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.