#GAHH I HAVENT WROTE IN SO LONG AND I HAVENT PROOFREAD BUT I JUST PLAYED HIS QUEST AND IM SCREAMING

[sungie]

“Stop wasting your time.” 

Scaramouche has never been a liar. Yet there’s something so jarring about the way it leaves his mouth. When what he really needs to say is something so disgustingly vulnerable he can’t bear it. He’s just said, stop wasting your time, when what he really needs to say is ‘on me’. Stop wasting your time on me.

So why won’t his lips move? Why won’t he say those words he knows will wipe that hurt expression right off your face? 

He feels your back tense against his. And it's so preventable. If only he just ... spit it out. Said sorry. Explained himself.

“What?” You say.

It’s such a quiet sound. Even though you’re there, right beside him. So close, it feels like he holds the tremors of your voice inside that small, empty space gouged within his chest. 

“You heard me,” is what he says instead. His gaze drifts to the senbei you tried tossing in your mouth and missed. A half-hour earlier and there'd been laughter screwing up your face in a way he hadn’t known softened him. Not until he’d raised a hand to his aching cheek to realize he’d been smiling. And now, because he's an ass, he keeps going. “I know you did.” 

“No,” you say. “No, I heard. I just don’t understand why you ... why you always.” There’s a pause. It’s too long. Seconds too long. 

Before he knows it, he's glancing at you. Just to check, he convinces himself. And god dammit.

He swallows. His chest feels so hollow. Like, he’s carved it out himself. 

“I just wanted to," you say, then stop.

Just shut up already, he thinks. He's not stupid. Like, do you really think he can't tell how hard you're trying to keep your voice steady? That he can’t see the way your nails dig crescent moons into your skin? That he can’t see the way you’re sucking in your left cheek so you won’t cry?

“I just … want you to let me in.” You say at last.

And it’s why you invited him over, he thinks. To try and get him to smile. Which, you succeeded with, he guesses. To try and get him to learn relationships aren’t give and take, but build and build.

Like that stupid analogy and that stupid board game. You beat him at it earlier that night, and he swept the rest of the wooden blocks aside to slump and gaze at your ceiling in defeat. Later, you’d laughed and slumped on top of him, pressing your nose to his.

Now did you succeed in that second part? Scaramouche scoffs.

So pathetic. Pathetically naive.

Because he doesn’t think you’re right. People never stay. Never.

But when he glances back at you, your gaze burns a determined hole into him. Despite him having been a total dick all evening. And there it is again, that unfamiliar feeling in his chest. Expanding. Making it hard to breathe.

Well, if he’s honest. He hopes you’re right. Even though you're not.

Scaramouche sighs. He leans forward, his thumb lightly grazing the top of your cheek to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “It fell into your face. That’s all.”

He knows his touch lingers. What he really wants is to cup your cheek. He wants to hold you. But his hands move back to his sides like he can't control them. Another reminder he’s more puppet than human. 

“You want me to let you in,” he says, repeating your sentiments. “And what good will that do? I relive my god-awful memories, just for you to cry your pretty little eyes out? I don’t think so.” 

He’s thankful you don’t dwell on it. He supposes he should reward you, until he hears it.

“You think I’m pretty?”

Is that even a question? Of course he does. 

Not anymore, is what he’s about to say, but it dies away once he notices just how he’s gazing at you.

And it must be tender, or as tender as someone like him can manage, because he watches you press your lips together to hide your smile. Stubbornly withheld tears wobble beneath your waterline.

“Don’t cry,” he says, just to balance it out. “You look ugly.” 

It makes you laugh. “I hate you. So much.” 

God, Scaramouche loves that laugh.

He cracks a smile. “Good.” He reaches for your hand and brings it to his lips. A kiss against your knuckles. A kiss against the jut of your wrist. And the words fall from his lips into your ear like your judgment can repent a guilty conscience. “I meant it, when I said to stop wasting your time. You want me to let you in? So listen. Stop wasting your time. On me.” 

He pulls away, only to see your eyes flash open. That’s when you bite back a sob.

You blink, and tears fall down your cheeks in a race to gather beneath your chin, just to dribble down the sides of your nose. “I want you. How many times do I have to say it? You. I want you. I know you don’t think you deserve love, but you do. You do.”

There’s a moment where he thinks he might ruin everything. He can feel the words building behind his throat, the way everything feels tight and tense and like he can’t breathe. But there’s also something smaller, something gentler. It’s a strange feeling, one that’s been building in his chest and kindling every time you speak.

“Typical,” Scaramouche says, but he’s reaching to cup your face, thumbing away at the tears and pressing his lips to the corner of your eyes.