Chapter Text
It was a dark cold autumn morning outside the window. The view from your home was obscured by thick fog while an icy breeze kicked orange leaves around. The city was asleep for the most part: the morning street cleaners were busy gathering leaves into piles as a rare office worker walked hastily through the fog. You saw this banal scene every morning from your bed, observing the passersby and even recognizing some. Those same familiar strangers also functioned as your morning alarm on most days. Today, though, someone else decided to disturb your light sleep.
A low buzzing gently stirred you from sleep. You lazily rubbed your eyes and grimaced in confusion. Waking up was always a chore: your memory became foggy again, and loose plant vines were always scattered around the bedsheets amongst discarded clothes and notebooks. You never bothered to clean up properly either, because the same sight would greet you the next morning. As such, you only pushed your belongings around the mattress and threw away the weeds. It was careless, of course, but others’ judgements of your home life mattered little to you.
You pushed a pile of black satin off the bed and turned your head awkwardly towards the direction of the strange noise.
Levitating above the floor was the Balladeer. He meditated silently in the corner of the room, hands on his knees with one leg resting on the other. His eyes were closed; the red eye makeup he frequently wore was smudged and his hair was messily swept away from the face. He had a tule undershirt on that let his lean form peak through. This was perhaps one of the rare moments Scaramouche looked truly serene, unbothered by his Harbinger responsibilities and at terms with his existence.
“Am I disturbing your peace?” Scaramouche mused.
“Yes, you are,” you grumbled and propped yourself up on your right arm. “Wouldn’t it be easier to meditate on the floor for you?”
“Levitation also trains the mind, perhaps better than other exercises…”
“I see,” you answered and rubbed your eyes again. With your eyesight clearer, you continued looking at Scaramouche, silently admiring his form. The mist in your mind cleared up too during that time; Scaramouche had come over yesterday night for a chat over dandelion wine. You had invited him in excitedly and talked all night. The topics of those conversations escaped your mind, unlike the emptiness in your stomach.
You sat up on your bed slowly and felt a migraine manifest itself. You sighed, rethinking today’s plans entirely. You asked your guest: “How much did we have last night?”
“I had a bottle,” Scaramouche smirked with his eyes still closed. “And you had two, along with some… dessert.”
“Dessert?”
Scaramouche hummed in response and returned to his meditative state. You let out another pained sigh and began the search for painkillers. There weren’t any in the bedside table, so you trudged to the kitchen sink. You turned on the water and splashed your face, letting the cold liquid take away the pain from your head. In the small mirror above the sink, you noticed your bare torso: solitary moles were scattered stars on your abdomen, and a new indigo nebula appeared on your shoulder. You do not remember where it came from, but shook it off as the acts of a capricious client from the previous day.
In the corner of the mirror, you saw the Balladeer stealing quick glances at your back, visibly intrigued by what was taking you so long to wash up. This childish behavior amused you, mostly because Scaramouche remained deeply uninterested in most affairs and because of how hard he tried to hide his interest for you.
“A sight for sore eyes, aren’t I?” You joked.
“Perhaps,” he answered nonchalantly as he stood up on the floor. “It is hard to find a cure perfect for oneself.”
You watched him stride towards you through the mirror and saw him stop beside you. He looked at both of your reflections, evaluating each crease and bump on the skin carefully. This morning, the storm in his eyes was calm; there was no rain or thunder at the dark sea. Instead, the winds were weak and pleasant, leading the onlooker effortlessly deeper into the mind of the man. You decided to turn your head towards Scaramouche, who did not reciprocate the gesture. He continued staring at his reflection; perhaps he was mesmerized by the complexity of the human body, or maybe he was thinking of his own, even more complex, condition.
“Will there be breakfast?” Scaramouche asked as he gave you a sideways glance.
You mulled the question over in your head: you had eggs and milk somewhere in the pantry, along with a brioche and butter.
“Pain perdu,” you said. “If you don’t mind sugar in the morning.”
“I’ll allow it today,” Scaramouche sighed with impatience. “Will it take long?”
“Half an hour at most.”
“Wonders. Sadly, I’m no use in the kitchen, so I won’t help you cook.”
“Excuses, excuses,” you chuckled as you moved past him, patting his shoulder gently. He melted into the gesture, rubbing his head on your hand like a cat. You wanted to stop time then, to retain the comfort of the small gesture forever, but your wishes could never reach the stars above.