Chapter Text
Aether's neighbor has no semblance of empathy for human beings. He knows this because if there is even a glimmer of warmth in his neighbor's ice cold heart, he would not be smashing dishes and screaming at 2:30 in the morning.
The walls in this apartment are a curse--too thin to block out the monstrous sounds he did not know human vocal cords could produce until his most recent move, yet too thick that he cannot hear the drama and theatrics of his neighbor's life. It’s a man's voice, this he knows. Each word is muffled through layers of plaster and drywall, but by now, Aether has gathered that his neighbor, is, in fact, quite prone to anger. If he had any doubts about his neighbor's anger issues, the piles upon piles of broken dishes he finds in the apartment's shared trash bins have them waved away.
Aether suspects that his neighbor buys glass dishes for the sole reason that they are perfect to destroy in his... episodes. Although, Aether would not call them "episodes" either, because that implies there are periods of downtime between each round of plate smashing.
so now, Aether lies in his bed in the sweltering heat of summer, looking out the window and pretending there are stars in the polluted sky for him to count. Aether can feel the vibrations of his neighbour's screams in the wall. Or perhaps the sleep deprivation has finally wrangled his brain enough to cause hallucinations.
All the while his psycho neighbour breaks another dish.
When he wakes up the next morning, his exhaustion runs bone-deep and he resolves to file a complaint the next time his neighbor starts yelling. This is the same thing he tells himself every morning, if only to make himself feel better.
He doesn't know what his neighbor does in the mornings, but whatever it is, it is quiet and that is all that matters. Aether brushes his teeth in wonderful, peaceful silence. As he showers, the only sound is the blissful splash of water on skin. When he laces his shoes, he hears nothing but the steady breath of each inhale and exhale of his own lungs. This, Aether thinks, is real contentment.
And then, somewhere to his right, a door slams shut so hard Aether can picture the wood splintering at its hinges. Footsteps stomp out into their shared front steps. There is the unmistakable sound of a trash can being shoved over onto the cracked pavement. Aether sighs.
He debates between going outside and staying in until he is certain his neighbor is gone. Either way, he will not win. If he goes out now, he will encounter a person who cannot control his own anger and has no qualms about pitching furniture and dishware for sport. On the other hand, if he stays inside, he will be late to work.
Aether imagines the meeting. Him and his neighbor, polar opposites if there ever is such definition. He wonders what his neighbor looks like. An old, twice-divorced man with a balding head? A middle-aged worker who is perfectly normal, not counting the mid-life crisis and the touch of psychopathy?
His job, his boring, dead-end job that pays him barely enough to survive, is not worth it risking his life for. Although, his own self, his body, these monotonous, unremarkable days he calls his life is not worth much of anything either.
That night, Aether is back to staring at the dark, dark sky again. Void of stars, void of even a wif of cloud.
The only evidence that there is another human being on this earth with him is the cursing through his walls. If Aether presses his ears in close (not like a stalker, no, is it so wrong to be curious about what causes such furious despair in someone?), he can make out the kick of furniture in the midst of shouting and intervals between dishes breaking. It is almost like a symphony, the way his neighbor destroys his own home.
It has been an entire year since Aether moved in. One month exactly since his neighbor claimed the once empty room beside his. Aether does not know which life he preferred–the crying baby of the teenage couple that came before or this rage-filled being he calls his current neighbor.
Although Aether and his neighbor have lived within 200 square meters of each other for the past 30 days, Aether has yet to glimpse even a stray hair.
All he knows of his neighbor is his voice. His voice, high pitched and droning, is nothing special. It is the way he speaks that imposes attention. He hears it every night, that confident, self-assured tone that is built up from years and years of standing beneath a spotlight. Aether can count the number of times he has heard his own voice outside of the office on one hand, and it is nothing like the easy, fearless voice of his neighbor, even when he is shouting his throat hoarse.
So, instead of imagining what it would be like to command a room with a voice like that, Aether is content to listen through the walls.
Over the course of the first week they began living near each other, Aether learned that screeching up at the gods is not his neighbor’s only hobby. It seems anything loud suffices. While Aether works during the day, his neighbor sleeps. While Aether sleeps, his neighbor blasts ear-splitting music.
The only time their schedules have a chance of synching is in the mornings and early evenings, when Aether leaves for work and returns home. But after keeping his head low for twenty-three years of his life, hiding so that they never meet is child's play.
Sometimes, it is only height that separates them. His neighbor on their shared front step, Aether on the ground below, with the steep staircase being the wall between them. It has become like a game now. Avoid the neighbor while he leaves for work. Run from Mr. Anger issues while taking out the trash. Evade sir I-have-several-sticks-up-my-ass while hauling groceries home. Dodge the I-was-probably-dropped-on-the-head-as-a-child guy while he exchanges money for pizza at the doorstep once in a blue moon.
Between him and his sister, Aether had always been the quiet one. This is the one thing that convinces Aether that they must not have been birthed from the same mother. If it were not for their matching blond hair, identical faces, he would be accused of mistaken identity.
Lumine was the daring one, with Aether trailing behind. This is what Aether has been doing this past year, with his unpacked boxes and empty apartment, waiting for his sister to take the lead.
She is not here, so Aether will never meet his neighbor. Which is probably for the better anyway, Aether does not need an asylum escapee for a friend.
Of course, that means they meet the very next day.
Aether skips breakfast, lunch, and the dinner he usually grabs before coming home. This is not a healthy strategy, but the office has been so swamped with work that food completely escapes his mind. Hours pass, his lips dry, and the plastic water bottle on his office desk sits unopened.
So when he stumbles home at 6:00 in the evening, Aether is not surprised to find himself lightheaded. As he wobbles on the steep staircase to the apartment's front porch, Aether is still not surprised. And when the ringing in his ears start, Aether chalks it up to a case of his boss yelling into his ears.
And it is only when his vision begins dimming, swaying, wavering as he climbs the last step to his apartment that he thinks, oh. Maybe I should have eaten some breakfast .
There is a face leaning in close to his. So close that stray hairs are brushing against Aether's cheeks and as he opens his eyes, the only thing he can see is a pair of dark irises mere inches from his face.
"You're awake."
"Unfortunately," Aether mumbles.
The sound of his own voice is what jerks him out of the foggy reverie he was stuck in. He is trapped in a cacoon of warmth, and upon widening his eyes and taking in his surroundings, Aether almost mistakes this room for his own. But this bed that he is lying on is far too soft to be his own hard mattress, and as far as he is concerned, he has not owned a nightstand since living with Lumine.
Not to mention, there is somebody in the room with him, and the last time he allowed somebody in his apartment is when the landlord physically forced his door open to do a routine inspection.
The room is remarkably similar to his own. White walls, bare of furniture except for the bed and the nightstand. The only hint of personality is the boxes piled to the ceiling in the far corner, right by the windows.
And the person. Leaning into his personal space and watching him with unblinking eyes.
A scream for help is overdue, but aether can't quite make his throat form the sound. He has spent his entire life whispering into his sister's ear and relying on her to talk for him. Even now, with his stomach somersaulting and the frantic beat of his pulse in his fingertips, he waits for her cue.
Nothing happens, of course. They stare at each other. Aether wide-eyed and frozen; the stranger watching him with a patient smile.
It is only then that the word beautiful worms its way to the surface of his mind. Because this, he knows, is true: the gentle slope of his dark eyebrows, the easy curve of his smile. It is as plain as day, how easy it is word beautiful could stride past the panic obstructing his throat and slip out his mouth.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome," aether says, and he thinks about how strange it is to hear a voice as familiar as his own.
The stranger tilts his head, amusement making his eyes soft. "You collapsed outside my door, neighbor."
Ah. That's why. Without his permission, aether's eyes dart to the pile of boxes in the corner and wonder if they contain stacks of to-be-smashed dishes. Aether can not meet the stranger's, his neighbor's pretty eyes a second time, so when he turns back, he stares at those pale hands.
Aether does not respond, and his neighbor speaks for them both. There is a smile so wide in his voice that Aether can not imagine it sparing room for the rage he hears at night.
"My name is scaramouche."
Scaramouche's hands are delicate. Long, thin fingers as fragile as glass.
If it were not for the sound of dishes smashing still crystal clear in his memory, he would not think them capable of such violence.
Who was this guy? This friendly, easy-going guy with his saccharine smile, amiable charm?
It could not be possible that this new, strange neighbor had blended into the background, out of sight, out of mind, from Aether's notice. He may be oblivious to every one of his neighbors’ names, but what he did know was what groceries they buy each weekend, what time they leave the house, how each one likes or dislikes their job by the expression on their faces when they come home.
Of course, the only natural option would be to ask him himself, but as Aether tries to form the question in his head, he finds that it is already too crowded with meaningless little details of Scaramouche's features.
He really has never seen somebody quite like this.
“Can you speak?” Scaramouche asks instead for him, lips curling in amusement. “You can understand me, right? Do I need to get out Google Translate?”
Aether blinks. That half-formed, premature question wiggles out in an unsteady, “You–who are?”
“Scaramouche. So it’s not a language barrier, then. Short-term memory loss, perhaps?”
Aether flushes, and he thinks that may be why he could not form a sentence, with all the blood in his body seeping into his cheeks. “I know. I just meant–just that I’ve never seen you in my entire life.”
That sickly sweet smile dips. “Are you saying I’m forgettable?”
“No,” Aether rushes out, feeling like this conversation is spiralling out of his control far, far too quickly than his usual conversations normally do. He tries to hold the reins by blurting out, “No, no, if we’re neighbors, I would’ve remembered seeing you.” It does more harm than good, because now it just sounds flirtatious, despite knowing that Aether is anything but.
“I know what you mean, relax,” Scaramouche says, pushing Aether, who had unconsciously risen and was leaning anxiously forward, back down onto the bed. “I was only joking. Relax. You look like you’re going to faint again.”
“I’ve never seen you in my life,” Aether repeats.
“Really.”
“Really!”
“I live right beside you.”
“My left neighbor?” Aether asks hopefully, because that would make more sense, already waving away his memories of the old, unsteady woman he knows perfectly well lives to his left.
Scaramouche tilts his head. “Your right.”
“Oh.”
“Let me get you something to eat,” Scaramouche tells him, rising to his feet, oblivious to Aether's inner turmoil.
“Okay! Aether nods, like it has finally made a connection in his mind, like he can match this courteous, soft tone to the yelling he hears at night, like this guy with his benevolent, concerned hands gently pushing his head back onto the pillow is the owner to same angry hands who bash plates against walls.