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The word forgiveness does not exist in Scaramouche’s vocabulary.
He doesn’t believe in the concept. It’s something made up by the weak, in a desperate attempt to get away with all the wrongs of the past. People who ask for forgiveness are full of malice, and people who fall for it are pushovers. Because once someone has shown their true colors, revealed their nasty, backstabbing selves, there’s no going back.
He got this philosophy from a young age. One too many people tried to fuck with him, and he learned real quick that only the spineless fall for pleas of “forgive me” and “I didn’t mean it.” He does believe in apologies, but he doesn’t believe in bending over backwards just because someone puts zero effort into redeeming themselves.
This being said, he’s coming to realize he might be a little bit of a hypocrite.
* * *
“Mouche-face…” Mona says, sliding her hands down the front of his sweatshirt and digging her nails into his chest. “Whatcha brooding about?”
“I’m not brooding,” Scaramouche snaps. He feels too stupid to admit that he’s been staring at the bed on the other side of the room, remembering all the times he threatened to throttle Kazuha if he didn’t pick his fucking shit up.
She digs her nails deeper into his flesh, probably just because she’s a sadistic witch. “You can’t lie to me, Mouch-face…I see right through you.” The last word is punctuated with a mean pinch, and he yips, nearly shooting out of his skin. “You’re thinking about the ogre, aren’t you?”
“Maybe,” he admits. He tilts his head to look up at her. Crystal blue eyes wide, she stares down at him, removing one hand from his sweatshirt to stroke his hair. “Is that weird?”
“If I thought it was weird, I wouldn’t have invited you to that hockey game.” She sighs, seeming to be rolling thoughts around on her tongue. “I think…well, I don’t like the ogre, that’s for sure. I think it’s just part of my genetic code to loathe him. But the two of you avoiding each other…it’s making you both pathetic. Did you see him at the game? I’ve never seen a hockey player slump his shoulders so much.”
“What are you saying?” Scaramouche asks warily. He knows better than to think Mona is doing this out of the goodness of her heart. No, there’s an interior motive, and he just needs to figure out what it is…
“I’m saying you should stop running in the other direction like a chickenshit,” she says, yanking on his bangs.
“I’m not chickenshit, woman!”
“Are too!”
“Then you’re a raging bitch!”
“And proud of it!” she counters. “Try harder, Mouche-face!”
He flounders, searching for something nasty to call her, but her fingers have started creeping down his stomach to the waistband of his pants, and his mouth is suddenly dry.
“I had an idea,” she says, pulling her hands away and jumping off the bed. Scaramouche sighs, watching her. What were you getting your hopes up for, moron? She’s in the mood to play games.
Mona pulls a small box out of her backpack and opens the lid reverently, gazing inside. Scaramouche leans over, expecting to see the Holy Grail or something important like that. Instead, it’s a stack of cards, painted with night sky scenes and constellations. He scoffs.
She flicks him between the eyes. “Let me see…I haven’t pulled a tarot card for someone else in a long time.” She shuffles the cards, and Scaramouche’s gaze is drawn to her slender fingers, flipping over the stiff paper with enchanting grace. She fans them out and holds them up, hiding her face until just her eyes are visible. “Pick one.”
Scaramouche studies the cards. The backs all look the same, a deep navy with gold edges. One card slowly creeps up, higher than the others, and he glares at her, looking at a different part of the card fan. Somehow, the card moves along with his gaze, and when he glances at Mona again, there’s laughter in her eyes.
“Pick one,” she repeats, and the card wiggles.
“I’m not falling for that.” He swats at the offending card and snatches one from the edge before she can move the card again. When he flips his chosen card over, he has no idea what he’s looking at. It’s a bunch of stars that kind of look like a bird, if he squints and turns his brain cells off hard enough.
Mona drops the other cards. “Let me see.”
He hands it to her, because he really has no choice. Her glossed lips purse as she stares at it before reaching into the little box and pulling out a small booklet. Expression serious, she flips through the pages before stopping on one. “Hmmm…interesting. I thought so.”
“What?” he asks. He honestly has no idea why he’s humoring her.
“According to the book…it says you’re feeling chickenshit.”
Enraged, he lunges at her. His legs get caught in his blankets, and he falls off the bed with a thud. “Fuck! I’m not chickenshit!”
“It says you are!” she retorts, laughing. She scrambles to her feet and bolts out the door.
Scaramouche picks himself up and charges after her. He’ll catch her, and rip that infernal little book into a thousand pieces.
* * *
Mona’s glad she’s managed to get him out of his sour mood, although in order to do it, she had to piss him off about something else. She’ll probably never get her tarot meanings book back, as he seems determined to hold it hostage after her chickenshit bit.
He still hasn’t agreed to meet up with Kazuha and talk things through, but slowly, she’s wearing him down. She’ll never forgive Kazuha for almost taking Mouche-face away, just like she’ll never forgive herself for almost losing him, but she has room to build a new kind of connection with the ogre. And she really believes Scaramouche and Kazuha’s friendship is a good thing.
She’s done several tarot readings and horoscopes, and even the universe thinks it’s time for the two of them to get over their pettiness. She hasn’t bothered telling Scaramouche the results of her divination, as he probably won’t take it seriously, but she believes in her cards and in the stars, and they’ve never steered her wrong yet.
All she can do is support him, and subtly nudge him in the right direction.
He isn’t making it easy, though. It’s obvious he misses Kazuha, but his pride is refusing to let him do what he really wants to do. That’s Mouche-face—sometimes, he’s his own worst enemy.
“You should have lunch with Kazuha,” she suggests one night. They’re eating dinner in the Student Union Building. Mona has noodles, and Scaramouche has mashed potatoes that he’s currently stabbing with a fork. She runs one of her feet up his legs, smiling when he flinches and a pink flush covers his face. Just as quickly, it’s gone.
“Don’t want to,” he says. “I’d rather beat myself with a hockey stick.”
“How do you feel about me hitting you with a hockey stick?” she asks, voice ominous. “It won’t be in a sexy way, either.”
“How is a hockey stick sexy?” Scaramouche demands.
“I can make anything sexy, Mouche-face. That’s a Megistus guarantee.” She kicks him in the shin. “But I’m serious. You know you need to do this. For both of you.”
“I don’t want to do anything for him.”
“So you’d rather suffer just to see him suffer, too? God, you’re a petty jackass.” Mona stuff her face with noodles, rolling her eyes. On some level, she can appreciate the sentiment of suffering pain just to see someone else hurt, too, but come on! This is ridiculous.
What can she do to get through to him? Chasing him around with weapons of torture, aka tarot cards, only works so well. At some point, he’ll no longer fear the power of a tiny piece of paper.
She slides her foot back into her maroon red heel as she thinks, lifting her foot up and pushing it between Scaramouche’s legs.
“Mona…” he says in a needy voice, and she gets what might be her best idea yet.
* * *
“You think I need sex? Well, you’re wrong, witch.” Scaramouche crosses his arms and glares at her. “You have an awfully high opinion of yourself and your charms, and I have to say, I’m immune.”
“So that’s the path you’re taking,” she says in a sing-song voice. “All you have to do is apologize to him…and I’ll let you do whatever you want. But until you do…your hand will be your only friend, Mouche-face.”
“I’m not a pervert like you,” he says, but for some reason, he feels like he’s fighting a losing battle.
She leans exaggeratedly across the table, positioning herself at the perfect angle that he can see right down her lacy lavender tank top. Her body looks soft and inviting, and he pinches himself. You’re stronger than this, Scaramouche…don’t fall for such lowly tricks…
But her heel is pressing against him and her skin is on display and she’s smirking at him like the spawn of Satan, and all he can think is that it’s not worth it. He’d rather fucking murder his pride than go any amount of time without her.
“Fine,” he grinds out. “I’ll do it.”
Her smile widens. “And I’ll reward you, Mouchie.”
“Now put your fucking breasts away before you get yelled at for indecent exposure,” he adds, glancing around.
“They’re not even out. Mostly.” Mona pouts.
A blonde girl passes their table and glances between the two of them. “Ooh, blackmail,” she says, the words directed at Mona. “Go, girl.”
“Yes!” Mona high-fives her while Scaramouche buries his face in his mashed potatoes and wishes for death.
* * *
It’s harder than he thought it would be.
It’s nearly eleven p.m. when he finally gets the nerve to open the long-ignored text chain between him and Kazuha. After several false starts, he finally types, I’d like to meet up. My dorm at noon tomorrow?
Once he clicks send, there’s no going back.
He stares at the glowing screen, debating.
He’s too much of a sucker for Mona to back out now.
Taking a deep breath, he hits send.
* * *
The next day, he spends way too much time after his morning class making sure his room is clean. He is usually a neat-freak, but dating Mona means getting used to random pieces of clothing left on the bedpost, lip gloss on his desk, and notes on star shit all over the fucking place. The room even smells like her now, blackberries and sugar, and it’s so distracting.
He hides a pair of her underwear— Seriously, Mona? ---under his bed and shoves her makeup in his desk drawer. Satisfied, he takes one final look around. It looks like it did back before he had a girlfriend or a roommate. That is, empty and totally lonely.
A knock sounds in the silence, and Scaramouche jumps, spinning to stare at the door like it’s going to attack him. After several long moments, he crosses the floor and opens it up.
Kazuha stands in the hallway, staring down at the floor. His hair looks like it hasn’t been combed in several days, and his glasses are crooked. He’s wearing a Skirmishers sweatshirt, and his hands are shoved deep in his pockets. He looks like shit.
“Hey,” Scaramouche says. He leaves the door open and heads over to the fridge, grabbing an opened bottle of iced tea. He gulps it down as Kazuha enters, taking a seat on the floor a few feet away. He doesn’t bother offering his guest any. Kazuha’s drink of choice are those gross green energy drinks, anyway. Why waste good tea on someone who won’t appreciate it?
“So, uh…how are you doing?” Kazuha asks, picking at the fabric of his jeans.
“Good.”
“That’s…good.”
Scaramouche sits down on the carpet, crunching the tea bottle in his fist. The silence is heavy, and he doesn’t know what to say now.
“How’s…Mona?” Kazuha asks tentatively.
“Her usual bitchy self,” Scaramouche says without thinking. And then, because he’s already started, he decides to keep going. “She read my tarot cards a few days ago, and apparently, they said I was chickenshit.”
Kazuha laughs quietly. “That sounds like Mona.”
“I’ll draw a card for you, if you want.” Scaramouche isn’t sure why he offers this. Is he just so desperate for a connection, for a thread holding them together, that he’s going to do something he swore he never would and believe, just for a moment, in stupid divination bullshit?
Apparently he is.
Mona left her tarot deck on his bed, so he grabs it and pulls the card out. He gestures at his desk. “Can you grab the little glittery book out of there?” He never gave it back after the last time she pulled a card for him.
Kazuha does, watching in fascination as Scaramouche clumsily shuffles the cards and holds them out. “Pick one,” he says, parroting Mona’s words. His voice is shakier than he wants, but there’s no helping that.
Kazuha draws a card out of the fan, placing it on the ground. Scaramouche nearly laughs. It’s the same broken-neck bird card he pulled. He grabs the infernal little book, locating the card’s meaning on a dog-eared page. Renewing old connections, it reads. Scaramouche’s chest hurts.
“It says…you’re chickenshit,” he says, and Kazuha cracks up, rolling on the floor the way he used to, back when they were little kids writing books called Rats Without Hate that didn’t have a plot but still managed to make them laugh for an hour straight about stick-figure drawings of rats with rabies.
Scaramouche tries to stifle his own snort, laying down on the rug and staring up at the ceiling. “How are you really?” he asks softly.
“Not great,” Kazuha whispers.
“Me too.” Scaramouche covers his eyes with his hand. “I love Mona, and she’s amazing when she isn’t being a fucking piece of work, which is most of the time, actually, so I don’t know how those two things work together. But she’s a girl and she’s amazing and she just doesn’t get some stuff, and no one has taken your place as my best friend, even though I wanted them to, and fuck, I spent so long hoping you were hurting, and I was just keeping myself in pain over something stupid. But I miss being able to crack stupid jokes with you and throttle you whenever you leave shit on my floor. Like, dude, how hard was it to put your fucking skates under your goddamn bed? And you kept me from going too jaded, but I honestly think that’s a lost cause now, but still.”
He’s breathing heavily, and for some stupid reason, tears are pricking at his closed eyes.
“I spend hours on the ice practicing until I can barely feel anything because I have nothing to go back to. I miss stealing your food and listening to you rant about how stupid humanity is and how much you can’t stand Mona but in reality you’re crushing so bad you can barely see two feet in front of you. I’ve lost my ability to make friends as easily, and I didn’t realize how much you meant to me until I’d done something stupid and lost your friendship. So now I spend my time in the corner at frat parties I don’t really want to be at, playing Spin the Bottle like I’m thirteen or something, drinking beer that tastes like shit, and being stalked by a thug with a penchant for flipping gang signs.” Kazuha’s voice is starting to sound a little sobby.
“What?” Scaramouche chokes. “You’re getting stalked?”
“He likes me for some reason, and I can’t decide if I like him back.” Yep, Kazuha’s definitely crying now.
“That’s fucked up, man.” Scaramouche wipes frantically at his face, but fuck it. He’s crying too.
“I’m so sorry!”
“I’m sorry too.”
* * *
Mona heads down the hall to Mouche-face’s room, dancing to the music playing in her headphones. She’s feeling good today, full of energy and excitement, and she knows it has everything to do with what her cards foretold this morning. A loved one will reunite with an old friend, healing wounds.
A strange sound breaks through the chirpy pop pumping through her headphones, and she frowns, pulling them away from her ears. Someone is crying. Actually, multiple someones. It sounds like a full-on cry-fest is happening in one of the rooms, complete with snotty sniffling sounds and stifled sobs and deranged laughter.
Trying not to smile, a bit concerned, she creeps down the hall to Scaramouche’s room. The door is partly open, and Kazuha and her darling Mouche-face are flopped on the carpet, bawling like little children. They’re also laughing, too, alternating between sobs and cackling like a bunch of morons.
She leans against the doorframe and watches, feeling extremely smug, as they sit up. Kazuha wipes his face on his sweatshirt and holds his hand out. “I solemnly swear not to do something this stupid ever again.”
“I wouldn’t make a promise like that. Stupid is your middle name,” Scaramouche says, but he shakes anyway. “Friends?”
“Friends,” Kazuha agrees.
“This is the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen,” Mona interrupts. “My Mouche-face, the ogre, and…are those my tarot cards I spy?”
“We’re both chickenshit,” Scaramouche explains.
She scoffs. “I could’ve told you that.”
“Fuck off,” Scaramouche says, but there’s no heat behind the words.
She kneels at his side and grabs his chin. “I’m proud of you, Mouche-face.”
“I don’t need your praise,” he grumbles, but he leans into her touch.
Oh, Mouche-face, you have no idea how much you need it.
She kisses him, just because she can, because he’s hers. The two of them are engraved on each other’s souls in paint and biting words, and even though she likes him nasty, she also likes him whole. Even if that means she has to suffer Kazuha’s presence.
Kazuha looks away. Smart ogre. Maybe he’s not completely dumb.
* * *
Scaramouche is in the middle of picking up Mona’s tarot cards when someone obnoxiously clears their throat in the doorway. “Hey, Scaramouche.”
He glances over. Childe is standing there, holding his phone. A foreboding feeling creeps into his chest. “What do you want, ginger motherfucker?”
“I had a picture I wanted to show you. I really love the colors and composition.” Childe grins.
Scaramouche has no idea what the fuck he’s talking about, but he snatches the phone. It’s the blurriest photo he’s ever fucking seen, but the subject is clear enough: Kazuha, sitting cross-legged on the floor, a boy covered in tats and piercings kissing him within an inch of his life.
“I think I’ll put it up in the hall,” Childe taunts, and then he runs.
Scaramouche grabs his sharpest mechanical pencil and races after him.
Nobody fucks with his friends like that.
Motherfucking Childe!