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The first time Tartaglia thinks something is off is at eight-sharp on a Friday night.
And, really, it’s practically tradition for Tartaglia, Scaramouche and Mona to meet up at the nearby cafe every week. It’s almost absurd to think about considering that there is a total of five words exchanged between each of them the whole time, and Tartaglia takes up four of those five.
It’s not that Scaramouche is quiet, or that Mona’s ignoring them (she totally is) rather that they’re more like comic characters. As in they speak with their hands more often than not. If nodding or shaking his head doesn’t work, “maybe” or “alright” will do it for Scaramouche. And Mona talks, it’s just nothing Tartaglia ever understands, even though he tries to pay attention regardless.
They’re both on their phones anyways, too distracted and apathetic to enjoy each other’s company.
Tartaglia has probably not once in the past six years or so that he knows Scaramouche ever had a face-to-face long conversation with him. So he isn’t quiet; if anything, they’re both quiet. As quiet as Tartaglia can be, at least.
It’s a quaint cafe where one of Scaramouche’s friends works part-time, so he likes to go there in his free time with Mona. He never really invited Tartaglia along; Tartaglia came along on his own accord and eventually Scaramouche stopped fighting him about it. If someone said the same about all of their exchanges in general, they probably wouldn’t be wrong.
When Scaramouche talks, it’s usually to bring up how hot his coffee is, or just him cursing under his breath after taking a sip of his, again, steaming coffee. When he’s not talking, it’s because he’s sticking out his tongue (because his coffee is too hot and he burnt his tongue) or he’s on his phone texting one of his girlfriends.
So, usually Tartaglia understands what Scaramouche is about to do. He probably wouldn’t ever admit it or wouldn’t like to know it, but he’s a fairly predictable person. Tartaglia supposes it makes everything easier, considering that he himself is unpredictable, and there’s only room enough for one of him.
Not anymore, he guesses. Because Scaramouche starts talking, and it isn’t to complain about his coffee order that has been the same for the past few years. Or the weather. Or his assignments. Or complaining in general.
“Do you have a crush on that girl.” He was chewing on the skin of his lip while he holds his cup of coffee from the top (that he’s a thousand-percent going to drop), almost nervously. He wasn’t even looking at him. “Fuck, what was her name? Lucy? Luna?”
“Lumine?” Then Tartaglia’s brows furrow. “No, I don’t think so. Why?”
Mona looks up from her puzzle game to stare at Scaramouche. “How’d you get Lucy from Lumine?”
Scaramouche snorts, blatantly ignoring Mona. “She definitely has a crush on you. And she’s hot, I’d go for it if I were you.”
“I’m pretty sure I made out with her brother. Wait,” Tartaglia pauses, as the both of them look like they’re about to have a seizure, a bewildered expression on Mona’s face and a confused frown on Scaramouche’s. “We’re talking about Lumine, right? Blondie, short, ‘could-kill-you-with-her-handshakes’ Lumine?”
“Yeah, the arm-puller three-thousand—you made out with her fucking brother ? ”
“I didn’t like it!” He says, maybe a bit too defensively, but Scaramouche still eyes him weirdly. “It was a dare!”
Scaramouche whispers something to Mona and it’s only then that Tartaglia realizes how stupidly convenient their seating is.
Mona’s red-faced and giggling when she asks: “When’s the last time you had a girlfriend?”
.
So, they set him up on a date.
.
Her name’s Rosaria, and right off the bat Tartaglia knows they’re going to get along beautifully . She has a(n extremely serious) drinking problem and makes horrific jokes about Archons that would make any devout believer retch, and she’s fun . She’s going to succumb to liver disease within two weeks tops, but she’s fun.
The thing is, she stops talking about herself at some point and asks Tartaglia about himself, and that’s when it gets a little awkward. “Tell me, Tartaglia.” She puts a strange emphasis on his name, like she’s exasperated that such a name exists (“It’s my middle name, Rose.” “You got a real name?” “Sure. Do you?”). “Something on your mind?”
“Is something on yours?” He finds himself biting back, and Rosaria just laughs. Scaramouche is seriously starting to rub off on him.
“I’m telling you just everything , aren’t I? Now you know I wet the bed at six, but the only thing I know about you is…” She trails off and makes some gesture pointing towards him. “That you got a really nice voice.”
He smiles and mutters a brief “Thank you.” before continuing, because he’s still got manners. That’s what Scaramouche forgot to remove when attempting to clone himself in Tartaglia, or whatever he’s doing. “I,” He takes a sip of his drink. “Fucking hate this beer.”
Rosaria laughs again, smooth velvet cracking the ice. “Now I know what not to surprise you with.”
Tartaglia thinks they’re better as friends.
.
The only other person who Tartaglia has had an equally amount of embarrassing crushes on is Mona, and that’s because years of Scaramouche talking to him about nothing but Mona, Mona, Mona must’ve socially reconditioned him to have a crush on her himself.
.
Admittedly, Scaramouche is not a very good matchmaker. Neither is Mona, but Scaramouche is usually the one doing the setting-up. So it’s either that or he just doesn’t know Tartaglia that well.
He’s good at setting up Tartaglia with friends, though. That’s what counts. He and Rosaria still meet up occasionally. Over alcohol, of course, because once Tartaglia met a sober Rosaria he never wanted to see her ever again.
None of the ‘dates’ ever really went horrible, except that one where his date got food poisoning and just left immediately. That wasn’t much of a loss, because she kept talking about her business major and had some aura of pride around her. Not toxic pride, like Signora, but pride all the same.
One of the dates has the poor misfortune of barely resembling Mona, and it’s also late at night and Tartaglia’s a bit tired and drunk, so it’s not really the worst thing in the world to say he mistakes her for Mona a couple of times, and ends up enjoying it solely because of that. Nobody needs to know that, anyways.
.
He had like, three crushes on Scaramouche; four on Mona, but it’s all good because Aether said he had a crush on Albedo six times. It’s normal. And, it was over the course of a year and a half. That’s like, one crush every six months. So, every six months until either Scaramouche or Mona inevitably kick the bucket for (as the average human lifespan search on Google suggests) fifty years.
That’s not so bad. The last crush was a month ago anyways. Scaramouche texts him asking him how his last date went, and he’s more excited about talking to him than he is talking to any of the girls Scaramouche set him up with.
.
Mona figures it out. Tartaglia wonders how much time he has left until Scaramouche does.
.
“Do you still have a crush on him or not?” Mona asks, cracking her nonexistent knuckles. “Also, I dated him, let me tell you, you do not want to go out with that psycho. But I’d be okay with it if you did!”
“He can’t be that bad,” Tartaglia says, stirring his blueberry smoothie. The action of which he’s been repeating for the past twenty minutes. “I don’t want to date him anyways. That’d be awkward for you, right?”
Instead of his words reassuring her, steam pours out of Mona’s ears. She stops blending more of the smoothie just to get her words across. “I just told you! So, what, you actually want him? Oh, that little—”
“Archons, Mona, can you please calm—”
She starts up the blender again to drown out the rest of his words. “He’s gonna run through everyone I know like a to-do list! No, I cannot calm down.”
Tartaglia had stared at her, wide-eyed, for a second, before realizing how absurd everything she just said was. “He’s trying to set me up on a date. It’s not like he’s going to show up and go ‘surprise! I’m actually your date!’”
“First of all, that’s not what my voice sounds like,” To say Tartaglia jumped out of his skin was the understatement of the year. It’s already on the floor. “And two, I would definitely do that.”
“Imagine if you got here earlier you sick—” Mona interrupts herself and shakes her head in disbelief, grabbing her previously abandoned blazer and rushing past him while mumbling a few words that make it past Tartaglia’s area of hearing. She even leaves behind the half-finished blueberry smoothie sitting in the blender, Archons bless her.
Scaramouche absent-mindedly looks at the space she once occupied, and Tartaglia has the strange thought that he’s in love with her.
(It’s not so strange. Tartaglia thinks he understands it more than Scaramouche does.)
.
There are things Tartaglia doesn’t remember. Here’s something he does:
Scaramouche is possibly the least astrology-involved person there is. Anytime someone mentions astrology, he’ll even start fake-snoring, the asshole. But Mona comes in with her high pigtails and half-off jackets and stockings and that’s what makes Scaramouche start chewing on his pens and gets red in the face like a touch-starved teenager. Actually, that description is terrifyingly accurate.
Tartaglia’s very first impression of Mona is that she’s prideful, but unlike Scaramouche, she’s got every right to be. She’s smart and she’s confident and they get along like a house on fire. She makes smoothies a lot— killer smoothies, and once she finds out he likes blueberries she starts making it into everything for some reason he’s still not sure of. Muffins, cake, even cheesecake . She’s apparently a huge fan.
Scaramouche and Mona like each other. Then they love each other. And it’s Tartaglia who pushed himself out of the frame—so he wonders if he’s still allowed to ache whenever he thinks about it.
.
It’s a bad week, generally, for Tartaglia. He broke a promise to call his sister (and by extension the rest of his family) because he was too busy drowning in assignments, cut off ties with a few friends, and his roommates were being assholes. Again.
Scaramouche doesn’t comment on how he sighs disappointedly when he sits down, or how he mistakes Scaramouche’s drink for his own (he got his bitter karma when he took a sip, Scaramouche not saying a word, and winced at the sheer amount of sugar ) or how Tartaglia’s more quiet than usual.
He doesn’t comment on it. He starts talking instead of Tartaglia, and he’s not sure if it’s meant to be a sweet gesture or if he’s that oblivious. Regardless, Tartaglia’s better off listening to Scaramouche complain about his sisters (he has sisters? Tartaglia really knows nothing about him) than talking about his week.
“My parents and my sisters all look pretty similar.” Scaramouche is saying, leaning on his knuckles. “My sisters are twins, so I guess that’s fine. But I’m— I look nothing like them.”
Tartaglia hums in understanding. He’s pretty sure he and Tonia look more like extremely distant relatives than siblings. “That bad?”
“Not really. My hair’s just a few shades darker, for whatever reason.” He looks like he’s going to talk more, then closes his mouth to smile at Tartaglia. “You ever think about going out with Lisa?”
He’s not surprised at where the topic turned to, just at how quickly it switched. “She’s too much.”
“Right.” Scaramouche rolls his eyes, then swirls his coffee. It’s a miracle the stuff never drops. “You’re a simple man; you love dogs and babysitting toddlers and think hand-holding is scandalizing.”
“Scandalizing?” He can practically picture the look on his face as it morphs to some bitter resemblance of understanding of what Scaramouche is referring to. “Are you talking about the time I got a boner from holding a girl’s hand? Scaramouche, that was five years ago, Archons, let it—”
“Tartaglia, if you think I’m ever letting that go, you’ve got another thing coming. That was priceless, watching you cross back the street to look at me hopelessly.”
“You’re the same guy who crashed a wedding and had a threesome with the brides!”
“That was, like, a week after the wedding, they were practically married for thirty years by that point—”
“Scaramouche,” Tartaglia can barely restrain the laughter in his voice. “you’re fun when you’re not complaining about the same thing over and over.”
“Wow,” Scaramouche says plainly, rolling his eyes again. Tartaglia’s not sure if he ever realized this, but that’s a seriously horrible habit Scaramouche needs to drop. “ Wow , like i’m supposed to be fun while I’m miserable?”
He kicks his leg under the table, and Tartaglia’s pretty sure Scaramouche’s ankle is hooked around his for a second longer than bro-worthy, but it’s okay, because Scaramouche is glaring at him. That’s normal. And then— then he’s smiling. His eyes don’t crinkle at the corners and his cheeks don’t turn pink, but he’s smiling; the small smile that he only makes when he’s content.
But Tartaglia knows there’s something he’s hiding. Even if he never knew everything about Scaramouche, knowing him for six years is enough for him to be able to tell.
“The only time you were miserable was when Mona dumped you.” Scaramouche’s face undergoes thirty expressions at once before he schools it into a grimace.
“And I didn’t even complain about that,” Tartaglia thinks he hallucinates the waver in his voice. “Not once. Now what?”
“You still love her?”
Scaramouche sighs. Tartaglia’s succeeded in bullying him into being honest. “Something like it. It’s,” he makes a gesture with his hands. “Complicated.”
“Can you tell me something?” Tartaglia asks after a beat of silence. He continues once Scaramouche nods, looking out the window blankly. “Did you and Mona ever—”
Scaramouche answers “Yes.” so quick Tartaglia wonders if he fully grasped what he was saying. Or maybe he just didn’t want to hear Tartaglia say it. Something tells him its the latter.
“Do you regret it?”
“Maybe. No. I don’t know. You want my advice on these things? Fucking go for it. You’re either in or out, no inbetween. No little hints, no white lies.” He waves a hand then, as if he can dismiss his words. “Actually, just forget what I just said. Who’s the lucky girl?”
“It’s a secret.”
“Can’t hide it forever.”
“As long as I need to.” And he looked at Scaramouche and wondered who he was even talking about, if she even exists, if she even is a she.
He looks at Scaramouche, eyes wide and pride bigger, and thinks maybe he does exist.
.
They don’t talk about Mona again.
.
Mona asks Tartaglia about Scaramouche and Tartaglia tells her if she wants to date him she should go for it. She says but what about you and he aches that she even thought of him. Not like how he’d want to, but enough. Maybe that’s all he’ll ever have to settle for.
He reassures her. He reassures her so much he’s convinced himself he wants them to be together—and he does—to belong to each other. It’s easier to say then, that he’s always liked them.
.
Mona leaves the room whenever they’re in the same room. She’s always saying something as soon as she leaves, and it’s always only Scaramouche who hears it.
Tartaglia wonders what they’re doing to each other.
.
Signora is, decidedly, the worst person Tartaglia has ever had the misfortune of knowing. She notices something, and her eyes scrutinize and judge it like they’re going to pop out of their sockets if they don’t.
She’ll poke and she’ll prod, and what irritates Tartaglia is that it’s not supposed to get a rise out of him, but it’s more so to sate her own curiosity. As if she’s deserving of it.
The short explanation is that she’s nosy. Horribly.
“You’re not going to ask me who that was?” She says, when she puts down her phone, crossing her arms and observing him strangely. Her hair’s in a loose bun and she looks almost unrecognizable. What stress will do to someone.
Tartaglia didn’t even register she was on the phone. “Who cares about that ? I wanna play Monopoly—”
“You should ask them on a date.” Signora interrupts and it’s gentle. Gentle. He’s hallucinating. He should really go to bed.
“I can see every way that will go wrong. And not in the way I’d usually like.”
“So?” She leans by his side, her breath fanning his ear. It’s so unnervingly uncomfortable he has to put a hand on her collarbone to push her away. “Do it. Ask Scara and Mona on a date.”
Tartaglia tilts his head to look her in the eye. “You’re bored, Signora. I don’t owe you entertainment.”
“Not me ,” she huffs angrily. “Why would it go wrong?”
“I know it would.” She raises a brow, about to protest, before he saves her the trouble. “They already love each other.”
It feels freeing to say it, because now he knows it’s true. And it feels restricting, because now he has to believe it.
.
They don’t talk about Scaramouche again.
.
Mona kisses Tartaglia on the cheek one day when she leaves to go see a friend. Scaramouche isn’t there to see or feel the shape of her lips, and Tartaglia feels like he swallowed glass and he’s still waiting to feel the bleeding edge on his throat.
.
There’s red on his cheek, and for once, it isn’t blood. Tartaglia gets injured often . Scaramouche looks at the lipstick and there’s a weird expression on his face. Tartaglia thinks it’s jealousy.
If he can’t convey words through nods and by shaking his head, then an “alright” or a “maybe” will do just fine. Tartaglia understands him. He just doesn’t understand why they’re both back at square one again.
.
Tartaglia accidentally tells Aether that Kaeya has a crush on him, and by extension Albedo is dragged into it as well. When all three of them leave the diner in a suspicious manner, it’s just him, Mona, and Scaramouche, like it’s always been.
It doesn’t make it any easier. Not at all.
.
Scaramouche asks Tartaglia if he ever loved Mona and he thinks it’d be a sin to outright say no , so he settles for not anymore.
.
When he realizes he loves Scaramouche, he thinks he’s had this same realization multiple times before.
Scaramouche’s resting his head on Tartaglia’s lap, and Tartaglia’s carding his fingers through his silky hair. And he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t do anything (like he hardly ever has to) and yet.
And yet Tartaglia looks at his face upside down and sees a mole on the side of his jaw and feels like pressing his lips on that spot. And maybe he’ll draw a constellation with the moles on his neck. There’s two.
He traces it with his finger and Scaramouche’s eyes are on him. Those pretty, dazzling lavender eyes trace him back sharply.
He feels like saying: “You’re gonna hate my birthday present.”
Scaramouche licks his finger and Tartaglia jerks it away, frowning. “ You got me one.”
It’s a statement, and not a question, but Tartaglia answers anyways (who would he be if he didn’t answer Scaramouche?). “Of course I did.”
“Then I’m going to hate it.” It’s reassuring. As reassuring Scaramouche can be.
Tartaglia waves Scaramouche’s hair out of his forehead and flicks his forehead.
.
He lied. Scaramouche lied to him because he did love it and Tartaglia knows he still loves him.
.
There’s cream on Scaramouche’s lip and Mona gets it for him and giggles and he just stares at her. It’s probably all falling roses and slow music on their side, but Tartaglia is still the outside viewer so it looks extremely awkward on his part. He clears his throat and Scaramouche is still enchanted. He wonders if he can blame him.
Mona gets up to go bake blueberry and lemon cake (Tartaglia loves her and her random impulses) and leaves them alone. Scaramouche is looking at Tartaglia the same way, and Tartaglia convinces himself it’s just because he’s the nearest person and Scaramouche is still absently caught in the trance of one Mona Megistus.
.
The last date that Tartaglia remembers; her name’s Jean and she’s a perfectionist. That’s literally all he can take away from what she’s said, but she’s also very nice and comforting. It’s the only relationship he can see himself actually pursuing if he didn’t love Mona or Scaramouche. Archons help him . He’s in love with the only two people he could possibly never date.
When he and Jean decide they’re better to continue ‘hanging out’ as bros than dates, they both tell each other it’s because they’re busy. Tartaglia thinks Jean knows. Even he knows it’s obvious.
He doesn’t know why but he doesn’t make an effort to conceal any of it.
.
He loves them both, he decides. It’s Thursday when he texts Scaramouche he isn’t feeling well, and it’s Friday when he sees them through the window of a restaurant while walking on campus. He finds it funny that Scaramouche, of all people, is quicker to date a girl than he is. Tartaglia thinks he must’ve lost his touch.
Mona’s pretty. She’s all dolled up in a messy ponytail and Scaramouche gives her a taste of whatever acid he’s drinking and she loves it, of course she does, and kisses him on the cheek. Tartaglia keeps walking.
.
They’re eating Liyuen takeout at Tartaglia’s place. His roommates are all out. They’re going to binge a whole season on his laptop. Scaramouche isn’t eating, isn’t watching. He’s just there.
Every once in a while while Tartaglia’s continously struggling eating because of the chopsticks, Scaramouche just picks up his food for him and feeds him. Tartaglia doesn’t know if he winces because of the hot food or because of the gesture.
But then when he’s not watching Tartaglia struggle, he’s sitting as far away from him as he can on the small bed. It’s halfway through the episode when, randomly, he asks: “A week ago. Whose lipstick was that?”
At first, Tartaglia thinks he’s asking about the episode. He’s going to answer that Scaramouche, if you paid attention, then you’d realize it’s blood, and not lipstick . And then he realizes.
“I thought you’d know.” Tartaglia sort of regrets saying it, because Scaramouche has this weirdly offended and exasperated look on his face. “I thought .”
“I don’t have Mona’s lipstick collection memorized.” There’s a beat of silence that follows, and it’s almost comical, but Tartaglia feels like Scaramouche doesn’t say more on purpose.
“And you pieced it together anyways.”
“You made it obvious, asshole.” He puts an unnecessary emphasis on asshole, like everyone on the block needs to know that. “So. You and Mona, huh?”
He seems strangely unaffected by the prospect of Tartaglia, one of his oldest friends, dating Mona, his biggest crush. Which, to Tartaglia, would’ve been a below-the-belt instant K.O.
(But Mona and Scaramouche dated before, and it only ever ached to repress the need to fit in with them.)
“Not in a million years, Scara.” He says, attempting to keep his voice level. He supposes he can’t help the tone of surprise. Mona’s always been affectionate with Tartaglia, so he should be understanding that Scaramouche misinterpreted. Quieter, he adds: “I wouldn’t do that to you.”
He wonders if he’s trying to reassure himself or Scaramouche more.
“Oh,” Scaramouche seems more disappointed than anything. Tartaglia decides this point exactly is when Scaramouche became a sadist. Who would want their friend to go after their crush? “glad to hear that.”
Tartaglia clicks play on the episode. Scaramouche doesn’t say much else.
.
Scaramouche stops setting him up on dates. Tartaglia thinks he knows why.
.
Rosaria’s birthday comes. She throws a huge party and Kaeya drags Tartaglia along. Scaramouche is there, but Tartaglia could forget that, with how invisible he is. They have fun. Tartaglia has fun. Scaramouche is even quieter when drunk, and he’s glued to Tartaglia’s side the entire night. Mona pops in for an hour, and she’s beautiful . Her hair is down and her smiles are blinding and when she leaves so does Scaramouche.
Tartaglia only aches a little.
.
If Tartaglia thinks Scaramouche is hiding something from him, he doesn’t ask because he knows what it’s about and knows how it’s none of his business anyways. Signora tries to protest to that, and when he asks why, she starts talking in tongues. Codes. She’s never been so cryptic, and it’s driving Tartaglia up the wall.
“Just ask him.” She says, frustration laced in her tone. Her hands are balled into fists by her side, and Tartaglia’s pretty sure she’s gritting her teeth. He’d be a little bit amused if it weren’t for the situation. “Just ask him and he’ll tell you.”
“How about you tell me, since it worries you so damn much?”
“Because he could say it better! You know this.” Tartaglia feels like he already knows what she’s trying to do; forcing Tartaglia to talk to Scaramouche about something that apparently (but he doubts) concerns him is communication. “Communication is key, you know.”
Tartaglia can’t really deny her without her hyperventilating about it for the next hour, because Signora is surprisingly determined. So, he gives her a short answer. “I’ll think about it.”
.
Tartaglia thinks Mona and Scaramouche might be reconciling. That’s good.
He thinks he’s drifting apart from the two of them. That’s okay.
.
“I love you,” Scaramouche says, cupping his face delicately, so hauntingly beautiful. Tartaglia knows it’s a dream before he even wakes up.
.
There are things Tartaglia remembers. Here’s something he doesn’t:
“Tartaglia,” Mona said softly. It didn’t suit her. “Are you in love with Scaramouche?”
Tartaglia was too drunk to really understand the whole ‘whose asking’ and ‘manner of perspective’ so he thought of it as a general question. Are you in love with Scaramouche? That’s one too many people missing, but it was still a forward question, and a forward question demanded a forward answer. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
She looked at him and he thought he saw loneliness. Huh. Weird. “How much alcohol did you drink?”
“Too fucking much. Who’re you, gorgeous?”
She dodged the question with a smile. He gave her a kiss— aiming for the cheek, but missed and pressed his lips somewhere above her eyebrow, and she leaned into it like she craved the affection. She sharply inhaled before asking, “What do you think about Mona?”
His heart skipped a beat or forty. “What?”
“I said, what do you think about Mona.” She whispered her own name, like she was ashamed to mention it. “Love her, like her,” she swallowed, “hate her?”
He thought about it before answering, and that was saying something considering his state.
He thinks about how her smile is a bit lopsided more often than not. He thinks about the off-shoulder dresses she wears and the million ways she’ll style her hair but she’ll always go back to pigtails. About how she has one almost unnoticeable dimple on the left side of her cheek and how he’d have to tilt her face upwards to reach it with his lips—
Mona waits. Waits longer than he takes to think. But he’s just staring at her, looking at the way the purple light looks on her lips, on her eyes. Her eyes were always the perfect shade of green.
Tartaglia’s still so, so enchanted. She smiles sweetly, but if he were sober he’d know in a second it’s not a real one. “Nevermind. Don’t drink anymore, alright?”
— I wouldn’t do that to you. Not in a million years.
Mona’s his. Scaramouche’s hers. They belong to each other—no one more, no one less.
.
A full timeline of Mona and Scaramouche’s relationship (no, Tartaglia hasn’t been paying attention, that doesn’t even make a lick of sense):
Mona and Scaramouche met maybe four years ago. Tartaglia and Scaramouche have known each other for two years by this point, but like all of the past years they’ve known each other, they don’t talk a lot. Old friends, but not good friends.
So he knew when Scaramouche told him all about Mona that he was gone . That Scaramouche was just looking for anybody on his phone’s contact list to talk about Mona to. Mona’s pretty smile, Mona’s star-dotted dress, Mona’s favorite color is blue (and, hey, so is Scaramouche’s). Mona, Mona, Mona. By the time Tartaglia actually met Mona, it was like he was in love with her himself.
By the time the two dated a half year later, Tartaglia understood Scaramouche’s affections. it wasn’t hard to anyways. And when they fell apart another half year later because they were both busy the breakup was good-natured enough for them to continue being friends. It has been exactly three years, four months, two weeks, and three days. Four hours, three minutes and thirty-eight seconds, if Tartaglia should be specific.
(It’s just on his calendar. To support his friend. That’s the only reason.)
So three years. Then they’re not too busy anymore, for some reason, and they’re back to the same again. Tartaglia will get back when he understands more of what the fuck has happened in the past month and a half.
.
Tartaglia only kissed Scaramouche like, once, and it’s what he bases almost all of his fantasies off of.
He remembers it extremely vaguely, ironically, but it went like this: They were nineteen and twenty. Tartaglia got drunk for the first time, Scaramouche didn’t drink much by that point anyways. To say this would be the start of Tartaglia’s descent into liver failure would be harsh, so he likes to label it as when his dumb crush first started.
Because Scaramouche was fucking gorgeous. That was when he regularly put on his red eyeliner, and now he does too, but it’s less frequent. Tartaglia hadn’t noticed up until that point that Scaramouche used raspberry chapstick, but he did and he was obsessed with it. He kept tilting Scaramouche’s head up, and Scaramouche kept yanking him down; they just made out for what felt like hours.
If he remembered it completely, he’d probably remember his own inexperience. Maybe some of Scaramouche’s, if there was any. But he doesn’t and the only thing he remembers is that he liked it. A lot. If Scaramouche remembers, he doesn’t say, and that’s how it should be.
.
It’s the end of March. Jean’s birthday party was cute and a far cry from Rosaria’s, but because Rosaria was there, (when did they even become close like that?) it was still crazy. Finals are in a few weeks, and Tartaglia thinks he’s going to drown before he can get to them.
.
The thing is Scaramouche and Mona both only love each other. No one else. Because Tartaglia would’ve known if they loved him. So when he distances himself from them and lies through Mona’s worried calls and Scaramouche’s occasional check-in texts, he swallows the guilt and vomits it out.
Whenever Tartaglia calls Tonia, she says he sounds sick. She asks about Scaramouche and Mona and that’s when he realizes he’s always loved them; for them to bleed into his speech so much. Whether or not they would ever love him back, the answer is—
“You’re not doing so well these days, are you, Tartaglia? If it’s about Scaramouche, you know you could tell me, right?” Mona laughs anxiously; like she’s worried he wouldn’t. Tartaglia feels nauseous at the thought that he let her believe it’s her fault. “I know you told me it’s not about him, you told me to go back to him if I want to, but I feel like you weren’t telling me everything. Call me when you get this, alright? We should talk.”
Tartaglia’s mastered the art of bullshitting ever since he started getting good grades in English class in middle school. Telling Mona fragments of the truth but enough to reassure her is like a walk in the park.
Does it save him the guilt?
—maybe not.
.
Aether and Signora are possibly two sides of a spectrum. Not any specific spectrum, just a spectrum.
Apparently, he hasn’t made his intense yearning as obvious as he thought because Aether’s still failing to piece it together. Or maybe he is an idiot like Signora says.
Aether is attempting to be as sweet as possible in his encouragement. Signora does not sugarcoat. That’s the only reason Tartaglia likes her. Because she says “They’re probably sticking their tongues down each other’s throats right about now. What, now you’re going to whine about that?” at the same time that Aether says “Tartaglia, maybe it’s better if you consider that you can’t be sure they don’t love you back.”
They look at each other, and Tartaglia immediately knows it’s the calm before the storm. He sits back, just to get a good view, and they start screaming at each other like it’s a cat fight.
It’s probably the only thing Tartaglia’s had a good laugh at in weeks, watching them completely forget what it is they’ve come all across campus to do.
.
There’s things that you realize about people, that once you realize them, you understand everything they do. When he realized Scaramouche loved Mona, his lingering gaze on her smiles and the attention he paid to everything she loved most— it all clicked. Made sense.
(They both talk about each other all the time, and Tartaglia just silently wants; because this is what he’s been reduced to, and he thinks this is what he’ll be for the rest of his life. A silent, wanting thing.
He wants them. And it’s maybe the first time he’s ever willing to accept that.)
Tartaglia loves the both of them, and when Scaramouche sneaks up behind Mona to embrace her waist and she only slightly jumps before leaning back into it, that clicks too. Because their hearts just click together like locks and it only makes sense they should have a witness.
.
Jean and Rosaria start dating. The Archons, he thinks, are screwing with him on purpose. Or just peer-pressuring him.
.
“Mona has superpowers,” Lumine says one day during a lecture. Tartaglia doesn’t even know her that well, but she’s one of Scaramouche’s friends, so that makes them tight by default. “there is not a human in this world that can move from place to place so quickly. I give you: Mona can teleport.”
It’s ironic that she says that because Mona enters the hall hastily just at that moment. Tartaglia looks to Lumine, amused. “How’d you guess that?”
He barely hears her next words because he’s too busy looking at Mona, even though she looks dead tired. They’re just a jumble of ‘the Flash’ and ‘Mona’ and ‘science experiment’ and he can really only get behind the second word.
“You are so damn obvious,” Lumine says. Tartaglia briefly remembers Scaramouche telling him she has a crush on her and wondering if he was lying because she sounds so neutral. “better hope you’re paying a lick of attention.”
Lumine is chatty. It’s not a bad thing. So he wonders why she’s telling him to pay attention when she’s the one whose been talking the whole time. It’s a bit endearing.
.
“I love you.” Mona says firmly. Reassuringly. She wraps her arms around Tartaglia’s waist and he exhales in some form of content, but she’s pulling away before he even registers it. And then, as if she’s wanted to say it all along: “Tell me whatever’s wrong.”
“Didn’t I tell you last week?” The lie sits cold and rigid in his throat, like he’s choking on an ice cube with no real effort to hack it up. “You see even Jean getting stressed because of finals. I’ll be okay.”
Mona’s getting better at seeing through him. “Tartaglia.” She’s frustrated; Tartaglia knows because she’s gritting her teeth and even though she has to tilt her head up to look at him he sees the furrow in her brows. “How do I make you tell the truth?”
You’ll have to wring it out of me , he thinks and even then it’ll only be your luck .
.
She tells Scaramouche. Tartaglia knows because they tell each other everything— even when they were dating three years ago. Three years and not a single change. This must be why he loves them just as much as he always does.
.
It’s easier to pretend it all doesn’t exist when he’s so busy he forgets the day. When he has more free time, it’s different. Mona comes by more, with her sugar sweet smiles and her razor sharp voice. In that way, she and Scaramouche are alike. On Friday, he says come to the cafe, you know the one and Tartaglia doesn’t know how to say I love you like a phantom limb and that’s why it hurts so much to see you .
Tonia calls more. He lets some things slip, and there’s an encouraging lilt to her voice and when she says be more honest with them Tartaglia can only say I don’t know how for the first time in his life.
Scaramouche says he has something to tell him and Tartaglia’s heart races at the fact that he even thought of him, much less the subject of whatever they were meeting up for. So, for old time’s sake, Tartaglia agrees to meet him and Scaramouche arrives early and has Tartaglia’s order practically waiting for him and that’s when he notices something is very, very wrong.
“Hello,” the greeting is what puts him off even more. The fidgeting of the fingers was number three, the slow breathing made it to number four, and number five was the slight hesitance in his tone. “I think you know why you’re here.”
Tartaglia has never felt fear quite like this ever since when his parents used to called him to their room whenever he was younger. “Maybe an idea. Hello, Scara, you look like shit.”
Scaramouche laughs and Tartaglia wants to kiss him. “Yeah? I think you’re giving me a run for my money in that category.”
“Got anything to confide in me? Love being the first option, by the way.”
“Thirty-second,” Scaramouche coughs, and Tartaglia raises a brow. Scaramouche takes at least five more sips of whatever straight sugar he’s drinking before he buries his face into his arms and half-mumbles: “IthinkIlikeboys.”
Tartaglia chokes on his drink. No, literally, it goes down the wrong tube, and he gets red in the face before the look on Scaramouche’s face is disheartening enough for him to suck it up (quite literally) and show his support because Scaramouche? Scaramouche? Liking men? Mr. I-Only-Like-Peaches Scaramouche? Tartaglia thinks he might grow wings and wake up from a ten-year coma right this instant.
“I am so sorry, I just thought you were going to talk about something completely different. That’s terrific,” and then he remembered Mona and his heart dropped. “What’re you going to do about—”
“She’s fine. It doesn’t change,” He exhales a breath he must’ve been holding ever since he sent the text, and brushes his hair out of his face with black-painted nails. Tartaglia should’ve noticed those before. “I mean, the way I perceive her. Doesn’t change. Still love her the same.”
“You’re bisexual, then?”
Scaramouche worries his lip in between his teeth. “Probably.”
“That’s really cool, Scaramouche, but—” Scaramouche gives him a look, and Tartaglia remembers the sensitivity of this topic. “I wonder why you’d be anxious to tell me of all people about this.”
Scaramouche’s brows furrow. “What the hell do you mean?”
“I mean— okay, so you’re worried I’d hate you for it? Isn’t it obvious that I’m…” He trails off a bit, still caught off guard with the fact that holy shit Scaramouche is bisexual and how did he not know?
“You’re what?” His eyes narrow. Tartaglia thinks Scaramouche knows but is just making him say it at this point. “Tartaglia, don’t start signing off on me, now.”
And of course, Scaramouche’s tone turns serious. Tartaglia calls it the Big Boy voice, but it’s actually just a lack of nicknames that makes the whole difference. He exhales half of what he says: “I’m bisexual, too. Don’t you already know this?”
“Oh,” Scaramouche says, a strange look on his face. “ Oh , so when you said— when you said you made out with Aether, did you—”
“Yeah, okay, why is that the very first thing you think of?”
“—did you actually enjoy it? I have to know. For a friend, of course.”
“I’m not answering that.”
Scaramouche looks so, so smug sipping from his drink (Tartaglia still has no idea what is in that) in that obnoxious way he does until Tartaglia caresses his cheek with the back of his hand just to fuck with him. And maybe himself.
.
Scaramouche opens up to him a bit more. Maybe too much for comfort. He starts talking about everyone he’s ever crushed on; half of whom Tartaglia doesn’t even know. And then he asks Tartaglia about his, some glint of hopefulness(?) in his eye, and Tartaglia only tells him a few. If Scaramouche notices the pattern of how Tartaglia hasn’t seen any of them in over five years, he doesn’t say anything.
Mona always knew. There’s no change with that. She knew Tartaglia loved Scaramouche before he even knew himself—and he wonders if she only did because she loved him, too.
.
Tartaglia’s halfway up the stairs to Mona’s apartment when he hears— not yelling. Which is good. But it’s not exactly friendly conversation. The voices are loud enough for him to understand the tone is serious and, most importantly, not happy.
He goes back down. He doesn’t know how to feel about what he used to hear versus what he now hears.
.
The last time Tartaglia thinks something is off is at ten sharp on a Friday. He’s in Mona’s room helping her pick out an outfit. He thinks he’s come back full circle—only two hours late and in a different place.
Mona presses her lips to his knuckles, lipstick staining it red red red. He thinks of whose lipstick was that? in Scaramouche’s voice and tears his hand away from her grasp. “Sorry.”
“You know,” she starts, ignoring him, “he always talks about you.”
Tartaglia thinks about playing dumb. And then he remembers Scaramouche is the only person they mutually know—and how he’s the string that ties them together.
“Does he?” he says instead. Mona’s fiddling with her dress; she’s supposed to be out by ten-thirty to see some friends, but she got ready an hour early for whatever reason and she was just walking around in her black-and-blue knee lengther. “How’s that feel?”
“Good—well, it’s not just him.” She sort of mumbles the last part, so Tartaglia assumes he wasn’t meant to hear it. “You’re really giving me mixed signals, Tartaglia.”
He thinks she knows. He thinks she’s always known and has only ever asked questions to confirm—and it doesn’t scare him as much as it should. He thinks she knows but he answers anyways. “Rough patch?”
She laughs, head thrown back and some of her hair’s caught in the strap of her black dress. “The roughest. Ragged.”
“You’ll make it through,” he reassures, tying back her hair for her and letting a hand linger on her shoulder. “and then it’ll all be good. You two were really made for each other.”
Mona looks back at him, some skeptics in her eyes. “You really think that?”
He looks at their reflection in the full-body mirror and says with a grin: “I know it.”
“Cheesy. Good to know you’re more invested in our relationship than we are.” And she joyfully struts out of the room, leaving him and him only.
Maybe that’s the truest thing she’s said.
.
He thinks they’re falling apart. And he knows it before he sees it that it’s his fault.
Mona looks tired whenever she sees him, and Scaramouche just straight-up avoids him. His first thought is that Mona told Scaramouche that Tartaglia likes him, but then he thought: would she really do that?
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if she would. Tartaglia wonders if he still knows her. And if Mona thinks Tartaglia loves Scaramouche but not her, too—
He can’t tell if Signora predicted it all or if she just jinxed it.
.
His roommates move out. Now it’s just him.
.
Mona hastily asks Tartaglia if he still loves Scaramouche and he lies through his teeth that have only ever filtered truth, no .
.
She asks again.
.
And again.
.
And again.
.
Tartaglia and Scaramouche might be growing closer. That’s good.
Scaramouche and Mona are falling apart and Tartaglia is the one pulling the thread.
.
He thinks of apologizing a few times, but if he apologizes he’ll have to tell everything and that’s—that’s not going to go well. The best-case scenario is that they’ll all be friends but nothing will be the same anymore. And how many times, how many times has Tartaglia changed everything?
Tartaglia doesn’t know if he remembers what ‘the same’ is. He wonders if it’s still worth it.
.
Mona randomly says it’s funny he loves risking things but can’t risk going for Scaramouche. She sounds like she’s ready to give him up for Tartaglia and he thinks maybe that’s why they’re breaking.
He wants them, wants them the way gravity wants the Earth, the way that moons love their planets. And he thinks it’s not so surprising that when either of them are full of love, so is he.
.
Scaramouche runs his fingers down Tartaglia’s side and presses a kiss to his bare shoulder, whispering stupid, stupid promises. Mona’s on his other side, her lips pressed against Tartaglia’s and so, so soft he thinks he’ll have to surrender to her push and pull, to how she kisses. And she kisses wildly, he knows her lipstick’ll stain his chin and his lip and his throat—
When Tartaglia wakes up, it’s because the sun’s too bright and his imagination’s too wild.
.
Because Mona’s mouth will never be on his neck, leaving marks and lipstick stains on the same spot. Tartaglia’s never going to pull Scaramouche’s hair in the way he always does in those figments of his want. Those are different people in a different place. Maybe they were never real at all.
.
All of his guilt lies, coincidentally, in his heart, waiting to be pumped out. It would be better if he bled more. He lies again to Mona and thinks he loves her. He lets Scaramouche hurt and thinks he loves him.
He sees them again. And again. Scaramouche and Mona on a date. Scaramouche and Mona, voices hushed even if they’re the only people there. Scaramouche and Mona in his dreams. Scaramouche and Mona, being the lovers and loving.
.
Nightmares are just as frequent as dreams. Maybe those misplaced memories are nightmares too.
.
It wasn’t a nightmare, but when he notices Scaramouche is still avidly avoiding him, it feels a lot like one.
.
Something changes.
.
It takes him a week, first, to notice it. That they’re both less miserable, which is the most important part, and that they’re both not mad at him. He’s not sure if they even could somehow trace it back to him, but everyone has irrational fears, so it’d be okay if this fell under that category.
Mona dragged him along to a small party and everyone he knows but Scaramouche is there and he wonders if there’s a connection. Aether says he’s delusional. He probably is, by this point.
.
Neither of them would ever remember unless they personally interrogated each and every member of the guest list, but Mona kissed him and pressed him up against the wall and the only words exchanged were what about Scaramouche and if I told him he’d want you for himself .
In other news, his dreams of kissing Mona were all of a sudden very vivid.
.
Scaramouche is smart. That’s half of the reason Tartaglia loves him, and he displays it in that sinister way he always does when he’s trying to know something.
Both Mona and Scaramouche were recently in good spirits; which, obviously, isn’t inherently a problem on it’s own, but Tartaglia doesn’t know why or what is causing this sudden shift and he thinks he’d be entitled if he asked. So he lets them ask weird things and make weird comments and even Scaramouche lays off on a few insults. Weird.
He doesn’t know what they’re doing so he lets them do it. He thinks he’s been doing this in all the years he’s known them. Letting them do.
.
Mona bleeds love and Scaramouche lets it swell up inside. Tartaglia doesn’t know where one cuts and the other bleeds, but he figures they were always supposed to bleed on him, because that’s the only place he’d fit.
The cafe meet-ups become less frequent because all three of them get to be a bit busy, and Tartaglia barely sees Mona at all, like she’s a blur between buildings on campus. Huh. Maybe she is the Flash like whatever conspiracy theory Luciel was trying to feed him. That name sounds wrong, but he’s pretty sure he forgot the alternative.
Scaramouche is nowhere to be seen, not even the blur. He texts Tartaglia a lot, and they’re usually how-are-you s and hello s which is definitely a dead giveaway for whatever shithole he’s in. Tartaglia’s pretty sure if he saw Scaramouche once he’d be able to power through for the next year , but it’s not bro-ettiquete to ask for a selfie. That’s just plain weird.
.
Mona presses her lips to his cheek. His hair. His ear. His hand. One time, she kisses his jaw. Scaramouche doesn’t do the same, because it’d be a cold day in hell before Scaramouche came and gave him anything other than a (very unsettling) stare. No, Scaramouche just watches. And watches. Tartaglia thinks if he had a problem with Mona’s affections, he’d have already said so. He’s still watching.
Mona waves Tartaglia over and she leans in like she’s going to kiss him and then just pecks his nose. There’s an almost fond smile on Scaramouche’s face that flashes in a blink but Tartaglia doesn’t miss it because he’s always looking at him. Mona’s still smiling.
.
When he first realized he loved Mona, it wasn’t shocking. At first, he had thought what a cruel twist it is that he has a crush on both the best friend and the best friend’s girlfriend but it wasn’t so bad. Because Scaramouche and Mona were always together and that meant constantly being surrounded by who he loves most.
So it wasn’t shocking. It was stupid . Stupid to the point of no return, because that’s just how far gone he was. Mona and her fucking pigtails and her big green eyes and sharp tongue and smile, her well-placed pride and her determination. Tartaglia’s the sideliner with his jaw taped to the floor with heart eyes springing out of their sockets.
It was never, ever shocking to find out he liked Mona. He knew it as soon as she said “I love you” with her tongue locked around words he wanted to swallow for himself. And maybe that’s when he realized he should never try to.
.
Mona is a wild card. Tartaglia should’ve known. It’s midnight when there’s a fucking knock at his door and as soon as he opens it she puts her hands on his jaw and presses her lips onto his and she’s drunk and he’s not and he has to look in the mirror to check if he even barely resembles Scaramouche so he can form a basis for this—
“Tartaglia,” she breathes, and he starts blinking rapidly. This is a stupidly vivid dream. “Tartaglia, call Scaramouche for me.”
He does.
Scaramouche is, understandably, horrifically confused. And his voice is rough, like he’s just woken up. But he’s not mad , at the implications behind his girlfriend staying at someone else’s house this late in the night. Or at the fact that Tartaglia woke him up just to panic about that. Huh. For all the arguments Mona and Scaramouche have, they surprisingly have a lot of trust in each other.
“She’s there right now? I can come and get her? ” Scaramouche is probably pinching the bridge of his nose in exhaustion, but it’s one in the morning and they’re both tired and finals are coming up. It’s practically suicide to be awake by this point. And then Scaramouche’s voice turns amused. “You know what? She can stay there.”
Tartaglia’s eyebrows raise to the ceiling. Mona’s still leaning into his chest, sound asleep, and he’s holding her to keep her from falling. What a strange sleeping position. “What?”
“She can stay there. ” Scaramouche repeats.
“Why? How?”
“You,” Scaramouche inhales deeply, like he’s about to launch into a large speech. Usually whenever he does this Tartaglia just ignores him, but he’s too curious to avoid him now. “are in love with my girlfriend. And my girlfriend’s in love with you. C’mon, what’s the worst that could happen? If you have sex, she’s probably gonna have a better night than me.”
Tartaglia’s brain shuts down after the first two sentences. “Mona’s got a crush on me?”
“...Maybe you’re too fucking stupid to notice, but it’s hard not to. You think she kisses you on the dick to be affectionate? One second away from making out with you! In front of me, I should remind you.” Tartaglia can barely voice his confusion before Scaramouche quickly adds “I’m going back to sleep.” and hangs up.
.
It’s less awkward the next morning because Mona brushes her teeth and immediately pounces on him. Verbally, of course.
“Did I do anything? Say anything?” She’s gnawing on her lip again, and maybe whatever Scaramouche told him has been getting into his head because once Scaramouche voiced it, it seemed like all he can notice now. “Tartaglia, I’m really stupid when I’m drunk.”
“Yeah,” he says absent-mindedly. God, she loves him so, so much and all he’s ever given her amounts to nothing. “Yeah, you are.”
“Oh my god,” She’s red in the face and all her flailing made her ponytail loose. Tartaglia feels like if he tucked the loose hair behind her ear, she wouldn’t mind. Maybe she’d like it. “What did I say?”
“You just told me to call Scaramouche and then you fell asleep. He,” Tartaglia briefly ponders his next course of action. “was sleeping, actually. So I didn’t know what to do.”
Mona frowns confusedly. Oh no. “What about my place? My girls?”
“It was one a.m, Mona—”
“Were you sleeping?” She’s panicking and her eyes are wide and some of her hair is in her face. Her shirt’s slipping off to reveal her bare shoulder and her fingertips are fucking freezing when she touches his arm to try and hypnotize(?) him into speaking. “Tartaglia, did I wake you up?”
“Can’t sleep. Was studying,” and then he remembers everything that happened last night. Not that he was drunk, but he was tired, which earns him the delay he has now. “Mona, has Scaramouche been a little weird lately?”
If Mona was nervous before, shes’s sweating buckets now. She’s twiddling her thumbs. “Weird how?”
Tartaglia sighs. “Mona, do you two have a crush on me?”
Actually, he regrets saying it as soon as it’s out of his mouth. But nothing else would make sense. Nobody would willingly set something up like that otherwise. Scaramouche practically handed Tartaglia their hearts, and Mona didn’t even get a say in it. Okay, well, if it were up to her, he’d probably never know, so screw that. “Tartaglia—”
“Be honest.” he says, sitting down on one of the dining chairs.
“I was gonna take it slow with you, you know,” She’s biting the skin of her lip again, looking at the kitchen sink. “Scaramouche said that you didn’t need slow anymore, and that we were making you miserable, but Archons, I really thought,” Deep breath. “that you didn’t like me like that. It just switched up, and then it’s all I could notice. I thought you wouldn’t like the same thing.”
“When’d you both find out, then?” He didn’t have to elaborate. She already knew, but he did anyways. “About the crush. That must’ve been fun.”
“One of the one-hundred-and-one arguments. Scaramouche just angrily said it by accident, but I guess once it was out, I told him I liked you, too. The thing is,” she throws her arms over his shoulders. “I knew you liked him. And he said he figured out you liked me. So.”
“So,” Tartaglia’s forced to look at her pretty face in this angle, and he subconsciously puts his hands on her waist. “I should be studying right now.”
“Me too,” Mona sighs, but makes literally no effort to move. “Later, okay?”
Later is how Scaramouche finds them. Fully-clothed, dead tired, and maybe content, but still miserable. Tartaglia held Mona’s hand under the table for like, five minutes, before it got hard to type with one hand, so he let go. Thank the Archons he wasn’t there for that .
He literally sneaks up on them. “Nice hickey, Tartaglia.”
Mona leans up and kisses Scaramouche’s cheek in greeting and Tartaglia almost feels a bit out of place before remembering he isn’t. Scaramouche walks up behind him, looks at his screen, gets a headache and when Tartaglia lets his head fall back and kisses his throat, there’s no protest. Mona’s just watching them, and Tartaglia feels like something switched. Something maybe good.
.
They have time, so they go to that cafe. It’s really just a trip down memory lane, and Tartaglia’s feeling a bit nostalgic, so they indulge him. Tartaglia fucking hates Scaramouche’s sugary sweet coffee orders, but has no problem tasting them on his tongue. Mona’s a bit moderate, but when she’s busy it’s like there’s no sugar at all. Maybe that’s why she and Scaramouche balance each other out.
Tartaglia forgot his own order, but it’s probably a normal-person order. Maybe hot chocolate when he doesn’t want to get hyper, but it ends up having the same effect anyways. It feels a bit more freeing when he can just say I love you whenever he wants and they’ll both know what he really means. He figures he shouldn’t say it mid-conversation, but that’s when he realizes it the most, so then he has to.
Mona responds sweetly. Scaramouche just waves it off fondly. The same could be said about all of their interactions, and Tartaglia loves it all.
.
There’s no time to, or reason to, but Tartaglia kisses Scaramouche sober, and feels his hands on his jaw, on his waist, and thinks this is what he’s wanted. And it isn’t anything less, anything more. Mona’s there too, like she should, and she doesn’t kiss much, but she wraps her arms around Tartaglia and it’s—
His ‘first’ kiss with Mona; and she’s already kissed him before but they don’t tell Scaramouche. They don’t even know it to tell him, anyways. She laughs and it’s laced with euphoria and maybe that’s why when Tartaglia tastes it on his tongue he wants more.
She tells him she never thought he’d love her and it’s said like she still doesn’t believe it. He says I could try and convince you and she says what a flatterer with an amused tone.
And Tartaglia—Tartaglia’s whole. Not again if he never was, but he was just a little broken with pieces missing and Mona and Scaramouche just made him click .
.