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The apartment was quiet.
Not peaceful, just quiet.
The sort of silence that settled after too many conversations had ended unfinished, after too many feelings had been swallowed instead of spoken aloud. Rain traced slow paths down the window, blurring the lights of the city into soft streaks of gold and white. Somewhere in the kitchen, the kettle clicked as it cooled, the tiny sound impossibly loud in the stillness.
Scaramouche stood with his back to Kazuha.
His arms were folded tightly across his chest, shoulders tense enough to ache. He stared out through the rain stained glass, though he wasn't really looking at anything. His reflection stared back instead, tired violet eyes framed by messy indigo hair, a face that always seemed to look angrier than he actually felt.
Behind him, Kazuha remained where he'd been for the last several minutes.
Patient.
He never crowded him.
Never demanded answers.
Never raised his voice.
It should have made things easier.
Instead, it made the guilt unbearable.
"You're doing it again," Scaramouche muttered quietly.
Kazuha frowned. "Doing what?"
"Looking at me like..." He let out a humourless laugh. "Like I'm someone worth saving."
"You are."
The answer came so naturally that it almost sounded instinctive.
Scaramouche squeezed his eyes shut.
Of course he'd say that.
He always did.
He remembered the first time they'd met, months ago beneath the crimson maples lining the shrine path. He'd expected Kazuha to leave after the first sarcastic remark, after the second cutting insult, after the third attempt to push him away.
Instead, Kazuha had simply smiled.
Not smugly.
Not pityingly.
Just... warmly.
As though he'd looked straight through every wall Scaramouche had spent years building and decided the frightened person hiding behind them was worth knowing anyway.
It had been infuriating.
It still was.
"You never learn," Scaramouche whispered.
"I don't think there's anything to learn."
"There is."
"No."
"There is."
He turned sharply, frustration spilling over before he could contain it. His breathing had already become uneven.
"You keep trying to find something good in me when there isn't anything."
Kazuha didn't interrupt.
Didn't argue.
Didn't even move.
That somehow hurt more than if he had.
Scaramouche laughed bitterly, dragging a trembling hand through his hair.
"I hate you."
His voice cracked around the edges, frayed by exhaustion more than anger.
His fists curled so tightly at his sides that his nails dug crescents into his palms.
Across from him, Kazuha didn't flinch.
Not even a little.
"I know, darling. I know."
That almost made it worse.
"Just leave me alone," Scaramouche whispered. "I don't know why you keep trying to find something good in me when there isn't anything."
His breathing hitched.
"This is it. This is who I am. I'm not a good person, okay? I'm not happy, I'm not a joy to be around- I can't make you feel special- I can't..."
The words lodged painfully in his throat.
"I can't be who you want me to be anymore." He squeezed his eyes shut, shoulders shaking. "I'm so tired of pretending to be someone worth loving."
Silence.
Not the uncomfortable kind.
The kind that wrapped itself around broken words instead of smothering them
Kazuha spoke.
"I love you."
The confession was so quiet it almost disappeared beneath the rain.
The words hung between them, fragile as spun glass.
He'd spent years convincing himself that letting people in only guaranteed one thing, that eventually they'd grow tired of him. That they'd see every jagged edge, every ugly part he'd worked so hard to hide, and decide he wasn't worth the effort.
Kazuha hadn't moved.
Not because he didn't want to.
Because he knew.
He knew that one wrong step, one push too far, and Scaramouche would retreat behind walls twice as high as before.
So he waited.
Patiently.
As he always had.
Scaramouche let out a shaky laugh, rubbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his jumper.
"You're really not going to make this easy for me, are you?"
"I've never wanted to make it difficult."
"No." A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You're just... impossibly nice."
"I've been called worse."
That earned the faintest huff of laughter.
It wasn't much.
But it was real.
Kazuha's own smile widened, not because he'd made Scaramouche laugh, but because Scaramouche had allowed himself to.
For once.
The silence that followed wasn't awkward.
It was gentle.
Comfortable.
Like the first rays of sunlight creeping through curtains after a stormy night.
Outside, the rain had slowed to a drizzle.
Tiny droplets clung to the window, catching the streetlights until they resembled scattered stars.
"I've been scared," Scaramouche admitted quietly.
"I know."
"No, I don't think you do."
His fingers twisted together in his lap, scratching incessantly at his wrists, picking the skin surrounding his unkempt nails.
"I've been scared that one day you'll wake up and realise everyone else was right."
Kazuha frowned.
"'He's too much.'"
Scaramouche looked down.
"'He's difficult.'"
His voice grew smaller.
"'He's impossible to love.'"
The words tasted bitter.
Like poison he'd repeated to himself so many times they'd become impossible to separate from the truth.
Kazuha shook his head.
"I've never believed any of those things."
"You should."
"I won't."
"You don't know everything."
"I don't have to."
Scaramouche looked at him then.
Really looked.
There wasn't pity in Kazuha's eyes.
No obligation.
No expectation that Scaramouche would suddenly become cheerful, or open, or easy to understand.
Just quiet certainty.
The sort that couldn't be faked.
Then he did something so unexpected, it shook Scaramouche to the core. Kazuha knelt in front of him and drew his wrist close. Gently, he pressed feather light kisses over every silvery line on his skin: each kiss, a promise of forever.
"I know enough."
Another silence settled.
This one softer than the last.
Scaramouche drew a slow breath.
"...Would you stay?"
Kazuha blinked.
"Tonight," Scaramouche clarified hurriedly. "Just... don't leave yet."
A warmth spread across Kazuha's face.
"I wasn't planning on it."
They ended up sitting on the floor, backs resting against the sofa instead of using it.
Neither of them seemed to mind.
The kettle in the kitchen was boiled again.
Kazuha disappeared for a minute before returning with two steaming mugs of tea, placing one carefully into Scaramouche's hands.
"...You remembered."
"You always take this tea when you feel overwhelmed."
Scaramouche stared into the cup.
He didn't remember ever telling him that.
Kazuha must have noticed.
Months ago.
Maybe longer.
Something in his chest tightened.
Not painfully.
Just... differently.
They talked until the sky outside shifted from charcoal to pale blue.
Some conversations were light, others difficult.
Sometimes Scaramouche spoke for several minutes.
Sometimes only a sentence.
Sometimes not at all.
Kazuha never rushed him.
Never filled the silence unless invited to.
For the first time in a long time, silence didn't feel lonely.
As dawn spilled gold across the apartment floor, Scaramouche rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes.
"...You know."
"Hm?"
"I don't think I hate you anymore."
Kazuha laughed quietly.
"I had a feeling."
"...Don't get used to hearing things like that."
"I'll treasure this one for the rest of my life,sweetheart."
Scaramouche rolled his eyes, yet a faint blush dusted his cheeks, betraying his feigned nonchalance.
"...You're such an idiot."
"So I've been told."
The corners of Scaramouche's mouth lifted.
Small.
Barely noticeable.
But real.
And somehow, Kazuha thought, it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.