer is there, it feels like the time is passing quicker. What if this Lenore isn’t even the real Lenore and this a human trafficking scheme or something? Wow, he’d get his ass beat by everyone if he got kidnapped because he went into a stranger's car. Besides—

“You don’t live around here,” Scaramouche narrows his eyes, crossing his legs, “Childe said you moved back to Russia.”

“I lied,” She replies, “I just wanted to break up with him.”

“You’re heartless,” He mutters, “Yes. Take me.”

So that’s how he ended up in Childe’s ex’s car.

He didn’t even have enough time to cancel the uber before he was jumping into Lenore’s sleek, shiny and slightly chipped BMW. It was significantly cleaner on the inside, visibly taken care of with great caution.

“Where are we going?” Lenore settles into her seat, pulling out her driver’s keys with a jingle.

Scaramouche grabbed her phone from the middle, typing in the stadium address with slightly trembling fingers. Now that it was in reach, the nervousness and adrenaline came rushing back in waves.

“Here,” he replies, showing her the phone, “I need to make it here in the next eight minutes. No negotiation.”

She looks at the stadium address, “It’s not possible,” she says, “I would have to speed. Thirty minutes.”

“Too long,” Scaramouche mutters, “speed, then. I’ll pay the speeding ticket if you manage to get us pulled over.”

He doubts the speeding ticket would be much more than the cost of an uber. Arguably it would be much more useful too, seeing as his uber isn’t even here.

“It’s not about the speeding ticket,” Lenore frowns, but she puts the car in drive anyway and starts pulling out of the jam-packed parking lot, maneuvering slowly around other cars. “It is about being served justice.”

This startled a rough laugh out of Scaramouche, who straps himself in. Justice? What a joke. You get justice in the next world. In this world, you get the law. And the law makes exceptions for pretty women.

”Speed,” Scaramouche replies dismissively. He guesses they wouldn’t make good friends after all. He turns the GPS on, hoisting the small phone onto its place on the dashboard, lighting the way for Lenore to drive.

7:24 P.M. Scaramouche bites his lip. He needs to make it. He needs to.

The flight back across the world was tiring, and had less breaks for him, but had significantly less layovers. In response, jet lag was hitting him hard. Fatigue plagues every movement, and he forcibly sits up straight in an effort to keep himself upright. Seven minutes, he urges himself, seven minutes and you can see Kazuha.

Kazuha. He’s seeing Kazuha again. He’ll be able to hold Kazuha.

He breathes in sharply as Lenore takes the car above the speed limit, running the red light. There’s a feeling in his heart. He knows what it is, but the absence of now familiar nausea is gone. If he focuses really hard, he can feel it still— but for the most part, it’s no longer overbearing.

Wind whips his hair around. It’s adrenaline.

It greets him like an old friend, with a heavy laugh and a clap on his back. The kind with a wolf grin and a familiar, weighted presence. It’s imbued within the lining of Lenore’s car, each stitch of the seats, every blink of the car system.

And it comes alone. Perhaps still haunted by faint ghosts of anxiousness, but nothing as terrible as before. If anything, the anxiousness comes with the anticipation of waiting for something bad, but it doesn’t come. Just fire in his veins, steely determination, and maybe a little bit of disgust at the Anna Sergeyevna Kournikova stickers plastered all over her car.

“So,” Lenore shouts over the noise, and Scaramouche’s attention is grabbed by her. “Why are you going here?”

Scaramouche looks at her. Her blonde hair is pulled by a stray pen, curled around it as stray bangs curl in the wind and catch on her lip gloss. He could understand why Childe was madly in love. She looks like every Russian boy’s dream, with heavy skirts and an elegant aura about her.

Of course, only if you ignore the tangy accent.

“I have to do something,” Scaramouche answers raspily, not quite thinking about it. Perhaps he has a debt to repay. Even so, something curls in his gut.

He doesn’t quite know what it is. All he knows is that he doesn’t feel bad, and that’s more than anything Scaramouche could have ever asked for. Perhaps this is what it feels like to live. Not whatever he assumed it was— that miserable, horrible thing he dragged out for a few years— that’s not living.

Whatever it is, Scaramouche hopes it’s this.

And he hates to hope, but he hopes that whatever love Kazuha has shown him is his to keep. That whatever, small, tentative happiness is curling in his palms right now is meant to last.

“Hey,” Lenore asks loudly, fighting to be heard over the wind. She turns the car sharply and Scaramouche is thrust against the window, hissing as he makes contact with it. “Is Childe going to be there?”

“Probably,” Scaramouche mutters, righting himself. As much as he’d like to say he had forgotten all about Childe, it’s really not the case.

Lenore sighs, “I guess I owe him an apology.”

That makes two of us, Scaramouche thinks, but he would really rather not admit that either. Childe was born feet first and he’s been backwards ever since, Scaramouche thinks, and apologizing him pains him more than he cares to admit. But Scaramouche is a sharp, arrogantly cynical person with dubious morals, not a random asshole.

He checks the time on his phone for what feels like the hundredth time, nervous to get there in time. He shows the time to her wordlessly, and she nods.

Scaramouche can feel his heart pound in rhythm with the engine. The sun was setting, casting a warm, hopeful golden hue over the road ahead–painted shades of crimson and gold. and with her foot on the gas pedal, She threads the car through traffic at a very obviously illegal speed. The car seemed to dance between lanes, and Scaramouche can hear the loud shouting from the arena– only a a mile or two ahead– on the air.

He couldn't help but think of the countless practices and games he had witnessed. Every goddamned practice match that would end in a fight, or Scaramouche restraining Childe, or a brawl breaking out in the locker room– it’s like the car is running not on fuel, but on every dream Scaramouche had ever shoved down, every self-sabotage, every want he was denied.

It’s a step in the right direction. He owes it to himself– And to Kazuha and Childe and Mona and Nahida and Venti, god, Venti – he owes it to them, too.

As the looming arena came in view, the distant roar of the crowd grew louder, and Scaramouche grew a little more breathless. Lenore pulled into the arena's parking lot, her car skidding to a halt just in time. Scaramouche clambers out of the car.

It’s louder than the wind, his voice drowned out by the shouting of the crowd behind. He can feel the sun on his back as he turns to Lenore.

“What about you?”

“I gotta find a parking spot!” She laughs, “You go!”

Scaramouche whips around. He clambers past the ticket-holder, tripping over the people hanging half-out of their seats in an effort of getting closer to the action. His heart was weirdly loud in his ears. He faintly thinks there was a word for that. 

The arena was a cacophony of cheers, laughter, and the sharp sound of skates slicing across the ice. In the midst of this chaos, Scaramouche stood at the edge of the bleachers, his heart racing with anxiety. He squints at whatever’s happening on the ice, giving up on trying to find Venti or the others– the crowd’s too rowdy, too dense for Scaramouche to look.

Instead he bullies his way down to the edge of the glass separator, just a bit past where it ends, and hones in on trying to find Kazuha.

Players crash into one another, and Scaramouche squints at the ones in the middle– those are center, right? Kazuha must be one of the ones. The score was deadlocked, and the puck was sliding between players like a corpse.

Which one– Scaramouche leans forward a little more– which one is Kazuha?

His eyes flit past players clad in heavy gear, practically seeing the tension in the air. Another cheer erupts from the crowd as the puck is passed again.

He hones past which one is inevitably Childe, clear from the ginger sticking out of his helmet. His stance is tense, and he’s not looking at his way. He’s not even looking at the puck at all.

Scaramouche follows his line of sight. Childe’s eyes are trained on another player, one who’s wavering in his stance and slightly doubled-over. He’s clearly in pain, but the game continues on even as he skates a few feet behind from where he clearly should be.

Then, he catches the guy’s eyes. Flat and red like a shark. 

Kazuha.

There, amidst the sea of faces, was Kazuha. His eyes locked onto Kazuha’s, and in that electric moment, the world outside the rink ceased to exist. It was as if time stood still, and everything else faded into a distant backdrop.

He can see Kazuha mouth something, but whatever it is ends up being is something Scaramouche can’t understand. The lines of his mouth are obscured by the bars on his helmet.

“Getting weak, Kaedehara?” someone sneers near Kazuha. 

“Fortunately, no.” Kazuha replies coolly, but even his voice is slightly strained, and he presses his lips together with a bit more force as another tremor passes through it.

“Kazuha—“ Childe shouts, witnessing the exchange, “do we need to call out?”

“No need,” Kazuha replies, inhaling. Calling a timeout would do nobody any good. The score is tied, and any break could snap their team out of the zone.

Withdrawal shakes his frame with vigor, gripping his heart and taking siege over his legs. He swallows hard, deciding the best course of action is to focus more on his grip.

He skates to a stop, signaling for Xiao to cover where he normally does. He can’t feasibly continue to skate like this, but he can help near the right defenseman.

”On your left, get open— Xiao!”

The puck slides from player to player, being fought over as it tangles between player’s legs, hitting goalies as the game descends into over-time. 

Kazuha swallows. Focus. 

Xiao hits the disc to Kaeya, who motions Kazuha to move somewhere more easily accessible. Kazuha shakes his head.

He’s far away from the action, covering a place that nobody generally covers, but he can’t play center like this. He stays still and swallows hard— 

— and as if the universe conspired to grant him one last chance at redemption, the puck found its way to Kazuha’s stick. Kaeya must have taken a leap of faith and shot it to him. 

Kazuha stares at it.

The roar of the crowd quietens in Kazuha’s mind; and while it’s a hockey game on the ice, it’s a deathmatch in Kazuha’s head— and he has bled, bled, bled.

The sun is percolating gently, and for a moment, Kazuha feels the month still stretched before him— long and golden and evermore there. Rumination takes hold in his hands, baptismal promises from forever ago seeping into him the way cherry dark wine soaked into a white blouse.

And here, Kazuha thinks, he blurs into the people he knows, the people he knew, and the ones he’s yet to meet. He does not know what’s going to happen next, after this, but he does know that love is the people around you, the ocean is inside him, and heaven is full of music.

But all that can wait, because Scaramouche is watching and the sooner this game is over, the sooner he could kiss him.

He pushes past the water in his chest and the tsunami around his heart and he swallows down the ocean under his skin. In a swift, fluid motion, he hits the small disc towards the unguarded net.

Time seemed to freeze, for just a moment. You know the ones. The small, minuscule time it takes before realization settles in your head. The calm before the storm. Before your pyrrhic victory or your laevinic defeat.

Those moments, Kazuha thinks, as the arena erupts in a cataclysmic explosion of jubilation, those are the ones. The scoreboard blinked, and there it was: victory, hanging by a fragile thread. Kazuha looks at it, and thinks it beautiful.

Nationals is his. 13-12. Pride swells in his chest.

“Kazuha!”

Kazuha blinks. His team is on him, some of them shouting in victory and tumbling around. He’s excited alongside them, too— his friends, his teammates, tackle him by his shoulders, jostling him around.

“You did it—” Someone screams in his ear, and Kazuha can’t help but laugh. How loud. He will sorely miss this team. “What were you even doing back there?”

”Nationals,” Sasaki gleefully shouts, “We’re going to nationals and guess who’s not? Kettering! Suck on that—“

Kazuha squeezes his eyes shut as someone tackles Sasaki, probably a player from Kettering University. He supposes certain things don’t change. 

His cheeks hurt from smiling, laughing until his lungs are sore. Some of them are clapping him on the back loudly, ruffling his hair, but he has eyes for one: Scaramouche, with stars smeared on his head, and running on the ice.

As Scaramouche approached Kazuha, the world seemed to fade away, and Kazuha laughs. Perhaps you can run on the ice, he thinks, as he watches Scaramouche. All you need is a crazy grip in your legs and a will made of steel.

“Hello,” Kazuha greets, smiling and a twinkle in his eyes.

“Shut it,” Scaramouche replies, out of breath, and he tangles his fingers in Kazuha’s hair and pulls him in.

Kazuha’s arms encircle Scaramouche’s waist as the two kiss, leaning forward so far that Scaramouche is practically only upright because of Kazuha’s iron grip.

Kazuha’s lips are warm, familiar and everything Scaramouche has been craving for the past week. He can hear Kazuha’s teammates whooping and wolf-whistling in the back, and while he’s not one for PDA, he doesn’t mind it this once.

He wants to know Kazuha so intimately, so deeply, that to understand Kazuha you would have to understand Scaramouche first. He wants to show Kazuha his skeletons and let him grind his bones into powder and get high on his fault lines.

I’m gonna move on, Niwa, Scaramouche thinks, staring at Kazuha, I hope that’s okay.

Kazuha laughs into his ear, his arms tight around Scaramouche, who encircles Kazuha’s neck and lets himself be held. He can faintly near Childe shouting in surprise, and at first he thinks it must have been at his appearance on the ice, but as he cranes his neck back, he realizes it’s because Lenore was a few feet behind him.

Oh, Scaramouche thinks, his lips twisting into a smile, as Childe points a finger accusingly at her, shouting I thought you moved to Russia— he realizes he forgot all about her.

“Your flight?” Kazuha murmurs into his ear, and Scaramouche looks back at him.

“You’re asking me about something so trivial at a time like this?” Scaramouche replies, eyebrows raised, and he feels Kazuha thumbing at something on his wrist. “You just technically graduated. You’re going to the nationals, and you’re asking me about how my flight went.”

Kazuha smiles.

Scaramouche sighs, but he fiddles with Kazuha’s hockey gear anyway. “It went fine,” he mutters, “Jet lag is really hitting me, though. I need some tea.”

“Really,” Kazuha hums, “I don’t have tea on me, but I could offer an alternative solution.”

Scaramouche sticks his tongue out at Kazuha as he leans in for another kiss, still on the ice. Kazuha is solid and warm against him, even with Childe’s shouting in the back and Lenore’s half-hearted excuses.

It’s taken him a long time to get here, but maybe, he thinks, looking slightly up at Kazuha’s cold-bitten cheeks and the happiness that’s etched into his lines— he really does love Kazuha. For a long time he assumed that if he never spoke about it, never acknowledged it, never said a word of it, it would make it less true. But it doesn’t.

It doesn’t do anything at all, Scaramouche thinks, and he breathes quietly. And he thinks that angry, tear stained, blood crusted Kunikuzushi and his ugly tapestry can get mad at him as much he wants, but he is going to love Kazuha in all his wilted glory. He’s taking for himself now, and the first thing on the list is Kazuha.

This isn’t the end. Not at all. In fact, Scaramouche is only just getting started.

Chapter Text

Scaramouche loved misery like a lamb loves a wolf.

Yes, not like a wolf would love a lamb, but the way a lamb would love its wolf. Each lamb has a wolf, and Scaramouche’s wolf was misery— similar to how a child raised with poison in every cup considers plain water to be a toxin. 

Things like that. Things like carving ridges in the sand with broken sticks and everyday phrases written in latin and smile lines and dimples. 

Oh yes, Scaramouche found comfort in misery— just not… this kind of misery. The kind of misery that would cause Nahida to kill him. 

Okay, Scaramouche relents, perhaps not kill him. But she would absolutely frown and give him a disappointed look, and that was arguably worse than dying. 

He looks down at the paper again, feeling the impending headache. You know those moments in which you try to study but you’ve just given up beforehand, so attempting to study is useless because you’ve already accepted that you won’t be retaining any of the information but you have to study because if you fail someone is going to ask did you study? and if you say no then they’re going to blame you for not studying but really that wasn’t the case at all and studying was in fact, doomed from the beginning—

“How is studying going?”

“Oh, perfectly,” Scaramouche mutters, letting his pencil drop uselessly to the table. Why on earth were there so many procedures for one body part? 

Kazuha is leaning against the door frame, pale curls leaning up around his face in a wispy way, and stray strands tucked behind one ear. He had a charming twist to his cupid’s bow, dressed in loose slacks and his jacket slung over his shoulder. 

A picture of perfect ease. 

It hadn’t been so long since the game ended. Scaramouche had been bunking at Kazuha’s apartment for as long as a day or two now, just because the tension in his own apartment between Childe and him had been impalpably horrible. After one awkward encounter too many, Scaramouche had shoved his binder, boxers, and schoolbooks into a duffel bag and crashed at Kazuha’s— who had been more than glad to have him. 

Kazuha tends to keep his apartment, and more specifically, his room, in dimmed lights— the fluorescent ones hurt his eyes, apparently— and with various clipped writings pinned to the walls. It would take a lifetime to read them all and an eternity to understand them.

Kazuha, who was now enjoying his last few days at Northwood. He had a graduation ceremony coming up— an official goodbye, and then an awards banquet— an unofficial goodbye. 

"Lover," he says, "you need to take a break.”

“No,” Scaramouche replies, pointedly ignoring the pet-name and the horrible warmth that comes with it. He feels his face heat up, and he averts his eyes from Kazuha’s all-knowing smile. “Well? How did it go? You got all dressed up for it, even if it was just practice.”

“It was alright,” Kazuha replies softly, leaning his head on the doorway, his tone takes on that lilt that Scaramouche has come to know as the moment whenever there is too much going through Kazuha’s head– sentimentalism, strings of sentences, and whatever else floats around in Kazuha’s thoughts. 

“Obviously it wasn’t,” Scaramouche scoffed, his lips curling up. “You look like a kicked puppy. What, did you trip or something?”

“I did not,” Kazuha smiles, “though I’m sure you will entertain yourself with daydreams of me doing so.”

Oh, Scaramouche has entertained himself with much worse daydreams than that. But Kazuha does not need to know that particular piece of information.

Kazuha had left early in the morning to attend graduation practice, complete with his cap and gown. It was almost insulting, considering Kazuha was younger than him– but again, Scaramouche was actually doing something that required genuine thinking and Kazuha was just throwing a small disc around. 

“I was just getting a bit… in your words, emotional,” Kazuha continues pleasantly, “graduating– or even practicing graduating, has seemed to have gotten me... nostalgic.”

And there’s that expression again. That longing in his voice, which makes Scaramouche’s chest feel tight– it was moments like these, when Kazuha lets out a quiet, embarrassed huff of laughter that Scaramouche remembers why he chose to find refuge at his apartment. Kazuha was just… warm. It was good. Kazuha was good.

“But nostalgia can be a beautiful thing,” Kazuha says, and his gaze is more intense. Scaramouche can't help but feel the weight of Kazuha's gaze, and while ignoring lingering looks and hair-breath touches are easy, avoiding Kazuha’s stone-heavy gaze is far more difficult. “Don’t you think?”

“Sure,” Scaramouche says, “if nostalgia can bring me back every piece of clinical expertise I've ever known, I don’t care if I have to hold hands with it and jump off a cliff together.”

Regardless, being gone for so long— a week, still, was enough for him to practically lose every bit of medical knowledge he had ever retained. He knows the best way to remember it all is to simply just head down to Michigan Reed and do a shift, but between avoiding Childe like the plague and a myriad of other things, he hasn’t found the time. 

And with his upcoming board exam… well, let’s just say it was not looking good for him.

Which is why he mentioned Nahida skinning him alive— while his mother overlooked his primary education, anything he did of his own accord, mainly in the states— was generally monitored by Nahida and the spies she claims to have. (Scaramouche does not believe her).

“I take it then that it’s not going too well?”

“What gave it away,” Scaramouche gives up, throwing his heavy medical textbook at him. Kazuha catches it fairly easily, which really only heightens Scaramouche’s irritation, but he can admit it was a little attractive. “you test me.” 

Kazuha lightly moves a few of the things off the vanity to take a seat— which are mostly just Scaramouche’s skincare and makeup products, mind you— and flips open the heavyweight. He takes a few moments to skim over the contents, trying to digest the words. 

“Well, I don't know most of these words,” Kazuha says after a pause, “Venti would be a much better candidate for this.” 

“Flip to page 104,” Scaramouche ignores him. Venti would have been the better candidate, but he’s been busy all day helping set up the banquet. “You can test me on regional terms. Even you would have learned something as simple as that.”

Kazuha does as Scaramouche suggests, flipping the page. He can see Kazuha’s eyebrows knit in confusion before he addresses Scaramouche again.

“I didn’t learn these.”

“You did,” Scaramouche crossed his arms, “Junior year. Bio II survey, anatomy and physiology.”

Everyone learns regional terms, directions, and body planes, and they pop up quite frequently, too. It’s the same way everyone learns P and Q conditionals— oh god, he doesn’t even want to think about that. 

But then again, everyone learns conditional statements, it’s just no one ever utilizes such a utterly useless concept, and therefore it fades into obscurity. He doubts Kazuha has much need for directional terms in his line of work. 

“Here, how about this,” Scaramouche compromises, “point to a part of your body, and I’ll name it.”

“How would you know you’re right?” Kazuha raises an eyebrow. 

“Stop asking ridiculous questions. I would know.”

“Well, I disagree.”

“Will you point already?”

Kazuha hesitates, thinking slightly. He slides off the vanity, touching his shoulder with light fingers. “This one?”

Scaramouche shifts, letting his back rest against the cool wood of Kazuha’s chipped closet. “Acromial. Unless you mean the bit below it, because that’s your deltoid.”

A point to his knee. Patella. A point to his neck. Cervical. A point to his calf. Sural.

A point to his chest. “Sternal,” Scaramouche replies. “unless you mean your nipple, in which case—“

“I did not mean—“

“—It’s your mammary. Or unless you meant to point at your entire thoracic cavity, in which you’d be pointing at your right pleural or your diaphragm. But you also could have been pointing to your pericardial or mediastinum, which is why you have to be more specific with your pointing.”

“I think it would be ideal if we take a break from regional terms,” Kazuha says mildly, flipping through the textbook, “how about this, then. Describe the procedure you would take in the case of a gunshot wound.”

“Where?”

“Chest.”

“Start a 16 gauge IV,” Scaramouche said, “check if the patient's lungs are clear, then order another blood set for a second IV and BVM if needed. Then take blood pressure. If the patient is tachycardiac, it might be a JVD—“

“Scara—“

“—might have to do a needle thoracostomy, too. Just depends,” he finishes, crossing his arms. 

Kazuha pauses. 

He lets out a quiet huff of laughter after a moment, settling the book down softly onto the vanity alongside his jacket. His fingers reach out, and before Scaramouche can let out a wary what are you doing with narrowed eyes, Kazuha lets himself lay down with his head in Scaramouche’s lap.

Scaramouche’s breath hitches. Kazuha is warm. 

It feels as though his hands are burning their way through the very thin fabric, his eyes flat and glittering. He’s like a drug to Scaramouche— his name in every crevice, every tug of his heart, everytime his neurons fire. Kazuha, Kazuha, Kazuha. 

Scaramouche wants him close. Scaramouche wants him gone. 

Kazuha goes very still as he collects himself. It’s taken Scaramouche heavens and above to be able to acknowledge he wants Kazuha without feeling a sense of panic and disgust. They’ve been taking baby steps. 

(Baby steps as in Kazuha pushes the boundary every few hours to see where the limit is. They haven’t reached it yet).

“… I wasn’t done.” Scaramouche says finally, crossing his arms. It’s hard to be upset as Kazuha’s hair fans out around his legs, but he can feel him relax against his legs when Scaramouche doesn’t push him away. It’s a close thing, though.

“I know,” Kazuha murmurs, “I couldn’t help it.”

They haven’t quite… put a name to it yet— whatever this maddening thing was. Whatever the name though, it was causing Scaramouche to want to press himself quietly against Kazuha– wanting to hoard Kazuha’s name in his mouth, and hold his breath to never let it out. 

It was a little bit like crawling around in moss— clusters of clovers beneath his palms, saying nothing and feeling everything. Maybe you don’t need a name for things sometimes— this was big enough for them both. It took a lot already to get to this point. 

“Scara,” Kazuha calls faintly, “where have you gone?”

Scaramouche snaps back to the moment, looking down to see Kazuha thumbing a piece of hair from behind his ear, tapping gently on his temple. Scaramouche curses the way he can heartbeat traitorously fast in his ribcage. The enormity of his desire disgusted him.

“Ah,” he smiles, seeing Scaramouche back to the present, “there you are.”

“Stop that,” Scaramouche rasps, the burn of his voice more pronounced than ever, “don’t do things like that.”

“You were spacing out. Take a break,” Kazuha’s voice is quiet, humming as he breathes on Scaramouche’s skin, “You’ve been working nonstop since yesterday.”

Ah, yesterday. The pinnacle of everything truly bizarre.

Scaramouche had been winding down from— well, everything, really— when he’d realize he forgot to text anyone to let them know he had safely landed. Not that he particularly cared, just that everyone would get unnecessarily upset at him. Seriously, it’s his business if he dies in a plane crash, but rarely does anyone understand that sentiment. 

And while Scaramouche had a lot of experience in calling his mother, he didn’t have experience in her picking up. 

It reminded him of a lot of when he was young, waiting in the living room for his mother to come home. The walls of his small world had been plastered and covered with maps and paintings, some of which Scaramouche was familiar with, and some of which seemed entirely foreign. When he had visited again, they had still retained a subtle glow of their colors, while others had been doused in a stale, sepia tone. 

The house– Scaramouche’s childhood house, that is to say, was an indescribably lonely place. He would often wander floor to floor, sitting uselessly in front of the looming grandfather clock that let out an echoing tick every few seconds. He was left to grow up within the bookcases and other meaningless items like mirrors and halls of paintings.

Consequently, his dinners were often silent too. 

But that didn’t mean he didn’t try to wait for his company to arrive– of course, he gave up soon, but in the beginning, he did wait for her to come home every night. Some nights she would, and she would remain as another woman in the house– talking to someone on the phone, sleeping in a private room, a ghost in the walls. 

Other days she would not come home at all. Either day, Scaramouche would wait. 

One night in particular, though, as he waited patiently out by the patio, holding a well-stitched together small doll, his stomach grumbled. His knees had scratches and scrapes, his hair tousled and his face set firmly in a determined look. She would come home that day. Scaramouche– Kabukimono knew it.

But she had not, and so the small boy had retreated back inside, dragging the small doll with him. It didn't matter to him then, as she often did not come home. He’d fixed himself a small dinner of stale crackers and milk, too exhausted to bother dragging out the tiny step stool to make something worth eating for dinner. And the crackers tasted fine enough. 

He’d placed it on a ceramic plate, taking the pitifully sad thing to the dinner table, where he sat himself and placed the small doll next to him. As he took a bite, he realized that the small doll had fallen off– unable to sit upright, as it did not have a spine– and onto the floor, away from him. 

He’d frowned, scooted away from the table to make it sit upright. Once he had done so, he gave it a small cracker and sat back down again. He took another bite before he heard a small thud and the doll fell onto the floor again.

He felt increasingly frustrated, but he smothered it down. He did not get angry. He’d simply walked over, placing the doll upright again. 

“Sit,” he had chided, as if the small doll was a kid younger than him.

And he had sat back down, and felt somewhat calm again as the doll remained that way. He took another bite, wiping his mouth politely when some milk dribbled down his chin. His mother would not be pleased if she knew he had wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Would she? The boy had no idea. His etiquette lessons in school were arranged by Miko, not Ei. But he was still eating alone. Who would ever have any idea? Certainly not Miko or Ei. 

Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t realize until he felt a heavy presence on his foot that he realized the doll had fallen again. 

He doesn’t know exactly what boiled up in him, but he pushed back his chair with a force, grabbing the small doll with more force than necessary. It had looked pitifully small in his hand as something choked him where he stood, his heartbeat fierce and upset as he practically threw it back in place, and making sure it stayed there.

“You sit,” he had spat, and there it was– that maddening, quick desperation, “Don’t you leave me too.”

The doll had said nothing, for it was a doll. But for a moment, the boy had thought it would respond. 

But in his force, he had broken the skin of the doll– stuffing spilled out onto the bridge of his hand– it was practically unsalvageable as more and more stuffing spilled out, widening the tear in the fragile fabric. Some of it dripped onto the floor, floating away in the breeze made by the fan and the open windows.

Scaramouche had stared at it. And stared at it, and stared at it some more.

He watched the stuffing fall out, impossibly slow. There was radio silence in his head, a quiet humming of a radio station. It took a moment for the reality to sink in, and by then, Scaramouche was choking on his guilt, his head screaming so loud it drowned out everything else.

“Wait, I didn’t— I didn’t mean to,” He had let go immediately, panicked, trying to scoop the stuffing back inside the small thing, like it was a real person and Scaramouche had killed them, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I wasn’t— don’t leave me too.”

The doll said nothing, for it was still a doll. 

His dinner was left cold after that, and Scaramouche stitched the poor thing together as best as he could, with his fingers bleeding. 

He propped the thing up against the towel dispenser as he finished his dinner, and tried not to look at it. But it was never the same, really– not with that monstrously horrible tear in its skin. All it really did was fill the boy with a type of guilt– a type of understanding that maybe something was happening to him. And so after a few years, he had stuffed the thing into the back of his closet and tried not to think about what he had done to it.

He didn’t bother waiting for his mother after that night. He resigned himself to using those nights to mourn whatever had lived and died between them.

So you can imagine it was a bit jarring to be sitting at Kazuha’s dinner table, his phone propped up with his mother– of all people– on facetime. 

“How do I… turn the camera around?” His mother had asked softly, blinking at him through the camera. She had gotten Miko to help her with it, but the sentiment stayed.

Scaramouche had felt his eye twitch, then. This is what he bled, died, killed for?

He had watched as the call hung up for the thirteenth time in the past ten minutes– once again the result of Ei pressing the wrong button to flip the camera around. He had forgone the idea of calling her back, just waited there with a textbook in front of him, pencil tucked behind his ear, and stared at the phone, knowing she had probably gone to get Miko again. 

And she would call back every time, staring at him disapprovingly and saying–

“Why did you hang up on me?” 

“That wasn’t me,” Scaramouche answered back each time, irritated and feeling the headache creep up on him. “You keep pressing the end call button.”

“So it’s my fault,” she had blinked, “I’m sorry.”

Scaramouche had pressed his lips thin and uttered a simple, “Whatever. Are we done? I’m busy.”

“Oh,” she then said, “No. I assume your flight went well?”

“It was fine,” he said, fiddling with the edge of the simple, silk tablecloth. Kazuha had more humble tastes, it seemed. He was content to leave it there, too lazy to give her anything more. In the end, though, he added on; “just tiring.”

“Are you, by chance, jet-lagged?” 

“Maybe,” Scaramouche replied, “Whatever. It happens.”

“It does,” she agrees, clearly struggling to keep the conversation going, “I recommend sleeping. It always helps. There is also a particular brand of Chamomile tea that I found helps with the headaches.”

Headaches. He hadn’t told her that he had headaches. Was she stalking him? She must be. But Scaramouche also doesn’t remember posting that anywhere. Had he accidentally texted her about it rather than Venti? Or maybe she could read his texts. Oh, god, did she install something on his phone when he was—

“— I had very bad headaches when I traveled overseas, so I assumed you would too, since we are… ” Ei pauses, “...but if you do not, I apologize for assuming.”

“No, I do,” Scaramouche presses his lips together. Perhaps she could have this win. Just this one, “you said… Chamomile tea?”

“Yes,” she says, touching her sternum,, “I would give the recipe, but Miko makes it for me most times, and she is not here as of now. Whenever I make it, it turns out rather… bitter. I am not sure what I am doing wrong. So perhaps you would find better luck looking elsewhere.”

Bitter. Her tea was bitter. Scaramouche almost laughed from the irony. 

They had hung up soon after that, just after the crook of midnight approached, edging the time that Kazuha would come home from gathering everything in his hockey locker. While thinking about that, he resigned himself to asking Miko to handle the phone business next time so he could get a proper conversation out with her. 

Even as annoying as it was, he was glad she tried again and again. It hurt him to admit it, but even as he was a little on edge as he stared at his phone, waiting for the call, he could feel that strange happiness well up in him when she called back each time.

But that’s something he resigned himself to think about later. He does not need to dissect himself apart when he can feel Kazuha’s breath on his legs.

“Stop that,” Scaramouche shoots a narrow look at him, and Kazuha gives his knowing smile in return. 

“You spaced out again,” He replied, and Scaramouche got the distinct impression that Kazuha had that specific, intense look on his face, “take a break. You will hardly get anything done like this.”

“I’m not sleeping,” Scaramouche snaps. He was still jet-lagged, and he was not the type to sleep it all off. 

“I didn’t say to sleep,” Kazuha replies pleasantly, “why don’t we go—“

“We are not going to the rink,” Scaramouche crossed his arms, “Pick somewhere new.”

Kazuha sighs, “You know you can’t avoid him forever.”

Watch me, Scaramouche thinks. Kazuha has seen nothing yet. He has a black belt in avoiding things.

But even he can’t avoid Childe forever. He supposed it had been a long time coming since the phone call. He knows Childe is probably worried, but once the duo set their mind to something, it generally takes a third party to get them to (albeit stiffly) talk it out. Sometimes it takes a fourth party. 

It would probably take a fifth party, too, but Scaramouche reasonably knows that they’re both at the end of their ropes.

“I’ll see him at the banquet,” he says, “I don’t care enough about it to reach out before then.”

“Then I think you’ll be needing a suit.”

Scaramouche turns to him, watching as Kazuha pushes himself upright, looking back at Scaramouche. His keys dangle from his fingers enticingly, like a cat to a laser pointer. 

“I have a suit,” Scaramouche reminds him, “We don’t need to buy one.”

And he did. Well, technically. 

The last time he wore a suit that he can remember was Niwa’s funeral. And while it didn’t contain pleasant memories, Scaramouche was not in the proper financial situation to be buying a new one. 

And neither was Kazuha, actually. Considering that while Scaramouche spent two plane tickets’ worth of money to return for the holidays, Kazuha spent nearly the same amount of money on gas. American gas prices in this current economy are nothing to laugh at. 

“I hope you are not referring to the one that's currently sitting in your apartment,” Kazuha says pleasantly, “in which case you would need to go back to—“

“I’m not going to that apartment,” Scaramouche interrupts, a light scoff leaving him, sitting straight as he could with Kazuha practically draped over him, “You go.”

“While normally I would,” Kazuha fixes him with a look, “You can’t avoid it forever, and I don’t intend to help you run away.” 

“Then I’ll buy one.”

“You just bought a plane ticket. I doubt you have the funds to afford a suit right now.”

“Then I just won’t go,” Scaramouche hisses, but even he knows the threat is empty. The words were harsh, but he meant them to be. They were empty promises and a halfhearted threat, and neither of them knew who had more control. 

Kazuha sighs, helping him up. Scaramouche is there, for a second– so close to him that Kazuha can feel the breath on his neck. He stills.

They are so close to one another. That might be a good thing. Or it might not. 

Condensed droplets on the window. Elm trees and the enormity they represent. Pine cones falling skyward, clockwork ticking backwards. Kazuha does not move until Scaramouche does.

The warm atmosphere is gone, again, and he is forced once more to address the nothing in between them. What are they? What can they be? Kazuha doesn’t know. 

He thinks of drugstore eyeliner and pipe tobacco, a vintage animal with claws, lavender spring-water in a clear glass, how love has a tighter grip on him than anything else. How it feels a little like fishhooks and hunger.

How Scaramouche and Kazuha are at a stalemate. An agreement. 

“I might have something in my closet,” Kazuha murmurs. So close to Scaramouche. One move to kiss him. One move to mess it all up. 

Scaramouche pulls away. Kazuha allows himself to flex his fingers over nothing, displeased with the absence of electric skin. 

When Kazuha first began to know Scaramouche— really know him, he meant, beyond passing glances at the rink and occasional hellos , he’d been a replacement for the high he craved. He might have been a different kind of relapse.

A shining star of tragedy. A bruise of honor. And Kazuha had taken it.

He wasn’t proud of how quick he was to jump to the opportunity— or how he didn’t even notice what he was doing. You don’t usually see grey dawns— but when you do, you take a picture. You watch until it breaches the horizon and leaves sunburn behind. That was Scaramouche.

But over time, the scrape that was left in the wake of that obsession was not the same ecstasy of Morphine. It was, daresay, something close to love— something small, quietly blooming. 

Kazuha hums as he watches Scaramouche rifle through the back of Kazuha’s closet with a disinterested look, weirdly excited just to be here with him. How odd. 

After a few good minutes of searching, Scaramouche turns back to him. “These are awful,” he says, “I was trying to be appreciative since it was your clothes, but I’m not showing up in a suit that looks like it could fit a Minotaur. I’m just going to go into overdraft.”

He hasn’t got enough money or time to afford getting the suit tailored to Scaramouche, though he would have liked to see that. He leans back on the bed, watching Scaramouche hold up a suit on his body to check it in the mirror. 

“Most of these are too big in the shoulders. Why have you even got so many suits? Isn’t one enough?” Scaramouche mutters, finding Kazuha’s eyes in the mirror. “Kazuha–”

“I’m not going to go get your old suit for you,” Kazuha shuts down swiftly and calmly. “Besides, do you not think it would be refreshing to wear a suit that hasn’t exclusively been used at funerals?”

“It was one funeral,” Scaramouche snapped, “and then I wore it at one of my mother’s parties before that.” That party had practically felt like a funeral, though. 

“Are they both not bad memories?” Kazuha replies, watching him intently. “I think the navy looks rather good.”

Scaramouche pushes it back on the closet shelf with the barest shrug. “It’s loose in the shoulders and sleeves. I might have more luck if it was a women’s suit. And I don’t like the navy. Or the maroon.”

“I’m wearing the maroon,” Kazuha raises an eyebrow, “am I wrong to assume that you’d like it on me?”

Wrong? No. Imprudent? Maybe.

“You mean you’re wearing maroon pants. You never wear the blazer anyway,” Scaramouche dismisses. And that was true, too. Kazuha often kept the blazer folded over his arm and preferred to keep his dress shirt loose and unbuttoned, with hints of gold jewelry. The blazer often felt rather restricting. 

He likes the blazer on Scaramouche, though. Kazuha tries not to look too intensely at the fine lines and points of Scaramouche, his sharp edges made of glass. He looks like he was wielded with deadly precision. 

“I like the black,” Scaramouche replies, but like might be too strong a word. Scaramouche isn’t a fan of suits, either– he prefers to stick to his oversized shorts. 

He stares at his reflection, analyzing his eyes, the slant of his nose. He has his mother’s face, but not her heart. In fact, he often wondered if he had a heart at all– but if he didn’t, what has been breaking all these years? Can a heart continue to break once it has stopped beating? 

“It’s not too big, either,” Kazuha replies amicably. He steps over, grabbing the small tag over Scaramouche’s shoulder, which signaled that it was unworn by Kazuha. “Or worn-out. It’s good. I like this leg cut on you.”

“Really.” Scaramouche crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow. The rough stone-on-stone burn of his voice is more pronounced.

“Really,” Kazuha replies, stifling a smile. “Your collar, though…”

He reaches a hand out, flipping it out and tugging down to situate it neatly around Scaramouche’s neck. Scaramouche’s hand falls limp, brushing the small potted plant. Scaramouche doesn’t mind plants. Plants don’t ask annoying questions.

Kazuha’s hand brushes his cheek. He’s warm, solid— stood there with his unshakable composure. Scaramouche wants to drown in him, to press his head against the juncture of Kazuha’s neck and shoulder. To be held. 

Scaramouche swallows. He feels revoltingly red, like the color of Kazuha is bleeding into him, making him sickeningly real. Nauseatingly alive. 

He doesn’t know how to explain it. 

Scaramouche has buried Niwa Hisahide in every place he’s been, and sometimes it feels like he buried himself, too. He’s spent so long thinking he should have died that he forgot he didn’t.

Kazuha makes him feel alive in a way that he forgot he was. A human in a wax museum. The only real thing. 

What are we? Scaramouche wants to grab Kazuha and shake him. He wants to rip his own hair out. Are you going to make a mess of me? 

“Are we leaving soon?” Scaramouche forces out instead, lest his inner thoughts get the better of him and make him say something gross and vulnerable. Wasn’t that what Sigmund Freud had said? That human nature was driven by innate urges? Granted, he had used it for some weird theories, but maybe he was onto something. 

“Am I to answer that?” Kazuha asks, hand still hovering near Scaramouche. Kiss me, he wants to say to Kazuha, and yet another part of him wants to pull away and throw up. 

“Yes,” Scaramouche says, “that’s why I asked.”

“I see. The banquet isn’t for another hour,” Kazuha replies, letting his hand fall away. Scaramouche nearly mourns the loss. “Would you like me to take you somewhere?”

Scaramouche drags his attention back to Kazuha, crossing his arms. “There’s no point if I have to ask.” 

Kazuha’s mouth curves. “Alright. Let’s go somewhere.”

“It’s no use anymore,” Scaramouche snaps, “I already had to ask.”

“Would you really rather stay here until the banquet?” 

No, Scaramouche thinks, but he doesn’t say that. He wants to be a bit more dramatic and petty for a few more moments– just to really let Kazuha know what kind of demons he’s letting into his house by courting Scaramouche. 

He just presses his lips together and he knows his message is understood when Kazuha presses a kiss to the back of his hand to smother his smile. 

The world almost seemed brighter than the sun. 

That was saying a lot, considering it was practically blue outside. It was still really early in the morning. 

On the drive there, Scaramouche runs his hands on the canvas of Kazuha’s car, like he’s seeing it for the first time. Kazuha watches him from the corner of his eye. And for once, Scaramouche is not driving nor is it a car he stole– he just sits there, swallowing the sun instead of absorbing it.

The town is quieter than it normally is— apricot trees amidst doves and dreamers, lemonade glass-jars on display in antique shops and kids with bags over their shoulders. Copper pans on sale, the small radio-shack playing cranky jazz music. 

They wander around small shops, corner stalls and small stands stationed confidently on the bare edge of sidewalks. The hydrants on west main street are open, the wind turning the water into makeshift sprinklers. 

They walk and walk and Scaramouche doesn’t know where they’re going. They dip into tiny shops, browsing around small trinkets. Kazuha buys a small pack of dice for Aether. 

Scaramouche doesn’t know where he’s going from here. Wherever it may be though, he hopes it’s not far from here. He hopes it’s not far from Kazuha. He doesn’t want to be the sixty year old rocking on a chair on his front porch, telling grand stories of his life as a teenager. Doesn’t want it to be over and still be the guy asking when will it happen?

Everyone always says to take baby steps to recovery. No one ever tells you how to start moving. 

“Scara?”

Scaramouche sees Kazuha next to the vendor selling rows and rows of flowers, tiny petals curling and blooming under his fingertips. There’s wisterias, lilacs, sunflowers, orchids melting into marigolds in a stream of sunset. Kazuha’s hand thumbs through them while the vendor’s cat curls around his arm. 

“Shall I get these?” Kazuha hums, “for the banquet? I was thinking of getting some for our coach. He’s been very patient with us all these years.”

“What about me?” Scaramouche raises an eyebrow evasively, “No flowers for me? After all the effort I spent trying to break up fights?”

Kazuha’s mouth curls. “We did not fight that often.”

“Were you there when I broke a fingernail trying to stop Wang Ping’an from ripping out Xiao’s eyeball?”

“Point taken,” Kazuha concedes, “then perhaps I owe you a manicure?”

“I don’t want a manicure. I want flowers,” Scaramouche says impatiently, “I was trying to be generous since it was your money. A manicure costs a lot more than flowers, and I doubt you have the money.”

“ My money is your money,” Kazuha replies, and every glance of his burns into Scaramouche’s skin. “Which flowers would you like?” 

Scaramouche opens his mouth, and then closes it. He’d been expecting an argument. A strike. A shout. Instead, he quietly motions to the marigolds on sale, and Kazuha buys them. 

They smell nice. 

They twist and hug around Kazuha’s fingers as he hands them off to Scaramouche, the stems clinging onto Kazuha. If Scaramouche didn't know any better, he’d thought they were alive. 

“Thanks,” Scaramouche says stiffly, the stone on stone rasp of his voice more pronounced. He takes the flowers from Kazuha, careful not to damage their delicate blooms. 

They continue their stroll through the vibrant town, the scent of the orchids lingering in the air around them, intertwining with the aroma of street food and freshly baked bread. Kazuha stores the flowers he bought for his coach in the trunk of his car, while Scaramouche carries his around. Those are his. Something that undeniably belongs to him. Which was a rarity in itself, considering he oftentimes felt as though his own name was not his.

The marigolds stay silent in Scaramouche’s hand. The town seems quiet. 

Scaramouche hasn’t been around too many of these places, too caught up in working until late hours by the convenience store or running across town for a shift at the hospital. Sometimes, if he was lucky enough to scrape together rent before the due date, he would forgo laying in his tiny flat and quietly watch the birds at the park. Sometimes he would write a research paper while he did it. That was the most he’d been around this area.

Kazuha clearly has more experience though, as he leads the two past the old corner sign, the large broken down networking tower, past the chipped seesaw at the end of town. Scaramouche can see the towering building of Michigan Reed hospital far in the back, blending into the far away hues of desaturated whites and blues, tinted by the early morning. 

He looks ahead again, squinting at the way Kazuha quietly leads them. They’re going uphill, and Scaramouche can see a small field, bordering on the edge of something that looks like a sea, waves lapping across each other and prickling at the rocks.

A pretty good place to get murdered.

“What are we doing?” Scaramouche asks, suspicion laced in his voice. 

“We’re running away. For a moment, at least.” Kazuha replied pleasantly.

Scaramouche raises an eyebrow at Kazuha's response, but he doesn’t object. Overall, this wouldn’t be the worst place to die in. Maybe Kazuha wanted to knock him out and sell his kidney to make rent this week after he just spent money on a bouquet for him. 

He looks down at the marigolds in his hands. They looked prettier when Kazuha held them. But the way Kazuha was caressing the petals made it seem more like softcore porn than it did anything else. 

“What’s the catch?” Scaramouche narrows his eyes, not entirely convinced. They reach the water's edge. Scaramouche can admit it’s a nice view, with a floating buoy out in the sea, the darkness of the early morning casting a blue tint over everything. He can see the hospital, the campus, the rink, like little lights in the distance. 

“No catch. This is Lake Michigan,” Kazuha murmurs, “I come here sometimes.”

“You can’t mean to tell me you come out here to watch the sea.”

“Have you any sense of romanticism?” 

“Plenty. I used to judge the attempts of Mona’s suitors from a scale of one to ten.”

Scaramouche watches Kazuha roll up his pant legs, in his maroon suit of burnished red-gold. He manages to get them a little farther than his calf before he wades into the water. 

The water splashes a little onto the edges. Kazuha holds a hand out for him to take.

Scaramouche scoffs, pointing to himself. Kazuha smiles, close lipped, mysterious. Scaramouche will never understand such a person. He regards the marigolds in his hand, the vibrant orange petals contrasting against the deep blue of the sea. 

And— maybe, against his better judgment, he rolls up the legs of his suit as well— though his goes a bit higher than Kazuha’s considering the difference in size. He moves until he’s standing next to Kazuha, petals clutched in his grip. 

It’s quiet. 

“Do you know what a surge is?” Scaramouche rasps suddenly.

Kazuha startles, looking at him briefly. “No.”

Scaramouche stares at the water. The blue of the early morning is receding slightly, slowly revealing the murky depths of the lake. “It’s also called terminal lucidity,” he explains, the words tasting bitter and odd in his mouth. He turns them over and over, searching them.

“I’m afraid it doesn’t ring a bell.”

“It’s when the body gives up on keeping you alive,” Scaramouche scratches, feeling a hard rock in his throat. He stares hard at the tiny bits of trash in the sea. “When there is no more hope. It instead puts all of its energy in giving you the best twenty-four hours before you die. A happy mood. Motivation. Hope to go on, only when there’s nothing at the end of the cliff.”

“I see.”

Scaramouche shifts next to him. Kazuha is warm. He's there. Scaramouche holds onto that thought with all his rotten, withered, selfish strength. 

Whether it be at the hands of frustration or irritation or the end of the world, Scaramouche doesn’t know, he can feel the warmth carrying to his face. The burn in his throat. The world finds itself in a pause. 

And slowly, cautiously, he lets his knuckles brush against Kazuha’s, a slight weight, a bird’s feather. Scaramouche stiffens at the contact he initiates, but Kazuha has seemingly gone even more still in response. 

I’m taking what I want now. That’s what he had said. 

He’s been on a path of self-sabotage for so long but now, for a moment, he felt like he was on the verge of something different, something better.

Something that stopped Niwa from watching his every move.

God, did Scaramouche treasure Niwa, but his gaze was suffocating. He watched Scaramouche’s every thought, every move. Or maybe he wasn’t watching at all. He didn’t know which one was worse.

Sometimes the guilt would get to him. Sometimes he would bolt up in bed, the overwhelming urge to dig Niwa Hisahide out of the ground with his bare hands, see where the bullet tore him apart. 

To rethink every time he thought of Niwa, cleanse his memory from dirty, algae-filled crevices. To cast him to the heavens and take his place in the ground to fill his grave so god doesn’t notice anything amiss. 

Scaramouche breathes out. 

He felt his knuckles slide against Kazuha’s. Then his hand was in his, Kazuha’s palm was pressed against her own. A tremor moved through him. Slowly, he let their fingers entwine.

Then his name is dropping easily from the crest of his lips. “Kazuha,” it's so intentional, something oddly vulnerable. The way it takes shape in Scaramouche’s mouth, like something warm. “I don’t think I want this to be my surge.” I want this to last. I want us to last. 

A flash of red. Kazuha’s gaze, like a butterfly tucked between someone’s shirt pocket, pressed against their chest. Kazuha, Kazuha, Kazuha. 

He knows he shouldn't. He knows it's probably for the best if he doesn't, for the peace of his own mind. But Scaramouche has grown far too tired of anguished, dull, depressing peace. He thinks he would like to live now. 

A crow caws somewhere. A storm is coming. They best get to the banquet.

His face is pelted with light mist, tousling his hair, his eyelashes. He'd let the whole world flood if he needed to. 

The wind blows hard, and Scaramouche sees Kazuha’s shirt press hard against his back. The wind tears off the petals of his marigolds, and Scaramouche watches them blow into the water. 

A tint of gold in a sea, burning through the waves and flickering. A tiny flurry of light choking in a void. 

Kazuha turns to him. His face is stretched in a close lipped smile, so bright it crinkles the edges of his eyes, and there’s just so much in his eyes that Scaramouche feels overwhelmed just looking at him. If Scaramouche knew admitting he wanted to live happily would grant him so much joy, he would die a thousand times over to see it again. 

“A storm is coming,” Kazuha murmurs, “Drown with me.”

“You and your metaphors.” He itches with the feeling of vulnerability, defenseless. The air smells like rain, electricity, something sharp and quick. 

But Kazuha’s lips are full of warmth, a reprieve from the storm. Vanilla and milk. The hint of shelter in a raging storm. The overhang of a store barely holding.

A kiss is the beginning of cannibalism.The world burns ten times hotter. Kazuha’s hands cupping his face. Pools of molasses. The storm does not exist. 

“You taste sweet,” Scaramouche complains into Kazuha’s mouth.

Kazuha breathes a laugh onto Scaramouche’s lips. “Bad as ever?”

“Yeah,” he replies, but there’s no actual annoyance in his voice. And then the wind blows, and Scaramouche and Kazuha careen together, stumbling as Kazuha steadies them both. 

“Stop—“ Scaramouche hisses, pressed up against Kazuha, the marigolds crushed between them, “you’re making it worse. We’re going to fall.”

Misty rain on Kazuha’s face, like glitter on his dimpled cheeks. A laugh escapes him as he pretends to drop Scaramouche, who shoots him the most withering glare he can. 

“Stop— stop,” Scaramouche shoves at Kazuha, irritation in the folds of his body, “you’re going to—“

“I won’t drop you,” Kazuha laughs, “and if I did, wouldn’t it come with a bit of romanticism?”

“Romanticism isn’t going to dry my clothes if you drop me,” Scaramouche remarks, unimpressed, “we’re late. Where did you park the car?”

Kazuha stops. His face stills.

“You forgot?” 

“I did not,” Kazuha replies. Scaramouche knows he’s lying. 

“You did,” Scaramouche snaps, incredulous. But it’s hard to be mad under such conditions. A sharp gust of wind blows again, and water splashes up to Kazuha’s pant leg with how much effort it takes for Kazuha to keep them both upright. 

“We passed a bike on our way here,” Kazuha hums thoughtfully, “it seemed to be abandoned. If we can get the vines off of it, I suppose I could bike us there.”

“I didn’t see a bike.”

“It was by the sign,” Kazuha says, “over there.” He points.

Now, what Kazuha did not think about, is that with one hand pointing and only one hand supporting Scaramouche, he has very little defense against the wind. Scaramouche is more than certain you have every clue on what happened next. 

He’s underwater for only a moment. 

The sound of crashing waves and the storm above does not exist for a moment. It’s muffled, quiet, and entirely uncomfortable. Everything is dull, distorted, and his face is cold. But he felt weightless.

Scaramouche stares at the marigold petal. 

Under the lake— he can see it on the surface, dipping into the water and pushing back up to the stop. Resilience. Or maybe just persistently annoying. Scaramouche doesn’t know. But it’s there.

That one’s for Niwa, he thinks. His last tribute. 

Maybe he’ll miss Niwa forever. Maybe he’ll forever stay in mourning. Maybe he will never get better. He doesn’t know what awaits, but he’s done cutting pieces of himself off to keep the grave watered using his blood. 

And maybe, Scaramouche and Niwa will meet again. 

On a sunny day, with purple cattails and a thin strand of wheat braided in his hair, if the universe wills it, Scaramouche and Niwa will meet again. Of course, this is the same universe that has cut and beat Scaramouche over and over again, but if these last few months have taught him anything, it’s that you can always bleed a little more.

The dead are for morticians and butchers. Niwa no longer belongs to Scaramouche.

Matrimony and gold. Devastation and whatever is beyond it. Kazuha pulls him out of the water. 

Digging a stranger’s grave is much harder than you might have originally imagined. However, do not let this claim deceive you, for on the other hand, digging your own is quite easy.

“Why are you wet?”

“Don’t ask,” Scaramouche mutters for what feels like the hundredth time. 

The banquet is admittedly well set up. At the end of the opulent hall was a small stage for speeches, a bar for drinks, seats, couches, tables, and people. Lots of them. 

Every step is one more foot in the grave for Scaramouche. He presses his lips together and pretends like he isn’t imagining everyone with a knife in their chest. He swirls his drink boredly, sticking close to Kazuha and resting his head on his arm whenever someone gets too close to bats her eyelashes too much. He was Scaramouche’s, regardless of what they were.

Kazuha had actually gone to his classes in person, in contrast to Scaramouche who just did the essays and work from home, so everyone knew Kazuha. It seemed to Scaramouche that Kaedehara Kazuha – handsome, polite, well spoken – belonged to everyone. He could sit at any table and be graciously accepted with warm smiles and warmer conversation. People ran up to him in between hellos and goodbyes so they could talk with him. And Scaramouche…

Well. It didn’t much matter what Scaramouche was, because whatever it was, it would not make Scaramouche feel like he belonged at Kazuha’s side.

But Scaramouche didn’t care for it. He wasn’t going to be the type that clapped his peers on the back as congratulations for a job well done. He wasn’t their friend, and he didn’t want to be. Not one person. So he wasn’t bothered by it. He didn’t care if everyone knew that Scaramouche looked down upon them. 

“Kazuha,” Heizou calls. There’s someone tailing Heizou, just barely seen. He pushes past someone, slipping them an easy pardon me , “Hey man, you made it!”

“Heizou,” Kazuha greets warmly, “who’s–”

Venti, who was tailing Heizou behind, mimed zipping his mouth shut. Kazuha’s eyebrows raise slightly, but he doesn’t talk anymore. Scaramouche, on the other hand, does not really care.

“What?” He crosses his arms, “loan sharks?”

“No, but that’d be preferable. I’ve just had the worst Judo schools try to recruit me.” Heizou replies, shooting Scaramouche a look. “They’ve been following me around since I got here.”

Venti was dressed in a white dress shirt, and much like Kazuha, he had ditched the blazer. There was a tiny cecilia in his pocket. Heizou was in a brown suit, though he kept trying to flex his hands out. 

“Glad you made it, Scara!” Venti smiles, poking at his cheek, “I’m Xiao’s plus one. He didn’t say anything, but I could tell he didn’t want to bother someone else, so I offered to go with him. Have you guys found your tables?”

“Are you the host or a guest?” Scaramouche mutters. 

“I don’t recognize a lot of the people here,” Kazuha says, “where’s the rest of the team?” 

“At the hockey tables,” Heizou nods seriously, “it’s not just hockey here. Since it’s the end of the year, the other spring sports have congregated as well. They’re handing out awards and speeches. They— oh, man alive, hide me!”

Heizou ducks behind a counter, Venti covering for him by standing tall. Two women claw their way out of the crowd, frowning when Heizou is nowhere to be seen. She turns to Kazuha.

“Have you seen—“

“No,” Kazuha replies. 

Her gaze turns to Scaramouche, who doesn’t deem her worthy of a response. She smells of pomander and like a raku bowl with steaming rice. After a prolonged period of silence where it is made abundantly clear Scaramouche is not answering, she sighs.

“A pity,” she says, and the woman next to her nods, “all that talent… wasted. What about you lot? Are you hoping to meet some people tonight? My friend here works for Vogue. You,” she assesses Scaramouche seriously, turning his face left and right before he could even process it, “would excel in modeling. If you’re interested, she–”

“It’s alright,” Kazuha smiles, because one more word out of her mouth and Scaramouche might’ve ruined his own career with his choice of insults, “I am afraid neither of us are looking to be scouted. We’re just here for a good time, which may come quicker if I have a serving of the steamed fish.”

“I insist,” the other girl says, “if my superiors could see you–”

“Woman,” Scaramouche hisses icily, “I am going to–”

“No thank you,” Kazuha interrupts firmly, leading Scaramouche away from the two. Heizou and Venti are nowhere to be seen, disappearing in the midst of the chaos. The storm outside unfolds itself in a mess of aching limbs and stretched thin patience, swollen, battering over their heads. Kazuha and Scaramouche stumble around, looking for the designed tables for the hockey team. 

The venue was quite pretty.

Blush colored tables, golden lighting, coral curtains, dusted in rose-pink and waving in breathless wind. He can see Venti sitting by Xiao at a different table– most likely for the soccer team, trying to save him from the burden of conversation. Scaramouche didn’t know Xiao had played soccer, and by the look of Kazuha’s face, it seemed as though he had forgotten about it too.

“Heizou said something about speeches,” Scaramouche says, letting Kazuha lead them, “are you giving one?”

“Yes,” Kazuha nods, the faintest ghost of a smile on his face, “they wanted me to ghost-write our captain's speech, but he did not want to perform, so the duty fell upon me, and I am not fond of letting people down. Ah, here we are.”

“Kazuha!” Someone crows, and Kazuha beams at them. The hockey players are congregated, and for once, not looking like a group of homeless people. They clean up rather well for a crew of insects. 

A lot of them are dressed in pollen-blue, the candle flickering as some of them stand up to greet Kazuha. Scaramouche can see the air shiver under the weight of so much movement, slow as water, tangled between arms and legs and stuck underneath barrettes and cuff pins. 

He entertains, briefly, the thought of stealing Kazuha away from these people, below splintered blue shadows of ugly things hanging from trees– boundaryless. He tangles with these thoughts, tainted with the terrible blood-red of desire, spending more time with the illusions than he would have months ago.

“You made it,” Someone said, and the illusion shattered. A pretty girl addresses Kazuha, who gives an acknowledging head nod. Her icy blue eyes fixate on Scaramouche a moment later. 

“Hello,” she greets, “I don’t believe we have met.”

Kazuha takes initiative when Scaramouche only regards her coldly. “This is my significant other, Raiden Scaramouche. Scara, meet Kamisato Ayaka. She manages the hockey team’s budget. Very well, too.”

Significant other. Lover. Partner . So many words, and not one managed to fit what they had. What did they have? Kazuha was so close. He was eons away. Scaramouche wanted to suffocate in him, tug him close, so close that their skin would touch and their hands would intertwine. What is that? Is there a name for a desire so consuming?

Kazuha, Kazuha, Kazuha. Scaramouche wants to drink him alive.

Kazuha waves off Ayaka’s apologies with a warm smile, wrinkling at the corner of his eyes. Would he look like that if they would grow old together? What would he look like when Scaramouche inevitably falls apart again and again and again? 

What would Kazuha look like if Scaramouche were to bring down Kazuha with him?

“I didn’t recognize you,” Ayaka confesses, apologies dripping from her mouth, “But I’ve heard so much about you. I’m sorry, I’ve been impolite. I’m Kamisato Ayaka. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Scaramouche totally forgot about her in the three seconds he met her.

“Wish I could say the same,” he replies, disinterested. Her dress is full blues and whites. It kind of looks like a decomposing whale carcass or… something. The team looks at him— and he nearly snarls an insult at them before he realizes— oh, they're staring because Kazuha essentially introduced him as his lover. 

“What do you want?”

“Nothing,” one of them says, Kaeya, Scaramouche thinks, “so this is the guy Kazuha’s been pining over. We’ve been finding love poems all over the locker room.”

Kazuha’s eyes snap to Kaeya. “That is not true.”

“No, We’ve seen it,” another one– this one, he thinks, is a woman named Yelan. She doesn’t have the look of a hockey player, but she has the student council tag around her arm. “Interesting taste, Kaedehara. Wouldn’t have guessed.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” 

“Suppose it’s good that he has someone around who knows what to do when he— or us, ” Someone corrects smartly, “inevitably gets our head bashed in….”

First of all, he’s part of the Trauma team in a hospital, not an EMT. He wouldn’t be able to do anything if Kazuha got his head bashed in unless he conveniently had thousands of dollars worth of hospital equipment in his pockets.

“Of course,” Scaramouche’s lips twist up, “let’s hope that one day he’ll get better at not getting his head bashed in.”

“I am not bad.”

“You must be deaf. I didn’t say you were bad. Some of the best oncologists died of cancer.”

“isn't that a radiation thing?” Yelan says, “I don’t think this is comparable.”

Scaramouche shrugs lightly, too disinterested to offer a response. Kazuha only smiles a little, politely nodding as the others shove each other to make room for both Kazuha and Scaramouche. 

Scaramouche looks around a little. People chatter within groups and one on one, holding hands of brothers and sisters and friends and lovers. Tonight, he thinks, there must be people getting something they want. A scholarship, a date, a goodbye. 

Good for them. Good for them, getting what they want. 

“Scara?” Kazuha murmurs quietly, into Scaramouches ear, “are you alright?”

“Yes,” Scaramouche says, ignoring the boy across from him that was giving him bedroom eyes. “You said you were giving a speech. Does that mean you’ve won something?”

Kazuha’s cheeks pink, his singular dimple showing through the rare show of pure abashedness. “I suppose nothing gets past you, does it?”

Scaramouche stares at the pink on Kazuha’s face. He supposes everyone in this room is a little guilty tonight. 

Scaramouche feels Kazuha’s thumb over his hand. He wants to pry him open and eat his heart, eat his morning showers and the receipts of groceries, of burnt toast and antique snow globes and eat every summer he has lived through. 

Scaramouche holds on a little tighter. He is so very hungry, and he would not like to forget the taste of Kaedehara Kazuha. He wants, he wants, and he does not like knowing that he wants, but he spits out wanting onto the ground as if it is a piece of rather foul tasting gum. 

“You’re cold,” Kazuha blows on Scaramouche and his conjoined hands, “do you dip your hands in ice in the morning?”

Scaramouche opens his mouth to give a response, but he flinches when the screeching of the microphone plays over the speakers. 

“Hello everyone!” Someone shouts into the mic, who echoes it throughout the hall. “The staff we managed to hire by the skin of our teeth is coming around with food and drinks, feel free to take some! While that happens, shall we begin, ladies and gentlemen?”

Scaramouche squints at the stage. A girl with bright, fiery blonde hair and extraneous amounts of red on her beams at the crowd. 

“Naganohara Yoimiya,” Kazuha whispers in his ear. “I believe she’s part of the Archery team.”

“Are they any good?”

“Not really,” Kaeya answers him instead. He’s smiling, his one eye twinkling in amusement, “Yoimiya is quite good, though. The volleyball team has been trying to recruit her for ages.”

They have to go through every sport that’s present. Yoimiya announces awards for cross-country and tennis, field hockey— which, during every award given to them, the hockey team booed. He supposes there’s some beef between hockey and field hockey, but he doesn’t really get it. 

Scaramouche is the loudest one laughing when Kazuha is awarded most likely to get hurt. 

Childe is awarded best all around, which Scaramouche claps for, but pointedly looks away. He’ll give his apology after the event. No need to kill his mood in the middle. 

The wrestling team had a most likely to accidentally kill someone superlative, which was awarded to Dehya. Scaramouche gives the nastiest, most sinisterly sweet smile he can give when Venti raises his eyebrows over to him when the superlative is announced. 

The Archery team gives their heartfelt speech, which has Kazuha pinching Scaramouche under the table every time the girl speaks. It’s not his fault, really— the shaking earrings on the speaker's head are making Scaramouche snort uncontrollably. Not only that, but it looks like the poor girl is about to sink through the ground in shame.

When she finishes, Kazuha gives her a quiet nod, passing her a quiet good job, Layla to raise her spirits when she passes by. Scaramouche nearly cries in laughter— sinister, crazy sounding laughter, but laughter nonetheless. 

Someone called Wriothesley— from the boxing team, Kazuha’s friends tell him, gets best dressed, and Itto is awarded least dressed. Even as he comes up to get the trophy, his shirt is wide open. 

And after field hockey is once more booed off the stage, Kazuha is awarded one more— 

“And to Kazuha,” Yoimiyia announces, and Kazuha braces himself— “the hockey team agreed, really, it was an unanimous vote—“

“Yoimiya.”

“Sorry, sorry!” she stumbles, “to you, Kazuha, the hockey team would like to award the unsung hero superlative!”

Kazuha blinks. The unsung hero superlative is a traditional one to give, half of a joke and half serious. It’s given to players that do the little things that show up in the box score, but are crucial to the team's success. 

Kazuha gets up, and he catches the eye of Yelan, who nods once. She mouths— thanks for keeping the peace. He gives a nod in acknowledgment. If the team got too rowdy, Yelan would have had to intervene. 

Four summers, all condensed into one award. Immortalized in cheap gold and a warm microphone. 

He thinks of what to say. Contrary to what he told Scaramouche, he didn’t have a speech written down. He didn’t practice building something breathtaking of the rubble. 

Kazuha catches Scaramouche’s eyes. It’s not dark in the room, just dimmed enough that there’s a noticeable spotlight on the stage. Scaramouche is dressed in the thick black of regret, an open wound stitching itself together with threads of intention. 

Scaramouche is a gun under his pillow. Burnt toast and damp hair. He tries to think of something eloquent, something people would like to hear at the epilogue. What comes out is—

“At my high school graduation, I could not stop thinking about Shakespeare’s Madonna-Whore complex and track runners.”

He sees a few people blink in the crowd, thrown off-guard by the sheer inelegance of it. He supposed they were expecting something tear-jerking and emotional and using— as Scaramouche puts it, flowery words. But poetry cannot be forced, and Kazuha does not intend to make it stand.

“Tell me a secret,” Scaramouche had rasped, stone on stone, one night.

“Am I to answer that? What kind?”

“Any kind.”

“They are not strictly related.” Kazuha says now, “but you could always find a connection if you look hard enough. Similar to Narcissus and Orwell, preachers and perverts, or any correlation between soldiers, slaves, and saviors.”

“Where is this speech going?” someone mutters. He can see Scaramouche throw a withering glare in the general direction. 

Kazuha thumbs the award. “The Madonna-Whore complex, for those unaware,” he takes a nod to some of the more intellectually challenged sport teams, “is the inability to maintain sexual relationships within a committed relationship. Sometimes these people are called men. For the sake of this speech, let us call them sinners— in honor of Shakespeare’s hamlet, for sinners have something to run from.”

Perhaps Kazuha should have written something in advance.

“So let us assume that we are all running. One foot in front of the other, with minimal glances back, following the same beaten track. And for the most part, we all run at the same speed. Some are faster. Some slower, though that fault lies with the people in their way. But for the lot of us, we run and do not stop. We leave our troubles in the dust— and oftentimes… we leave people, too.”

Kazuha looks back up. In his car, there is a brown bag of ripened peaches he’s craving. He had gotten it from the small rounds that Scaramouche and him had done, from a tiny stall on the sign with a hand-painted arrow that read peaches. There’s something golden about that.

Gold. Martyrs, matrimony, and gold . Kazuha can smell the lichens in the air, the sweet tang of perfumes and cologne. He’s suspended in silence for a moment, thinking of the ledges he reached for just to slow down for a moment more, the hit of morphine. Moments he spent with people not knowing it was their last time together. Years of experiences crowded at the forefront for Kazuha to pick and choose, in a single line, as if his memories are graduating, too.

“And for those people that do slow down—“ Kazuha continues, “are confronted with everything they left behind in the first place. Sinners faced with sins. Regrets that take shape in everything we have abandoned in our pursuit of something different. Reconciliation in the form of realizing there happens to be not one soul on earth who has the stamina to run for their whole lives.”

“I don’t have any secrets,” Kazuha had murmured back.

“Liar,” Scaramouche accused, wholly unimpressed, “everyone has secrets. The sages, the fools, the kings and queens.”

“Alright,” Kazuha said, “here is a secret. I am not very fond of thunderstorms.”

“Of what?” Scaramouche snickers.

“And oftentimes, you may run into someone,” Kazuha says, “fathers and mothers. Priests and heretics. A graveyard of tomorrows. Then, you may think; if I cannot slow down for them, then I will drag them along. But they’re not as fast, so they don’t last very long, do they? One more tombstone, one more tall tale.”

He catches Scaramouche’s gaze in the crowd– sharp, clear indigo eyes of a traitor, a hero, a god, a discarded detritus. A lover. Kazuha had called him his significant other earlier; that was a big word for them. A heavy word. But Scaramouche hadn’t contested it, and he wasn’t opposed, either. That was progress. 

“Therefore,” Kazuha blinks away, warmly, “when asked to draft a speech for our graduating class, this is what I came up with; you’ve done well, there is nothing I can say besides we are… long overdue.” We cannot run forever. 

“You’re messing with me,” Scaramouche says, narrowing his eyes at Kazuha.

“No,” Kazuha replies, his lips upturned with a faint smile, “really. It’s the noise, I believe. And the flashes.”

Scaramouche breathes out.  “Tell me another one.”

He addresses his team directly then, “and to my companions; a thank you. You had no reason to take me in, especially half way through the semester. May we… meet again one day. Until then—“ he bows his head a little, “do not be afraid to stop running. The world will wait for you. Please do not spend your lives thinking otherwise.”

He pauses then, a smile finding itself to his face and settling within him. “Perhaps this speech has gotten a little personal and specific,” he says, and a few in the crowd laugh, as if they’ve just remembered to breathe.  He addresses Yoimiya in particular, finding her fiery red dress easily. “Shall I start over?”

She shakes her head, and Kazuha can see tiny tears pricking at her eye. He takes a nod then, offering a bow in the general direction of the tables where the hockey team is seated. When he returns, he whispers to Scaramouche—

“Was it that bad?” he mumbles. 

“Not terrible,” Scaramouche answers, sharp and grinning, “better than Ganyu’s.”

“You said a lot of nothing,” Yelan says. She gets a scathing look from a certain someone. “No offense.”

Scaramouche looks at her with poorly concealed contempt. “I think you’re just upset you didn’t get a mention.”

“ If I recall correctly, you didn’t get a mention either.”

“If he drafted in advance, he would have mentioned me,” Scaramouche crosses his arms. 

“Would he have?”

“Yes—“

Kazuha sighs a little, exasperated yet a little fond, ready to placate the fight. The more Yelan and Scaramouche fight— fight being a very loose word, since they were exchanging increasingly sarcastically backhanded compliments— they looked a little like siblings. 

He raises his hands, ready to separate the duo when a headache starts to build on. He can take the aches and chills, but sometimes the craving does him in. He blinks, trying to flash away the black spots in his vision and waits for the worst of it to pass. 

Unsurprisingly, Scaramouche is the first to notice– keenly observant of Kazuha's every nuance and took notice in how little he was partaking in the conversation, wary of every twitch, every crease between his eyebrows as if one wrong move and Kazuha would disappear, even as Kazuha kept his face entirely neutral.

“Kazuha,” he says sharply, and Kazuha feels the smile touch his lips at the tone of voice. Scaramouche has a very particular way of saying his name— as if he holds every syllable between his teeth and tongue, sharpening them into knives and swords that cut his mouth before he spits them out, blood-coated.

Kazuha likes it. Scaramouche sounds like he’s aware he cares and he’s wholly disgusted by it. It’s an intriguing combination, but Kazuha appreciates his frank manner of speech. 

“Kazuha,” Scaramouche says bluntly, “what’s the matter with you?” 

“Nothing,” he says calmly, “just a headache.” 

They’re locked in a staring contest for another minute. Scaramouche’s unimpressed face told Kazuha he did not believe him very much. 

Ah, well. Kazuha supposes there are things that come with having a near-death experience every few days. Scaramouche has reason to not take it at face value. 

Still, he can’t suppress the warmth that boils in his chest when Scaramouche mutters, “Stay here. I brought Advil in my bag. Let me just go…” he sharply motions to the other end of the hall, “go get it. Don’t move.”

Kazuha’s lips part, hand on his chest, “You brought Advil for me?”

Scaramouche pointedly ignores that.  

Yes, he brought Advil along. He’d grabbed it on his way out of the house, slipping it easily into the coats’ pockets. It had been a last minute thing. He’s not mean, just frank— but even he can admit, albeit sourly, he does not normally go out his way to such an extent. 

He slips past Kazuha’s strong arms— grazing past a curtain of skin and bone, who obviously blinks at the touching gesture. Seriously, why did Scaramouche bring Advil for this fool? He’s gotten all soft, he thinks. He oughta bully the next person he sees to make up for it. 

Yes, he agrees internally, the next person. He reaches the section with bags and locates his fairly easily, still drenched and damp and bleeding color due to the cheap fabric, but the Advil is still tightly contained and dry. He grabs it, and then turns to leave, a snark on his lips already to fire at the next unsuspecting person. 

Well, in the beginning of this story, we covered quite extensively Scaramouche and his roll of bad luck. From the fire alarm setting off to a myriad of other, much worse things, the universe does not make it easy for him. And so, in true fashion, away from prying eyes, the next person he happens to lay his eyes on is–

“Comrade,” Childe grins.

– Childe.

He must seriously be the most unlucky person on the planet. He had half a mind to call up the James Randi Educational Foundation and ask them to pay up the million dollar cash prize in exchange to study him. 

Scaramouche looks at him. Squints his eyes and assesses him head to toe, and then decides Childe does not look hurt enough by his words for Scaramouche to apologize. Suck that, Kaedehara.

He turns away, his eyes narrowing as he finds himself face to face with Childe, of all people. The ginger’s grin was as infuriating as ever, and Scaramouche couldn't help but mutter under his breath. Childe doesn’t look nearly hurt by his words for Scaramouche to bother issuing an apology. He supposes Kazuha will just have to take the loss and move on.

"Just as gaudy as ever, I see," Childe chimed in. “No apologizing? No groveling at my feet? Not even a witty remark? I even did the hard part for you by approaching first.”

"Oh, how generous of you," Scaramouche replied, his tone dripping with sarcasm. He wants to dunk Childe’s head in a corner. “Really, I just can’t thank you enough.”

“No need for all that bite,” Childe snickered, “I saw you glaring at me earlier.”

Oh, so the guy who Scaramouche threw a vaguely offending glare at during Kazuha’s speech was this fool. He’s honestly not that surprised. “I was responding to your reaction. Play stupid games and win stupid prizes.”

“Ouch. Straight into the insults?”

Scaramouche feigns disinterestedness and resists the urge to tell Childe that insults look better on him than that flamboyant suit does. Well, looks like the role of being the mature adult falls onto Scaramouche once more, as it always does, as he happens to be surrounded by a group of teenagers going back backward on the evolution path—

Childe blocks the way. “I’m not letting you leave until I get that apology.”

“Move.”

“Who’s the Advil for?”

“Your mother,” Scaramouche smiles sweetly. Maybe he’s not as mature as he initially deemed himself.  “You are clearly not that upset over it. Get a grip on yourself.”

“Oh, but I was,” Childe says, “I felt awful.”

Scaramouche blinks.

“Can you imagine how I felt?” Childe asks, “We have an argument, I don’t hear from you for days, and then Venti’s telling me you got arrested and are on suicide watch. How do you think I felt? I thought… I had been the reason. That what I had said… Whatever,” he shakes his head, frustrated, “I called, Scara. A million times. I would’ve forgotten about the stupid argument if you had just let me know you were alive.”

Okay, first of all, he was not on suicide watch. If anything, he was probably on murder watch. Second of all, if Scaramouche was on suicide watch, then theoretically speaking, he would be the one feeling worse. Third of all, he can admit it does not sound that good when Childe lays it all out like that. Scaramouche shivers– oh god, maybe he does owe Childe an apology. What a disgusting thought. 

“So, I thought,” Childe says, “In exchange for making me worry, I just need an apology. You can keep all your secrets.”

Scaramouche regards him suspiciously. “That’s it.”

Childe shrugged, a hint of a smirk still playing on his lips. "Consider it a favor to the people here. I don't want them to have to witness another one of your temper tantrums."

Scaramouche stares at him. Then, he says, smartly, “Nothing you say to me is worth killing myself over. You had no reason to worry. But …” he shifts uncomfortably, crossing his arms and rubbing his temple, “Sorry.”

The word is molded with a healthy amount of both sincerity and disgust, like he welded it with precious and careful hands and only to smash it on the floor a second later. Childe beams.

“I didn’t catch that.”

“Too bad,” Scaramouche says, “I’m not repeating it. You should have listened the first time.”

It’s the worst apology ever. Scaramouche does not mean to be cruel, but that does not mean he has ever been kind.

But Scaramouche— big bad Scaramouche— has never been able to congenitally take much interest in other people. He preferred to watch the drama unfold, snickering at the insects who bat their eyelashes at others, pretending to be cordial only to hiss in private.

But, given that this was Scaramouche, any apology— no matter how terrible, was like a thousand flowers and a kiss on the cheek from him. 

“For the record,” Childe says, offering his arm to Scaramouche, who pointedly does not take it, thank you very much, “I forgive you, too.”

“Why should I care?” Scaramouche mutters, but pauses, sending Childe a glance of utmost suspicion and utters with a healthy dose of grudging admission, “but I suppose I’m glad you’re not throwing a tantrum over it.”

(It’s the closest you can get to a I’m glad you forgive me from Scaramouche. He thinks Childe ought to be thankful). 

“I don’t throw tantrums.” Childe replies, affronted.

“Yes you do,” Scaramouche counters impatiently, “the coffee machine is still padlocked, mind you.” 

He inches further away from Childe’s arm, but he accompanies him to the main party again, which seems to have exploded in a ruckus while Scaramouche and Childe were having an uncomfortable talk in the corner. There’s raucous applause, and Scaramouche nearly flinches from the sheer volume. 

He exchanges a look with Childe. He had thought that the award ceremony was far over– at least, the peak of it. He was sure the more irrelevant sports were still up there, but he doubts one of them is important enough to warrant an applause that big. 

Another roar of celebration erupts from the main area, and Scaramouche furrows his eyebrows as he and Childe advance back in the the population, shoving past some of the people to see who’s at the heart of it all. Venti is standing in the middle. Typical.

“What’s–”

“I’m quitting nursing,” Venti smiles, his cheeks pinched in a bashful smile. “I’m pursuing singing.”

A few of their close companions congratulate him again, thumping his slender figure on the back and asking where he intends to go from here, but Venti only has eyes for Scaramouche, seeking his expression.

Scaramouche knows why. Venti had long wanted to quit nursing, but he stayed because everyone else who had been through the shooting had quit. He had been there when the world had ended, and he stayed there for Scaramouche. But now…

A conundrum builds in Scaramouche’s chest. He has never been one for keeping things in eternal stasis, chained to the same things for months. But it still feels bittersweet in his mouth. 

I’ll stay with you, Venti had promised. He’s breaking his promise. Scaramouche thinks, but it does not bother him too much– he understands, and he will hold his hands over his ears so he will not hate him. 

Venti’s face is dust-sprinkled, watery red eyes as they stare at each other. Despite it, Venti looks happier than Scaramouche had ever seen him. For a fraction of a second they looked at each other, then Scaramouche gave a tiny jerk of the head that he hoped Venti would understand to mean, well - if you must.  

The curtain call has come for this chapter in his life, the month taking a bow at the forefront of the stage, full-throated and conceited. Venti smiles so brightly Scaramouche can feel the lights dim in the room, as if he takes their light and makes it his— good god, wasn’t it his?

“Good for him, huh?” Childe says wistfully to Scaramouche, who doesn’t know what kind of expression must be on his face right now, but when Childe looks at him, he falters.

“Scara?”

“What?” 

Childe opens his mouth to say something, but clearly rethinks it, shaking his head. “Nothing. You’ve changed a lot, Scara.”

“You haven’t,” Scaramouche says.

“— I don’t know how to say it,” Childe continues, ignoring Scaramouche, “you seem… better. Good-er.”

“Good-er is not a word,” Scaramouche says.

“I don’t know what it is,” Childe smiles, close-lipped, “It’s nice to see. I remember you couldn't even get out of bed for a lot of days. You would just lay in bed staring at the wall. I spent most of our first days together memorizing the shape of your back.”

Scaramouche winces. He prefers not to remember how quickly the power balance tipped in Childe’s favor in their first few days at roommates. 

“And now look at you,” Childe lets out a laugh, “smiling in public. You’ve come real far.”

Smiling? “I was not smiling,” he insists. 

“You were,” Childe says, staring at Scaramouche. “What happened? Did something happen when you visited your mom or was it just as bad as before?”

Calling his mother. Hugging her. Making plans with her. Crying to her. Things that feel holy, like his mother is a god he decided to start believing in again. He can’t explain it. She may not have been there for his whole life, tormenting him in the back of his mind, but she’s trying.

It’s more than he can ask for, but it’s not enough to patch the abyss between them. It may not ever be enough. But she gave him a new chance, and so he will do the same. 

Scaramouche opens his mouth, and then closes it. “It was fine,” he says, “not as bad as before. It was… good-er.”

He leaves Childe there, sure he’ll see him at home later. He thinks, briefly, of asking Kazuha to drop him off to complete a shift at the hospital after this, but he doesn’t feel like peeling off the layers of his suit to change. He’ll just have to rawdog the exam, which arguably he shouldn’t do, considering that exam practically dictates the path of his life, but when has that ever stopped him?

Speaking of Kazuha, the after-mentioned man is leaning against a table, his trophy standing next to his leg proudly. His hands are in his pockets, sleek and smelling of bluebells in a testament to his cologne. He looks like a wolf, almost, dressed in silk and with flowery words and gentle demeanor, but a wolf nonetheless.

Scaramouche stands next to him. Kazuha breathes out quietly, taking his hand out of his pant pocket to brush it against Scaramouche’s. 

Scaramouche stares ahead. There’s something between them, something strange, hideous in appearance and divine in taste. He stands there, feeling like the tenderness being offered to him is proof he was ruined. 

“How was it?” Kazuha asks.

Perceptive as ever, Scaramouche thinks, but he answers, lip curling in distaste. “Fine. I’m sure Childe will find a way to make me make up for it. He’s always been unreliable like that.” 

Kazuha laughs, “unreliable? Even as a inspiring poet, I am not sure I have ever used that word in such a way.” 

“A poet,” Scaramouche repeats, and then feeling significantly lighter, he turns to Kazuha and says, “Kazuha.”

“Yes?”

“Tell me,” he says, fixing Kazuha’s tie, “is good-er a word?”

“Not necessarily,” Kazuha says, wrapping his arms around Scaramouche’s waist, “but I have used it. I suppose that makes my judgment unreliable. But I prefer to think myself romantic.”

He can feel Kazuha’s eyes on him as he tightens and adjusts Kazuha’s tie. It feels suffocating. It feels liberating. It's everything. He wants Kazuha to want Scaramouche just as much. He wants to set Kazuha in the ground and make an altar of his name. 

“They think we’re dating, you know,” Scaramouche says, narrowed eyes, now done with the tie. He doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands, but the space between them feels too small for them to stay there, so he sneaks them into Kazuha’s pockets. 

“I know,” Kazuha replies pleasantly, “if I did not know us, I would think so too. The team used to tease me for staring at you during practice.”

Scaramouche snickers, “that long?”

Kazuha’s reply is calm, flat eyes fixated on Scaramouche. “You have no idea.”

”Not concerning at all,” Scaramouche mutters.

”No,” Kazuha agrees, ignoring the sarcasm, “are you prepared for your exam?”

”I would be, if someone didn’t drag me out.”

”Will you be alright?”

“Probably,” Scaramouche shrugs, “But I am preforming a pericardial repair. Those are always… a little unreliable.”

That’s underselling it, he thinks. He hasn’t preformed one since Niwa was killed. But he’s tired of running, and preforming one for his board exam seemed at first, cruel, but Scaramouche— 

If he fails and his patient dies, then he gets the last bit of closure; there would have been nothing he could have done to save Niwa. There was comfort in knowing he did everything right, and he just… died. But, of course— he would fail, and it would be over. 

But if he succeeded… well. Acceptance is a slow thing. He would have to live with it. 

Nothing is painless, and especially not healing. Not from addiction, not from trauma, not from grief. But he is here, Kazuha is here, and his hands are warm in Kazuha’s pockets. What more could God want?

If only his younger self could see this— what would he say? Love turns on the lover and gnaws. 

If a kiss is the beginning of cannibalism, as Scaramouche twists his hands in Kazuha’s hair, he can only think; eat me, eat me, eat me. 

Chapter Text

Believing in god is the same as believing in your mother. 

Or your father, or any person that held your hand when you began to write in shaky, pen-filled, paper-ruining, cursive. In its simplest sense, Scaramouche thinks, healing is believing.

And all that ugly, ruined paper that crumples in the trash— buried below tissues and wrappers— isn’t that forgotten, too? Out of sight and out of mind— or whatever it is that they say. 

But when you don’t see, you believe no longer— and Scaramouche’s soul has been caught between the divinity of his mother and the mortality of God for too long. He spent eons digging his fingers into the myth he became– the story he was forced to be— only to find that every step he took was embedded into text. Every word he said was prose to be read, the narrative tugging at him like a nagging mother.

You see, that’s the thing— Scaramouche did not expect to live this long.

His adolescence was woefully uneventful, his teen years a disaster, and everything beyond seventeen was uncharted territory. He can only think it is similar to how pirates feel when the sea changes— when they can no longer tell where they are headed, and they sail into the foggy waters— waters where no one has stepped. Similarly, does God feel the same when people change the land and the water, when they dig their feet into places that weren’t meant to be seen? 

Godhood is watching people see things they shouldn’t— the backrooms of life, the inner workings of the earth, every wire, every button, every circuit. A conundrum of unused material.

His life was like that for a while. Like he was meant to die, but just… didn’t. And then he wandered this world as a ghost, seeing things he wasn’t meant to, because what he was meant to be was— well, dead. Like an audience member seeing what’s behind the curtain. Seeing the life he might’ve had. 

Forsaking godhood in the face of disbelief is painful. But if you can find Scaramouche, wherever he may be; on benches or couches or in locker rooms or at the edge of the world, he will probably tell you that healing is a thousand times more frustrating, annoying, and painful. 

And where he is, now; sitting on a hot bench, feeling his very being wrestle with martyrdom as people pass him by. His fingers flex over nothing, the very bare of his fingers grazing against the small, sweaty, and relieving press of the cold water bottle he’d brought for Kazuha. 

The sky is blue.

Unbearably so. In the moment between one and the next, he is human. The void inside him where whatever filth his heart pumped is a landfill of corpses.

His chest, however, holds tentative happiness— small, budding seeds of growth. Scaramouche did not expect to live to this age. He hadn’t thought he’d still be around— but he still is, stubbornly breathing. 

It ought to be a good thing. It feels like one, but misery claws at his chest, chanting— this is what you deserve. 

Scaramouche does not listen– he keeps his gaze straight ahead, swallowing blood in his mouth and taking breath after breath as an act of spite. 

This is what he bled for. What he killed for, what he died for. Bloodied his fingers and hands for texts and messages from his mother. For the feeling of holding someone’s hand without throwing up. For his heart to take the wheel, finally. 

For opportunity. For godhood. For martyrdom. For Kazuha to hurry the hell up. 

He stays still as others pass him by, but he doesn’t take notice. He is like a statue, stoney and still– the only indicator of his humanness being his expression. 

He watches people embrace one another, and he doesn’t get sick neither jealousy or disgust— Even if both wage a war with misery in the same moment. He supposes he had grown content with being miserable, and old habits die hard. 

Scaramouche lets out a breath. 

Everything changes. Slowly, inch by inch, ledges to fields, time halting to a crawl, things move. Mothers to grandmothers, seeds to buds to flowers. Change is inevitable.

Only right now, Scaramouche would lay down his life for the change to come quicker. 

The sun beats down on his back, scratching and clawing and opening wounds. He had half the sense to not wear black, but he could practically feel himself being boiled alive. The heat is unforgiving. 

He squints, peering through the poor shade his visor gave to look up at the stage. Kazuha is still up there, shaking hands with a few others and doing things that are befitting of freshly graduated people. What those are, Scaramouche has little to no idea.

Still, he laces his fingers together, waiting for Kazuha to finish. He sits there, legs crossed, sitting next to an old woman, who crinkles her newspaper-wrapped bun with wrinkled fingers. Scaramouche has no quarrel with her, and so they sit amicably together.

From where he is waiting, he is like a bell tower overlooking ruins. A spectator watching lovers break up, melodrama in motion: he honestly does not mind it all that much.

The people look like ants, and they act so; insects in a garden, working towards a predetermined end or something that would smartly reference capitalism. He would ask Kazuha, but that man would twist such a cruel reality into something more gorgeous, like– 

“Is that for me?” 

Well, not quite.

But Scaramouche looks at the new voice, and then back at the aforementioned water bottle. “Yes,” he says brusquely, because there is really no point in covering it up. 

Kazuha is dressed in the dark blues of his graduation robe, holding his degree and his certificate. The cap is crooked, sliding down his head and eternally still in repose, but on his head nevertheless. Scaramouche supposes even the inanimate things have respect for poets. 

“Thank you,” Kazuha smiles, his face pinching. He pulls Scaramouche up, and Scaramouche is close to him; so unbelievably close. Kazuha’s arm is winded around his waist, pressing the two together. 

“Huh. You look good,” Scaramouche says, raising his eyebrows, “you would look even better if you could tame that hat of yours.”

He pushes it up again, frustrated as Kazuha chuckles into his sip of the water. His face heats up at the sound, feeling the snakes in his stomach coil tightly around his heart. Seeing Kazuha’s apparent amusement, he retracts his hand and says, “Are you done yet?” 

“Yes,” Kazuha says, capping his water. His eyes are twinkling, matching the various cords and banners around his shoulders, most notably, the bright greens of the hockey team. Why the hockey team chose green, he would never understand. “There is no one you want to congratulate before we leave?”

“It’s not as if Venti is graduating,” He frowns, “And I’m not moving out of Childe’s apartment for another good few months since the lease says so. I’m sure he’ll squeeze it out of me eventually. Whether it be blackmail or otherwise. That man has no morals.”

“He is not that bad,” Kazuha insists, looking across the football field to Childe. “you don’t want to say congratulations to him?” 

“What a gallant offer. Shall I get on my knees and kiss his shoes, too?” Scaramouche smiles sweetly. No, he can’t say he’s jumping at the opportunity.

Kazuha’s staring far off on the field– always blessed with the better eyesight, of course– and Scaramouche reluctantly follows his gaze. There’s a boy on the field with flaming red hair.

Childe, of course. No one else has such a hideous hair color. A hair color, though, that contrasts with his dark robes. But for a second, he looks like someone else. Someone Scaramouche has not seen in a while. 

He looks like the boy in mud-caked sweatpants and too-small shoes Scaramouche had met in a worn-down American balcony. That place was a cesspool, if Scaramouche remembers so. Unbearably hot during the summers. Sweltering, really. The streets smell like sewage and rotten cabbage. It was rife with corruption, and crime rates were sky-high. But just for a moment, Childe looks the same as he did when he talked Scaramouche down from the high-wire that night. 

Like the space between two golden colors, one burnished and the other bright, Childe looks like his environment; one that Scaramouche was in, too, but the colors might’ve rubbed off on Childe, he thinks. 

He looks like the boy who might have saved Scaramouche’s life that day. He looks as average as ever, with tears in his eyes and the most emotional you would ever see him. Scaramouche remembers that night, through his drunken haze, the pain flaring in his chest and every whiskey shot he took to erase it in the currents of alcohol. 

He was emotional that night, and he’s emotional now. Maybe twice as ugly, though. 

But he knows what comes next in the story as well as you do, so there isn’t any real reason to repeat it. The story plays out, and Childe might have saved him. He had jumped over on that high-wire, determined to save him, and Scaramouche did not resist the urge to be saved– what good would that have done? 

And since that night, Childe haunted him with a knowing look on his face– like he had seen it all, as if the memory of how Scaramouche destroyed himself that night would shoot him up to Godhood and he would take his rightful place among Hera and Athena– but that does not happen, because even if he saved him, Scaramouche shoots him in the back with every sneer and snarl, and Childe falls right back to the ground. 

Childe turns to look at Scaramouche across the field. Only this time, he does not have a knowing look on his face, and Scaramouche does not have a sneer. 

A boy of similar hair is next to him, girls up to his shoulders and two elderly people. This must be his family.

The last time Scaramouche met Childe’s mother, she had a full head of fiery hair, curling at the tips. And now— if he tilts his head just a bit— and it may be a trick of the light, but he can see the beginnings of gray hairs.

No sneer, no look, no head full of hair. It’s change in the purest form. Scaramouche takes it– the change, he means– and unfurls it in his palm, squeezing it through his knuckles and letting it taint Kazuha’s shoes in hues of worn-out and burnished shades of gold. 

“He’ll be fine,” Scaramouche breathes out through his nose. Time rolls like a ribbon, a ball for a dog to chase. “Unfortunately, I’ll see him later regardless. I’d prefer to give my regards in private.”

“We are hardly in private.” Kazuha reminds. Scaramouche would really rather do without the fluttering of his heart around Kazuha, but he can’t help it– pink flushes his cheeks. 

“Well, I haven’t given you your regards yet,” Scaramouche says impatiently. “as you can see.”

“Really,” Kazuha hums, calmly, poised as ever— his hands wrapping around Scaramouche, pressing them together tightly. “I think I would prefer them now.”

Scaramouche scoffs again, but his mocking laughter fades out as he looks into Kazuha’s face, impossibly close— too close. Christ, does this man have a sense of boundaries? 

Still, there’s a part of Scaramouche that thinks that they’re maybe not close enough.

He hopes there is no evidence of damning hunger in his own face. What is there, he wonders, off-handedly, that Kazuha is seeing in his face? He does not want his soul to be any more hideous than it is already.

“Fine,” Scaramouche says briskly, turning to Kazuha properly. He adjusts himself, letting his eyes flick to the other’s eyes every now and then. With as much disinterestedness as he can possibly muster, he says, “you did it. Congratulations. Happy now?”

Kazuha inhales. Scaramouche can never tell what he is thinking. 

“No,” he replies gently, and before Scaramouche can reply, he takes the hat off of his own head and places it on Scaramouche’s head, thick like glossy wine. “You did it.” 

Scaramouche opens his mouth, feeling oddly like he thinks something cracked in his chest, the way it might feel if someone punched him there.

Kazuha beats him to it, saying, “You’re alive because you want to be. That’s more than anyone could have asked of you months ago.”

Scaramouche closes his mouth, feeling oddly like he might cry, “don’t make this about me,” he says, his throat dry, “you’re the one graduating. You made it and you did it while struggling to sobriety. That alone is more than most of these other insects will ever do in their lives.”

Kazuha laughs, his eyes wrinkling at the edges. His dimple sticks out again while a peek of red comes through half closed eyes as he replies, “Fine. I suppose we both did it.” 

“I’m far from graduating.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“I’m not done getting better either. And neither are you,” Scaramouche says bitterly— the word better twisting cruelly on his tongue. Kazuha’s still got a lot more sobriety coins to collect, and Scaramouche has a lot more of sobriety coins to steal. “So you’re wrong on both accounts.”

“I know,” Kazuha says simply, “I know. It was the message of the words, which I now realize was entirely lost on you.”

“Was not,” Scaramouche grumbles, but Kazuha only takes him by the hand, leading him around. 

“Come with me,” Kazuha says, “I’m almost done.”

Scaramouche stays silent, like a cold stature of ice as Kazuha says his last goodbyes, his last few congratulations. He sees Kazuha greet people with old jeans, the leathery smell of jackets and books and a hotel pool. Scaramouche watches it all go by.

It’s oddly… well, perhaps not mesmerizing. But it’s something. Something without a word. 

It’s like watching the month eat them all, ties and jewels and pins and cords. Something like washing dishes and realizing that sometime between yesterday and twelve years ago, you’ve grown up. Wearing happiness like an accessory. 

Scaramouche breathes out. He needs to remind himself of that sometimes— that he is alive. Not often, but sometimes. Kazuha smiles at people and shakes their hands, a creek of reverence, touched by lips and palms and arms of wanderers. 

“Kazuha!”

Scaramouche turns. Venti is there, pink-faced with flushed cheeks, his hair in disarray. Xiao is closely following him, and if Scaramouche tilts his head, he can see a few— three or four— chairs on Xiao’s back. Xiao doesn’t seem too put off by them, only the occasional sweat— though, that might be from the sun.

“Venti,” Kazuha greets warmly, “Hello.”

“Congrats are in order!” Venti smiles, bright. “Now— Heh, you wouldn’t mind—“

“We would,” Scaramouche says bluntly, because he knows exactly what Venti was going to ask, “why is Xiao carrying the chairs? Didn’t you offer to clean up? What are you waiting for? Take the chairs from him, then.”

Venti flushes, caught in the act, “Well—“ he coughs, “I am just a simple bard— what makes you think I can lift something of such caliber? Besides, Xiao is having the time of his life!”

Xiao’s face twitches imperceptibly. It’s hard to tell if he’s having any emotions at all. He just looks perpetually displeased.

“Who calls themself a bard in this day in age?” Scaramouche scoffs. “What are you, an ancient relic?”

“Oh, so you have a problem with me calling myself a bard, but when Kazuha starts speaking in ye old english it’s romantic?”

“When have I ever—“

“We have somewhere to go,” Kazuha interrupts, slightly amused, “So I’m afraid we can’t offer our help. But please, send my regards to Hu Tao.”

Xiao’s eyebrows twitch a little. “Hu Tao?”

“Since she’s part of leadership, she was the one who organized the graduation,” Venti explains, smiling cheekily. “That’s why the pre-certificate speech was so elegant, so well-poised, so rhythmic—“

“— so eccentric?” Scaramouche offers drily.

Hu Tao’s speech was a thing for the pages. Oddly-strewn wording, unique metaphors, and drawn out analogies. By no means was it bad, it was just…  far from what you would expect.

Oh, who is Scaramouche kidding. It was totally awful. Almost worse than Layla’s speech from the other day. 

“Eccentric?” Kazuha repeats, thinking it over, “Well, I suppose it could be seen that way. It was not that way when we wrote it.”

Venti and Scaramouche’s heads whip to Kazuha. Venti looks as though his soul has been sucked out of his body when he weakly asks, “You wrote it?” 

“Part of it,” Kazuha easily concedes, either ignoring or oblivious to the way Scaramouche chokes on his laughter, “It was perfectly fine when I saw it last. They must have changed it between them and now… though I suppose Hu Tao’s delivery had something to do with it. Was it good?”

“Award-winning,” Scaramouche snickers.

“I can tell you don’t mean that,” Kazuha says, but he does not seem put off by this in the slightest– in fact, he nearly seems chipper, “But I appreciate your frank manner of speech. I will take it into consideration next time– are you ready to go?” Kazuha asks, and Scaramouche blinks back into the present.

“Are you?” Scaramouche scoffs, looking at him with poorly concealed contempt, “are you done saying congratulations to the entire grade?”

Kazuha’s face pinches into a smile, “It was not the whole grade,” he protests, but his eyes catch Scaramouche’s, who averts his face sharply. “But I suppose I am done.”

“Finally,” Scaramouche mutters.

“Well,” Kazuha says lightly, “I might have spent a little too much time than normal. I was getting a little sentimental. But you are right— we should be off, unless we are looking to be late.”

Scaramouche breathes out quietly. Good god, finally. He could feel the edges of summer creep on them— and he can practically already see days of pot-smoked brisket and tooth-paste marred reflections in mirrors. The sooner they get out of here, the sooner they would arrive. 

And they do not seem as damning to him as they did before– and maybe it’s a bad thing just as much as it's a good thing. 

“Late?” Someone says, and after scanning the black-tar ground, Scaramouche finds Heizou leaning against Xiao, chugging from his water-bottle. It’s nearly half-finished. “Late to what? You got an appointment or something?”

“Something like that,” Kazuha says simply. He gives a polite nod to Heizou, tugging Scaramouche away from the group of people that were parading around them.

“Karaoke night at Venti’s at nine, Kazuha!” Heizou shouts after them, which, for the record, is a horrible idea. It’s similar to when you're carrying your groceries, yards away from your car and you decide to open the trunk. Are you not afraid of random people stealing your car that way? Scaramouche, for one, has thought about it many times. He was confidently certain that he could fit through the tiny cracks between the roof and the backseat to get to the driver’s seat.

Well, that was just like this. What if some unfortunate soul showed up to the karaoke night and killed them all? Checkmate, sucker. 

“— and bring Scara, too!”

Damn you.

Scaramouche has no doubt that he will spend the next couple of hours convincing Kazuha he has some prior commitment— and most likely, come out unsuccessful. Heizou has just condemned him to hell and he has no idea. 

Kazuha signals that he heard him, a simple wave of his hand backwards. He hums on as they head to the car. There’s confetti on the ground, chairs strewn across fields and lost graduation caps, bottles, and whatever else got lost in the rush. 

Scaramouche briefly smiles– Venti had volunteered to help clean up. What an awful decision to make. Luckily, Scaramouche was gifted with the brilliant gift of telekinesis and knew this was going to happen. Or something like that.

Well, it’s not exactly telekineses. More like unparalleled wisdom. It comes with age.

“So,” Kazuha starts, eyeing Scaramouche from the corner of his eye, “did you like them?”

Scaramouche didn’t even need to ask who he was talking about. His face twists unpleasantly, and Kazuha laughs at the sight of it– a warm, twinkling laugh. “I understand. They are an odd duo together, and Beidou is… hard to swallow by herself even when Ningguang is not present.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Scaramouche mutters, tugging open the car door to climb in. Kazuha follows suit, inserting the key manually. Seriously, what is with this guy and his old-ass car? Scaramouche makes a mental note to save up to get him a car that was created in his century for his birthday. 

“I’m sure they liked you enough,” Kazuha continues, humming, “Well, for now.”

Scaramouche bristles, watching Kazuha pull out of the parking lot. He can see Kazuha hesitate, watching the school disappear in the rear mirror, like a ghost hiding behind hills and signs and cars, adorned with a wreath of flowers. “What’s that meant to mean?”

“Nothing,” Kazuha says, smiling “just that… Well, I suppose they are bound to find out that you are not always so… charming and polite. Your smile is very convincing. It looked very real.”

It felt real. “I would hope so,” Scaramouche mutters, and leaves it at that.

Yes, Beidou and Ningguang had flown in from Wisconsin to attend Kazuha’s graduation– and Scaramouche, used to extravagant dinner parties, had recalled whatever forgotten manners he had laid forlorn in the back of his mind– the ones that were drilled into him. A sweet, saccharine smile and an innocent charm to his eyes, respectful bows of his head and polite wording is really all it takes. 

Of course, they’d be bound to discover the real him after a while. But it’d be funny to keep this game going for a while, he thinks. It’s like performing, and Scaramouche has always found drama to be entertaining. 

“You’re Kazuha’s girl, then?” Beidou had heartily said, clapping him on the back. “Say, you sound familiar. You sure we haven’t met before?”

Scaramouche smiles, fighting to keep his eye from twitching. “I’m a man.”

“Well now, I know that,” Beidou laughs, “‘Just a figure of speech, kid.”

Scaramouche digs himself out of his memories. He doesn’t think it’ll be a figure of speech when he threatens to rip her limb from limb.

He supposes he ought to be grateful that she gave the relationship between him and Kazuha a word by herself; if Beidou or Ningguang had asked who he was to Kazuha, he wouldn’t have had an answer. He was just… he was just Kazuha’s. There was no word to describe them.

And maybe that was just the way it was. Scaramouche was fine with it. He was fine with being something– and maybe one day that won’t be enough for him, and he’ll get constipated at the thought of having to sit down and talk with Kazuha about what they are and all other equally distressing situations. But he’ll get it done. 

Letting go is hard. But making yourself not clench your fists afterwards and dig your nails into your palm in the absence of what you were holding is harder. Loving someone that death has touched is hard. Loving someone knowing they are being chased by it is harder. Everything is worse than the last– and uphill battle of wars and flags and blood, and Scaramouche was built as a soldier. 

And be it death, tragedy, devastation, whatever both waits for you at the end and chases you– whatever that was that caught Niwa in its bear trap of claws and sharpened teeth can catch Scaramouche no more. No, it cannot catch Scaramouche now. 

And what a freeing thought that is. 

Scaramouche makes a noise, sinking into the seat. The sun was climbing towards the heart of the sky— and he pulls down his shader.

He reclines a little more, watching treelines and skylines and other things reach skyward, reaching for something beyond the horizon. And if there is a tiny, placating disc of tentative happiness in his chest, it belongs to him.

What also belongs to him, is the vague smell the air freshener in the car, hanging onto the lip of the vent with all its strength. Kazuha’s car is mostly clean; or rather, it looks like it was cleaned recently– with smeared ink on the dashboard and side-panels, probably by-forgotten thoughts and whatever else floats around in Kazuha’s head that he feels the need to write down immediately.

There’s a tiny crinkle of paper on the edge of the dashboard. Scaramouche’s eyes narrow.

He looks at Kazuha, who keeps his eyes on the road. Of course he does. Kazuha has always been too good to ever be caught dead recklessly driving.

The town passes by, and Scaramouche ignores it at first, pulling his knees up to his chest. Cityscapes. Houses. Hospitals. Apartments. This is where he lived his heartbreak, a burn in his fingers. The town never did seem to get much prettier, but it looks brighter. That might be on account of Scaramouche, Kazuha might say, but Scaramouche thinks it’s because of the graduation decorations. 

His eyes trail back to the paper. 

Scaramouche lets out a quiet noise of contemplation. He reaches forward, feeling the burn in his core and arms as he barely grazes the papers, his fingertips reaching towards the small, crinkled brown-rice paper. 

As he unfurls it, recognition sparks in the air. It’s a poem– not any poem, gods be damned, as Kazuha having random word vomit in his car doesn’t seem unlikely– it’s that poem.

Only, except–

The sun is a boy; and while scarcely awake at sunrise, lost in his folds, like pages of parchment unfurled; is evidence of solace and grace. In blood he must bury me, and in his sin will I absolve.

“You finished it. The sun poem, I mean,” Scaramouche says, reading it. Despite the new wording, it has the same elements in it as it did the day he wrote it, in the arcade. He looks over to Kazuha, “and you changed it. It sounds a lot more…”

“Like a poem?” Kazuha offers, a smile carving into his face, “Your praise is noteworthy. I found it in my locker the day of the game. It’s far from finished, however.”

Scaramouche looks back down at the paper, folding the edge of the paper flat with his thumb, bending it the other way. “It’s not finished?”

“Of course not,” Kazuha says calmly. He pulls over to their destination– a tiny, small house that could be mistaken for an apartment. It’s gripping the earth with whatever strength it has left, nestled among the whispers of towering trees.

“Why didn’t you?”

“I’m not sure,” Kazuha says honestly, leaning back into his carseat. His eyes– his damned, red, flat eyes find Scaramouche, assessing every inch of him. He fights not to flush under the strong gaze. “I did not think it would be fitting for the poem to have an end.”

Scaramouche breathes out, letting the matter go as he opens the door of the car. Being around Kazuha is not good for his heart. Every inch of Kazuha, every word of his, every second of his gaze is warm. His heart beats fast, easy— and with it, every contraction brings luggage in the shape of wanting to bury himself in Kazuha’s chest. 

“Are you okay?” Kazuha asks, when Scaramouche staggers at the entrance. He nods once, briskly, and Kazuha adds on, “the realtor will be here soon. She said we could have a look beforehand.”

Scaramouche nods absentmindedly, and his eyebrows raise at the house. Not necessarily in a good way. 

The house is in horrible condition. 

Horrible conditions might actually be underselling it. The walls are chipped, vines and ivy crawling into the kitchen through cracks in the ceiling. Inklings of Beauvoir and Sartre in the bedroom, a marriage between a broken twin sized mattress and an inflatable mattress. 

The house looked as though it had been half-repaired, and as Kazuha led them through the kitchen, it was clear little care had been given to it. It had the oddest smell of yorkshire candles. Scaramouche runs his fingers over the table.

“This place is awful.”

Kazuha looks over to him from the window, “Yes, it is,” he agrees. “No one has shown it much care.”

“Or it fell into disrepair by itself. Just a thought.”

The house is awful, really. And he takes great care as to not let Kazuha’s poetic words fool him— It’s totally decrepit. 

“There’d be a lot of fixing up to do,” Scaramouche says briskly, eyeing the chipping of bright blue paint as though it had personally harmed him, “But it looks… authentic, I suppose.” If authentic was another word for poor. 

Kazuha laughs, pulling Scaramouche into one of the empty rooms. “Authentic?”

“I meant the wood,” Scaramouche hisses. 

Scaramouche wanders into the room— small, cramped, armed with dusty bookshelves and a small loveseat— the furnishing looks poor, but well-loved. It looked as though it had all been hand-scrubbed by pride, standing tall, but no less rickety. 

Scaramouche scans the books, before briskly turning to Kazuha. “Do these come with?”

Kazuha blinks, turning around owlishly. “I’m… not sure. Why do you ask?” 

Scaramouche is well versed in the art of house hunting. He’s been in too many swindles and slept in too many motels and hotels to consider himself an amateur in the art of bargaining— or blackmailing, of course.

“I just wanted to know if they would include them in the cost,” he says, “they’ll probably charge fifteen per book. Or something equally ridiculous.”

“Must you think the worst of everyone?” Kazuha counters, “I, for one, would be rather honored to be gifted such a collection.” 

“I wouldn’t.” Scaramouche says, scoffing, “You can only have so many books until you start to retell the same stories. Truly arbitrary.” 

“Books have value beyond their worth. No book in the world, I have found, is entirely without use,” Kazuha’s hums.

“Wait until you read anything by Colleen Hoover.”

“— but you are right. Oftentimes, words fail us. For example,” he ignores Scaramouche, turning his piercing gaze to his, “I often became thoroughly frustrated with my powerlessness. How can it be possible to prove my affection by words alone? But words are often all I can offer, so I try to make them beautiful. Or at least, something worth listening to. Judging by the pink on your face, I am doing a decent job.”

Scaramouche feels as though Kazuha is cheating in a game they aren’t even playing.

Red creeps up on his face, and he can tell his cheeks are flushed cherry red even when he has no mirror— it’s just the way Kazuha looks at him. Like he’s won this nonexistent game. 

Scaramouche reaches for his visor, pulling it down to obscure his face as much as possible. Kazuha pulls him towards him, amused in breathy laughter, trying to land a kiss. Scaramouche hisses— tumbling over his feet. Their chests press together, and Scaramouche tries to pull away until Kazuha’s arms come around him. 

— only to protest again as Kazuha dips him into a slow dance, and Scaramouche lets himself be pulled along into the feeling, the pulling and melding of skin on skin, of bodies tumbling into one another.

“I’m not dancing with you.”

“Why not?” 

“We’re meant to be checking out the house,” Scaramouche says narrowly, but his fingers betray him— reaching and pulling and grasping at Kazuha, desperate to be with him. “The other buyers will be here soon.”

Yes, Kazuha and Scaramouche are considering renting a house together. Considering being the key word. Nothing is set in stone, as both of them were heavily contemplating leaving Michigan. But of course, that takes time— and both need a place to stay for a while. 

With the team now left with the decision of which of them would pursue nationals or not, majority of them move away to friendlier states, some to friendlier countries, and others to graves. Childe had been unsure where he was headed— he had been briefly considering a trip to Beijing, of course, but it meant it was possible that Scaramouche would not be rooming with Childe any longer. 

Like he said. Change is inevitable. Scaramouche will not miss the padlocked coffee machine.

His first thought was to move in with Mona again, or Venti— or move in with Kazuha’s group of friends. And then that thought had divulged into moving in with just Kazuha, because he finds most people repulsive and most people find him repulsive. Granted, most find him first gorgeous, and then frustrating when he opens his mouth. 

Regardless, that would mean following Kazuha to wherever he went— if he were to go anywhere, but Scaramouche was fine with that. If he was entirely honest, he was a little eager to find new walls to work in. A new hospital would do him some good. 

And so they were checking out some potential living options. This one, it seemed, was a no-go, but—

— Kazuha is so close. 

Scaramouche lives in the moment, in the space between them, the everything in the proximity, the nothing in the absence. Scaramouche takes and takes and takes, and Kazuha laughs with every foot that lands on his and every strand of hair in his mouth. 

“You are going to step on my feet,” Kazuha warns, twirling Scaramouche— only to pull him back in. The light from the window is small, yellowish, and entirely too little to light up the room. 

Their footsteps, their voices, echo in the emptiness of the house. Scaramouche rolls his eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to have deep, meaningful conversations while slow-dancing? What are you waiting for?”

A dip. “Alright. What shall we talk about?”

“I’m not the conversationist. Something interesting enough to get me to answer.”

Kazuha is breaths away from him. Scaramouche can feel him on his face, against his body, a steady support. “What is your favorite color?”

“Well, now you’ve crossed the line.” Scaramouche frowns.

“How is that crossing the line?” 

“You have no boundaries,” Scaramouche says disdainfully, “what if that was a sensitive topic for me? You— Kazuha!”

Kazuha dips him lower and lower, a poorly concealed grin on his face as he yanks a frazzled Scaramouche back up, who looks ready to kill. As he opens his mouth again, Kazuha twirls him again.

Scaramouche catches himself, breathing heavily. “You stop that. You stop it now.”

“Stop what?” Kazuha smiles.

Scaramouche’s heart is beating so fast. He is leaned far, far back— supported, once again, by Kazuha’s confident arm. He’s been dipped in the dance, Kazuha right above him. They’re inches away. Inches away from… something. 

Something good. Something bad. Something Scaramouche wants.

“Scara,” Kazuha whispers, “I’m going to kiss you.” 

And before it even happens— it feels like a promise, a vow, something binding. Something tangible. Something irreversible. And Scaramouche knows if Kazuha kisses him now, he will not ever be able to come back from it. 

And if Kazuha were to leave, it would be a kind of heartbreak that time would not heal.

Scaramouche stares wonderingly into Kazuha’s face, wondering if Kazuha would betray him so— to kiss him, to seal their fate. There’s a hand on the back of his neck: strong, firm, dependable. Calloused, too, from years of holding a hockey stick firm and steady. 

— and then Kazuha presses his lips against Scaramouche. 

Kazuha kissed him, and he had damned them both. Even so, Scaramouche’s hands twist in Kazuha’s shirt, trying to get closer— closer— 

And he knew, understood the implications of both what wouldn’t happen to now and what would. He understood what Kazuha had done to him before it ever happened. So he tilted his head, and accepted Kazuha’s betrayal: this damnation, a target marked upon him to live a life away from filth.

This kiss. Could it even be classified as so? With Kazuha diving back in, and Scaramouche’s kissing back— pure passion and love and Scaramouche’s body on fire. 

Scaramouche takes it fiercely, and he can feel Kazuha laughing into the kiss, his hands cradling Scaramouche’s head. Oh— how could he know, Scaramouche thinks, but every action Kazuha took, every action was embedded into Scaramouche’s skin. His head felt dizzy, as if any second away from Kazuha was one wasted. 

— kiss me, he thinks— take me into your mouth and bite down. He wants to feel Kazuha’s fingers pressing into his side, his fingernails underneath layers of clothing, digging into blood and bone to find a place between his ribs. 

It’s a betrayal he can forgive. 

“I forgive you,” Scaramouche mumbles between every kiss that Kazuha steals, winding them both together. He nearly forgets that they could be caught together at any second— he can only feel the butterflies in his stomach, the press of Kazuha’s arms on his back. 

Mahogany and gold once more. He can see it now, a silver lining between the gunfire and grief, a winding staircase, with tempting resting spots at every landing— and yet, you must go on.

“Forgive me?” Kazuha repeats, amused, but he’s not asking for mercy, but asking a question— “what have I done to offend you?”

A rotting ray of light hits the lamp outside, casting a rainbow through the window. Kazuha looks breathless, and when he’s not kissing Scaramouche, his eyes track a pattern through his nose, his lips, his cheek— tracing everything with his eyes to commit it to memory.

Scaramouche can hear a roar of thunder outside— rain drips onto the window, but the sun is still out for now. Scaramouche is pressed against Kazuha, inches away— and he allows himself this, to be so close to Kazuha he can intertwine their neurons.

“For standing against me,” Scaramouche says obviously, but there is no real heat behind it. Kazuha takes this in stride, shifting them.

Scaramouche had always thought love was meant to tear like teeth at his skin, bare him to the bones for judgment under his smile— but that wasn’t love, nor was it anything close. Dottore and his sharp fingers had tried hard to convince him of it– and maybe he had succeeded briefly. Just briefly. 

“You and I stand upon the same ground. How would I then stand against you?” Kazuha says, and Scaramouche rolls his eyes.

“Okay,” he scoffs, “drop the metaphors. I can’t compete.”

“You started it,” Kazuha protests, “with your talk of betrayal and forgiveness and sin— all I did was follow through. You can talk in metaphors but I can’t? How unfair.”

“I hardly ever talk in metaphors. You do it all the time. I’m allowed a pass.”

Scaramouche feels Kazuha’s breath on his neck. “then, seeing as my betrayal is not only forgiven, is it rewarded?”

“You just want another kiss,” Scaramouche accuses, and he pulls back enough to see Kazuha’s face flash with a conniving smile. “You animal. You nearly just swallowed me whole and you want to kiss me again.”

“I didn’t say that,” Kazuha replies, but his face gives it away.

“But you want one.” Scaramouche accuses. 

“I always want one.” Kazuha counters. 

Scaramouche blows a puff of air into his face. “You’re the only one crazy enough to ever want that.”

“Want what?” Kazuha questions, dodging the air. Scaramouche blows another. “Want you? Or want permission for it?”

“Can you not get philosophical for one second?” Scaramouche hisses– all too aware of how close they are, though his body was well aware– hence the warmed skin and nervousness in the pit of his stomach.

“I’m a poet, lover,” Kazuha whispers into Scaramouche’s skin, “philosophical is my second tongue. In fact, I’m feeling rather inspired—“

“Oh don’t–” Scaramouche mutters. If he heard one more poem, he might actually—

“Oh my god!” Someone shouts, and Scaramouche whips around. He instantly clambers away from Kazuha, praying that no one had seen him in such a state– lest the power balance between him and the regular population be broken. Kazuha blinks from the sudden force, not expecting such a visceral reaction.

“Oh— oh My god,” the same person reiterates, and it’s a young girl the size of Scaramouche, looking awestruck as she stares at the pair. “It’s you! I know– I know you! From– from–”

Oh, wonderful. Really wonderful. There goes his happy mood. 

Scaramouche wonders if the glass is weak enough to be pulled out from its place and sharp enough still to stab him through the chest, because it sure does feel like that everytime someone recognizes him from the news– from the shooting– for god’s sake, there was a million more victims of that shooting, why must Scaramouche be the one tormented?

Scaramouche has had no lack of people recognizing him as some kind of all-revered small town hero, but now? Really? Scaramouche knew he should have locked that door. If only he could develop telekinesis and move the lock with his thoughts–

“You won the hockey game!” The girl blurts. And she has eyes for Kazuha, and Kazuha only. ”Can I get an autograph?”

Scaramouche goes still.

Kazuha pauses, opening and closing his mouth in surprise. In truth, Kazuha does not like unwanted attention– while there has been no lack of hate crowds from Kettering university outside the dorms, he has yet to receive admiration over it– well, until now. But he supposes things like idol groups and hockey teams will always receive a fanbase. 

“I apologize,” Kazuha denies gently, feeling still a little bewildered and the statement comes out unsure. “I don’t do… autographs?”

“Just one,” the girl insists, “no one has to know, promise, I just–”

The girl’s words were cut off as an unexpected disruption echoed through the air– laughter, sharp, boisterous, and breathy, cut through the words.

Laughter that was coming from Scaramouche.

Kazuha startles, turning around. His attention was unexpectedly drawn to the unique quality of the shorter’s voice. Scaramouche is laughing .

Granted, Kazuha is no idea on what is making Scaramouche laugh– and not that he had never laughed before, it was just– 

Kazuha breathes out quietly. Scaramouche looks happy. He doesn’t look unhappy to be happy— which was common. He doesn’t look displeased at his own feelings, which was also common. He just looked happy.

Scaramouche looked like he was glowing when he laughed.

And when he wipes a tear from his eye, small snickers escape him. He seemed wholly oblivious to the atmosphere he was creating– the girl’s face was tightened into one of displeasure, and Kazuha seemed too enamored with whatever he was seeing on Scaramouche’s face to give a proper response. 

“Well?” Scaramouche snickers, “not going to give her your autograph, Kazuha?”

“I don’t appreciate being put on a pedestal,” Kazuha answers, his eyes fully on Scaramouche. He turns to the girl again, motioning to Scaramouche. “Though you might want his signature. I once heard–”

“Woah, hey–” Scaramouche hisses, “that is enough of that.”

“Is it no longer funny? It is not like you to dismiss praise.” Kazuha teases. “You look nice when you laugh.”

“Are you implying that I don’t look nice otherwise?”

“You must stop twisting my words,” Kazuha looks down on him, and Scaramouche greets the challenge with a sharp grin, “that is not what I meant.”

“Then you should be more careful with your words.” Scaramouche stretches himself, and realizes that the girl was nowhere to be found: probably scurrying away to check out the house. “Besides, I know you knew that girl was coming. Don’t act innocent on me, Kaedehara.”

Kazuha’s mouth opens, and then closes. Finally, he stretches his face into a close-lipped smile, as if he was fondly looking at Scaramouche. “You knew?”

“With your senses? Hah,” Scaramouche snorts, turning away from Kazuha, “I would be more surprised if you didn’t hear her coming. You’re like a dog. Say woof, Kazuha.”

He can feel Kazuha laugh a little behind him, shaking his head as he follows Scaramouche out of the house. "You seem to be enjoying yourself."

Scaramouche shrugs nonchalantly, trying to hide the fact that Kazuha's observation is spot-on. He does that alot, Kazuha has noticed– like if he ignores that he is being watched, Kazuha will not be able to make anything of him or his expression. It’s oddly endearing.

Scaramouche grumbles something under his breath, but the corners of his lips betray the hint of a smile. He turns to face Kazuha, still disinterested as he lightly kicks some rubble. "So, what now? Are we still considering this fine establishment?”

Kazuha glances around at the worn-out walls and the overall state of disrepair. "Well, it does have its charm, don't you think?"

"Charm? Kazuha, the only thing charming about this place is that it hasn't collapsed yet. Unless you mean the only half-broken kitchen counter. Truly, how quaint.”

Kazuha laughs, the sound echoing through the empty rooms. "Fair enough. Let's keep looking then. We wouldn't want our potential home to fall apart on us." He fixes Scaramouche with an intense look– and takes hold of Scaramouche’s baggy sleeve, pressing his lips to the fabric in lieu of his hand,  “but I suppose if it did, you would take care of me, would you not? Just as you have done before.”

Scaramouche’s face explodes into splotchy red, a brilliant fury of vermillion of his ears, cheeks and neck. He yanks his visor down a little more, grumbling under his breath. “Whatever,” he insists, “Let’s just go. And– and don’t do that again. You’re going to make me do bad on my exam. I’ll be… distracted.”

“Distracted.”

“Don’t act dumb with me,” Scaramouche hisses, “You know what you’re doing.” 

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Kazuha replies, opening the front door for Scaramouche to walk through and feeling particularly pleased that it did not break. He nods to the realtor to signal that they were departing. “You know, Scara…”

Scaramouche makes a questioning noise as he clambers into Kazuha’s car with an adequate amount of disgrace. Kazuha leans on the doorframe for only a few seconds longer, not entirely sure how much longer the wood would hold him. 

“Sometimes, I get the oddest feeling we met before,” Kazuha murmurs, “As if we knew each other in some life before this.”

Scaramouche’s reply was dismissive, and shouted from the front-seat of his car. “If you’re going to pen more poems, do it somewhere I can’t hear. Not everyone wants the honor of hearing one.”

Kazuha hears the wood creak behind him, and he quickly pulls away. Scaramouche is giving him a told-you-so look from the car, his arms crossed in defiance, and whatever thoughts Kazuha was slow-dancing with moments before are forgotten. There is just Scaramouche, the sun, and the roar of his car engine, and cobwebs landing in his hair, and the feel of his sobriety coin against his chest. 

There is nothing else at that moment.

Kazuha’s face twists into a smile, and digs his hands into his pockets for his keys. 

Scaramouche has been through a lot. 

He walks through the hospital with his hands in his dark blue scrubs, his pager beeping at random intervals, he thinks, off-handedly, that he can’t wait to get out of this raggedy place. 

Some people around give him weird looks– he is, after all, not doing anything right now. Just standing there.

Just standing, waiting for the biggest exam of his life. He’d already turned in the registration weeks ago, and he was fairly confident he would do well on the oral and written portions– it was just the hands-on section. 

He wasn’t nervous, not exactly– just… just…

Apprehensive, maybe. Scaramouche wasn't nervous in the typical sense, at least. He had sacrificed a lot to make it to this point– countless hours spent studying, the sacrifices he made, and the emotional toll of having multiple jobs, a life altering situationship, and no mother. Really, he’s had a such an amazing life. 

The strange glances from others didn't faze him much either– he had grown accustomed to the peculiar looks during his time here. Yes, he had purple hair. Yes, he was the son of someone fairly well-known. Yes, he had witnessed a shooting and had his best friend killed in front of him and had the course of his life irreparably changed forever. 

Usually, Venti’s presence drowned out the odd atmosphere he carried around with him, but seeing as Venti was not here, he could imagine his aura was rather suffocating.

He couldn't blame them for not understanding the weight of what he was about to face, for they were mere insects, after all. The biggest exam of his life awaited him, and it wasn't just about demonstrating medical knowledge; it was about proving to himself that he could handle the responsibility, the pressure, and the demands of his chosen profession. (Words he had memorized directly from the textbook).

“Raiden,” Someone calls, and Scaramouche blinks, “can you– can you come help me?”

Scaramouche swivels, locating where the noise was coming from. A young girl– one of Collei’s nursing interns, was stitching up what looked to be a bad cut. Her hands were shaking– he supposes all of them were like that. All of Collei’s friends, he means. Not all interns. Just most interns. God, he can’t stand interns.

“Can’t,” He shrugs lazily, “I got my board exam.”

He eyes her handiwork from a good distance away. The stitches were sloppy, messy, and there were far more than necessary. Her hands were shaking, but she was going slow– wasn’t it meant to be slow and steady? How on earth was she going slow but not steady? If she sewed any slower, that wound is going to heal on its own. Was she on the side of the patient or the disease?

His pager beeps once more, and he pushes off the wall to head down to the office to check in. The hospital has changed little from how it was like before his break, but it was a far cry from how it was before the shooting. 

It feels odd without Venti by his side.

Scaramouche cannot wait to get his certification and finally unchain himself from this grave of a hospital. That way he can move on– and the hospital can too. Not one of its employees will have witnessed the shooting once he leaves. A fresh start for both of them.

When the shooting had happened, lots of people in Scaramouche’s life had not noticed how far he had fallen into insanity– and when he recovered, no one could tell the difference, either.

He had spent days, weeks, months, hunched over his desk in an effort to relieve the heavy presence in his chest– questions, regret, denial, guilt crowding into his head in variations of why did that happen? Why did it happen to him? Was he somehow being punished for actions he took in some previous life– was his fate pre written and engraved into walls and etched into stone and wood, was he meant to live a life tainted by despair?

He spent a lot of time either somber and serious, or entirely blank. Every action, every emotion, had felt like some kind of battle that he must win or lose. And Scaramouche felt like he had lost many of those battles. 

He lived his heartbreak to be here, cradling tiny, shattered pieces and building it back and holding it together with glue. Kids during christmas would create gingerbread houses, and Scaramouche was creating himself a new heart. 

He was piecing it together with loneliness, every ugly emotion he had kept with him– fear and abandonment reconciling to keep the joints of his heart together. He lived to be here– torn from his dissoluted existence of blank grief to wherever he was now. Emblazoned into the very fabric of the world through a poet. 

Scaramouche falters as he passes the eastern wall of the OR– he doesn’t look, but he knows where he is. A few steps away from where Niwa was killed. If he looks hard enough, he knows he could picture the whole thing again– where the blood was splattered, where certain tools were scattered. He knows he could. 

But he doesn’t. He just keeps walking. 

“Raiden,” the girl at the office gasps once he’s within earshot, “You’re back! Where’s– where’s Venti?”

“Gone,” Scaramouche replies bluntly, “He’s not coming back. Neither am I. Can you check me in?”

The girl blinks, seemingly thrown off her guard by the answer. When Scaramouche gives her a look, she jumps into action, taking his application and rapidly typing into the computer. “You’re— you’re leaving?”

“Yes. After my exam,” Scaramouche replies, clipped. “Check me in. Here’s my registration. What room?”

“What about– what about your old patients?” She takes the paper, looking it over. “Your interns?”

“Intern,” he corrects. He had only one, and it was by force. Scaramouche shrugs, “Tighnari will get them, probably. It’s not my problem anymore. I’m transferring hospitals, not quitting.” Unless I fail. 

“Better deal somewhere else?” She offers, her face pinched into a smile. Scaramouche is glad she does not bother telling him that he will be missed, because he will truly not be. He’s sure there's a lot of people who would be glad to see the back of him– in fact, they might actually throw a party. “Ah, well… I guess it’s fine. Your patient in room 1294 wanted a second opinion, anyway. I guess Tighnari could–”

“What?” he interrupts, his eyebrows furrowing, “if he wanted a second opinion, he should have just asked me twice. That’s ridiculous. I’ve seen better hands on a clock than I've seen on Tighnari.”

“You aren’t half the medical professional Tighnari is,” Which, true, but Scaramouche was twice as stubborn. The girl ignores him, handing him a small slip of paper, “Here. They’re waiting for you now. You can head there.”

Scaramouche takes it, thumbing the edge of the paper. He’d ask for her to wish him luck, but he doesn’t need it. Besides, Kazuha had given him a good luck kiss anyway. Not that he needed it. 

He gives her a nod, starting a brisk walk towards the room. It's a surreal sensation, as if the very essence of his life is condensed into this walk towards the examination room. How odd.

Even weirder, he paused briefly in the middle of the hallway, feeling something– but he continues on anyway. Time waits for no one, and neither will his examiners. He’s heard horror stories of them, really, but he’s sure they’ve also heard horror stories of him. They were about to meet their match, he thinks.  

The walk to his examination room is a feeling unlike any other. It felt like every memory was crowding at the forefront of his head– even now. Every wall crumbling down with every inch towards whatever was waiting for him- failure, or success. He would be fine with either one. 

Failure, to prove he could have done nothing more to save Niwa. Success, so he could live his life in the field of medicine. Something to live for, something to prove.

Whatever came after, he didn’t care. Nothing could be worse than what he had been through, and nothing greater than what had come of it– his mother. Kazuha. Venti. Even the insufferable Heizou and his godforsaken karaoke nights. 

His heart is the wheel of a ship, and it was taking control. Change is inevitable, and Scaramouche would embrace wherever it was taking him.

The door comes into view, and Scaramouche grasps the handle. Two brisk knocks on the door to signal he was here, and then–

Well, then, he steps through. 

There is a door Niwa has never been through.

He’s been in this hospital for ages. He has wandered through every door and every room twenty times each, so the fact that there is one he has not been through is rather pivotal. It’s not particularly gorgeous, either. It’s just one of those regular double doors, scratched paint and cool steel. 

The hospital, a repository of his life and death, had become something like a sanctuary and a purgatory for Niwa. It was a snapshot frozen in time. 

Niwa found himself standing before the said unremarkable double doors. He had roamed through the corridors countless times, but this door, however, had eluded him, and its unassuming appearance only heightened its enigmatic allure.

Niwa has never been through it.

He has been here for a while– unsure how long, really, but he has been here. Drifting through O.R’s he worked in, people he had talked to. He spent a lot of his time sleeping or sitting in the on-call rooms, unable to be seen by anyone. 

He spent even more time watching over Kunikuzushi whenever he was in the hospital. Every surgery, every joke, every banter, every tear. He watches. 

Of course, Niwa can say, he knows Kunikuzushi has been struggling with his death– even he could not forget such an event– his death was etched into the very being of whatever remained of his consciousness here. He remembers Kunikuzushi stood frozen, an unwilling witness. The memory played out like a haunting refrain. One shot, and it was over. 

And he was not a ghost, not really– just a piece of Niwa, more like. Something that remained behind. 

He watched as Kunikuzushi would tumble into the hospital one day, flushed and confused, telling Venti about something about a car chase and a boy with a red streak. He watched as Kunikuzushi carried a small boy around on his hip, entertaining him in a way he would’ve begged Niwa to do instead. He watched him barrel into the O.R, panicked and reaching for a boy Niwa didn’t recognize. 

He watched him cry. He watched him laugh. Niwa watched him grow up. 

It was oddly reassuring to know that Kunikuzushi no longer had the stagnant, unbeaten heart he seemed to have at the beginning. He was alive again. Or so it seemed so. 

Niwa could only observe him in glances— in moments. That was all he got. Tiny, fleeting moments— like kaleidoscopic shards. 

“— Gone,” Someone he knows says, and Niwa watches from a distance. “He’s not coming back. Neither am I. Can you check me in?”

He was changing, becoming different in ways that Niwa hadn’t anticipated, and Niwa could tell that his absence had done a great deal to him and for him. He was not quite like himself, perhaps, but definitely healthier, better in some ways than before. He wonders, quietly, what he is owed– credit, or blame?

Maybe both, Niwa thinks, and he watches the someone from earlier walk briskly. Was he leaving? 

Kunikuzushi— was he leaving? 

Niwa is quiet as he tails him through the narrow corridor– which isn’t saying much, as Niwa had not spoken in ages. There was not much use to speak when no one could hear you, after all. But he had to know– was it true? Was Kunikuzushi leaving? 

He couldn’t find it in himself to be upset. He had, after all, left Kunikuzushi first. Maybe it was due karma. 

Niwa huffs a laugh, trying to catch up with Kunikuzushi. He had always been a rather fast walker. He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to, as Kunikuzushi had no way of recognizing Niwa’s presence– but he felt obligated to, so he did. 

Niwa catches up to him fairly easily, and as he does, he whispers, “Kuni.”

Miracles are hard to find, especially in places where they don’t exist. Whenever Niwa sees surgeries and operations go well, he takes them and keeps it close to his heart. He keeps little miracles. And he can use them to build a bridge above the void of logic and odds to reach across the gap— and sometimes, just sometimes, someone reaches back. 

Scaramouche stops walking.  

For a moment, he knows. Niwa knows Kunikuzushi— Scaramouche— is aware he’s there. It feels like the world stops for just a moment. Scaramouche’s lips move, forming someone’s name, and then they don’t. In the moments between one gap and the next, they touch. 

Niwa basks in it— takes Scaramouche in one more time, before he allows him to be pulled away again. For one second, they are truly side by side once more. For one moment, both are whole. 

And then the world starts again, and Scaramouche shakes it off and keeps on walking.

He steps surely, briskly, off to somewhere Niwa knows he cannot follow. His hair is longer. His steps form a melody, a song Niwa keeps close to his heart for safekeeping. He watches from a close distance. 

He watches Scaramouche walk away. 

He glances at the hospital around him, chipped walls, filing cabinets, rushed interns, doors and rooms and walls he has seen a thousand times before, and maybe a thousand more. Or maybe not. If Scaramouche was leaving, then Niwa supposed he should, too. There was no reason to stay here. The world was ever-changing, ever-moving, and the world did not wait for him anymore. 

He thinks, again, of that door. Not Scaramouche’s, but his own. Was there a better time?

Maybe it’s the afterlife. Maybe it’s another room for him to explore for another eternity. It could be hell, somewhere to repent for his sins. Or it could be blank nothingness. As Scaramouche’s fate is undecided, so is his. 

No better time, then, and Niwa is standing once more in front of them. Only this time, he has intentions to go through it. He can’t say he isn’t feeling particularly regretful, but he wouldn’t be sorry to see the backs of certain things.

His heart feels lighter than his chest. 

He hesitated for a moment, casting a wistful gaze back at the hospital. A life of laughter, tears, and a fading heartbeat. Ah, well. 

Between one final look back, Scaramouche heads towards his door, and Niwa heads towards his own— and in one more blink, he pushes through.