Work Text:
The existence of summer as a whole just seems like a whole inconvenience. At least to Scaramouche.
It’s the season that comes after the spring breeze—the heat sticking to your skin, the duvets too thick to be comfortable in. For some reason the sun is angrier this time of the year, that even with the great invention of air conditioners, they still end up overheating.
Not to mention all the bugs that come out of hibernation. And so, he had come to the grand conclusion that summer has absolutely no value in contrast to the rest of the seasons.
Why? For one, the rest of the reasons stated. The essence of summer is nothing more than the summer breeze and a youthful whiplash of nostalgia, but bitter memories seem to blend in with the way the sun filters through the leaves.
And for three months, Scaramouche is left to deal with the remnants of summer.
There’s only one thing he’s looking for in the entire season, and it’s the end of it.
Maybe it’s because of the summer of three years ago. It’s what he associates the season with.
The bitterness of those memories seep through the salty breeze, and he ends up scrunching his nose in distaste. The hotel music was much more annoying than it’s supposed to be, and it doesn’t help that he’s left with the one other person he’s not well-versed with.
But what was he supposed to do? It’s not like it’s intentional for him to be there in the first place.
“Not used to it?” The man with him asks after noticing the slight discomfort in his expression, to which Scaramouche meets his gaze, offering a small, sheepish nod. Out of politeness, he straightens his position against the chair, reaching for the wineglass filled with water.
Everything in here is ridiculously expensive.
He figures the only good thing to come out of this trip was that he wasn’t paying for anything.
“Me neither,” the other comments, leaning back against the seat, stirring the wineglass in his hand as he looks out into the view as if it were a natural reaction. Somehow, Scaramouche doubts his comment, but he appreciates that it’s not rubbed unnecessarily into his face.
Just years ago, Scaramouche swore not to involve himself with the past, no matter how much it took.
And evidently, the past seemed to get the best of him.
It would’ve been easier if he didn’t answer the door a week ago.
“Hi,” was the first thing he was greeted with when he opened the door. Scaramouche paused by the doorway, having a double-take on who was in front of him. “Come out.”
He hadn’t even fully processed the situation, and he was already getting kicked out of his apartment. Before he could even get a word in, she was already walking away, because of course she was.
With a repressed sigh, he scratches the back of his head. He decides to save the questions for later, picking up his keys from the countertop, following after her.
Mona Megistus. She’s the person he last saw three summers ago.
The sight of her just threatens those bitter memories to resurface, but not enough for it to be
He doesn’t even want to actively recall the situation, leaning back against the wall, watching her fidget, waiting for her to get it over with.
A forgotten shirt?
Something she remembered leaving here?
‘ I miss you ’?
“I haven’t told them.”
He’s startled by how she suddenly spoke up, but he schools his expression into something neutral. Mona isn’t looking at him, and he didn’t expect any less from someone who seems to want to get this over it.
His gaze lingers on her until her words seeped through. Told them?
“Told who?”
“They planned a trip,” she began, and with those words alone, he already knew. He sucked in a breath, remembering the way he opened the email for a reservation, puzzled. He ignored it at the time, until her mother reached out to him.
Ah, now that’s what this was about.
“You haven’t told them?” he repeats, this time a little baffled. It was 5 in the morning, and he could barely process anything. Somehow, the moment she shakes her head, it hits him a second time.
“You haven’t?” He asks, for extra measure.
“Not that I was actively hiding it from them,” Mona began to explain, but his brows only twitched in confusion. Every second he spends longer in this conversation only seems to confuse him further. Why did he even bother entertaining this?
“I’ve been busy.”
He scoffs in disbelief, pushing himself off the wall. “You’ve been busy for three years? ”
Somehow, it doesn’t phase him that he’s met with a silent confirmation. Instead, his stomach drops, feeling his lip twitch when she doesn’t explain any further.
The worst part about all of this is that, no matter how absurd it sounded—the most absurd things only seemed to become a reality with Mona.
And after being stopped, she obviously had to drag him into the situation. Not that Scaramouche could work against it, her parents know nothing about her love life other than being introduced to them four years ago when they were still dating.
They were nice. Maybe it’s their hospitality, or how they welcomed him despite knowing so little, but he was aware deep inside himself that he’d have loved to see them again if not for the summer of three years ago.
Which then leads to this situation.
Scaramouche fiddled with the fork, fidgeting with the leftovers on his plate. He hadn’t even gotten comfortable enough with her family back when they were together, how else would he be able to face it when he’s alone with her father in the hotel roundtable?
His ex-girlfriend’s father.
Frankly, he didn’t know how she managed to drag him in this situation of playing pretend, anyway. The waiter comes by to pick up his plate, causing him to unceremoniously surrender his fork, watching longingly as his only fidget is taken away.
It’s been three days since the trip began, and the hotel lobby music was as annoying as ever. The lack of people in the restaurant made up for it by a little bit.
There’s an uncorked wine bottle on the table, a sparkling glass of wine, and frozen grapes in a separate bowl beside some fancy confectioneries to go with the drink.
Yeah, he’ll never get used to this.
“What’s been going on in your life?” He forgets the presence of her father for a split second, glancing over to him. Her mother went back to her room not too long ago to rest for the night, and Mona went into hers to ‘do the same’.
Scaramouche knew full well that she had snuck her laptop into the trip to get some progress on whatever scientific report she’d tirelessly work on.
He’s once more reminded of the fact that they share a room.
Her father picks up the wine bottle, reaching over to pour him a glass. Scaramouche realizes this a little late, scrambling to push the wineglass closer, a sheepish display of uncharacteristic politeness.
“Are you guys on some sort of stage?” Scaramouche forgets to answer the first question, his thoughts a little disorganized as he tries to catch up with the conversation. “Lover’s quarrel? Puppy love?”
“Busy,” he answers, muttering his thanks when he pulls the glass back after the pour. “Just busy.”
It’s the safest answer he can give, because most people know how Mona is. A restless workaholic that can’t go a day without thinking of her academics. His father chuckles, amused by his answer.
“Oh? You wouldn’t believe how long it took to plan this trip, then.” The other shares, and somehow, Scaramouche could tell how long it would’ve taken.
Being an addition to it only goes to show how time worked differently for Mona.
“Two and a half years, and you weren’t even part of the plan.” Her father laughs heartily, almost proud of his statement as he says so. Scaramouche follows with a light chuckle, unsure of how he’s supposed to feel about it.
“Her mother, my wife—she suggested bringing you in so it’s fool-proof that she never works a day on this trip.”
Ironically, Scaramouche was aware that Mona was enjoying a little less with his presence, but he lets it off and assumes that she’s enjoying it, anyway. That’s what their charade is all about.
“I figured it would be a good idea. After all, you were very good company the last time.”
Scaramouche looks at him, and notices the teasing grin on his lips. Somehow, the look makes him realize that he was being sarcastic.
In all honesty, Scaramouche doesn’t know how to go about the situation. If they ever related, it would’ve had to be something of a few years back. After all, he was just filling in for the boyfriend position because he’s aware of how awkward it would be if they knew and he was dragged along.
Something about how he looks tells the other that he was sheepish.
..or maybe it’s because Scaramouche just picks up the wineglass every time their conversation hits a stump, and he starts drinking, making that small look while averting his gaze. And the occasional clearing of his throat as an attempt to make things a little less awkward (to no one’s surprise, had made the situation ironically more awkward).
The other seems to contemplate for a moment. Icebreakers. What could be good to talk about?
“How’s work?”
Scaramouche nearly chokes on his drink at the question.
No, it wasn’t that he was unemployed. He’s a college graduate, he’s had different jobs before. His last job was a few months back, and he resigned after a year to take a break.
And, well.. Yeah, he is unemployed.
“Good,” he manages to answer, brushing off the rest of his words.
“Your life?”
“Fine.” he murmurs, nodding to himself.
He’s doing fine.
The approach doesn’t seem to work for Mona’s father, and he shifts his position in intrigue. After taking another sip and contemplating his next set of questions, he figured going for something a little more personal.
“You still like her even after all the work she has to go after?”
The question startles him a little, but it doesn’t fully catch him off-guard. It felt like a trick question, though.
“Yeah.” his answer has no hesitation to it, nodding to himself again as if to agree with his answer a second time. He notices how her father aims to somehow corner him, catch him in a stump.
Confuse him.
“Ah, right. I’ve noticed her changing her style lately. Is she on a diet?” It was a little unrelated, but still on the topic of Mona, her father seemed interested in what she was up to, even if it was through her charade of a boyfriend. Not that Scaramouche thinks he knows.
Diet?
“She ate three servings of the salad and left.”
Ah. Of course she doesn’t, everything else was ridiculously expensive.
“I don’t think she’s on a diet.” he admits, leaning forward to reach for the wineglass. He doesn’t even realize he’s on his third refill because of how he chooses to fidget by drinking.
“She mentioned that salads have enough nutrition to keep her energy up for the rest of the day.” Scaramouche began to state the knowledge he knew pretty well. “The salad had a decent serving, compared to everything else.”
All the garnish, the stylized sauces, the fancy plating.. Not her style. It never was.
“She just eats what’s necessary to keep her going.”
For some reason, he feels conscious of the idea of remembering the mundane things about her. He could’ve sworn he’d forgotten about it, but she’s just the same as ever. Scaramouche doesn’t even look to catch a glimpse of his expression, his lips back on the glass.
God.. this was so awkward.
In his defense, all of the knowledge he had were the things he knew way before three years back. He just doesn’t know where to go when he’s not sure of which boundaries he should stay behind, and which ones he should cross.
But he knows her from three years ago. Just not know when she has her life ahead of her and he’s somehow two steps back from where he used to be.
“Have I ever told you how I think she should just marry her papers?”
The words make Scaramouche snort. He nods in partial agreement, seeming amused by the statement. “She’s such an overachiever, it surprises me. Much like her mother, but she’s just so well-put together that it’s hard to see her with anyone.”
To those words, Scaramouche finds himself disagreeing with a part of it.
Mona was not as well-put together as people assumed her to be. Her resilience always seemed to be her strongest point, but he briefly recalls a memory where she had to stay with him for a few days just to recharge her energy.
“I thought that, by introducing you to us, she just wanted to reassure us that she’d have a partner.” The other sighs. “But that’s not like her. And it surprised us how different the two of you were.”
That’s right. Their fields were different.
While she studied heavenly bodies and star sequences, he was down on earth, learning about societal structures.
He had always been the type to focus on humanities and what actually mattered, and she had been the type to believe that there are bigger things ahead of us.
Of course, it came as a surprise to him they clicked in the first place, or that they ever dated at all. It was so often that they’d disagree, but somehow that didn’t matter.
At least, not until spring ended.
“It’s a good thing.” The other continued to speak even despite Scaramouche’s interrupted train of thought, trying to clear his mind to mentally remind himself to take note of the conversation. His gaze flickers lightly, and he meets the other’s gaze.
Now that he thinks about it, he notices a few of her features that came from him. Maybe it was the eyes.
“It’s a good thing she stops working every now and then because you mess with her.”
All because she’s too determined and doesn’t stop at anything, he forgets how it used to be when she’d neglect her laptop. When she wouldn’t bother with her emails for a day, or when she would let herself be distracted, even for a little while.
He forgets how it used to be, because he remembers how she stood in front of him in that apartment with the news that she had been taken in for a new opportunity in the middle of his life, crumbling because he just didn’t know where to go from there.
If he could stop her then, then how difficult would it have been to ask her to stay?
Why did he hesitate?
The thoughts eventually swirled in his mind, until he realized how late it’s gotten. Scaramouche ends up apologizing for being unable to engage in the conversation, and they eventually part their ways to head back to their respective rooms.
As much as he wanted to keep the conversation going, Scaramouche didn’t really have anywhere to go if his only basis of everything was three years ago. Then again, he couldn’t really keep up with the charade she set, the one he assumed he’d be able to follow through with because he ‘feels indifferent’.
Not tonight, when all he’s been doing the past few days is to not take any of it to heart.
It’s like playing pretend.
While walking down the hall from the elevator, he ends up wondering since when the carpets have gotten this big, or close at all. He mentally reminds himself of his room.
743.
Room 743, he repeats it in his mind like a mantra. It takes him surprisingly quick to find the door, and he reaches for the keycard to his room, planning out his agenda for the night. It mostly consisted of just collapsing against the bed.
Scaramouche is startled when his card doesn’t work for the time being. But he doesn’t let up and decides to try again. After all, it was a common mistake.
The familiar beep echoed against the door handle, and he physically had to pause.
It must’ve been swiped the wrong way. And so he tries a few more times.
And a few more
And a few more.
And a few more.
And a few more…
The door behind him suddenly opens, and he watches in bewilderment as they put out their trash can before the door shuts again. His eyes linger on the numbers on the door, noticing how it reads 741.
Since when were there two?
Scaramouche looks back on his door, and has the late realization that the door read 734.
Not seeming to think much of it, he just stares at the door before pushing himself off, making his way towards the other side of the hall. He beelines towards the door that reads 743, swiping his card in one go, and to his surprise—it worked.
The confirmation chime rang, and he pushed the door open. He doesn’t remember it being that easy.
By the time he entered, the room was dim. The only lights that flooded in were the open curtains of the window, and the doorway from where he came from. The room is plunged back into a dim blanket of blue hues, noticing the closed laptop on the desk.
His suspicions seemed to be right.
She wasn’t here, and he can’t seem to remember where she went. For all he knew, she would have already left the trip and headed home to do whatever she needed to actually do instead of wasting her time lounging around.
Scaramouche had come to terms with the idea that he’s all alone in the room. He steps up from the landing, and his balance swings him against the wall, surprised with how heavy his limbs feel.
The sliding door suddenly opens, and his body straightens up almost on instinct. He falls silent, staring stiffly at the figure by the doorway to the balcony, his breath held. By his logic, if he breathed even just a little bit, he may be noticed.
She hasn’t left yet. He thinks to himself.
“You’re back,” she greets in a mumble.
His train of thought stops, and he wonders where he went wrong with the breathing. Maybe he wasn’t standing completely straight. It takes him a moment before he realizes she was literally right there with her.
His expression softens a little.
She hasn’t left.
“Did you..?”
The epiphany wasn’t lost on him, still dwelling on the thought even as she came closer to get a better look at him, despite looking way more confused than ever. She’s right there.
His eyes followed her movements like a camera would, feeling the way her hands pressed against her cheeks, the light pat on his face.
Was she talking? Because her lips moved a certain way, and all he could think about was if she forgot her lip balm.
“Did you.. use a different skincare routine?” he could only mumble back, his gaze roaming her face. Most of her zits were gone, and her skin was clearer than he could imagine.
She had a no-nonsense schedule, and he’d remember when her only routine was to put on lotion and call it a day. Looks like she’s trying something else.
The expression on her face.. It’s in disbelief. The look on her face makes him chuckle.
It doesn’t take a while before he feels her guide him down, his legs bending for his heavy limbs to slump on the edge of the bed.
Dizzy?
Was he dizzy?
The moment she pushes his jacket off of him, that’s when he realized how hot it was. He had her to thank for bringing back the cool air.
Was she grumbling?
Not that he really cared, anyway. She looked troubled and annoyed, as if she didn’t want to deal with this at all. He chuckles at her frown.
Her frown is cute.
“How drunk are you?” It was the first question that registered in his mind, and before he could answer, she was out of his sight. He fell silent at her absence, almost taking the time to contemplate his crazy hallucination.
Was she gone?
Well.. he didn’t see her anywhere. He glanced around the room, and to her lack of presence, Scaramouche’s mood seemed to deflate. His gaze falls down on his feet, feeling his body stir in place, contemplating where he went wrong.
He’s pulled out of his haze immediately when he hears a faint rustle. He blinks his eyes in confusion, and he notices someone tower over him. He had already started sulking, but she was back in front of him.
Scaramouche lights up almost immediately, sitting up straighter, his eyes sparkling at the sight of her.
She’s still here.
“Why are your eyes like that?” Mona mumbles to herself in confusion, holding a bottle of water out for him, already unscrewed. He takes the bottleneck with his mumble of thanks, taking a careful sip.
It didn’t feel any different. When he finished up, he placed the bottle on the nightstand, looking back up at her. And then his eyes roamed her features, and then..
“Do you have a skincare routine?” he finds himself asking again, but this time she only rolls her eyes. He chuckles at the display, only now feeling the faint buzz in his head.
That might be it. He might be a bit drunk.
“Do you even hear yourself?” Mona asks him, pushing his fringe back with his hair to feel his forehead. He closes his eyes at the feeling, his body heat a bit overwhelming.
One more thing Mona noticed was the way he stirred in place, leaning his weight against the palm of her hand. She scoffs lightly.
What was he doing?
The chuckle that came out of her lips gives Scaramouche’s dizzy mind one more spin.
The next thing she does is pick up a damp towel from the bucket she brought all the way here. He just doesn’t know where it came from, but he doesn’t have half the mind to question it at all.
“Hold still,” she murmurs. He’s unaware of what’s going on until he feels her hand on his chin, gently turning it upwards to face her, anndddd.. his eyes were back on her face again. His gaze flickers in surprise—not one part of him expected this kind of outcome.
It takes him a moment to register the feeling of the damp towel on his face, instinctively closing his eyes at the feeling. A part of him hated how complacent he was with it, how easily he let his guard down to give into the feeling.
How he can’t utter a word when it’s her who’s in front of him like this.
“What am I going to do with you?” She sighed, and Scaramouche felt himself ask the same question. They both shared the thought.
Instead of the usual cold glare and witty remarks, he looks like a deadpanned dog with a tail wagging aggressively. It was a complete contrast, and she can’t help but be amused at the display.
It slips his mind when she says anything, because he knows if he opened his mouth, something stupid would come out, in every sense of the word. Mona was also fully aware that talking to him in this state would be of no use, but if it helps her lighten up the mood in some way, who would she be to decline?
In contrast, Scaramouche’s thoughts were elsewhere.
His eyes were still fixed on her face, not even listening to the words she says because he’s watching how he talks. If there’s a slight frown on his face, she’s nagging him.
The damp swipe of the towel makes up for the alcohol flush on his skin, somewhat waking him up a little bit. His eyes flutter open again, and he’s looking at her.
She’s so close.
He forgets these kinds of things were allowed. He forgets that she’s capable of doing things like this, or that this kind of thing has happened before.
His throat bobs at their close proximity.
The dark shade of her hair, the moonlight reflecting off of it. The way she focused on him..
“Are you even listening to me?”
She’d be right, because he wasn’t listening at all.
At least to an extent he still had control. He can only silently obey when she’s taking the lead.
Maybe it’s different because she’s acting on it when they’re alone.
That she doesn’t have to pretend if it’s just the two of them. Scaramouche’s thoughts get the best of him, and he feels a dizzying sensation in his head, and he’s not sure whether to pinpoint all the blame to her.
He groans and falls back on the bed, whining like a child. An arm covers his face, and he’s still against the bed—unmoving, hoping the sensation would go away. How stupid.
Mona chuckles, her touch lingering on the back of his head. He hates that he can’t help his fluster.
He hates that he misses it.
It’s one of the things Scaramouche misses about summer.
It wasn’t particularly the breeze, or the beach. What he misses about summer is a love-shaped person that never cared about how they’d be.
Or maybe the alcohol was just messing him up, but he just really hated summer.
Away from the watchful eyes of her parents, Scaramouche finds comfort on his cooled face, and how his hand somehow ended up laced with hers. They weren’t around other people this time, and yet, it felt all the same.
He was still pretending, even when he’s out of his mind, a system filled with nothing but the need to sleep. He was still pretending, when he’s so out of it that he can’t congest a sentence from his lips.
And just for the night, he wonders how long he could get away with this game of pretend.
He doesn’t say anything about it, even when his hand twitches in hers.
He just can’t help himself.
He decides to deal with the consequences tomorrow, but just for tonight, maybe he can get away with thinking holding her hand like this is normal.