Hello! My name is Leora. My pronouns are she/her. I am a Leo, as well as a certified Rohan simp 😤✨💕
This side blog was mainly for JJBA Fanfics and Headcanons, but I’m now branching out to Genshin and Honkai Star Rail stuffs! I try to stay active during writing intervals with shitposts
Also, just because requests are closed doesn’t mean u can’t talk to me thru there if you feel like it!! Pls message me on there it gets lonely 🧍♀️
My AO3 is RohansPenNibs!
My top five favourite JJBA characters are Rohan, Risotto, Jotaro, Fugo, and Jolyne!
I’m a Ganyu and Xiao main on Genshin, and though I’m new to HSR, I’m already legally engaged to Welt and Kafka 😩😩😩
ei responding to the death of her sister by attempting to create a state of eternity vs kazuha responding to the death of his friend by going on to live a life of impermanence. trying to make loss impossible (so you never get hurt again) vs trying to make loss so natural that you don't get attached to anything (and never get hurt again). staying in the same place forever vs running away forever
The Road I Have Traveled On: Every Breath You Take (La Squadra/Reader [Multiple Chapters])
My skrunkly I would never abandon you
3.9K
Previous Chapter!
Most people assume that when faced with the three choices in a life or death situation, they would choose ‘fight’ over ‘flee’ and ‘freeze’. They have this glorified character of themselves— a person who is strong enough to fight back against a threat.
You assumed this from the beginning too, until danger struck, and you ultimately— instinctively— chose to flee.
Your brother was still alive when you made this decision.
As he lay motionless on the concrete, you couldn’t help but feel that your limbs were dead weights despite your nerves bursting with energy.
You bit your tongue, only releasing it from your teeth when the taste of blood started to make you feel nauseous. The stinging pain in your mouth proved that you weren’t having a nightmare. It was reality. Your shoes scraping against the concrete, the men at your sides pulling you away from your brother’s corpse— it was as real as the doom you were feeling.
“If you didn’t try running, we wouldn’t have had to kill him.”
You couldn’t feel your body. A numb static covered your face and arms, like you were dipped in a vat of pins and needles.
As the men spoke and laughed around you, it came as an echo to your ears. It sounded distant— so distant, that you had to dig your teeth into your tongue again to really make sure it wasn’t a dream.
The taste of blood and searing pain. Real. It was all still real. You craned your head to look back at your twin.
“Look, we’re not hurting you, see? The boss said to leave you spotless.”
They weren’t lying. They only tightened their grip on your arms when you struggled against their hold. You were virtually unharmed, aside from your scraped knees— unintentionally self-inflicted.
The hands continued to push you forward. You turned your head to face the direction of where your body was pointed, and you froze seeing the doors of the van beginning to open. It was more akin to the jaws of a lion rather than a vehicle’s entryway. At that point, it might as well have been the former.
‘I’m gonna die,’ you thought to yourself.
Tolling bells bounced around your skull, a dizzying and nauseating echo that mimicked your heartbeat.
‘I don’t want to die.’
Your lips were moving, but you were not speaking any words. It sprouted as whispers, breathless and nonsensical. Then, you could feel every tactile sensation that your nerves alerted to your brain— your raging heart beat, your every blink registering like the slow scraping of glass against glass, your breathing comparable to a plastic glove inflating and deflating within a bird cage.
Everything felt like it was in slow motion, and it was becoming a fatiguing task to process all the information suddenly shooting up your spine. It began to hurt. You started to mutter again, and this time, it was audible enough for the men to hear. You were so close to the car door, that as you looked back at your twin, your head was almost twisted all the way to the back.
Whether it was the distance playing tricks on your eyes, or your heightened anxiety creating false images in your mind, somehow, you swore you could see Luce’s mouth moving to form two syllables.
Survive.
Shallow breathing, hands going clammy, you could feel your lungs expanding then sucking back in again, filling your chest to the limit. You couldn’t take a proper inhale because it felt like the organs were too big for your rib cage.
‘How?’ You whispered to him. Luce kept repeating the same word over and over, a mantra that took over your thoughts.
Survive.
You didn’t realize that you were saying it with him until you felt a shove from the man beside you.
“What the hell are you muttering? Keep moving.”
Your bruised knees hit the base of the rusted vehicle's floor.
The world spun with you as you turned your head. You shifted your gaze to meet your assailant's eyes.
The words left you in a slow and calm cadence.
“I’m going to kill you.”
There’s a bed at the base. You didn’t know about it until you and Illuso were instructed to lay Prosciutto on it.
Illuso left the room immediately after, already annoyed by your injured teammate’s nagging. The blond would be positioned in a way that irritated the tender wound on his stomach, and somehow, he’d mustered up the energy to bark complaints, and elbow the brunette. You stayed, solely because you couldn’t risk not being present, had Prosciutto let something slip— something that Melone might want to interrogate you on later.
A worn out mattress has never looked as enticing as today.
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
Prosciutto groans as he shifts his body on the bed. “I’ve been shot in the stomach, not the eyes,” Prosciutto breathes out, careful not to disturb the bandages around his waist as he did so. “Stupid ass...”
The gaping hole in his abdomen does little to snuff out his attitude, as Prosciutto manages to speak just as pointedly as usual. He was complaining about Illuso’s rough movements earlier, and now he’s complaining about how late he’ll arrive home because of this inconvenience.
Melone rolls his eyes in annoyance at the others’ words. “I’m checking to see how aware you are,” Melone explains, clearly a little annoyed from the insult.
“You were acting differently. You felt differently. Who’s to say you weren’t injected with a drug, or something?” Melone jabs his pointer finger at Prosciutto’s chest for emphasis.
“Worst-case scenario, you inhaled it. If you inhaled it, then it’s a drug that travels through the air, and if it’s a drug that travels through the air, then that means you bought that lovely little substance back here.”
You peak up from behind Melone. “He’s been drugged?”
The makeshift-medic looks over at you and shakes his head, his lips in a tight line. “Not from the looks of it, no.”
Melone sighs, a faraway look on his face. Whenever he thinks, he has a habit of chewing on his bottom lip.
“Now that I think about it, since you’re fine, we don’t have to worry about him being coated in anything...” He moves a strand of purple hair away from his face.
“Still, what a surprise that this happened.” Melone cast a side-eye at Prosciutto. “The targets weren’t even Stand users...” It’s as if he’s staring at something subhuman, the way that pity and disgust swim in his gaze.
Prosciutto sneers at the last bit that Melone snuck in, the notion that he was no better than a regular man with a regular gun.
“I was caught off guard,” he seethes out, nursing the wound on his stomach yet again.
“Sure,” Melone shrugs. “The next time you’re ‘caught off guard’, you better hope you have backup again.” Melone’s piercing gaze shoots over to you.
You nearly jump from the suddenness of his stare, but his expression softens when you meekly meet his eyes.
“I promise, he’s usually not this careless,” Melone says, his hand over his chest in mock sympathy. It’s like he’s only doing it to piss Prosciutto off.
“Since this was such a close call, though, we’ll have two people training you at once, as of the next hit— tomorrow.”
You nod.
The man tilts his head downwards slightly, “this does mean that your end of the deal will shrink accordingly, since you’re sharing the commission with two others now.”
You nod again, brow lifted. It’s not like you were being paid pennies. “That’s fine. I expected that.”
Melone chuckles. “That’s my boy,” he coos, “if I were to say the same thing to Illuso or Sorbet, they would’ve thrown a hissy fit— isn’t that right, Prosciutto?”
There's a hint of a smile on Prosciutto’s face at the thought. “Sorbet nearly set this place on fire the last time a client's payment was late,” he huffs. Melone's own smile widens as he runs through his memory.
“He was livid— Oh, remember when someone owed him money— Formaggio, I think— and Sorbet put thumbtacks in his shoes when he didn’t pay him back on time?”
Prosciutto let out a strained laugh at the memory, only to cringe when the action causes his abdomen to tense up. He chuckles weakly. “What an asshole.”
In between their chatter, you stand awkwardly to the side.
You want to laugh along too— as embarrassing as the thought is. You may be detached, and a tad antisocial, but that does not mean you are immune to the fear of missing out. It’s human nature. It’s the lonely kid at the playground watching everyone play without them and trying to make up any excuse to join in.
“Who’s Sorbet?” You ask, trying to mask your intrigue with nonchalance.
Prosciutto and Melone freeze at your query.
You look at the blond for context, and he promptly turns his head. Even the ever chatty Melone is left speechless when you switch your gaze to him instead.
You feel embarrassment warm your face as the seconds pass with no response. Maybe you should’ve just said nothing.
Melone finally breaks the silence, clearing his throat, and mustering up a smile.
“So cute,” Melone grabs your cheek with the second knuckle of his pointer and middle fingers, grinning at the way he made it look as if you were smiling lopsidedly.
“It’s hard to explain, just forget it,” he hums. You click your tongue in annoyance, and push his hand away.
Seconds pass, and Melone can tell as you shift around that you’re looking for something to do.
“You’re free to go, cutie. You don’t need to do anything else.”
You shoot up at his dismissal, and worry paints your expression.
“Shouldn’t I watch over Prosciutto? You know, make sure he’s alright?”
Melone stands up, and wraps an arm around your shoulders, practically dragging you to the door.
“That won’t be necessary. He’ll be fine with enough rest.”
You look over Melone’s shoulder, making eye contact with the blond. Your sympathetic smile borders on a cringe.
“Uh… wishing you a speedy recovery… man.”
Prosciutto huffs, but you catch the light tugging on the sides of his lips.
“Sure. Go.”
If your run-ins with Illuso taught you anything, it was that the brunette’s sing-songing tone is never a good sign.
“Hey Leche.”
It didn’t take an expert to know that that voice meant that he was in a malicious mood, hoping to embarrass or annoy someone.
You sling your bag straps on in record speed, pacing yourself in hopes that the man doesn’t catch up to you. “It’s been a long day,” you mutter robotically, “I’m going home.”
His footsteps match your own. “Is that how you speak to your next trainer?”
You hear him call from just behind you.
Before you can even reach the doorknob, his hand has already planted itself on the door’s rough wooden panel, blocking it from opening.
Illuso is only mere inches away from you as he speaks.
“How about a drink before you leave? I’ll pay.”
You narrow your eyes at the offer. Arms crossed, you turn your body to face him.
“What’s the catch?”
Illuso mirrors your stance, finally leaving some room between the two of you. The only difference in your body language is the frown on your lips, and the grin on his.
“No catch,” he says, “just two men making amends. We got off on the wrong foot, don’t you think?”
One look at his calculating gaze, and you know that it’s the opposite. Your gut feeling tells you that accepting would cost you your wellbeing or your pride— two things you aren’t willing to sacrifice.
“I’ll pass.”
You see Illuso’s brows twitch upwards at your response. Then came the hint of a smile on his lips. Your gut speaks up again. Maybe this was the response he was hoping for, afterall.
“Passing up a free drink? Really?” Illuso rubs at his chin, chuckling the longer he thought of whatever the hell he was going to say to give you a harder time than you needed.
“Oh… Oh, I get it,” he says, as if he caught you in his trap.
You furrow your brows as he nods his head. You don’t have a clue what he’s implying he cracked the code to.
“You got a special someone back home to look after, is that it?”
Your grimace brings further joy to his face.
“No ring on your finger though…”
As if on instinct, you clench your fists.
Luce never married. He prioritized his ‘career’ above all else. Any hope or dream of a regular life blew away in the wind the moment he got into financial trouble with the wrong people.
“Do you just not wanna be tied down? Haven’t mustered up the courage to ask yet?”
Illuso leans in closer, voice hushed as he continues his badgering.
“Or… is it complicated?”
You reply bitterly in your head, ‘yeah, it’s pretty fucking complicated.’
It’s a sore spot for you— the idea that your brother will never find someone to settle down with. Would you have felt better if he had? Even if it means that another person would’ve been hurt by his death?
If Luce did marry, then at least you’d have someone to share the pain of his absence with. Someone who understands. You wouldn’t be so lonely.
You’re realizing that the longer you’re silent, the more excited Illuso looks. Like your response has been a century-locked secret, and his prodding was the key.
“I live alone,” you finally murmur.
Illuso’s breath hitches for a moment.
“Do you now?”
His eyes stay trained on your own, like a magnet to another. He’s waiting for you to crack under his scrutiny, to reveal any signs of dishonesty— a drop of sweat, a shiver, a twitch.
You’re both left staring at each other for so long that your blinks match at one point.
Illuso finally moves, his head tilting, and his tongue poking at the inside of his cheek.
“… Likewise.” His grin seems permanent, even as he studies your expression further.
“Well,” Illuso claps you on the shoulder, “be prepared for tomorrow.” He turns, and begins to walk away.
As you reach for the doorknob again, you hear the man call out for a final time.
“Ghiaccio’s a real control freak.”
Exhaustion came like a truck sliding down an icy road. It hit you at full force the moment you stepped into your home.
You shut the door, and quickly jump out of your suit.
You’ve made a habit of washing Luce’s clothes right after arriving home, eager to get the smell of the assassin’s base out of it.
The base’s smell wasn’t unpleasant by any means, but it reeked of work. Bergamot and melon used to smell pleasant, but now, you can only associate the smell with death— it's the same as how a fast food employee would view a burger after a gruelling eight hour shift.
Just the mere scent of their high end cologne reminded you of the constant headache of pretending to be somebody you’re not.
With the cheques you’ve been receiving, you consider the water bill a nonissue, even with your overuse of the washing machine.
Hopping into the shower, you instantly deflate after Restless Heart finally released its ability. The water drowns out the sound of fluid pumping throughout your skull as you massaged your temples.
Through the white noise of the water, you hear the formation of syllables.
‘Adrenaline and cortisol.’
Those were the first words Restless Heart had ever said to you.
There’s a faraway look in your eyes as you think back on your first meeting. The dingy alleyway, the carcasses on the cement. Your brother laying just a few metres away from you. To this day, you still don’t know how long you stood there for. It’s like you blinked, and the sky that had just been a bright blue suddenly turned into an ombré of orange and purple.
Your Stand had simply stared you down then, with little interest in your panic at the blood splattered everywhere. You still don’t remember what transpired to cause such a mess. Throughout your time getting used to your new ability, you started theorizing that your new partner had a hand in you not remembering the gore and chaos. Maybe it was its own way of protecting you. Self preservation.
You can barely register moving as you step out of the tub, a numbness crawling over your legs and arms as you dried yourself off, and slunk on your clothes.
You reach over to your doorknob, stretching your arms as you leave the sauna that was your bathroom.
And then your ears pick up on the faintest sound.
It’s difficult to hear the next few clicks, as your heart beat begins to mimic the sound of a million racing horses in your eardrums. Your body feels like it’s hollow and made of lead at the same time. Breathing becomes a rigorous task that you’re overwhelmingly aware of.
After years of being stalked by a mob boss, how could you forget the sound of a camera shutter?
You repress the panic building up in your chest, forcing yourself to take a deep breath in despite your head spinning from the anxiety.
Another click. Somehow, from a position different than the last.
You’re about to call out your Stand, when a whisper, barely above the sound of your ceiling fan, tickles your ear.
“Don’t call me out.”
The hushed voice brings little comfort to you— it brings quite the opposite. Your eyes slowly scan your surroundings, your tentative steps beginning to pat against the hardwood floor of your home.
“Don’t speak. Don’t make any weird movements. Act like you’re a regular person on a regular day.”
You sit at the dining room table, spreading out the newspaper you picked up from your walk earlier. Under the guise of reading, you survey the area further.
“This is the only way I can protect you right now.”
After years of silently observing and anticipating your next moves, your Stand picked up a knack of working silently behind the scenes to keep you from harm, oftentimes without your knowledge.
‘You’re not gonna do anything?’ You think to yourself— your Stand understands your inner thoughts.
Another click. Then another. You’re acutely aware of the sounds reverberating around the entire house now, never sticking to a singular spot.
“If this was a fight I knew we could win, it already would’ve been over. I can’t tell where the enemy is, and that’s a problem.”
Your hands begin to tremble involuntarily.
‘Enemy?’
It’s like there’s a wad of gum lodged inside your esophagus as you try to swallow. A cold chill envelopes your entire body, building a layer of sweat.
“Ah yes, because an ally would be taking discreet photographs of you.”
You squint your eyes. You don’t know where your Stand developed such a smart ass tone.
“The windows are empty. Any open outlet where a photograph can be taken is clear. It doesn’t make sense.”
One more click, this time, to your right, where your picture frames hang.
“Walk around so we can gauge where it’s coming from.”
You clench your fist. ‘What the hell do you mean ‘walk around’?’
“If you die, I die. Why would I lead you astray?”
There’s that smart ass tone again.
You stand up at a regular speed, walking a regular walk to the kitchen. Your eyes slowly scan the vicinity, extra focused on the windows, despite your Stand’s earlier observation.
Just then, the sound of creaking causes your ears to perk up. In your peripheral vision, you see bundles of brown hair peaking from the corner of your mirror.
Then, came the camera shutter’s signature click.
‘This asshole,’ you think to yourself, recalling the conversation you had with the pigtailed bastard.
You slam the fridge open with arguably more force than needed, and pry a juice box from its plastic bundle.
As you stomp your way back to the living room table, you can’t help but feel the anger at your coworker slowly morph into a panic.
‘Do you think he knows now?’ You seethe, piercing the juice box with arguably more violence than needed. The moment you reach the straw to your lips, you hear another click.
It dawns on you that Illuso never took the same photo twice. Once he procured a photo of your current pose, he would quickly switch positions to snap a picture from a new angle.
“Don’t you think he would’ve attacked you by now if that were the—“
The sound of the doorbell freezes your body in fear. Your Stand remains speechless at the echo.
You stare at the door, throat dry despite the drink in your hand. The doorbell rings again.
“Well?”
Your expression shows your displeasure for a second before you realize how out of place it would look to an outsider.
‘What?’
“You need to answer it.”
You suck in a heavy breath. It’s the last thing you want to do. Matter of fact, you’re sure you’d rather deep fry yourself alive than answer the door, but with that nosey voyeur sleazing about in your home, you couldn’t afford to not save face.
“Act natural.”
You bend slightly to peek through the peephole. You nearly squeezed the juice box empty from the shock and annoyance that suddenly shot through your body.
‘Good fucking grief.’ It takes all the power in you not to let out a groan of irritation.
‘Have these people never heard of ‘work-life balance’?’
You undo the locks on your door with heavy hands, sighing slightly when you finally open it.
Tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear, you tilt your head to look up at the man. Your lack of insoles make him appear taller than what you’re used to.
“Uhm, hello.” You wonder if your voice sounds different enough, even if it’s just a register above the one you use for Luce. “Can I help you?”
You check behind him, silently praising whatever god answered your prayer when you find no one else following behind him.
“Hey.” Formaggio stares into your eyes, brows raised as he scratches the back of his neck. “Does a ‘Luce’ live here?”
You press your lips into a straight line. You hope your annoyance doesn’t seep into your expression.
“That’s my brother,” you look down at your feet, shifting them before staring back up at the man.
“He’s not home right now, though.” You dawdle there for a second before looking back up at him.
Formaggio doesn’t budge.
The expression on his face is unreadable, so incredibly neutral, that it’s more horrifying than a look of displeasure. It leaves much to the imagination about what’s going through his head as he stares you down with that look of placidity.
Is he using the silence as intimidation? Is he even doing it on purpose? It’s definitely taking advantage of your very human nature. It’s natural to want to please others— to fill the gaps of silence with conversation, to be welcoming and warm and ignore the fact that your assassin coworkers have found your home and any slip up will cost you your life.
You don’t know what possesses you to utter the next sentence. Maybe you folded under his scrutiny, or maybe you were playing the role of a clueless host too well, or better yet, maybe Restless Heart unknowingly mimicked the effects of crack in your mind, which subsequently made you think ‘Hey, this is a fantastic idea!’. All you know is that you regret the sentence the moment it leaves your lips.
“Would you like to come in?”
You pray to whatever god above may be listening that he says no.
if you’re not rereading your own 3yo one-shots every once in a while so you can shake your head at the ao3 tab and mutter god i’m fucking funny then what are we even doing all this work for?
never lose hope. somewhere, a middle-aged, gender ambiguous person with an advanced degree in an esoteric field and a fiber arts hobby could be crashing out and pinning all their remaining mental health on getting obsessed with your otp. any day now, the most elegantly written 100k fanfic you have ever read is going to hit ao3. it could happen. it has happened.
so the thing they didnt tell me about life is that things are gonna keep happening and its never gonna stop. like. one day youre gonna be thinking “man when are things gonna slow downnn lol im exhausted!!!” and then more things come. its like a kiddy pools worth of plastic balls bouncing down stairs that youre trying to walk up. you may slip on a ball but the important thing is that you keep walking.
having unfinished fics trapped inside your head is the worst experience ever like you are so filled with Emotion over the Situations and the Character and you wish you could share it with other people but you can't. you can't until you write it and maybe you'll never write it 😭😭😭
Colour it Grey, Until I Forget you: I Will Still Fall in Love (Scaramouche/Reader [Angst/Fluff/Multichapter])
Previous chapter!
TWs for this chapter: vomiting from alcohol, cuts on hand from porcelain.
Hi guys employment has been kicking my ass but here is chapter 2 yahoooo !!!
Word count: 6.6k
AO3 here!
To say that the Wanderer was ill prepared for the shock of retrieving his memories would be an understatement. He had to steady his breathing to keep the influx of information from flooding his senses and plummeting his body straight to the ground.
‘Let me keep this.’
It was the loudest echo, a sentence that pounded against his skull like the stomps of a rebelling crowd. He has no option to look away.
It all brings a burning wave to his eyes, and he blinks his misery away as he relives his most desperate act.
‘Take everything else but this.’
Beat after beat, second after second, he’s berated by his own voice, and faced with your hurt expression.
There’s an inkling of him that’s eternally grateful that he’s erased from the world’s memory— from your memory.
He reaches out, so far ahead that his shoulder feels as if it’s about to pop from the socket. So far ahead, that he feels a hand grab his wrist.
~•~
Scaramouche huffed when he saw the doorknob begin to rattle.
“Ah, shit…”
Even from behind the thick wooden door, he could still hear your drowsy voice.
Scaramouche watched through the peephole as you fumbled with your keys. Your eyes were wide, seemingly trying to focus all your power into slotting the key into the hole. You failed at this for a few minutes.
He heard the successful click of the key making it into the slot, and only then did he swing the door open, finally letting you meet his dissatisfied grimace.
You were silent. He expected a complaint from you— a snarky ‘took you long enough,’— but there was no anger in your eyes. Only a daze that indicated confusion.
Scaramouche stepped back to let you in, his arms crossed while you stumbled around.
“Do you know what time it is?” His annoyed tone sliced through the sounds of you clumsily taking your jacket off, sharp eyes glaring daggers as you flung your shoes to the side.
You paused to consider his question, arm rested on the wall to help you stabilize yourself.
You crane your head to view the grandfather clock behind you. You let out a groan after the clock indicated a minute. “The hands won’t stay still.”
Scaramouche rolled his eyes as he turned around to stomp away to your shared room. “I can’t believe you,” he hissed beneath his breath, pausing in his tracks as he decided to chew you out further.
“You reek of alcohol,” he sneered, annoyance evident in his tone and body as he moved to cross his arms again. “I don’t even know why you humans keep poisoning yourselves with this filth.”
He huffed at the sound of you taking a seat. “You always regret it in the morning too, and then I’m stuck cleaning up after.”
Your non-reactions to his berating urged him to keep going.
“You know,” he fumed, “I was trying to sleep, until I heard you stumbling outside.”
He was still hit with silence on your end. The opposite of what Scaramouche wanted.
“I was actually going to sleep earlier until I remembered that you said you’d be back before dinner— then I figured you went off on one of your little drinking sprees, and—“
“Too many words,” you finally groaned, only feeding into the boy's irritation.
“My boss invited me to the party. Couldn’t refuse. She paid for dinner, anyway.”
The bitterness he was feeling would’ve rivaled the alcohol you were chugging down earlier. Scaramouche was glad he was facing away from you. He only had to muffle down the hurt he was feeling in his voice instead of his expression.
“You can refuse drinking more than you can handle.”
He heard you sigh. Scaramouche could mentally picture you doing your signature move— pinching the bridge of your nose and shaking your head. You only ever did it whenever you two quarrelled.
“I can handle my—“
You paused abruptly, placing a hand on your chest to ease the sudden pressure building from your stomach.
“My…” It was obvious that you were fighting your body’s instincts— a losing battle, of course.
“…—hrk.”
Scaramouche’s ears perked up at the sound. He turned around and saw you clamping a hand over your mouth while clutching your stomach with the other.
In record time, he lifted you off of where you sat, and dragged you off to the bathroom, gently placing you in front of the toilet.
Scaramouche cringed as your shoulders convulsed with each heave. He held your clothes back while he knelt beside you, letting you puke without worry of anything dangling into the water.
When you finally stopped, the boy pulled you away from the bowl before flushing.
He loomed over closer to you. “Regret it now?” His tone would’ve been mocking had he not been so deathly worried.
You didn’t respond.
Scaramouche let out a loud sigh, stood you up, then led you to the sink. He let you rinse off by yourself, but stood by nonetheless, holding your waist as a means of extra support.
He continued holding you until you stumbled into your shared room, only letting go when you made it past the door. Before you could crash onto the mattress, Scaramouche’s booming voice froze you in place.
“Hey. No outside clothes on the bed.”
You settled to sit on the floor beside the nightstand.
The sound of running water and the clinking of glass against ceramic filled the silence of your home. When Scaramouche returned, he came with a bowl and a rag.
He crouched beside you, unbuttoning your shirt and wiping the rag from the bottom of your jaw down to the base of your neck. After that, he wiped your back down. The water and rag were lukewarm, but sometimes his porcelain fingers would graze your skin and give you goosebumps.
Scaramouche eventually made it to your arms, where he held back a sound of surprise when one of your hands escaped his grasp and began touching his neck, travelling up to his jaw and caressing the highest point of his cheekbone with your thumb.
Scaramouche didn’t realize he was relaxing and leaning into your touch until a flash of realization hit his face, and his expression morphed from neutrality to disgust.
“Your hands—“ Scaramouche pulled your hand away from his face, wiping it down with the rag, “They were all over the toilet while you puked up your boss’ hard earned money.”
You looked at the hand he wiped furiously at, deep in thought as you clenched your fingers.
“… Hey.”
He watched as you tilted your head to look him in the eyes.
“Both you and the toilet are made of porcelain.”
Scaramouche’s signature scowl makes a comeback.
“Are you trying to make me angry?” He growled lowly, wringing the rag into the water bowl with extra pressure.
It was quiet for a bit after his response.
“You weren’t angry already?” Your genuine tone made the boy shake his head subconsciously.
“I’m not angry, I was just…” He started, only pausing when he met your eyes.
Scaramouche saw the look of happiness overtake your expression of shame. He quickly changed course.
“If you do that again, I’ll kill you.” He muttered as he stood up.
He threw a shirt at you seconds after, and let you climb onto the bed yourself.
Scaramouche snuffled a remark as you flopped around on the mattress, clearly trying to get comfortable.
“It’s too hot,” you whined, throwing the blankets to the side. “Can you open the window?”
He hit you with a furious shake of his head. “Not doing that.” All he could think about were the crowd of bugs he’d meet in the morning.
“Then can you come beside me?”
He rolled his eyes for the nth time that night, reluctant when he shifted over beside you.
He held back a shiver when you pressed your face to the side of his stomach. To you, his cool skin felt much colder due to your heightened body temperature.
“You’re only nice when I’m like this,” you sighed into his skin.
He felt you swallow another breath before speaking again. “You think that I won’t remember in the morning, but I always do.”
Another deep exhale, shaky as you released it.
“It’s how I know that deep down, you’re actually a sweet guy.”
There was a tightness in his chest as he digested your thoughts. Scaramouche stilled as he replayed the words in his head.
“What?”
He felt your heavy breaths against the side of his stomach, a rhythmic pattern that suggested your state of consciousness.
It was the last remark from you for the night.
Left with no answer, Scaramouche turned over, eyeing your expression as he lowered his body to fully face you.
He could hear your heavy breathing— closer to panting,— as if you finished running a race mere seconds ago.
If he were in his right mind, he would’ve laughed at how disheveled you looked, with your hair plastered to the moisture on your forehead, and your limbs sprawled in the least elegant ways possible.
If your words didn’t leave a blush creeping up his ears, he would’ve snapped a picture of your snoring face, and taunted you in the morning.
However, after a night of worrying and meticulously staring out the window for any sign of your return, Scaramouche had no energy to laugh.
Instead, he smoothed the hair away from your face, and placed his cold lips to the warm skin on your temple.
~•~
The Wanderer scrutinizes the Anemo vision in his hand.
The mechanical puppet looms over him like a cloud, its slumped over form indicating its defeat before it dissipates.
He looks back at Paimon and the Traveler.
The smaller of the duo peeps up.
“It disappeared… Did we win?”
The boy’s mocking scoff dip the two into a vat of nostalgia.
“What did you expect? I’d never lose to that.”
The two hadn’t realized how gentle and kind the boy’s voice had been until then. Only when his sharp tone rang throughout the building instead of his previous, soft-spoken cadence, the duo understood, all while staring into his judgmental, violet eyes, that the boy they knew and despised was back.
~•~
“It’s an interesting case…” Nahida began, a finger on her chin as she digested the information before her. “I’ve never heard of memories being preserved using dreams before.”
She swirls the fairy tale book around in the air before letting it drop onto the library table
“And with no outside forces at work either…” She stares at the boy, her eyes wide and scrutinizing. “…Very interesting.”
The Traveler and Paimon sat across the Archon and the puppet, fiddling with their fingers as they anticipate the boy's reaction to everything.
The duo spilled everything they knew about your case, eternally grateful they only had to explain so much— thanks to Nahida’s storybook on Scaramouche. The Traveler knows they couldn’t handle another hour explaining everything.
The Wanderer finally speaks up. “What would happen if I were to show myself to them?”
“There’s no way to know unless we try,” Nahida’s cheery tone contrasts the Wanderer’s more distant attitude.
Nahida always encouraged the boy to step out of his comfort zone— even before his erasure, she would frequently push him towards things he didn't necessarily sign up for, all in the hopes of improving his ability to connect with others.
“This is my first time seeing a case like this, but from my knowledge, there’s a stark distinction between how we view people in real life, and how we view people in dreams.
“Dreams may influence some emotions we have for people, but if they have no one to connect that dream-boy to in their real life…” Nahida looks up in thought for a second, placing a finger on her chin.
“Their brain will simply try to fill in that gap.”
The Wanderer looks at Nahida in question, mirroring the Traveler and Paimon’s faces.
Nahida catches on, and clarifies further. “They could’ve imagined you as a faceless being, as a mesh of features, or as another person entirely.”
It’s almost as if the boy deflates at the last possibility. He feels a deep pit grow in his stomach at the thought of you seeing anyone else in the light you saw him in, good or bad.
Nahida senses the shift in mood, and hurries to boost the morale.
“The fact they had that dream is a miracle in itself, however. It means there’s still hope for integrating yourself back into their life— this is an opportunity that no one else may come across, Wanderer.”
The boy is still silent despite her words.
“Wanderer?” The three are now looking only at him.
The boy's long sigh worried them.
The Traveler is first to speak up. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of hiding away.”
Paimon joins in, fists shaking in front of her as she floats from her seat, “Yeah! Come on, we saw you walk towards them like you were in a trance…!”
“Shut it— I’ll do what I want,” he snaps, but it doesn’t hold half of the animosity it should’ve.
Nahida collects her words carefully before finally speaking. “I understand your hesitation. There are a lot of mixed feelings in reuniting, especially considering your circumstances.”
She grabs the storybook on the table, and places it on her lap, wiping the cover down with gentle hands.
“I’m not trying to pressure you, but from my perspective, I believe this will do you some good— see it as a second chance.”
Her words linger in the air for a moment until the boy finally responds.
“Shouldn’t their happiness be the priority?”
The Wanderer looks off into the distance, avoiding eye contact with any of the three he’s with.
“I don’t know how I feel interfering with their life when they’re doing just fine.” It’s obvious that he’s trying to play it cool, even if his melancholic eyes betray him.
“If they’re happy as is, isn’t it best to leave them alone?”
Without speaking his true thoughts, he somehow says all he needs to for the three to understand.
Nahida shakes her head at his words, a sympathetic smile on her face. “Your assumption is far from the truth.”
The Archon doodles on the table with her index as she explains, “The brain forgets around 50% of a dream after waking up. A few hours after that, it forgets even more.”
She points at the Wanderer for emphasis. “Some way, somehow, despite this fact, and despite your interference with Irminsul—“
Nahida then taps her temple.
“You’re still a part of their subconscious.”
The Traveler and Paimon nod their head to the information. They saw, firsthand, how vividly you recalled those memories.
“That experience was deemed so integral to this person's character that their brain had to convince itself it was all a dream to compensate for your erasure. How can you say you’re ‘interfering’?”
The Wanderer’s brows twitch downwards for a moment.
“Don’t you think that’s indicative of your importance?”
He ponders on her words, only stopping when the Traveler suddenly pipes up.
“I mean, unless you’re fine with them moving on to another person, cause it seems like they were a little desperate for a connec...”
The Traveler doesn’t realize their inner thoughts are leaving their mouth until the silence and pointed stares kill the words in their throat. They awkwardly sniff, and press their lips into a straight line.
Nahida looks up at the Wanderer. “… You’re free to do whatever you want… just keep that in mind.”
The Wanderer pauses for another moment of thought before looking back at the blond. There’s a look on his face that screams pissed.
“… Traveler…” His voice is low as he turns his body towards them. The blond can feel his intent emanating through his fingertips, like static electricity on a cotton blanket.
“Make absolutely sure,” he has a demon-like grip on their shoulder as he growls.
“That nobody approaches them.”
His blown out eyes instinctively force a nod out of the duo.
~•~
“Paimon! Traveler! What’s up?”
Paimon squeals your name, rushing over to the cafe seat directly beside you. “We just visited the book stand! These were pretty pricey, but they had a sale— 25% off!”
You sip your drink for a second before responding, a pensive look on your face as you thought about the price of the books. “Oh yeah, that stand usually does that when it’s the second last day of the festival. You should’ve waited until tomorrow! It would’ve been 50% off.”
Paimon’s mouth widens in astonishment at the money that could’ve been saved, but she quickly regains her composure— saving money wasn’t the plan right now.
You clap your hands. “Let me see what you guys bought!”
Paimon reveals her book from behind her, the Traveler doing the same and pulling their book from their bag.
There’s a pitiful look on your face as you stare at the textbooks they retrieved.
“… Had I known you guys needed these books, I would’ve lent you mine.”
You point at the large textbook Paimon is somehow holding, seeing that it’s three times the size of her head, “I took a class in Snezhnayan politics last year.”
You look at the Traveler next. “And I have volumes 1 and 2 of ‘Inazuman for Dummies’ back at home. Are those returnable?”
Paimon looks at the Traveler with a gaped mouth yet again, a look of dismay and shock on her face.
“Final sale.” The Traveler reveals.
You cringe before forcing it into a smile.
“You know what? It’s nice to have books around. Maybe you can sell it later.”
You return to your book, face resting on your palm as you continue reading.
Paimon coughs as she flips a page on her textbook. You glance up at her, unbeknownst that it was a signal.
Paimon drops a hook. “Wow, they have a whole section on the Fatui harbingers in here.”
You unknowingly take the bait. “Hah, that was my best unit. I don’t think I even needed the class, I just wanted to learn about it.”
“Paimon just noticed, but there’s a typo here! Right after the 5th Harbinger, they skip straight to the 7th!”
“It’s no typo,” your tone is practically seeping with excitement as you speak. “The seat has just been vacant for a while, so there’s currently no 6th Harbinger.” The Traveler and Paimon can’t help but adore the glimmer in your eyes as you joyfully explained.
“Interesting!” Paimon nods her head, looking at the Traveler for their input. The Traveler nods back.
The smug smile on your face practically beams as you continue. “I did that research on my own too— I was the only one in the class that knew of its vacancy.”
“If ever we pick this class up, we’ll know who to call!” Paimon’s exclamation hides the Traveler’s furious scribbling.
“I have a question too,” the blond pipes up before you could get back to your reading.
The Traveler slides the napkin towards you, “I originally picked this book up because I’ve been seeing these two titles pop up a lot.”
You pick the folded sheet up, studying the two words written on it. “Well, this first one says ‘Kunikuzushi’, and the second one says ‘Kabukimono’.”
The Traveler gives you a second to ponder on it— they’re analyzing your features, waiting for any hint of recollection on your face. It never comes.
“Does it mean anything to you?” They finally ask.
You repeat the words again, as if tasting the syllables in your mouth. Your focus stops you from witnessing the flash of desperation on the Traveler’s face.
You place an index on the first name. “I know that this one roughly translates to ‘Destroyer of Countries’.”
“And this one,” you say, pointing at the second name, “‘Strange Thing’, or ‘Strange Person’.”
You slide the napkin back, awkward smile on your face, “… Pretty scary words to be seeing around, hey?”
The Traveler nods, noting your reaction to the words— mostly the lack of.
“Yeah. Scary.”
The Traveler never thought too deeply about it, but they couldn’t help but notice how aimless your journey had been since Scaramouche’s erasure.
Like a rocket taken off of its original path, just wandering around space, waiting to run out of fuel. A compass that has lost its other end.
After untangling his roots from Irminsul, it’s like Scaramouche unknowingly took parts of your own life with him. Like him, there was an empty space in your chest. Matching.
Paimon’s the first to leave her seat, floating upwards, only struggling slightly with her textbook.
“Thanks for talking with us! Paimon totally forgot that we had a prior engagement to get to, so we’ll be leaving now!”
There’s only a flash of disappointment on your face at the loss of company. You quickly regain your composure, and wave a hand.
“See you guys later,” you smile. The Traveler smiles back before walking away.
~•~
He pounced on the duo like a robber would a richman. The Wanderer had to hold a hand over Paimon’s mouth to keep her from screaming and alerting you.
They were about to chew him out, until they saw the bouquet clenched in his shaking hand, and the tense expression on his face.
The Traveler crosses their arms, leaning against the brick wall behind them. “It really does seem like you’ve been wiped from their memory.”
The boy furrows his brows, “You’re absolutely sure?”
They nod. “Absolutely.”
The Wanderer shifts over to watch you from behind the corner, free hand fiddling with the Anemo vision atop his chest.
The two have never seen the boy this nervous before. It’s something they deem rarer than two stars shooting across the sky at once.
Paimon stifles a laugh, all while the Traveler claps a hand on the boy's shoulder. “You ready?”
The Wanderer shakes the blond’s hand off of his shoulder, grimacing in response. “I wouldn’t have bought these overpriced weeds if I wasn’t ready.”
He emerges from the corner before stepping towards the seating area of the cafe, and taking the table furthest from you.
No. He wasn’t ready. He’d be sweating bullets if it was possible. He has to alternate which hand is holding the bouquet because it was becoming too moist to be comfortable. Keeping his leg from bouncing up and down from the nerves was practically impossible.
The Traveler realizes as they watch him sit and stare five tables away, that he is not going to make a move.
“Is he trying to mind control them or something?” Paimon whispers. The Traveler shakes their head. “Seems like it, though.”
All he’s doing is resting his cheek on his hand, fidgeting as he racks his brain thinking of ways to talk to you. What does he do? Does he just go up to you? What if you remember him? Somehow, from fate's cruel (but usual) nature, you recognize his face, and realize that this is the boy that put you through hell and back? What if—
The Wanderer feels his entire body freeze over when you glance at him. He sucks a breath in, lifting his chin from the hand balancing his head. His eyes are locked onto yours, and vice versa.
The boy realizes now that maybe he was staring at you a little too intensely.
His palms go clammy.
It’s like there’s a tinge of electricity running through his system, taking the paths from his arms all the way to his fingertips. He’s anticipating your reaction. He's waiting for an eyebrow twitch, a scowl, a glare, any hint of disapproval that would prove that though he’s erased from this world, you still somehow remember him.
It never comes.
The Wanderer’s lips part, as if there’s something on the tip of his tongue that’s waiting to be said.
And then you look away.
He feels the hole in his stomach deepen. He deems those three seconds of eye contact proof that he’s gone from your memory, because he’s sure that had you remembered him, your look of neutrality would’ve been one of hatred instead.
Though he tries to look at it from the bright side, he can’t bring himself to be happy with the confirmation of your ignorance. He should be glad he’s been wiped from your mind, glad he’s disconnected from all the bad he’s done. He should be glad that you saw the past as nothing more than a dream, yet he can’t.
It was a part of him only you knew. Whether it was him making you cry out of frustration, or him kissing your knuckles so sweetly it made you sick, it was something so vulnerable and so hidden, and something only you saw.
‘That was proof of humanity, Kunikuzushi.’
Why else would you have said that if you didn’t believe in him?
Even now, memories back and more, he still doesn’t know if you said that to comfort him, or yourself. He knew that you were aware of his lack of a heart, aware of what he was made of, yet each little interaction and effort you made was to prove that no matter how cold, and uncaring, and downright cruel he acted towards you, that he was (somehow, as impossible of a feat that it was) as human as you were.
And his response to your effort was further proof of that, because though he lacks a heart, you make something within him beat and yearn and feel, and he can say now with unmistakable certainty that it is indeed love.
It’s love to him, and he hopes with all the hope a puppet can have, that it is the same for you.
Or was.
He doesn’t realize he’s clenching his fist until the bouquet’s stems begin to sink into his palm.
There’s nothing he can do except press his lips together, and wish the bitterness in his mouth disappears.
He’d already accepted that it was his own doing that he lost you, yet watching you leave his grasp yet again makes him want to tear the hair out of his scalp.
But how could he be mad that your brain was doing what it was supposed to do? Filling in the gap he left with the surrounding environment— if he didn’t exist in Teyvat’s history, why should it be different for yours?
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he says, though he looks at you as if he’s known you for a million years. ‘I don’t care,’ he says, though he looks at you like he’s walked the journey along your body a thousand times, and cursed your name a hundred times more.
He doesn’t care, because he’s accepted that you’ve forgotten him.
Even when he has to bite his lip, shake the misery away, he keeps telling himself that he’s over it.
(Why only now does he want to label it love, when it already slipped away from his hands?)
No, he hasn’t accepted that he’s gone from your memory. He’s accepted that he will live in despair for the rest of his life. For your sake.
Afterall, why should he loop you back into his problems?
He watches in his peripheral vision as you stand up. His breathing quickens as he realizes that this is the only open window he has. It’s the best shot at getting his foot in the door with you— and it’s slipping away.
He stands up from his chair.
His lips would’ve bled from how hard he was sinking his teeth into them, but with no heart to pump blood, no droplets fell. Just a dull ache travelling throughout his face.
~•~
The Traveler face-palms as they watch the boy turn to the opposite direction of where you’re headed.
Oh, great Geo archon.
~•~
He heard the sound of your annoyed exhale as he shut the door.
The sound grew more familiar the longer he stayed with you. After every argument, every annoyance, every muttered insult, there came the eventual sigh from your end.
Scaramouche squinted as he peered into the kitchen, analyzing the deep black paste and chipped porcelain spread out on the table. He let out a scoff at the sight— the type of scoff someone does when a joke is funny enough to be acknowledged, but not fully laughed at.
“I knew it would break soon enough,” he said in a smug tone.
“With how often you mess around with decorating the place, it was bound to happen.”
Scaramouche received another sigh of annoyance on your end.
“I’m trying to focus, Scaramouche. Come back to bother me later.”
He stood there for a beat, lips parted, mind racing to come up with a quip. He settled to just defend himself.
“Don’t take your frustration out on me— I didn’t break it.”
He received no response. Had a pin dropped, it would’ve sounded decibels louder than reality from how silent the house was. Of course, Scaramouche was used to this. Silence was a response in itself. It was, in your language, a ‘choose your next words very carefully’. A warning that Scaramouche followed this time.
“I’ll buy you a new one.” His voice rang out in the quiet. It didn’t suffice.
Instead of silence, he was met with the sharp ringing of porcelain, then a murmured response seconds after.
“I don’t want a new one.”
Scaramouche felt frustration begin to simmer in his chest. It all halted when he spotted a twinkle of red drip from your fingertips.
Anger now replaced with concern, he hurriedly slipped off his sandals.
“Hey.” Scaramouche’s voice was about to explode with barely hidden urgency. He felt his brows deepen as he advanced towards you.
Despite it all, you persisted, as if the blood wasn’t dripping from your fingers. As if he wasn’t there at all.
“What the hell is up with you?” He sneered, and with lightning speed, he was holding your arm by the wrist, in turn causing you to stand and face him.
“Are you insane?—“
Scaramouche’s scolding was cut short when he met the defiant expression on your face. Only then did he notice the puffy redness around your eyes.
He fell silent. A large shard of the vase fell onto the wooden floor as his hold grew tighter around your hand. There was a line of red coating the edge of the shard.
“Just let me fix this. I’m not doing anything to bother you, so just leave me alone.”
Your voice was weak, on the verge of cracking, your resolve unwavering as you tried to pick up the broken shard. Scaramouche’s grip stayed as still as stone.
The frustration in his voice was evident as he persisted. “I said I’d buy you a new one.”
And that was the straw that broke the camel's back. You bared your teeth in anger as you shook your head, trying to pull away from his hold again, though more forcefully this time.
“I don’t want a new one!” Your voice rang throughout the house, “I want this one! Why is it so hard for you to understand that?!”
It was the first time that you raised your voice at him. He was used to you holding down your anger, snuffling the flames before it exploded. He knew it’s because you saw retaliation as stooping down to his level— clearly, something you deemed yourself better than.
Scaramouche remained unmoving despite your anger, which only really served to fuel your rage. He’d never seen you act so erratically, so downright childish— like a kid throwing a fit over a broken toy.
When he didn’t respond to your outburst, you let yourself swallow two shaky breaths to regulate your temper.
Letting air into your lungs only made the ache in your chest grow tighter, making it near impossible to speak without sounding like you were on the verge of choking. “I know it means nothing to you, but it means something to me, okay? Call it stupid, whatever, but I’m not doing anything to bother you!”
You’re ignoring the burning in your eyes and the way your throat felt like it was closing in on itself.
It was impossible to keep your voice from cracking as you spoke. “I just wanna fix it.”
Scaramouche bit back a frown as you struggled against his grip. You grew impatient, tugging your arm away from his hold yet again.
Tears finally fell from your eyes, and all you wished was that he’d let go so you could hide your face.
“Damn it,” you hissed, “just let me go so I can fix it—!”
Scaramouche finally shot back.
“Look at your hand!”
As if snapping out of your daze, you looked up at the hand he was holding. You flinched, and only then did he let go to let you cradle your arm to yourself.
You winced as you inspected the damage, biting your lips in pain at the burning sensation of the cuts on your fingers. Scaramouche shook his head.
“If it’s so important to you, then I’ll take care of it,” he sighed.
“Wash the blood off. I’ll get the bandages.”
You sat there, silent as he wrapped the fabric around each affected finger. When he’d tighten the bandage in a particular way that made you wince, the boy would loosen his grip, and try again.
After he was done bandaging you up, you sat by and stared as he prepared the lacquer. Just from his first try, the white paste came to the right consistency with expert ease.
Before he could pick up a shard, you instantly shot your hands up to stop him. He looked at you in confusion.
“… Your fingers will be cut too,” you murmured. Scaramouch made a face of near judgement and disbelief.
“No they won’t.” He picked up the shard with ease, and placed it onto the vase with no issue.
His tone was reminiscent of an eye roll. “After all these decades, how do you think I’d look if I never learned how to fix porcelain?”
You sat there, quietly observing the gentle way he handled the shards, expert as he smoothed the cracks down, which made you flinch the first time he ran a finger down the cracked edge.
His sentence, though off-handedly thrown, stuck with you.
There were no more words exchanged as he worked silently, the only sounds present in the room being your light sniffling, and the light scratching of porcelain being dragged off of the wooden table.
You don’t recall how quickly the boy finished the vase. Only when he wiped his hands off, examined his palms for any fragments, did he turn to you and cross his arms.
“There. Next time, ask for help. Don’t be so stubborn.” There was a hint of pride and arrogance in his voice, though you didn’t fall for his gaudy facade. He was staring at your fingers as if he was afraid they’d wither away.
His own digits made their way to the top of your head, moving in a ruffling motion as he stood up.
“And quit crying.”
~•~
The Wanderer didn’t stop running until he caught sight of the house. Your house. His heavy breathing shook his entire frame from how long he ran for, and his legs were burning in complaint from the sudden exertion.
The house looks abandoned, even though it’s been only a week since anyone has left it.
The boy wonders if the walls remember you slamming the door that afternoon when you left, or if it thought you’d slam the door for a completely different reason unrelated to him.
‘Unless you’re fine with them moving on to another person.’ The Traveler’s words echo in his mind.
What kind of sick joke is that?
The idea of you with anyone else fills his mouth with a vile taste.
It takes everything in his power to move his feet towards the door.
He brings a shaky hand to the doorknob, flinching at the cool touch of metal. Only then did he realize how hot his entire body felt.
He brings the back of his hand to his neck, and the only way he could describe it is the surface of a furnace, with icy condensation layered on top.
His chest feels as if it’s about to burst— like there’s a balloon in his ribcage begging to be freed from its imprisonment.
There’s an undying dizziness knocking itself into his skull, beating in a pattern that makes his head spin.
Before he knows it, the knocking has turned to pounding, as rhythmic as the way he gasps for air, and he clutches at his chest to ease the sudden influx of feeling.
It’s his legs that give out first. His knees buckled from the weight of his upper body, and he had no time to hold onto anything to brace himself. After that, it’s his head, leaving him sideways on the concrete.
Beyond the ringing of his ears, he makes out the sound of a worried yell, and objects falling to the floor.
“Hey…!”
It’s faint, almost too far away, but the frantic footsteps come closer with each second that passes.
“Are you okay? Hey…!”
Two hands lift him up from his position on the floor.
~•~
You brace the stranger’s shoulders on your arm, letting him lay his back on your thighs as you kneel onto the concrete. His blinking turns gradual, and you begin to panic at the thought of him going fully unconscious on you.
“Hey, stay with me here!” You cry, shaking the boy's shoulders slightly.
You’re calling out to any passerby, urging them to get help as you support his upper body.
You see him wince, and out of instinct, your thumb swipes at the skin just below his bottom lashes.
Only at your touch does his pained expression finally soften. His entire form goes slack.
Your body freezes at the sight, and you don’t know why.
affirmations for writers: i know how to write. i have seen sentences before, and i know how to make one. i can identify up to several words and their meanings. i am not afraid of semicolons.
WARNINGS: Yandere content, major character death, unhealthy dynamics, mentions of harm to reader, violence.
First genshin fic of this account and it’s a draft and it’s yandere!! Ahh !!!!
This is 100% inspired by the song Kill Bill by SZA, specifically referencing Doja Cat’s rap in the intro. I wrote this back when it was released, but got busy with university stuffs.
I just want to post this because if I don’t, I never will !!!!!
And Diluc is here too.
Please don’t read if you’re uncomfortable with the warnings above! Thank you.
His ears twitch at the sound of footsteps, familiar and light. Albedo’s surprised he can even hear it over the sound of his heart beat banging against his ribcage, his breathing racing as he thinks of you.
He’s trying to keep his body as still as he can, but his arms begin to go numb in their position— up beside his head, quivering at the sight of Diluc’s knife.
Albedo can easily run away. He definitely can. The path towards the door was clear, and he’s sure the redhead won’t chase him despite his ungentlemanly behaviour.
Yet he stays. It’d been weeks since he last saw you, and he’s so close to finally seeing a glimpse of you again.
Even though he hates you, wishes he could make you feel the same misery you put him through, he still can’t help the fact that you are the first thing that ever put colour on the blank canvas that was his life.
Closer. He can hear you walking closer.
Albedo reminds himself to blink.
He can see Diluc mentally weigh the consequences of leaving his spot at the doorway to keep you back, as the closer your footsteps become, the angrier Diluc looks. More desperate.
Each thump of Albedo’s heartbeat matches up with the pit-pat of your footsteps.
Diluc bites the inside of his cheek when he hears you call from behind him, his body tensing, yet his eyes never leaving the blond.
“Love?”
Albedo’s mouth gapes open at the pet name.
He heard the endearment a thousand times before, and now’s the first time since what felt like a million years ago that he hears it again.
And it wasn’t for him.
“Are you coming back to bed soon?” You yawn, emerging from the stairs. Diluc’s arm shoots up to prevent you from proceeding any further.
Taking a peak from above Diluc’s shoulder, you lock eyes with the intruder on the receiving end of his ire.
A frantic gasp leaves you at the sight. In that moment, it feels like the God of time forced a clocks hands still.
Albedo feels as if his organs were just scooped out. Like a crisp piece of paper sliced his chest open, and his ribs and his blood and every single bit of manufactured tissue inside of him poured out onto the floor in front of his feet.
Warmth drips down his face the same way it escaped his system when you left him. Albedo feels the urge to wrap his hands around your neck— hold, grip, squeeze, take your peace the same way you took his.
There’s only one question running through his mind as his composure falls, as he sucks in a hiccuped breath.
Why did you do this to me?
His teeth are clenched, his hand raised as in his palm begins to form a geode. Though his vision is blurring by the millisecond, the jumble of colours he sees through his tears are all he needs in order to aim.
Diluc notices Albedo’s position, panic rising up in his throat as the puzzle pieces finally fall into place.
“Get down—!”
The moment for Diluc to turn and lunge to shove your frozen form to the ground kills off valuable time to flee.
As you fall, the sudden bright spark burns your retinas. Even with your eyes shut tight, the brilliant white pierces through, leaving only Diluc’s form as a shadow in your eyelids. There’s a sharp ‘pop’ that accompanies the light, so loud that the ringing afterwards causes your head to spin.
Your fiancé’s body is still for a moments breath above you before he collapses onto the ground like a limp mannequin.
Albedo studies the deep red that pools around Diluc’s still body.
You’re sat on the floor, lifting your upper body up on your forearms as you think back on Diluc’s last words.
Looking up at the blond, you find that you can’t strangle the quivering of your voice. Fear. The complete opposite of the tone you had used when you shattered his soul into a million little pieces.
“That shot wasn’t for him,” you mutter, more to yourself than to him.
Albedo looks away from the redheads corpse to meet your eyes. Butterflies leap in his stomach, fluttering with every millisecond that you stare up at him.
You wonder if Diluc had done the right thing by leaving you alive with this man. At least in death, you wouldn’t have to witness the mix of hatred and obsession swimming in his arctic eyes.
Discovering plot holes in your own fic gotta be one of the worst feelings in the world cause now my brain is overheating trying to come up with a bandaid for it… like do I address it or do I treat it like the middle child and ignore it
Colour it Grey, Until I Forget you: Eternally Painted on my Mind (Scaramouche/Reader [Angst/Fluff/Multichapter])
Next chapter!
aaughhhh Scaramouche is not immune to a 2 year long situationship breakup...
Heavily based off of the Grent Perez song "Clementine" !!
Word count: 9.7k
Ao3 here!
A puppet weeps for the first time in centuries.
He isn’t crying without reason. He simply remembered how warm your touch felt on his chest, resting over where a heart should’ve been beating (whatever version of a heart his careless creator kept from him).
The puppet ignores the yells and worried cries of his name, opting to instead cement the memory of you in his last moments.
Your words rang in his head, the ones you spoke to him that cloudy afternoon, where your heels dug into the sand while the ocean crept up the shore.
He hadn’t truly believed it when you said it then, the idea that it was possible for him to be human. As he stares at the glistening leaves of Irminsul, he realizes that you were right.
Never in his life had he done anything so stupid, so impulsive, so utterly driven by ‘human’ feelings—
To disappear, with the hopes that you will be happy once he’s gone.
~•~
Kaveh had to stifle a scream when he saw you hunched over on the dining room table, your hair a mess, and your eyes dazed. It’s clear his staggering footsteps made his presence known to you, because though your form never moved, you still spoke.
“Have you ever had a long dream where you had a baby and you watched it grow up?”
It takes the blond a minute to comprehend your question, and an additional twenty seconds to thank the Dendro archon that he didn’t spill his fresh coffee all over himself.
“… Huh?” He finally lets slip.
“Has that been researched? Families in dreams? Have you ever had it?” You’re still not looking at him, even when you clarify.
“No… why? What happened?”
Your roommate sits down in front of you, eyeing your disheveled robe and puffy face. ‘You mourning your dream family?’ He almost jokes, but swipes the idea away. ‘Inappropriate timing.’
You’re focusing on the steam rising from your cup.
“I had a dream about having a boyfriend,” you sigh as you stretch your arms out in front of you, leaning back and tightening your lips in an awkward smile.
“Oh?” Kaveh stirs the coffee in his cup, laughing lightly. “Maybe being single is getting to you.”
You nod your head from the left then to the right. “Probably, because two years passed in my dream.”
Just with that, he’s intrigued. You could tell from the way he leaned in closer, ignoring the sketchbook in front of him. You bring your hands up closer to yourself, as if grasping and pulling at toffee, “It felt so real, that when I held him in my arms, it was like I was really touching him.”
Kaveh’s looking at you with wide, fascinated eyes now. “What was he like?”
“Oh, uh—“
It takes a few moments for you to open your mouth, and a few seconds more after that for words to come out.
Your pause to his question clues Kaveh in as to why your eyes were so puffy.
“It’s not that he was bad— well… I mean, he wasn’t good, either…” You’re silent again for a second. After some hesitation, you find your words. “He was complicated.”
You clasp your mug, tentatively rubbing your thumb where the handle meets the cup. “I don’t remember much about him, but…” There’s a faraway look in your eyes, the kind of look you see when you ask an old man about the person he keeps in his locket.
“He made me feel things that I’ve never felt before.”
Kaveh purses his lips in thought. Arms crossed, brows lifting and pulling as he mulls over your original question. ‘No, that’s never happened to me,’ He thinks to say, but he feels it’s too late to answer that now.
He finally responds after collecting his words. “Maybe going out more will help you find your dream boy. Staying a hermit forever won’t do you well.”
You shrug. “Maybe.”
There’s a tugging, swelling feeling in your chest. A forgotten toy, the rain that accompanied lightning, the remnants of flowers that have long since bloomed and withered— that’s all you can remember as you think back on that dream. You’re trying to remember how your dream even started, and questioning why it affected you so much.
Kaveh sees you jolt up after your head bobs down— something he notes as the first warning sign of falling asleep. He watches as you scramble to aid your grogginess by using the coffee in your hands.
After you take a sip, you pause and sit silently, still pondering your thoughts. ‘ It doesn’t make sense.’
You’ve had vivid dreams before, super, super detailed ones, but this one still managed to blow all the other entries in your dream-diary out of the water.
“There’s a festival out in the city— who knows, you might find him there.” Kaveh’s voice sounds distant as he speaks.
You rest your head on one hand, eyes closed as you try your best to respond. “Festival…”
A subconscious smile makes its way onto your face. “Ah… like a… fair…”
You let the thought circle around in your head.
‘Fair.’
The word is friction to a matchstick.
It’s like the mug in your hand disappears, like your body has become weightless. Leaves fall on the table, with the partial sunlight blinding your squinting eyes. You’re only relieved of the inconvenience when a shadow blocks the intruding brightness away, like an eclipse.
His shoes grazed the concrete when he stepped closer to you.
“The one in the city. I know you have nothing better to do, so just come.” A finger flicked your forehead, snapping you out of your daze. His face was too pretty for his attitude to be so difficult.
“Is it so hard to say please?” You clicked your tongue as you peered up from your book, rubbing the buzzing spot on your forehead. “I thought you already went over manners with Nahida…” you mocked a pout.
He shook his head, holding a hand out for you to take. You let out an exaggerated sigh as you shut your book and push the cafe chair back tight to the table. You did eventually take his hand, appreciative of the way his porcelain fingertips remained cool even under the Sumeru heat.
The boy was nice enough to ignore your annoyed complaints along the way, going as far as to walk ahead as you two traveled the streets, towards the heart of the festivities.
“You’re not even that big on these types of things,” you pointed out as you tried to match his speed, figuring you’d rather be talking to his face, and not the back of his head.
“My dear teacher instructed me to go and ‘mingle with the locals’— I invited you because I know you’d rather be anywhere else. I can’t be the only killjoy around, after all.”
You stopped walking, causing him to freeze as well. “It’s not that I don't like it, it’s just…”
You were playing with your sleeves as you averted your eyes away from his own. “It’s only fun when you can spend on games or food, and…”
It took a good three seconds before you finished.
“I’ve been trying to save my mora for books.”
It took another three seconds of silence before mocking laughter filled the air.
Your pursed lips switched to a scowl at the boys cackle at your remark.
He crossed his arms, tilting his head, “Then don’t buy anything? Don’t tell me you need money at the fair to have fun.”
Your scowl only deepened at his mockery. “Oh my, the ex-mobster with endless wealth wants to scold me about saving cash.” That wiped the smug smirk off his face in an instant.
It became your turn to walk ahead, leaving him following behind you.
The closer you two walked towards the stands, the more concentrated the amount of people became in the area. Afraid he’d be lost, you’d quickly glance back, only to see that he was inches away.
Unlike you, he didn’t care about pleasantries, and would push through the crowd whenever he deemed that you were straying too far.
After escaping the near-endless sea of people, you two could only walk around calmly for a few minutes before you piped up.
“I’m already bored with just walking around.”
The boy rolled his eyes at your whines once more. You were fanning yourself, desperate for shade after enduring the sun's rays for how long you two were walking around for.
“You know, after twenty of these, it really does lose its appeal.” Your complaints made him scoff, but he took them in stride.
“If you think a measly twenty is bad, try five hundred.”
You made a face he could only compare to disgust.
“And you’re still not sick of it?”
He shook his head. “Can’t get sick of it if all I did before was people-watch.”
The boy stopped walking, leaving you paused beside him. You noticed the vendor selling toy boats and porcelain dolls catching his line of sight.
“This is the second time I’ve actually done anything other than observe from the sidelines.”
You recalled the first time you went to a festival with him. You were the one to ask him to accompany you, and Nahida, ecstatic at the thought of the boy making a friend, kept pushing him to join. He didn’t have room to refuse, let alone be reluctant.
You two did nothing but waste mora on games trying to win prizes. Though nothing of lasting value was won, the boy still assured you he had a decent time (in his own misleading way).
“Enjoy it while it lasts. This is the final time I’ll let you bother me for this.”
You didn’t know then that it was the first time he had played at a festival stand, due to both his words and his attitude.
Your face dropped its neutral expression, dipping into a slight frown. ‘ Five hundred festivals, only two where he wasn’t a bystander?’ You thought to yourself.
The boy noticed your look of pity, and quickly changed tracks, trying to avoid basking in any more of your sympathy.
“I’m getting tired, anyways. Let’s go lay down somewhere.”
He led the way, his hand grasping yours. The area he brought you to was far from the crowds, facing the ocean, hidden enough by the bushes surrounding it.
“Comfortable?” You asked as he strained his neck against the tree, his expression unpleasant.
“As comfortable as I can be.” You would’ve believed him had it not been for the click of the boy's tongue. It let you know it was thinly veiled sarcasm.
You shook your head at his tone, beckoning him closer. “Come here.”
The boy stared at your folded legs as you tapped them, a look of suspicion plastered on his face.
He crossed his arms and furrowed his brows. “What are you trying to do?”
You rolled your eyes, sliding your body up so your bag acted more as a pillow than a bump irritating your lower back.
Another tap on your thigh.
“You can lay your head down on my lap, I’m not gonna bite you.” You almost missed the faint pink that dusted his cheeks as you offered.
“What ulterior motives do you have?”
“Ulterior motives— What, scared I’m gonna strangle you to death? If you don’t want to, I won’t force you.” It was your turn to cross your arms and frown.
The boy coughed and looked away.
“… Since you’ve already embarrassed yourself with the offer, I’ll kindly accept.”
He moved to shift his position to do so, but not without complaining about you ‘Enjoying this more than you should’.
You felt him freeze for a moment after his head hit your thighs.
“What’s wrong?” You were worried he may have discovered something, anticipating a ‘there’s a caterpillar on your shoulder’ from him, which is why you responded in such a hasty manner.
“Nothing.”
Your long stare urged him to spill, but he swallowed his words.
“I told you, it’s nothing.”
You kept eye contact, watching as his look of annoyance shifted to mild fluster. You leaned down closer.
“This is the best time to tell me about your huge crush on me.”
The boy only scoffed in response, expression returning to irritation.
“You’re so delusional that it’s not even funny.”
You could tell that he was trying not to react to your teasing by the way his entire body went still the nth time that day, but that alone was enough for you to break the silence for his sake.
“You know your old name?” You began, twirling his hair again. “‘Destroyer of countries?’” You clarified, giving him space to correct you if you remembered it wrong.
“I do.” His normally sharp tone somehow grew sharper. “What about it?” He was cautious, already on the edge after your previous teasing.
You sighed, “Nothing.” Your pursed lips told the boy that it was the opposite. He stayed quiet to let you continue.
“It just seems a little… over the top, don’t you think? It’s kinda rude for the townspeople to call you such a thing,” you grumbled, pouting in such a way that made the boy snicker at your expression.
“I chose it myself .” You could tell he was amused by the way his canines showed as he spoke.
Stifling a smile, you inquired further. “Did you, now?”
You caressed your knuckles against his cheekbone. As always, his skin was smoother than glass. “What a mean name for such a cute face.”
His brows suddenly jolted downwards, his smirk morphing into a sneer at your teasing.
“You seem to forget that I’m not the same as you humans, with feelings so easily hurt, and shallow desires gratified by any measly pleasures.”
His tone was haughty during his rambling, but his voice suddenly dropped. “I’ve done away with those distractions a long time ago.”
You sat for a moment, bewildered and surprised at his sudden outburst.
It took a second for you to shake it off.
“That was a whole load of crap,” you chuckled, “You say all that, but you’re here enjoying the sun like the rest of us humans.”
You could tell your last comment dug under his skin, as he turned his head to the side, and refused to meet your eyes.
“Quit bothering me while I’m trying to rest,” he huffed.
He focused solely on the beach and the waves running along the shoreline. You followed his gaze.
From where you two sat, if you were to swim in a straight line, you would’ve arrived straight onto the dock belonging to the land of Electro.
“… Just to be clear,” you began, garnering his attention once more, “I like your name now .”
A content sigh from you as you leaned back further. “I hope you know that, —“
And it was on the very tip of your tongue, like the string of a balloon grazing your palm as it floated away.
His name.
The loud bang echoes through the walls like the ringing of a gong.
First comes shock, a startled gasp that slips out of your throat as you compose yourself.
Second is the pain, evident from how hard your forehead pulses in complaint.
“… Are you alright?” Kaveh’s voice rings out.
Third is the realization. You hiss, pressing on the reddening spot on your forehead.
“Ouch…”
Kaveh tuts as he shakes his head. “That’s definitely gonna bruise…” He makes a show of tapping his own forehead. “The Traveler’s gonna think I’ve been bullying you, or something.”
You squint. “Traveler..?”
“Hello? You had ‘totally top secret’ information you wanted to discuss with them, didn’t you?”
It takes you a second to think, and when the lightbulb finally fizzes with light, you gasp.
“Ah! Yes. I completely forgot.” You rub your forehead, looking down at the table yet again. It’s a good thing you didn’t fall face first into the mug…
Kaveh takes a sip of coffee. “Are you sure you’re gonna be okay?”
A deep long sigh, ending off with a half-laugh, half-groan. You tilt your empty mug, looking at Kaveh with a weary smile.
“Yes, I just need another cup.”
~•~
The wind cuts through a forest, stealing whatever insignificant thing it catches in its hands. A porcelain doll shivers as the air rushes past and carries him along.
He doesn’t know where he is. Or who he is.
A form built out of nothing. Empty. No bones or skin or mechanical joints. Just a mass of memories.
Floating. He feels like he’s floating. Not the way a paper airplane cuts through the sky, but the way a petal drifts along the ocean, following wherever the current takes it.
Where do the ink stains on parchment go when you burn the page? When you scream in a field, where does the echo disappear to? At what point is it really gone?
How do you fully rid the world of an existence?
The living have their physical breathing bodies, senses forever stimulated by their environment, and they have the consciousness to know that they are alive. The dead have remnants of themselves, whether it’s their bones hugged by the soil, or their ash enveloped by an urn.
Those who have simply vanished, ceased to exist— ‘never been’, where do they go?
Wherever that is, that’s where he is, and where he isn’t.
It’s not void. It’s not the thoughtless grey space, or gorey fiery hell he heard people claim the afterlife to be. He doesn’t know if he’s even in an afterlife— if he’s anything at all.
He’s surrounded by light and clouds, and though it’s bright, it’s not burning. It’s the same kind of brightness that welcomes you in any Fontaine store.
Electricity jogs his memory. Little sparks of thought, flashes of colour that let him know he’s still there in that liminal space.
Every blink of vibrancy reminds him of when he wasn’t trapped in whatever limbo he was in now. When he was both sentient and physical. Betrayed, ridiculed, feared, loved.
Funnily enough, the memories of being loved were the worst of it all. The problem is that he not only experienced, but indulged in love, and recalling its warmth made his yearning for any feeling familiar to it stronger than ever.
He’s glad for the memories as much as he loathes them. The images flashing in his eyes are the only thing left that are keeping him tied to his new reality.
When he was left to fend for himself, lost his only friend, ripped at the joints and put back together like some refurbished ragdoll.
When he saw you sobbing at the dining room table, mourning the death of an old friend.
It reminded him of his own pitiful self a lifetime ago.
He remembers the pang of sorrow that hit his chest when he saw you hunched over and covering your face. He closes his eyes.
Nothing reaches out towards nothing.
The crashing rain accompanied by the booming cracks of thunder couldn’t hide the sound of your footsteps. Not from the porcelain boy's ears, at least.
He sat on the table beside the window, elbow propped up and carrying his head in his palm. He was recounting the events that transpired earlier that day, when the weather was nicer, and you were the opposite.
Despite knowing you were just metres away from him, he held onto his resolve to continue staring out at the pooling Sumeru sidewalks, watching as the rain droplets raced and collected at the bottom of the window pane.
The thick air of guilt hung in the air like morning fog. He could sense you approaching closer.
“Earlier… today,” you started with a weak voice, “I didn’t mean to…” He could hear you struggling to continue without revealing the quivering in your words.
Your voice was quiet from the trembling of your lips. “I’m really sorry. I’m just stressed right now with everything going on, and, I…” You had to pause, to relieve the feeling of your throat closing up.
You knelt on the floor, facing the side of his body.
“I didn’t mean to act like that towards you.”
Despite your attempts at reconciliation, the boy did nothing but remain silent and sedentary.
His non-response urged you to reach out for him.
“Please talk to me.”
His skin felt like ice compared to yours, which were burning with shame. Your fingers intertwined with his, fitting perfectly within the joints and gaps of his hands. He ignored you.
Only when you squeezed his hand did he finally respond.
“You let one bad event shift your entire personality.”
His voice was muffled by the hand he rested his chin on.
“You’re more emotional than I thought.”
The boy felt your body tense from the way your hand had twitched.
“I don’t even know why you’re acting like this,” he said, finally turning to look you in the face.
“Do you know how privileged she was to live to that age?”
His eyes were dark as he stared down at you.
“You’re mourning the death of a successful life.” He slipped his hand away from yours.
“That’s a feat not many accomplish. Do you know that?”
You shook your head, pressing your lips into a frown. “Stop it,” you uttered. The boy only tilted his head in mock confusion.
“Oh, but I’m talking to you, aren’t I?” He leaned in closer. ”Isn’t this what you wanted?” His words were dripping with venom.
You clenched your eyes shut. Stray tears slipped out as you closed them.
“Don’t get all quiet now.” His touch was gentle and light as he carried your face in his hand.
He ran the pad of his thumb just below the tips of your bottom lashes, swiping away the tracks left by the falling droplets.
You shook your head again. “I don’t deserve this,” you muttered.
“You’re right.” His thumb made another swipe at one of your stray tears. “But this is life.”
Though your face was inches from his, he felt invisible to your gaze. Your eyes looked as if they were staring past him.
“If you can’t get ahold of your emotions, then—“
The crisp sound of a slap resonated throughout the room.
There’s always a brief pause after a loud noise. The first firework, a gunshot, an explosion. A moment of silence that is eventually followed by more sound. It’s a gap left for realization.
He stared at the stinging area on his wrist, then into your eyes. He thought he heard blood running through his system until he realized that it was your breathing.
He felt chills run down his spine when you finally spoke.
The boy remembered the heaving breath that escaped your lips. The words you spoke that he felt etched into his mind, like the scar that lightning leaves on an old oak tree.
“I wish I never met you.”
It’s that memory that sends the most jolts of electricity through his system, colouring the most vibrant of paint splashes in his eyes. Just your voice sends the movement of clockwork into motion.
Along came the tag that left you more in hisses than it did in happiness. Whenever he made you angry, upset, disappointed into tears, he would stand and stare blankly as you cursed his name.
Scaramouche.
~•~
If your aching head didn’t dampen your morning, then your grumbling stomach sure did. You had to constantly switch which hand was holding your notebook due to your palms' sudden dampness, which you attributed to the unexpected stress on your body.
You were kicking yourself for not eating breakfast at home, wondering why you decided to pump your stomach full of caffeine in place of a meal. You started off with blaming lack of sleep for your lethargy, and then went after hunger next for your mood. When nausea crept into the mix, you found something else to blame.
‘It’s catching up to me…’
You were not a heavy drinker, and your tolerance showed that. There were more times than you could count where you sat slouched on the floor, promising to never drink again because of the morning that followed.
Though that being said, you stopped drinking for fun ever since you joined the workforce. Your reasons to indulge simply developed, and you only ever drank if there was a celebration, or a loss.
The thought sticks to your mind as you rub your temples. Why were you drinking last night?
There was no celebration, so you checked that off. There was a loss, yes, but you drank for that a week ago. To drink for that reason again seemed excessive.
Were you even drinking?
Your train of thought is disturbed from another sound of complaint from your stomach, which somehow led to your head throbbing as well.
As if the God of Luck pitied your predicament, the welcome bell of a nearby cafe catches your attention.
You’re pleased to see that the area is less crowded than usual, which you attribute to it being the first day of the fair, and most people are spending their hard earned mora at the stands instead of the regular spots.
After ordering and sitting down, you begin to unpack your dream, not caring to be clean with your handwriting. You almost didn’t notice the server plopping your meal in front of you because of how immersed you were with writing.
‘He was nice to me when I came back to the house drunk, and he took care of me.’ You finish scribbling down.
Usually, you would remember a dream from end to beginning, sometimes forgetting the beginning altogether. It didn’t come back to you in a solid timeline, rather playing in parts as you went on with your day. Today's entry was the only exception.
You could remember everything that happened as if it were a movie you rewatched a million times. Writing it down only solidified your memory of it, and despite still working on the middle section of the entry, you anticipated the end of your dream.
The very last thing you could recall was running to a house that wasn’t yours, and finding it empty.
~•~
Scaramouche thinks it’s a dream as he sails weightlessly through the sky. He travels through the wind with aimless intent, and that’s when he realizes that the memories are fleeting, escaping his grasp.
Anxiety courses through his core, regret and bitterness sinking into his eyes. He doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want the memories to divulge into darkness. He doesn’t want to be gone.
So why did he do this?
Scaramouche experiences the same fear he felt when he was sent away by his creator.
He racks his mind, trying to remember what caused him to go down this route— erased from the world, desperately trying to cling onto what little identity he could hang onto.
Scaramouche was not the type to get himself into these types of situations. So why was he here?
He remembers silently watching as you stuffed all the clothes you owned into a little brown suitcase.
Scaramouche’s arms were crossed, his body relaxed and leaning on the doorframe while your hands were a buzz of frantic movement, grabbing and rearranging to make everything fit inside the bag. He noticed that some of your clothes were still in the drawer— clothes that he had bought you.
“All this over one bad fight?” His tone was bored, almost emotionless.
You didn’t grace him with a response, only kept shoving your belongings into the case. You reached for the bedside table, gathering little trinkets until you picked up a particular one, scrutinised it with your touch, then tossed it back onto the table, shoving the rest of the items into the little crevices in your baggage.
You struggled to fold the suitcase, and struggled even more to zip it closed. Scaramouche walked closer to see what item you’d neglected on the table.
He shook his head upon seeing it. “Wow,” he half scoffed, half laughed, “This is another level of petty.” Scaramouche picked up the keychain he bought for you. A colourful toy boat.
He tried to toss it into your suitcase, but you, as if anticipating his actions, caught the miniature before it could land with your things, and threw it off to the side. Scaramouche clicked his tongue at your stubborn silence, picking the trinket back up.
“What do you want me to say? I’ve already apologized for what happened two days ago, if that’s what you’re still mad about,” he sighed as he knelt beside you on the floor, offering no help while you continued to pinch the edges of the zipper teeth together, trying to close it despite the case being jam packed.
When you did manage to squeeze it enough to zip it closed, you promptly stood up, and began rolling your suitcase out with you.
“Why are you ignoring me?” He trailed behind you.
You released a heavy sigh, dropping your hand from the suitcase's handle. You were halfway to the door.
“Because you turn every conversation into an argument, and I want to leave without high blood pressure,” your response was pointed, frustrated, but a response nonetheless. It was all Scaramouche wanted. You’d deprived him of your voice for 2 nights and 2 days.
“Oh, I turn every conversation into an argument. I’m the one who overreacts.” He could tell he was making you angry, with the way you only turned your head to the side, but ultimately kept your back to him.
“What did I just say?” You sighed again, bringing your hand up to massage your temples, trying to soothe the rush of blood running to your face.
Scaramouche had a habit of making it seem like his issues were your own, make it seem like both of you needed to fix something.
He couldn’t stand, even for a moment, being the only imperfect one.
You turned your head and began walking again.
He knew it was wrong of him to do. He knew it made you miserable, but he would never let himself be in a position where he felt less than you.
Scaramouche continued pushing, trying to find any psychological loophole to keep you longer. He knew he could convince you to stay— he just needed time. “You’re putting the blame on me, when this is on both of us.”
He needed to cement that both of you were equal in being imperfect, because his imperfection got him abandoned.
You stopped in your tracks, just at the door frame. “You’re right. This is on both of us.” You spoke like it was a revelation.
It dawned on Scaramouche as you turned your body to face him that it was the first time in 2 days and 2 nights that you looked him in the eyes
“Now what?” You asked.
He fell silent.
“It’s both our faults that this relationship is failing. Now what?”
Scaramouche found it difficult to reply. “Now you can unpack and think about what you’re doing,” he hissed, “We can live through this the same way we lived through the other hundred fights.”
Your arms crossed.
“So you want to stay together?” Your question made him bite back an insult— something along the lines of ‘Obviously, dumbass.’ He settled for a firm “I do.”
A look of utter confusion and tiredness fell on your face. “But why?”
Scaramouche had to bite back another instinctive quip. “Because there’s no point in leaving each other,” he answered. Scaramouche wasn’t used to being so truthful with his thoughts during such a heated moment.
“But there is!” Your sudden exclamation made his eyes widen for a fraction of a second. “We argue more than we talk, it’s pretty clear that we’re not happy with each other—“
Scaramouche had to interrupt you, annoyed—no, taking offence at your assumption.
“Don’t speak for me as if you know how I think.”
And in a moment of losing to exhaustion, hands up in defeat, you finally bursted. It was the stick that broke the camel’s back.
“Okay then!” You exclaimed, “ I’m not happy.”
The energy from his annoyance dissipated, slowly melting into confusion. As the seconds passed and your words sank in, he felt all the confidence in his body draining. Whatever petty remark he would’ve thought of saying never left him, not even having a chance to grow.
You looked away to the side, and rubbed your temples with your pointer and thumb again.
“… You aren’t?” His quiet voice finally broke through the silence. He didn’t know if you laughed or scoffed at his question.
“You have to be joking,” you muttered beneath your breath, now massaging the bridge of your nose.
“How could you possibly think that I…” You began, only to pause after moving your hand away from your face. He could see you stop and rethink your words after you met his gaze, only then witnessing the tense look in his stare. Scaramouche is not stupid. He could finish your sentence for you, even if you would deny it.
Bits of your anger seemed to die with every second, and it showed in the way your look of frustration morphed into one of pity, like you’d let slip a secret he wasn’t supposed to know.
“… How long have you felt this way?” Scaramouche didn’t care that his expression showed all the betrayal he was feeling, he just needed to find a way to convince you to stay somehow, no matter the cost.
You turned around, facing the outside once more. He wished you would look back at him.
After a pause that made the silence all the more overbearing, you spoke. Your tone was weak, no longer filled with anger or spite. Just pure defeat. Your sentiment wasn’t directed towards him at all, sounding more like a slow realization to yourself— the realization that two years of emotional sacrifices still landed you in limbo.
“I can’t remember.”
Scaramouche felt a burning wave sting his eyes. He couldn’t tell if the sound of your disappointment was pointed towards him, or yourself. He was trying to speak up again, gather his pride after being left crestfallen.
“What can I do to fix this?” Scaramouche asked after doing his best to compose himself. His voice was fragile with his emotions exposed, so unlike the Scaramouche you were familiar with.
There was a beat of silence where he swore his body ran colder than the ice in Snezhnaya. He didn’t care that his voice gave away all the anxiety and hurt he was really feeling, he only cared that you would see how affected he’d be if you stepped out of the door.
A whisper of your name, a deep breath to compose himself, and a shaky plea. “… Say something.”
It was a gentle sound, the door shutting. It was not how he would’ve left. If he were the one leaving, he would’ve slammed the door so hard that pictures fell from their places, and the echo would be imprinted onto the walls. But you were not the same as him, petty and vengeful. It was a polite thud, as polite as the way you introduced yourself to him.
Scaramouche clenched his fist. The forgotten wooden toy in his palm splintered at the pressure. He couldn’t feel it at all.
For the first few days since you left him, he was bitter. For a while, he cursed every twinkling set of eyes that ever passed him on the sidewalk.
He was seething, because it was so easy to swear and damn everyone else that had betrayed him, but this was you .
The person that wiped his tears and stood up to his anger, didn’t revere nor look down on him, just saw him as he was.
The person that taught him that he could be human.
Scaramouche didn’t realize how often he’d be reminded of you— from the scent of a vendor he would pass by, to a laugh out in the plaza that sounded just so familiar that it caused his ears to perk up. Like air, you were everywhere, yet you were nowhere to be found.
Everyday he was losing his mind, and it was all your fault.
It would only be a week from when you left him that he finally stopped thinking of ways to win you back— Incidentally, the same day he found out about Irminsul, and the day he shook hands with the Traveler.
‘In this world, is it possible to change the past?’
He was pleased to see that his mere hunch was correct. All that was left then was the confirmation to go through with it.
At that point, there was no reason to hold onto himself, after his last life line cut itself free from his grasp.
When he ignored the Travelers' calls and yells, felt his skin and bones shatter into a million glistening shards as he vanished from sight, he could only think of one thing— that the pain he caused you would be erased from existence.
“I wish I never met you.”
As those words rang in his mind, he imagined a world where you were living peacefully. No Scaramouche, no Balladeer, no puppet born and forced to play a role— ‘destroyer of countries’. A world where you were happy.
Can a nonexistent thing cry?
The answer should be ‘no’, but there’s no other explanation for the warmth his fingertips feel dripping down his eyes.
Scaramouche can only think of the beach.
“That poor little boat,” he whispered to himself during one of your strolls around the shore. It seemed like he didn’t realize he said it out loud until you tilted your head at his comment.
You followed his eyesight, a toy boat scuffed up and jammed into the sand. Had it not been for its jarringly bright colours you wouldn’t have noticed it at all.
“Hm? You’re feeling sorry for a piece of wood?”
He didn’t respond, only kept walking. It wasn’t too difficult to catch up with him.
“Did you know that humans are one of the only creatures to feel bad for inanimate objects?”
He thought you were joking at first. “Is that so?” Scaramouche replied in a sarcastic tone (one that you shrugged off and ignored).
“Well, yeah. Most animals don’t really get sentimental— they know somewhat that if something isn’t alive, it doesn’t feel pain or anything.
As long as it doesn’t look like an animal too, they don’t care how busted down or how shattered it is.”
He watched as you began rolling your pant legs up.
“Humans, on the other hand,” you slipped out of your sandals and trekked through the wet sand, “Humans will feel sorry for anything if they see that it’s been abandoned...”
You picked the boat up, revealing its chipping paint and splintered base. “Or broken.”
His breath caught in his throat as he watched you run it through the water to wash all the sand off of its partially broken body.
You placed the toy on a nearby rock, displaying its fading colours proudly. “Even if it’s just a little toy boat.”
It was that fateful day, that autumn afternoon, a memory he held close and replayed in his mind whenever he was far from you.
You wiped your hand on your undershirt after tenderly cleaning the sand off of the toy.
“… You— You sound like a nutcase. It’s just trash.” He internally cringed at the way his voice stuttered, losing the only mask he could use to hide his fluster towards your actions.
You rolled your eyes and grinned at his jab.
“Whatever.”
You pressed your fingers just above his chest, over where a heartbeat would’ve resided. Should’ve resided.
“That was proof of humanity, Kunikuzushi .”
Your words rang in his ears like a pleasant melody, though your smile was teasing.
His pale cheeks deepened in colour, and he felt so warm.
He doesn’t believe that his heart is in the hands of the electro archon, he believes that his heart was standing there on the beach, right there in front of him.
Each step you took, his pulse. Every time you grinned at him and intertwined your fingers together, his circulation. You made him feel things he shouldn’t have felt as a porcelain puppet— yet the goosebumps, the pleasant buzz of excitement in his bones, and the heat always rushing to his face— it all made sense to him.
For once in his five hundred years of living, Scaramouche felt like he was made for something else.
That’s why when you turned around and began walking away, he followed you so closely.
He’s regretting his choices with every millisecond that passes. He’s lived through a lifetime within the blink of an eye, yet it’s your visage walking away that burns itself into his mind. You were a vivid burst in his eyes. Stained glass in the sunlight, the adrenaline that courses through a body after taking flight.
Scaramouche once swore to himself that he would find a way to intertwine your souls together— mix your colours with his own so that you could never leave him. ‘ Proof of my devotion to you,’ he’d said. The very thought of doing that now, to turn back and run to you, haunts him.
He’d already maimed you so many times in this lifetime— to do it again and again, infinity times infinity, was a degree of selfishness that even he deems cruel.
At his core, he’s selfish. Scaramouche had been selfish all his life— and his greed for your company throughout the course of your time together did nothing but prove that fact.
Scaramouche only hopes that this plan would somehow outweigh all the hurt he caused you. Make right of everything he did wrong, let him bear the suffering he brought in the first place.
But he’s scared. The white light blinding him does nothing to quell his fears, and he knows that it will just be a step forward to end it all.
Scaramouche almost turns away out of pure instinct.
He only resists when he sees the silhouette of your back disappearing into the light. By the time he tried pulling his outstretched arm away, it was already too late.
He has never felt such pain before.
His hand finally crumbled into ashes when the white fire reached his shoulders and his chest. As he floats away, feels his consciousness and body separate, he faces the daunting fact that he doesn’t want to disappear, and he doesn't want to let what he had left of you go.
Scaramouche tries to shove what memories he had of you back into his soul as they escape him.
‘Let me keep this,’ he begs. ‘ Take everything else but this.’ He tries to bargain with any god that might’ve been listening.
But he already resolved to grant you what you asked for. And so, Scaramouche ceased to exist.
~•~
“What the fuck.”
Still air, silence. Paimon swore she could’ve heard a pin drop. She looked at the Traveler, who’s expression held nothing but bewilderment and shock.
“You gotta be joking…” They let out an annoyed laugh, clenched fingers running through their blond hair.
When parchment is burnt, the ashes stay. When someone screams in a field, the sound remains traveling around the globe, infinitely getting quieter, and quieter, and quieter, yet never truly disappearing.
When a puppet is erased from the world’s memory, the Traveler remembers.
“This guy…” They bite their nails. They should’ve expected this once they caught wind of the break up.
“Done,” Scaramouche had said. The Traveler quirked a brow at his carefree attitude and nonchalant tone. Nahida warned them about his shifting moods— ‘Breakups are never easy,’ she explained, but this was drastic. And the way his wide smile didn’t match his eyes made the boy look deranged in a way that freaked the Traveler out.
They only processed his words when he disappeared from their sight.
“What are you doing?!”
They didn’t even bother hearing him out when he responded, too focused on trying to find the source of where his voice was coming from so they could smack some sense into him.
“Hold on! Aren’t you overreacting a little bit? There’s plenty of fish in the sea, and—“
They felt the ground shake.
“And you’re being really impulsive right now! Come on, give it at least a year— f-five months! Even just two months—“
And then it was silent. All that remained was Paimon’s gaping mouth mirroring their own.
Paimon’s voice quirking up shook the Traveler out of their thoughts.
“Traveler, is it just Paimon, or did the Balladeer look like he was about to cry before he left?”
Despite the stress they were going through, the Traveler did recall seeing the boy's eyes well up for that split second before he vanished.
It’s hard for the Traveler to focus the morning after their good friend (a strong word for a ‘former-tormentor-turned-colleague’) decided to basically remove himself from the narrative. Having to catch Paimon up the morning after she lost her memories of the Balladeer also drained whatever energy they had reserved for the day.
It seems the Traveler’s mood is affecting yours as well, as you sat motionless while staring off into space.
“Uhm… are you okay? Paimon’s been trying to get your attention for the last six minutes…” She waves a hand in front of your face.
You shake your head, straightening your back in surprise. “Sorry, I had a rocky sleep last night. I had a weird dream.”
Paimon claps her hands, ever excited for a story. “Well, let’s hear about it! It’s clearly bothering you.”
“It was way too much…” You try to refuse, but the duo’s expectant looks urge you to spill anyways.
“Basically, I lived through an entire relationship in the dream. I felt months go by— like, the dream only ended when we broke up.”
“Broke up?” Paimon repeats. The Traveler's head perks up at the trigger word, and they only fully look at you after Paimon’s echo. The Traveler’s eyes don’t show their excitement, because they’re not excited by this at all.
“Well, I didn’t wake up exactly when I broke up with him. A few days passed, and then I tried to go back to his house to talk to him, but…”
The Traveler doesn’t hear the last part of your rambles, their ears ringing and going back to those two deadly words. The black hole of dread deepens in their stomach, no matter how much they try to shake the underlying feeling away. ‘Broke up. ’
“What was he like?” The Traveler breaks their silence after a considerable amount of time staying quiet.
You begin to fidget with the back of your pen as you speak.
“Total wild card. I’d say he was mean if it weren’t for the times he was nice— when he was sweet, he could be really sweet.” There’s a smile on your face as you stare at the half-filled page of your journal.
Your wistful look turns into an uncomfortable grimace as you continue, “But when he was mean, I’d compare him to a monster. Super complicated guy.”
The Traveler closes their eyes while repressing a strong frown.
Oh, great Anemo archon.
“… Do you remember what this boy looked like?” The Traveler asks, reluctant and unwilling. They have an inkling suspicion that they already know what this dream-boy looks like.
You pipe up quicker than you had before, “Beautiful— I mean, I feel like he was beautiful. I’ve pretty much forgotten how most of his face looks after I woke up. All I remember are sharp eyes, like a cat.”
Paimon glances at the Traveler, who in turn sneaks a reciprocating look. ‘ That could be anyone,’ The Traveler blinks. ‘I don’t know...’ Paimon blinks back.
A snap of your fingers interrupts their silent conversation. “Oh, and he had a blunt bowl cut.”
The Traveler wants to die.
They place both elbows on the table, and bury their forehead in their palms. There is no one else in Sumeru that it could be but—
“And you’re sure you only ever dreamt this last night?” Paimon covers for the Traveler, trying to help by asking the final nail-in-the-coffin question herself.
Your bright smile is as deceiving as a marshmallow that doesn’t know that it’s hiding a bullet.
“Definitely!”
The Traveler could barely hide the groan of misery bubbling in their throat.
They try not to show more of the displeasure already on their face as they recount yesterday's events.
“Are you okay?” You lean closer to them.
“Yeah, I’m good. Just got a headache.”
They drop a hand and balance their chin on the one planted on the table. Maybe this is okay.
Sure , it may be bad that Scaramouche deleted himself… but is it worth making a big fuss over? Yeah, they haven’t approached Nahida about what to do next yet , but they could probably let it slide.
Maybe it’s for the better. Maybe it’s meant to be this way. Scaramouche is far from stupid. Maybe he knew that this was the best outcome for the both of you.
As they brood in their thoughts, you take the silence as permission to continue scribbling in your notebook.
The Traveler side eyes Paimon as you’re submerged with scratching your thoughts down. They then nudge their floating companion, who takes the hint and coughs to grab your attention.
“What have you been scribbling about?”
“This is my dream diary.” You’re shy as you close the book. “It’s almost the afternoon, and I’m only just about finished with today's entry.”
“Can we read what you’ve been writing so far?”
“… Swear you won’t judge my writing?”
They both nod. You hand your notebook over.
Me and dream boy got into a fight, and then I told him that we should breakup. He looked really sad and it made me sad, and then he said something. I really wanted to hug him and apologize because he looked so sad but I left and shut the door.
The Traveler keeps their promise by only commenting on how vivid the dream was. Paimon keeps her end of the deal by keeping her mouth shut.
“It’s clear he’s occupying your mind,” the Traveler exclaims after thinking about what a pain in the ass it will be to try and fix this mess.
You purse your lips. “… It’s really crazy, but I never felt that way before.”
Looking down at the table, you fidget with your pen again as you confess your thoughts to the blond. “You know, up until now, I never really understood the hype around love and relationships. I was always content with being alone.”
A familiar silhouette catches the Traveler’s eyes from behind you. It’s difficult to pay attention to you when the wide brim of the figure’s hat keeps bobbing up and down with each step he takes.
“But after waking up… I don’t know, I just felt kind of… lonely? I’m not trying to whine, but I guess after getting a taste of what it might be like, it feels like I’m missing out.”
They try to focus on your words, but the clueless, almost juvenile way the boy wanders around the bookstand makes him look like child lost in a farmers market.
The Traveler notes that his attitude was timid. Far from normal.
“Ah, shoot, sorry, we originally met up for the information I was supposed to tell you, right?” Your apology snaps the Traveler out of their scrutiny.
They find it hard to steer gears after that. Paimon catches the Traveler’s stern eyes staring the figure down, and connects the pieces together.
“Right.”
The Traveler is still thinking about the boy even after you leave. Only after they hunt the figure down are they able to confirm that their suspicion was fact.
As they lay on their shared bed, staring up at the ceiling tiredly, it’s all the Traveler can think about.
“Paimon, I really thought this would be easy,” they mutter. Paimon groggily agrees.
“Uh-huh.”
“When Nahida told me about it, I thought ‘finally, I can rest’.”
“I hear you.”
“I thought I’d just take the guy out for ice cream, you know. Maybe get him to learn a new hobby. Take him fishing. Would’ve been an easy request. I didn’t think he’d do all this.”
The Traveler looks over as they rest their head over their crossed arms. Their companion is fast asleep.
~•~
The vendor smiles when he sees a familiar silhouette pop by for the second time that week.
“Back so soon? You were here just yesterday!”
The newcomer was a welcome one, not only for his mora, but for his pleasant conversation. The vendor couldn’t help but smile as he watched the boy sheepishly scratch his cheek.
“Ah… I can’t help it. Last volume ended on a cliffhanger,” the boy confesses. The vendor's eyebrows raised in surprise.
“You’re already caught up?!”
The boy looks down at the concrete before nodding.
The old vendor laughs after overcoming his brief astonishment, displaying the aforementioned text on his table, “Well, just buy the last few novels all together. That way you won’t have to keep coming back every time you finish a book.”
The Wanderer gulps at the offer, very visibly tempted, but restraint ultimately saves his skin (and mora).
“I won’t be able to work if I do that, I’ll be too enamoured reading,” the Wanderer explains. His attention shifts when he hears a high pitched call from behind him.
“Wanderer, you’re here again! Are you on your break?” The chattier part of the duo pipes up. The Wanderer nods his head, picking up a novel he was eyeing.
“Ah, yes. I was just thinking of buying a new book,” he responds. The Traveler looks at the cover. ‘A romance,’ they think to themselves. Paimon elbows their shoulder after catching sight of the novel.
“Paimon sure is hungry…” She floats to the side aimlessly, slouching for dramatic effect. The Wanderer takes the bait.
“Oh yeah. We should eat, hey?” He thinks back on when he had his last meal. Breakfast. No good. The Wanderer turns back to the vendor to finish up.
“I’ll just get this one.” He slides the mora over to the man, thanking him before turning back to the two.
“I guess I’ll accompany you until my break ends,” he smiles. Paimon leads the way, making a line straight to the cafe just adjacent to the book stand.
She flies closer to him, peeking over at the novel once more. “What are you doing here reading books, anyways? It’s the second day of the festival!”
“Doesn’t seem like much fun,” he sighs. “Not much to do other than people watch, going alone and all.” The three sit at a table, the Wanderer caving to Paimon’s grabby hands towards his novel. She studies the front, only to gasp when she finally reads the back.
“Wait a minute, Paimon’s read this story before!” She squeals in excitement, gesturing wildly as the other two stare at her with curiosity.
“So, this knight really really loves this princess, but she hits her head, and at the end of everyday, she basically forgets everything that happened, so it’s like she’s stuck in a loop! So the knight… hey, are you listening?”
The Traveler nods before looking over at the boy beside them, who was facing away from their floating companion.
“Who is that?” He asks. Instantly, the two know who he’s talking about.
Your hand scribbles away on a piece of parchment, occasionally resting the end of the pen on your lips. The action brought a flush of pink to the Wanderers cheeks, his own lips parted in admiration.
“Oh, that’s…” The Traveler starts, but fails to finish.
Both the Traveler and Paimon look troubled, not exactly having planned out what they’d tell him.
“We don’t know… we can ask around, after.” They offer a small smile. “Sorry Paimon, you were saying?” The Traveler tries to refocus the conversation, a way to buy time to formulate a plan of some sort.
Minutes of Paimon’s yapping pass, and the Wanderer still can’t stop staring at you.
He wonders why he’s so drawn to your image, why he could feel your fingertips trace over his collarbones. Simply looking at you spread warmth over where a heavy beat should’ve thumped against his rib cage.
As far as he knows, you’re a stranger he’s never spoken a word to. So how come, no matter how many times he checks and makes sure it’s in his head, does he feel a pulse in his neck whenever he glances over at you?
You shut your book and stand up, pushing your chair back in and grabbing your bag from the seat beside you.
The Wanderer stands up as well, causing his companions beside him to follow suit.
As if a string had wrapped around his waist and was pulling him closer, his body subconsciously steps towards your direction.
The Traveler grabs the boy's shoulder before he could get closer.
“Your break has ended,” they state in a flat tone.
The boy looks at the cafe clock, a hint of betrayal on his features as he silently laments the time passing so quickly.
“Oh…” He’s still looking at you, even when he turns his body to face the other two. "... Yeah. I should get back, then.”
The Wanderer makes a move to step away and leave, but the hand resting on his shoulder stays planted on. He shoots the Traveler a quizzical look.
“No.” The Traveler replies.
The Wanderer glances at Paimon, who in turn averts her gaze from his own. He’s beginning to worry. “… Huh?”
The Traveler ushers the boy with them, unfortunately (in his case) the opposite direction of where you’re headed.
“I need to talk to you about something.” The urgency in the Traveler’s voice causes a spike of worry in the Wanderer’s mind. He’s wearing a confused look, his eyebrows tilting upwards as he looks around nervously. “… What’s wrong?” He whispers to the two beside him.
Paimon has never seen anyone look this concerned before. She frowns before looking down in guilt.
‘Poor guy ,’ Paimon thinks to herself. ‘ Innocent, innocent Wanderer.’
She lifts her head and meets the Traveler’s face, who bears the same guilt-ridden expression.
They both lock eyes, and then nod in newfound determination.
Paimon will make sure that they apologize to the boy later.
