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RAYS OF GOLDEN FILTERED THROUGH THE RESTLESS FOLIAGE ABOVE YOU, your footsteps ever light and airy as you ambled through the worn out trail. Flowers sprung scattered across uneven ground like earthen freckles, accompanying the weaving path towards the small hill.
Despite the soothing chirps that flowed out perching birds like gentle streams, your thoughts remained oh so chaotic—a mess of words and phrases you could never hope to decipher. Even the slow breathing tactic you employed did little to calm your nerves, a slew of what ifs clouding your mind like the sky on a particularly stormy night.
Who was the person to blame for the current mayhem in your mind?
Scaramouche, of course. It couldn't be anyone but him. He was the one singular person that could disorient you so much your brain spun itself into a slushee. Which, if the teasing smirk that graced his lips every time were any indication, was especially entertaining to him.
'Good grief,' he had said, deciding to annoy you at work of all places. 'Throughout my life, I have yet to find an individual more dense than you. '
Before you could even hope to string together an indignant response, the clatter of mora, carelessly thrown onto the counter, interrupted you. Under his gaze, there they lay like mere trash, something he did not care for. It sparkled dully as he pushed it forward, slowly pulling his eyes up to lock yours.
'Keep the change, won't you? Archons knows you'll need it.'
His stare never faltered, even as he moved closer and closer, that ever teasing smile playing on his pretty features. A slender hand, calloused and rough, found itself a loose strand of your hair, twirling it around his finger as if he could not see the heat that pooled in your cheeks. With a soft hum, he then tucked it behind your ear, electricity tingling in the areas his fingers brushed.
' Meet me at the hill again today.'
' Why?'
His hand trailed your jaw. 'Do I need a reason to want to meet you?'
You reached for Scaramouche, pulling him off. His subtle frown was unmistakable.
'Might I remind you that you should always ask somebody first before planning things?' A pause. 'I could be busy, you know. Or have, like, a secret lover.'
A cocky laugh escaped his parted mouth—knives to your ego. 'My, you really are too confident for your own good. '
You clutched at the mora in front of you, trying to find the self-restraint you needed in its cool, familiar exterior. You had a professional front to put up, and Scaramouche, that sly bastard, was not going to compromise that. So, smoothing down your annoyance with a thin layer of patience—one you wore for especially irritating customers—your hands began distracting themselves with the mechanical movements of organising the coins to their respective places. 'I heard confidence is pretty attractive, Scaramouche. Is that why you keep crawling back to me?'
Like tinkling bells, gentle to your ears, Scaramouche let out another laugh. ' Fascination is not the same as attraction. I have far too much respect for myself to be attracted to a lab rat, of all things.' With a taunting grin, he plucked the rice buns off the counter, bringing it up to his mouth.
'Yeah, yeah, insult me more,' you replied exasperatedly, waving a hand in a shooing motion. 'Honestly, if you keep insulting me like this, I'll just start to enjoy it. '
' Good. It'd be boring otherwise.'
... And now you were here, soft blades of grass tickling your ankles as you stood right before the slope of the hill. A lone tree decorated the top, leaves a vibrant green against the bright sky—a contrast to the unease bubbling in your stomach like a boiling pot.
It was rare for Scaramouche to ever come on his own to invite you to things; he was too busy with archons know what, opting to send you letters instead (his lovely lettering was always harsh against the parchment, a quirk you noticed about him (not that you'd ever tell that smug idiot)).
' Burn this when you've finishing reading it, ' is how it'd read, a ' from your favourite, Scaramouche, ' embellishing the end.
And look: the decision that this meeting was important enough to come in person was already nerve-wracking, but the fact that he thought he was your favourite? Scary how arrogant someone could be, all the while calling you too confident.
But never mind that—you still had to meet up with this annoying idiot.
With your hands busying themselves with the creases of your clothes, you trudged up the hill, footsteps soft against the rugged ground. You let yourself swallow up all that indecision, all those what ifs, just so you could shove them right to the back of your mind.
Nothing bad would happen anyway.
Almost like a mantra, that was what you repeated, even as the steady incline reached a stop. Even as you saw the familiar figure of a certain boy, hand reaching forward as if he could touch the very sky.
Here, his usually perfect indigo hair was swaying loosely, ruffled by the light breeze you could feel now that you were at the tippy top. Fluttered close was his eyes, adorned with his usual makeup—a hobby, he once admitted, he liked to dabble in. After all, appearances did matter, especially for the aura he wanted to give.
For what felt like an eternity, you stood there, watching him. You almost felt like a stalker. But then, slowly, oh so slowly, he retracted his hand, head tilting towards you.
"Hello, dear stranger," he murmured, blue eyes soaking in your presence like a sponge. It was almost too intense for you to manage, his stare.
"Hello to you too, dearest stranger," you responded, finishing the inside joke that started from the first day you met him. "We gonna watch the sunset?"
"What else would be doing?"
You shrugged, moving to sit beside him. Fabric rustled as he made space for you. "I dunno, something different, maybe?"
Scaramouche didn't respond for a second, seemingly debating on what to say. "Do you," he began, deciding to throw caution out the window, "know the Balladeer ?"
Your hand moved unconsciously to pull at clumps of grass, bark digging at your back. This was a strange question; Scaramouche never really tended to talk about things regarding the Fatui. You thought he had a sort of bad relationship with them, what with his face cringing up every time you even mentioned them. "Ah... you share a name with them, right? I've... heard they're really intimidating and, like, a dick—"
He froze, almost imperceptibly.
"—and that they're really trigger-happy or something. They honestly don't seem well liked, really."
"... I see."
"Actually, not well-liked is definitely an understatement," you continued, brows furrowed in thought. The gossip you (unintentionally) heard painted him as some sort of cunning shithead that liked fucking with people. You turned. "Why'd you ask?"
"Do you like the balladeer?"
A question answered with a question did not help you at all, but you decided to humour him for once.
"I don't really hate them. I haven't really met them yet to confirm, but with how they treat those that work under them... don't think I particularly like them, either."
Scaramouche adjusted his position, eyes seeming to hold heavy thoughts. They weren't the clear blue you'd usually see on him—more murky and unreadable. Self-conscience, even. "It's a job that requires him to be like that. The environment there is... cut-throat. Everyone's trying to prove their worth to the Tsaritsa, through any means possible." His eyes, glass-like, reflected the world in a darker shade. "You give them an inch of kindness, and they'll run a mile with it. It's better you step on them rather than the other way around."
"You seem... very knowledgeable about this." Your voice was tentative, searching.
He side-eyed you. Expectant. You can't be dumb enough not to understand, it said. Don't tell me I've overestimated you.
Haha. All this time, and yet...
You really were too dense, just as he said. "... You're..." the words struggled out of your mouth, a clogged drain, "very different from what they say."
"So I've heard."
"Not as intimidating, too."
He shook his head, staring down at the uprooted grass. "No, I've met people like you before. They're just idiots who have no sense of danger."
Normally, you would take his bait. You'd respond with something mocking, or something showing you agree, or- or anything. But not today. You didn't want to today.
Not after that bombshell of a confession.
Instead, you reclined off the tree, shuffling towards him. Not a word was uttered even as you were face to face to him, leaned in just as he once was, figure covering his view of the ever-darkening sky.
"You"—your warm hands cupped his face, which, very quickly, lit up with a fervent flame—"are a very contradictory man, Scaramouche."
"Am I now, dear?"
You leaned further in, disposing of all restraint. "You insult me one moment and call me dear the next. You say you could not be attracted to me, but then fluster at the tiniest of touches. You call me stupid... and yet are stupidly in love with me.
"Is it so hard to be consistent?"
Laughter—soft as clouds, impactful as tears—burst from him. "I'm the sixth Fatui harbinger, remember? Balladeer. Someone power-hungry. Intimidating.
"The fact you exist contradicts my whole person."
He closed his eyes, finding comfort in the darkness.
"I hate feeling confined, and yet... with you...." He trailed off, starting anew again. "I can barely meet you in person, too. I have to write you letters—letters you have to burn, just to be safe from... everyone in the Fatui—so we can see each other.
"The truth is, I'm selfish."
Silence. It dragged on, further and further, unending and painful. Like nails against a chalkboard, it was uncomfortable and set a constant uneasiness.
It was only broken, clumsily, forcefully by you, too suffocated with the heavy feelings better off unpacked. "... Give in," you said. "Give in to your selfishness. You can admit you love me, can't you?"
Unwilling to answer, Scaramouche brought his hand over yours, holding your gaze from under his long lashes. "Who are you," he drawled, "to tell me what I should do?"
His grip on your hand suddenly tightened, pulling it down—pulling you down—till you there was nothing left of personal space anymore. You were close. Too close. Too aware of his darkened eyes, his cologne, and his voice , ghosting against your ear. "Haven't I told you? Messing with idiots who have no sense of danger is very enjoyable to me."
The thumping in your ears was ever more apparent, your cheeks tinted a dark red. You swallowed.
"The fact you can't even admit your feelings show you're more coward than dangerous, Scara. I couldn't ever be afraid of you."
His free hand grasped your chin, tilting your head up. "Is that so?
"A harbinger, more coward than dangerous? Is that what you want to say to me?"
"Want to prove me wrong, then?" You wriggled your hand out of his hold, gripping the collar of his shirt instead. Your grasp didn't falter, even when you pulled him—somehow—even closer to you. "I'd love to see it."
At this moment, the sky seemed to reflect exactly how he felt, a mixture of different colors, of feelings, of thoughts. The sun had barely touched the horizon then, still a big blob of yellow against oranges and purples. A blob that, unintentionally, reminded him today was going to end soon. That he probably would never have another chance like this, with you, here , at the very first place you stumbled across him.
Obviously, this goaded him on enough.
He narrowed his eyes, whispering a 'fuck it'. Your name spilled out right after, perfect and soft—as if its sole creation was only for him—and then...
"Can I..."
He didn't even need to ask.
You closed the gap quick as a hearbeat, practically melting into his arms like putty. Like you two were puzzle pieces that slotted, if a bit clumsily, perfectly together. Like everything that ever happened between you two were leading up to this very moment.
Feverishly, your hands crawled to find purchase, to find more , settling to entangle themselves in his silky hair instead—an action that caused Scaramouche to almost pause everything... only to then bring both hands to cup your hot cheeks, lips quirking up against yours.
This, you figured, was bliss—pure, unadulterated bliss.