Chapter Text
Xiao. Unbelievably stupid, unbelievably annoying, unbelievably quiet, Xiao.
Scaramouche can't even decide if he hates that one or not.
Probably a bad thing.
Xiao, is busy at the front of the room, looking at the back of a paper. It would look blank from this angle, if he couldn't so very clearly see all of the red pen marks seeping through the front of the paper.
He wished it was blank.
Because even he has to take a deep breath before seeing his end-of-the-year grades for geography, compared to every other high schooler in this classroom, or rather, in the whole school.
It's not much of a surprise that he failed.
Not to the boy staring at him from the back of the room, it isn't.
Scaramouche always listened to Xiao's constant rambling, which mainly happened in private. During projects, or during lunch, or while he just so happened to glance at him in the supermarket because he thought he saw an oddly familiar teal-haired rat.
He couldn't help but smile at Xiao's obvious failure.
It wasn't a hard class, sure. But that wasn't what made it so oddly endearing.
It was the constant, 'I'm smart, but I just don't like the work'.
What a big liar, is all any normal person could've ever thought about it. Scaramouche always gave up on the second thought, because there's worse he could call Xiao, he could just never think of it on the spot.
But right now, in his head, he's SO calling the other boy a giant idiot.
He kind of is.
Who spends all their time in classes sleeping, really?
Xiao only had one thing to say about that, too. And it was obvious as soon as class ended. That familiar face Scaramouche hated seeing right in front of him, frustrated, truly, but only barely managing to hide it.
"Seriously, she said I didn't 'try hard enough'! You saw it during that one project, no? I worked so hard only to get that response as a grade!!"
The indigo-haired shrugged, trying to suppress laughter through a small shake of his head.
"So what?"
Xiao glared at him immediately.
"I'm gonna fail, that's what."
Scaramouche grinned, enjoying the mockery towards the noticeably smaller one.
"I passed, so I don't care."
He really doesn't care. He wants this conversation to be over by now. He's glad the school-year is almost over. He's ecstatic actually.
Compared to anything else, he'd love so much for Xiao to finally be out of his hair.
"Oh, that helps so much, thank you." Xiao said bitterly.
"Hey! Maybe you should study instead of doomscrolling next year. You know, when you retake geography?"
Scaramouche takes a good three steps back. Is it done yet? I hope so. He can't tell, all he sees is Xiao's mouth moving. He doesn't care enough to listen.
Xiao sighs dramatically, but not enough for anybody other than the taller to hear.
"If only my so GREAT collection of friends gave me equally great advice unlike—"
Scaramouche snickers. "Friends? Like that one?" He points across the hallway, to Hu Tao, who is struggling to clear out her locker before Friday.
She has three pens that repeatedly get stuck in her hair every time she leans down slightly. Every time she pulls them out she makes a pained sound at pulling her hair. Poor girl.
Poor girl just because she has this one to deal with, too. Xiao glares, although it's more hostile now, less- held-back than Scaramouche expected.
"That counts."
Although it's cute. Xiao finally letting his own guard down, only around this one.
It's a great feeling. A warm one.
The feeling you don't get from Xiao. At all. Ever.
Not.. stupid, annoying, obnoxious Xiao. The only Xiao that Scaramouche ever hears.
However....it's refreshing to hear the annoyed tone of it all.
Almost as if he isn't talking to the same boy he was just five minutes ago, or at the start of the year. As if everything he does gets a reaction out of the other. Almost weird.
It feels so weird. He's never felt anything at the sound of Xiao's voice beforehand, but now it's different. To feel this way.
Does the boy right in front of him react this way too? How does he withstand the heat that rushes to his face? Why hasn't he ever said anything about it?!
He must hate Xiao that much! He should hurt him in that case, really.
'What a smart thought.' As he pulls on the teal hair strands of the boy in front of him. Xiao stares. And now he's facing the same boy he did at the start of the year. Stoic, quiet, angelic Xiao.
"What did I do?"
Oh. Did he fuck up? He doesn't want Xiao to hate him! Or, he does.. But not. What's going on? Scaramouche has never been this scatterbrained before, and.. he certainly has had his moments.
How does one physically archive a conversation? Sign out of their mental account? Unplug their brain-computer?
This is awkward. The silence in between which they stand so close to eachother, faces so intimate. The heat that spreads from Xiao's thigh, so nearly grazing the blue-haired boy's leg, up to his own face.
What is this? Not love, certainly. Not even friendship. Scaramouche hates him.. So, so, so much. So why is he so close?
Why hasn't he found the willpower to back away from the person he hates so much?
Xiao's heart is pounding inside and outside of his chest as he stares at the other, only now realizing how wrong this is, waiting for Scaramouche to push him off, and throw a few insults before walking away. But it doesn't happen, as if time itself has stopped around the two, the only thing reminding him that these are real seconds, that he has to breathe, being the pounding in his chest.
He hopes Scaramouche doesn't notice that the teal-haired boys heart is actively trying to climb out of him to reach the other, as if pulling him into the other.
Xiao trips over his own feet.
To happen so suddenly, the feeling of time coming back to the two of them, and Scaramouche's face turning red either from anger or being flustered, as he backs away more, just to splutter out a whole bunch of nothing.
He wanted to say a lot. A lot of nothing, even.
A mix of 'I love you', and 'I hate you'.
A mix of get away, and come closer.
But it isn't a matter of words, it's a matter of what the blood that immediately rushes back down to his feet forces himself to do. A decision.
A turn-back.
A way to erase everything that just happened from his memory, and pretend that after tomorrow Xiao never existed, and he never, ever, ever, has to worry about whether or not he liked him in the past or not.
Xiao is left scrambling to his feet, bending over to pick up his bag, that fell off of his shoulder awhile ago, left forgotten until he was faced with the upsetting reality of the boy who just so happened to be Scaramouche.
As of the weekend, he won't ever have to worry about it again, right?
Never again. Because nothing happened. Not now, not then, not ever.
Without a care in the world plaguing his mind ever again, he'll walk out of this school. He won't go out to the other's favorite spots after tomorrow, and.. he won't ever have to think about him again.
That's a good thing. He knows it's a good thing. It's a good thing to him, and it's a good thing to Scaramouche. He knows how both of them feel, it's obvious. He hates the other. The feelings just... mutual. That's all. Hatred. Unfiltered, whatsoever.
He hates him. So, so, so much. So he should have just pulled away. Right then. It would have been easier.
This is what was meant to happen, yet his stomach is churning.
He knows so. He feels like this everyday. They part like this, everyday. And he feels again, and again, that same churning feeling, of every acidic fruit he ate at lunch, at every bit of almond tofu Hu Tao packed him, mixing inside and into every last one of his organs, burning through his throat.
He slings the old homework, ruined notebook filled bag over his shoulder, shooting a glance as to where his sister was earlier, still dealing with the mess of her locker.
He would help, if her locker didn't look exactly like how all of his insides felt at the moment. Sickening.
Yet he could also just go home. But then he'd sit down at his desk, work on something idiotic, with every drop of blood in his body filled with some indigo-haired bastard's image.
If there was some way to revoke his heart of all feeling, and turn himself into some numb version of himself that he likes to act as in public, he would.
But he's not that Xiao.
And he never will be, no matter how much he tries to act like it.
It's a better idea to head home, then. It makes no difference if he rots away in that same bedroom, than it does if he stands here for the rest of eternity to get stomped on and turned in some morbid skin clump on the floor. Like chewed gum.
Gross.
Maybe that's why he stays quiet.
He sighs, for what seems to be like the millionth time today already, calming down for the millionth time, just so he can muster up enough courage to walk out of this school and go down the street, to home.
Home being a plenty big house, despite his and Hu Tao's parents never being at the house. They still have a room and everything, though.
His room is the cleanest. It's more-so because he gets bored easier. And also because he has stuff to hide. Nobody ever expects to find anything in a clean room. Even if it's just a bunch of razor blades hidden under some mail packets on a shelf near his bed.
Easy to find, hard to guess, then...
He doesn't cut often, is what he loves to tell himself. Although it happens enough for his wrists to start hurting even randomly. But.. It's not unreasonable.
It would be better for everybody, if he had the courage to take his own life on the spot. Although he didn't. He wished he did.
That's why he does it, of course. Yet, it isn't every day. Just close to every day. Close to every day, where his stomach twists into a knot, tying his heart in the middle of his chest with his intestines.
It beats for Scaramouche, really. Fast, and slow. All of the time, at least. He wishes he hadn't been born as a defect, truly. But there isn't anything to do about that but ruin it.
There are people who like him so much, even naturally, so it's only the safe option to ruin himself to make him feel better about it.
He's guilty.
He loves Scaramouche. A lot. Yet, instead of words, the only thing he's good at, only around him, he stumbles, and falls.
Spilling all over onto another boy, only to be met with hatred and disgust.
He doesn't want to love Scaramouche, he wants to return the feeling of hate. To be normal. But he can't.
He isn't good at that, just like he wasn't good at geography.
The only thing he's good at is moving a mail packet on his shelf, to take a blade and drag it across his wrist. The old marks visible, and the newer marks producing a sticky dark red color.
What a good feeling.
A much better one than what he left school with. A much better one than five seconds ago.
He repeats the slight movement with the small piece of metal. Over and over again, until he feels better, and inevitably guilty.
Bonding with a tiny blood stain on his comforter.
The blood that runs so warm for another boy, oozing out of his arm until he can't feel anything anymore. Until he's better.
Until he walks into his bathroom just to pull out the box of bandages that he sloppily uses his left hand to wrap his right wrist.
He doesn't care. He doesn't care about that asshole. He does this because he has to.
He does this because he's not supposed to feel this way, and he never should've.
He's proud of Scara, really. He should've gotten pushed away, like the idiot he is.
He deserves this.