Archive of Our Own

Scaramouche dreams about leaving Inazuma.

He dreams about traversing lands, forests, mountains, oceans, and even deserts he’s never seen in his entire life. He was always alone when he dreamt of these journeys without a destination. Numbingly pushing forth, limbs moving mechanically, navigating foreign grounds with as much guide as the moon and the stars of the night sky offer.

A lonesome journey. Scaramouche, despite how often these dreams visit him in his slumber, has no inkling where these travels end.

Maybe, it doesn’t end. The dreams will never cease, Scaramouche will never stop journeying, and he will never find what exactly he’s searching for. A rather depressing conclusion, however, as another summer rolls in this listless town he lives in, he might as well be trapped in the same cycle. The only difference is he doesn’t have the hope that he’ll reach his destination eventually.

He’s stuck wondering, stagnant and unmoving. Living a dull life, repeating a bland cycle of getting by.

Scaramouche’s hometown is boring. The people around him, more so.

He wants to leave. Longs to see the sights in his dreams, the vivid images of fields and vast seas almost make him believe he’s truly witnessed such a scene. The only thing that holds him on the ground of reality is that not once, in his eighteen years of living, had he left this sleeping town. An ache starts within the cavity of his chest, ripples across his body, and his yearn to leave the town – Inazuma grows stronger.

It screams louder on nights when the sea and the winds are quiet. It harshly prods the back of his head when he arrives to an empty house, a single note on the table explaining the absence of warmth and life. It cloaks him like a shadow when he watches others – people with friends, families together, all the same faces and yet he’s still alone by himself.

Boring. Scaramouche thinks. Each one of them is boring.

Nothing about the town was remarkable, everyone lives a happy mundane life of nothing. Nobody wants to leave, nobody wants for more unlike him. Always the same faces, the same stories, the same stupid routine of waking up and staring at nothing new.

Scaramouche wants to leave.

But if he does, where will he go?

Even though life has been dull for the most part living in a small town, Scaramouche seeks comfort at the shores of the town’s only beach. If he escapes, it meant leaving this personal sanctuary of his. He can’t simply return, nor find another place that will give him the same comfort – solace that this beach gives him.

Scaramouche isn’t certain he’s ready to leave the place that’s been his only haven.

He kicks the rock on the road, watches it roll towards where concrete disappears underneath sand. Crisp air pricks on his skin and he breathes in a lungful, relaxing as he smells the salty scent of the sea. Residents rarely visit the beach. He supposes it’s because they’ve gotten used to it, thinks not much of it in the same way he views the town itself.

The coast runs long around the island, sometimes Scaramouche walks the entirety of it, feet submerged in ankle-deep water. Sometimes, he stays watching the sunset on top of a large stone.

Which was his plan today. Well, it’s what he has been doing since the beginning of summer.

But as he reaches the place of the coast where the water is at his knees and the sand is replaced by rocks on the seabed, someone sits atop the large stone that’s unofficially his spot. Scaramouche quickly engages on the idea of rudely driving the person away to ascertain the other will leave altogether.

Though the person notices his presence before he could speak and Scaramouche finds himself staring at pools of water, words dying on his tongue as he’s sucked into the depths of the stranger’s eyes.

“Oh? It’s you.” The stranger says, perking up like an excited puppy.

Scaramouche blinks. “Me?”

The stranger nods. Scaramouche’s face rumples in annoyed confusion. This is the first time he met the stranger – a boy with ginger hair, dressed in clothing too gaudy to be someone from the town. He doesn’t even think the boy is Inazuman. He looks foreign, different. What is a foreigner doing out here of all places?

Pursing his lips into a thin line, Scaramouche discards his curiosity. The stranger’s business isn’t a matter concerning him, and it definitely isn’t something he should poke his nose into.

No matter how strangely interesting this encounter is.

“You’re on my spot.” He says, instead. Tone flat and unfriendly, a clear message for the boy that he wants him to leave.

“I figured out much.” The boy doesn’t move an inch. Scaramouche keeps his fists on his sides. “Can you share it with me?”

His immediate response should be no, I don’t want to share. Leave. Though, it gets swallowed down his throat at the intensity of the boy’s expectation. Scaramouche breaks away from the boy’s expecting gaze, away from those blue eyes that remind him too much of the sea he loves to watch. He pushes aside the probing urge to ask why he wants to share the spot with him as if he knows Scaramouche watches the sunset here.

As if he knows Scaramouche himself.

Change of plans. He’s walking along the coast today, and far away from the weird stranger. He feels as though the stranger has crossed boundaries he never intended others to cross. As though the boy uncovered a part of him – one of the more fragile and exposed sides of his person. And it terrifies him.

“Hey! Where are you going? You’re leaving?”

Scaramouche hears the boy call out but doesn’t look back.

He spends the remaining hours of the day wandering along the coastline, absently watching waves crash at his feet. And as much as tries not to think of the strange boy he met, his mind still goes back to him and his striking blue eyes. Scaramouche convinces himself that it’s because he’s never seen an unfamiliar face in the eighteen years he’s lived in this place. Everyone knows everyone and Scaramouche is, at least, acquainted with the other residents despite not really knowing them.

It surely isn’t because the boy was intriguing himself.

He looks across the sea as the sun begins to set over the horizon, waters reflecting orange and yellow hues. Something about it was enchanting, time slows down and there isn’t a sense of urgency as it sinks down into the earth. There is no rush when it ends, only the afterglow of twilight painting the sky a canvas of saturated colors.

This is a sight he will never get tired of watching.

In isolated moments like this, Scaramouche forgets about the dullness of life.

Scaramouche isn’t shocked when he comes across the stranger again sitting on the same spot as yesterday. The traitorous part of him whispers that he wouldn’t have returned if he didn’t hope to see the boy again. Scaramouche pretends not to hear it. Because it was kind of obvious that he’d find him here, on the same spot again at the same time.

Because the boy seemed he really wanted to watch the sunset here, as strange as that seems to be because there are places with better scenes and less of a hassle to reach. The spot with many rock formations just happened to be Scaramouche’s favorite.

The reason is nobody ever came there. The rocks were dangerous for kids, slipping on stone was something they feared as well, and it was too far from the houses. All of those are to his favor as he wanted to be separated from the town’s dreariness.

The stranger isn’t nobody from the town, he realizes.

“What are you doing here?”

The boy cants his head slightly, lips pulling into a tight-lipped smile. “I was waiting for you.”

On alert, Scaramouche sizes him up. Scrutinizing the gingerhead openly, not bothering to hide his suspicion at the boy who sits there waiting patiently.

“Why?” He settles on safely. Everything about the situation was weird but Scaramouche can’t differentiate whether the strangeness is a red flag or something else because of his lack of human interaction for the past years. Might as well add interaction with a person his age on that note.

“Because you like watching the sunset here.”

Scaramouche manages to hide his surprise, keeping his reactions under wraps because even though he’s weirdly drawn towards the boy he’s not one to put blind trust. His throat itches to ask how do you know, but he decides that it’s better left unasked for his peace of mind. Besides, that was a fact about him. It doesn’t say anything about the boy and his strange motivations.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

The boy appears taken aback, flushing in red slightly. Scaramouche notes of the tiny spots littered across the bridge of his nose and his cheeks. A bashful look then crosses his features and Scaramouche feels the need to grasp on something to keep his body upright, at least in a figurative sense.

“I want to watch with you.” He answers sporting apple-colored cheeks, a touch shy.

Scaramouche’s heart lurches forward without as much as a warning, and his stomach folds in itself in response. Why? It threatens to break his teeth but Scaramouche keeps his mouth shut, molars grinding almost painfully at the pressure he’s exerting. It’s hard to suppress his inherent curious nature, it yells and roars at the back of his head like a fiend. What’s stopping you? Why are you holding back?

He’s not sure either. A part of him just knows there’s no escaping this. Once he’s involved – once he’s tangled into the business of this strangely enthralling boy, he’s at a point of no return and despite his strong desire for something new he’s still a coward that doesn’t go beyond.

There’s a stark difference between longing for something and actually having it in the palm of your hands. Here is a boy, strange as he may be, possibly the very thing Scaramouche has been yearning for years.

Someone new, someone to change the stale and tedious cycle of life in a small boring town.

When an opportunity falls upon your lap, it’s only natural to quickly grab it, right?

“We’re strangers. We don’t know each other.”

If Scaramouche was anything, he is a boy encompassed of wasted chances and shallow melancholy. Besides, the boy could as well be someone he’ll never see again after this day. That’s another possibility he can’t deny, and Scaramouche has long shed the hopes of an optimist. He’s not about to set himself up only to be let down. Life has done its fair share of disappointment.

The strange boy, however, is different from him.

“I’ll tell you my name and you tell me yours. Problem fixed!” He explains with his hands coming together at the end.

Scaramouche levels the boy a flat look that barely deters the eager determination reflecting in his blue eyes. He deliberates over his options: ignore him and leave or bite and stay. None of the two particularly weighs heavier than the other. On one hand, he doesn’t have to trouble himself conversing with a stranger – small talk has always been a pain even with the other people in the town.

On the other hand, it’s been so long since he had company while watching the sunset.

There really isn’t much to think over. Do I want to be alone? The question floats within his headspace, and it echoes loudly as time trickles in grains of sand in an hourglass. The boy with hair that resembles the fiery color of a sunset stares at him, hopeful, eager. Scaramouche has no idea why he’s so eager.

He lets the question repeat a few more times before wordlessly climbing up the boulder, settling on the edge opposite of the other boy. His blue eyes twinkle dangerously. Scaramouche thinks about drowning, about how he never learned how to swim. He hugs his knees up to his chest, obscures his view of the boy who looks too much like summer itself, and gazes over the glittering waters.

It's only for today. Scaramouche assures himself, one day won’t hurt.

“What’s your name.” He grumbles into his arms, partly hoping the boy doesn’t hear him.

“Tartaglia.” The boy – Tartaglia sounds a little too out of breath. “And yours?”

Anticipation is tangible in the air. It hangs over his head. He doesn’t need to glance to see the boy is watching him, waiting for his name. Scaramouche isn’t sure how it’s possible but Tartaglia’s presence feels too strong, occupies more space than one person should. He cushions his face deeper into his arms, as if the action would hide him entirely from the other.

As if it would stop him from being too aware of the boy’s presence.

“Scaramouche.”

Waves slapping against stone, palm trees swaying along the gales, and distant shrills of seagulls fill the bouts of silence between him and Tartaglia. Scaramouche finds himself easing in the familiarity. He still feels Tartaglia’s presence all around him but it’s not as suffocating.

It’s more of a blanketed feeling, like a coat draped over his shoulders. A solid reminder that he’s not alone without overwhelming him.

Maybe, the choice to stay offered more than the other.

Curiosity. Interest. Boredom. Scaramouche had come up with every excuse as to why he keeps meeting up with the ginger-haired boy at the beach. No one but himself accuses him, no one but himself questions why do you come back, because Scaramouche quite enjoys self-torment especially when it comes to matters perilously close to his heart.

The answer is always, I have nothing better to do. And it’s not a lie but it’s not the truth either.

Their meetings were harmless. Tartaglia weaved himself into one of Scaramouche’s day to day routines, and the addition barely changed how his afternoons went. He goes to the beach before sunset, watches it with Tartaglia, and leaves when the skies slowly darken.

It’s almost the same as he did before. Tartaglia doesn’t really talk a lot when they’re together, surprising him at first since he seemed like the type of person who can’t keep his mouth shut. Their conversations don’t last beyond Tartaglia greeting him excitedly, asking how was his day. Scaramouche’s replies were the same every day.

Boring. He doesn’t say anything more because what’s there to talk about an idle town where people lived simply because they are alive.

Tartaglia never pries for more. Well, the sunset isn’t boring! And he appreciates that. Scaramouche appreciates the silence and the company. Days go by, he wakes up a little bit more excited – impatiently waiting for the hours to pass until his designated time for sunset watching. Though it’s only for a short while, a moment so fleeting it could be stolen easily, Scaramouche still looks forward to it.

He doesn’t dare think about the possibility of prolonging the time he spends with Tartaglia. Being with him was a surreal experience that would break at the slightest touch. Friendly but not friends, strangers who are familiar with each other. Between them exists a distance that can be crossed. He could be the first to step over the line that keeps them apart.

But he was never been much of a risk taker, he liked the comforts of security and maintaining his feet steady on the ground. Even if it’s hard for him to be honest about it, Scaramouche is afraid of falling as much as he fears drowning.

It never helps that Tartaglia is what summer would look like if it was a person, brilliant and breathtaking. It never helps that his eyes are two oceans beckoning him to come closer, scale its waters and sink himself in its depths. Scaramouche wonders about the difference between having water-soaked lungs instead of air-filled ones. He wonders, if he breathes in Tartaglia’s space, is it like inhaling the sea?

Will his lungs inflate, will his chest overflow; will it be too much that he’d come up for air?

Or, maybe, he should fear more the concept of willingly drowning himself. Because nothing is scarier than overcoming a fear rooted in the unknown because of want – desperation strong enough to silence even the loudest screams inside his head.

It starts with Tartaglia asking. “Wanna do something fun?”

Scaramouche stops from drawing circles on the stone’s surface, glances at Tartaglia inquisitively. “Fun?”

“Yeah.” Tartaglia nods excitedly, auburn curls bouncing along the motion. Scaramouche gets a little carried away watching them curl around his pretty face, too pretty for his own good. “Meet me tomorrow.”

There’s notable confidence and certainty in the way he spoke. He’s probably aware that Scaramouche wouldn’t refuse even if he can. It’s becoming prominent to him that his want to stay longer in Tartaglia’s presence is stronger than his irrational fear of the unknown. He’d dive in headfirst without thinking of the consequences when it comes to the ginger-haired boy.

It’s dangerous. Scaramouche knows. There’s no telling if he’s going to come out of this unscathed or with a battered heart that will ache forever but Tartaglia somehow instills some kind of bravery in him. Maybe it has always resided within the caves of his soul, lying dormant until awakened with the right catalyst.

Tartaglia doesn’t expound details about what he pertains as fun – merely states a time and location for them to meet. It was a challenge, a gamble for Scaramouche. Tartaglia sparks an impossibly childish competitiveness in him with just one look, and he sinks his teeth in like a hungry canine. He’s never been this excited over something for so long.

Scaramouche shows up and Tartaglia is already there. He does a good job pretending the sight of the gingerhead doesn’t cause an uproar, doesn’t cause his heart to flip over itself. He’s faintly intimidated by Tartaglia’s mere appearance, how he stands tall and carries himself with poise and Scaramouche is vaguely reminded of the type of people whose line of work falls on the category of looking good.

He realizes it’s far worse once they’re in front of each other. Tartaglia is wearing an open buttoned light blue cotton shirt, a loose white tank top underneath. A silver dog tag dangles over his sternum, and Scaramouche lingers on the dip of his visible collarbones.

“My eyes are up here, darling. Like what you see?” Tartaglia tips his chin upward with a finger and smirks devilishly.

Fuck. Scaramouche curses himself for getting caught. He doesn’t deign Tartaglia a response to save what remains of his dignity and jerks away. Get a fucking grip. Scaramouche feels inadequate standing next to Tartaglia. He’s terribly underdressed and he’s starting to think that this might be a mistake.

“This was a bad idea.” He voices out and the leering expression drops from Tartaglia’s face.

“Hey, come on. You’re looking pretty cute yourself under that straw hat.”

Tartaglia delicately wraps his fingers around Scaramouche’s wrist, tugging him along gently. Tartaglia lets go when he falls into step with him and he tries not to dwell at the haunting sensation and loss of contact.

Apparently, Tartaglia’s concept of fun is roaming the whole town, looking for a place that sells iced popsicles under the sweltering summer heat. They eventually find a store but it’s at the outskirts of town which Scaramouche has never bothered going to. It was far from his house, and even farther from the coast.

“I don’t understand how you think this is fun.”

Tartaglia hands over a blue popsicle that Scaramouche accepts gratefully. They’ve been walking around for an hour or so, it’s unbearably hot and he’s not one to turn away from free food.

“I’m having fun. See, it depends on how you look at it,” Tartaglia grins at him. “Imagine what we’re doing is like a mini adventure. Wandering around with someone else is also a lot more fun than being alone.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Well, then. Just trust me! I’ve travelled to lots of places.”

That piques his interest. He considers asking which places has he gone to, had he met people and spent time with them the same way he’s with Scaramouche now. He stomps on the thought as soon as it came to existence, thoughts like this weren’t supposed to last. It wasn’t something that should even cross his mind. Who cares? Tartaglia’s a walking mystery, and perhaps, it’s better that he stays as one lest he wants pieces of his heart scattered in the sand.

Tartaglia ends up buying more popsicles for them to share, proposes that they search for more stores in the town. “There’s nothing you’ll find interesting here.” Scaramouche warns him, their mini adventure is surely going to be a fruitless endeavor.

“Really? I don’t think that’s true. You’re more than interesting and you live here.”

Scaramouche feels hands on each side of his face. He would’ve melted at the gesture hadn’t he noticed the stickiness of Tartaglia’s fingers and how gross it feels on his sweaty skin. He shoves him away, expletives falling from his lips while the offender erupts in unapologetic laughter. Bastard. Scaramouche quickly jumps on the chance for revenge, tipping his popsicle so it’ll drip on the boy’s shirt and leave a stain.

“Watch it!” Tartaglia hisses, though he doesn’t seem really bothered by Scaramouche’s blatant stunt. “This shirt is expensive.”

“I know.” He answers loftily.

Tartaglia wants to be a menace? Well, Scaramouche can play along his game.

“Oh, you do?” Tartaglia arcs an eyebrow.

“You reek city boy air.”

“Do I now?” At this point, Tartaglia’s just pissing him off.

“Do you speak in questions?” Scaramouche retorts unable to suppress his anger. He never thought himself to have a short fuse but there’s something about Tartaglia that sets him off so easily. It has him doubting his patience and reflecting his temper.

“You’re just fun to tease.” Tartaglia relents, smile mellowing and softening at the corners.

Scaramouche looks away, flustered at the amount of adoration that could be measured in Tartaglia’s gaze. No one’s ever looked at him that way. He doesn’t really remember the last time someone has actually looked at him. Tartaglia grins triumphantly at his silence and reaches out to hold his hand. Both of their hands are sticky but Scaramouche doesn’t feel the urge to pull away.

He allows Tartaglia to intertwine their fingers and drag him towards the shop that caught his eye. It takes him awhile to find his voice because it felt like his heart moved to his throat.

The day transitions into evening as they hop from store to store, some even recognizing Scaramouche and goading who’s this handsome fella with you. It’s an understatement to say the ordeal was embarrassing, he wanted to die on the spot. Tartaglia seemed like he was having the time of his life seeing Scaramouche squirm uncomfortably when someone recounted a story from his childhood to Tartaglia.

This was what he hated about living in a small town.

“Wow. They all look really pretty.”

The merchant starts talking about how all items are authentic – he handpicked each one and fetched others from the sea himself. Scaramouche is convinced the merchant doesn’t know what he’s selling because half of the things on display are hardly worth mora. He doubts those pearls are real. Scaramouche narrows his eyes suspiciously, something about a jewelry seller in a rural town doesn’t sit right with him.

Tartaglia, on the contrary, looks enthused. He’s eyeing the purple stone. How gullible.

Scaramouche was about to tug Tartaglia away from the sketchy merchant but he says something that causes his mind to stop functioning altogether.

“It’s the color of your eyes.”

“It’s not.” He denies. The merchant watches them in faint interest, eyes briefly flicking down at their connected hands. “It’s getting late. I’m going home.”

Fortunately, that manages to grab Tartaglia’s attention from the merchant’s stones. Tartaglia begins walking, still holding on Scaramouche’s hand so he’s forced to keep up with his steps.

“I’ll walk you.”

Scaramouche’s brows knit together. “You don’t have to walk me to my house.”

“I don’t mind. I was the one who asked you out on a date anyway.” Tartaglia shrugs.

“A date?”

“Oh?” Tartaglia tilts his head to the side, the splitting-image of a puppy and it’s so infuriating. “Wasn’t it a date?”

Scaramouche has no fucking idea. He never went on one to know what qualifies as a date, to know what people do on dates. Merciful Baal, he doesn’t even have friends anymore to hang out with. Tartaglia looks at him smirking, he’s obviously teasing but the fire within him that’s usually so loud and angry is doused to nothing but a damp ember barely holding onto life.

Too stunned to come up with a quip, Scaramouche meekly says. “I don’t know.”

Tartaglia’s expression morphs ever so subtly, something shifts in his gaze and the playful waters of his blue eyes grow calm – gentle waves that lull quietly. Scaramouche would’ve missed the change if he blinked, or if he didn’t latch on everything about Tartaglia.

“That so.” His voice drops to a whisper, soft around the edges before resuming a quarter of his initial teasing. “Something to keep your pretty little head up at night. It’s a ploy so you won’t be forgetting me anytime soon.”

With how events are unfolding when he’s with Tartaglia, Scaramouche doubts forgetting him is a possible concept. He’s inclined to believe that once Tartaglia has set his mark on him, there’s no means of taking it off. And it sounds dangerous to Scaramouche, for a boy he spent only a day with to leave such an impression – to make such a big impact.

He’s not only playing with fire but he’s also risking how far he can reach until he drowns.

“Unfortunately, you’re not someone easy to forget, Tartaglia.”

And, he swears, Tartaglia’s eyes shouldn’t be gleaming because they’re under the shitty lighting of streetlamps. But he sees it. He sees the way his eyes turn a bright shade of blue and Scaramouche knows he’s gone.

On the third day Tartaglia knocks at his door, rearing to go to the sea or literally anywhere else to have fun, Scaramouche drops a question he only realizes the fatality once it’s said.

“What are you even doing here?”

Tartaglia visibly bristles for a split second, shoulders tensing not long enough until he’s facing Scaramouche with a flirty grin. “Because I want to hang out with you.”

And it shouldn’t work, really, it shouldn’t but Scaramouche’s face heats up in spite of the annoyance bubbling in his chest.

“No, idiot. I meant what are you doing here,” Scaramouche gestures awkwardly, arms spread open towards the area to get his point across Tartaglia’s unsurprisingly thick head. “Out of fuck knows where. This town isn’t the popular tourist place you think it is.”

Amusement decorates Tartaglia’s dainty features. Scaramouche frowns because whatever kind of face Tartaglia makes it’s maddeningly handsome.

“Does it matter?” Tartaglia asks nonchalantly. “Can’t I just be some Snezhnayan boy you met and spend time with?”

It does. Scaramouche tightly grips the reigns of his conscious actions, stifling the urge that asks for more, the basal want to grab ahold of any small bit – everything about the boy who’s the personified version of summer. It does because I want to know you. The want to know more festers deep within Scaramouche, brews hotly in the pit of his stomach and it rises and he’s afraid a point will come where it’s going to spill uncontrollably out of him.

But as long as Scaramouche still has control over himself, as long as his heart isn’t bleeding out yet, he’ll keep it safe until he can’t anymore.

Scoffing but lacking spirit, he raises a mocking eyebrow. “Are you trying to be more attractive by acting mysterious?”

“Oh? You think I’m attractive?”

Tartaglia, as he discovered unfortunately, is foremost an annoying piece of dirt. He picks up on one thing and ignores the whole implication of Scaramouche’s question only to get on his nerves. What’s more aggravating is that he can’t deny it.

Scaramouche blushes furiously, face hot and red. “That’s not—whatever.”

He twists his torso, facing away from Tartaglia. He hears him chuckling, low and amused, and archons help him. It shouldn’t sound so attractive. Tartaglia is so infuriatingly attractive, and it’s so unfair that he easily falls for every quirk and laugh. It’s unfair that he really doesn’t fight against the charm Tartaglia casts on him, willingly caught spellbound and hypnotized.

Scaramouche knows he’s better than this. Really, he can’t be easy. He can’t let himself be quickly charmed by a boy he met days ago, a boy he barely knows anything about. As he’s occupied with his own internal conflict, Tartaglia seizes the chance to gingerly hold his chin and return his gaze towards him. His touch doesn’t stay for long and Scaramouche’s skin burns, phantom marks of heat lingering that scorches a deep ache into his core.

Oh, for Celestia’s sake, he’s so fucking weak.

“Wouldn’t it be more interesting this way?” Tartaglia asks, ocean eyes shining with playful mischief and a borderline danger in its waters. “We’ll know everything about each other but what’s important now.”

The unspoken weight of reality is now laid out in the open for Scaramouche to acknowledge. Tartaglia can’t promise him anything more than this momentary experience, temporary, fleeting. It would slip between his fingers if he’s careless.

“We both know I’m not here to stay. Each day we spend together could be the last. So, won’t it be better to push aside matters that’ll cause us trouble and just enjoy our time together?”

Scaramouche knows too well that time isn’t a luxury they have. He always had the hunch that at the end Tartaglia can only offer him memories to hold on. There’s a price to pay if he chooses to continue wagering his heart just to feel thrill and exhilaration that he has attributed with the tall boy.

Scaramouche has gambled once. Twice. Thrice.

It had become an addiction. No matter how much time they spend together it’s never going to be enough. So, why would he waste time agonizing over a future that is yet to happen?

Scaramouche shakes his head, sighing. “You sound like a heartbreaker.”

Tartaglia simply smiles at the accusation, no confirmation nor denial. Oh, poor little Scaramouche’s heart, you’re in for it now. The atmosphere’s suddenly thick with tension that comes with recognizing the reality of their situation. Scaramouche feels quite foolish to have brought it up but it’s easier to accept now, resignation feels more of a comfort than a villain.

After the lapse of silence, Tartaglia speaks up.

“Wanna swim?”

Scaramouche’s response is automatic. “I don’t know how to swim.”

And he thinks Tartaglia will give it up at that but, of course, in Tartaglia fashion he makes it a big deal.

“Wait, let me get this straight. You spend most of your time by the sea watching the sunset but you never learned how to swim?”

“Because I didn’t need to.”

“But you live next to the sea!” Tartaglia argues, finding the notion incredibly absurd. “You’re like going against the natural laws of the world.”

“I am not—”

“I’ll teach you.”

“No thanks.”

Tartaglia stubbornly insists. “It’ll be fun! Plus, you’ll master swimming fast because I’m the best teacher you’ll ever have.”

Scaramouche rolls his eyes. “You’re the only teacher I’ll have.”

“All I’m hearing is that you’ll let me teach you, right?”

That’s how he finds himself in the sea where the water has risen up to his waist. Tartaglia is explaining to him for the third time what he has to remember when he’s swimming: breathe, always remember to come up for air. Your hands will scoop water to propel you forward. Keep your legs straight and feet pointed. Scaramouche doesn’t remember most of it but he’s learning somehow.

Tartaglia is a decent teacher. He’s actually trying, and Scaramouche thinks the stuff he tells him are useful. The problem is that he’s awfully distracting. Before dipping in the waters, Tartaglia had tossed his shirt off. In hindsight, Scaramouche should have evaluated the prospect of being taught how to swim with thorough deliberation.

It’s one thing to be granted a front seat view of Tartaglia’s bare torso, it’s another thing to have him stand so close as he corrects the posture of his arm for the nth time. Now, he’s engaging in an activity that obstructs his breathing while attempting and failing not to get too distracted by Tartaglia who’s too near for his state of mind. He should not stare at Tartaglia’s wet chest.

He was becoming a little light-headed and he’s unsure if it’s because he’s struggling how to time his breathing or it’s all Tartaglia’s doing.

“You’re a quick learner.”

“Really?” Scaramouche doesn’t believe him.  

“It took me long before I could even get the hang of floating.” Tartaglia sheepishly confesses.

How he manages to appear so oddly endearing is beyond Scaramouche. All he comprehends is the seeping warmth filling the cavity of his chest, filtering into the stream in his veins. Okay, maybe, this isn’t that bad after all.

Scaramouche huffs haughtily. “Of course, I’m leagues way better than you.”

“Oh, yeah? How about a race then, hotshot?”

He waves his hand in the air dismissively. All bravado and pretense.

“No need. I know I’ll win.”

Scaramouche won’t admit that he’s still a little afraid of going to deeper waters.

Tartaglia chuckles, clearly seeing through his front. “Come on, you have to try swimming where the water is deep in order to truly learn.”

“I’m good. I learned enough.”

“I’ll be watching over you. Don’t worry.” When he doesn’t answer, Tartaglia gathers his hands to enclose them in his and gazes down at him in absolute earnest. “Trust me.”

Scaramouche’s heart staggers clumsily, stomach in a wild frenzy. Tartaglia continues to stare at him, almost painfully sincere if the seizing within his ribcage is an indication. And he’s against all notions of blind faith but Tartaglia – Scaramouche can’t pin down what is it precisely about him that has Scaramouche easily trusting his words when that’s all he ever gave him to believe in.

Maybe it’s the tender honesty his eyes held. Or the delicate touch of his otherwise calloused hands.

“Fine. I trust you.”

Or it’s because of this certain belief beyond human intuition – one that transcends even lifetimes. Maybe, this isn’t the first time their souls have met. They’re fitting into molds without even knowing themselves, a bond that exists so long as these souls are in the same plane of existence.

Before Scaramouche gets lost in his own myriad of thoughts, Tartaglia brings a hand to his cheek. And, archons, it should’ve been a crime to humanity not to keep his hand there. A crime to his heart, perhaps.

“Come on,” Tartaglia gently tugs their still joined hands, smiling softly.

Tartaglia guides him into the water until it reaches his shoulders. Scaramouche’s guts are twisting into knots now that the elated feeling from earlier has faded and made room for his fear to reappear. Scaramouche is still afraid, but the buzz of anxiety is muted by Tartaglia’s presence beside him. He’s standing at the side that stretches farther into the sea, guarding and ensuring that Scaramouche won’t swim in that direction.

He spares the taller boy a mildly frantic glance. I don’t think I can do this.

I’m here. Tartaglia mouths and it helps quell a portion of his fear.

Scaramouche inhales a lungful of air then dives into the water. From that point, his body is functioning on autopilot, relying on muscle memory and instinct alone. He doesn’t count the seconds while his head is underwater, he raises his head when his lungs burn, gulping for air. Despite this, Scaramouche keeps swimming.

He couldn’t tell how far he’s gone nor how long he’s been swimming. And when the burning in his chest becomes too much to bear, and he’s gulped more water than air, Scaramouche realigns his body and limbs to stand. Panic quickly settles in his system when there’s nothing but water beneath his feet. He tries to remember how to keep himself afloat, limbs kicking and arms flailing in the water. I’m going to drown. He thinks deliriously.

He’s trying but it’s futile.

Scaramouche feels gravity pulling him down until he doesn’t.

“I got you.” Tartaglia wraps an arm around his middle, preventing him from sinking further.

It’s strange how the water works. Just a moment ago, Scaramouche felt as though he’s too heavy not to sink. Now, he’s almost weightless. With his arms curled around Tartaglia’s neck, with the latter keeping a secure hold around him as he brings them towards the shore. He clings onto Tartaglia a little closer, willing his heart to calm down. You’re safe. I’m safe.

“How was I?”

“You did pretty great.” Tartaglia sounds proud of him. Scaramouche wants to see what kind of look he’s making but if he does then his heart won’t ever recline from its staggering pace.

Once his feet finally reaches the floor, Tartaglia releases him from his hold. Scaramouche tries not to dwell on how he liked being in Tartaglia’s arms, how it felt like he belonged right there.

They sit by the shore. Watching the tides of the sea ebb and flow, watching the sun’s slow descent.

“I was wondering…” Tartaglia trails off. Scaramouche rolls his eyes and nudges him with his shoulder, encouraging him to continue.

“Don’t you have friends that could have taught you to swim?”

“They left.” He answers. The words feel like lead on his tongue. “I never bothered to learn it before. I was fine watching them play in the water.”

A familiar pang resurfaces in his chest. An old wound that’s badly stitched so it aches once in a while, reminding him that there are things he can’t completely bury in the past. Of course, Scaramouche had friends. He just didn’t bother making new ones. What was the point, anyway? Everyone who’s grown tired of the dreary life in this town had taken their leave, including his friends.

Scaramouche is the only one left.

He could have joined them. Departing from his hometown is tempting as ever but his friends had talked about parting ways with each other along the way and he’s not too sure where he’d go once they do.

“Why don’t you leave the town too?” Tartaglia asks, genuinely curious.

“I don’t really have a reason to leave. Sure, it’s boring here but I don’t know.” I don’t know what I’m searching for. He admits softly, “It’s better to stay than to wander aimlessly.”

Scaramouche could go and see the sights from his dreams. Witness them with his own eyes, not some fantastical vision his imaginative brain conjured. He could see for himself if such places exist. But once he does, once he has set his eyes on all the scenes he could witness, what’s left for him to do? He’d dream of travelling but it’s not a thing he’d do forever.

Really, what he wants is to find a place that he belongs to, where his heart implores him, you’re home.

The sun is setting. Tartaglia’s eyes are flaring radiantly, golden specks in his blue irises. The sun is setting and Scaramouche is watching Tartaglia bathed in the golden light of the sunset, skin glowing like fabled ambers from Liyue’s folktales of their adepti. Divine. Celestial.

“So, you just need a destination?” Tartaglia asks, the quality of his voice alluding to something more, something heavier underlying the posed innocent question.

“That’s one way to put it.”

“You looked like those snotty asshole sons of rich people.”

Tartaglia howls out a laugh, a full sound coming from his chest. Scaramouche is tempted to watch him. He stares as laughter continues to tumble out of Tartaglia’s mouth, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. Scaramouche feels his own mouth curl upward. The hilarity of his statement that he fails to understand is dominated by how contagious Tartaglia’s happiness was.

Tartaglia has to be one of the weirdest people he’s ever met but it’s not something bad.

Everything in his hometown is horribly normal, someone different who breaks the monotony is more than fascinating. Maybe, a miracle.

“Snotty and rich, I digress.” Tartaglia says once he’s calmed down a bit. “Asshole, however, I’d let you decide on that one.”

Scaramouche’s eyebrow arches, features painted with amusement. At least, the bastard is self-aware.

“How about your first impression of me?”

The gales from the sea become winds that blow softly over their heads. Tartaglia grows silent, serious for a moment, and Scaramouche’s heart lodges in his throat with heightened anticipation. For what, he’s not exactly sure. That’s the thing with Tartaglia, why it’s exciting to be around him even if they have only known each other for a number of days.

“You were beautiful.” Tartaglia’s gaze doesn’t leave him. “I saw you watch the sunset. You looked beautiful dipped in gold. You’re still beautiful now, my first impression never changed.”

His words were nothing short of a confession. Enunciated with striking reverence, like it’s a prayer to the gods. Scaramouche holds his breath. Grasps on the single thread of sanity that he has left. The admission was raw, emotions in syllable distinct and real. He comes to learn that honesty – vulnerable and unmasked is as sharp and lethal as an unsheathed blade. It cuts, scars, a wounded bleeding heart in its wake.

This brutal honesty won’t be good for them. When their meetings are built on borrowed time, moments stolen in every parting.

Scaramouche knew from the start that he’d be treading dangerous waters.

“Can I kiss you?” Tartaglia’s azure eyes are hooded with desire, igniting a similar flame in the pit of his gut.

How silly. Downright foolish if Scaramouche should be blunt. Once upon a time, he wondered what it feels to press lips on another pair of lips. He wondered what it’s like to kiss another boy as he watched his friend’s mouth curve and slant.

But he never found out. Too much of a coward, too much of a dreamer.

Tartaglia is leaning into him, invading his space, and suddenly the world is just him and the boy he wants to kiss. There’s a hair’s breadth of distance remaining until their lips could collide, warm breath fans against his skin, hot. Of all lines and boundaries Tartaglia crossed without mind, this is where he hesitates. An ache originates deep in his core, rippling in waves across his chest, and it sets his entire body ablaze.

Tartaglia, for all his assertion and haste, wants Scaramouche to choose. Wants to know if Scaramouche wants this as much as he does. And, god, Scaramouche wants it desperately enough. He wastes no more time, no more chances. Pays no attention to his thoughts and falls into Tartaglia’s orbit, revolves around him and him only.

Scaramouche kisses Tartaglia and it’s like the beginning and the end. It’s the first time Scaramouche’s lips has ever touched his but it feels like coming home. Kissing him feels like something he had done before, had done countless of times that it comes so naturally – that it’s only meant to be.

And, maybe, Scaramouche thinks for a heated moment – head drowning in euphoria.

Maybe, we’re meant to be.

Scaramouche discovers that he really likes Tartaglia’s freckles, in the way a prophet would experience an epiphany and a scientist with a breakthrough. A spiritual awakening, and it’s not farfetched to think of it in that sense, because he’s a devotee and Tartaglia is god.

“So clingy.” Scaramouche hears a half-hearted complain.

He pulls away from worshipping each star on Tartaglia’s skin, tracing constellations with his mouth, and professing litanies before pouring all of his devotion.

“Shut up.”

Tartaglia’s arms are wrapped around his waist. Scaramouche is on his lap. They’re in his room, on his bed. Orange light filters through the curtains of the window and it washes his room in a warm palette. As warm as the heat pooling inside him, as beautiful as Tartaglia soaked in summer’s colors.

Tartaglia looks up at him, eyes swirling with fondness. Scaramouche can delude himself that’s what love looks like – that’s how he looks at him too.

“Only if you kiss me.”

He does.

One night, Tartaglia knocks on his door past midnight. Scaramouche is disgruntled, unhappy to be awoken from his sleep but Tartaglia’s insistent on going out. He presses on when Scaramouche tells him they can go out later when it’s morning and the sun is up. Some people sleep and aren’t nocturnals like you. It’s only until Tartaglia grasps his hands does he notice the desperation in his eyes.

“Come with me.” Tartaglia pleads one more time.

And who was Scaramouche to deny the boy that has his heart right between his palms?

“This better be worth my time.” A tired sigh escapes him and he gives in so easily as always. Time spent with Tartaglia is always worth it.

He steps out into the chilly summer night and immediately threads his fingers in the gaps between Tartaglia’s own, seeking heat and warmth. Scaramouche looks up to Tartaglia and finds a tinge of worry marring his features, causing him to wonder what’s gotten him so anxious. He briefly kisses him as some form of assurance, a promise that it’s fine and it manages to ease the taller boy but the tension doesn’t disappear completely.

Though, Tartaglia does attempt to disregard it. “Let’s do something stupid tonight.”

“Everything you do is stupid.”

Their typical banter has Tartaglia loosening up, laughter tumbling out of his mouth in stuttered breaths. Scaramouche’s chest aches and fills with warmth at the same time. He pulls Tartaglia closer to his side, just to bask in the warm feeling that has enveloped them in spite of the cold.

The stupid thing turns out to be stealing two bottles of alcohol from that snarky old man’s display outside. Residents were complacent with the products they sold and left them unmonitored most of the time, prone to be stolen but there hasn’t been any case of theft or any form of crime in the town at all. When he said that nothing happens here, nothing truly does.

Though, Scaramouche is certain that come morning, once they realized there are missing bottles in one of their crates, it’s going to cause a commotion. Nosy neighbors will eavesdrop, and the gossip will spread faster than wildfire, adding on their speculations and demonizing comments about the people they don’t like.

They wouldn’t be able to trace it back to them. Scaramouche isn’t known for unruly behavior. They know him as the quiet kid albeit sometimes impolite who prefers the beach more than his own house. He’s not worried. But he was on edge the entire time Tartaglia was taking the bottles out. The anxiety of getting caught remained at the back of his mind.

The two of them carry a bottle each, their free hands lacing together again.

“Have you gone to the sea at night?”

Scaramouche halts on his steps. “No.”

Tartaglia stares, waiting, expecting.

“It’s too lonely.” He answers truthfully. “I feel too lonely when it’s dark and cold.”

Understanding flickers into Tartaglia’s expression and he lightly squeezes his hand, the gesture causes a hiccup in his chest.

“You have me. Let’s go to the sea.”

They settle on the shore, few feet away from the ebbing tides. A lone lamp provides them light, aside from the illuminated moon in the night sky. Scaramouche couldn’t refrain the shiver that runs along his body when a strong gust of wind blows, Tartaglia notices and shrugs off his outer shirt leaving him with a thin tee on his person.

“I’m from Snezhnaya.” Tartaglia reminds when Scaramouche refuses at first. “I can handle the cold.”

Another gust strongly blows past them and Tartaglia hangs the shirt over his shoulders. Scaramouche wraps it tighter around him, basks in the familiar musky scent. He could keep this shirt.

Tartaglia flicks the cork off his alcohol, opening it with a sounding pop and he follows suit. Clinking their bottles together before downing them. Scaramouche feels the burning sensation of alcohol travel down his throat and settle at the bottom of his stomach. He lets the sensation fizzle before drinking again.

For a while, they drank with the waves filling the silence for them. Tartaglia’s mind is occupied. There’s something bothering him. Scaramouche doesn’t know how to approach him, however. He’s never blessed with the innate ability of giving comfort or solace – not in words nor actions. He tends to dive a little too deep in his head sometimes as well. He’s clueless how to pull someone out.

He’d be willing to try. Though, as it seems, Tartaglia has gathered his thoughts before Scaramouche could act.

“Do you believe in fate? Destiny? That our lives are predetermined even before we are born in this world?” Tartaglia asks. He’s flushed down to his neck and he looks beautiful beneath the light of the moon and a billion stars. “That you meet the people you’re destined to meet.”

He observes Tartaglia as the other fidgets slightly, posture restless. He’s a nervous drunk? He muses idly. Tartaglia could be gearing for a conversation that’s nerve-wracking for him. It explains the bottles of alcohol.

But what could possibly so hard to utter that he needs the push of liquid courage?

“It’s a romantic concept.” Scaramouche says in lieu of a response.

“It is.” Tartaglia hums thoughtfully.

“Do you think we’ve met in our past lives?”

Scaramouche’s breathe hitches audibly. Tartaglia stares at him with an intensity that his heart thrashing against his ribcage. Then it dawns to him. Tartaglia is anxious about them. A cruel villainous part of him wants to laugh at the irony, hadn’t it been him who preached not to speak about matters that are important. He’s not a villain though. Never wanted to be one.

Scaramouche is a boy who wants love. And to love, maybe.

“Maybe.” He answers because they can’t say for sure. Only the gods know even if he really wants to believe it’s true.

“You know, I don’t believe in a lot of things but I just always had this feeling that I know you.” Tartaglia looks up towards the vast sky, towards the universe and cosmos. “It doesn’t make sense but it does?”

He takes a swig from his bottle. “I know.”

Scaramouche knows because he feels the same. He thought of it once. Maybe, they’re souls who are intimately attached to each other that in all lifetimes they cross paths, there’s recognition and familiarity. It could be a vague obscure thing but it stays with them, existing as long as they exist too.

“We’ll meet each other again.” Tartaglia speaks quieter, a tad uncertain.

“We will.” He affirms.

And that seems like all the assurance Tartaglia needed. Their conversation flows seamlessly as they move from topic to topic. Talking about everything and nothing. When their tongues tire and throats hurt, Tartaglia pulls him down to lie on the sand with him, staring up the black canvas of galaxies and constellations.

The sea is calm. The winds are quiet. Scaramouche hears Tartaglia’s heartbeat the loudest.

“I’ll come back for you.”

“You don’t have to.” He gets up on one elbow, rests a hand over Tartaglia’s chest and feels his heart racing underneath his palm. “We’ll find each other. I’ll make sure of it.”

I’ll look for you. Scaramouche conveys through his eyes, through his hand finding Tartaglia’s own.

Tartaglia doesn’t say anything. He merely smiles, silent and believing.

Scaramouche doesn’t ask anything. He simply lies his head on Tartaglia’s chest and closes his eyes, lulled by the calm waves of the sea.

Scaramouche doesn’t regret it, really.

For a boy who wasted too much time, missed too many opportunities, letting Tartaglia carve his shape on his heart in the fleeting period they were together isn’t a choice he regrets. Even if he’s left with a battered heart that bleeds, it’s still beating and alive.

It wasn’t the only thing Tartaglia left him.

He thumbs the pendant – the same purple stone they saw that day, an amethyst necklace.

It’s a promise. A keepsake. Don’t forget about me.

“It’s impossible to forget about you.”

Scaramouche looks out the window of his room. With curtains drawn, white light leaks in as the sun ascends, declaring a new day begins. He breathes in deeply. The ache of missing Tartaglia now that he’s left will never go away but that’s not where it ends.

Because once he leaves the town, he finally has a destination.

It just so happens to be a boy where his heart implores you’re home.

And home is where he’ll go.