Chapter Text
Ugh. No matter how many times you get paint in your mouth, you never get used to the taste.
Scaramouche wiped the corner of her lips with her thumb, a streak of bright yellow paint coating her thumb. She was putting the finishing touches on her project for class. They were about halfway through the semester and this was the second big project they had. It was for her art class she only had once a week. But since it was only once a week the class was three hours long. Not that she minded, she enjoyed making things. She wasn’t good at expressing herself so what she couldn't say with words, she said with art.
The rest of the class was just now arriving. She always arrived early; in any other class, she was usually late, except for this one. She was close with the professor. Well, close was a stretch. They both respected each other and he always appreciated the amount of effort she put into her work.
Her headphones were blasting music in her ears so loud that she couldn't hear anything. She dipped her brush into her cup of water, cleaning it off on a small towel resting on her thigh.
She gazed lazily at her selection of paints. She grabbed a small tube of red and put it on the corner pallet. She then mixed a little white with it to lighten the saturation. Once it was to her liking, she lifted her brush back to her canvas, putting the finishing touches on her project.
Normally, on the day a project is due, they stand in front of the class and explain the meaning behind their work. Then everyone is allowed to give any comments or criticisms they had. Whether it was that they liked it or they had a suggestion that they thought could make it better. It was basically free rein.
Scaramouche leaned back slightly, brush hovering in her hand as she studied the canvas with narrowed eyes. She tilted her head to the side, as though the angle might change the way the colors blended. It didn’t, but she found herself smiling faintly anyway. For once, it looked almost exactly how she wanted it to.
The classroom grew noisier as more students shuffled in, chairs screeching across the floor, the sharp smell of acrylic paint mixing with the faint hint of coffee and perfume.
The corner of her eye caught on to the person who sat beside her. There were no assigned seats so everyone just grabbed whatever open seat was available. Since most people tend to avoid sitting next to Scaramouche, the last person to arrive was always the person stuck sitting next to her.
And, unfortunately, it was always the same person who was late.
Scaramouche didn’t need to look, but she turned anyway, confirming what she already knew. A head full of red locks landed in her line of sight. She could recognize those strands in a crowd of hundreds, no matter how she wished she couldn’t.
Enemy was too small a word. Annoying didn’t even skim the surface. There wasn’t a term sharp enough, bitter enough, to capture the ache that rose in her chest whenever that girl was near. Her hair curled at the ends in a way that looked effortless, as though every strand had agreed to fall perfectly without even trying. Her freckles dotted her cheeks like constellations, hand-painted and unfairly precise. And then there were her eyes. Those stupid, ocean-blue eyes that seemed to reflect light in places where no light existed. Just looking at them felt like a challenge, and it pissed Scaramouche off more than she could admit.
She’s too pretty for her own good. It pisses her off. The way she just sits there and acts like she doesn’t know what she’s doing. The way she plays with her hair whenever she asks a dumb question. It’s ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.
They had been rivals for years, ever since high school, when they both discovered the other was just as stubborn and just as unwilling to back down. Contest after contest, they stood at opposite ends of the stage, their work displayed side by side, each secretly hoping the other would crack first. Sometimes she won. Sometimes Scaramouche did. Neither outcome ever settled anything; it only fueled the fire further.
Now, even here, years later in a college art class, she couldn’t escape her.
The worst part? She’s in Scaramouche’s head like a disease. Infecting every quiet moment, every breath. So many nights lost to restless frustration, pencil digging into paper as sketch after sketch bled out of her fingers until her hand cramped and her mind was finally purged. At least, until the next time she saw her.
Scaramouche’s sketchbook was filled with sketch after sketch of this woman. Some innocent, some filthy, some the object of her desires. It was pathetic.
Today she was wearing a zelly long sleeve shirt with only the bottom button actually buttoned but it looked like it was about to break off at any moment. Her jeans were tight on her thighs but flared out at the bottom. She had a gold waist chain around her hips and her hair rested just above her shoulders. She’s pretty sure she decided to grow out her mullet since this is the longest she’d had it in years. If there was one thing Scaramouche knew about this girl, it’s that she loves a good outfit but she often goes for the more comfortable option for class.
The girl caught her eye, giving a shit eating grin, “hey, princess.”
Scaramouche clenched her jaw as she paused her music, “don’t call me that, Ajax. Don’t you have anything better to do than breathe in my direction?” she muttered while dabbing at her canvas with sharper strokes than before.
“Not really.” Ajax tilted her head, freckles catching the light as she smirked. “Besides, I know you love the attention.”
Scaramouche froze mid-stroke, the bristles of her brush pressing too hard into the canvas, leaving an unintended streak. Her grip tightened around the handle. She hated when Ajax got under her skin so easily, hated that she always seemed to know which string to pluck to make her snap.
Their professor walked in before she could reply, clapping his hands like usual to make everyone look up from their phones or canvas.
Scaramouche adjusted her bra strap that slipped down. She was wearing a band t-shirt that she had cut the neckline out of so it could rest off her shoulder. She was wearing fishnet gloves and a pair of shirts that rested above her knees. Her socks were white, reaching mid-calf and she was wearing a pair of high-tops. It wasn’t her best outfit but it was comfortable, and it was an outfit she didn’t care if she got paint on it.
“Before we start critiques today, I wanted to inform you all a little bit about the art show coming up at the end of the semester,” the professor started, “I want everyone to put out their best work so the board and I decided to try something different this year. I want you guys to get into pairs to create something unique to show off your styles.”
Pairs? Ugh, barf. Scaramouche always preferred working alone. Those nights where she would put her headphones in and work until the first light of day slipped through her closed blinds. Then she would have to chug an energy drink to make sure she wasn’t late for her first class.
“Now, ideally, you guys would like to pick your partners, right?” Almost everyone nodded. “Sucks for you because I already made them.”
Groans rippled through the room like a low tide, the sound of disappointment shared by nearly everyone. Scaramouche dragged a hand down her face, already imagining the horror of being paired with someone who didn’t know how to clean their brushes properly or thought finger painting was “innovative.”
The professor picked up a sheet of paper from his desk, glasses sliding down his nose as he read. “Let’s see… Hannah with Marco, Devon with Lucy, Quinn with Kai,” he went on while pens tapped on desks and students shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
Scaramouche rested her chin on her palm, staring blankly at her canvas. She zoned out, letting his words fade into background noise. She didn’t care who she got stuck with. Whoever it was, she would drag them along and do most of the work herself, as always.
“And lastly…” the professor cleared his throat, “Scaramouche and Ajax.”
Her head snapped up so fast it almost gave her whiplash. Her body went cold. Ajax? Yeah, that’s not happening. It’s fine, she’ll just ask to change partners.
“Aaaand before you ask, no, you can not change partners.”
Was the universe ever on her side? He had to be fucking joking. He even knew about her disdain for her classmate; they had talked about it before but he still pulls this?
She didn’t even need to look; she could feel Ajax’s smug little smile boring a hole into the side of her face. When a small psst came from her left, she slowly turned her head to see Ajax staring at her. She waved her stupid hand at her, wiggling her fingers. Her stupid face and her extremely low v-line were pissing her off.
“Looks like we’re stuck together, princess,” Ajax cooed, her voice low enough for only Scaramouche to hear.
Scaramouche’s fingers dug into the edge of her desk. She wanted to argue, to beg the professor for anyone else, literally anyone else, but he had already moved on to starting the day's critics.
After class, she was going to give him a piece of her mind.
…
It didn’t go well.
Scaramouche had immediately asked to talk to the professor in private when they were dismissed. She expected at least some understanding, considering she thought he at least liked her somewhat. But apparently, the reason they were paired together was because he knew they didn’t like each other.
In his own words, he said: “I’ve learned that the students who tend to have a rival amongst each other often create the best and most compelling art. It’s almost like they’re not competing in the show but against one another. And they always end up understanding a better side of each other. Interesting, huh?”
No. No, it was not interesting. It was fucking annoying. Maybe she should have gotten on her knees and begged. Maybe then he’d be less of a prick.
After biting her tongue so hard she drew blood, she left his office. Not even the fact that she got an A on her project could cheer her up.
The hall outside the office felt too bright, too loud, every conversation echoing against her already raw nerves. Scaramouche shoved her hands into the pockets of her shorts, her nails pressing crescents into her palms.
She pushed the door to the studio open with a little too much force, the hinges whining. She headed for her locker so she could stuff her canvas in there and forget about this class until next week. All art students were given lockers to store their projects in so they didn’t have to carry their large canvases to and back from their car every class. It was one of the few things this college did right.
“So,” a body leaned against one of the lockers, “what time are you free?”
She slammed the locker shut, “never for you.”
“Well, that sucks for you since we’re stuck working together. Give me your phone,” Ajax held out her hand expectingly.
Scaramouche felt her eyes wander to her open palm. Her hands looked so incredibly soft, her nails just the right length to leave scratches on your skin without leaving a scar. Not a single callous insight, which was odd since this girl works out more than she thinks.
What would it feel like to have those hands pressing against her body? The heat radiating off of her was intoxicating. She smelled of cinnamon and a hint of some kind of exotic fruit.
“Fuck off,” Scaramouche finally replied. She can’t think. She can’t think. She’s too close.
With a huff, Ajax took out a small piece of paper and a pencil out of her bag and scribbled something on it quickly, then held it out for her. “If you won’t give me your number, then I’ll give you mine.” When Scaramouche didn’t move, she held it out closer to her face.
Scaramouche snatched the number more out of reflex than willingness, stuffed it in her bag, and stormed off without another word. Her pulse was pounding in her ears the whole drive back to the dorms. She hated how her mind kept replaying it - her hands, her voice, that smug little grin.
The door slammed behind her as she dropped her bag onto the floor and threw her sketchbook onto the desk with a heavy thud. She pressed her palms against the cover, breathing hard.
She wasn’t supposed to be thinking about this. About her.
But the blank page was unbearable, so she yanked the book open, grabbed her pencil, and started sketching with a kind of desperation. At first, it was just shapes, lines, angry scratches but the curve of a cheekbone emerged, then a pair of narrowed eyes, freckles dusted across skin she didn’t want to remember so clearly.
Her hand moved faster, like it was betraying her. The loose hair falling into her face, the slight tilt of her head, those lips that always had the shiniest lip gloss, that damn open palm reaching out as if even the memory of Ajax refused to let go.
Scaramouche clenched her jaw, teeth grinding. The page filled with Ajax’s face over and over, each one rougher than the last, until the sketches layered together in a storm of features that all looked back at her with the same smirk.
After two hours of relentlessly drawing she finally slammed her pencil down, shoved the sketchbook shut, and pressed her forehead to the desk.
“Fuck.”
Because no matter how hard she tried, Ajax was always under her skin.
-
“Okay,” the cup clinked as it was set down. The air smelled faintly of burnt espresso and day-old pastries, the kind that had gone dry but still sat proudly in their glass case. The place was nearly empty save for two other customers: an old man slouched in the corner, his newspaper so yellowed it looked like he’d been reading it for years, and a girl at a nearby table, fingers flying across her keyboard as if she was trying to outrun a deadline. “Any ideas for our project?”
“How about a murder mystery? I kill you and–oh, no, that’s it.”
“Charming,” Ajax smirked despite the obvious threat. She loved a good challenge. In fact, that’s why she was so drawn to this girl in the first place. She was like a coconut that refused to crack. “As romantic as that sounds–”
“Romantic?”
“–I think we should go with one of my ideas,” the redhead leaned back before digging into her bag. She pulled out a well-worn notebook, its edges frayed and marked with little doodles that crawled into the margins like ivy. Flipping it open to a random page, she tapped her nail against a short list of scrawled project concepts.
Scaramouche reached out, fingers brushing against the edge of the notebook before tugging it closer. She skimmed quickly, lips twitching at some of the more absurd suggestions. A few were tolerable, maybe even good, but her gaze kept snagging on one in particular. It was titled in Ajax’s messy script: Masks & Identity. Beneath it, a description read: a sculptural/wearable art project about the masks people hide behind.
“Masks and identity,” she repeated, her voice flatter than she intended as she lifted her eyes, “can you tell me more about it?”
Ajax didn’t answer right away. Instead, she rose from her chair, circling the small table until she slid into the seat beside her on the couch. Scaramouche’s shoulders stiffened; she instinctively leaned away, her spine pressing into the worn cushion. Ajax’s scent hit her immediately, cinnamon and a trace of a new perfume sent her head spinning like she’d just stumbled off a carnival ride. Delicate fingers reached over, turning the page with an ease that ignored how tense the girl beside her was. Charcoal sketches covered the paper, each one a different mask. Some elegant, some grotesque, some almost absurd. Faces with grins too wide, eyes too hollow, jaws split open into impossible shapes. One sketch stopped Scaramouche cold: a mask split down the middle, half sheep and half wolf.
Her art style was unlike anything Scaramouche had ever seen before. She hated that she loved it.
“It focuses on who people truly are versus who they pretend to be. You know, like the old saying, a wolf in sheep's clothing?”
Fuck, her smile was pointed directly at her.
“It’s not the worst idea.” In fact, she liked it so much she wished she had came up with it. She hadn’t been able to come up with anything over the past few days, and it didn’t help that every time Scaramouche didn’t respond in a timely fashion, Ajax would spam some random picture to try to grab her attention until she got a reply.
“Well, princess, what ideas do you have in mind?”
The artist felt like the vein in her forehead was going to burst. She hated that nickname. Almost as much as she hated it when she dreamed about Ajax whispering it in her ear. “Stop calling me that.”
Ajax tilted her head, resting her cheek against her knuckles, squishing her eyes closed, “why? Doesn’t suit you?”
Scaramouche’s throat worked. She wanted to tell her to shut up, to shove her notebook back in her lap and storm out of the stupid coffee shop. But her tongue betrayed her, twisting into silence. It was so unlike her. Scaramouche was known for her sharp tongue and wit. Her ability to snap back at people was unmatched but for some reason with this girl her mind became a blank canvas.
Ajax’s grin widened at the lack of response. She reached out, dragging the tip of her finger along the sheep-and-wolf mask, smearing the charcoal onto her fingertip. She then lifted her hand and raised it to Scaramouche’s face where she booped her nose. A small amount of residue rested on the tip of her nose.
Scaramouche froze, eyes crossing just slightly as she registered the faint smudge Ajax had left behind. Heat rushed to her face, though whether it was from embarrassment or fury, she couldn’t tell. “Did you just—” she started, her voice caught between a growl and a gasp.
She stood up, clearly satisfied with her handiwork. “Consider it war paint, princess.” Since this battle between us seems to be never-ending. “I know an art store nearby. We can get our materials there to start working on this thing.”
For once, they didn’t argue. Scaramouche followed her out of the coffee shop without another word uttered after rubbing the charcoal off her face. The walk to the art store was silent, save for the muffled sounds of traffic and the crunch of gravel under their shoes. Scaramouche shoved her hands into her coat pockets, keeping her eyes fixed ahead, refusing to glance at Ajax, no matter how close their shoulders brushed.
The bell above the shop door jingled faintly as they stepped inside. It was a fairly small, family-owned, art store. Ajax had stumbled upon it randomly one day when she had been on a walk. She’s fairly certain the owner's son has a crush on her, considering all the free supplies he’s given her, even after she insisted on paying.
The redhead grabbed a small basket and headed towards the back. She has come here countless times for materials for her projects so she knew where most things were. Scaramouche lingered behind, trailing her gaze over the shelves, trying not to notice the way that red hair caught the glow.
Ajax’s hand skimmed the boxes stacked neatly against the bottom row until she crouched, pulling one forward. White clay. She ran her thumb along the corner, reading the ounces of product on the side, then glanced up, eyes catching Scaramouche’s.
“Clay?” she questioned.
“Yeah,” Ajax nodded, “we can make them from scratch instead of buying pre-made masks.” She’s only ever done this once before for a class back in her second year. It’s not hard but it is time-consuming. She didn’t mention the part about how they would be covering each other’s faces in this stuff and it was probably better she didn’t know until it was too late. Otherwise, she’d probably refuse. Even if Ajax loved that annoyed expression on her face, she’d rather avoid any unnecessary headbutting.
Not even thinking about how they would make the masks with the clay, all Scaramouche could focus on was how Ajax refused to take the easy way out of her projects. Why was that annoyingly admirable? Why were they the same in that sense? Since when did they have any similarities?
When the indigo-haired girl didn’t say anything, she stood, brushing the dust from her knees. “It’ll be more personal this way. Messier, sure, but…” she tilted her head, “I think you can handle a little mess.” She plopped two more boxes of clay into her basket just in case they messed up or needed extra, then headed to the counter.
Standing at the register was the owner’s son who seemed to perk up at the sight of her. His whole posture straightened, like he’d just been caught slouching in a military inspection. His eyes lit up, and his grin stretched too wide to be casual. “Hey! Back again already?” His voice cracked slightly, betraying his nerves.
Ajax set the basket on the counter with an easy smile, the kind that made his ears turn pink. “Yeah. What can I say? You’ve got the best stock in town.”
The boy’s laugh was too loud for the tiny shop, bouncing off the shelves stacked with paints and canvases. Scaramouche, still standing a few paces behind, rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. The sound grated against her ears, but worse than that was the way Ajax’s smile seemed to brighten in response. Is this how she flirts? It was disgusting. Pathetic, even.
The kid scanned the items slowly, lingering too long on the clay like he was trying to stall her from leaving. “Oh, we just got some new sculpting tools in last week. You could try them, on the house.”
Ajax leaned an elbow on the counter, “sculpting tools? That might actually be helpful for our project.”
“Our?” he questioned with a head tilt, “is that girl behind you with you?”
A nod, “she’s my partner for my art project.”
“Sounds fun,” he said before ducking beneath the counter, pulling out a small pack of metal carving tools, still wrapped in plastic. He held them out like an offering. Ajax accepted them with a low whistle, tucking them neatly into the basket without hesitation. She offered to pay but got denied like always. She often wonders what his father would say about all the free stuff he gives her.
He called out after them as they headed out, something about ‘see you next time!’ Ajax simply offered a wave without looking back.
The bell above the door jingled again as it shut behind them, muffling the warmth of the shop and replacing it with the cool bite of evening air. A breeze tugged at the hem of Ajax’s jacket, carrying with it the faint tang of exhaust and the sharper scent of damp concrete after a long day of sun. The sky had already folded into that dusky in-between where the streetlights flickered awake one by one, casting halos of amber glow that stretched across the cracked sidewalks. Every so often, a car rolled by with its headlights cutting harsh streaks of white through the soft gloom.
When they got back to campus where their cars were parked, they turned to each other almost in unison. The pause stretching thin until Ajax lifted one of the boxes of clay. She offered it out but she didn’t miss the brush of their fingers when Scaramouche took it. Scaramouche wiped her hand on her pants immediately, the motion sharp, which only made Ajax’s low chuckle cut deeper.
The redhead leaned against her car, explaining about the tests stacked against her this week - how studying would take over every ounce of free time. She’d be available in about a week, she said, and in the meantime, Scaramouche was welcome to start on the masks if she wanted. Or she could wait.
Wait for her? As if. The word burned in Scaramouche’s head like a dare.
By the time she got back to her dorm, the clay box was already cracked open on her desk. She pulled her hair back, rolled her sleeves, and got to work. But the clay refused to cooperate. At first, she tried shaping it with nothing but her hands, willing it to hold together, airballing the form in hopes it would somehow take shape. It collapsed in on itself, sagging and crumbling like it was mocking her.
Frustration sent her out again the next day to buy a styrofoam head, convinced it would make a difference. But no matter how carefully she pressed the clay, it kept slipping off in pieces, sliding down onto the desk until the head looked more like a melted candle rather than the foundation for anything worthwhile. Her hands ached from pressing, scraping, and fixing.
Her roommate watched with her cheek pressed to the cool surface of her desk, blonde hair spilling across the wood yet somehow avoiding the scattered piles of clay.
“How,” Scaramouche started, “the hell did she plan on making this? It’s impossible.”
Her roommate hummed lazily, “maybe you’re supposed to, I don’t know, use someone’s actual face?”
Indigo eyes slithered to the girl, one brow lifting. “You mean, like covering someone's face in clay to get the mold?” Her roommate nodded and Scaramouche clicked her tongue in response. “That’s stupid.”
“Well, I’m not an artist. I’m an architect,” the blonde replied, sitting up and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her hair was nearly as long as Ajax’s, maybe a little longer, always tied with a small braid and the feather her old roommate had given her. “Maybe you just need a break. Let’s hit the hall for some lunch.”
Scaramouche sighed as she stood up straight, “yeah, yeah… a break sounds good.”
During lunch, she decided she wouldn't work on her project again until she got a text from her partner. She expected one by the end of the week but it never came. Nor did it come the next week.
Going on week four is when she finally got a text.
'Hey, you free tomorrow?'