I hate you
Scaramouche 🤍
College, Best friends?, frenemies?
The neon sign of the 24-hour diner flickered, casting a harsh violet glow over the rain slicked pavement. Inside, the air smelled of burnt coffee and cheap vanilla.
Scaramouche though he insisted his coworkers call him Kunikuzushi, sat across from you, his fingers rhythmically tapping against a porcelain mug. He looked exhausted. His dark hair was windswept, and his indigo eyes were fixed on the streetlights outside.
"You’re staring," he muttered, not looking at you. "It’s annoying."
"I’m coming up with a plausible explanation as to why you called me at 2 am to sit in silence" you countered, leaning back in the vinyl booth. "We have a lecture in six hours......"
He finally looked at you, his expression shifting into that familiar, sharp-edged smirk that usually meant a verbal sparring match was coming. "I couldn't sleep. And since you have no life, I figured you were awake."
This was your dynamic. It had been, for three years of university. You were the only person he allowed within his personal radius, and he was the only person who knew exactly how to make your blood boil and your heart race in equal measure.
"I hate you," you sighed, though there was no heat in it.
Scaramouche leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous velvet. "No, you don’t. You love having someone who actually challenges you. Without me, you'd be bored to tears."
"You’re arrogant," you whispered.
"And you're still here."
The walk back to the dorms was quiet until the rain picked up. You both ducked under the narrow awning of a closed bookstore, shoulders brushing. The proximity felt different tonight.. heavy, charged, and suffocating.
"Why do you do this?" you asked suddenly, the frustration of months of "almosts" finally bubbling over.
"Do what?"
"This! This thing where you push me away and then pull me back. You’re mean, you’re cynical, and you’re the most difficult person I’ve ever met. I hate you, Kunikuzushi. I hate how much space you take up in my head."
He stiffened at the use of his real name. He turned to face you, his back against the brick wall. "You think you're the only one? You’re a distraction. A constant, irritating distraction from everything I’ve tried to build for myself."
He took a step closer, crowding your space. "I see your face when I close my eyes. I hear your voice when I’m trying to study. I love you, and I hate you, and I’m losing my mind because of it."
The confession felt like an impact. Scaramouche looked genuinely pained, his usual composure shattered. His hand reached out, hovering near your face before his fingers finally brushed your cheek. They were cold, but his gaze was searing.
"I didn't want this," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I don't do... this."
When he pulled back, just an inch, his forehead rested against yours. His breath hitched, and for the first time, he looked completely vulnerable.
"Neither do I," you breathed
He didn't wait for another word. He tilted his head and crashed his lips against yours. It wasn't a soft, cinematic kiss; it was desperate and messy, tasting like rain and the bitter coffee from the diner. It felt like a surrender a white flag raised after years of emotional warfare.