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Scaramouche had never been one for the holidays.
They seemed pointless at best—time meant to be spent with loved ones and warm laughter, yet most of Scaramouche’s were spent lying alone in bed, trying to sleep away the day just to avoid the grief that came with this time of year. As his life changed and time went on, the festivities left a bitter taste in his mouth, and loneliness fiercely clung to his heart until he eventually rejected the idea of holidays altogether. This made the year-end months the worst, with anger bubbling inside Scaramouche as Christmas lights went up and New Year's plans were made. It all felt meaningless—meaningless when you had nobody to share the joy with.
But now, Scaramouche was no longer alone.
The winter chill seeped through Scaramouche’s sweater—he could already hear Kazuha in his mind telling him to wear a coat, and of course, he never listened—as numb fingers fidgeted with the poorly wrapped gift in his hands. The blue wrapping paper was decorated with snowflakes, and even in its crinkled state from Scaramouche’s frustration with wrapping presents, it still reminded him of the man whose apartment he was hurrying to. Blue, Kazuha’s favorite color, and snowflakes—the gently falling, irreplaceable beauty that comes even in the most somber months. That was Kazuha, a beauty even in the universe’s cruelest moments.
Within a few minutes, Scaramouche finally stood outside Kazuha’s apartment door—and yet, he didn’t immediately knock or rush inside to seek warmth from the winter’s chill. Instead, he hesitated, shifting awkwardly on his feet as the snow crunched beneath his boots. Something unfamiliar swelled in Scaramouche’s chest as he stared at the door, his fingers twitching against wrapping paper, almost like the anxiety he always tried to hide.
The worries that crept into Scaramouche’s mind were never ones he’d let fall past his lips, not even to his boyfriend of several months. What if his gift wasn’t enough? He rarely did this, and Kazuha was much more thoughtful. What if he spoiled the day with his pessimism? Sometimes he couldn’t help it; the past haunted him with a strength even he couldn’t shake. Wouldn’t Kazuha rather spend this time with someone else? Someone more cheerful, someone who doesn’t drown every good thing in the pain of the past.
But like a ray of sunlight piercing through an endlessly clouded sky, before Scaramouche could spiral any further, the door suddenly swung open. And there Kazuha stood in all his gentleness, a smile tugging at his kissable lips and his hair hanging loosely around his shoulders. A picture of perfection; Scaramouche couldn’t help the warmth that crept up his neck and rested on his cheeks.
“I had a feeling you were here,” Kazuha grinned—that stupid playful one that both annoyed Scaramouche and caused the tips of his ears to redden. “I must be developing a sixth sense for you.”
The winter’s chill no longer mattered as Scaramouche’s body grew warmer with each second in Kazuha’s presence, and he almost wanted to kick himself for letting such a small interaction work him up so much. But it was the moment Kazuha’s eyes drifted down to the almost forgotten gift in his hands that Scaramouche’s eyes widened, and he finally regained some control.
“Tch. You’re an idiot.” And with that, Scaramouche pushed past Kazuha and into the man’s apartment without so much as even a welcome—anything to escape the embarrassment that had him by the throat.
Almost instantly, Scaramouche was struck by the warmth coming from the other man’s home—but not just the physical comfort. His apartment was decorated throughout, with the space lit primarily by a perfectly trimmed Christmas tree in the corner, making it feel even cozier than it did on an average day. Kazuha always knew how to make even the smallest or most mundane places feel like something much greater—a place you wanted to get lost in and never leave, just to hold onto its comfort forever. Or maybe that was because of Kazuha himself.
“Wow… It’s so… joyful in here,” Scaramouche muttered beneath his breath as he moved further into the apartment, his boyfriend in tow.
Kazuha let out a gentle, loving chuckle before his voice rolled out with a fond lilt: “You don’t like it?”
“Didn’t say that.” Scaramouche was quick to deny, because even if he didn’t enjoy Christmas, never once did he try to dampen his boyfriend’s spirits. If anything, it made him try harder—harder to find a place in his heart for the holidays, even if that place was Kazuha-shaped.
The thought caused Scaramouche to suddenly turn around, which only led to Kazuha running into him from the sudden change of pace. Their bodies collided, and on pure instinct, Kazuha’s hands found purchase on Scaramouche’s hips to keep them both upright.
“Whoa there,” Kazuah grinned, thumbs pressing into hipbones. “Careful.”
Scaramouche’s features were blanketed in pink, and his hands tightened around the gift he was now clutching against his chest. “Idiot, watch where you’re going.”
Rather than retorting, Kazuha simply offered Scaramouche a gentle smile and a soft hum, as if he could sense all the real emotions rolling off his boyfriend in waves—the ones hidden behind the false bravado he always put up. He leaned forward, hands giving a light squeeze as he placed a tender kiss on the crown of Scaramouche’s head. “I’m sorry, my love.”
“Better be—take this.” Scaramouche shoved the gift into Kazuha’s chest instead, and he almost regretted the decision when his boyfriend’s hands left his hips to grab the box. Not that he would ever admit that out loud.
Kazuha’s eyes softened the moment they dropped to the present, as if he’d been intentionally avoiding looking at it until Scaramouche was ready to hand it over. Gentle, understanding, patient—that’s what Kazuha was to Scaramouche.
“For me?” he mused, running his fingers over the crumpled paper and messy tape. It was so completely Scaramouche—messy and confused yet trying—that he couldn’t help the way his heart tightened in his chest.
Scaramouche shifted uncomfortably on his feet, his hands becoming clammy as he went to scratch the back of his neck. It was in moments like these—tender and raw—that he seemed to freeze the most. He wasn’t as skilled at the gentle kindness Kazuha displayed so effortlessly, nor as comfortable exposing vulnerable parts of himself—these were the moments that made him question what Kazuha could possibly see in him.
But, of course, Kazuha did what he always did best—tucking the present under one arm to reach out and grab Scaramouche’s hand with his free one, then beginning to lead them into the living room. “Let’s do this properly, yeah?”
It wasn’t long before Scaramouche was settled on Kazuha’s comfortable couch, leaning back into the cushions as he nervously fidgeted with the hem of his sweater. Kazuha moved toward the Christmas tree, only to come back with a black gift bag filled with indigo tissue paper—so perfectly Scaramouche, and so neatly Kazuha.
The younger took a seat next to his boyfriend, gently placing the gift bag on his lap. His eyes flickered over the blank face, but even with Scaramouche’s indifferent front, Kazuha had always been able to see right through him.
“You can go first,” he said easily, the kind of reassurance that wasn’t direct and smothering, but was there nonetheless—one of the pieces of Kazuha that clicked into the holes in Scaramouche’s heart so effortlessly. No words needed to be exchanged for Kazuha to pick up on the fact that Scaramouche was more nervous for him to open his gift than to open his own.
A small wave of relief washed over Scaramouche—he wasn’t ready to find out if his gift was as good as it should have been. But to Kazuha, Scaramouche could have given him a rock from his walk here, and it would have been his most treasured object, simply because it came from his boyfriend.
Scaramouche’s eyes drifted to the gift bag, and after a brief pause, trembling fingers carefully pulled out the tissue paper from the top. A flood of thoughts raced through his mind. What if Kazuha’s present truly outshone his? What could he possibly have given him when he never asked for anything? Scaramouche wasn’t exactly easy to buy gifts for.
But of course, it was perfect. Inside the bag were two items: a small notebook and a stuffed animal that Scaramouche had eyed the other day when they were out shopping, but never explicitly said he wanted. Naturally, Kazuha noticed. How could he not when it came to his precious boyfriend?
Reaching into the bag with a gentleness that didn’t often come from someone so calloused, Scaramouche first took out the stuffed animal, letting his fingers drift over the soft fur as he stared into its eyes as if the thing were sentient.
He couldn’t help but smile softly as warmth spread through his chest and into his body. Rarely had there been times—if any—when Scaramouche truly felt understood in life. He often thought he was a lost cause in that regard, but here was Kazuha, perfect, observant, and willing, proving him wrong every single day.
Indigo eyes flicked to his boyfriend, who was diligently watching, his own gift discarded next to him on the couch as if nothing else mattered in this moment but Scaramouche. The sight was enough for his eyes to immediately dart back to the stuffed animal—something he’d never admit was diffidence—before he rested the stuffed animal in his lap and reached for the notebook next.
Curiosity furrowed Scaramouche’s eyebrows as he held the notebook, one that was only palm-sized, but not new from the looks of it. He cast a skeptical glance sideways at Kazuha, who was still watching with anticipation as Scaramouche went through the whole ordeal in silence, as if words had yet to find him, before finally flipping open the cover.
Oh.
Scaramouche turned to the next page. Then the next. And then the next.
Oh.
Blue ink drifted across every line, the handwriting unmistakably Kazuha’s, so neat and rounded in cursive. Always so much tidier than Scaramouche’s own, a fact he gripped about more often than not—though he’d never admit that he actually found it endearing.
Now that he was looking at it, Scaramouche felt stupid for not realizing what it was the moment he’d spotted the warn notebook. Pages upon pages of poetry—poetry dedicated to him. And as he began to read the work rather than flipping pages in curiosity, Scaramouche couldn’t stop his eyes from starting to burn.
There was devotion bleeding from each stroke of pen, love soaked into the pages in the purest form Kazuha knew how to give. He couldn’t imagine how long his boyfriend had spent on this, every page holding new words of admiration. There were some even about the simplest things, like how Kazuha found Scaramouche's way of eating cute.
Before he realized it, quiet tears started to roll down Scaramouche’s cheeks. Still, he was too focused on absorbing Kazuha’s written proclamation of love to hardly notice them, let alone hastily wipe them away in an attempt to hide them like he typically would.
Scaramouche was only pulled out of his trance by the feeling of a thumb drifting against his cheek, and only then did indigo hues lift from the blurred pages to meet gentle maple eyes. At some point, probably when his tears started, Kazuha had closed the short distance between them.
“I didn’t think it’d make you cry,” Kazuha whispered, as if he feared breaking his boyfriend further if he didn’t. There were few times he’d ever seen Scaramouche cry, and he couldn’t tell if the feeling in his chest was love or concern—probably both.
Scaramouche tilted his face into Kazuha’s touch, fingers trembling around the notebook. He opened his mouth, but words failed him, lost in the entanglement of emotions swelling in his chest. How could someone love him this much? With all the wrong he’d done in life, how could Kazuha still hold him so gently?
There was only one thing Scaramouche could think to do, and he quickly discarded the notebook beside him. His hands reached for Kazuha’s cheeks before their lips met, slow and reverent, as if Scaramouche could speak every word he couldn’t find the courage to say through the kiss.
Kazuha responded in kind, his own hands reaching out, one resting on Scaramouche’s thigh while the other held his waist. Scaramouche could practically feel the happiness coursing through his veins, a precious emotion that had been so void before Kazuha walked into his life like a guiding light.
Life had never been kind to anyone, but here in this warm apartment and under his boyfriend's hands, all of Scaramouche’s grief seems to melt away into nothing. Until he can be himself—raw, bare, and bleeding—and be held as if he mattered more than the past.
When the kiss broke, Kazuha let out a light, airy chuckle. Scaramouche’s eyes opened to meet a gentle face, eyes shining with affection as he took in the older’s tear-streaked, flushed features.
“So cute,” Kazuha breathed, minty breath washing over Scaramouche’s face as he gently squeezed the man’s waist.
That was all it took for Scaramouche’s cheeks to puff out in embarrassment, his hand dropping to push weakly at Kazuha’s chest as he turned away. “Whatever—open your gift now, idiot.”
“Oh, my turn now?” Kazuha grinned, turning to grab his previously discarded gift off the couch. Scaramouche felt his gut twist with nerves, but he forced himself to relax back into the cushions, holding the stuffed animal in his lap as if it could soothe the feeling.
Kazuha gently peeled back the wrapping—like he treasured the crumpled paper simply because it was Scaramouche’s effort—and revealed a plain, brown box. He cast a glance toward Scaramouche, who was sitting there silently fidgeting with his stuffed animal—so cute—before moving on to the box next.
Inside, there were two objects: a new set of pens and a picture frame. The pens looked expensive, black with gold accents, but they weren’t the first thing that caught Kazuha’s eye despite it. He slowly took out the picture frame, his eyes softening as his thumbs brushed over the cold glass. Inside was a photo of them on their first date, one where Kazuha wasn’t looking, hadn’t noticed, with the aquarium tickets from that day tucked behind the glass.
“Scara…” Kazuha’s words slipped out as an unintentional whisper, love swelling in his chest so intensely that it physically ached. There was only one pain in his life that Kazuha would accept with open arms, and it was the feeling Scaramouche had given him again and again.
“This is precious—perfect,” he finally managed out evenly as he lifted his gaze to Scaramouche, a smile tugging at his cheeks and creasing his eyes. “Thank you, baby.”
Scaramouche’s pale features were tinged pink again, a familiar feeling around Kazuha, as his fingers fiddled with the stuffed animal’s fur. His eyes looked anywhere but at Kazuha’s face, butterflies fluttering in his stomach. He didn’t think his gift could compare to Kazuha’s, and yet his boyfriend acted as if he’d never received anything better.
“...You’re welcome,” he said quietly, softly, a rare moment of raw tenderness that only ever showed through in Kazha’s presence.
And this time, Kazuha was taking the lead, though with much less hesitation than his boyfriend. In a quick move, and to Scaramouche's surprise, he suddenly found himself lying on the couch, with Kazuha hovering above him and a grin on his face.
Scaramouche could feel his heart pounding against his ribs, each quick beat making his head spin. Kazuha’s hand reached out to gently remove the stuffed animal from his boyfriend’s grip, setting it down on the nearby coffee table with the same tenderness—just because he could already hear Scaramouche’s complaints in his head if he didn’t treat the thing with the utmost care.
His attention quickly shifted back to the man beneath him, his hand now reaching out to brush away a few stray strands of indigo locks from Scaramouche’s eyes. “You…” he began, his voice a delicate whisper in the mere inches between them. “Are the most perfect being I’ve ever met in my life.”
Scaramouche’s eyes widened as he gripped the front of Kazuha’s hoodie now that the stuffed animal was gone, as if he needed something to anchor himself in such a vulnerable moment. How did Kazuha manage to get in like this? And why did Scaramouche…
“I love you.”
The words came out hurriedly, as if Scaramouche couldn’t hold them back for a second longer or they’d spoil in his mind. Because he did love Kazuha, loved him so effortlessly that nothing else ever felt right. Loving Kazuha never seemed like a choice—it felt like recognition, like a dance they’d done before, and he’d finally found his way home again. He was sure that someday, when they both lay side by side six feet beneath the earth, the bugs devouring his flesh would become infected by the love that still bled from his being for Kazuha, never ceasing, but longing to do this all over again in their next life.
Kazuha let out a short breath from his lips, so tender that words weren’t needed to explain it. He leaned forward, giving a kiss to Scaramouche’s nose—then his forehead, and both cheeks, moving across his jawline, until Scaramouche finally let out a whine.
"I..." Kazuha kissed the corner of his lip, "Love..." then the other, “You.”
Scaramouche’s eyelashes fluttered as his body grew warmer with feelings he couldn’t quite place, before he managed a weak eye roll and pulled Kazuha closer by the grip on his hoodie. “Just kiss me already, idiot.”