𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 ; 𝐤𝐚𝐳𝐮𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐚 . ◈

together

Naturally, he ends up spending a lot of time with Kazuha after this.

This is only partially due to Kazuha's redeeming traits and more so because everyone else on the island is a travesty of human existence. The Resistance's General is irritatingly loud, never knows when to close his mouth, and has a disturbing tendency to drape himself against Scaramouche's side. Kokomi herself is bossy, demanding, and behaves like she owns the island--which, he supposes, she does.

The rest of the Resistance's soldiers are either flat-out incompetent or have an unfortunate habit of questioning Scaramouche's decisions. This, of course, has the equally unfortunate effect of landing them in a ditch somewhere, still twitching from the aftereffects of a healthy shock to the system.

Kazuha, at the very least, is generally silent, is a capable fighter, and isn't particularly tall to the point where Scaramouche feels the need to re-establish who's in charge.

He's also hot.

This last part is not especially difficult to notice, because Scaramouche has eyes and because they keep getting paired off on missions together, likely due to the fact that Kazuha is the only one who can spend several hours in Scaramouche's presence without being electrocuted.

The assignments are usually border patrol, guarding the island's security, which means they're forced to spend nights away from the Resistance's base and in each other's company. They have to be quiet, too, and are sometimes made to press up awfully close against each other to cram into the same hiding spot, which means that Scaramouche often finds himself with nothing better to do than examine his companion.

Kazuha is obviously some noble of some kind--his family name is vaguely familiar, tugs at a phantom memory from Scaramouche's dead and buried past. But even without the knowledge of this, he's pretty sure that he'd still be able to tell, because everything about the way that Kazuha looks, acts, and breathes practically radiates a delicate sort of grace.

It's his soft face, mostly.

It isn't a baby face, like Childe has--and is constantly mocked for, at that--but rather a gentle, demure sort of appearance that pairs well with his habit of concealing his emotions behind a carefully arranged mask. He has nice hands, too, long fingers that reach up to tuck silky strands of hair behind his ear when he's bent his head over their campfire, the steel-cut red of his eyes narrowed in concentration.

In fact, he's pretty enough that Scaramouche decides not to attack him for his lesser, more inhuman qualities, such as his habit of waking before the dawn to compose poetry.

Out loud.

"Away, the moon chased--after drifting tides and sea--"

Scaramouche cracks open an eye, stares hard at the empty space before him as he counts slowly backwards from ten.

"-- come forth, rains with haste."

"Are you done?" he asks, without bothering to turn around, and hears the way that Kazuha shifts behind him, can almost picture the neutral expression on the other's face as he readjusts himself in his meditation.

"Forgive me. I cannot control when and where inspiration strikes."

"Something else is about to strike real soon if you don't shut up and go back to sleep."

Kazuha lets out a breath, a short exhale that borders dangerously close to a laugh, and Scaramouche feels it again--that strange, dangerous thrill tugging at his gut. Even after the weeks they've spent together, Kazuha's displays of emotion are few and far between, and something in Scaramouche takes a strange, twisted sort of pleasure in making the other's perfect composure crack.

And there are other ways to do this, of course, ways that maybe involve the delicate features that Scaramouche has been unsubtly staring at for the past month.

He scowls into the dark, curling in on himself mostly to avoid thinking further on this, and is at least tired enough that he passes out not long after he closes his eyes.

When he wakes, some hours later, in only a marginally better mood, Kazuha is up and about. Perhaps Scaramouche's earlier threat--a sleepy, half-muttered thing--has been too effective, because the other is even quieter than usual, his gaze cast towards the ground.

Scaramouche doesn't pay it any mind at first, somewhat grateful for the extended silence as he struggles to tame his sleep-ruffled locks, gritting his teeth when the strands at the right of his head stick upwards with a stubborn determination.

Later, though, it becomes abundantly clear that Kazuha is quiet because he's watching him, his red gaze staring evenly at the side of Scaramouche's head, then sometimes at the back of it, and sometimes even at his face.

"What?" he demands, when he feels that this has gone on long enough and the sun is nearly dipping back beneath the horizon to signal the evening's approach. "Don't tell me I hurt your feelings. Hope you're not expecting an apology."

Kazuha blinks, and then the corner of his mouth tilts slightly upwards in a fleeting smile, the light of his eyes sharp with mischief.

"No," he answers evenly, then settles himself against the grass as he moves to start their next fire, because he's apparently gone ahead and decided to break camp here without saying so. "I was merely searching."

"For what?"

"Inspiration."

Then, looking directly at Scaramouche's irreversible, untamable case of bedhead, he straightens up with a serene grace, undoubtedly prepared to unleash a serial sin in seventeen syllables.

"Enough of the poetry," Scaramouche snaps hastily, mostly to spare himself from more of this perpetual torment. "Find something better to do with your mouth."

Kazuha pauses at that, surprise ghosting over his face as he tilts his head, and Scaramouche savors in his temporary victory, in the triumph of having caught the other off guard at last.

Until--

"Is that an offer, Lord Harbinger?"

Oh.

It's all that Scaramouche can do to avoid choking on his next inhale, his gaze furious as he whips around to meet Kazuha's calm expression. The other is watching him with an almost lazy calm, but there's a thinly-veiled interest in his expression, an obvious invitation that twists Scaramouche's anger into something distinctly closer to anticipation.

Well.

Inazuma is miserable, he's miserable, and they're stuck out here with no entertainment for the next five days.

He tilts his head up, vaguely aware that he has to look up to meet Kazuha's gaze, and the irritation that passes through him is nothing compared to the sudden desire to erase this injustice entirely.

"So what if it is?"

-—–-—-–-—-–
next 2 chapters are nsfw, skip it if you don't want to read it