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Morning of the inn greets them gently, as the gaze of the archon of freedom himself—wild eyes staring down onto their sleeping figures, blessing them with the sweetest dream a human mind could make up, blessing them with the stillest of rest—of love, of longevity, for an unbreakable bond shared between a human and a mere puppet.
Scaramouche called himself that, decepting and dissecting a wonderful existence that completely held Kazuha’s whole heart in hand to ‘a mere puppet’, to a being that could not experience feelings—let alone something as intimate as love, as a bond lasting with tears and flesh and bones.
Unwilling to tear apart, so scared to try again yet he still did—Kazuha could only love him more, the battered heart now willing to tear itself apart for a new adoration, a soft spot for a being that could not experience love.
Unable to conceal those feelings in words, in secret glances—each touch the wanderer left on the puppet's body, though could not feel the warmth he radiates, could not feel the softness of a human, they’re how he expresses affection.
So loudly, so whole-heartedly, losing so much that the definition of love is strange to both of them.
What Kazuha was so relieved of laid in the simplest of things—how Scaramouche relaxed in his arms, how he soon coddled in the quilts as if seeking some kind of solace. He does not know how much Kazuha cherished the noises he let slip, sleepy grumbles and orders a man as free as a samurai would still nod yes.
Like now, like the sleepy “don’t leave” had just slipped out from Scaramouche’s lips. Needful and spoiled all at once—as if misusing the power he had over the human, using how whipped Kazuha is when it comes to the puppet.
And the samurai makes sure he won't need to doubt that ever again, won’t need to wait for sleepiness to come so he could ask for someone to stay again.
“Mn, I won’t.” The murmur soon followed up, laced briefly with a chuckle, a soft shuffle as kazuha tried to shift his position, embracing the figure in his arms tighter—until he’s sure the other could practically feel his presence and the ghost of his warmth. “You’re gonna sleep in?”
That question was unneeded—the windchimes are ringing, the sunlight is cooing them to fall back into slumber, such impertiness to leave such tranquility behind and head off to the busy day ahead—a bit of comfort wouldn’t hurt a soul.
Plus, Kazuha’s mind wouldn't be at ease after Scaramouche left his arms—not quite dependency nor a sense of affection so overwhelming that it’s nearly tipping over to the perilous zone, but rather a staggering sense of missing someone dear will soon flood his veins—that too, is almost as embarrassed to talk about whenever they parted. And Kazuha always told himself to swallow it down, often leading to scaramouche reading through him and scolding him for it.
Being cared for is something both worth treasuring and addicting—could he refuse the feeling of those hands on his skin? Could Scaramouche refuse the softly gaze raking over his body? Tracing every detail on his torso as if he's a delicate piece of porcelain?
Scaramouche didn't give out an answer, his stilled figure did so much as shifted in further, pressing his face on the ghost of warmth—showing that he cared, nonetheless.
Yet, the puppet couldn't help a satisfied sign escaping once Kazuha tightened his grasp, embracing the puppet closer—tighter. As if a cot, as if the homey warmth Scaramouche had never had the chance to feel—promising trust again, promising safety again, at least for as long as he's asleep.
The room's silent except for their breathing sounds and the occasional shuffle, Kazuha watched the other slowly fell asleep, amused at the sleepy Scaramouche rarely anyone could catch sight of, except him—and that brought him more pride than he should've expected.
Was this an achievement to show off, then? Was having someone once so distrustful of the world, every of his thoughts were filled with a sense of betrayal and hurt—now relaxed this much, now sleeping this steadily?
Precious, one Kazuha would call the puppet that. A being once disowned by their own creator, to this wandering samurai—Scaramouche was his fiery heart, one beautiful being Kazuha would think of even if he's in the toughest of battles.
“Dearest,” A muse, Kazuha tentatively combed his calloused fingers through the puppet's indigo hair, awing at each soft strand sliding past his fingers, smelling slight of the free wind, of freshness only the wandered carried.
While his heart swells with something precious, Scaramouche barely responds to anything, deeply asleep, deeply cuddled in the samurai's arms.
There was a rhythm in everything they did—Kazuha thoughts—their occupation, their spirits, both are wandering souls, both have stories to tell, experiences to murmur. Simplest of actions screamed ‘care’ in the barest way that none luxuriousness can mimic.
“My heart, pretty as you are,” the samurai crooned to him again, never enough. He could write scrolls and scrolls colliding around the puppet's beauty alone—in the end, who could stop him from doing such?
His hand gently tucked part of the indigo hair, making way for him to plant a kiss onto Scaramouche’s forehead. Kazuha held it for a while, embedding his presence over the other’s ‘skin’, as if he kept the affection long enough, obvious enough, his lover would be able to feel it—able to bypass the hard shell of skin and feel every ounce of adoration sinking into his heart, like water seeping down layers and layers of hard soil.
By the time he parted, Scaramouche was already half awake, softened awareness now alerted again by the kiss—yet, despite that, anger didn’t have time to take place, an annoyed grin bloomed on his face already, surprised and overwhelmed by the show of affection all at once. But, whatever Kazuha did when he was drifting in and out of sleep was registered as ‘love’ in his mind—and that was more than ‘enough’.
Love bloomed in cracked corners, making its way to hardness, making way through the cracked edges of the puppet’s heart and allowing him to be something near human again, healing slowly, bit by bit.
“Why are you still sneaking around?” The indigo smirked, faint of pinkness glistening over his cheeks, eyes glimmering as if the residue of sleepiness, yet his gaze of Kazuha was so clear. “Afraid I’ll refuse?”
“You know I never will.” That was a fair warning, Kazuha had long learned it—Scaramouche showering him with affection was a rare occasion, but it always came with a warning beforehand.
The samurai barely managed an inhale as the puppet crashed their lips together, warmth and coolness colliding into strangeness, addictiveness. Breath mingling, taste of last night’s tea that didn’t quite leave—imperfect, theirs, human.
Scaramouche didn’t feel satisfied yet, of course—so the most rational thing he could think of while still hazy by sleepiness is to tuck his hands beneath Kazuha’s shirt, relishing in the boost of dopamine when the samurai break the kiss and gasped in surprise at the sensation of cold hands on his skin.
“Of course you’ll do that.” Kazuha resigned to the taunt, then closed their distance again, just as quickly.