𝐇𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃, scaramouche

03.

AS SNOWFLAKES drifted down from the sky, the sun began its descent, casting vibrant shades of orange and red across the horizon, tinged with soft pinks and purples. the colors melted together, a quiet contrast to the biting cold of snezhnaya’s evening.

scaramouche watched it all with a distant gaze, a sigh escaping his lips as he continued his solitary walk. his boots crunched through the snow, leaving shallow prints on the path as he made his way toward a village near the port.

he didn’t know why he spent his free hours wandering snezhnaya, drifting from one place to the next. it wasn’t as if he cared to know the people here or that he found any comfort in the barren chill of this land. yet, as his steps carried him closer to the small village, his mind betrayed him, slipping away to thoughts of you.

you, the one thing he couldn’t shake, a presence that clung to him even in your absence. he scowled at himself, at how persistently you haunted his thoughts, how you lingered in the spaces between his tasks, and how he’d catch himself recalling your expressions, your voice, as if you were still standing beside him.

he cursed himself, knowing how pathetic it was. it went against everything he wanted to believe about himself, about his purpose.

but still, those thoughts came unbidden, creeping into his mind like an unwelcome guest who refused to leave. they were memories that gnawed at him every day, with a quiet insistence that defied his best attempts to silence them.

the village lay ahead, lights glowing warmly against the darkening snow. scaramouche stopped just outside the village’s edge, his gaze fixed on the lanterns that lined the streets. people bustled about, their laughter and chatter muffled by the snow, and for a brief moment, he imagined you there, wandering between the stalls, alive and smiling as if he hadn’t been the one to snuff out that light.

but it was only a ghost of an image, slipping through his fingers like the snowflakes falling around him.

"aren't you cold?" you asked, glancing down at him, your breath forming small clouds in the chilly air. scaramouche, dressed in his usual inazuman attire, with much of his skin exposed to the biting frost, looked completely unaffected.

"i don't do colds," he replied bluntly, casting you a brief, dismissive glance before turning his gaze back to the path ahead. it was the truth. he didn’t feel the cold, didn’t even acknowledge it. he a puppet, he was built to withstand the harshness of the world, even the unforgiving chill of snezhnaya’s winter.

"ehh? lucky..." you muttered with a small pout, eyeing your own attire. wrapped in a cloak trimmed with fur, a hood pulled over your head, you wore a thick dress that nearly reached your ankles, warm boots covering your feet. despite all the layers, the cold still seeped in, biting at your exposed skin. oh, how you wished you could be as immune to the cold as he was.

you adjusted your cloak, shivering slightly, your steps crunching softly in the snow beside him. he’d glance at you sometimes, his gaze lingering just a moment longer than he’d admit, watching as you fumbled with your hood or brushed the snowflakes from your lashes, all while keeping up with him, never complaining.

back then, he might have rolled his eyes or muttered some sarcastic comment. but now, in the quiet of the evening, with only the cold to keep him company, he found himself remembering that simple moment. the image of you, so alive and full of warmth in a frozen world, was one he couldn’t erase.

his boots crunched beneath the snow as he walked slowly around the village, his gaze drifting over each house, each chimney spilling warm smoke into the icy air. he didn’t have a destination, just a need to occupy his thoughts, distract himself from the memories creeping in uninvited.