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Jan 28

EXPLORING THE 5 SENSES WITH SCARAMOUCHE. gn!reader | fluff

synopsis. a glimpse into your relationship with scaramouche through the 5 senses (touch, smell, hearing, taste, sight). series of ficlets.

content. suggestive in some parts (i.e. vague descriptions of making out) but mostly sfw, incredible amount of fluff, non-sexual intimacy, sillies in love, kissing, established relationship + pre-relationship for the last section (i.e. taste), scara is painting your bare back, nahida & scara have a family dynamic, brief mention of eimiko and scara son hc, modern au. not proofread.

a/n. happy (very belated) valentines’ day! wanted to explore scara in the late stages of a relationship + pre-relationship; more playfulness & more comfortable with himself. each section isn’t the same length but that's okay. enjoy :)

word count. 4.3k

masterlist | read on AO3

What does SCARAMOUCHE loving you look like in each of the 5 senses?

He can count a few specific times:

—

i. Sight. | PICTURES

Scaramouche has been acting strangely this entire week.

After being recruited (forced) into a photography club by a few of his classmates and the new club member, Nahida (under the name of “discovering more enrichment activities!”), His behavior had since shown an almost subtle but unexpected shift in attitude:

Click!

Case in point: You look towards your boyfriend with a camera in hand, and a small smile etched on his face. It was meant to be a shopping date, just an excuse to wander outside and practically drag your boyfriend around to window shop for overly expensive items—some unreasonable, some even Scaramouche couldn’t help but tug your hand away to distance yourself from getting it. (“Why is that plushie $60?” “It is vintage.” “No, it is just hideous,” he scoffed.)

He was awfully distracted, it seemed, of you and whatever sights you came across. Sure, he was acting like his usual- ‘pretends to have no interest in it but secretly lets you drag him around because he likes being around you’-Scaramouche way, but his mind looked like it drifted elsewhere, like he was there but a softer version took its place and persisted even as he tried to lull it away.

For instance, at one point, you smiled at him, holding up some ugly plush you found in the clearance aisle (“it’s you,” you had told him. “ha, in your dreams.”) and there it is. Scaramouche hadn’t needed to say anything. But you could tell. The moment his mind wandered off again, you simply let it.

Click! And he was back once more.

Conclusion? This camera was the main culprit to his new-found shift in demeanor.

So curiously, you wrap your arms around his waist, looking over his shoulder in an attempt to uncover what he has been hiding away. You blow into his ear, low and enough to get him to freeze. “So, what’s gotten your attention hm?”

Before your eyes could begin to make out the photo, he immediately tucked away the camera and right out of your view. “Posting on my story,” he gave you a look. The kind of look that told you tells of trouble only he could possibly think of. “What about it?”

You raise your eyebrow. Okay, now that was suspicious. “You hardly post on your account.”

“What? What is so wrong with that?” he gave you his best innocent stare, a head tilt, and a sweet smile along with it. “Here I thought you wanted me to post more.”

“Well, yeah you should post more,” you mutter, thinking back to times where people accused you on tagging a side account because your boyfriend’s feed looks like a damn bot than a person. “But! I’m just saying that you are acting really funny, you know,” you point to him; his face only widens in mischief.

“That’s too bad, I think I’m hilarious.”

“Right. Sure.” You chuckle before directing your focus on finding warmth in the fabric of his sweater. Comfy. “Whatever it is. At least take good pictures, yeah? Heard the photography club might set up a display somewhere in the city.”

“Who told you that?”

“Nahida,” you pinch his waist playfully at his bluff, already half-way melted into his shoulder. It is warm, you think. You mumble into his shoulder, “What was the theme about anyway?”

You don’t take notice of the cheeky look in his eye as he stares at your relaxed form or the way his hand reaches for the camera once more, flicking up and facing towards your face.

You hear a snicker.

Click!

You snap your head up. Huh? But before you could ask, you feel his body freeing away from your arms, his warmth along with it. Instinctively, you reach out towards him. “What are you..?“

Unfortunately, Scaramouche was already taking off, putting some distance between you as he ran along with the camera in hand, sticking out his tongue as he did so.

You shook your head in disbelief. “Hey, wait!”

And off he went, his back practically fading further away. You stood, a bit stunned, before laughing. He can be so cute sometimes.

And with a chuckle, you chased after him.

—

[Nahida🍀]

Nahida🍀: Picture-taking is more fun than I expected! Did you take any photos yet? (*^ω^*)

Scara👾: I did. But my model is being uncooperative right now

Nahida🍀: What does that even mean?? Could I see?

Scara👾: Do you really want to know?

Nahida🍀: Why are you acting so suspicious (*_*)

Scara👾: :p.

—

When Scaramouche feels around the wooden shelf, his outstretched arm searching around, he finds himself wiping off the dust of a particular box.

He reaches out to uncover the top, already filled with photographs—each a selection of nature, the exhibitions he has been on, Nahida and her unbridled curiosity for everything, and finally, ones of you.

If he was being frank, he didn’t hold much interest in photography—well, until now. Not until Nahida brought up how “it would do him good to save memories that he wanted to memorialize for his viewing pleasure!” Not until a camera was halfway shoved into his hands with the errand of: “Make sure to take as many pictures as you can! We are counting on you!” (Nahida’s words, not his).

He stared down at the camera. Memories, huh?

Sure, Scaramouche was no stranger to painful grievances of the past, ones where he had learned to confront, ones where he bore and accepted. And if he had to guess, these photos were essentially Nahida’s way of suggesting that he seek out and capture new memories to remember by. Not to overlook what has already been done, but to celebrate a future anew.

Hah, or maybe to do her bidding, he isn’t quite sure yet.

And the worst part? Truthfully, he didn’t hate the idea entirely; in fact, he was sure Nahida knew that clearly, especially with the way she so persistently tasked him with it in the first place.

So, he sighed, but nevertheless, obliged.

And soon enough, he started to toy with the camera and became accustomed to its settings.

Maybe he would take some on his morning walks, of the sunrise he is usually accompanied by, or of the birds that somehow make their home on his shoulder. Or if he was feeling more like a prick, maybe he would take an unexpected photo of his coworkers mid-action, clearly unprepared for the camera. The kind where they are halfway blinking, blurry, and their face contorted unsightly—you know, for his amusement, for his viewing pleasure. Definitely not because they decided once again to make him deal with a customer handing $100 for an $8 item right after he clocked in.

And yet, none of them prepared him for the first time he got a picture with you.

Click!

“Hold sit, why don’t you?”

It began with one photo, something mundane and candid. You were visiting his family home for the holidays; his mother had always pestered him to bring you over each year, and this time around, he agreed.

(“Can’t wait to see you and your partner! Btw, don’t be alarmed when Yae steals them for a few minutes☺️….”

“Are you threatening me?”)

You were lying down with your phone in hand—in his childhood bed, no less—laughing about some show you recently got hooked onto. Sprawled over and relaxing like you owned the place (and maybe you did), you looked like the peace he hadn’t realize he was greedy for. Sure, there wasn’t anything spectacular about his photography skills or the pose you were seated in, and yet, the more he stared at the picture, he couldn’t bring himself to part with it. Not yet, at least.

“So, do I look good?” Your head was tilted up, way too relaxed, way too domestic. For fucks sake, the fact that you were in his bed didn’t help either.

He couldn’t help but look away.

Warmth. It was the odd sense of warmth in his chest that made him hesitate. It was new. It was a welcome feeling. It was—Huh. He never thought photography could be so… frustratingly domestic.

“Can I see?”

“Absolutely not,” he held the photograph tightly.

So soon, more and more popped into this box. He had grown attached to it, more than he would like to admit.

You stretched over your desk, head pressed down on your laptop? Click. (You looked silly, sue him.)

Your face squished with his side-by-side? Click. (You told him it was a trend on TikTok and dragged him into it. It took a lot of convincing—in the form of kisses.)

You sitting right on the pavement at the side of the 7-11 store, munching on your late-night snacks because you told him you were craving food and slushies at 3:00 in the morning? Click.

(Bonus, he also got to take another picture where both of your tongues were purple. Ha, don’t ask how that happened.)

Surely, who could blame him for using this camera to its full potential? When this box is already filled with images, who could blame him when he is already running out of film the next day? Not Nahida, of course. In fact, she was his biggest supporter.

Digging out another picture from his pocket, he flips over the newest addition: You embracing his waist, head on his shoulder, looking as relaxed as you have ever been.

That stupid warmth erupts in his chest once more. It was the type of warmth that didn’t burn, the one where it didn’t spark painful memories; instead, it was sweet. It was persistent. And he also finds he doesn’t hate it.

And maybe this time, he wants to keep it a moment longer. He sets it as his wallpaper, just hidden away from public view, but not from his eyes.

At least there is something to look forward to whenever he is awake at god, who knows what time, missing your warmth.

—

private account @/zushi2938849484 posted!

[attach photo]

@/zushi2938849484: Caught this one. I’ll be honest, it is kind of cute when they try to be clingy. Just don’t tell them that, though.

@/nahidasgarden: So this is what you have been doing! 💖

@/nahidasgarden: Also, why am I the only follower here? ^_^;;;;

Reply from @/zushi2938849484: Because you are oomf

—

i. Smell. | COOKING.

Saturday. 8:34 am.

“You are so clingy today,” Scaramouche grumbles as he leans back into your arms. The comfort of his pjs cushions your weight as your head buries into his shoulder, almost melting into it. The sizzling of the pot lulls down a bit as you feel him reach to turn down the stove.

“Can you blame me?” With your nose pressed so close against the exposed skin, you can make out how he smelled of fresh laundry; the kind where it wasn’t too overbearing, something familiar. You missed this, you think.

No, you corrected: you missed him.

And you could tell, he missed you too. Especially because you could smell the barest hint of your body spray on his clothes. A sign of comfort for him (one that he doesn’t say out loud), but also a pride for you.

“…You smell different.” You begin, the edges of your lips rising.

“Are you saying I smell bad?”

“Well-“ You give him a look.

He quickly huffs, almost scooting out of your arms as he takes the majority of the warmth with him. “If you can’t handle it, I should just enjoy this dinner all by myself-“

“Wait—No, I’m kidding. It smells good.” You chuckle, tucking him closer and pressing one quick kiss on his jaw in apology. You could almost feel the subtle fond eye-roll he gives you. “Aaand of course, you smell nice. It is just…” You bury your face once more. “It smells suspiciously similar to mine.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” He retorts, rather nonchalantly, despite how much of his body language—advertising his gaze away from yours in the act, the slightest lift of eyebrow in smug satisfaction—says otherwise.

So what if he did? What will you even do about it? It tells you.

Nothing, you smiled. Nothing at all.

The sizzle of the pot protests in response to your banter, drawing his attention from you and back to the dinner you were supposed to have later tonight.

While the dinner itself was nothing too fancy or pungent, it was Scaramouche’s go-to comfort food. Scaramouche had an eye for things that were easy to make and felt like home. Sentimentality and all, you found it rather endearing.

You watch as he shifts, stirring the pot.

The aroma was inviting, much like the way you nearly ease yourself into his shoulder, surrounded by the comfort of food and his warmth. The latter nulls you to a near-perfect ease, mixed with the breath he huffs out at your clinginess.

Again, can he blame you?

“So, what are you making?”

A simple question.

One that you already knew the answer to. But you seldom mention it, not while you were already busy pressing your lips against his nape as you waited for his answer.

You hear a hitch.

“What are you..?” Then a breath of laughter. He shifts, carefully placing down the lid. “Why don’t you guess hm?” He doesn’t move anywhere, but you can practically feel the snarkiness radiating off of him. “You have three tries. Extra points if you manage to get the name right.”

You hummed. Good, he was indulging you.

Your kisses got bolder as you shifted from along his nape, then slowly to the exposed part of his shoulder, as courtesy of his loose clothing practically hanging off of him. Your first guess: “Ice cream?”

“Are you acting dumb on purpose?” He scoffed, the sound a little too restrained. Maybe he would make some excuse about how your heat was pressing against him despite how hot the kitchen was. Overheating via body heat was a real concern. But you knew better—knew him better. “2 more tries.” He whispers.

Chuckling a simple “Sure,” you press on.

On the second try, your hand gently encloses around his, spoon still in his hand.

Watching his eyes flit down to your interwoven fingers wrapped in his, you can’t help but laugh at how his curiosity spreads across his expression. What are you doing? His gaze spoke.

He didn’t have to wonder for too long, however.

Not when you suddenly lifted his hand, bringing the spoon to his lower lip.

His eyes haven’t shifted from yours, not one bit, even while his lips slowly parted to make room for the spoon. Delight sparks your stomach as you watch his mouth seal around it, willingly and almost challengingly.

You stilled. This was a beautiful sight.

The morning looked right on him, bathed in the warm golden light. Sun-kissed practically. It highlighted many of his features: the curve of his nose scrunching just enough, the red eyeliner he dutifully wears, and the softness, tense softness that was his gaze. He wasn’t too fazed by your admiration; in fact, he was practically glowing in your attention.

“So, not sweet.” You grinned, pointing out the fact that his face would have scrunched in disgust had the food been anything too sweet. “Ramen?” You breathed in.

You are further reminded of the body spray that surrounds his body; it is practically coming off his wrist.

As if it were instinctive, your lips found their way to his hands, down to his wrist, confirming your suspicions: he sprayed this a few times. It was stronger here. A testimony to how much he wanted to be reminded of you.

“Hah, one last try.” This time, he shook his head. Chilled fingers reached your face as he slowly brought it up to his. Impatience in his movements. “Do you want a hint or something?”

The way both of your breaths now mingling in with each other spoke of many things, despite no words being out from your lips. It was sort of like a genie’s wish. You wouldn’t dare to waste this last and final moment.

And so, you wished. You wished with how your hands eagerly pull him closer, wished with how he smells like home, the scent urging you to say something.

“Yes.” Just as quickly as you spoke, you felt his lips pressed against yours.

Everything was enveloping around you; everything that makes up him was engulfing your senses. The shampoo that he insists on using (if you had to pinpoint it, it smells like nature? You weren’t too sure), the fresh scent of laundry (It reminded you that you were living with him. Successfully and contently emerged with his life, tasks like laundry included), and finally….

Finally, the smell of tea—his favorite. It was a classic move from him: to share something of himself with you. You remember how he offered it once when you were sick, muttering out about a kid he once babysat was in a similar condition and found a liking to this recipe. It drew a familiar warmth in your chest; the heat of the tea mixed in with his laughter.

You twisted your head up at him, pulling away and wiping the remaining bits of tea off your lips. You smile. “Shimi Chazuke.”

—

…

He exhaled, prying you off with a pointed look. “Could you…”

You immediately nod, like the love-sick fool you are.

He offered you a gesture to the tea, then leaned in as if he was going in for another kiss. Instead, he snickers as you open your eyes: “…do the dishes?”

You laugh.

Well, how could you say no?

—

i Hearing. | PHONE CALLS

Ding!

Ding-

[1:34 AM] You rub your eyes as you sneak a quick look at your phone. Who the hell is calling at this hour?

‘Kuni🤍’ bold on the screen brightens up your face.

Kuni🤍: Call me

Maybe you will make an exception for him.

You: Did something happen

Like clockwork and the sanity of a deep, lovesick partner, your finger immediately hit the call.

“Hello?”

You hear breathing from the other side, then a low rasp, wry in his tone. “Good morning Sleepy head.”

“Scara, it is 1 in the morning. Something up?” And you knew something was bothering him if he was awake at this hour.

There was a pause before shuffling emerged from your speaker: he was adjusting his chair.

“Finishing this thesis. Wanted someone to bother.”

His voice had an unmistakable thickness, evident in the exhaustion that had struck his body and made its way to his throat.

“Wanna talk about it?”

He sighs, the noise so soft that you had to crane your phone closer just to hear. You expected his typical lectures—ones ranging from the gossip of his coworkers’ drama, peer reviews of essays that he describes as ‘nonsensical’, and random history lessons—he sometimes liked to teach you quite a few of them too.

In fact, you became privy to many aspects of his life; a privilege from being in a relationship with him, you suppose. It surprised you how much he liked to talk, despite being no fan of chatty people or mindless conversations. It was endearing, to say the least.

So, it surprised you even more when none of that reached your ears. Instead, he mutters simply, not his usual snark:

“I didn’t see you today.” I missed you.

…

You had to do a double-take just to check if you heard that correctly. Yet there was no other comment besides the slight hitch in his voice, followed by the sound of computer keys clicking and more scuffling from the other side of the line.

“I missed you, too.” You finally admit, chuckling as if you were in on a secret between you two. “Sorry, I was kept busy the entire day. You alright?”

He doesn’t give you much of anything. Instead, you just hear more shuffling.

“You weren’t there to bother me. No morning texts….” Then he scoffs, more to himself. “What am I saying? Whatever, I….tried finding you in your usual spot. That corner of the cafe you apparently like so much. Did you suddenly disappear or something?”

He finally laughs, after a pause, trying to keep his voice light. “Just tell me about your day. Anything. What kept your attention so long?”

You blinked, but you complied with his demand. After all, your boyfriend wasn’t one to admit it so openly, especially not at break of dawn either. That must’ve nagged at him all day, huh? Cute, you thought, if hearing your voice again would ease his irritation, how could you say no?

It was easy to fall into listing your schedule—anything about the errands you had today, your classes, mornings—anything you could list off the top of your head.

(“Ah, so that’s why they told me someone had already ordered some food under my name. It was you huh?”

“You said you didn’t have time to pick up breakfast,” he says it like it is the easiest thing in the world. “…What? Don’t coo at me like that.”)

He responds to a few little laughs and scoffs here and there towards some of your commentary, but seldom cuts in, satisfied simply with listening. Slowly, the side comments die into mumbles, an effort to respond but not quite lucid enough to be comprehensible.

“You know, you should go to sleep.”

He mumbles. “No.” It was longer than usual, like his mind tried to catch up and convince itself it wasn’t tired.

But then you hear it. A soft puff erupts into the microphone.

“Scaramouche?” You wait a few more seconds to confirm your suspicions. Another puff.

He was sleeping.

“You really are adorable, you know.” You whisper. You couldn’t help the smile that spread on your lips. Did he really call you because he couldn’t sleep? You knew he liked his alone time, but it was nice to know at least he wanted you to accompany him in some sort of way. “Goodnight, Scara.”

—

The following day, another ding emerged from your phone; another notification from Scara:

Kuni🤍: Thank you

[Kuni🤍sent a photo]

You: Good morning, beautiful!

You: Dude, how did you even take a picture of me sleeping on call

Kuni🤍: :p

—

i. Touch. | SKIN TO SKIN

“Pftt, relax.”

“I’m trying to.“ The brush presses against your back, the soft edges leaving a cool chill over your skin. “But your brush-“ you shiver as he puts another coat of body paint. “-is cold.”

With the brush strokes along your spine, you feel his breath fanning along with the hum of his voice.

“A little cold can’t hurt, right? Don’t tell me that bothers you?” He knows exactly what he is doing, especially with the way his legs are slotted around your waist, laughing as if he doesn’t realize how much of an effect he has. “I’m almost done, hold on.”

You lay still, your arms folded under you as you steadied your breathing. “Once I do this to you, then you’ll see how damn cold it is,” it comes out more breathless than a sly retort. You hear the echoes of a poorly hidden snicker, his finger playfully tapping your shoulder.

“Sure. Maybe I should make this as slow as possible, just for you.” The smile in his voice becomes more evident as he mercilessly presses more of the brush.

“How incredibly nice, Scara.” You huff.

Now, the bristles run downwards—more deliberately this time, clearly relishing in the trust you hold for him and also teasing you in the process as you remain pliant under his touch.

“Didn’t you ask for this? I thought you would be more enthusiastic about me being up here.”

Clearly, you had meant to be more enthusiastic about this. You’ve seen it online on a forum somewhere: Intimacy in the form of body painting, along with someone whom you trust the most. It was a brilliant idea, you decided.

You remember bringing it up to him late at night, arms sprawled across his waist and his head resting on your shoulder. You shifted a little and inched your phone towards him.

He was cute, his eyes squinting at the screen, furrowing his brows as he tried to make out the picture. “Couple body painting?” he mutters, then, with the simple turn of his head, more interested in getting his sleep, he yawns out. “Do what you want.”

It didn’t take that long to convince him, you suppose. With a chuckle, you tucked him closer with a blanket, the latter of which takes it with a simple nudge in your direction. Cheers bloomed in your mind: First step of the mission! You got his approval! Or well, sort of.

The next day, you both went out for a store run.

See, store runs with him were a daily occurrence. Scaramouche was your perfect partner for groceries. In every run, he always kept a list, something with beautiful calligraphy inscribed in his notes on the margins, that told you how much you might need for the week: detergent, water, along with the indulgent snacks you both enjoyed.

With supplies stocked up in the cart and his attention fixed on the list he made, you made a quick detour to the art supply section.

You gripped a tube of neon, glow-in-the-dark body paint, mischievousness no doubt rolled off of you in waves. The thought that you were able to not only admire him but create art on his skin was pleasant.

So, when you finally got back to the cart, you were met with an eyebrow raise and a shake of his head.

“Where did you go?”

“To get these.”

He didn’t seem as invested in the idea as you were, more focused on finishing this shopping trip and finally relaxing at home.

But it didn’t take long before he was.

—

“You are having way too much fun with this, you know?”

In truth, you may have overestimated Scaramouche’s potential for teasing. Once he realizes how much power he has over you, it becomes clear: he was the one to take it and run with it tenfold.

“Of course, I am.” Quick to respond, he leans in more closely, the tickling of his nose against your skin.

The rest of the room was dimmed, and the lack of seeing what he was doing was catching up to you, more aware of what you felt instead. Once the sense of sight is gone, the rest of your senses are heightened dramatically. Every twitch he makes, every laugh that escapes him, you are anticipating his next move and trying to figure out what the hell he is thinking.

And unfortunately, with the quick hitch of his breath sending down shivers through your spine, the rest of your body jolts along with it. He snickers in response, his breath ever so present on your skin.

Fuck.

Then, just when you least expect it. You feel a touch of warmth pressing against your back—

His lips.

You feel how he trails down, chilled fingers pressing against your back while his lips warm up and swallow each laugh that vibrates along your body.

It was no doubt cheeky, and it was agonizingly long.

And you were indulging in every single bit of it.

“Now, stay still.” His lips curled up against your shoulder, letting go with a quick pop.

You huff lightly. “Of course, of course, your Highness.”

You will get him back for this. But for now, you were humming along as he took his fill of all your reactions, lingering and kneading; a canvas in his hands and art marking his affections.

Yeah, you will definitely get him back.

—

i. Taste. | VALENTINE’S DAY CHOCOLATE.

You think you have found your favorite taste.

Unhurriedly, you cradle the heart-shaped packaging to your lips, popping it into your mouth as you let the contents melt away. Chocolate spreads on your tongue, and the bitterness fills your taste buds.

You almost want to gasp at the shock, if it wasn’t for the way Scaramouche’s hand locks with yours, savoring your warmth just as you try to savor the treat. It was new, but it was not unwelcome.

You tug at his hand. It feels soft somehow, well taken care of. His slender fingers easily intertwine around yours, tightening slightly as you move along, almost guiding you closer.

And what was worse? It feels almost needy the way he inches impossibly closer. You feel his arms wrapping around your neck, tracing along your skin as if he were afraid you would let go.

You try to grip your senses, trying to remember what had happened before this.

—

The memory of your best friend sitting beside you, engulfed with bags hanging off his arms, notes littered around, chocolate-covered treats, and small plushies of all species, packed loosely with bows—All were forwarded lovingly to him from his peers.

You remember laughing at him, stealing one of his chocolate bars from the bags, and chewing along the sides.

“Too bad you don’t like sweets, these are really good,” you mumbled.

And you swore his eyes followed the movement. Pausing for a quick fleeting moment before a flash of mischief struck his face.

The last bits of his rant had already dissolved at the tip of his tongue. The absurd amount of confession letters, gifts of flowers at his workplace, and more importantly, the handbags given by classmates on his campus, now situated on your arms, turned from points of irritation to something else entirely.

“Come here.” He leaned in.

You remember him sticking his tongue out, the last of his irritation melting away. Then, as the sheets shriveled, he proceeded to quickly steal the bag of chocolate from your fingers.

“—Hey, wait!”

You recall laughing, you recall him laughing. Echoes of giggles are reflected in the way you chase after him, tugging at his shirt to snatch it rightfully back until you both are a heaping mess on the floor, legs tangled and breaths so close.

You remember having a good look at his appearance. The smudge of his eyeliner—the crimson that is usually lining his eyes now smeared just a bit and a similar red brightening his cheeks as he laughed—something only you were akin to—tugging at his lips.

At that moment, you couldn’t help but think that he was beautiful. Unfathomably so.

And a part of you wondered, dangerously: What would it be like to smudge the red on his lips?

You remember the slow, heavy breaths you took, hands pinned right against his head, and the slow realization that you might want just to kiss your long-time friend. You weren’t meant to be this close. Especially not in an uncompromising position like this.

Peering down at him, your brain dizzying as you met his eyes, staring up at you: the last fit of his laughter dying down as he also came to the same conclusion.

A snort escaped him.

“Hey,” you breathed.

And you couldn’t help but trace the way his lips looked. Red looked good on him; happiness, even if cheeky, looked good on him.

“What are you going to do now?” he whispers. There was a hint of uncertainty mixed with his usual sarcasm.

You remember stalling, weighing down the options to pass it off as a joke, something to keep as a memory as you mourn what could have been.

Or take your chances. The fact that he wasn’t pushing you off spoke more than you could imagine. Maybe, for a brief moment, he was anticipating the same, watching your move just as you have been doing to him.

You breathed out, hoping to give him a way out should you have read him wrong. “Look, if you are uncomfortable, you can just push me off-“

Red was the look that flashed when he looked away, clearly frustrated that you aren’t reading his mind or body language, cutting you off with a swift, “I never said that.”

“So…” You couldn’t help but lean closer, your resolve waning once his eyes captured yours, the same electricity igniting in his gaze, challenging you.

“What does it look like I want?” His gaze was pulling you down with him as his voice dropped to a whisper, vulnerable. Like the obvious choice is right in front of you, and yet, he waits, becoming more and more impatient with your hesitation.

You feel like melting.

The touches started slow, a blend of teasing that you were used to and other charted untouched territory as his hands lifted to meet your cheek, a new gentleness in his grip like a question waiting to be answered.

You nudge, closing the gap, answering tentatively.

The cards were long forgotten, the gifts were the least of your concerns—and yet, words were not enough to describe the feeling of your heart pounding against your chest.

Melting.

He tasted like familiarity: The shared mix of dark chocolate.

Though he claims to hate the sensation of sticky treats, the overt sweetness was too much on his gums; each time you pulled away, he chased after your lips once again. Like a rush forced upon him, now an addict chasing his fix. And he glares when you halt his pursuit, tugging him back to finally look at his appearance.

Bitterness was the taste he was familiar with.

But with the way his hair ruffled a mess, lips swollen, shirt disheveled, and eyes practically dripping with intensity, you couldn’t help but think that it left a sweet aftertaste after all. Nothing overbearing but enough to be memorable.

“…You taste like chocolate.” He breathed out.

Your chest swelled. He doesn’t seem to mind the flavor. Your finger nudged another chocolate against his lips, slowly returning to the warm press of his kiss as if starved once again. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Scaramouche.”

You found your favorite taste, and you would be a fool not to savor it.

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