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Begins your familiar track down the roads adorned in purple and blue.
The Never changing scenery of Inazuma, glorious in its eternity, its ability to preserve and keep.
A gentle breeze is all it takes for leaves to leave the trees, creating a rain of pink, green, blue; all the colors a distant cold, a faraway gaze from you.
Few steps more and you will be mingling with the people again, up until few steps you can hear the chatter rising, a life to people’s voices– Inazuma has been changing lately.
Then that tug makes itself apparent on your finger again and you stop yourself from reaching out to hold, to squeeze until the pain goes away.
It has been a while since it last happened, you can’t help but muse, eyes lazily going over the crowd without a goal in mind.
Some moments it’s sharp, some days it’s barely there, always a pang, always an ache, right by the edge of your nail, right under your flesh, like a thorn stuck in your finger, refusing to get out, refusing to meet the sun.
—
Scaramouche finds his walking getting worse and worse with each step, barely standing, let alone stay in an invisible line.
Like slurred words leaving the words of a drunk, his steps are devoid of that air of elegance he usually carries around, as well as the power that spreads around like a freshly bloomed flower.
Long before he collapses, ‘ at least it is a place out of prying eyes ’ he cannot help but think. He will survive this, he always does.
What is but a mere stomach wound to a god, after all?
His hat sliding off as he tries to gather his breath and make sure his torso remains as immobile as it can, the hushing of the bushes fill the air with little to nothing.
It is not a melody, nor a song, it is nothing beautiful like the birds chirping– at least, that’s what humans claim, he for one cannot hear the appeal in it.
The nature is pitying on me , that’s what it is, he scoffs, his brows furrowed as the idea appears in his mind.
He doesn’t know for how long he has stayed like that, lying, letting in and out slow erratic breaths, listening to the mockery of nature, trying to turn a deaf ear to it.
The gnosis sits still in the void in his chest, all he has to do is to wait for his body to finish healing completely.
Before he his eyes fall and him, to slumber; however, he hears footsteps from up ahead. ‘ Who in their right mind would enter this part of the wild in the first place? ’
The steps only get louder much to his annoyance. A nosy human trying to play the doctor is the last thing he needs in his cramped schedule as it is.
Before he can raise his head to get a glimpse however, it is a red that enters his vision.
He feels his blood running cold.
Blink–
He opens his eyes and the red line only seems to grow closer, swaying slightly with each step you take.
Taking in one last breath, Scaramouche closes his eyes and relaxes every muscle in his body, letting his body fall limp.
He has slumbered for so long, he can afford to do it once more for a few minutes.
Your steps come to a halt when you see the figure meters away from you, lying lifelessly. Just standing where you are, you look at his form for a moment, examining, observing.
Maybe you should be concerned of your own well-being, for thinking he looks so serene and in harmony with the environment as he lies, a darker color under him slowly painting the ground.
Because out of all the pests in Inazuma, it had to be you that walked upon him. It had to be you to find him.
If he had any lingering doubts from before, they’re all dismissed now. Fate is a cruel thing, and it hates his guts.
‘ Hey, are you the supposed failed god of Inazuma? How about I make sure you spend eternity in a living hell? ’ That’s probably what fate would say to him if it were to materialize.
Lucky for him, he doesn’t believe in fate, or anything of the like.
Eyes closed, he waits for your steps to disappear as they appeared but it never happens. You don’t rush to his side in worry or curiosity either.
Striding to where he lies, you crouch and stare into his face more carefully, one side of his hat now resting on the ground, partially covering him-
It’s the first garment you take off, putting it to the side.
‘Sir, are you alright?’
Neither of you know whether you said these out loud or just thought about doing so.
A quick check for his pulse, such cold hands , he thinks, you let out a content hum, hands moving onto his limbs, raising them, checking for any movement, your hand hovers above his nose to see if he’s still breathing, one finger rested under his eye, the other pulling his eyelid up to wait for any optical reflex-
Hands roam his entire body, checking for anything, everything and Scaramouche feels like suffocating, like he is about to melt into the soil under him. He hopes– since when has he ever hoped? , that his control over his heartbeat was sufficient.
Is that how it feels when humans touch one another? Maybe .
He has seen it so many times when he was younger.
They touch out of love, out of compassion, of hope, of celebration, of an intimacy he couldn’t quite grasp at the time, they touch for the sake of touching, to keep themselves grounded- it’s how they communicate , more than words. He knows because he has seen a touch gone violent, gone horrid, become twisted, pathetic, barely enough, too much–
He tries to push away the blooming thought that he has enjoyed feeling your touch.
As you’re done inspecting him, he waits for you to leave. Instead your hands travel upwards and find the opening you were looking for. Pulling down his clothes, layer after layer, you strip him down- another garment taken off.
The cold hits his torso and he remains still, in this fake pretend slumber.
Your fingers ghost over his wound, one millimeter down and he will feel your touch, and he remains still in his deep slumber.
A shuffling noise reaches his ears and before he can know any better, you pour water down his wound, gently wipe at it with a piece of fabric, then another liquid poured and it stings . He doesn’t even clench his jaw, he has endured pain greater than a disinfectant on an open wound.
Sound of a fabric ripped off and around him, if you’ve reached the patching up stage, surely you’ll be leaving after that.
You don’t.
In his minimal, and passive, time spent with you, Scaramouche finds you more and more intolerable.
Why did you even come here in the first place, why did you take it upon yourself to help? He has seen you before, maybe a few times but from the way you hold yourself and how you act, it doesn’t make any sense to him that you’re doing this.
And he is lying still, for his sake , that string couldn’t possibly be pulling at you currently, so why are you still here?
Inspecting hands continue their work and he hears a sigh, ‘at least i didn’t have to stitch ’
So you were planning to do that as well?
It is odd, but you push the thought away, how one second his stomach looks in an awful state, and you cannot help but consider how logical it’d be to stitch up an unconscious man without his consent on it, but by the time the bandages, needle and thread are out, the wound looks relatively better.
‘A hydro or dendro user with an exceptional skill of healing perhaps?’ You doubt it, and try not to ponder on the lack of a vision on his person.
Packing up all the materials, you place the bag to your side and lean against the small rock behind you, figuring it’d save him the worry, and you to guilt, to explain you happened upon him and lend a hand.
Tch , the drilling ache returns and you can't help but wrap your left hand around the finger this time, squeezing it hard, eyes closed, waiting for it to pass as it always does.
You cannot possibly be thinking to stay, don’t you have a life to live, one that shortens with each tick of a clock?
Despite his growing annoyance and impatience, Kunikuzushi decides to wait, a moment of few breaths later he decides on counting the minutes.
Despite whatever he tells himself, or how many complaints roll one after another, all targeting your person, he cannot help but muse if you look just as he first saw you?
Under the shade of a tree, a book in hand, the shadow was barely covering you but you didn’t seem to mind the blinding sun at all, lost in your head, or just dragged into whatever you were reading, it took him a while to notice the red string that lay between you and him.
Perhaps all that wandering around for centuries really did a number on his head, if he really started seeing things that weren’t there, one out of a stupid human’s tale no less.
Raising his hand to see a little knot on his finger, the string barely moved but it was your sudden movement that caught his attention, waving your right hand in the air suddenly as if something got caught, or you got a paper cut there.
And for a moment, he thought it was the latter, with how the red seemed to spill from your ringer finger, only for the drops of blood to not gather in a pool but rather form a string that reaches his own.
With a scoff, unsure for how long he stood there watching you, he walked away, just an illusion of light, it doesn’t mean anything.
Red maple leaves fall one after another and despite his claims, Kunikuzushi finds himself pulled towards you.
What’s frustrating, really , is that you are not even that interesting.
Inazuma’s population of dogs has always surpassed cats, with his maker’s favoritism for them, yet you seem to look for every cat you can find in the corner, at every street, road and path you walk on, ‘good morning’, ‘how have you been’, ‘oh you don’t say, i agree that’s rude of Dango, i’ll have a word with him’ ... you just cannot seem to shut up.
It is entertaining to witness though, how you fasten your steps in the crowd, pretend you don’t hear when someone tries their chance at starting a conversation.
At least knowing these, your now one sided conversations do not disturb him. Just mumbling one thought was all it took, and up until your work is done and you lie down, you just continued talking out loud.
So you are that lonely, huh , Scaramouche finds himself snicker at the idea mentally.
About ten minutes later, your breathing pattern begins to change, yet he is in no shape to up and leave yet. It is a secluded area at least, both of you falling asleep wouldn’t be that much of a threat.
His rest passes in the blink of an eye, the sky turning a lilac by the time he wakes up.
Reaching for his hat near him, he places it, carefully getting up, better to leave as soon as possible.
Scaramouche’s hand stays still on his hat, when he hears a noise coming from behind.
Since when hanging out with cats grants an enhanced ability of hearing? You shouldn’t have heard him leave.
Hat placed and the front of it tipped low, he turns to your expecting eyes, nodding his head as a ‘thanks’ he walks away.
You just watch as he departs, why would he even try to cover his face with his hat? You did see what he looked like when he was out.
Time goes and this event grows forgotten for the both of you.
Kunkuzushi makes sure to avoid public places for a while, focus on his missions, priorities, plan his next moves, always be prepared and have the upper hand in everything.
Yet you seem to wish to be an obstacle in this, he realizes, each time he runs into you, be it with a distance or not, he cannot help but linger for a few seconds longer and watch.
How the wind seems to blow, how the light reflects on your face when you are doing nothing but existing .
Splashing half of your drink into your face at a sudden sound coming from behind, almost dropping something and quite literally throwing it in the air while trying to get a hold before anyone can see, your ticks, how your thumb always goes over your ring finger to tap or apply pressure to it, and suddenly shaking the hand altogether as if it caught fire, you jump on one leg for some reason whenever you do– it is ridiculous…
small gestures, behavior patterns, expressions or silly movements you do when you’re alone (which cannot be labeled dancing)– with everything you do, he deems it stupid, pointless, weird, there is nothing, nothing interesting about you and he should just leave– he doesn’t realize the hint of smile appearing on his face at one of your antics until it hurts his cheeks.
He needs to leave before this … whatever this is becomes chronic.
It is time for a new approach perhaps.
When he focuses hard enough, he could unsee that red string, even if just for a second, it is better than nothing.
Strings all around, surrounding him.
Kunikuzushi finds it harder and harder to walk each day, in fear of tripping over them.
Can you blame him, when they look so vibrant, so real, so… fragile ?
Ah , that is why he never wanted to mingle with humans in the first place.
Or so he says but he finds himself drawn to them no matter what. Be it a front row seat or in the shadows, he always keeps an eye open for them, watching, observing…
He tries his best to ignore just how wrong that red string tying the two of you seems.
Out of the vibrant, fair, lively reds, this one looks a tad darker; like blood, spilling down.
Maybe it’s all in his head, and that is just a sick part of his brain, trying to guilt him for something that isn’t even happening.
You do not even know him, so there should be nothing to worry about, right ?
Right, except it is not– not when he catches that sliver of red near your left hand that he knows not to be a flower resting nearby.
Watching you from a distance on the occasion your paths cross, just like you read your books– was it too much to ask?
Was asking for one thing too much?
His breath doesn’t hitch, or his body doesn’t freeze in place. He is a god after all, he has witnessed tragedies worse than that.
Scaramouche doesn’t believe in fate, or any stories humans have fabricated in the name of that, yet he knows, if it exists, truly, it hates him to no end; and he gladly returns that feeling.
With a life too short to live, it is lost on him why humans sought to have something determining their entire path, sealing it for good, would that not mean no matter what you do, it is in vain?
If anything, a guide, a set stone could only benefit those with beings beyond humans- but he figures, having your entire path drawn in front of you would only be cruel when you are eternal .
Each day the red glows, the next time he sees you, it has gotten brighter, solid, it exists now, shortening in height some days but never quite right. Tied neatly around your ring finger, in a pretty bow, it looks elegant .
Kunikuzushi feels an emotion eating at him at the sight of this but cannot quite put a name to it.
It is almost frustrating to see how the two of you are so close yet so far.
When he looks back to his hand, the string feels like a rope wrapped around his hand, he can see a bruise forming on his wrist from how tight it is, from how far away the two of you are; and it looks as if the other end of the rope gets thinner as it reaches you and gets inside your flesh somehow. An infection , that’s what it seems like.
With his fair hair contrasting his dark one, long features and bright smile, he looks like everything Scaramouche- Kunikuzushi is not.
Despite the edges to his face, he looks softer, whereas Scaramouche knows even with his rounder sides and boyish looks, he looks sharper, ready to cut and bleed any second.
Perhaps this is just another sick joke of life, of fate to him.
He tries not to ponder on the meaning behind.
Is it an ‘ in another life’ ?, is it because of his existence that defies nature?, could the two of you ever meet?, would you even like him, accept him as he is, with his hands bathed in crimson, shining under the pale light of the moon, as lifeless as he is–
An anomaly lies on your hands, in your blood, intervened with your life; is it because he is an anomaly himself? Is that all there is to it? To him?
He wishes he never allowed himself to collapse that day, or push you away when you saw his wounded state.
Everywhere he looks, he sees red; anywhere he sits, or waits, he leaves behind a trail of red spider lilies, blooming under each step he takes, following him in their wake.
You would be happier with him, you’d laugh, still talk to your cats, make faces at people when they’re looking and he would be there to snicker by your side, try to hold back his laughter, holding your hand wouldn’t hurt your fingers, gaze into your eyes without the worry of an eternity that awaits, making your limited days etern– stop!
A deep breath, in and out and he begins reorganizing his mind.
Avoidance doesn’t help his case, and with the acquired heart he was once promised, it only makes the matters more sour.
Your smile looks more genuine nowadays, it suits your frame.
It is all in his head, after all, is it not?
Maybe if he focuses hard enough, he can see more, a dagger in his hand perhaps.
–doesn’t need to be fancy, or engraved with centuries long history, a simple one will do the trick.
Wrapping the string on his hand once, making sure to extend his index and thumb, he brings it over the imaginary dagger.
One swift slash is all it takes.
He turns his back and begins to walk away.
Just as a captivating shade of indigo enters your vision, your body tenses up in pain, you bring your hand to your chest, blood spilling, as if something pierced through your finger, cut in deep. Sucking on the finger to stop it from bleeding, your lover’s hand hover over yours, his face painted with worry; he leaves the two of you behind in slumbering unknown.