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The moon hangs high in the sky tonight, on a sleepy backdrop of bright stars. They are flecked everywhere, casting dim light upon the land. Scaramouche watches the crescent in the dark sky with rapture, glistening eyes twinkling. He always came out during the night, sitting upon the soft grass and watching as the moon moved what appeared to be mere inches as the minutes and hours ticked by.
Bone deep exhaustion seeps into his joints and settles there. A sting sits low on his forearms and high up on his thighs, already bandaged and cleaned. He moved through the motions as if on autopilot, driven only by the thought that Kazuha would be disappointed had he not taken the proper aftercare for his wounds. It’s funny, almost, Kazuha was bound to be disappointed regardless, what did mere bandages and peroxide provide? Kazuha always held his displeasure well when seeing the wraps and bandages, but never let it slip through his expression. But Scara can tell and it was abundantly clear to him that he was grating upon Kazuha’s nerves.
It seems like a curse he carries, an omen that sticks with him, that he is bound to disappoint everyone who gets close to him. He wasn’t good enough for Ei. He would never be anything more than a broken, defective puppet to her, no matter what he did. Even with the Gnosis, he’d still be just as useless, never to serve a purpose. Desperately wanting to prove a point that would not matter, would prove null and void in the long run. And now Kazuha seems to be growing weary of him. It was bound to happen eventually. He had known this wouldn’t last. Everyone Scaramouche has cared about slipped through his fingers like sand. And it is always his own damn fault.
A flash of light flew across the indigo sky, burning so brightly and beautifully before its fuse simmered and the light went out. A shooting star, something Kazuha had mentioned once when they watched the stars together once. He told Scara that many people liked to wish on them. They had both wished on that star that night, smiling and leaning into each other gently. It makes Scaramouche’s heart lurch at the thought and he cradles his knees closer to his chest. The jostling of movement causes a shock of pain to claw up his thigh, but he merely shoves it down.
“I thought I would find you out here,” a soft voice beckons, breaking through the silence of the night. Scaramouche can feel his presence from behind and registers it numbly. He curls further up into himself, shame brewing and boiling deep in his chest.
Kazuha stands just to Scaramouche’s right, peering up to the sky. “It’s beautiful tonight,” he whispers gently and Scara doesn’t have to raise his gaze to know Kazuha has a small smile upon his face. He can hear it in his words, from the very way he speaks.
Kazuha lowers himself onto the grass, sitting cross legged and leaning back. He keeps his distance from Scaramouche, not explicitly touching him, but leaning close enough that either could initiate contact. He knows how this goes, Scaramouche loathes to be touched during his episodes and often resorts to threats, violence, crying once touched. Scara is the one to initiate the touch, not the other way around. For Scaramouche, Kazuha can wait an infinity.
“I’m glad you’ve bandaged yourself,” he comments, looking at Scaramouche with a sickly sweet gaze that Scaramouche cannot stand. It’s so loving, so caring that it makes tears start to sprout in his eyes. He’s not sad, he’s not happy, he’s not anything right now, but a bundle of frayed, irritated and raw nerves and emotions. He doesn’t want to cry, but his body clearly has a different idea.
Kazuha shouldn't even be giving him the time of day right now. He should leave when he still has the chance, before Scaramouche corrupts him and changes him into something hideous and ugly. Kazuha is so pretty and free and Scaramouche believes he will only ever serve to tie him down and clip his wings so he won’t be able to fly as high as before. But somehow, someway, for whatever skewed reason, Kazuha doesn’t leave. He doesn’t even falter when Scaramouche gives him opportunities upon opportunities to leave. Kazuha’s eyes crinkle around the edges as he whispers sweet nothings to Scaramouche, words Scaramouche is sure that soothe his soul, his heart (as if he has one) in an impossible manner. Kazuha makes him feel warm and alive and Scaramouche is quite positive he would break and collapse like a puppet on strings if Kazuha were to leave him. But surely, he argues to himself, it would be for the best. He can never quite entirely convince himself of this.
“I love you, you know?” Kazuha speaks with a sigh. His words are lithe, small, but still just as powerful. Scaramouche feels a sob slip from his lips. Preposterous, a broken puppet crying out for emotions he can’t grasp. “You’re so strong, my dear, so strong and sweet.”
He can’t be strong, Kazuha must be lying. But Kazuha never lies, has never told a false truth. His words are never veiled with mistruths and he only speaks the cold, harsh truth. But even he makes the truth sound beautiful. He’s a man of his word and it’s something he holds himself to.
But still, strong people don’t find solace in a blade. Strong people don’t give into their urges and allow themselves to be vulnerable. Strong people don’t break down at the smallest of things and sob and cry themselves dry. Strong people were like Kazuha, who had endured so much pain and still managed to live, to find purpose. Kazuha is the strongest person he knew.
“I’m so proud of you, my love, my Kuni,” he cooes out the nickname that made Scara’s knees feel like jelly. He knows how potent the nickname was, how it makes Scaramouche’s head feel fuzzy and body shaky.
Scaramouche breaks. The ache in his head and chest hits a crescendo and he feels utterly and positively destroyed. He throws himself against Kazuha, his lifeline, his boyfriend, the one person who managed to stick with him, and cries. He grabs onto Kazuha’s cloak for dear life as he sobs and cries and wails and whines into his warmth. Everything blares overwhelmingly and he feels like he might hyperventilate. Kazuha works him through it, though, rubbing his back gently, whispering gentle phrases and words into his ears until Scaramouche himself starts to believe the sweet nothings. Kazuha’s hand softly runs through his dark hair, nails scratching against his scalp cathartically.
Scaramouche vents out all emotions as Kazuha rocks him gently into the night, eventually managing to lull the Harbinger into a peaceful slumber. Scara’s head lays on Kazuha’s lap as he continues to play with the soft hair. Kazuha’s thumb rubs against the skin underneath Scaramouche’s eye in a repeated, loving motion. A small smile spreads across Kazuha’s lips as he knows there is nothing in the world that would make Kazu avoid Scaramouche. It is like they were controlled by magnetics, the world snapping them together, incomplete without the other.
He truly loves Scaramouche and there were little, if any, things that would change that. And Kazuha delights in knowing it is well reciprocated on the other end, as well.