Chapter Text
[Reader] lived in a two-story house with light beige walls — walls she would have gladly repainted into the powdery pink that sometimes stretched across rooftops at dawn. Behind the house lay a garden the real estate agent had described with exaggerated enthusiasm, as if he weren't selling a modest patch of land in Minato, but a promise of a Tokyo paradise.
Still, he hadn't needed to convince her.
[Reader] was far more enchanted by the garden than her mother was, even if — so far — the flowers bloomed only in her imagination, colorful and overly romantic, like illustrations from a girl's diary.
She and her mother had moved in half a year ago. Inside the house, much had changed, but the garden remained empty. [Reader] wanted to believe it was only temporary, that in time flowers would bloom there. Maybe once she convinced her mom to buy seeds and the necessary tools.
When she explored the new backyard for the first time, she noticed that on the other side of the fence stood a nearly identical house — a mirror image of their own. Even its residents seemed cut from the same cloth: a mother and a son.
The tall, elegant woman with impeccable posture, almost always surrounded by a regal aura, made a powerful impression on twelve-year-old [Reader]. She was beautiful in an intimidating way, similar to her mother, yet sparing with her smiles and gifted with a gaze so piercing it seemed to see more than others did.
Her son had the same gaze — Scaramouche, a third-year high school student at Hoshigaya Academy. In his eyes lurked a similar severity, but also something else, something... harder to name. Still, for [Reader], the simple knowledge that starting in April she would attend the same school — albeit in middle school — was enough to make her look at him differently. More carefully. With a quiet excitement she couldn't quite hide.
Both their mothers were perpetually busy; buried in adult matters and endless phone calls, as if their cell phones were permanently attached to their ears. And since [Reader] didn't yet know anyone in the neighborhood, her mother arranged things with Ms. Ei so that the girl would occasionally be left under Scaramouche's supervision.
"He seems responsible," she explained with a smile meant to dispel any doubts.
Not that [Reader] had any.
She was simply excited about the new company — the company of someone closer to her age than all her previous babysitters. Those stern obasan had resembled guardians of the household more than caretakers. Instead of playing with her, they drifted endlessly between the kitchen and the living room, armed with dishcloths and wooden spoons, as if her childish energy needed to be kept in check.
Scaramouche was nothing like them.
He was an enigma.
At least for a while.
~~~♥~~~
It was a Saturday afternoon — one of those lazy, golden ones, when the day seemed to stretch itself like a cat after a long nap. Everything felt ordinary, right up until the Uno cards scattered across the floor with a sharp clatter. Scaramouche didn't even look at [Reader] when he uttered that horrifying combination of words:
"You draw four."
[Reader] sucked in a dramatic breath, as if he had just declared war.
"That's low."
"It's strategy."
He sat cross-legged on the carpet, his back resting against the bed, like a king upon a throne of pillows. The setting sun spilled through the window, catching in the strands of his indigo hair and lighting them with a cool, almost ethereal sheen. The light traced the line of his face, emphasizing his calm — and that faint shadow of amused superiority — as he watched the deck in her hands swell to an indecent size.
[Reader] narrowed her eyes, reluctantly drawing more cards; they slipped between her fingers, which only fueled her irritation.
"You always win," she muttered.
"Because I know how to play."
"But I'm younger than you," she lifted her chin, trying to lend her frustration a shred of dignity. "You could give me a handicap once in a while."
He shrugged, as though the idea of losing on purpose were absurd.
"You won't learn anything that way."
She scoffed and flung a card onto the table with more force than necessary. It missed the pile, knocking it crooked instead. Regret followed immediately. She leaned forward to fix the cards — at the exact same moment Scaramouche did the same. Their hands brushed for a fraction of a second.
It was nothing. Barely skin against skin.
And yet, to her, the world slowed.
A wave of warmth traveled from her fingers to her elbow, then higher — straight to her throat.
For him? Nothing had changed. His movements remained steady and unbothered. He straightened the deck with a single motion, as if tidying up something utterly trivial.
[Reader] didn't move. She simply stared at him.
That, he noticed.
"Why are you staring at me like that?"
She straightened abruptly. Her heart hammered in her chest like a bird trapped in a cage too small for it. The last time she'd been this nervous was during the opening ceremony at school, standing among students taller than herself and trying to look more grown-up than she felt.
She was only a carefree child on the edge of adolescence, and yet the decision she made in that single, stretched-out moment tasted like ripe fruit.
"Will you marry me when I grow up?"
The question drifted down into the arms of silence, waltzing with it as it fell. Time stopped.
Or so it seemed — if not for the ticking of the clock, steadily humming: tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.
Scaramouche blinked.
"What?"
"I asked," she repeated more slowly, with the stubborn resolve of someone who had just put everything on a single card, "will you marry me when I grow up?"
He looked at her for a long moment. She couldn't read the expression on his face, but something twitched at the corner of his eye. He turned his head away and covered his mouth with his hand. His shoulders shook slightly.
"Pfft—"
When he laughed, something shattered in her small, twelve-year-old universe with a devastating crack. She puffed out her cheeks and slapped her palms against the table in pure outrage.
"I'm serious! You're smart, cool, and— you always win at Uno, so you'll definitely win at life too!"
This time, he really couldn't stop himself. He burst out laughing — loud and genuine enough that he had to wipe the corner of his eye.
"Oh God..." he gasped between breaths. "You can't treat a proposal like a business deal. And since when does being good at Uno equal success in life?" He leaned closer and lightly flicked her forehead. "And why would you even assume I'd agree to marry someone who cheats at cards?"
"I never cheat!" she snapped, rubbing the stinging spot.
But when she caught the amused look on his face, she crossed her arms and lifted her chin with the dignity of a princess offended by half the kingdom. Her cheeks were puffed like two little balloons, and her [color] eyes flickered with wounded pride.
"And my logic is... logical! It makes sense! Besides, you're tall and you can reach the top shelves!"
"So you're choosing your future husband based on height?" He propped himself more comfortably on his elbow. "I'm flattered."
He laughed again.
For the third time.
She counted carefully.
Under different circumstances, she would have exploded by now — but his laughter was different than usual. Loose. Carefree. Soft. It was the first time she'd ever heard him laugh for so long. And while something inside her melted at the sound, it also hurt — because he was still treating her like a child who had said something adorably ridiculous.
She looked away. Her lower lip trembled, just slightly, almost imperceptibly. She sat on the carpet beside the crooked stack of cards that still hadn't been rescued.
"You don't have to laugh..."
The amusement left him at once. The mockery in his eyes dimmed, replaced by confusion.
"Hey..."
He ran a hand through his hair in helplessness. Then he reached out and ruffled her [color] hair, the way one does with children who go too far but don't deserve to be scolded.
"I'm not laughing at you, dummy. It's just... weird, okay? You're small, loud, and really annoying," he paused, fingers lingering in her hair before pulling his hand back, "but I guess not completely unbearable."
She jerked her head up.
"So that means yes?!"
Scaramouche blinked, clearly startled by the sheer force of her enthusiasm. For a moment, a quiet battle played out on his face — between mockery and something close to gentleness. In the end, he sighed with a resignation that wasn't entirely sincere.
"Maybe when you're older."
It sounded like half a joke, but to her it was a solemn promise, written in gold letters — like a contract signed by the Little Mermaid herself. She beamed like the sun breaking through storm clouds after a terrible downpour.
That offhand promise was enough to restore her good mood completely.
"Then I'll ask again when I'm older!" she declared, gathering the cards from the floor. "And besides—" she pointed a finger at him, "when I'm older, I'll beat you at Uno!"
He shook his head, a familiar shadow of amusement dancing at the corners of his mouth.
"Good luck. I became unbeatable at Uno before you even learned how to tie your shoes." Then he suddenly leaned closer, resting his chin on his hand. "But if by some miracle you manage to beat me right now, I might consider an early engagement."
"Ha! I'll beat you easily!"
She shuffled the cards with fierce determination, complete focus written across her face. The deck bent in her impatient hands, but she was far too absorbed in visions of her future glory to care.
They played a few more rounds before she had to go home.
The winning streak remained his, so the engagement would have to wait — until she was older.