Archive of Our Own ^beta

Handcuffed

Clang.

The sound hums and resounds in a slow echo.

It hits Mona's head and screeches like chalk on a slate that was deliberately creaked. It's shrill and uncomfortable, piercing; hearing it makes her heart jump, and she feels queasy and nauseous, almost like she could retch as her stomach upturns.

Her fingers clench on her skull. The noise echoes so painfully that the apprentice astromancer could swear six trains have just been run over her brain. She has never felt so bad before. It will teach her to get drunk and absurdly carried away by the worst fanatic Teyvat has ever borne. And why does she have to be thinking about that jerk even in post-alcohol-induced slumber?

The high school girl, properly wasted, senses her heart constrict unpleasantly at the thought and clings stubbornly to the last bits of her dreams, hoping to go back to a peaceful sleep.

Scaramouche had always been a source of torment for her ever since the day he crossed the threshold of her class and took the campus by storm.

Relatively small and thin for his age, with a hypocritical smile and a contemptuous glare, he had immediately given her the impression of holding the world in the palm of his hand, as if each person he met was no more than a puppet whose strings he could pull at will.

He always had this cocky attitude and this irritating and suave voice, severe and a bit shrill at the same time, too pleasant to be sincere, to the point of giving her shivers every time he would come to perch it in the hollow of her ear.

Listening to him always gave Mona the impression that someone was scratching her veins from the inside out and burning them. He heated up her senses and made it like each extremity of her body was catching on fire under her epidermis. A disturbing and unpleasant sensation that she despised.

Besides, Mona had never liked liars, and Scaramouche was extremely skilled in that specific endeavour. Being on the same chemistry team for the next three years certainly didn't help her opinion on him improve.

From the minor event was born an unfriendly, if not downright hostile relationship marked by insults, mockery, and a few suspicious slippages: the asshole had dared to burn her weekly astrology report on their first assignment! Even if he had claimed loud and clear that it was an accident, she had never believed in his innocence.

The fact that he was using his charm and popularity to obtain favours had not helped his case in the eyes of Mona. On the contrary, she was a hundred times more exasperated by his existence when she saw the serene way in which he could coax their classmates.

A smile here or there and it was done; they would fall at his feet like bees reaching for honey, drinking each lie with such fervent ardour that you could swear he was a divinity descended from above to preach the holy word.

By Teyvat, she would never be so easy to fool!

Even if, in the dark, Scaramouche’s stormy pupils, deep and abyssal as the bottom of a well, had started to haunt her constantly since she had the misfortune to delve into them.

Once again, Mona is confident that he knows very well the power he holds with a single look; the way he can make someone squirm in the blink of an eye, using his beautiful irises, natural onyx stones with shimmering amethysts reflects, to collect secrets and whispers like a tax inspector collects property taxes.

“This guy is an absolute nightmare”, she whispers under her breath. But, after all, how else could she describe him?

She doesn't know if it's his Inazuman accent or his maniacal way of laughing when challenged which appeals to others, but she finds him oppressive and dangerous. 

She can't trust him.

Not when everything seems to be theatrical play or comedy with him, not when he is cornering her day after day, and not when he has this ridiculous need to leave the tie of his school uniform a little loose, the unbuttoned collar at his throat seeming like an invitation to look for more, where a duel between shadows and alabaster skin is played out; and where after a discreet Adam's apple, the beginning of a tattoo in ink takes shape under a shirt that is far too white to be perfectly opaque, and at the same time way too thick to be totally transparent.

Unsurprisingly, Scaramouche loves to play hide and seek in every sense of the game. He's a real alley cat, sneaky and stubborn, who purrs to show off, but scratches when you least expect it.

If it had been up to her, she would have stayed away from him and his perfume forever, the scent was a little too bitter for her taste, a smell of burnt tea leaves, light yet heady, that stuck to her nose for hours every time she was forced to sit next to him in the science lab.

Sadly, Scaramouche, the despicable bastard, had found a way to befriend sweet Sucrose's boyfriend, Albedo, and it looked like Mona could never escape him as Scaramouche met her everywhere in unrelated corridors. Sometimes, it almost felt like he had been tracking her from day one.

The guy might be just crazy enough to do that.  

Mona bangs her head roughly against the arm of the sofa she is slumped on, only managing to worsen her headache.

Frankly, she will never understand how Albedo, who was usually so intelligent, could tolerate this fanatic, nor why the nice Sucrose had the imperious need to smother him with kindness and understanding.

Sometimes, when she and Scaramouche were arguing, Albedo and Sucrose would throw those funny knowing looks to her, irritating Mona and making her that much more virulent. Mona has always prided herself on being calm, disciplined, and composed. Beautiful and intelligent, no one had ever managed to make her tremble, and then…

Lately, even Fischl, her longest friend to date, had taken to acting in incongruous scenes, and while she's always enjoyed her highness’ entertaining companionship, she'd almost be happy to know that the Prinzessin was off to visit Fontaine right now.

The fact that her three closest friends had been regularly trying to pull her aside for the past few weeks to throw ready-made phrases at her like: 

"Do you know, Dear Lady Megistus, that paths covered by thorns only can lead to the most beautiful red roses." 

Or "Mona, did you know that my previous social experiences allowed me to discover that people you fight with more than once a day are currently at the core of our primary thoughts and needs?" 

And again: "Mo...Mona, sometimes our deepest heart's desire doesn't match with our head's consciousness." worries the young genius astrologist that she is a great deal.

Have they become so close to Scaramouche in these past months that they feel the absolute need to put her on friendly terms with him too? 

Bruh. Obviously, it's impossible !

He is too irritating and unbearable for her to stand, even if she wants to admit that, at times, she distinguishes a troubling vulnerability under his icy mask.

But hardly has she the time to give it more than a single thought that she remembers the constant stabs and remarks with which he slaps her as naturally as if he was saying hello, and the feeling fades into the background.

He's an asshole, he was probably born an asshole, and he will always be an asshole, period .

She purses her lips and refuses to think back on the memory of that rainy day downstairs from school. On the excessive pallor of his face and the tears she swore she had seen fall between two raindrops.

In any case, hardly had she approached, her voice perfectly controlled - because yes, Mona Megistus was never shy or troubled, the slightest ricochet in her timbre, just like the smallest redness on her cheeks, due to the cold and the storm - that he had rejected her sharply and violently, his long thin fingers, almost arachnid, wrapping around her wrist and burning her, so fiercely that she had cried for a short second. 

They were soft and hurting, breaking into her skin like little knives covered in velvet. He had stared at her with so much hate and passion that she had felt her knees knocked together and nearly lost her balance.

It revolted her! He had no right to make her feel so weak or to stop her from leaving, let alone hold her back. And yet, when he had come to touch the shallow of her ear with the pad of his thumb, when his breath as icy as his lips had brushed her cheeks, and his voice rung like the thundering sky in a simple "You've seen nothing", Mona had shuddered from her deepest core.

And then she had wanted to hit him and scream all the more for it. Long minutes had passed before he slowly released her wrist, still gazing at her, both menacing and silent; Mona had always thought she was brave, strong, even unyielding, and yet, on this instant, under the falling downpour, she had fled and run without looking back.

She exhales in deep annoyance. From the bottom of her heart, Mona will always feel the burning hot shame of that forced retreat. Finding herself helpless to the point of cowardice was an emotion the high school girl had loathed experiencing. Since then, she was dead set on hating him until hell broke on earth.

The young astromancer had really preferred it when there were only four in their club of theoretical and applied sciences: The gifted Albedo, obsessed with experiments and human psychology; the kind Sucrose, shy and stuttering, with her habit of constantly pushing her glasses up her nose and her love of plants; Fischl with her passion for theater and psychology, and finally her, the great Mona Megistus and her love for stars and astrology.

When did it become ok to let a temporary member infiltrate their ranks? Scaramouche and what? His foolproof sarcasm supposed to prove he was the best when it only confirmed his sickly narcissism and the pathological need he had to be the center of the world? No thanks.

Mona turns around, rubbing her cheek against the sofa's fabric, her eyes firmly closed. Can't she stop thinking about that acerbic garden gnome for even thirty seconds?

Currently, she wants to keep bashing her head repeatedly, with the preposterous hope that it will make her partially amnesiac, or in any case, stunned enough to go back to sleep and forget it all about Scaramouche, his face, his eyes, his hands, his lips, his voice, his breath against her cheek as he whispers and...

BONG!

“Are you going to do that all morning? No, because even if it's entertaining to see you trying to lose the last of your brain cells, I'm stuck in a situation requiring both of our attention. At least, if you think that you can manage to wake up fast enough, wacky witchy astrogirl.”

The voice rings like a death knell, it pierces through the last mists of her evaporating doze, and Mona freezes from head to toe. Now that her consciousness is fully surfacing, she can feel the pressure of his foreboding presence behind her back. 

His warmth brushes against her skin in an intriguing caress, but she's not fooled enough or mad enough, even after drinking—she still wonders how Bennett managed to buy punch instead of juice–to get burned.

Would Scaramouche fly away if she doesn't move and plays dead?

It works for opossums in the wild.

Anyway.

The obsessive tweak is returning to his country next week for university exams. She will probably never have to see him again after that. Mona reflexively digs her fingernails into the arm of the couch. 

Plus, if she's in this situation, disturbed, asleep in the common room with a bad headache, and cranky, it's all his fault. He was the one who had, as usual, bothered her for fun, picking at her soul with an olive branch as if to stir a sleeping lion.

He always knew how to push her buttons, and it was stronger than her; when he had insinuated that she could never take him on in a drunken poker game, she had snapped. 

That's why she couldn't wait to see him go home and never return. 

When he was here, she did many things at odds with her usual personality, and it was ANYTHING but good or reassuring. At this rate, she would fail her studies and end up homeless, and that was strictly out of the question!

“Do you seriously intend to keep on ignoring me? Damn, of all people to be handcuffed with, you are really the last one I would have chosen. Can someone be slower or more obvious in faking sleep? You should snore to make it real, like you have done all night. Rather unattractive, honestly, but coming from you, I'm not surprised…”

Handcuffed.

What does he mean, handcuffed ?!

And besides, she doesn't snore!!

The force with which Mona leaps to sitting is so violent that she feels all her backbones crack, and according to the vile mocking laughter that curls up in the hollow of her ear, Scaramouche doesn't miss a single crumb of her discomfiture.

It's impressive how quickly her predicament comes into focus once she is forced to use both her eyes and head. The curtains, which are still barely open, scarcely allow the light to filter through, but it's enough for her to make out the metallic sheen of the buckle now attached to her wrist.

How come she didn't even feel it until now? Was she really that drunk? 

The effect is immediate, like a phantom pain that has just kicked in; the iron now seems to sink into her skin and sting. Her fist clenches, and she pulls hard, in the bizarre but real hope that the handcuff will break.

“By all the stars of the gods of this world, I swear... !!” Her breath rises, trembling and silent as she claws at the metal in search of a clip that could allow her to free herself without success. So frustrating! A priori, the evil stuff is not a toy….

Her eyebrow twitches and her fingernails dig into the skin of her palm to trace half-moons there. Who brought back these horrors?! And more importantly, who had the terrible idea to handcuff her to the double-faced little devil in person?! The situation would appear much less critical if, at the other end of the chain, she didn't feel Scaramouche's gaze weighing on her shoulders like an anchor.

“What have you done again?!” She huffs and asks in a harsh voice, cursing her impulsiveness when she finally glances at him. She avoided it for a good reason, mainly because she knew he would have this uncanny yet hot stance, his legs wisely crossed and his head leaning nonchalantly against his fist.

Scaramouche is staring at her with a gaze far too insistent and profound, the kind that can trap her in quickly, and his mouth is slightly raised in a sardonic grin that has the gift of making her bristle. 

God, she can't stand him!

She fucking can’t!!

The room is in shambles, but he is perfectly dressed and clean, his uniform so straight that one would think it was recently ironed, his hair neatly combed and falling pleasantly against his temples while his complexion seems as serene and fresh as if he had just taken a shower, and never had a drop of punch last night.

The bastard even smells good and has left his collar slightly more detached, showing the beginning of the neck’s tattoo that intrigues Mona so much, a few petals, perhaps a lotus, and the tip of a wing that suggests that a bird in full flight hides under what is veiled. Impossible to verify that said since he has always avoided swimming lessons, and she certainly does not intend to ask him to undress.

Her cheeks tingle. 

No, that's really out of the question!

Aside from a metal clip on his left lobe, Scaramouche never wears accessories or piercings, supposedly because he comes from a traditional Inazuman family who believes that every body should remain faithful to their original envelope. She has vaguely read about these old precepts in one of her books, but still, she is surprised that he complies with such rigidity. She never pegged him as the religious type.

Well, whatever the actual reason, this prohibition that he seems to follow to the letter makes the presence of this tattoo even more alluring.

Maybe he was hoping to hide it forever, given the location ? But then, why let people know he has one either way? Unless he's just a mobster and-...!

“Always accusing me first thing.” Scaramouche blurts acerbically before quickly snapping his fingers in front of her face. “My eyes are up here, but please.. If you need to keep ogling, do not mind me. And people say women aren't as perverted as men.” He ends in fake dismay greeted by an outraged gurgling from her.

“I'm not checking you out!!” She stammers while taking great care to focus on something different than his arrogant silhouette, the ambient disorder, for example.

Although now empty of students, the living room is still upside down. The remains of cans are spread out right and left, boxes of pizzas are piled up pell-mell on the billiard table instead of the trash can, which is itself overturned, and a strange and dubious-looking stain now adorns the formerly ocher carpet.

Has anyone vomited here?

She can't help it; she puts a hand to her mouth to check her breath out of concern.

“Don't worry; I brushed your teeth while you were sleeping. You don't smell like a dead rat anymore. Sadly, your hair still looks like a bird's nest; should I take care of that too?” He states, not without grabbing the end of one of her long locks to support his point.

Seeing him stroking his thumb against the point of her hair, makes Mona's stomach turn immediately. Her eyes light up in frustration for a second, and she ignores the funny tingles that travel from the tip of her braid to her skull in a slight electric current.

“I don't believe in that at all! I smell naturally good.” She hisses as she yanks her hair out of his fingers and snaps it back into place, the chain on their linked wrists jiggling slightly in the process. Him, brush her teeth? He wouldn't have dared...

“Haha, whatever allows you to sleep at night, Starry Eyes.” He lets go with his usual mocking laugh. She thinks he might leave her in peace for a second, but it's not long before he starts to have fun by pulling on the handcuff that binds them each time she tries to replace a flying mesh inside her right braid.

Once. Twice. Thrice.

Gah! It's unbearable!

 “Are you done being an immature dumbass, or will you continue to annoy me for a long time?” She huffs in exasperation, rewarded with an innocent grimace.

“What are you talking about?” He says with hypocritical purity then wiggles his encaged wrist. “I'm just itchy. You see? Always accusing me at the first opportunity…”

“Oh, sorry. I forgot that you are a saint who has never lied once in his life.” She scoffs while finishing adjusting both her hair and uniform shirt. “Three-quarters of the time, it's always your fault, Scaramouche!”

She can't believe he has tried to brush her teeth. He couldn't have!

How would he even make her gurgle? 

She sniffs her breath again as quietly as possible. 

Mint scented.

“My breath must smell like this naturally. It has too!” She mumbles sotto voce and all flushed cheeks.

He rolls his eyes and shrugs, with one of those insufferable "Halala" and a little scraping of his tongue that swiftly makes her join her legs together. She would have crossed her arms too, but she has barely raised a finger that his hand shoots out and grabs hers in a constricting grip.

"Avoid making sudden movements Double Braids, I know that finesse is not your greatest quality, but it is unpleasant when you pull."

"Oh really? How sad…" She sings-song in a falsely honeyed voice and doesn't hesitate for a second before pulling with all her might from the opposite side, the boy giving her his coldest glare when his right wrist jerks and an unpleasant sound cracks between them.

Unfortunately, the gesture also brings him closer and bends his body so that Mona is forced to step back to avoid getting stuck to him.

Their knees buckle, and Scaramouche's hand is thrown flat against her thigh, firm and cold, the pulp of his knuckles clutching between her legs where the skin is the thinnest in a mortifying grasp.

She has never felt her face or body reach such a degree of combustion. God dammit! She slaps his palm forcefully away.

"Shit! Can't you be careful, Astroliar!" He growls dryly as he massages his painful wrist. "If I were a Saint, I would directly send you to be purified because you obviously have no sense of restraint and respect." He continues before straightening up to take a piece of paper out of his pocket, which he rolls into a ball and throws at her face. "And for your information, it's not me, but your Crazy Scientist that serves as your friend who is responsible for this situation."

"Ugh, you mean Albedo?" She exclaims in a dubious voice; the paper quickly retrieved and smoothed out, not without commenting. "But seriously, me without restraint or respect? I don't believe it! You throw so many insults per minute that a lifetime and 6 million soaps wouldn't be enough to clean up all the dirt that you spout out."

"You are the one speaking badly right now." He retorts, his index finger pointing in her general direction.

"You always need to have the last word, huh?" Her temple jerks unpleasantly for a second. Great! Now she is even more annoyed, and as if to add an extra layer, he sniffles with his most haughty air and answers, all his vanity and pride concentrated in one sentence.

"I am always right... Dumb Witch."

"You know what? I decided I’m going to stop answering you! Fucking jerk…"

Mona's hands shake, and her large clear eyes drop on the fine writing that decorates the crumpled paper that the other weasel has just thrown at her. The soft curls that form the short lines are indeed from Albedo; she would recognize his elegant handwriting among a thousand, especially because Sucrose raved about it for months.

"What have you done, Albedo?" She can't help but question, frowning. Why would one of her dearest friends put her through such torture, and with Scaramouche moreover!

Mona,

If you are reading this, I may suppose that you are well and that you and Scaramouche haven't killed each other yet. While an interesting outcome for my research thesis, I would rather you be thriving and in good health. Do you remember in September last year when you joyfully proposed to help with my relationships experiments project in exchange for switching partners for biology class? I was really thankful for your dear consideration and kind voluntarism. I am currently in the final stages of my investigation and couldn't have thought better of you and Scaramouche to conduct the last step. You will find at the back a list of cooperation actions. Try them to find the key to the handcuff. It's well hidden, but I have no doubt your genius self will figure out the truth. 

Remember to take pictures. 

I am quite eager to hear your detailed report on this unique experience.

Albedo.

ALBEDO! You!!

Mona feels more than sees Scara taking back the paper from her hands.

"I'm not doing it." She affirms and jumps on both legs. Although she appreciates Albedo, their friendship has limits. And she is not yet ready to sell her soul to the devil!

"I refuse to do this." She repeats. "We will find a solution and break the handcuffs, but I won't serve as laboratory subject in a weird duo with a bad-tempered gnome whose real name I don't even know! And thus, so you know, I find Scaramouche to be an ugly pseudo!"

Scaramouche checks the list on the back with a simple glance and shoves it in his back trouser pocket before getting up in kind, refastening a button or two of his collar with an uncharacteristic slowness. True, he is right-handed. Mona has an unhealthy pleasure in knowing that, at least, she wasn't the one deprived of her guiding hand.

"Please, don't get your panties in a twist! It's just a game, right? And besides, why are you still so hung up on this name thing? I already explained before that my first name is reserved for intimate and family members in my culture. You are neither." He explains calmly, but it doesn't satisfy Mona. She's sure that Albedo and Sucrose are privy to this secret.

Heck! Even his roommate Childe knows it, and they heartily hate each other! So why should she be the only one to not know?

In addition, not knowing his real name prevented her from practising some of the divination exercises she learned and inherited from the old hag serving as her legal tutor. A nagging and annoying mentor but very competent and highly skilled. Her teachings had always provided Mona with great clairvoyance, a quality she sorrowfully missed when it came to dealing with Scaramouche.

"Don't tell me lies; even Childe knows it! Also, shouldn't you be more unnerved about this?" She protests. Scaramouche is well too at ease with the whole situation. She pulls on the chain that binds them violently; this may have the merit of giving him a good reality check.

"Stop that already! If you do it again, I will do it too! And then, your arm will pop out of its socket." He threatens in exasperation, not without pulling on the chain, forcing her to take a step forward toward him.

Their eyes meet, and she shudders, her lower lip sucked between her teeth in a pinch. Scaramouche's black pupils widen for a second.

"Listen." He continues, and for once, instead of being unpleasant, she has the impression that he is seeking to appease her growing fury. "To begin with, Childe only knows my name because he has served my family for a while. It is certainly not a choice on my part; he only respects my request for silence because I have equivalent information. And besides, despite what you seem to think, he could be considered as an intimate of mine."

"Because Childe has a secret first name too?" She can only question with a curiosity that is hard to hide but is royally ignored.

"As for the game, do you think that Doctor Mad, our perfectly intelligent and well-reasoned scientist, would have handcuffed us with the first pair of manacles that came along? I'm confident they won't be that easy to break, and I don't want to try my luck with that or be stuck in your company for more than a day. If you find it amusing, I don't intend to be present when you have to go to take out a huge poop. We might as well play and be done with it." He sniffles with an amused smirk and pokes her forehead, which she covers with one hand. She hopes that the evil look she hurls at him is so scary he will be cursed until his six hundred and sixty-sixth heir.

"You're disgusting," is her only and ultimate conclusion.

Monkeyed

A light current of air agitates the half-open curtains and their greyish mass in a ghostly ballet, letting some rays of a still-pale sun filter through. Winter has never been his favourite period as Scaramouche has always preferred the heat and humidity of summer to the cold and taciturn days of the low season. December winds are unwelcoming and lonely, they strike and cut through the flesh like an army of needles, and even if he will never admit it out loud, he hates the painful feeling of bite and frost that invades his veins every time it brushes against his back.

Younger, he often wondered if absorbing too much cold would freeze his heart under a layer of ice so thick that it would no longer be breakable; and if the main stop of this motor function would be followed by his striking death.

Like a tsunami ravaging the shores, the icy wind may have drowned out his every emotion until nothing was left but an eternal void of emptiness.  

After renouncing his direct inheritance and dropping out of high school in Inazuma, Scaramouche had found himself facing this pit of solitude and blackness, deprived of any long-term goal and project.

It seemed then that nothing had any more sense, and his last standing barrier was the deep anaesthetic suffering that gripped his heart like a balm made of thorns; and the hidden rage that continued to roar and crush his insides with each breath.

Scaramouche didn't think people should have the right to pity him, and he had certainly never considered himself a pitiful person either. On the contrary, the fact that no one appreciated him, jealousy, envious looks, and the desire of others to please him; were all signs he had come to recognize as proof of his superiority.

He wasn't liked because he was someone when others were nothing.

This single-minded idea had become his driving force over the years. In the ever-growing shadow of his absent mother and perfect younger sister, he needed to remember that he, too, was born to be special.

Affection wasn't to be missed when he had never known it to start, and love had seemed just as dull and boring, unnecessary.

Then, one day, his old self had met a tiny, poor-looking boy. An orphan without a name nor a stable family who was nobody and had no plan for the future. Such an existence was undoubtedly meant to be pitied, yet, every time he saw him, Scaramouche could only note that the young child seemed infinitely happier than his peers.

The child's affection for him as a person came as an enthusiastic admiration that had him troubled and confused. 

The elementary school student was not envious of his money or status and always sought his presence, genuine and uncaring for politeness and social standards, even when Scaramouche was rude, silver darted tongue, and harsh to a fault.

Scaramouche had never entirely understood why he had caught the eye of this kid from the slums, but he could not deny that the encounter had caused a change deep within himself.

In an ingenuous smile, the boy had unknowingly offered a delicate feather made of heat and light to his heart of stone. And the marble shell had shattered, fragment by fragment, like the frost melting at the onset of spring.

Unfortunately, time takes memories and feelings with it, and today Scaramouche remembers too little of the afternoons spent in the young boy's company. He forgot the taste of the ice cream they shared after school, how the kid's footsteps sounded when he was following him around, and the feeling of his little hand in his when he agreed to wear his heavy satchel.

Instead, there was only the reminder of a broken face on asphalt and blood that had stained and drowned limbs in a purple puddle, arms sprawled and out of place on the ground as if the corpse was a puppet with broken wires.

The screams, the colour of bruised flesh, the squeal of tires, and the smell of burning gasoline continued to haunt him for months each time he stroked the spot where his rib had popped and pierced the lung following their accident. It was a feeling of endless strangulation, and Scaramouche had so many times thought he was suffocating under the weight of it.

That someone tried to push him under the wheels of a car wasn't something that would hurt him, but that a straightforward child, a tad too stupid and lovely, had tried to save him and died because of that had damaged his pride. If the infant was too weak to survive it, why perform such a ridiculous gesture?

He was neither recognized nor happy for this deep devotion that had served no purpose except giving birth to nightmares and regrets.

Once, his young companion had told him, "You look like a bird in a cage. I would love to see you fly away." How ridiculous, but still, Scaramouche had wondered. Was the boy so wrong? Wasn't he a prisoner in a golden house, tied by family and precepts to an old system that required everything of him while never actually giving anything back? If he was so frail that a simple accident could take him away at any moment, he wasn't superior to anyone. Eventually, he was just another human, as fragile and easily broken.

This truth had been the pinnacle of all his most radical decisions while the heart he had tried so hard to ignore had started to throb, bruised and bloody, devoid of purpose and idea, but alive and so frustrated.

Leaving it all behind soon became the most sensible and interesting option.

Far away, in a country where no one would know him, nor his past, not his family and not even his first name, he would neither have to explain or justify himself, no longer have to read the insolent compassion that he could discern in his classmates when they would hear the rumour of his sob story and more importantly, maybe could he find over there a tangible goal. One chosen by himself to satisfy his own desires and not tied to birthright and rules.

In the end, everything was tied down to here and now , to this precise moment where he is handcuffed to the most infuriating girl Teyvat has to shelter. Since his first step in this new school, Mona had been the raging sea that came crashing in waves on the cliffs he had managed to rebuild. Always challenging and going head-to-head with him, she wasn't a person who would be easy to please or corrupt.

And that's why she had just been perfect. Without pity or compassion but not mean intentions, she had charged into every quarrel with all her might and idealistic morals. She had absorbed the anger and rage boiling deep down, in secret, to throw them back to Scaramouche's face in thunderous slaps and compelling jabs.

And the most primal part of him, the one that wanted to suffer, had enjoyed those moments of pure hatred and fury, those instants where the world would fade in the background to leave them to their verbal jousts, morning after morning.

A part of him would have even wanted her to hit him, scratch and scrape his skin, disfigure his smile until all that was left was shreds and ugliness, the true visage of his soul behind the sweet reflection in the mirror. The figure of a teenager who had fled, the guilt and the pain, the responsibilities, and the memories of those summer days when he was no longer alone.

But the most appalling were not those feelings of self-loath. It was the tears Scaramouche cowardly hid on rainy days, with the feeling that as long as the drops mingled with the salt of cries in their slow run down his cheeks, they were only downpour and not the expression of his inner suffering.

He had always been able to isolate himself in those moments of vulnerability, but Mona had the annoying habit of appearing in places where he least expected her. It was as if his footsteps irremediably led to her clear eyes, whose indefinable colour had always left him fascinated. Sometimes green, grey, sometimes even a little blue; they were diamonds of a thousand shades that shone intelligently with every emotion. But, of course, he wouldn't tell her that her shimmering irises were what he loved the most in her, along with the adorable way she had of wrinkling her nose when she was about to insult him.

Still, what he had seen flickering in her eyes on that rainy morning had frozen him in annoyance and contempt. He didn't want her to forgive him; more than anyone else, he needed her ironclad frankness and her fighting spirit to survive. Her skin between his fingers had been so soft he almost felt like bruising it, but until the unbearable commiseration disappeared from the depths of her eyes, he hadn't wanted to let go.

He didn't want her tenderness.

Scaramouche had never known how to deal with kindness.

The weeks since that brief confrontation had been confusing, to say the least. Mona had avoided him to such an extent that he was left in turmoil with the almost constant urge to hit Childe every time the ginger opened his mouth to point the evidence of his pinning to him.

His useless bodyguard - because frankly, he didn't need him for his protection when he was constantly beating his ass in regular training - followed around like an infuriating shadow and always had the good sense to throw the most sensible remarks at the most inopportune moments of his life, in others words when he least wanted to hear them.

"You know, Baby Girl, when a boy is so hung up on a woman he can't concentrate anymore, it's called lo-"

"Shut up, and call me Master, Fucking Brainless Carrot."

"My, no need to be such a prick; I was just saying that you look like you miss her."

And miss her, he did. He was just not ready to reveal this to an asshole tasked with his protection, even if they were childhood friends, and even more so because he wasn't prepared to admit it to his heart yet. But the truth had already popped her ugly head in the deepest part of his mind. Mona had become a haven, their constant bickering keeping his sanity intact when everything was bleak. He had found himself back bit by bit after every encounter as if she was picking up pieces of him under the collapsed rubble of his soul.

For all his reasons, he wanted her to remain a constant in his life. Getting her to understand that was another matter, though, and he could only hope that the current situation would help open her eyes to the reality of their relationship.

"So, what is our first action since you are the one who wants to abide by Albedo's rules and plays." Her voice seems steady, yet Scaramouche can still hear her railing a bit. She glares at him sideways, and because she is taking care to hold herself back, he already knows she's troubled by his presence.

Good.

Seeing her so nervous is always a pleasure, especially when he is the principal cause of her torment. He likes to occupy all her thoughts on a daily basis.

He breathes discreetly when the wind that shakes the curtains reminds his nose of her maritime and fruity scent, a summer fragrance synonymous of warmth and sweetness. His fingers, hidden in his back pocket, have a slight tremor, and the tips of his ears heat up; fortunately for him, they are mostly concealed by his hair.

"Seems like we need to take a picture wearing some ridiculous Christmas hats." He explains while pretending to go through the news on his cell phone when he currently prefers to observe her exasperated expression.

"Where are we gonna get them now?" She asks, rubbing her temple for a second, and he feverishly remembers the texture of her hairs under his knuckles when he touched them a little earlier.

They were almost as soft as the lips he had parted, just enough to slip a mint lozenge between her teeth.

Just to touch them again and enjoy the horror that had washed over her as she realised he had done something with her mouth while she slept, he would do it a hundred times again.

"No need to find it; we are just gonna photoshop our way through this one. I don't intend to go around asking for Christmas hats," He affirms and wonders again what absurd ideas came to Albedo to concoct such a far-fetched and ridiculous list.

No doubt, he had asked Greeny Hand, the friend of plants, for her opinion; the poor girl was as sappy as her boyfriend was down to earth, and Scaramouche always thought she would be the type to cry a river every time he rejected her by mistake.

In fact, the gap between their two personalities was so huge that they could fit the entire Pacific Ocean in between. Yet, strangely, the mismatched couple was giving him hope. If even Albedo, who appeared as open as their dormitory frigid, could get himself a girlfriend, why couldn't he get Mona's affection?

"You fat liar, didn't you say we should respect the rules earlier?" She contests, almost with betrayal. "I can't believe I'm trapped with such a lying bastard ."

Scaramouche blocks a venomous replica emerging on the tip of his tongue and swallows it back patiently. His calmness should be rewarded, given the control it demands of him.

Even though he loves attacking Mona in various ways, he doesn't want to spend his day stuck in an old smelly room, looking at a vomit stain left by "I was born with a black cat hidden in my underpants," aka Bennett on the carpet.

"I said we should follow the game as finding the key will be easier than freeing ourselves from those." He waves their chain for a second in an unpleasant cling that makes her wince. "I never said we weren't going to cheat when the occasion is there. So stop being a bitch about it, will you?"

"Never; I would rather die and swallow my own tongue!" She chugs, but still, she makes her way to follow him outside.

Well, if only his nerves would allow him, he would seriously have made her shut up with his tongue in her throat too.

---

The high school hallways are quiet as they descend into the basement toward the computer room. With the winter holidays, half of the students have already returned to their families, and those who remain are only long-distance boarders, more generally foreign students.

Even though he has finally decided to return to Inazuma, Scaramouche knows he will miss Mondstadt and its stone buildings that rise to the sky like so many mountains. They are very different from his country's flatter and lower wooden houses.

Here the city is made to be one with the sky, its many mills reminding that the inhabitants of this place have always been in love with the idea of being as free as the currents of air circulating within the great walls.

For a time, he also sincerely wanted to be carried by the breeze without knowing where he would end up, without ties, without attachment, and without fear.

And after tasting that freedom, touching it, and experiencing it to some degree, the idea of being partially attached to a place wasn't so scary anymore. 

Every boat has its anchor point, and he likes to believe that he has found his.

SMACK

"Humph, you should be careful, Wacky Witch." He rubs his shoulder for a second, which she has almost dislocated. But instead of being in his direct line of sight, Mona has clung to a wall and quickly motions for him to be quiet.

"Shut up! Someone is coming!" She murmurs in a worried and annoyed voice, her head leaning over the doorway to watch the hallway and the many lockers that run through it.

Why the hell is that a problem – is what he would have liked to say, but Mona does not seem to agree, as he has just opened his mouth that she is already shutting him up with her fingers against his lips, her air haughty and her mouth knotted in a disapproving pout.

"I have no desire to be seen with you in this situation if you want to know." She tucks one of her long pigtails back. "I look so… I mean, I slept in my clothes from the night before, even if it's a school uniform. I don't want anyone thinking I spent the night with you." Again, she rants at full speed, except that, this time, her rosy complexion does not comfort him in any way.

So now, she feels shameful at the idea that people thought they would have done something? When he is such a catch that she should be thanking him instead?!

Sometimes, she can be the worst, especially for his masculine pride .

He should shake her with his bare hands, grab her hair and twirl her face back and forth until the big empty balloon that serves as her brain makes a full spin. Then she might stop having her head in the stars and concentrate a little more on what is happening under her nose.

And she thought herself clairvoyant? As for him, her instinctual radar is so fogged up that even if he went out tomorrow with a t-shirt signed "Mona, I need you," she would find a way to believe that he is messing with her and scream at him. The idea is almost tempting, just to make her jump to the ceiling.

What a fucking idiot, seriously.

If it bothers her so much to be seen with him.

"Very well, Princess, if that's the only thing bothering you." He takes her palm off his mouth with exasperation and a hint of a bruised ego before forcing her to follow him to one of the lockers in the hallway.

With his hand on her biceps to prevent protesting, Scaramouche opens the door wide before throwing her inside and slipping through afterward. The locker door slams shut on the cramped space he's just cornered them in, and even he’s forced to duck his head a little, his back covering their only light source and momentarily plunging them into total darkness.

According to Mona's muffled hiccups, she hardly appreciates the reversal of the situation and even less their new proximity.

"May I know what you are doing?!" Her voice raises, a little jerky, and he finds it fascinating to see how the simple fact of being plunged into the dark heightens his senses.

Wedged against her to the point of feeling every curve of her body, round and full, tender forms against stiff, tense muscles, her erratic breath in the hollow of his neck, exhaling at a frantic pace, he easily imagines the quivering of her nostrils and her wide pupils.

He even feels the distinct quickening of her pulse at the vein he has been unwittingly stroking near the bottom of her arms.

"You said you heard someone, we just have to wait five minutes, and then we'll come out, no biggie. Do you happen to think by yourself, or were you always so dense?" He mocks, intending to distract himself in truth.

"Is that your idea? Because it's so dumb and cringy, I could cry! You are the one who doesn't think! If we get stuck in there, you highway sociopath, I will strangle you to death." She whistles and pulls on the arm he is still holding but swiftly finds herself clinging to his shoulder with her free hand so as not to lose her balance instead.

Unfortunately, Mona has the wrong idea to take it off in the second that follows and moves in such a way that a leg that Scaramouche hadn't felt too much until then is now wedged between his thighs, leaning against part of his lower abdomen, which definitely didn't need immediate stimulation.

The usual heat that boils under his epidermis with each touch goes up his neck with ferocity. Maybe he has miscalculated here because right now, with Mona's perfume invading the space and the delicious brushing of her body every time she makes the slightest movement, he has more the impression of having inflicted himself with a new form of personal torture than succeeding in making her shut the fuck up.

"Can you stop fidgeting all over the place?! I'll get the handle to open the locker." He mutters, his timbre a little too low and husky.

Shit. He didn't think he would be affected that much.

"Next time, you'll think about it before we get stuck in a dark locker." She replies, and he is convinced that the slight hardness he feels when she places herself a little higher is her nipples that graze his shirt. Damn!

She will always find a way to contradict him, huh? Even unintentionally.

He quickly passes a finger on his tie to tear it off almost completely, but he still misses the air and can only strive to find the damn gap to open this locked door again. Hell, it didn't seem so complicated a few seconds ago!

"Say, Scaramouche." Mona's voice rises, intrigued. "I've been feeling something against my leg for a while now."

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Just a flashlight." He affirms with a pained tone. Is she trying to mock him now? His fingers rub harder against the locker door, and the position starts to get awkward; his arm twisted behind his back, looking for any opening at this point as long as he can get out.

Suddenly, Mona's hands are on his thighs, and he can't help it; his fist slams into the steel of the closet with a loud "BANG."

"What are you doing?!" He scowls, panting and out of breath, a slight smell of perspiration starting to stick to his skin.

"What do you mean?" She asks, her voice incredulous. "I'm looking for the flashlight, duh!"

His body freezes, and a huge void invades him.

Does she intend to...with him? Here and Now?

When she bends down too much and slams her forehead into his stomach by accident, his nascent and wet fantasy disappears.

The bitch is really looking for a FLASHLIGHT.

Is it possible to be that stupid, or is that the true power of internal denial?

He runs a hand over his face and inhales slowly.

Calm down, calm down, Scaramouche! She still has the best grades in the whole school, and her speech is coherent; must be the lack of air.

"Please, tell me you are joking because if not, I am seriously putting in doubt your feminity's self-awareness and sanity." He can't help but spats.

"Why do you say that?" She stops in her search.

Apparently, he does need to spell it.

"A flashlight? Did you take one minute to reflect on it? Hell, you might be ugly, but if you move like that, of course, I will react! I might be perfect, but still, I am a guy, for fuck sake…." He whispers furiously in the hollow of her ear as he crouches to get her attention.

Luckily his forehead knocks against the other side of the locker because he's really close to doing something stupid, like biting the earlobe that's now taunting his jaw.

"Oh…wait…IS THAT YOUR FLASHLIGHT..Oh my go-…URGH!!"

The herculean force with which she pushes him back has the merit of rocking them out of the locker with a crash.

His lungs welcome the cool hallway air as a blessing, and he may be half collapsed on the floor, but the sight of Mona slumped on the ground, her head directly between his legs from the fall, as red as a clownfish, gurgling, stammering and puffy cheeks like a cat in crisis facing his obvious erection, has the benefit of making him burst out laughing mechanically.

“You…st..stop laughing like a devil, ….dirty….maniac!!” She exhales with difficulty while she gets up eagerly, not without trying to throw her two shoes at him, which he gracefully avoids. “You're disgustingly pretentious, and I have never heard anything more wrong, you vile pervert! You're just a stupid little sexually depraved….DWARF.”

Her expression is the best he has ever seen yet.

---

"Are you still angry?"

Scaramouche's question breaks the heavy silence punctuated by the clicks of his mouse as he works to edit a photo of them taken hastily near a window a few minutes ago. But Mona is determined to ignore him for the rest of the day, even for the rest of her life if possible.

Her fingers are shaking when she thinks back to the humiliation she had recently suffered at his hands, larger than Mona would have liked, and under his slightly too hot breath, which she still feels burning against her cheeks. Clearly, this reminds her of the moment she's been trying to forget since the beginning of the year, only a hundred times worse.

Then, again, he was angry that day. But today, he clearly... Whatever... Even if Mister Pervert says she is ugly, she knows the truth. She is just too beautiful for him to contain himself, the bastard! Mother Nature has been so generous; of course, she would make him go all crazy and bothered. She should be more careful in the future.

Her brow furrows, and she furiously taps the keyboard, looking for more Christmas PNGs to send to his inbox. If only she could find a gnome head to edit on his whole face. Mona is very happy that he is the one who takes care of their "Christmas photo" because she thinks she would have spent her time cutting him into small pieces to replace everything upside down, just to be sure she can represent his clown face the best.

With a sigh, she closes the search page, her chin tucked into her palm with the firm idea of getting revenge, one way or another. If only she could do more concrete research on him, maybe she could find a symbolic and proper way to say, "fuck you!" with no involvement between him and her goddess body, just a good, healthy, and spiritual middle finger.

She randomly types "Scaramouche real name" without thinking about it. The dickhead won't tell her after all. Maybe his real name is so horrible he needs to hide it. She wouldn't be surprised if the meaning was close to "invasive cockroach" or "perverted dumbass who can't keep it in his pants when he sees her as-

"Are you spying on me now?"

Mona cringes.

Beside her, Scaramouche is leaning towards his computer station, an eyebrow raised as he contemplates the research she has just entered.

"I knew you were obsessed with me, but not to this extent." He adds, and the pretentious way he says it puts Mona in a spinning loop of never-ending annoyance.

His nerve will never cease to amaze her! He really has no restraint. He is an overweening jerk, as full of himself as a stallion in heat, flocking his tail in the air, thinking he is the dominant male of the whole plain. Well, with her, he fell on a bone!

"Don't flatter yourself. I'm looking for ways to curse you until the next generation. I have voodoo dolls at home." She sniffs with contempt, the webpage still opened on his first name, but other than informing her that it's also the name of a dodgy video game character, she finds nothing significant.

"I guess you will need the dolls since you can't even recognize a bonehead even when pressed at your va-" She cuts him short; she doesn't want to hear the last word, ever .

"What do you think of chemical castration? It seems to be very effective these days against sex offenders." Her laugh is forced, but the inner finger she gives him is generously offered by House Megistus.

"Yeah, then I wonder what I will find in your name. Since you plan on taking all my masculinity away, I may as well check some facts too." He massages his neck and pulls out a box of mint-flavoured candies for breath from his vest on the desk. 

Mint… Holy Fuck!

So that's what he had done this morning!

She bites the inside of her cheek so hard she can taste blood.

She really wants to give him a piece of her mind, but Mona is too curious, she had to admit, to reprimand him right now.  

She watches with a hint of pride as he types the name "Mona Megistus" into the inside bar. Great! He will finally have an idea of the level of her genius in astrology and realise his mistake in taking her fame from so up above on his golden throne toilet. 

He, who makes fun of her cards and horoscopes, and has given her the worst nicknames, will see that her website is the most consulted of all Teyvat! Mona is so impatient to savour the crestfallen expression of his crushed ignorance!

"Pfft…."

Not quite the reaction she was hoping for. The teenage girl is already arming herself. If Scaramouche dares to poke fun at her website, she will commit murder.

Mona's eyes widen as she looks at the screen, and a nervous twitch takes hold of the corner of her mouth.

Why is the first search page he has landed on after typing her name a bizarre picture of a long-lashed monkey with lips so red it looks like it went straight out from a cabaret movie?

She quickly reads the title of the image.

"Mona, the Clairvoyant."

A cold sweat runs down her back.

By Teyvat, did she alienate a strange deity so that only this kind of shit happens to her, and always when the person who will make it the worst is in her direct vicinity?

"It explains a lot about your antics. The way you move and talk mostly." Scaramouche begins with a joy so visible that it is palpable. "By the way, it's almost noon. Are you hungry? You want a banana, perhaps."

"I'm... I'm not." she stutters, her voice quivering while she contracts her fingers.

"Not human, yeah, I can see that." He adds and grabs his camera phone to take a screenshot of the computer screen.

Cursed humiliating self-satisfactory prick!

"I'm not a MONKEY. This Monkey is not ME! Stop joking, or I will strangle you!" Her hand crashes next to his, and she looks at him with her darkest expression, but he doesn't seem particularly phased or worried.

Does he really believe she is incapable of killing him? Because she can at least stick her foot in his parts and make him cry until he faints. If only she hadn't been handcuffed with him, she would have done so long ago!

He gets up and finishes shutting down the computers.

"Let's get to the cafeteria; the next action involves eating together and baking cookies; we should find the necessities there."

Scaramouche brandishes his mobile towards her, his new home screen, that of the hideous monkey he has just unearthed on the internet.

He hums in appreciation and puts the phone next to her face.

"Yup, I don't see any difference."

Oh, the dirty son of a…!

She drags herself behind him and lets go vehemently.

"Are you supposed to be excited by a Monkey then?! I'm talking to you!!"

Cookie

"You know," She says while grabbing an empty chair to sit on.

"I don't see how all this is supposed to make us find this damn key."

And yes, she is still quite sore about this whole morning.

Between handcuffs and an unwanted erection, the monkey picture thing was only the cherry on top, and she seriously started to worry about what would come next.

What did you expect by doing this, Albedo? Unfortunately, all you will uncover is that some relationships are really too toxic for good.

"I don't know, but Albedo is always careful in his thinking. We will find the key in due time. Could be hidden in a mechanism related to what we are doing now." He shrugs his shoulders and sits opposite, his hand on the menu, which he checks with a quick glance.

"You call him Albedo, now?" She steals the card from him, ignoring his jaded gaze. "For the key, yeah, maybe... Indeed, that would be his style."

She wrinkles the tip of her nose.

"We are supposed to choose for the other, right?"

She already knows that Scaramouche always takes black coffee, yet she is no fan of such a strong bitter taste. She tolerates it but prefers her coffee a little sweeter, with a hint of sugar and milk. 

Everything he hates.

Scaramouche's dislike for anything sweet is well-known among her group. Last year, he had managed to flog all his chocolates to poor Bennett, who had received none. Knowing Bennett, they might have been lost by girls trying to give it to him, though.

She refrains from smiling a little too much when a specific title catches her eye. She doesn't want him to suspect anything, but given how Scaramouche stiffens every time she stops to read a headline, he is well aware of his fate.

Don't you worry, little gremlin; this great genius will choose the best thing available.

"I have a certain amount of respect for Blondie Cold. I have no choice but to recognize that he might beat me on some subjects."

Scaramouche impatiently taps the edge of the table and waves to the waitress when Mona finally closes the menu.

"Only on some subjects?"

She taunts with glee.

Albedo has always been way too bright for his age. He could have skipped several classes and finished university already if his desire to follow a standard school path to experience appropriate "socialisation" had not kept him in an ordinary course. 

Well, as regular as it may be when you're so advanced in your studies that the teachers let you do your own research instead of coming to class.

The school cafeteria had always been pleasant. It's a place Mona appreciates because of its vast space and coffee shop setting. In addition, the bay windows offer a great view of the snow-covered streets of Mondstadt and the city park located a few streets below the academy. Mondstadt high was built around an old cathedral and inspired by its structure, with high ceilings, solid walls, and wide corridors to allow students to move freely during breaks.

Mona likes it here and thus has decided to complete her university course in this same school before fully embarking on astrology, both as a consultant and researcher. She can't help but smile happily, seeing some of her classmates still on campus playing in the snow down below.

"What can I do for you?"

Mona turns to the waitress quickly, intending to wave Scaramouche to order first, but apparently, she doesn't need to.

The woman - hair strangely loose when it was stuck in a bun barely a minute ago - is bent over him with sugar in her voice and eyes.

Mona recognizes all the tale signs, from the honeyed tone to the fluttering of eyelashes and the pulping of lips.

Here we go again.

Those things had become a typical instance by dint of frequenting Scaramouche.

At first, she didn't think too much about it.

She couldn't care if hundreds of girls were strutting themselves in front of him. Instead, she was somewhat worried for their moral health knowing his mean strake and tendency to bully anyone when in a good mood.

However, after countless occasions where she had been ignored or glared at for nothing, Mona had become embittered towards women who threw themselves at the feet of the Inazuman boy like flies on a sticky swatter.

From what the astrologist had seen, two sorts of girls often approached Scaramouche.

The first was innocent and romantic; she tried to warn these ones, but usually, Scaramouche would dismiss them quickly enough with a fake smile and saccharine lies.

The second was seductive, enterprising, less prompt to give up, and often mean. Those he usually shooed away with annoyance, and for once, Mona reveled in his barbs and sarcastic jokes.

From the not-very-subtle way their server advanced her cleavage, Mona classified her without difficulty as someone who wouldn't take "no" for an answer.

It was sad, as the woman, indeed, was a beauty. All legs and curvy waist, with almond-shaped eyes, yet her scornful grimace made the young astromancer dislike her instantly.

As a person, Mona had no judgement whatsoever about sexy women who could confidently seek and steal the fruit of their desire from a man.

She had nothing against the idea; she even found it exciting, and on some evenings, Mona imagined scenarios where she would have this role, determination, and impressive sex appeal all targeted to conquer a passionate lover.

What she despised, however, was how 90% of those self-assured independent women felt compelled to get cruel and nasty to anyone they saw as a potential threat. It was pitiful that the affirmation of their beauty required the systematic bashing of any individual of the same sex in direct sight.

Mona rolls her eyes as the waitress insists on moving closer to Scaramouche, her notebook so low it almost touches his shoulder.

What is she hoping for? That he's going to dive into her shirt in public?

Besides, how old is she exactly? 

Only postgraduate students are allowed to work in the cafeteria. Isn't she worried he is a minor or something? Not that she thinks Scaramouche's virtue is worth protecting at this stage, but the girl might end up fired from her graduate program.

With quiet delight, Mona watches Scaramouche open his mouth and waits for his usual verve, but instead, to her bewilderment, all she hears is a crystalline, flirtatious timbre.

"It's very kind of you to serve us."

He whispers, eyes fixed on the waitress.

Come again?

Mona's eyes widen so much that she thinks she feels them popping out of their sockets. But no, the smile, the look, the way he has turned sideways, Scaramouche is flirting, and according to the ecstatic smile of the girl opposite, she does not lose a crumb of his attention.

"I'm always happy to serve such a lovely customer."

She coos, and this time Mona does not hide her discouraged grimace.

Let her vomit, please . Is she going to have to attend this circus?

Mona's stomach knots, and nausea rises inside her mouth. She blinks.

Well, if that's the kind of girl, he likes after all... Who is she to say anything?

The high school student can't help but detail the plump chest of the busty redhead, highlighted by her tight maid uniform. The girl has big breasts and a thin waist, Mona's tits aren't as big, but they are not tiny either; however, she is impossibly taller than Mona herself, with very long legs.

"So he really is into Gingerhead after all..."

She mumbles under her breath.

"Did you say something?"

Scaramouche asks without warning, his attention broken.

She doesn't know why, but his handcuffed palm moves involuntarily, and his thumb strokes the edge of her fingers in a deliberate and slow touch. Her cheeks flush, and she pulls her hand back, clearing her throat. The waitress looks at her darkly now, and Mona has no desire to get into this stupid little game.

"No, it's nothing. Go ahead and order first."

She enjoins with a weary movement.

If Scaramouche glances thoughtfully at her, he soon returns to his smiles and charming gestures. For once, she can't even tell if he's a hypocrite; her stomach hurts too much for that. She must have eaten something that didn't pass yesterday night.

"I promised my little sister to bake cookies with her later. But lately, everything has been so expensive. I don't want to disappoint, but I don't know if I can afford it; I'm really a useless brother." His smile spreads apologetically as he points to Mona.

What, just what, what? Is that a poorly acted-play?

He doesn't think she is gullible enough to swallow that they are siblings, right?

"No problem!" The waitress winks enthusiastically. "I will see what I can do for the both of you."  Her attitude towards Mona has suddenly become much more welcoming; she even offers her a smile. "We have all you need in the storage room. And with that?"

Never mind , some people are simply blind when it's easier this way!

So, HE IS faking it, in the end. The bastard is trying to smuggle the ingredients to avoid paying for them. Smartass.

Strangely, her stomach ache is not so bad anymore.

She probably also had been worried about paying additional fees for this stupid game; savings are essential to Mona. Anyhow, she knows exactly what she is going to order. Even though it will cost her three precious moras, she is convinced that the price is worth it.

"An extra strong espresso, please."

And this time, she greets Scaramouche's playful smile with a bigger smirk. 

Asshole. He has got it coming.

"An extra gelatinous candy, the Mammoth. I heard it's delicious and new."

She announces confidently; the waitress finishes writing down their order while Scaramouche looks at her with such dismay she would dance on her chair if she were not a respectable lady.

"I'm sure you don't even like it!"

He slowly cries once the redhead is gone.

Mona's glee at the sound is indescribable; even winning the lottery couldn't top her current elation.

She doesn't miss a crumb of his pallor, which increases as the minutes pass, nor even the annoyed and slightly shaky way he has of rolling up his sleeves on his forearms. Looking at him, you would think he was about to eat a whole spider alive.

"I don't know what you're talking about; I'm a real fan."

She hums as their orders, coloured and odorant, are placed on the round table. Mona swiftly exchanges her plate with Scaramouche's cup and empties it without flinching.

Obviously, he expected her to have a slightly more disgusted reaction.

But although the intense bitterness of the coffee hardly pleases her, she finds it bearable, terribly sweetened even by what is to follow.

"I refuse."

He finally announces and pushes the plate in her direction, face closed in a defiant expression.

Mona puts the cup down very calmly at his words and inhales with deliberate slowness.

"Listen to me… " She is pretty proud to see him actually stop at the sharp sound that comes from her lips. "It was you who wanted to play; now bear the consequences! Because I swear that if you haven't put this candy in your mouth in two minutes, I will make you swallow it myself."

"No." The response is almost immediate, and the sound of Mona's chair slamming on the cafeteria floor virtually as spontaneous.

The following scene is comical and ridiculous, but the young astrologer doesn't care. She doesn't give a damn if she looks like a hooligan, half-slumped on the table, squeezing Scaramouche's cheeks with all her might to make him open his mouth!

Her thumb presses gently against his lower lip, and when she sees that he refuses to give in, she pinches his nose, muscles tense to prevent him from successfully pulling her arm away.

After a brief struggle, the arrogant liar has to take a short breath from below, and it doesn't take more for Mona to put her appendage on his tongue and push backward.

The inside of his mouth is warm and wet velvet, and the bruised look he gives her promises a slow, painful death, but as she sadistically slips the sticky candy into it, she can't be bothered to worry.

The dick closes his teeth around the pad of her thumb, and she extracts it just in time to avoid his bite. The best part is watching his entire being morph as his teeth stick together and get caught in the extra-sticky, sweet batter of the treat.

His pupils dilate and his already snow-white body takes on the colour of aspirin tablets, hands twisting in a silent scream.

Mona has never seen him sweating and writhing like this, nor the nauseating, murderous way he is staring at her with, forced to chew in an attempt to peel his teeth off without choking.

It's so enjoyable.

Mona withdraws. As she hands him the badly cut paper on which the waitress wrote her number so he can spit in it, she realises that Scaramouche is not the most sociopathic of the two.

It might be her.

---

"This school is really well equipped."

That's Mona's first remark when she walks in, followed closely by Scaramouche in the dorm's kitchen.

Mona spent many hours here accompanying the Prinzessin in her meals and collective celebrations.

The space is spacious and clean, large enough to accommodate around twenty students without anyone stepping on each other's feet, and equipped with several labelled cupboards to make it easier to find utensils. The work tables themselves could be more aesthetic; in fact, they pass to that of the chemistry laboratory, but they are practical and equipped with an oven, that's the main thing.

"So eggs, butter, flour, chocolate chips, sugar…hum. I think we have it all?" Mona lists on her fingers. "Are you listening to me?"

Scaramouche is still traumatised at her side, and she would almost be sorry to see him in this state if he hadn't swallowed mint lozenges for a while now. Their scent teases Mona's nose and the vague memory of their morning conversation floats on her mind again, filtering all her compassion away.

This manipulator got what he deserved for bothering her all day long.

That said , everything would go much faster if he started working with her on this cookie thing.

"You're such a Drama Queen." She rolls her eyes and pinches him to get his attention. "Help with that."

He slaps her hand in annoyance, their two handcuffs banging against each other in an unpleasant shrill noise. Those are becoming more and more cumbersome as the hours pass, and she can't wait to finally get free.

Besides, Mona already knows what she will write roughly on Albedo's report: bitter failure of any concrete improvement.

And then she'll handcuff him to Bennett and send him off for a vacation in the mountains.

Even if it means being hated by Sucrose, her best friends should at least share her suffering for a few days. Although, whatever the case, Albedo would still find a way to turn Bennett and his irremediable lousy luck into a new thesis subject.

"Let's do our cookies separate ways. I doubt you can produce anything good." Scaramouche fusses, and Mona feels her chest swell for a second with irritation.

"As you want, my cookies will be the best. You will see!"

How could someone who doesn't like sugar beat her in a pastry challenge? Mona has always been a good cook or at least knows how to follow a recipe, even if she practises baking sparingly.

Some minutes later, her eyes slant on Scaramouche when the chain pulls a little, and she's surprised to see him concentrating on kneading an already thick ball of dough, his fingers digging into the grainy, liquid, sticky texture.

The vision is strangely enthralling. There is something quite hypnotising in seeing Scaramouche massaging and spreading the dough on the school kitchen table, a bit as if he was caressing and transmitting energy to it, his usual cold grimace appeased by the movement he performs.

Mona finds herself absorbed in that rare and privileged moment when he is so focused on something for once that he has forgotten to mock her.

Except in certain maths classes, when he is thinking about an operation, she has never seen him entirely dedicated like this, giving the impression that the world around him no longer exists. In her head, a little voice murmurs: maybe it's because, usually, she is always in too, inside his world.

Mona swallows when she finally catches his attention with a glance. She hastens and throws a few eggs shells in the sink to avoid breaking the tacit truce that has just been established.

She never thought they could experience this kind of moment together, peaceful and quiet.

Maybe it's a good sign.

---

"Is that supposed to be cookie dough? No, because it's as ugly as a baboon ass." comments Scaramouche after an intense moment of reflection.

He won't stop with the monkey references, huh?

She should have strangled him with the candy.

The high school girl feels her cheek quiver for a second, but she has to grudgingly admit he's not entirely wrong. Where Scaramouche has finished making a perfect dough - how infuriating is this guy? Is there really nothing he can't do? - Mona’s has taken on a questionable colour and remains to say the least... lumpy.

"I followed the recipe without fault! It can't be that bad!" She points to a crumpled paper lying on the stove, between leftovers and stains of melted chocolate. "You must have rigged it!"

Scaramouche looks at her with scepticism and contempt. "Please, I don't need to do that to win." He points to a bubble that has just formed on the surface of her mixture, which is visibly inflating. "Monkey girl, I think you just created a new living species."

FLANK.

It's uncontrollable; she throws a good handful of flour at him.

Scaramouche raises his eyebrows slowly, with a feigned dignity that makes her roll her eyes as he ceremoniously wipes his face and dusts the collar of his shirt, his tie not even there anymore.

"Seriously, I think I've been very patient lately, Mona. So stop being a bitch, because I'm gonna get really mad." He announces with a sigh. "Just throw the thing; it's inedible."

Maybe it's the fact that she hears him say her name for the first time, but she doesn't know what to answer. The two syllables of her surname in his mouth are so foreign to her that her pulse quickens and gives her a high heart. But, God, he pisses her off!

She can't let him think he is going to beat her ass this time, so she does something stupid again; like tasting her preparation to prove it's not that bad.

It can't be that terrible.

Confession

The sound of a flushing toilet button being repeatedly pressed and his phone's music awkwardly hides Mona's squeaks behind the door in front of which Scaramouche is standing. The urge to say that he had warned her crosses his mind, but faced with such a scenario, even he feels a little pity for the fallen witch.

For his part, he would never have considered visiting the women's bathroom for this reason. It's rather adorable to see how the place has been thought to be pleasant and pretty despite its primary function, with large mirrors and finely hand-carved flowers on the pink tiles of the walls.

Lotuses , he notices.

Thankfully, no one else has entered until now; he would have had a hell of a time explaining this mess.

The noise of the toilet paper roll scratches his ears again after a muffled moan, and Scaramouche tries to stay as straight as a pole. He is doing his best to silence his mind to the other noises she makes, his hand forced to stick through the half-open door that he keeps closed as much as possible.

He may be a jerk to her, but he had never wanted nor meant to undermine Mona's dignity in this way.

Challenge her, traumatise her and invade her living space to the point that his name is branded in her mind; yes, he would do it every time without batting an eyelid, but never would he belittle her in her intimacy.

Mocking her looks is one thing, Mona has enough confidence to throw his words back at him with a simple flick of her silky hair. And with good reason as that, because she's so intoxicatingly beautiful that he's sick and pissed off by her mere presence 24/7 of the time.

But this moment is different.

It's respect for an enemy whose fervour he appreciates and for a woman he adores more than she can imagine or he can admit.

A new complaint rings out, and Scaramouche hears a muffled sniffle.

Is she crying? The sounds grip at his ribs.

Has he gone too far?

Would it have been better if he had agreed to find a solution to get rid of the handcuffs? He's never been the type to second guess himself, but hearing the proud Mona weeps cuts too deep.

"This is so fucking humiliating."

Mona whispers softly, hoarsely, as she flushes the toilet again.

Scaramouche runs a hand behind his neck, his fingers reflexively taking refuge in his trouser pocket afterward.

"Kunikuzushi…" He ends up announcing after a while.

"Huh…?" Mona's tone rises, interrogative.

"My real first name… it's Kunikuzushi. But I don't like it very much, so."

He says simply, one ear straining ever so slightly to make out Mona's breathing. She shouldn't be so bad that she must go to the emergency room, but Mona wouldn't tell him even if she did, so it doesn't hurt to be careful.

A silence ensues until she finally repeats hesitantly.

"Kuniyukushi."

"Tsssk, KuniKUZUSHI." He ticks and knocks gently on the door.

"Don't make me regret telling you, and pronounce it well."

"Is that supposed to be pronounceable?"

She replies, and he sighs in response.

This girl will really end up being the death of him one day.

"Why are you telling me?" She asks before clarifying. "I thought it was only for family and intimates."

Touché.

"I exaggerated a bit. It's not that big of a deal, anyway. Dean Jean knows it, Albedo too. I am betting his Sucrish sweet girl knows it too. She heard us talk once." He admits and moves a little in the doorway, surprised, when her slightly moist hand brushes his before fleeing.

"Yes?" He questions her anyway.

"Can I ask you a question…Kuniku…Kuni."

She decides, and even though it's probably because she can't pronounce his name correctly, he curses how his heart is racing.

Beating, pulsing, hitting, the damn pump thing has begun a fireworks display in his chest. It feels like dying, and he's glad Mona is not facing him because this time, he can't hide the deeply rosy complexion of his cheekbones.

Seeing their colour in the mirror makes him even more embarrassed, and he can only lower his head, one hand covering his chin to force himself to exhale calmly.

"Scaramouche?" She asks when he doesn't answer.

"Kuni is fine when it's just the two of us." He concedes and hopes that his trouble is not noticeable.

"Oh. Why did you decide to return to Inazuma? Don't you like it here?" She whispers, then adds hastily. "You don't have to tell me. I don't really care."

The question takes him as much by surprise as it intrigues him.

He realises that despite all their years of bickering, they never had a heart-to-heart with each other.

Strangely, it's not because of their fights or any mistrust. They might have hated each other sometimes, but Scaramouche had never doubted Mona's frankness and pure character regarding sensitive truths.

On the other hand, he wasn't so noble.

Using other people's wounds to better manipulate them was not a problem for him in the past. This might be the root of this issue.

Does he have the right to confide or complain to someone so sincere when he has never been trustworthy to anyone? When he doesn't even know if he will be able to show equivalent kindness in return?

"Because you made me understand I was strong enough to confront what I had left behind." He breathes out, and the confession releases a weight he has not yet felt. His chest stops burning for a few seconds, and he gently caresses the tattoo hidden under the shirt.

Yeah, he is so much stronger now.

Thanks to her.

"I did that?" Her tone is slightly suspicious, and instead of upsetting him, it makes him laugh, a genuinely amused chuckle because he should have figured that the only time he would pay her a sincere compliment, she would obviously not take it to face value.

"It seems so, yeah." He insists. "You're not totally useless, Starry Monkey." He hears her muttered slander, then a final sound of flushing and pantyhose.

"Well, I have always been known to be fantastic, you should know by now, Dumbass."

She blows and bangs on the door for him to let her through, and he is happy to see she has regained her haughty air and cute arrogant pout.

"Pfft.. don't get ahead of yourself. They also have the best medicine program, second only to Snezhnaya. I could go there, but cold climates don't do it for me. I prefer it warm and humid, like Sumeru."

Mona finishes rinsing her hands and adjusts her pigtails, sniffing at his words with a slight nod of approval.

"Yeah, actually, me too."

She smiles at him through the mirror.

And at that moment, it feels like that, for the first time, they have truly connected.

---

After her bathroom mishap, Mona is exhausted, but she has to admit she has no regrets about the chain of events. For so long, Scaramouche or Kunikuzushi, has been such an intricate mystery to understand.

She was the one who rubbed shoulders with him the most at school, between all their shouting matches and the obligation to be his partner in chemistry class, yet he had always been so evasive too.

A superficial portrait on which she could not distinguish any detail, not the slightest movement of the brush. It was confusing to feel nothing but falsehood and darkness coming off from someone; that's how she had convinced herself that Scaramouche couldn't be a good person.

Then, there had been that rainy day, and her beliefs had been shattered.

And now this conversation.

Mona acknowledges that she was potentially wrong as she follows suit to the next game on the list. Scaramouche was more sensitive and more fragile than she imagined and more attentive too.

Knowing that about him forced Mona to reevaluate all her past actions. And revisiting her past actions made her think and assume conclusions she didn't want. 

As a result, she felt as if she was lost in the middle of the woods facing a precipice, with only two options: jumping in with her eyes closed, hoping that the end would be even more beautiful, or wisely returning to the path that leads home.

"Monaaaa, Monaaaaa!"

At the end of the hall, a blond boy struggles to get her attention, and immediately Mona's smile spreads up. He is easy to recognize.

"Hi!" She calls for Mika Lawrence, a primary school student she befriended at the beginning of the year.

Resistance is felt as she walks past Scaramouche to take the lead of their little group, and she gives him a look from behind her shoulder, disappointed to see that he has chosen to adorn his cold mask again.

What's gotten into him? 

He was laughing a minute ago.

With a shrug, Mona joins Mika in the corridor, Scaramouche dragging his feet on the tiled floor behind her. She really doesn't get it. Scaramouche shouldn't know Mika, and there is no way Mika has any strife with him. The boy is terribly shy and affectionate; he wouldn't hurt a fly and certainly would not go and confront Kunikuzushi out of the blue.

From what little she knows, Mika is a sweet and kind young teenager, always taking care to bring her candies after training at the school swimming club. He has nothing but smiles to give. She supposes that for a misanthrope like Scaramouche, whose only company is most often Childe - a great guy; a little too bloodthirsty and hangs up on his unrequited love - Mika is perhaps too sunny and enthusiastic.

She breathes out, that should be it.

Of course, he won't make an effort to play nice.

Usually, he at least fakes polite talk, but Scaramouche doesn't seem bent on even being amiable with Mika.

What is bothering this dickhead exactly?

"How are you today ?" She comments and comes to pat the top of Mika's hair, a habit she had quickly picked up, which he rewards with a blush and a smile. Scaramouche scoffs, but she is determined to ignore him. "You didn't go home for the holidays?"

"I... I did! I don't live very far; I returned to give Razor and Bennett a hand. They planned a charity sale for the local children." He affirms and tentatively grabs her free hand.

Mona quickly hugs his fingers back.

Mika has always been particularly tactile with her.

Knowing from a reliable source that he is generally reserved and evasive, she is proud to participate in strengthening his confidence.

It makes her feel like she has a role to play in someone's life, not that she doesn't already play essential roles for much of the community in Mondstadt with her astrology sessions!

But with Mika, it's different; rather than her skills, it's her familial affection he is seeking. By helping him, she experiences platonic and fraternal love that makes her want to help the boy flourish.

"I'm not surprised about you, Mika. Help them well."

She encourages, pinching his round cheek for a second.

Mika's blue eyes sparkle until they settle on the handcuff around her other wrist. She almost forgot the damn thing was there, but Mika's reaction is unequivocal. He cries out and quickly grabs her arm.

"Mona, what is that?" He bristles in a voice too low to be usual and, more surprisingly, without looking her in the eye, but fixated on Scaramouche.

What's got into him too? It's not a big deal.

Behind her, she feels the animosity of Scaramouche brushing against her waist, ever slowly growing.

"I can help you get rid of that," Mika says, and Kunikuzushi's reaction is so violent and rapid that it shakes Mona like a hurricane.

Scaramouche's fingers wrap around her bicep with such force that she crushes his foot with her heel in revenge.

"Scara! Be careful!" She whistles, but the latter is too busy staring at Mika to listen to her.

"Leave it and go back to your kindergarten crib."

He orders, but Mika only offers a slight smile and a polite retort in return.

"Not if Mona doesn't want it. What are these handcuffs?"

Mona blinks because Mika's aplomb and the absence of his elocution problem confuse her. She would not have thought the lovely and adorable petite blond would readily go and confront Scaramouche, the wildest card in this school.

"I told you to let go. It doesn't concern you." Scaramouche's voice is glacial, and she is starting to worry. 

Mika's attitude isn't the most usual either, and when the boy grabs her cuffed hand too, and Scaramouche growls, she begins wondering if she has entered a strange battle of wits where she is the prize.

Her eyebrows furrow and she stares at them. The ambient temperature has plummeted below the zero mark, and the tension is so palpable it could be cut with a knife.

A vein slowly settles in Mona's temple, throbbing and throbbing at this incomprehensible excess of testosterone. She is not a piece of meat they can fight and chew on!

"Could you stop that ?" She commands with disbelief and also anger.

 "Release me, both of you!"

Her fingernails dig into the skin of Scaramouche's hand to force him to let go, which he begrudgingly does after Mika's hand loosens first.

"S…sor…sorry Mona!" The boy stammers, his complexion as red as a tomato, and Mona quickly softens, determined not to frighten or jostle him.

After all, it's not his fault. Scaramouche has this strange effect on everyone. He is like an irritating cough or a nasty allergy, unpleasant and invasive. He makes people go crazy.

She grabs Mika's shoulders and hugs him for a second before pulling him away, giving Scaramouche her darkest expression, and the bastard flashes her his scariest glare to date in kind. He's furious, but she can't argue with him in Mika's presence.

"Don't worry about this stuff Mika. It's just an experiment we are conducting for Albedo. I got this." She declares in her most confident tone.

Mika hesitates for a second but ends up nodding.

"Are you sure…?"

"Of course! I am THE genius astrologist, remember? So please don't worry too much and go back quickly to Razor and Bennett." She demands, waving her hand at him to make him understand that they will discuss it again.

"You, follow me." She hurls at Scaramouche and does not wait to drag him into another alley, one floor below. 

Obviously, he, too, has things to say because when she turns around after making sure that they are alone, Scaramouche corners her between the wall and his silhouette.

An act she considers aggressive and inappropriate, especially when she has done nothing worthy of the fury she feels boiling under his skin, ready to pour out at any moment to drown her under a bed of lava.

"Can't you shut up and follow my lead sometimes?" Is the first thing he screams in her face, so close that his minty breath caresses her nose, and she can make out every nuance that stirs the depths of his irises in a ballet of flames and shadows.

"And you! Care to explain why you were such a dickhead to this poor boy?" She yells back, her index finger stuck in the exact spot where she can make out his tattoo's filaments through his shirt's thin fabric.

"And stop trying to overpower me just because you are a little taller!!"

She stands on her tiptoes and hits his forehead roughly with hers, forcing him to take a step back, but Scaramouche isn't ready to give ground this time, and he just grabs her arms to better crush her body against him.

"This ugly duckling has nothing of a poor boy; he is a peeper in disguise!" He affirms, their closeness now disturbing, and she involuntarily remembers the time they spent stuck in the locker this morning, except that she didn't have as many butterflies in her stomach.

It's as if an army of insects had taken up residence in the hollow of her veins, ascending along her vessels and awakening the most unsuspected parts of her being with a thousand wingbeats.

"I'll stop you immediately; Mika is not a pervert. He is an innocent and polite boy." Mona answers but stops breathing, the musky scent of his neck mixing with the coolness of his breath.

"You don't see how he looks at you; it ain't no childish interest," Scaramouche replies, but he no longer screams; he whispers, low and hoarse, digits warm, burning down like the fire he is holding within had begun to consume him.

A gentle heat appears between her thighs, but inexplicably, Mona wants to do everything but flee. Instead, she would like to pull him a little closer and bite him, squeezing a cry of pain out of his mouth, and digging her nails into his shirt until it rips, making him feel as naked and weak as she is in that second.

"You're wrong, Mona…you are so bad, you don't understand." Scaramouche's voice jerks so much that she barely hears the end, but honestly, she's not even sure she understands what he's saying to her anyway, obsessed with the dark look of his amethyst eyes, the redness of his ears, the way the longest jets of hair on his forehead come to caress her nose and cheeks.

He is so near; she can count every beautiful and single eyelash, graceful like those of a puppet doll. An electric current illuminates her lower abdomen intermittently, each time his breath hits the corner of her mouth a little harder.

It's unbearable how he makes her feel. Unsustainable. Insupportable.

Exasperating and so close.

Mona shut her eyes.

“Ola? What are two of my favourite students doing in the hallways at this hour? Yeho!”

The moment breaks.

Feelings

Professor Venti is an atypical character. Small and juvenile in appearance, it would be hard to consider him a responsible adult at first glance.

Yes, with his always affable smile and his mania for declaiming poems all the time, Scaramouche first took him for a happy dope, with an annoying tendency to drink alcohol on school nights.

Yet today, Venti is arguably the teacher Scaramouche respects the most in all of Monstadt and also the person who best defines the city's ideal of freedom. Thanks to his courses and the deep knowledge that he was able to bring to him at opportune moments of his schooling here, Scaramouche also evolved and grew. For that, he cannot criticise nor refuse the man, even when he would have liked to talk with Mona alone.

Although Venti pretended not to understand the situation earlier, Scaramouche is convinced that the latter did notice the almost kiss and the thick tension floating in the air, otherwise, why would he ask them to come and participate in the school choir with great insistence? Even if the urge to refuse was strong, in this case, Scaramouche had to admit, he also took the escape from the enormity of what had just happened between him and Mona.

How far would she have gone? She had looked like she wanted it as bad as him, but Mona was prompt to outbursts in his presence, and Scaramouche was unwilling to believe she had been reasoned. The idea leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He doesn't feel ready to put his heart in her hands yet, without the slightest guarantee of not getting hurt behind it. He might be resistant, but she, more than anyone else, can render him weak.

In addition, Mona hasn't said a word since the professor arrived in the halls, nor even protested or uttered the slightest complaint when he dragged them through the city streets. Being that quiet isn't like the astromancer; it's not part of her personality or their dynamic.

He doesn't know what to think, and he doesn't know what to say. He had never done romance before, especially with Mona Megistus.

The privileged moment spent in the restrooms seems distant now. Worse, it's as if it was entirely erased by the minutes that followed, and instead, a massive wall of ice was erected between them.

Mona may be attached to him by a handcuff, but her figure has never seemed so distant and ghostly to him. And without any sign from her, he doesn't think he can find the courage to open up again.

He's damned himself enough for her as it is.

He can't forswear himself more to beg for a little of her attention.

His ego just won't allow it.

The streets of Mondstadt are always busy at this time of the year. With Christmas approaching, families go shopping or decorate the roads with garlands and other colourful trinkets.

The event is typical of the region, but Scaramouche easily associates it with the New Moon celebrations hosted in Inazuma. The biggest variances were the cakes and gifts.

As this custom is foreign to him, he hasn't bought anything, but Mona, he is sure, has already planned her gifts. She is attentive to her friends and often spoils them by devious means to pass it off as a trivial gesture or a service rendered when, truly, it's only her generosity.

This irremediable way she has of being embarrassed by the smallest source of affection is a personality trait that they both more or less share, with the difference that Mona strives to testify her love when he is content to never express it.

At the same time, it is hard to imagine that he can love authentically and sincerely when he doesn't perfectly understand what should be done to receive affection and give it in return.

When do we know that we love someone or that they love us back?

The idea had seemed alien to him for decades.

However, he assumes that if he wants to see her every day and misses her when he can't argue with her, that's a sign, right?

And it would also be the answer to so many questions he had asked himself.

Selfishly, he had always thought that people hated and rejected him.

But maybe deep down, he was the one who didn't love them enough.

Until the smile of a child too young to leave, he had never missed anyone, neither his classmates nor his "friends," not even his own flesh and blood.

And now there was her, Mona.

An intriguing high school girl with the air of an apprentice magician and eyes a little too green or too blue, most often opalescent grey like a pearl hidden under an oyster shell. He wanted to be the first one to pick it.

The handcuff on his wrist squeezes at his skin without warning. A few steps away, Mona has stopped walking to contemplate the gift shop 'With Wind Comes Glory' thoughtfully. He vaguely remembers the name from having heard her repeat it several times when discussing accessories with one of her class acquaintances.

Hands in his jacket pockets, Scaramouche checks that Venti is not too far away before joining her, one eye directed towards the objects displayed behind the glass to try and guess which has captured her interest.

It's not too hard; he knows all about her excessive love for the constellations and the sky in its broadest generality. Only one item matches this description and is currently displayed through the window.

"A shooting star hair clip?" He inquires, finally breaking the silence, ready to bounce back and leave at the slightest sign suggesting that she has decided to indefinitely cut off communication between them.

His breath stops.

"Hum, hum."

And relax.

"Shooting stars symbolise destiny and promises. That's why we attribute magical virtues to them and make a wish when we see them. They are magical." She comments, then pinches his side sharply.

"Why are you asking? I already know what you think of stars and their science. Always doubting them.." She mumbles and clicks her tongue at him as she resumes her journey, and Scaramouche can only smile, his fist delicately striking the top of her head.

No matter what she says when she calls him a dwarf, Scaramouche finds that she is so miniature herself that he can't help but want to bully her again.

"It's more of you that I doubt." He mocks and pushes her slightly towards the wall with a shoulder, adding after a reflection. "Plus, don't you think shooting stars are too little for the famous genius astrologer, Miss Monkey Mevistus? You need a whole banana shaped planet."

"It's ME-GIS-TUS. Mona Megistus." She repeats, snapping her fingers to emphasise her first name, her nose raised in the air. "If you grant yourself the honour of pronouncing it, at least do it with accuracy, right?"

She pauses and turns towards him, staring at him from all her lean height, her pigtails shaken by the gesture. "And I swear on the fate of Teyvat itself that if you pronounce the words Monkey and my patronym again in succession, I'm going to make you swallow so many sticky candies that your belly will swell to the point of exploding and re-paper all the walls of your room in blood and gore."

He raises an eyebrow at the threat.

And he is the one they call a psychopath?

---

Mona reluctantly puts on the white tunic lent to her with a smile and a kind word. Although she sincerely appreciates Professor Venti, she has no desire to sing.

She has a pleasant tone and is doing well in class, but she has the annoying tendency to take the wrong notes and would feel bad about spoiling her classmates' public performance with amateur errors.

However, that doesn't seem to worry her music teacher, who places her and Scaramouche at the front left side with a playful wink. She doesn't know why, but she has the impression that he's silently mocking them.

It doesn't make her happy, especially after being interrupted by him in that awkward position earlier! Just thinking about it makes her brain feel fizzy again, and she chases the images rushing back behind her eyelids with ferocity.

It was just a stroke of madness; it had nothing tangible.

All teenagers have hormones, and the chemical reactions produced by the proximity between bodies cause contradictory behaviours.

She recites internally.

"You should concentrate." Scaramouche sighs with a cold puff that dispels a cloud of mist into the air.

"Mind your own business. I didn't ask you." Mona answers harshly, stressed and looking for the warm familiarity of their usual squabble.

She doesn't want to feel him so close, not now.

The temperature drops as the sun sets, and Mona regrets that she hasn't taken an additional jacket from the dorm. Mondstadt Park was built in recent years following the city's vast expansion in the western peaks, and because of its high position, the winds here were colder.

Formerly, Mondstadt Park was a vast forest where, according to legends, wolves and fairies hid at night to capture uninvited guests. Stories and tales that the old hag has told her since she was young and which Mona secretly loved hearing, despite her disinterested attitude.

The park was a popular place for all the habitants, and several events had been organised inside it since its first aperture.

Venti discreetly taps a small wooden desk he has set up and coughs to attract the attention of the choristers. Behind him, a few walkers have started settling down, and Mona's nervousness jumps higher.

She knows the words to the song from having learned it by heart when she was little, but the first note clogs in her throat, and her voice gets stuck. She frowns and tries to force herself to open her mouth.

Not singing at all would feel like a failure, and Mona does not tolerate failures. When she has problems, she overcomes them, beats them up, and transforms them into victories she can boast about.

"Ho…o..Ho…"

She closes her lips in a pinch; it's mortifying. Did she really deserve to spend the day chaining humiliations? An unpleasant moisture stains her palm and is smothered without warning between thin fingers that have slipped and discreetly intertwined with hers.

Mona nearly screams at Scaramouche and only holds back when she notices him beating the time of the music against the back of her hand.

She swallows a gasp of surprise and focuses on a point on the horizon.

It's funny; the few times she has touched him, she has always found his skin icy-cold or scorching hot; it never was wholly pleasant. But for once, his epiderm irradiates a pleasant coolness that absorbs her mounting stress.

Her mouth opens and rises to begin a slender but crystalline song, just enough to blend into the mass without disturbing the slightest note.

There, it's alright.

Venti turns to them after a few minutes and gestures toward Scaramouche, whose hand jerks against her own even if his face stays the same.

"Holy Night…"

The old hag used to tell her that forest fairies liked singing to the setting sun. Mona has never heard a fairy song.

But as the sky turns pink and purple, embracing the atmosphere in a final goodbye and Scaramouche's voice resounds in a sorrowful yet beautiful melody, Mona thinks she is hearing one today.

And she is bewitched.

Seems like the devil has an angel voice.

---

"Fucking green flute!" Scaramouche undoes his white mantle and leaves it in the purposed box. "You never said anything about a solo part!"

Venti turns to them and shakes his head in disapproval with an amused smile. "Whoa! I'm still a teacher; shouldn't you be more respectful towards this nice but humble fella who has allowed you to shine?"

"We are off school grounds; I don't care about respecting you anymore! You're a sly fox. You always like to play dirty."

Venti's laugh at Scaramouche's words is accompanied by yet another disrespectful insult from the teenager to his teacher.

Most passers-by have resumed their walk, and the other students are already scattered.

Mona momentarily longs for their freedom; for her part, she's still stuck with Scaramouche, and their hands are still intertwined, but she doesn't even know if she should point it out.

Today is a string of strange and inappropriate misadventures. Holding Scaramouche's hand as he verbally molests their music teacher is just one more checkbox on the list of the many oddities this human experiment has brought.

Ha! For the stars! She doesn't want to try and guess.

It's too blurry.

"Instead of insulting me, why don't you take Miss Megistus to the ice rink. I already have two unused tickets."

"Ah?" This time it's up to Mona to stay bewildered when Venti takes two bills out of a pocket in his coat and wedges them between Scaramouche's fingers with a light goodbye.

Did he prepare them in advance? She doesn't know why, but she has the vague impression that he did.

"So," Scaramouche looks at the tickets and asks her the fateful question. "Do you want to? Go to the ice rink, I mean."

The idea of skating with Scaramouche is weird, and her usual reaction would be a firm "no," but everything is upside down in her head, and instead, she says,

"Yes."

---

Putting your foot on the ice requires proper balance, and Mona is amused to see Scaramouche cling to her arms to find his. Ice skating has long been one of her favourite disciplines, along with dance and swimming training, all meant to improve the tonicity of her legs.

Most little girls dream of wearing a ball gown and dancing with Prince Charming when they are young. Like her, Mona has already secretly dreamed of being kissed during a romantic waltz on the arm of a skillful dancer. Yet there is something truly endearing in seeing Scaramouche squirm under his breath and hold for dear life onto her petite frame. She won't mind being the prince on any given day if he is her princess.

"I finally found something you are not good at." She notices when he stumbles again and jostles her slightly. He is leaning all his weight on her, as she keeps him upright by the sheer force of her hips and hands.

"That's not a great success. I fail in many other ways." He concedes while recovering his footing in a tremor.

"Because you admit it now?" She exclaims, stunned by his answer, and guides him to a slightly more isolated place, in one of the corners where the ice rink forms an angle so that he can cling to something more solid.

A momentary relief settles on his face as he grips at the ledges, and she sees him patting the handcuff on his wrist as if considering how to respond to her.

"I always had trouble." He starts to explain, and Mona listens with intent because it feels like he has allowed her in a very private space, and she admits she is eager to hear more about his weaknesses, but mostly about him.

"Troubles, understanding feelings and what they imply." He continues, eyes staring into the white powder around them. "Mostly, I can't get the people I like to ever notice me. And I don't know how to love them back either."

Mona remains silent.

She turns the words over in her head. She analyses them and searches through the hidden meanings until she finally distinguishes the cracks behind the hypocritical smile that she had never managed to pierce.

It feels like finally founding the secret code for a locked diary she had had for years but could never open despite her best efforts.

"You don't need to." She answers sincerely. "To know how to love them. When you find the right person, it will be natural. Awkward maybe, but you won't doubt it either way. You're not as bad as I...as you may think." She pulls herself together and avoids the surprised look he gives because it's easier when he hates her, more manageable, and less chaotic.

"Thanks, Monkey Girl. You ain't half-bad at pep talks." He whispers, coming back to grab her shoulders gracefully in an improvised stunt. He's starting to get used to it. The bastard is a fast learner.

"What did I say about the Monkey word? I will-"

"Mona." He cuts off, calling her, for the second time, by her first name.

And once again, Mona stays stunned because hearing it from him still feels indecent.

"Mona." He repeats, and she feels her cheeks bursting like a thousand suns.

"What? You never kept yourself from saying what is in this shitty head of yours; just tell me."

It is unsuccessful if she hopes to annoy him a little or see him react.

On the contrary, his face only becomes more serious, and she is sure she does not imagine the blush that tints his cheeks.

The last rays of the sun bring out their peachy hue and give his complexion a glint of gold and fresh pink, accentuated by the pearly white of the snow and the black of his ebony hair.

If she is the prince, who is he then? SnowBoy?

He is certainly pretty enough to make his own mother jealous.

But even that thought has trouble distracting her from the overall confusing situation. Mona is not used to this fragile, vulnerable, shy, and awkward Scaramouche. Innocent as he nods his head for a minute and rubs his neck, looking for the right words to say, not the wrong ones.

She's never seen him more clearly than right now, him and the cogs turning in his mind as he tries to put an honest question to her, with the fear that she'll take it the wrong way because their main communication tool has always been slurs and irony.

They do it like that.

"Be yourself… I don't need you to pamper me." This is the only thing Mona can say to help because Scaramouche being too careful with her gives her the creeps anyway. She is not some fragile sissy who can't take him head-on.

The suggestion relaxes him because he spontaneously regains his usual smirk and the lively brilliance of his weasel gaze.

He finally manages to stand on his two skates without difficulty, and Mona can feel a cold sweat dripping down her back. She is not sure she wants to hear him anymore.

"When you jumped me in the corridor like a depraved sexless old virgin," He starts, then touches his mouth. "You tried to steal a kiss from me, right?” 

“Perhaps... Are you in love with me, Mona?"

“Urf!”

How he doubles over after her right punch in his stomach reassures Mona that her self-defence lessons are doing her good.

But what did she expect?

Everything involving him is a bunch of crap.

"Did the cold finally catch up to your brain? Stop joking!"

She mutters, trembling, without looking at him and cursing the existence of those handcuffs, withholding her back as she tries to get off the rink as quickly as possible.

In fact, if she could, she would flee across the country, right there, right now. She would find herself a pretty tower filled with books and would only come out to eat and buy even more books. 

She would also make herself amnesic and erase all the moments they have spent together, those memories that have pushed her into the abyss he represents and got her trapped.

"No need to be aggressive. What is this monster's strength anyway? Are you an ogress in disguise?" Claims Scaramouche, and even if he jokes, she clearly hears the frost in his voice, his tone polar and brittle.

Mona knows she has made an irreparable mistake, but she has no alternative because if she says yes, what then? What would become of them? It was too scary to confront. She needed to take the path that led back home, or she would be forever lost.

Mistletoe

Building a snowman is one of the last things written on Albedo's long-to-do list. It should be simple, yet their creation looks particularly misshapen and is the ugliest in the park. A feat when you know that six-year-old children participated in doing several of the various cute ones installed along the path.

Scaramouche doesn't know if it's because the ball that's supposed to form the snowman's head is significantly bigger than the body, but there's probably a connection.

He presses, with one finger, the large head and watches as it crumbles like a wisp of straw to the side. Below, Mona, who had been rummaging through the snow for a good hour to find branches, whines in distress.

"Hey, why would you do that?! It took me five minutes to put it on!"

The woman, mi ape, mi witch, gets up from the wet white ground, her hair dishevelled and her teeth chattering. Having her buttocks on the dry ice to search for a piece of wood, like a dog for a bone, most likely made both her skirt and underwear humid; considering the advancing night and her lack of clothes, she must be freezing.

Regardless, he doesn't care.

For now, seeing her uncomfortable grimace comforts him.

She punched him after all.

Even if the pain was not felt in his stomach.

Scaramouche frowns and kicks the snowball's remains on the ground.

He fucking hates her.

"Scaramouche!" She scoops up some white powder and heaps it summarily between her palms before throwing it at his side. "You have done nothing but gawk, you jerk! Why are you killing him!"

Him? His eyebrow quirks, and he stares sourly at her sulky pout.

She has the nerve to get angry at him for a fucking white abomination after what must have been the worst blown-off of the universe? He can't help but collect snow in return before tossing it in her stupid face.

"I'm salvaging it. It's ugly as fuck. Even your cookie dough had better outlooks, and we know how that one ended up." He spits and picks up snow to form a new head just as disproportionate to the body but in the opposite direction, smallish . "In the trash."

Mona sneezes and sniffles, her hands under her armpits in quest of remaining warmth. The idiot is shivering from head to toe, and he can only sigh as he settles his mini-ball on its too-large support, then plants two stones at random to make eyes and adds a silly smile with his fingers for the form.

"Here, let's call it Tartaglia and be done with it." He pulls on the handcuff while Mona stares in dismay at the white infant horror they have brought into the world. He agrees; not a good look for their first child.

"Tartaglia. Isn't that Childe's nickname when going to the nightclub?" Mona asks, then crosses her arms stronger. "You're a real dick to him! Be kinder; he is not that ill-looking." She breathes out while he is busy taking a picture for the experiment.

In fact, he is just taking a picture of her flushed and infuriated face, but no way in hell he is telling Mona that after the ice-rink fiasco. So here he went, lying for the first time, his bare heart to be seen, and she had stepped on it. Never mind, he had learnt his lesson. She could suffer at least three deaths by the cold before he ever did it again.

However, Scaramouche is still convinced that he did not dream or imagine her attraction. He knows nothing about love but can't be wrong about Mona. She's just made to be his girlfriend; that's what he has decided, and he can't think otherwise anymore.

Sadly, Mona is so pigheaded that persuading her that she wants him might be the hardest hassle any man has ever been faced with.

Opinionated and moody, typical female.

He hadn't got much time left either, but he hadn't given up, not yet .

"It's retribution for putting spiders in my shoes when I was five." He affirms and adds. "The guy is brainless for girls he falls for, so a little head suits him just fine."

Mona sniffles and hugs her thin blazer to her sides with a pitiful cough.

"You really have the weirdest way of bro-loving each other."

She is starting to look a little too blue, and he exhales.

Guess he can't make her wait anymore unless he wishes to see her end up with pneumonia. Scaramouche quickly undoes his uniform vest and lets it fall over her shoulders in a casual gesture.

"Put that on, Dumb Witch. We still have one last place to see."

Mona's ears get redder by the minute, and she hastens to pull aside the jacket that Scaramouche has thrown at her to give it back in the second.

Her frozen body screams for assassination as the fabric radiates a pleasant warmth that calls to her chilled senses. But it's also saturated by Scaramouche's scent, and she doesn't know if she's ready to wear it when all of her thoughts have become one big cluster of complex nonsensical knots.

"You're the one who will catch a cold, wearing only your shirt." She interrupts. "Keep it."

Scaramouche gives her an annoyed throat clearing and a look so authoritative that she's briefly rendered speechless. Obviously, he has no patience left for her antics.

"I'm no weakling. Wear it. Now.

The next stop is over there."

She would like to protest; she really would, but by now it's completely dark, and she feels like a living ice cube. 

Her arms pass through the too-big jacket sleeves, and she rolls her back to stick each side to her body, revelling in the warmth it gives her; her toes curling into her shoes.

Mona's eyes widen as they approach the place Scaramouche had mentioned. The park has erected an enormous fir tree in its centre for the holidays. At its tip, a luminous star sparkles in the night like a lighthouse in the middle of the ocean. Thousands of colourful garlands shine and flash to the rhythms of Christmas songs playing in the background and paint the surroundings in a rainbow of lights.

Her throat constricts a little, and she suddenly regrets not having come to admire the huge tree more often. Sucrose had spoken to her a lot about it, but she hadn't listened. Now, Mona feels like an egoist knowing her friend had wanted to come here with her when she couldn’t be bothered. 

The sweet Sucrose had talked so much about the little ponds, the living made crystal butterflies and, in particular, the beautiful cork arch through which one reaches the foot of the trunk and the…

"Mistletoe," says Mona.

---

Scaramouche stops walking at the sight of the arch looming ahead.

Mona seems paralyzed at the thought of strolling under it, and he is forced to come close to make her look at him.

"The key might be near the trunk. You want it back, don't you?" He inquires impatiently.

"But…" She refuses, grabbing the chain of their handcuffs with both hands. "We are going to have to kiss…right? It's the traditional thing to do."

Her voice is so distant and weak.

He can't help it; he tenses up.

Did he really imagine everything, then?

Attraction, desire, and closeness?

Is she disgusted by the idea of sharing some intimacy with him?

Even just a kiss?

"Do you hate it so much, the idea of kissing me?" Scaramouche asks, and he feels like his heart is at the edge of his lips, ready to be vomited in a pool of blood with the bile rising in his throat.

Mona seems upset by his question, to the point that she prefers to avoid looking at him and pales; he has never seen her pale in front of anything.

"It's..."

Understood.

He doesn't particularly want to hear the end.

In fact, he just wants to scream and bury the crumbly pieces of his heart under the ground in a hole so deep and hollow he will never have to pick them up again.

Since it's like that, he may as well throw it all in her face.

This masquerade has no meaning anymore.

"I see; no need to go further then." He declares, and the words are ashes in his mouth, as he pulls a small pink bag from his pants pocket, a protection charm, an "omamori" once given to him by a child.

Looks like it didn't work.

"What is that… ?" She asks, but he has already taken out the key to the handcuffs. 

The object glistens before Mona's eyes for a second, and he can hear her gasping breaths as he unties them and drops the manacles to the floor with a snap.

The silence that settles in is heavy, and when Mona speaks again, her every word is filled with poison and doubt, reeking of disbelief and betrayal. 

She is too whole to hide what she thinks of him.

She has always been frank about it.

He had just imagined that with a good kick in the ass, she would also realise that their mutual obsession was a sign of budding love.

Pinning after her for three years, about to get rejected for a third time, and still waiting for her every word, what a useless fool he had become.

"You…you would have…you had that from the beginning!" She blames and hits him with both fists in the chest.  "I hate you! I fucking hate you! Do you understand how distressed I was all day?!"

"And the toilet too..." She chokes and hits him again, harder. "Was this all some sick plan to entertain yourself?! Did you take pleasure in seeing me so low?! Is that all the respect you have for me?"

She pulls back, all but dripping venom, broken trust, and unshed tears.

He catches her wrists, but she avoids his touch, and he exhales and forces himself to keep his distance this time.

He doesn't wish to force her hand, only to snap her out of those hurtful assumptions. It’s hard to know if she will listen, though, with her emotions being in shambles and all over the place.

"Of course not. It has nothing to do with that!" He prepares for what's next, building a shell of iron and steel around himself. "I needed this time with you to try and find something."

"And what,” She breathes in. “What the damn could that be, that you had to…torture me all day!" She screams, and his own rage is flaring at the word torture .

"I wanted you to be cute for a change and say you want me, ok?!" He shouts back, afraid and furious but clear-minded enough to keep from approaching when she throws daggers at his entire existence. "Is that such a crime in your fucking little skull full of stars?!"

She clenches her fists and stamps her foot as if trying to make the words bounce off, screeching. "Why the hell would I do that?! And why the heck would you even want it?!"

"Why indeed…" But he doesn't yell; he is too tired already, drained to the very core by her absolute denseness. "I'm in love with you, isn't that obvious? Or will you dare to be even more stupid about it? You already rejected me, so come off your high horse now."

There. He said it. And Mona looks like a fucking goldfish now.

He runs his hand through his hair in frustration.

"You. You love me... You?" She repeats and whispers, digging with the tip of a blade into the gaping wound she has just started to open, second after second. "You love me? You. You love me..."

"I won't repeat it. Believe it or not, I don't care anymore." He replies, and he really doesn't. Scaramouche won't care even if an asteroid drops on Teyvat tomorrow and kills them all.

The stupid monkey witch is devoid of the sense of speech.

And he has nothing more to say, either; it's magnificent.

The stretching silence, deafening, is even worse than the first.

He should have let her think he was a jerk.

Hate is still better than indifference.

"It's cold," Mona says suddenly, and he looks at her without understanding.

Has he broken her mind so far that she must state the obvious now?

"Of course, it's cold. It’s mid-December, it's night, and we are wearing nothing but our uniforms. How much more stupid can you get?" He swings at her without gentleness, and she suddenly massages her face with both hands in what appears to be frustration.

"No, no!" She protests and throws her hands in the air while looking at him with intent, still red-nosed and troubled, the rest of her tears crystallised on the point of her dark eyelashes. He loves how the ambient temperature makes her earlobes look so bloody he could mistake them for cherries.

"I mean it, as it's cold ." She insists, and for the worse, he truly begins to worry. If she is starting to make no sense, maybe she actually has hyperthermia or something.

He bends down and rests his hand against her forehead; she has a subtle tremor, which must be bad.

"Are you ok? Is your brain freezing?" He mutters inaudibly. "Maybe I should bring you to the hospital."

Her reaction is quite puzzling.

She takes a deep breath and hits him again square in the jaw.

"What the?!" He growls while massaging his hurting face. "I thought you were done with the hitting part?!"

"Did you ever watch any romantic stuff?!" She ignores and claims, all the while turning her back on him. "I swear to Teyvat!"

"When a girl says: it's cold, it means, please kiss me." Her voice breaks on the last word, and he staggers.

She throws him a look above her shoulders but doesn't seem satisfied by what she sees because her only reaction is to turn around and run away.

"You know what? Never mind! I'm outta here!"

---

When a girl says: it's cold, it means, please kiss me.

Please, kiss me.

Kiss me.

Scaramouche comes out of his torpor with a start, and his eyes seek the silhouette of Mona in vain. The bitch has already vanished out in the shadows of the park.

He can only swear and run.

His rib cage catches fire, and his shirt clings to his back.

Between the sweat sticking to his forehead and the snowflakes starting to fall, his visibility is almost nil.

The lights of the fir tree do not extend to the northern shores of the park, and he is convinced that she will have chosen this path precisely for that. Because she's reckless, stubborn, and likes to drive him crazy in every sense of the word.

Calling her doesn't help either; she is dumb enough to change direction when she hears him coming.

His breath is erratic, and he tries to maintain the pace of his sprint, looking for the slightest movement that might tell him that she is still there.

"Fuck it!"

He scratches his fist against a tree trunk and takes the time to take a deep breath. He needs to calm down; Mona can't be far.

She can't be gone.

He doesn't want to believe it.

"Mona!" He shouts, without hope of hearing an answer. His gaze painstakingly details his surroundings, and his mouth opens in a new cry when the sound of a muffled hiccup calls out to him in the background.

His eyes narrow, and he sees her in front, her big clear eyes and the rumpled state of her clothes because obviously, she was running too.

Was she going back?

It doesn't matter; he doesn't need to know.

Seeing her has the effect of an electric shock and he rushes forward when Mona takes the opposite direction, and flees into the snow that covers the grass off the path.

Shit, the bitch is quick!

Scaramouche has never lived through a race like this one. But when he throws himself at her hips to better catch her in the crook of his arms, a hand instinctively placed to the back of her skull to prevent her from falling on it as they stumble – rather miserably, by the way – in the snow together, he has never felt more victorious.

If the euphoria he feels when he finds Mona's weight against his heart is the same as the one you have when you catch a match point, maybe he should take up a sport.

"Dirty Witch! Stop driving me crazy!" He whispers breathlessly, his two hands resting against Mona's too-cold cheeks. He quickly pushes aside a few long locks in front of her face to pass them behind her ears and raises her chin.

"No!" She grabs his wrists and forces him to lower them, shifting to a better position, slumped between his legs. "Why do you do that?! It's all your fault! It's always your fault."

"I ! How was I supposed to understand such a cryptic request?!" He argues back and cages her pelvis with his thighs just in case she has the good sense to run away again.

"You should have!" Mona orders, and he can only laugh to hide his nervousness.

"I do, now. I truly do."

Her eyebrows furrow, and instead of smiling, she twitches all over, looking like she intends to throttle him to death.

"Then what are you waiting for?" She sighs and squeals in despair. "Guys are so slow, sometimes. Why must women do it all themselves?"

His temple swells with a throb at her words.

"Coming from you, that's really ric-" His voice trails off as she closes the space between them in a kiss that's a little too hard to be enjoyable.

Mona's mouth is chapped, her teeth chattering against his from the force of the impact. She closes her eyes too hard, and she fidgets in his arms, hands clinging to his collar. The idiot doesn't even breathe.

Honestly, it's all but a romantic first kiss as Scaramouche tastes blood on the tip of his tongue. Yet he can't help but melt under the warm and hotness of it all, the delicate sensation spearing through him like a cupid arrow, his body shuddering and breaking under the tender softness of her cold burning touch in the white snow.

"Breathe, Mona. Use your nose." He demands and forces her to lean back, taking advantage of her open mouth, no doubt to insult him, to initiate a new exchange.

He bites her lower lip and sucks it. Pulls a moan from her throat, which he swallows and savours, one hand in the back of her neck and the other lost in the silk of her hair falling on her shoulders in a light dance.

Their caressing tongues still have the flavor of failed midday cookies, their brushing bodies are atrophied by the cold, almost paralyzed by the frost, they’re both tired and exhausted, but this moment is his, and it's still fucking perfect.

"I can feel your flashlight again." She utters, and he cocks an eyebrow at her bemused and slightly clouded expression.

"You should get used to it, you know." He deeps in to kiss the tips of her ears. "I'm quite the healthy boyfriend."

"Perverted bastard." She answers, her words smothered in the way she hides in the crook of his neck.  "I don't hate you all that much either."

Promise

(Epilogue)

The airport is packed, and the clock will soon strike twelve. Scaramouche only has a few minutes left to get through the security gates, yet Mona is late.

He tucks his passport inside his travel bag and mumbles a few words about ape women who can't pay attention to time and leave others to worry.

In addition, his throat has been irritated since this morning, and he hasn’t stopped coughing.

"Did you catch a cold yesterday?" Next to him, Albedo stands by his suitcase with a friendly gaze and his usual stoic expression.

Scaramouche is forced to admit that the blond is quite a good-looking boy, and he finds a new appreciation for the shy and stuttering Sucrose since she prevents the scientist from hovering around Mona.

Not that he feels threatened, but any decent boyfriend should take care of his girl, right? He can't help the smug smile on his lips at the thought.

"Yeah, we stayed out a bit late." He answers proudly and covers a new cough with his fist. "Childe's gonna be a pain in my ass when we meet back up in Inazuma."

Thankfully, the bodyguard had taken the long-awaited opportunity to go and spend the winter holidays with his family, so Scaramouche gets to escape his constant nagging for a little while longer.

"I'm glad it all worked out." Albedo nods and comments with interest. "All the pictures you have taken will be resourceful material for my forthcoming paper; thanks for your hard work."

"It's me who thanks you for your participation. Although," Scaramouche feels compelled to add. "How did you come up with all this needlessly strange and bizarre action list? I hated almost everything about it."

"You have stated the answer to your question," Albedo remarks, and Scaramouche is puzzled for one second. Thankfully, Albedo is not the one he has fallen in love with! He wouldn't understand half of their conversation; the guy is way too far-fetched sometimes.

Still, Scaramouche doesn't understand why Albedo would specifically choose a bunch of actions he hates.

"Al…Albedo! Scar... Scaramouche!" The timid voice of Sucrose rises between the passers-by. She waves her hand, catching their attention while attempting to make her way through the mass of passengers.

Albedo's complexion lights up, and Sucrose grins.

But sincerely, Scaramouche, for his part, doesn't give a fuck about Mad Gold and Green Green giving each other soft looks under cover of embarrassed stutterings and scientific discussion.

Only one thought is dominating at the forefront of his mind: Why the fucking hell is his Dumb Witch not with Flower Pot?

"Sugar Mint, why isn't my Dumb Witch with you?" He questions, and Sucrose offloads her attention from Albedo with a little stressed squeak and a quick bow.

"So..sorry! She won’t take long to arrive; she took the bus in the end. Said that the taxi was too expensive." She explains while replacing the specs on her mouse nose.

"She said it was expensive," Scaramouche repeats with irritation. He should take Mona by the feet and hang her to the jet engine before takeoff. "It's my last day here before long, and she is what, doing savings?"

He pinches the bridge of his nose. They'll have to work together on Mona's money-spending sense because if she likes to buy dusty books that cost more than a plane ticket by accepting to live in poverty and misery in return, he still has standard tastes that he wishes to respect; like her getting a taxi to say goodbye to her guy.

"Ha! M..Mona is here," Sucrose says happily, and Scaramouche sits up.

Indeed, Mona is there, holding under her arm an old bag in which she stores most of the books she finds in the corner shops.

She seems out of breath and strides across the distance between them, a smile at the edges of her lips that begins to form discreetly in the corner of her mouth when her heel squeals, cracks, and breaks in the middle of the airport.

He's not sure if she did it on purpose, but the following fall is memorable enough that she finishes butt up at his feet. Honestly, he didn't expect that much devotion.

"So in love, you can't even walk straight to me, I see." He approaches while helping in picking up the contents of her bag that has spread out on the floor. "White is not the best choice when you can't walk." He comments as Mona finishes cleaning her cream sweater with a nimble hand.

"Do not start!" She threatens in petulance and stands up with all the remaining dignity she can muster. "I slipped; it also happens to the best."

She joins him in two strides, gripping the books he is holding in his hands to take them back from him, but he raises them away.

She throws him a dirty look. "Stop using your slight height advantage, and give them back. Now ."  

"I don't know if you deserve them. It's impolite to arrive late; I was already called to the boarding gate. Twice." He sniffles, and the redness of Mona's cheeks, still slightly present, becomes accentuated again.

"I…I was busy." She lifts her chin really high, and he can tell: she is lying.

"You didn't wake up, did you?" He understands and feels a great deal of masculine pride. "I must say that I kept you awake for a long ti-ERFF."

Mona pushes her fist into his stomach and hastily retrieves her books.

"Shut up! Don't say it like that!"

She ticks and huffs, sniffling with embarrassment and shyness.

Fortunately, he has a firm abdomen because he can swear that she is as adorable as violent. Then, suddenly, his eyes are drawn to a piece of paper sticking out of one of the books she tries to stuff into her bag.

He can't help but catch it midair, especially when Mona's pupils go wild, and she tries to snatch it back with a startled jump.

"It's not!" She cries out, and he puts his hand in front of her mouth to prevent her from saying another word, his eyes riveted on the lines that she has written in a hurry with her fly stripes handwriting.

"Building a snowman (ps, he hates the cold). Wearing a Christmas hat (ps, he hates looking ridiculous). Eating in the cafeteria (double ps, keeping my savings to order the super gummy candy)." He enumerates,while flipping the list one way and the other.

"You have stated the answer to your question."

So that...was what Albedo meant.

He hits Mona roughly on the forehead, ignoring her outraged squeal.

"So you knew from the start." He scolds and admires how her face breaks down as she starts waving her hands all over the place in justification.

"No! I mean, in part! I knew you had something in store for me. But I didn't think you would handcuff us or even that it was because you..." She reddens. "Because you had to tell me weird things."

She unconsciously draws a heart with her hands, her shimmering irises starting to go through all the colours he likes, oscillating between green and blue as she tries to look at every corner of the room except him.

While it's amusing to watch her get increasingly agitated as he lets the silence settle in, he remembers that she finally took the first step toward him in the same situation yesterday.

He can do it too.

"Well, I do feel cheated on." He comes closer and grabs her chin, his lips brushing hers as if to kiss her before going down her neck, where the skin is tender. He pinches hard; with the tips of his teeth to leave a blue mark while she gasps loudly.

"Scaramouche!" She hiccups and smacks his shoulder.

"This will be your punishment. Wear it proudly."

He stands up and sticks his tongue out at her, two fingers raised in peace as she swallows back a gurgle and presses her slender knuckles to the spot he just touched.

Mona still isn't looking him in the eye, but her low voice is more poised as she snaps back into a brief threat. "You better come back quickly; I won't wait for you forever."

How can someone be so fucking adorable and insufferable at the same time? He asks himself again while Mona is fidgeting and playing with her hair as she tries to deflect the true meaning of her words.

Meeting her has changed his life in so many ways.

And the story of their last day together had been an eye-opener too.

Last call for passengers on flight 330 to Inazuma. I repeat, last call for passengers on flight 330…

But all stories needed to end for new ones to start.

Even if Mona was Scaramouche's favourite.

His hand rests on the top of Mona's hair, and he captures her attention, his forehead brushing hers, as she lifts her head and questions him with that haughty, arrogant pout he's grown to love.

"No problem; if you don't wait for me, I will just need to come back and kidnap you. Either way, I win. You won't get rid of me that easily. So you are stuck for the time being."

"Arrogant bastard." Mona insults, but the emotion in her voice is noticeable, and he hugs her a little closer as he whispers in her ear, "I'll be back." Their noses brush against each other in a subtle last kiss.

"I promise."

---

Mona didn't know. What would she do once he was gone? 

The teenage girl had never considered her life without him, never had thought it would matter one day. Letting Scaramouche go makes her feel like she's losing something important. For the first time, Mona truly understands how much Scaramouche has come to count over the years by becoming an integral part of her whole being.

Her lips still bear the scars of their kisses, and her neck is still warm from his bite, yet she already misses his presence when he hasn't even finished disappearing through the glass door that leads to the security.

Mona Megistus has always been proud.

Conscious of her value and her beauty. She's not the type to show off unnecessarily, and she's always reasonable and elegant. Dignified.

"Stupid gremlin!"  She screams sharply, her hands echoing around her mouth. She steps closer to the wards, tossing her hair back and continuing when, from afar, Scaramouche's now almost blurry face turns towards her.

"I won't cry for you, you hear me! I won't…. I won't shed a single damn tear!!" And yet, as he sends one last cocky smile and fuck, she knows.

They are both crying today.

Extra

"Are you okay, Mona?" Sucrose inquires, and Mona can only smile reassuringly as she walks with her friend outside.

The weather is nice, and it is relatively warm compared to yesterday.

Maybe she could go somewhere to read and change her morose ideas.

She rummages in her bag for her phone when her fingers come across a cardboard package she doesn't recognize. "Huh?"

The object she has just found is small, but she is pretty sure it’s a jewellery box. Mona is puzzled. Did she pick it up by mistake when she fell?

She figures she can at least check the contents for damage before dropping it off at lost and found.

Her fingers delicately slide the clip, and inside, the crystalline sparkle of a falling star-shaped barrette shines in gold and crystals under the sun.

Mona would recognize it among a thousand. She spent days observing the beautiful thing, far too expensive for her to afford, even with months of savings.

"A shooting star hair clip?"

"Shooting stars symbolise destiny and promises."

Mona gently closes the box and directs her gaze to the sky.

Through the clouds, she sees a plane's silhouette fading.

A smile spreads across her lips.

Yes, they will meet again.