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Kazuha regards him coolly, face near-inscrutable. Once upon a time, Scaramouche would be able to read it as though it were his own; now, all he can make of it is the quiet indecision before he responds. “What would we have to say to each other?”
This isn’t the friend he remembers from sun-warm strolls around the city; this one is cold around the edges, taut thread waiting to snap. Scaramouche almost doesn’t manage to stifle his flinch. There’s something here that’s threatening to boil over, spill itself, consume the violent whole of him. It’s difficult to think. He reaches, reaches, reaches—
Something. Anything. “I missed you.”
(Or: meteorites, ghost stories, and assembling the remnants of a dying dream.)
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Bookmark Notes:
im pained.
beautiful writing.
i love kazuscara. -
Bookmark Notes:
damn