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“Your birthday was yesterday?”
It’s a seemingly innocuous question, but coming from Dottore, he knows it’s anything but. He’s on his guard instantly, eyes narrowing as he looks up at the outcasted scholar. “Where did you find this out?”
“So you’re not denying it.” The grin on Dottore’s face stretches wider—it’s the only part of his expression that Scaramouche can see, the rest of it obscured behind his usual mask, but it’s enough to set him further on edge. “Come on now, no need for all the hostility. It was only out of curiosity that I asked.”
He scoffs. “You expect me to believe that? You only care about things that benefit you.”
“I’m hurt,” Dottore drawls. Scaramouche rolls his eyes.
“If that’s all, I’ll be leaving now.” He doesn’t make mention of the fact that he was here first, before Dottore came strolling in from Archons-know-where, but it doesn’t matter. The Harbingers rarely gather outside of summons by the Tsaritsa and funerals, and he’d prefer it stay that way.
And then The Doctor speaks again.
“I was just taking a look around Inazuma. It’s quite interesting, you know? It seems as though someone misses you a fair bit.”
His jaw hardens, fingers tensing against the door handle. He doesn’t look back. “What the hell do you mean by that?”
“Who knows? I just saw a message on the Hanamizaka bulletin board that reminded me suspiciously of you,” Dottore drawls. “But I could be wrong. It could just have been addressed to any other person.”
His knuckles have turned white against the cold of the metal. “I don’t have time for your nonsense.”
Dottore only laughs. The sound follows him out past the slamming of the door behind him, mocking almost.
How infuriating.
What’s more infuriating, still, is how he finds himself in Inazuma three days after. He doesn’t know what he’s doing here, or why. It’s not because of what Dottore had said, he tells himself, it’s not. He’s had some free time lately and with the situation in his old hometown as volatile as ever, he might as well pay a visit. That’s all, he insists. That’s all.
He’s dressed in regular civilian garb, something a visitor to Inazuma might wear. His Vision is safely tucked away, head low as he wanders the street, pausing to glance at directional signs along the way. He gets a few curious gazes here and there, but the citizens leave him alone for the most part. Some food stall vendors call out to him, but he gives a hasty reply and hurries away. I’m not a fan of sweet food. He’s only met with grins and understanding nods, friendly responses shouted after his quickly-fading silhouette: I’ll remember that the next time you visit Inazuma!
There won’t be a next time, he tells himself. This is just a short visit to see how the nation is faring. No more, no less.
His footsteps slow, and then halt. The Hanamizaka bulletin board is where he remembered it to be—and he’s surprised that he remembered at all, considering how much he generally avoided the city. He combs through the messages, just quick enough to be inconspicuous, just slow enough to skim the words on the papers. Some are printed, others written in messier scrawl. Advertisement: Kiminami Restaurant hiring. Arrest warrant: night-time assaults. Yae Publishing House: limited edition copies available now.
He doesn’t find what he’s looking for. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, specifically, and a part of his mind tries to deny that he’s looking for anything at all, but his eyes search nevertheless through the pages.
He doesn’t find what he’s looking for. When he returns to Snezhnaya, a week after, Dottore looks at him with a sneer painted on his face. Scaramouche ignores him.
And maybe it’s a coincidence that he’s free of work at the start of the next year, too. Maybe it’s a coincidence that he finds himself in Inazuma again, or maybe it’s not. He doesn’t want to think about it, so he doesn't.
(In some corner of his mind, he briefly wonders if he is in denial. But that thought isn't a pleasant one, either, and so he shoves that away, too.)
This time, he doesn’t come four days late. He comes in the evening, when the sun has sunken beyond the buildings and the citizens have retired to their homes. There is no one around, and he takes his time now, reaching out to the messages pinned to the bulletin, eyes scanning black ink and paper-smudged scrawls.
It’s the same as before—advertisements, notices, the occasional wanted posters here and there. He searches until his fingers pause against a sheet, buried behind the rest of them, porcelain against paper. The words are presented in neat writing with dark ink, signed off as anonymous.
Happy birthday.
His tongue feels heavy, like it’s been weighed down by bile.
It could be anyone, he tells himself. It could be anyone. There are so many people in Inazuma—anyone could share the same birthday as him.
Only one person knows the day he came into this world, after all. He doesn’t count Dottore. It can’t be for him, his mind denies, but his eyes don’t leave the paper.
I wonder if you’ll ever read this, the words continue. I hope you’ve found people who you can celebrate your birthday with. And I’m sorry it could never be me.
How ridiculous, he thinks. Something in his chest burns like acid in the place of a heart.
Below the text comes a note, messily handwritten. Shouldn’t personal notes like these be taken down?
And then underneath in response, a printed string of text: this post has been approved by the Shogun. It will be removed at the end of the day.
He only realises how hard he had been gripping the paper when he removes his hand from it, the corner crumpled.
How ridiculous.
He turns towards the gates, gaze fixed on the ground. He doesn’t stop walking until he’s out of the city, the glow of streetlamps fading into the dimmer hues of night.
He refuses to look back.
“Found what you were looking for?” Dottore asks later, once he’s returned to Snezhnaya.
He resists the urge to punch the Harbinger across the face.
The messages are the same every year. Different iterations of the same thing, always written by an anonymous poster in the same style of writing, and always starting with happy birthday. He doesn’t know why he still comes by, not when he leaves each time with a bitter taste in his mouth, growing more pungent with each step away from the city.
You shouldn’t have thrown me away, then, he thinks. His throat feels asphyxiated, like the black ink had crawled its way through his mouth and clogged up his system. It’s too late for regret now.
It’s too late for anything now.
The next time Dottore comes to him, Scaramouche assumes it’s about something stupid again.
“Going to Inazuma again soon, huh?” The Doctor starts. Scaramouche snorts.
“As if it’s my fault La Signora died.”
Funny, he thinks, that the same hand which pens a letter to him each year was the same that reduced his own colleague to ash.
“Is that all you have to say to me?” The sun is beginning to set; he’ll set off for Inazuma come dawn. “I’m not in the mood for your… pleasantries.”
The corners of Dottore’s lips twitch. “Are you ever in the mood for them?”
Scaramouche doesn’t bother responding to that.
“But no,” Dottore continues. “I have something else to discuss. Something that involves you.”
“If this is more trivial crap like asking about my birthday, we’re done here.”
Dottore’s eyes glint behind his mask, just the faintest hint of crimson before it fades. “Speaking of your birthday,” the exile says, and if Scaramouche were able to feel chills then he might have at that very moment, “tell me, Scaramouche—you know the reason for which you were born, don’t you?”
His jaw hardens. "What do you want?"
"Always so hostile. I'm hurt." He knows Dottore means none of it.
"I don't trust you," he shoots back, arms folded across his chest, "and for good reason."
If anything, Dottore looks amused, like he'd already predicted that this line of conversation would result. "And what if I gave you an offer you can't reject?"
What a ridiculous statement.
He glances at The Doctor, eyes narrowed. "What is it?"
The grin on Dottore's face stretches wide, and he leans in closer, mouth just centimetres from Scaramouche's ear. "Tell me," he says, voice dropping to a whisper, "have you ever wanted to become a god?"
Neither of them could have foreseen what was to come.
For all his years of living, he didn’t know that a year would be enough to change everything. As the colder months set in, he finds himself wandering the lands of Sumeru, not Snezhnaya, and the first time that Nahida asks him for his birthday, he has to remind himself that it’s all different now. This isn’t Dottore anymore, and this isn’t who he was a hundred years ago anymore.
Everything is different now, from the Vision he carries over his absent heart to the roads he wanders down. He lies forgotten in the minds of all but two, and he thinks it’s better that way.
But some things stay the same, as is the price to pay for remembering.
The sun sets, leaking blood-gold over the grasslands, and he finds himself facing south to where the Nation of Eternity lies.
And, just like a hundred years ago, and just like ten years ago, he stares at his footsteps on the shore, feet sinking into the sand along Inazuma.
“Welcome to Ritou! Are you new here?”
They’ve gotten friendlier to outlanders since the decree was called off.
Outlander. He looks down at his clothes, the fabric soft against his arms. He hadn’t changed out of his regular outfit this time.
His footsteps carry him down worn paths, past fallen berries and trees with less leaves than usual. The citizens are dressed in warmer garb, as they always are at this time of the year, but it doesn’t matter to him—nor do their curious glances as he brushes past, gaze fixed ahead and refusing to meet anyone’s.
“First time in Inazuma?” a voice calls out, and despite himself, his footsteps slow. A food stall vendor, the same one he’d met ten years ago, the grandson of the one he’d met a hundred years ago. “We’ve got all kinds of sweet treats here—dango, sakura mochi, sweet shrimp sushi, you name it!”
He swallows, turning his head away. “I’m not a fan of sweet food,” he responds shortly, just only loud enough for the man to hear.
It doesn’t do anything to dampen the vendor’s spirits, and as he takes to the next flight of stairs, he hears the man shout behind him: “we sell other food too, so come pay us a visit tomorrow!”
Maybe he will.
He comes to a halt just a metre away from the bulletin board, eyes scanning the papers pinned to the surface, most printed in neat rows of text.
He knows he won’t find what he’s looking for.
He looks anyway.
(Just in case.)
His fingers brush the papers, pushing them aside, stopping as his gaze falls upon handwritten text. If you should be bullied by a red oni with horns such that you lose toys, cards, Onikabuto or likewise, please come to Hanamizaka and look for Kuki Shinobu…
(Just in case.)
“Is there something you’re looking for?”
A smooth voice behind him startles him—he forces his expression to remain impressively unchanged—and he turns, indigo meeting molten gold. “Nothing in particular,” he responds. “I was just curious about the notices, that’s all.”
The General nods, motioning towards the board. “I have something to put up. If you’ll excuse me.”
He steps aside, eyes following the paper as she pins it to the surface. He knows he won’t find what he’s looking for—his gaze lands on the words Shogunate Announcement, printed in formal font—but he looks anyway.
Just one more time.
(Just in case.)
It’s ridiculous, he thinks, the corner of his chest burning as he takes another step away.
There’s no reason to be here anymore. There was never a reason to be here, he corrects, eyes trailing to the bulletin board first then the streets of Inazuma.
He leaves the same night, head lowered. His silhouette fades with the dying embers of the soft-glowing streetlamps, and he only stops once he’s a distance away from the city, Tenshukaku only barely visible beyond the haze that settles over the night.
He turns to look at the building, at the faintest glimpses of light from within, at the grand doors that remain mockingly shut.
Just in case.
One step, and then another.
He’s gone from Inazuma by the time midnight comes.
Nahida finds him four days later, on a cliff overlooking the forest. “I was looking for you,” she comments, coming to stand beside him. “I couldn’t find you.”
“I know.” He’s not been back to Sumeru since; not until this morning. “Did you need me for something?”
Nahida laughs, like he’d just said something funny. “Why do you think that people only find you if they need you for something?”
He doesn’t respond to that.
“I was looking for you because I wanted to wish you happy birthday,” she says, and he stiffens, turning his gaze to her.
“There’s no need for that.”
The Archon shrugs. “I know, but I wanted to.”
The breeze picks up, carrying the scent of dew on leaves. “How ridiculous,” he scoffs, but there’s no malice to it.
“Happy belated birthday,” Nahida says softly, “I hope this year will be kind to you.”
He snorts. “I have no need for that.”
The years have never been kind to him.
“Still.”
And maybe she’s right, he thinks, watching the softly-scattering leaves. It will be different now—this year and the ones to come.
And maybe, just maybe, for the better this time.