# **Scaramouche x Reader: Years of Distance
*A story of rivals, heartbreak, and reconstruction*
## **Part One: The Beginning of the End**
You first met Scaramouche on a Tuesday in spring.
He was pulling the flower out of your hair—the white one your mother had pinned carefully that morning—and running around the playground like it was a trophy. You chased him, laughing, not yet aware that this boy would become either your greatest source of joy or your deepest wound.
His name was Scaramouche, though most people called him by his real one. You called him whatever made him laugh, which was most things back then. Before the walls went up. Before he learned that vulnerability was a liability.
For three years, you were inseparable. Kindergarten through second grade. He was your constant—the boy who pulled your pigtails and made you cry and then bought you ice cream with his allowance to make it better.
You didn't know it then, but you were learning what love looked like. It looked like someone showing up. It looked like annoyance mixed with affection. It looked like choosing you, even when it was inconvenient.
### **Middle School: Second Year**
The argument happened on a Tuesday, which felt significant even then.
You'd found him in the courtyard at lunch, and he was being cruel to a first-year student. Not in the playful way he used to tease you, but in a way that made your stomach hurt. The boy was on the verge of tears, and Scaramouche just kept going, sharp words like weapons.
"Stop," you'd said, stepping between them.
Scaramouche had looked at you like you'd betrayed him.
"This doesn't concern you," he'd said coldly.
"It does if you're being horrible."
"Maybe I *am* horrible. Maybe you should stop pretending I'm something I'm not."
The words had hit you like a physical blow. But you'd stood your ground, told him that pain didn't give him the right to hurt everyone around him, that he needed to get help instead of taking it out on innocent people.
He'd told you to leave him alone. Said you were suffocating him. Said he didn't need your pity.
And he'd never asked you to come back.
### **Three Years of Distance**
High school became a study in avoidance.
You maintained perfect distance. Never looked at each other in the hallway. Took different routes between classes. If you ended up in the same space, you both pretended the other didn't exist.
It should have gotten easier with time.
You saw him transform into something harder. Colder. He became a bully—not the kind that physically hurt people, but the kind that wielded words like weapons and made people afraid. You watched him sit with the elite crowd at lunch, watched him dismiss people with a glance, watched him become exactly what he'd feared he was.
And you hated him for it.
(You also never stopped caring, which was worse.)
It happened during your first year of high school.
You were leaving campus when you heard the commotion—shouts, the sound of flesh meeting flesh. When you rounded the corner, you found Scaramouche beating someone bloody in the middle of the parking lot.
He didn't stop when people screamed at him to. Just kept going, methodical and cold, like he was trying to prove something to himself.
When he finally stopped, breathing hard, covered in blood that wasn't all his own, he looked up and saw you.
And the horror in your expression must have reflected what you actually felt, because his face went completely blank.
"You're a monster," you heard yourself say. The words just came out. "I don't know you anymore."
He'd said something back—something about being exactly what everyone expected, about pain making people cruel—but you weren't really listening. You were too busy realizing that the boy you'd loved was gone, and whatever had replaced him was dangerous.
And for the first time, you didn't look back.
## **Part Two: The Disappearing Act**
Scaramouche didn't come to school.
You noticed immediately, then told yourself you didn't care. He was the one who'd become a bully. He was the one who'd chosen cruelty. You'd only told the truth.
But the empty desk felt like an accusation.
By Wednesday, your cousin Venti was asking if you knew where he was. By Friday, his friends looked worried. And by Monday, his absence had become its own presence—a hole in the fabric of the day that everyone moved around carefully.
Everyone except you, apparently. Because you couldn't stop noticing.
Couldn't stop thinking about those paintings you found in the art room during lunch.
You stumbled into it accidentally, looking for a quiet place to eat away from the noise of the cafeteria.
What you found instead was your worst nightmare and your deepest hope all combined into one.
Paintings. Dozens of them. Stacked against the walls like evidence of an emotional catastrophe. Dark colors—blues and blacks and reds that looked like blood or tears or both. Some had words written on them: *MONSTER. UNLOVABLE. ALONE.*
Your heart had shattered seeing them, because you recognized the style. Recognized the way he used color as emotion. Recognized that these paintings were a visual representation of your words echoing in his head.
On an easel, you'd found a note: *I'm sorry.*
Three words. In his handwriting. Unmistakable.
That's when you'd realized: you'd broken something. And he wasn't coming back from it.
It took you a week to work up the courage.
You got his address through a mutual friend—something you probably shouldn't have done. Took the train across the city to the wealthy neighborhood where his cold, glass house sat like a monument to isolation.
You rang the doorbell. Got no answer. Tried again.
Finally, a staff member answered, looking harried.
"I'm looking for Scaramouche," you said, your voice wavering. "It's urgent."
They didn't look convinced, but let you in anyway.
His room was dark. Curtains drawn. The air thick and stale with the smell of someone who hadn't left in far too long.
And there, buried under blankets, was the boy you'd loved.
"Go away," he said without lifting his head.
You moved closer instead, sat on the edge of the bed. "What are you doing?"
"Existing. Barely. What does it matter?"
"It matters because—" Your voice cracked. "It matters because you matter."
He finally looked at you, and the hollowness in his eyes made you want to cry.
"I'm a monster," he said flatly. "You told me so. And you were right."
"I was wrong." The words tumbled out. "I was angry and hurt and I said things I didn't mean. You're not a monster, Scaramouche. You're just... you're hurt. And scared. And you're dealing with it in the only way you know how."
"Which is to hurt everyone around me. Including you."
"Yes." You didn't deny it. "But that doesn't make you a monster. It makes you human."
He turned away. "I can't be what you need."
He looked back at you, surprised.
"I know you can't be perfect," you continued softly. "I know you're angry and broken and scared of abandonment. But I also know that three years ago, you were my friend. And a week ago, you were sorry enough to paint thirty paintings and leave me a note. And that has to count for something."
"Yes, it does." You reached out and took his hand. He didn't pull away, which felt like a victory. "It means you're not lost. It means there's still hope."
"I don't have hope left."
"Then I'll have some for both of us." You squeezed his hand. "But you have to get out of this bed. You have to let someone help you."
For a moment, he looked like he might actually let you in.
## **Part Three: The Crisis**
### **The Breaking Point**
His hand shot out, gripping your wrist. Not gently.
"Go. Away," he said, each word sharp enough to cut.
There was something in his eyes that terrified you—that same look from the parking lot, the one that made people flinch. But underneath it was terror. Raw, primal terror, like he was watching himself become the thing he feared most and couldn't stop it.
"I'm not leaving you like this," you said quietly.
"Then you're an idiot." He released your wrist and turned away, pulling the blanket back over his head. "Get out of my room. Get out of my house. Get out of my *life.*"
Then slowly, he lowered the blanket. And when he looked at you, you saw it—the moment he decided to become what everyone expected him to be. The moment he chose cruelty as a weapon because it was the only language he knew.
"I said," he said, his voice dropping to something dangerous, "get. Out."
It wasn't a request anymore. It was a threat.
And you, who'd been taught your entire life to listen to authority, to respect boundaries, to know when you weren't wanted, should have left.
Instead, you moved closer.
"I know you're scared," you said. "I know you think you're going to hurt me. That you're going to ruin me like you ruin everything. But—"
He stood abruptly, and the blankets went flying.
"Stop," he said, and his voice was shaking. "Stop trying to save me. Stop pretending you care. Just *go.*"
The shout was so loud, so raw, that it physically pushed against you. But you stood your ground.
For a moment, they just stood there. Scaramouche breathing hard, his fists clenched, his entire body vibrating with barely contained rage and despair. You calm, steady, immovable.
His hand came up—not to hit you, you'd later realize, but to push you away. A gesture of desperation more than violence.
But you caught his arm, and the contact—the *touch*—seemed to detonate something inside him.
You stumbled but didn't fall. Came back toward him instead.
"Scaramouche, don't—" His voice cracked.
"I'm not leaving," you repeated.
His hand came up again. This time it connected.
The slap echoed in the dark room.
Your cheek burned. For a moment, there was absolute silence. Then—
"Oh God. Oh God, I'm sorry, I didn't—" His hand came up, horror flooding his expression.
"I'm not leaving," you said again.
Something inside him shattered completely. He lunged at you—not to hit again, but to push you out of the room, his hands on your shoulders, his movements frantic and desperate.
"Get out! GET OUT! You don't understand, you can't—I'll hurt you, I'll *ruin* you, just *go*—"
"I'm not going," you said, your own voice rising to match his. "I'm not leaving you alone in this room to—to do whatever you were planning to do. I'm not leaving!"
He pushed harder, and you stumbled toward the door. But instead of letting the momentum carry you through, you twisted, grabbing onto the doorframe, your fingers digging in.
"Let go," he said, his voice hollow.
He wrapped his arms around your waist and *pulled*, trying to drag you into the hallway.
You locked your legs, your hands white-knuckled on the frame.
"Stop it," you gasped. "Listen to me—"
He was stronger. Of course he was. Your feet left the ground and you had to choose: let go or get dragged.
You grabbed onto him instead, your arms wrapped around his neck, making yourself as much of an anchor as possible.
"I'm not leaving you!" you shouted directly into his ear. "I don't care if you hit me, I don't care if you push me, I'm *not* leaving!"
"Why?!" The question came out as a howl. "Why would you do this? Why would you stay?"
He managed to get you to the doorway. Tried to push you through. You twisted, winding your legs around his, becoming dead weight, making yourself impossible to move without seriously hurting you.
When he tried to pry you off, you felt another impact—his palm against your shoulder, a shove that was half rage and half desperation.
"Because I love you!" The words ripped out of you before you could stop them. "I love you, you idiot, and I'm not leaving!"
For a second, everything stopped. His hands, your grip, the world itself seemed to hold its breath.
Not literally—his legs didn't give out—but emotionally. Spiritually. He folded inward like someone had cut his strings, and you found yourself holding him up instead of the other way around.
"I can't," he whispered into your hair. "I can't be what you need. I can't be good. I can't—"
"You don't have to be good," you said fiercely, your own tears falling now. "You just have to be willing to try. You just have to *stay.*"
"Why would you want to stay with someone like me?"
"Because three years ago, you were my friend. Because a week ago, you were sorry enough to create art about it. Because underneath all the anger and fear, there's a person worth saving."
"Stop." You pulled back just enough to look at him. His face was blotchy, streaked with tears, his eyes red and desperate and *alive* in a way they hadn't been when you'd walked in. "Stop deciding what you deserve and let me decide for you."
They stood there in the doorway, both breathing hard, both shaking.
"I'm so tired," he whispered finally. "I'm so tired of being alone."
"Then don't be." You reached up and gently touched the side of his face—not the cheek you'd hit, but the other one. "Let me help. Please."
He leaned into your touch like a plant turning toward the sun.
And for the first time in weeks, Scaramouche let someone close enough to matter.
## **Part Four: Reconstruction**
### **The Beginning of Healing**
They ended up on the floor of his room, with your back against the wall and his head on your shoulder.
Neither of you spoke for a long time.
"I hit you," he said finally, his voice hollow.
"I could have really hurt you."
You were quiet for a moment. "You're right. You could have. And if you ever do again, I'll leave. I need you to understand that. I'm not some martyr. I'm not going to let you use me as a punching bag because you're having a breakdown."
"But right now," you continued, "right now you're scared and you're hurting and you're not yourself. So we're going to get help. Real help. A therapist. A doctor. Whatever you need."
"Doesn't get to decide this. *You* get to decide. Do you want to get better?"
It took him a long time to answer. "I don't know if I can."
"That's not what I asked."
"I... yes. I want to try."
"Then that's what we're doing." You carefully, gently brushed his hair back from his forehead. "And we're doing it together. But you have to promise me something."
"That if you ever feel like this again—like it's too much, like you're giving up—you tell me. You call me. You do anything except suffer alone. Promise me."
"I promise," he whispered.
The therapy office smelled like lavender and expensive furniture.
Scaramouche sat in the same chair every Wednesday afternoon, talking to Dr. Yae miko about things he'd never told anyone. Things about his childhood. About the day his mother chose her career over his school play. About the night his mother didn't come home.
About the moment she'd decided that if people were going to leave anyway, she might as well make them want to.
And you sat in the waiting room for every single one of these appointments. Walked her there. Held her hand on the way home when she came out looking like she'd been put through an emotional wringer.
"How is she?" Dr. Yae miko had asked you during the first family session.
"He's trying," you said simply. "That's all I'm asking for."
School had become manageable.
Scaramouche wasn't suddenly popular or well-liked, but the fear had dissipated. People had moved on to newer drama. And he was slowly learning to exist in spaces without being the villain.
He sat with Kazuha during lunch now, and sometimes your cousin Venti would join them—apparently he'd been waiting for exactly this outcome all along.
"So," Kazuha said casually one day, stealing fries from Scaramouche's plate, "when are you going to ask them out officially?"
"We're not dating," Scaramouche said flatly.
"You literally spend every second together. They're at your house more than at their own. You share earbuds. You hold hands. You literally fought each other in a hallway because you both cared too much."
Scaramouche didn't have an answer.
"Ask them out," Venti said from across the table, not looking up from his phone. "Before they realize they can do better."
"They could do better right now."
"Probably," Venti agreed cheerfully. "But they don't want to. So ask them out before they change their mind."
You found him in the art room on a Friday afternoon.
He'd started painting again. Not the dark, chaotic pieces from before, but something different. Something with color. With shape. With intention.
He was working on a portrait of you. You were laughing, mid-movement, caught in a moment of genuine joy.
"Is that supposed to be me?" you asked, appearing beside the easel.
He didn't jump. Had learned to sense when you were near.
You tilted your head, studying the painting. "Am I?"
He set down his brush and turned to look at you. Really look at you. At the way you'd relaxed over the past months. The way the tension that had lived in your shoulders seemed to have dissolved. The way you smiled more easily now.
"Yes," he said. "You are."
"In spite of me, probably."
You rolled your eyes. "Still fishing for self-pity compliments, I see."
You moved closer, leaning against the easel beside him. You stood like that in comfortable silence, watching the late afternoon light paint the painting in shades of gold.
"Scaramouche?" you said finally.
"Anything. Something you've been wondering about."
He thought for a moment. "Why did you come back? That first time, at my house. You could have just... given up. Everyone else does."
You were quiet for a moment. "Because I realized something. Three years of distance was longer than the three years we had together. And I didn't want to lose you twice."
He reached over and took your hand.
"I'm in love with you," he said finally. "Have been for years. And I'm going to keep being a mess and probably say things wrong and definitely disappoint you at some point. But I want to try. If you'll let me."
Your eyes widened slightly. Then you started laughing—not mockingly, but with genuine joy.
"That was the worst confession I've ever heard," you said.
"I know. I'm working on my emotional expression skills."
"And yet it was still more honest than anything anyone else has ever said to me." You stood on your tiptoes and kissed him, soft and careful, like he was something precious and fragile.
When you pulled back, Scaramouche felt something shift inside his chest. Not the hollow ache he'd gotten used to. Not the anxiety that usually accompanied emotional vulnerability.
"I love you too," you whispered. "Even though you're difficult and stubborn and you're still working through like a decade of trauma."
"So... you'll let me try?"
"You keep going to therapy. You keep talking to me when things are hard. And you never, ever give up on yourself again. Can you do that?"
He thought about the months of work ahead. The painful sessions where he'd have to confront the parts of himself he'd been running from. The slow, tedious process of learning to love himself enough to be worthy of your love.
"That's all I'm asking for."
His mother came home for Thanksgiving.
It was awkward at first. She was good at pleasantries and small talk, less good at actual emotional connection. But she asked about school. About his classes. About therapy, which surprised him.
"I spoke with your father," she said during dinner, which was being served on the expensive china that never got used. "About your... situation. He wants to increase your therapy budget. Says it's an investment in your future."
Leave it to his father to frame mental health care as a financial decision.
"And I've arranged for you to have some time with a psychiatrist. Someone who specializes in adolescent depression." His mother adjusted her napkin. "I should have been more present. I know that now."
It wasn't an apology, exactly. But it was acknowledgment. And maybe that was the best he was going to get.
"And this person—they seem lovely," his mother continued, glancing at you. "Very patient with you."
You exchanged a glance with Scaramouche, trying very hard to look innocent while definitely eavesdropping.
"I don't plan to," he said.
The school winter festival was happening, and you'd somehow coerced Scaramouche into helping with decorations.
He didn't actually mind. Spent the afternoon untangling lights and listening to you talk about the different booths and events, your enthusiasm making even the tedious work bearable.
"We should do a couples' photo booth," you said, handing him another string of lights. "For the Valentine's Day fundraiser next semester."
"I know. But I'm thinking ahead." You smiled up at him. "Unless you don't want to be a couple by then?"
"I'll be a couple with you in seven months. And seven months after that. And seven months after that."
You blushed. "That's a long time."
"What if you get tired of me?"
He set down the lights and pulled you close, uncaring that you were surrounded by other students and teachers and the general chaos of festival preparation.
"I'm not going to get tired of you," he said. "I'm going to have bad days where I'm angry or withdrawn or convinced that I'm still that monster everyone thinks I am. But I'm not going to get tired of you."
He kissed your forehead. "You're the only constant thing in my life that's actually worth having."
You were back in the art room, though now Scaramouche had official permission from the school to use it after hours.
He was working on a new series of paintings. Not about darkness or pain, but about reconstruction. About the slow, painful process of becoming someone better.
One canvas showed two people standing in a parking lot, anger and fear visible in every brushstroke.
Another showed someone drowning, but this time with a hand extended toward them.
Another showed light—not bright or overwhelming, but steady. Real.
And the final one, not yet finished, showed two people standing together. Not perfect. Not healed completely. But present. Building something.
"What are you going to call the series?" you asked, sitting on the old stool you'd claimed as your own.
"Reconstruction," he said. "Or maybe Becoming. I haven't decided."
"I like Becoming," you said. "Because that's what you're doing. You're becoming."
He set down his brush and turned to you. "We're becoming. You changed too."
"You're not carrying everyone else's expectations anymore. You're not trying to be perfect. You're just... living."
You smiled. "That's because someone taught me that it was okay to be a mess."
"That's the worst lesson I've ever taught anyone."
"And yet it's the best thing anyone's ever taught me."
He pulled you up from the stool and held you close, breathing in the scent of lavender and vanilla that always clung to your hair.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"For not giving up on me. For coming back to that art room even after I'd told you not to. For being stubborn enough to love someone who was doing everything in his power to be unlovable."
You pulled back just enough to look at him. "You were never unlovable. You just didn't know how to accept love yet. Now you're learning."
"Every day," you promised. "For as long as you'll let me."
He kissed you, slow and deep, the kind of kiss that felt like a vow.
In the corner of the art room, paintings hung on the walls—evidence of his journey. From darkness to light. From isolation to connection. From a boy who thought he was a monster to someone who was learning, slowly, that he was worthy of love.
It wasn't a happy ending, exactly.
And that, Scaramouche was learning, was enough.
