Archive of Our Own

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Kazuha knew better than to run. He didn’t want to throw the entrance up all flustered and out of breath when he finally got there. It was safe to say that the sun bearing down on him combined with his flaws as a time optimist, was currently working against him. 

He forced himself to stop one block away, accepting defeat. He would be late but not by much. Kazuha pushed back the white strands that had fallen out of his low ponytail. He had a light sweat, a courtesy of running in the midday summer heat. He shouldn’t have bothered with that last task at work. He should instead have left at a reasonable time. If he had, he wouldn’t be here, on his way to make a bad first impression. 

Late and dishevelled. Kazuha smiled to himself. He’d been through worse. 

But it hadn’t been an easy start to his day. Shipments had been late, and Kazuha had spent the entire morning trying to save the delicate plants who’d disliked the shipping environment. Running away from work for the afternoon also forced him to prepare and make orders before leaving. Ayaka was a lovely co-worker, but Kazuha still ran that place. He couldn’t just disappear for half a day thinking it wouldn’t lead to consequences. He’d left work too late and to top it off, he’d turned the wrong way once, delaying him further. Kazuha could call it an alternative route, but in all fairness, he’d been quite lost. 

Finally pushing open the door to the tattoo parlour, Kazuha excused himself for being late. The woman at the counter waved his courtesy aside with a smile before checking his appointment. Kazuha did his best to keep his breaths short, hiding how he was still out of breath. That tactical break had done nothing to hide the fact that he had jogged to get here on time. 

He’d never been to this place before. Sure, he didn’t have that many tattoos to begin with, but all of them had been made at different studios. He admired people’s dedication to one artist and the bond they created but Kazuha, although he’d gotten along well with everyone who’d inked his skin, couldn’t allow himself to be chained to one place or one artist. Or the time it could take to get an appointment if the artist was too popular. No, Inazuma City was a big place, there were many studios he could go to. Whoever had a time when he had the urge to get a new tattoo was good enough. 

“We’re sorry Kaedehara but the artist you were seeing today had to leave due to an emergency.”

Kazuha let out a deep breath, still trying to satisfy his lungs properly. Something like this was bound to happen judging by the luck he’d faced all morning.

None, to be precise. 

“— But there is someone else available and probably willing to do the motive if you are still interested?” 

Kazuha straightened, giving her a nod and a reassuring smile. He’d taken a good look at all the images up on their website and he’d booked without any special artist in mind. He was fine with whoever could spare time for him today. They all seemed talented enough. 

”I’ll let them know! Feel free to sit down in the meantime,” she informed him. 

When she left, Kazuha followed her advice. He’d been looking forward to this one. It would have been a shame to leave without doing it now when he was prepared. Despite running to be on time, he’d made sure to sleep properly and eat a big breakfast. Not to mention, he’d bribed Ayaka to take the shift alone. It would be a double loss if he had to return now. 

Kazuha stared down at his arm. He had smaller ones inked already. Many related to his interest, quotes from books and poetry that he liked as well as some floral motives. There was also a fox. The first one he ever did. Today he wanted to fill some gaps with wind leaves. The ones he had were simple black and he had finally warmed up for colour, thinking a bright red would suit him. He was excited to say the least. 

Kazuha had gotten quite comfortable while waiting and almost jumped in his seat as someone cleared their throat. Kazuha raised his gaze at the same time as the other began their introduction. 

Kazuha’s smile dropped. The other's words died out. The hand his new artist had extended fell to his side. 

They both stared. Kazuha, at the most beautiful man he’d ever seen. Even more so than last he saw him. 

Back then, Scaramouche had been younger, his hair longer. He’d worn proper clothing, not ripped black jeans and a tight sleeveless top. It covered most of his neck but not enough to hide the tattoos underneath. The ones spreading down his arms. He still wore vans, and his ears were still pierced. 

It was undoubtedly him. 

“Kazuha —” he breathed eventually. It sent shivers down Kazuha’s spine, and he had to stop himself from shuddering beneath that indigo gaze. Instead, he straightened, forcing himself to smile. 

“Long time no see, Scaramouche.” 

He could see the other swallow before he too forced himself to smile. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was you. I should check if anyone else is available for you.”

That was probably for the better. He should nod and agree. His therapist would have liked that behaviour from him. But instead, Kazuha shook his head. He wasn’t afraid of Scaramouche. What made him shiver at the sight of him was for another reason entirely. 

“No, Scara, it’s okay.” 

Scaramouche hugged his iPad closer to his chest, seemingly surprised by Kazuha’s determination, or the nickname. Then he too nodded and gestured for Kazuha to come with him. 

Kazuha had agreed to this himself but his legs were still reluctant to move. Like what his mind decided hadn’t been understood by the rest of his body yet. 

He took a deep breath before forcing himself to move. If Scaramouche saw him hesitate he’d probably abort the whole thing. Kazuha couldn’t have that. He’d sit through this and then he could get it out of the system the next time he saw his therapist. There was nothing more to it. 

Luckily, Scaramouche spared no time for small talk, instead getting the conversation about the tattoo started immediately. When Kazuha described his idea, Scaramouche proposed a freehand sketch. The thought of Scaramouche’s art on his skin was uncomfortably pleasant. Watching that dark blue pen travel down his arm, he found himself loving the idea even more. 

Scaramouche wore black plastic gloves which Kazuha was grateful for. Judging by his light touch, Scaramouche avoided as much unnecessary physical contact as he could too. The only time he lingered, the pen almost coming to a halt, was when he drew close to the fox.  

Kazuha watched him work. His hands, his beautiful hands, had never laid a finger on him before. It had been so many years and still, he kept them to himself. 

Kazuha allowed him to work in silence, not speaking until Scaramouche asked how he felt about what they had painted on his arm. Kazuha liked it. He’d always known Scara could draw, but never would he have thought he’d make it his job. He’d been all academics and the corporate life last time they met. 

He liked this look on Scaramouche better. 

Finished with the stencil, Kazuha took his place and Scaramouche got started with his work. The sound of Scaramouche setting up his station as well as the music playing kept the silence from getting to Kazuha. It was a catchy tune Kazuha had never heard before. He listened to a lot of music, but his taste was far from mainstream. 

“So… how have you been?” Scara asked as the needle touched Kazuha’s skin. 

Kazuha pressed his lips into a thin line. He’d been good despite it all. The thing was, how did he tell Scaramouche that? He also very much doubted that the news hadn’t reached him in Sumeru. Kaedehara was a famous name in Inazuma. In Teyvat even. People recognised him. 

They recognised him even more after the Kaedehara scandal. Even now, years following, he still heard the whispers. It had gotten better, but Kazuha suspected he’d always be that guy. 

The victim.

“I get it you know, if you’re angry with me… I mean.”

Kazuha cleared his throat, realising he’d taken way too long to answer, making it seem like he wouldn’t answer at all. Scaramouche was trying to make it less awkward by small talking, but Kazuha wasn’t plagued by the silence. It hardly embarrassed him as much as their past did. 

“No, I’m sorry. I’m not angry, I’d just… rather talk about you I guess,” Kazuha answered, cursing himself for making Scara believe Kazuha might bear some ill will towards him. As if Kazuha ever could hate Scaramouche. Stop loving him was the issue more like. Seeing him now only confirmed it. 

“About me?” Scaramouche asked, a ghost of a smile at the corner of his lips. Kazuha nodded but quickly hummed too as he remembered Scaramouche wasn’t paying attention to his face but rather his arm. 

It had been ten years. Of course Kazuha rather spoke about Scaramouche than himself. 

“There isn’t much to tell really. 

It didn’t take me long to realise that moving to Sumeru for another internship wasn’t going to work out, so I ended up dropping out. Being at a new office, seeing how every big business is the same was… well. It wasn’t for me. Let’s say the corporate idiots back home and their small minds were enough to last a lifetime. I wasn’t about to try to blend into that kind of crowd again.”

Kazuha was glad to hear it. The now tattoo artist had never been like the rest. 

The humming of the machine in his hand quieted. Then it began anew.

“You did scribble a whole lot more than you paid attention at meetings after all,” Kazuha mused, remembering looking through Scaramouche’s notes as he kept him company during those late nights at the office. 

Scaramouche did look up at the sound of Kazuha’s voice. The memory had prompted Kazuha to smile. It took Scaramouche off guard, having to clear his throat before continuing. “Yeah, I spent a lot of time thinking of what I should do instead and I more or less stumbled into this line of work. It suited me so I stuck with it.” 

“That sounds like a good story.” 

Scaramouche shifted in his seat. “Not really, I-… I met someone.” 

Not really indeed. Kazuha knew why his heart skipped a beat at Scaramouche’s words. He knew why his body froze and the smile he held felt fake. Scaramouche met someone. Of course he did. He was beautiful and talented, who wouldn’t fall for him? 

“It was nice at first but—“ Scaramouche trailed off, stopping to wipe off Kazuha’s arm before continuing again. Kazuha had never liked that part. He preferred to feel the needle than the chilling feeling of the dry paper every other minute. It was cold and, as the hours dragged on, the colder it would be against his reddened skin. Now they’d just started and that cold was bone-chilling nonetheless. 

Scaramouche was, and always had been, way out of his grasp. It was a cruel reminder. 

“It didn’t feel right, so I ended it as quickly as it began.” 

Kazuha said nothing. He had nothing to say. For him, Scaramouche had been the only one. He hadn’t seen anyone seriously. Not ever. 

Not even Scaramouche. 

Scaramouche had, back then, been the only intern at Kazuha’s father’s billion-dollar company. Tech. No other company could compete despite desperate attempts. They had perfected their craft, and all night and day were business. 

Kazuha grew up in that building. He spent more time with his father in the endless corridors, offices and meeting rooms than he did in his own home. Not that it felt like a home. It was only Kazuha and his father. His mother had died from a disease. Without her, the home was just a house. They were never there. 

Kazuha was used to sleeping in the common room used for breaks. He was too young to walk home and stay alone at the house according to his father. Kazuha believed it was because his father wanted him close. He was his son. He needed to learn because one day, the company would be his. 

Kazuha’s father wasn’t very loving. His son was more like a tiny employee than family. Kazuha noticed this despite his young years, but he’d never known his father’s love in anything but innate objects and the few words of encouragement he could spill although sparsely. 

Kazuha was okay with it. He was only ten, and the arctic fox he’d received from him on his tenth birthday had been enough to keep him happy. He’d wanted a book but his father had probably never heard that no matter how many times Kazuha claimed he’d begged for it. He was happy for the stuffed animal. His father refused him a dog so he settled for the next best thing. 

He was only ten the first time his father used him as a bargaining chip. Kazuha hadn’t understood the ideas conjured in his father’s head when one of the visiting businessmen had tilted Kazuha’s head up to see him better. 

He’d called him beautiful. 

It hadn’t meant anything to Kazuha. Everyone called him beautiful. He’d inherited his mother's beauty. Her fair hair and deep eyes. He had her facial shape, her kind mouth. 

The only thing he had from his father was the red streak in his hair. The typical Kaedehara trait. There was no doubt he was his son. 

Later, he’d learnt Kazuha had inherited his father’s resolve too. The only thing that kept him alive in that den of wolves. 

Kazuha became the object of their hungry eyes. He didn’t understand what the kind glances meant. Not at first. Then there was no shame. Kazuha didn’t like the way his father’s colleagues looked at him like he was a small helpless animal. They reminded him of wolves.

Kazuha’s father had, ever since the day that one man touched his son’s chin, seen how he’d bring the difficult deals to shore. 

No one was allowed to take his innocence.

At first. 

What was harmless touches quickly turned carnal. Whatever the men wished, Kazuha unwillingly and teary-eyed, allowed. 

His suffering made his father happy. The company thrived and if Kazuha didn’t think of what happened in the dark, his life was good. His father told him so. Giving up his body once or twice a month was a small price to maintain the life they lived, his father had explained. 

By the age of thirteen, Kazuha for the first time had to give up more than he’d bargained for. He was used to people touching him, entering him and violating his body. What he hadn’t experienced was the violence that came with it.

He was left covered in bruises, a perfect necklace of blue and purple across his frail neck. 

He begged his father to help him that night. It rewarded him with a reddened cheek and how he should be grateful screamed at his trembling frame. In a gentler voice, his father had praised him and explained how he’d managed to make another successful business deal. 

Kazuha didn’t forget why he’d stepped inside his father’s office that night but he smiled nonetheless. He was happy for his father. His warmer words eased the lump in his throat as Kazuha swallowed the words his father had flung at him in rage. Swallowing past that blue ribbon adorning his neck. 

Kazuha smiled through his tears. He’d thought he would die. He hadn’t breathed, he didn’t know for how long. His lungs had burned. 

He’d been scared. 

Kazuha never asked for help again. 

It wasn’t that often they came for him. Sometimes people came back. Strangers caressing his body. No matter who they were Kazuha suffered in their hands. They had him, hurt him, and kissed his lips like an excuse for their behaviour. 

Kazuha wasn’t stupid. As he held the white fox, crying into its soft body and fake fur, he was well aware of how these men touching him wasn’t right. He’d always known it wasn’t right.  

But what else could he do? 

He wanted his father to be proud of him. He wanted to be of use. He was grateful and Kazuha took nothing for granted. 

So, he wore clothing that would cover the bruises. If he couldn’t hide it, he lied about slipping outside or on the stairs. He didn’t breathe a word about what happened to him in the dark. He kept to himself. He had no friends to talk to anyway. 

Almost 15, Kazuha arrived at the office one day after school, only being introduced to the new intern in passing. He’d bowed lightly and introduced himself before walking on. 

Kazuha had his own room. At least they called it a room, but Kazuha only saw it as an office. The work he did for the company was done from his room so what was it if not an office? 

The only job Kazuha was suited for required nothing but a bed. Not that what he’d been put through always required a one. His father had argued that he was still too young to learn to step in his footsteps and Kazuha bit back the comment about how he was too young for a job but not too young to use his body to give his father what he wanted. He knew what happened when he stepped out of line and he didn’t want to make his father upset. He wanted to help. 

Kazuha instead went to school, came home, and did his homework. Then he’d roam, having little to do but worry about if he’d sleep undisturbed or not. His life was within those corporate walls. The old house stood empty and Kazuha knew he couldn’t return. 

The boy that had lived there was no more. 

His father had said it would be quiet for a while. Kazuha didn’t believe it. He didn’t have a lock on the door to his room. Anyone could find him at their convenience. Sleeping elsewhere was out of the question too. He’d already tried that once. 

Kazuha walked the corridors endlessly, not bothering with sneaking, knowing his father was away and everyone had gone home for the day. Only Kazuha remained, stalking the halls like some restless spirit. At least he thought so. 

On the second highest floor (the highest being his and his father’s living quarters) was the sound of fingers against a keyboard. Rapid tapping, then silence, then tapping again. Kazuha hugged the white fox close and walked away from the sound. He wouldn’t look for trouble. 

The same thing happened the next day. And the day after next. 

On the third day, Kazuha dared get close enough to see who was happy to work so late into the night. At first, he didn’t recognise him, but at a longer glance, he noticed he had seen the young man before. For a second or two when they were introduced about a week ago. The new intern. 

Kazuha knew better than to stare but the man, who Kazuha had heard was called Scaramouche, was enchanting. Where others were the result of their age and greed, Scaramouche was pristine. Neat. Lean. Pretty. 

His eyes scanned the screen ahead of him for a while, then he wrote something new. He could pause for a second to push his hair back. The dark hair was long but cut peculiarly. It was like he had two hairstyles in one. One cut short, framing his face. Then there were the long strands that he’d collected neatly in a long braid. He had beautiful hair. 

Maybe, Kazuha thought, this man wasn’t an ordinary man. He looked like an angel. Cut in sharp angles and still so pleasing to look at. Like a painting. And all he did was work, sitting in the blue-ish light from the screen, illuminating him in the otherwise dark office. 

Kazuha knew he’d been staring for too long when the man suddenly raised his gaze and their eyes met. Kazuha was quick to turn the corner, but he was sure the man had seen him. 

He closed his eyes, counting slowly, waiting for the sound of the wheels of the office chair to sing out across the floor before slow steps would come for him. Someone would come for him, like so many times before, and drag him into that open office space where the dark would be the only witness to his pain once more. 

Ten, eleven, twelve…

There was no sound. No chair. No footsteps. Just the rhythmic tapping of keys as the seconds passed by. Kazuha hugged the fox tighter despite his relief. He blinked the tears away. For a few seconds, fear had gripped him and held him tight. 

If the man had come for him, Kazuha wouldn’t fight. He seldom did. 

That night, Kazuha wiped his tears, but the next day, he found himself by the door to the office again. The man didn’t acknowledge him. Not even as he stood visible in the doorway. Kazuha wasn’t sure why he’d stepped out, but the result was the same. The man never raised his gaze. 

This spiked Kazuha’s curiosity and as days passed, he found himself getting closer and closer to the late working intern. If he stepped into the room, the man would raise his gaze once and then never again. Kazuha could walk through the room without being grabbed in some way. 

One night, after almost a month of creeping around at night, he took the seat beside the man. He only had his fox, which he only carried if he was alone and especially not if his father was around. He was afraid his father would take the white animal from him after a comment about how Kazuha had outgrown the thing. 

The man, Scaramouche, stopped his tapping and glanced at Kazuha. Kazuha’s eyes were always on Scaramouche. He was too pretty for him not to. He wanted to know if his skin was as smooth as it appeared to be. Or if his dark hair would feel soft like water between his fingers. This close, he could distinguish a faint but pleasant smell. He didn’t smell like sweat and cigarettes like the others did. His father smelled like that too. Instead, this man smelled sweet. Calming in a way. It made Kazuha pull on the sleeves of his long sleeve. His skin was littered in bruises and for some reason, he couldn’t allow this man to see. 

Scaramouche moved his arm, the action making Kazuha jump in his skin, shying away slightly. It caused the young man to hesitate a second before putting his hand in one of the books on his desk and carefully sliding it over to Kazuha. Then he returned to his computer. 

Kazuha watched him for another minute or two before diverting his attention to the book in front of him. It wasn’t so different from his own books he read in school, only it was thicker and the letters were much smaller. The words weren’t easy to understand either Kazuha noticed as he dared peak inside. It was entertaining nonetheless. It was something to do. 

He stopped mid-sentence to look at the man by his side. He was a grown-up. He couldn’t be trusted despite how different he was from the rest, but for now, Kazuha was grateful for the company. 

The next time Kazuha saw Scaramouche he’d covered his wounds in bandages. It made him look sickly, but that was how others his age perceived him anyway. He was pale and frail. His skin easily bruised and his eyes were constantly downcast. The dark circles beneath them were impossible to hide. When the teachers demanded a meeting with his father about his son’s health, he blamed it on Kazuha being frail and prone to falling ill. The lie that Kazuha was clumsy had quickly evolved to clumsy and in poor health. 

Kazuha could see why the teachers and doctors alike all bought his father’s lies. He couldn’t see the image of his mother reflected in the mirror anymore. It was like he was forgetting her face. 

Scaramouche noticed the bandages of course, they were impossible to miss, and for the first time since Kazuha dared get close, he reached out to him. Kazuha had shied away so quickly that it left the other's eyes wide in shock. Kazuha immediately regretted it. This man was… kinder to him but Kazuha still treated him like any other man. He fared his eyes no matter how beautiful they were. He feared his hands despite the youth never laying a hand on him. 

Kazuha ran away that night. Shying away had destroyed the illusion. He didn’t regret it, instead he feared the decision. Feared what his father would do if he found out what he’d done. How poorly he’d received the young man’s kindness. If Scaramouche had told his father, he’d be a goner for sure. 

Kazuha’s father said nothing, prompting Kazuha to believe the intern hadn’t said a thing. The next time his father went away in the night, Kazuha returned to the open office space, walking straight up to Scaramouche albeit with a light tremble.

He took a deep breath to speak. He’d rehearsed many times but never before had the two spoken. Their meetings had been quiet ones. 

With a tremble in his voice, he finally managed to say that it was okay if he wanted to touch him too. His father was away. If Scaramouche wanted him, now would be a good time. 

To his surprise, the young man only stared at him. His eyes were wide and his mouth slightly ajar. He looked at Kazuha like he’d said something incomprehensible. 

“You can have me if you want.” 

Kazuha had left his school uniform slightly unbuttoned at the top. His bruised collarbone was perfectly visible. Some men took pleasure in hurting him. Others took pleasure in knowing others had. 

The side of his face was bruised too after being forced against the wall too hard a few nights ago. He hadn’t been able to hide those either way. What use was hiding the ones beneath his shirt collar? 

Scaramouche reached for him. Kazuha awaited the moment his fingers would slip inside the fabric and touch his skin. With his beautiful hands maybe it wouldn’t hurt. 

Scaramouche buttoned his shirt. 

Kazuha watched him do it while a new kind of horror made the hairs on his neck stand. This man and his fair hands were dressing him up, not down. He wasn’t going to touch him.

Was Kazuha not good enough for him? Not beautiful enough? Maybe someone as beautiful as Scaramouche didn’t find him as pretty as the older med had made him believe. Maybe all his years in hell had taken its toll? Maybe he wasn’t the only one who couldn’t see his mother in his face anymore.

He was nothing but damaged goods now, wasn’t he?. 

The tears fell down his cheeks long before he could stop it. Scaramouche had barely removed his hands from his shirt and now tears of dread would stain them. This man wasn’t interested in him. Kazuha remembered the last time he hadn’t been enough and the harsh blows he’d received because of it. He didn’t want to get beaten. His father was disappointed in him enough as it was. 

Scaramouche still wore that terrified expression. His face had almost contorted even worse after Kazuha’s tears began. 

“Who did this to you?” Scaramouche asked suddenly, placing his hand against Kazuha’s collarbone safely upon the white fabric. 

Kazuha shook his head. He couldn’t say. His father would kill him. His lips were trembling but remained sealed. It made it hard to breathe. 

“You’re always hurt.” Scaramouche’s hand carefully cupped his cheeks, fingers against the bruised skin. Kazuha was burning up and Scaramouche’s touch was cold as ice. 

“Why don’t you want me?” Kazuha asked, finally daring to look up through wet lashes. Scaramouche was a blur of indigo and black. Like a cold night sky. 

“Should I?” Scaramouche asked, voice wrapped in concern. 

Kazuha was so stunned by his question that he could offer no answer. He couldn’t say a thing. 

“What are you? 13? You’re just a child. I have no idea why you offer yourself to me but I have no intention of accepting the offer.”

Kazuha wouldn’t correct him. He would have told him he was 15 (despite it being a month left until his birthday) if his question had demanded an answer. Kazuha was almost as frail as his father pretended he was. He was lanky and although he’d just begun growing, he wouldn’t become much taller. He’d always been a small kid. He knew he would always be like this. 

Kazuha dried his tears and his nose on the back of his sleeve. He wanted to be thankful but all he could think of was how Scaramouche was in the wrong building. The wrong company. Kindness and gentle hands gave you nothing within these walls. 

“C– Can you please not… mention this to my f-father?” 

Scaramouche was the only man who’d ever smiled at him keeping his canine teeth hidden. It was a comforting smile. A promise. 

Kazuha never told Scaramouche anything, but the young man seemed to understand what was going on anyway. Instead of walking the halls like a haunting ghost, Kazuha found solace in the lone nights when the office was empty. Empty except for the one intern set on doing more than he was expected to. 

He was a grown up, but he wasn’t like the others. At 23 he was younger than the men that Kazuha had gotten used to, but he was still a grown-up. Despite this, Scaramouche wasn’t anything like them. He took care of Kazuha’s wounds. He held him company. Sometimes, he could help him out with his homework. Kazuha didn’t need it; he was great in school despite his loneliness. His lack of friends didn’t affect his grades. 

Instead, he worried that he learned just because he had to. He could write a compelling argument with correct grammar. He could do math and physics, but did he really understand? What use was this knowledge to him?

Outside this building, Kazuha was on autopilot. The young teen outside this building had no personality, no hobbies. The one inside was in constant fear and chased by hungry eyes. But that one had a friend. 

As he grew, Kazuha wasn’t sure who he was. 

Only with Scaramouche did he feel somewhat alive. 

But alive wasn’t the word he was searching for. Kazuha breathed. He bled. In the dark, where he was the closest to death, he knew that he was in fact alive. Sometimes he cursed it.

No, Scaramouche made him feel real. Terribly so.

They never spoke about Kazuha’s situation. Scaramouche had understood it wasn’t good but Kazuha had made him promise he couldn’t say or do anything. Of course, Kazuha knew what was done to him wasn’t allowed, but like this, he could help his father. He just needed to stay on his good side and he’d be fine. 

“You should leave the second you're 18,” Scaramouche had proposed. It was a reasonable option but at the same time, Kazuha knew nothing outside this life. But he allowed himself to dream. When Scaramouche said graduate and apply to a university or another job far, far away, Kazuha could almost see it. 

“Will you be there?” 

“Me?” 

“Yeah.” 

Kazuha couldn’t imagine anything without Scaramouche by his side. He alone was the only catalyst to his happiness. However, Scaramouche didn’t answer. Kazuha knew his young age and his infatuation with the other made Scaramouche uneasy. Kazuha didn’t know much besides what he learned in books, but he knew fear. He knew what it was like to be uncomfortable and the last thing he wanted was to scare the only friend he had. 

If friend was the right word for it. 

“Do you think I’m pretty?” Kazuha asked him one day. Scaramouche shifted in his seat, thinking hard of a response. 

“I think that one day, when you grow up – you’ll be the prettiest of them all.” 

Kazuha had leaned closer as Scaramouche spoke, so when he turned to look at the teen, their faces were only inches apart. Kazuha knew Scaramouche wanted him to stay away, but Kazuha couldn’t help it. 

Scaramouche’s cheeks were a rosy red. He always looked like that when he complemented Kazuha. Like it was hard to force the words past his teeth. 

Scaramouche didn’t stop Kazuha when he placed his lips on his. It was chaste, lasting only a few seconds before Kazuha pulled away. He knew he was in the wrong but with Scaramouche, he wasn’t afraid to do so. He wouldn’t hurt him. He wouldn’t shout. 

Scaramouche sighed, leaning his forehead against Kazuha’s. 

Scaramouche didn’t look at him like the others,  but he did look. Kazuha had known that gaze his entire life. Scaramouche’s eyes and his words didn’t have to align. Kazuha knew they didn’t. 

“Don’t do that again.” Scaramouche was struggling to get the words out. Maybe he wasn’t sure how to word them, torn between what he wanted and what was right. Kazuha smiled. 

“Then, will you wait for me?” 

A particularly painful jab of the needle on his arm brought Kazuha back to the tattoo parlour. He turned his head away. The memories were too embarrassing. He couldn’t get over how he was the one to step across a line when it came to Scara. He’d been a teenager with no knowledge of the world, that much was true. That didn’t stop him from holding his younger self accountable. 

Scaramouche hadn’t answered him that day but his smile had reassured Kazuha anyway. 

Not long after that, Scaramouche left. Another internship in Sumeru. Kazuha hadn’t been able to blame him for leaving. He knew why. Opportunities. And Kazuha knew, better than anyone, that this was no place to stay. But in the end, it came down to one thing and Kazuha knew it well. The ever-looming reality that Scaramouche was grown up and Kazuha was only a child. He hadn’t said anything, knowing that one day, they would meet again. 

Or not. Some nights it had felt like watching Scaramouche’s back as he left that day was, in fact, the last time he’d see him. 

The young man was hardly accountable for what happened next because if Kazuha’s life was a nightmare before Scara, him leaving made Kazuha open the doors to hell. It was like the older Kazuha got, and the harder he tried to escape, the more his father could abuse him. 

Company in the dark went from a sparse occurrence to an evil cycle. Some days Kazuha couldn’t remember the last time he’d been truly alone. His bruises were darker. His cuts deeper. Life was nothing but a thread and Kazuha held it hard. 

He had to. He only needed to put up with it until he was legally allowed to manage on his own. He would get there. When he did, he would find Scaramouche again. 

His father claimed he got what he deserved after Kazuha had begun to argue back and fight for his rights to his body. His resistance was met with more violence. 

Anywhere but his face. A pretty face like his is a rare thing, his father said as he forbid it. The fact alone told Kazuha that his father was well aware of what was done to him, and he had nothing to say except that whoever laid their hands on him should watch the face. 

Kazuha had done so much for his father and all he got in return was to keep his face. And that wasn’t always a given. Split lips healed. Bruised cheekbones too. 

Some people called tattoos a way to practice self-harm. Kazuha believed it to be true. It was a bittersweet pain. 

Kazuha looked back down at Scaramouche working on his arm. The red colour that wasn’t getting jabbed into his skin was wiped away. It left reddened marks behind. 

It looked like blood. It could be. He was prone to bleeding when getting tattoos. 

Blood had saved his life back then. Blood had stained his shirt before a visit to the school nurse. He’d only been ordered to go there because his teacher was worried Kazuha would fall out of his chair due to how tired he looked. Rest had been the order but the nurse, a new one, Kazuha had observed, was determined to examine him thoroughly. 

Blood on his shirt had her pulling his sleeve up. She’d been too fast for Kazuha to stop her. He had scars. He had bruises laid out like a jigsaw puzzle. He had poorly taken care of cuts, bleeding freely. 

He hadn’t been able to stop her from pulling his shirt off altogether. 

He was 17 then. It was the start of a process that was both slow and too fast at the same time. Child’s service, psychologists, the police, it all happened in the blink of an eye. Kazuha had never before told anyone his full story, not even to the man who’d been his only friend. 

But the ball had begun rolling and Kazuha didn’t want it to stop. He wanted help. 

It became a scandal and the court was easily won. Kazuha had the name of everyone that ever laid a hand on him. He had the scars to prove it. He, who’d worked so hard to gain his father's favour now tore it all down like Jenga. Kazuha was done. 

“Why did you think I’d want someone else to do this?” Kazuha asked, gesturing to his arm. He’d been silent for almost 30 minutes. His tongue had been heavy in his mouth with the thought of Scaramouche with someone else despite having buried the childish dream of ever getting Scaramouche back years ago. The other would be stupid to wait for Kazuha. He was eight years older than him. He had his own life. 

“I read the whole court case you know. I followed it on the news. I read about it online.” Scaramouche looked up. “I was constantly thinking of you, you know. Knowing that you were finally free of your father was a relief.”

“But?”

“But I feel guilty too, Kazuha. I’m the only one who got away.”

Kazuha rolled his eyes. Scaramouche felt guilty in vain. “You know they sat me down with a list of names of everyone who’d ever worked or had business with the company and told me to identify anyone who’d ever violated me in some way. You were on that list, and you are not among the rest.”

Either in jail or with a huge hole in their bank account. 

Scaramouche put the needle into his skin again. “I may not have defiled you, but I didn’t help you either.” 

“I didn’t want help, Scara. I made you promise not to do anything. I don’t blame you for anything.” Kazuha shut him down. He had to stop himself from saying that if the police had asked him to point out a friend on that list, there would only be one name. Kazuha hadn’t understood back then that what he needed was help. Or maybe he did know, letting the opportunity to forge a friendship take priority. Kazuha had seen where asking for help back then led. 

Nowhere. 

“Not even for leaving?”

A sensitive subject. Or at least it could have been. Kazuha wasn’t 15 any longer. 

“I told you before, I’m not angry with you.” Kazuha smiled. He meant it. Somehow, hearing about Scaramouche’s guilt made him feel less insecure. Maybe he didn’t need to beat himself up for how his teenage-self acted. He might still feel for Scaramouche but he was grown up now. The pain of his childhood wasn’t his to carry anymore. 

He’d grown up. Slowly but surely. 

Scaramouche smiled too. That small smile where only the corner of his lips would tilt upwards. Kazuha had never seen him smile showing his teeth. 

There were no misunderstandings between them. Life had taken them down different paths, nothing more. Clearing that up made small talk easier. Scaramouche had heard Kazuha inherited the company, which was true. He owned the thing but had little to do with it. Kazuha had fired everyone and relocated, then new people were hired. He’d had no issue to hire a new CEO. Kazuha had become good at reading people. He might not have been the social Butterfly growing up, but Kazuha knew how to survive. He knew the forest for what it was and he knew his way out. 

Kazuha didn’t spare the Kaedehara company more than a few minutes of his time. The topic changed before he could tell Scaramouche about the flower shop.

Before he noticed, hours had flown by, and his new tattoo was done. Scaramouche had done a great job and Kazuha made sure to tell him before he could get it wrapped up. The hours they’d spent together felt just like back then. And at the same time, not at all. They could talk about anything, joke about and smile unlike how it once was. Back then, it had been secret, almost wrong.

But they were different people now. 

An uneasy silence crept in as the plastic covered the red flowing lines. They had been brought together by accident. Now they would part and neither knew what to say, or what would happen next.

“I’m giving you a discount,” Scaramouche said as they stood by the counter once more. 

“And I’m giving you a tip,” Kazuha countered with a cheeky smile. Scaramouche couldn’t contain a smile of his own. “I fucked my way to the top, remember?” Kazuha added as he swiped his card. It was a joke on his own dispense and although Scara got it, his eyes still widened somewhat. Like Kazuha was insane. His therapist didn’t like when he joked about his trauma, but she avoided scolding him for it. If it made it easier to talk about then she would not stop him. 

When the transaction was over, their eyes met once more. 

“It really was nice seeing you again Kazuha.”

“I’m glad you’re back.” Even if you didn’t wait for me. Even if you didn’t come back the second you knew I was free from my father’s clutches.

Kazuha had moved on but that didn’t make him love Scaramouche less. 

Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but feel like it was better this way. 

✧ ✧ ✧

Kazuha looked down at his arm. He’d removed the plastic a week ago. It shone bright compared to some of his older tattoos. Not only because it was red. It made Kazuha think of him. 

Kazuha had thought a lot about him since they met. He remembered the silence just before he left. Like there were things they both wanted to say. 

Kazuha believed that some things should remain unsaid. If he’d stood there for one more second maybe he would have blurted out all the things his inner child wanted Scaramouche to know. That it hurt when he left. That he truly, for a naive moment, though Scaramouche was going to come back for him after the court case was over. 

Maybe Kazuha would have wanted Scaramouche to know that he’d waited. He’d waited ever since he walked out on him. 

Now Scaramouche was back and Kazuha knew better than to say anything about it. While Kazuha took his time to crawl out of hell, Scaramouche had moved on. He’d put his academic life behind him and tried living in another nation. 

He was back, but he wasn’t back for Kazuha. Neither should he be. Kazuha had come to terms with that possibility a long time ago. Back when he was truly free to do all the things he and Scaramouche had talked about and suddenly, Kazuha realised, Scaramouche wasn’t by his side. 

His life had taken him down another path and Kazuha was to walk his own. Not until that moment had Kazuha understood the meaning of the freedom he sought. 

He was alone. 

Kazuha however quickly found Ayaka as they met during their freshman year for his bachelor to become a botanist. She dragged him into all sorts of events and parties, and he found out rather quickly that he had no difficulty finding friends. Not when he didn’t look like he was dying. 

Starting a new life had made him recognise his reflection again. His mother’s kind eyes looked back at him. It reminded him to stay strong.

He wasn’t surprised to learn that she knew who he was. Nor was he upset that she had assumed he had no friends and taken the matter into her own hands. He was grateful. She’d had his best interest at heart. How many had ever had his best interest at heart before?

It was no surprise that the two became good friends and now worked together. Between them they had a circle of friends they hung out with regularly. His therapist had been a huge help too just like his lawyer. Without them, Kazuha wasn’t sure what he would have done. 

He wasn’t bad off in any way, he had assets that would allow him not to work a single day in his life, but that wasn’t what Kazuha wanted. He’d also tried meeting potential partners but for obvious reasons, it never worked out. Maybe the last thing he needed now was for Scaramouche to come back. 

Because Kazuha still loved him. Seeing him only confirmed it. 

Kazuha was pathetic and he knew it. 

He looked up, facing the pot and plants ahead of him. Ayaka was somewhere in the back, tending to a new shipment. Kazuha was supposed to put together some arrangements to deliver (personally on his way home) but his eyes had caught on a small flower in passing. It was a soft shade of blue. Indigo blue, the colour of Scaramouche’s eyes. Just like that, he had begun daydreaming again. It was too easy really. 

Kazuha pulled himself together. A lot of flowers had that colour. He couldn’t allow himself to sulk about what had been and what could have been every time he saw the colour of his eyes. 

He worked diligently. Not even when Scaramouche stood further away in the little flower shop did he allow himself to get distracted. 

Kazuha backtracked. 

Scaramouche was in the shop. He wasn’t imagining, the man truly was there a few shelves further away. The indigo hair was tied back as best as he could. Strands of his bangs still fell into his face, framing it just as it always had been. His gaze was on Kazuha. 

Scaramouche smiled as their eyes met. 

Kazuha stepped in behind the safety of the shelf again, leaning his head back against it. He bit his lip to stop a stupid smile from spreading further. 

Gods, he was beautiful. His dark aesthetic was only highlighted among all that green. And the way he looked at him made the hair on Kazuha’s neck rise. 

In a good way. 

He was a lost cause. 

Knowing his time was out, Kazuha rounded the shelf again and walked up to him. He’d curse himself forever if Ayaka took this customer first. 

“Scara.” 

“Kazuha,” he greeted, smiling slightly. “I didn’t know you worked here.”

Kazuha put the flowers in his arms down on the counter. Then he threw his gloves down next to them. He needed to redo his hair. It had become awfully warm since Scara stepped inside the little shop. 

“I may own the company but I don’t work there.”

“Sounds fair,” Scaramouche agreed. “So, you opted for flowers?” 

Kazuha nodded. “It suits me, don’t you think?” 

He could see the other swallow before hiding a smile behind a cough. “I think so.” 

Kazuha smiled wide. Both because he was glad to hear it but also because he couldn’t stop himself from staying in character. He was on the job, he was polite and smiling on autopilot. Nasty habit. 

“So, what can I help you with?” 

For a second, Scaramouche looked like he’d forgotten why he was there too, then he cleared his throat once more, gesturing. “Yeah sorry, I was looking for any plant really. They decided the studio looked bland so…” 

Kazuha nodded. He knew what he meant. He’d thought the studio was bland too. He gestured for Scaramouche to follow.

“You’re there fairly often so I’m thinking a flower that needs water regularly could be enough. Something that will survive any window would be preferable but judging by the location of the shop I —” Kazuha reached for a pot but as he turned to hand it over his explanations died out. Scaramouche had taken his wrist, studying the healing red lines of his arm. 

Scaramouche was just assessing the healing process, but his naked hands were still on Kazuha’s bare skin. Scaramouche had worn gloves during his appointment. Now he truly touched him. 

“It looks good.” 

Kazuha didn’t like physical touch at all. Something his physiatrist had told him was something he couldn’t blame himself for. It was a response to his trauma and if he’d ever get over it wasn’t black and white. He’d lied, telling her that he could simply because he wanted to get over it. He hated getting fucked over by his traumatic childhood. He knew it would take time, but it was bad enough that everyone knew his name and his story. He couldn’t let it define him forever. It didn’t matter that he found himself two seconds away from a total breakdown whenever he felt skin against skin. 

She’d written that he was unlikely to do it. Kazuha had noticed. 

With Scaramouche’s still slender and gentle hands on his skin, Kazuha knew he could do it. It didn’t matter if it was with this man alone. 

Before he could say anything, just anything would do, Scaramouche let him go.

Say something!

“A fern?” Scaramouche asked. 

A breath of complete silence. 

“An autumn fern,” Kazuha responded eventually still feeling the lingering sense of Scaramouche’s touch. 

Kazuha questioned himself. “An autumn fern,” really? He wanted to shake his head in disbelief. When his inner voice said “say something,” it didn’t mean that. 

“If you recommend it, I see no reason why not.” 

A comforting warmth filled Kazuha’s chest. He shook off the look of surprise and settled for a smile. It didn’t matter that it was a practised one. If he didn’t, he might just kiss Scaramouche where he stood. They were too close for him not to feel the urge. 

Kazuha would be 25 this fall. Scaramouche was 33. Now, age meant nothing. Wanting to press his lips against his again would hurt neither of them. Scaramouche wouldn’t furrow his brows in contemplation. A kiss shared between them now would be…

Love they could act upon. 

The real thing. 

Kazuha walked back to the counter. He didn’t know what Scaramouche would do. He couldn’t tell how he felt. Not after all these years. 

After Scaramouche paid and Kazuha had packed the plant for him, a familiar silence occupied the space. Just like in the studio, both men remained silent. Kazuha had even more words he wanted to say now. And not just words like last time. He wanted to pull Scaramouche close. Maybe words were unnecessary. An embrace could speak for him. A kiss would — 

“I’ll see you around,” Kazuha said simply as he took the flowers he’d neglected into his arms again. He had arrangements to fix. He’d forgotten his gloves, feeling the roses cut into his hands.

Scaramouche nodded before saying his goodbyes. 

For now, Kazuha thought.

They’d only met twice. If Kazuha wanted him back, he would not rush. If Scaramouche had indeed moved on, Kazuha wouldn’t impose. Just like when he remained silent as Scaramouche left Inazuma. He just wanted him to be happy. 

✧ ✧ ✧

Kazuha knew leaving Scaramouche alone was his own idea but staying true to his words was harder than he’d expected. He thought of him every time he saw his own arm for God’s sake! 

Kazuha didn’t have a number to text him and reaching him through his socials didn’t feel right. 

He’d contemplated getting another tattoo appointment but decided not to. The red lines still healed. 

Despite his attempts to stay level-headed, he liked to keep an eye on the studio’s socials. It happened that Scaramouche was in a picture. Or some story. A picture or video Kazuha could adore for at least 24 hours. Then it would be gone. 

Scaramouche was beautiful in his element. The man was always beautiful, but like that, it made Kazuha weak in his knees. 

Despite it, seeing him with his colleagues and customers only strengthened Kazuha’s feelings that Scaramouche was better off without him. Scaramouche looked good next to some woman. Or man. Anyone really. 

Someone normal, that was what Scaramouche needed. There were kind and grateful comments on his works. People liked him. 

Kazuha could understand why. The man only looked intimidating. He was a good listener. He knew what to say to appeal in whatever way he desired. 

Except with Kazuha, it would seem. Otherwise, why did he always look like he had something to get off his chest, but his mouth remained silent? It would probably drive Kazuha mad. Maybe. He had to meet him to do that and with his promise to himself not to nestle himself into Scaramouche’s new life, there simply weren’t enough happy accidents bringing them together. 

That was why he couldn’t hide a silly smile as Scaramouche stepped inside the green door of the flower shop once more. It had been more than a week since last time. His arm had been itchy but he hadn’t succumbed to scratching it. Scaramouche put the ink in his arm. Kazuha wouldn’t mess with the healing process. 

Scaramouche put two hands on the counter, steadying himself. 

“I need a bouquet,” he said, avoiding Kazuha’s gaze. They hadn’t properly greeted each other. 

“Sure, what for?” 

“It’s for… someone I like, I suppose.” 

And Kazuha supposed that was inevitable. He’d prepared for the day he’d have to see Scaramouche with someone else but he hadn’t thought it would come this soon. Nor had he thought that preparing for it would still hurt him like this. Kazuha still managed to force a smile. 

“Do you know what they’d like? Type of flower or colour?”

Scaramouche bit his lip, shaking his head. “Not really…” 

Not really? 

“Anything else you know that they like?” Kazuha was fishing. If Scaramouche could give him anything he could get some inspiration at least. 

Scaramouche shook his head again, apologetic. “No, I’m sorry.”

Kazuha raised an eyebrow. “Scara, are you courting someone you don’t know?” he teased. Scaramouche had never struck Kazuha as someone who’d do that. Fall for someone he’d met only once or twice, worse, someone he might never have spoken to. Kazuha wasn’t sure where he found the energy to joke. A hopeless way of trying to do his job, perhaps.

Scaramouche shifted his weight, avoiding the question. “Just put together something you think is pretty,” he added eventually. 

Kazuha did just that. He did contemplate making the flowers average for this nameless and unknown person who’d caught Scara’s affection, but he wasn’t that petty. He wanted Scaramouche to be happy. With free reigns, Kazuha put together the flowers that had caught his gaze the last time Scaramouche was in the shop. The ones that had the colours of his eyes. He mixed it with an arrangement of blues and lastly white to break it all off. It had been too heavy with just blue. 

The white made the indigo stand out beautifully. Almost too much so. 

Scaramouche said the bouquet was pretty but not much else. Kazuha didn’t mind the silence. He wrapped it up and not before long, Scaramouche thanked for his help and left. 

The whole meeting had been something of a blur. Now when the man was gone, his vision cleared. Kazuha touched his temple. What an unpleasant experience, he thought. Next time maybe he’d let Ayaka deal with it. Maybe next time he could face it without that pain in his chest? 

Maybe one day he could look at Scaramouche and see him as nothing but a friend. It would be better for them both. 

The bell by the door rang once more and Kazuha straightened with a sigh. He wasn’t in the mood for any more customers today. 

But in front of him stood Scaramouche. 

Kazuha opened his mouth to question his return. It was too soon. Were the flowers not good enough? Didn’t they give him the desired outcome? 

“I waited for you.” 

Kazuha blinked, unsure he’d heard him right. 

”Even trying to move on with my life made me realise I was waiting for you. Like, I tried really really hard but you —“ 

Scaramouche shook his head, not finishing his sentence. “I don’t know anything about the man you are now, but I do know that I can’t escape the fact that I want to know. I thought of moving back here so many times but I didn’t want to remind you of what had been. It didn’t feel fair.

Now I don’t want to hide anymore.”

Scaramouche handed Kazuha the bouquet dyed in his favourite colour. The colour of his eyes. All Kazuha could see was indigo blue. He’d created this arrangement, held it in his hands only minutes ago, so why was the object so foreign in his arms? 

“I want to be there for you like the younger you hoped I would — And if you will have me, I want to be yours.” 

Kazuha chuckled, running his finger under his eye. He’d heard the words he thought he’d never hear outside his wildest fantasies and tears threatened to fall down his cheek. He wasn’t a child anymore. He couldn’t let Scaramouche see that. Not now. 

“You know Scara,” Kazuha cleared his throat, “I really think you should go for someone with less baggage.” Uttering the words made his eyes sting again. Kazuha hugged the flowers closer. No one had given him flowers before.

Scaramouche stepped closer to the counter, leaning in. “I disagree.”

His tattooed hand found Kazuha’s cheek. His thumb ran across his bottom lip. Hand cool against the soft skin. 

“You’re perfect.”

Scaramouche leaned closer once more. Kazuha felt drawn to him in a way that made resistance futile. His lips were so close. He’d forgotten the feeling of Scaramouche’s lips on his own. He wanted to feel it again. 

Kazuha closed his eyes. He felt no fear. 

Scaramouche’s lips touched his. It was so faint that Kazuha might have mistaken it for his breath. That chaste careful touch was soon replaced. Scaramouche’s lips were on his and this time there was nothing wrong about it. 

Kazuha kissed him back, slotting his lips between Scara’s in a desperate attempt to feel more of him. To feel all that his young self hadn’t been allowed to feel. 

Kazuha had waited all these years for this. He’d waited for him. Kazuha had suffered and crawled through his nightmares to finally be here with him again. This moment was theirs. 

Scaramouche pulled him closer. The counter cut into Kazuha’s waist but that wouldn’t stop him from leaning into it. He didn’t want them to separate. Never again. 

Then the bell by the door rang out. 

They both pulled apart so fast it made Kazuha gasp for breath. He couldn’t help himself from coughing. 

Or laughing. He was too happy not to.

They’d been in their own world. Kazuha had thought not a single noise would reach him. 

Scaramouche wore a wide smile too, which he was trying his best to hide begin the back of his hand.

Archons, Kazuha was so in love with him. It was almost ridiculous. 

No. He was most certainly a hopeless case.

”Welcome in, just let me know if you need my help,” Kazuha greeted the customer. His gaze only averted Scara’s for an instant. 

Scaramouche shook his head, saying in a low voice that he’d come back later. Kazuha nodded, stepping around the counter to walk up to him. The customer had walked away between the shelves so Kazuha didn’t hesitate to kiss Scaramouche again. This time it was a quick one. A chaste kiss saying they’ll meet later. 

“I’ll wait for you.” 

This time there was no uncertainty. It was a promise.