Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was getting late.

Even without glancing at his watch, this much was obvious; the streetlamps located on the edges of the sidewalk were the only source of light at this hour, aside from a few off-track vehicles unfortunate enough to get lost in this part of the city. Not even the moon itself was visible, shrouded by the heavy, dark clouds. It was going to rain soon and all the thin man was hoping for was to come back home before the first drops would begin to fall. Apartment buildings stood tall, like some ancient guards, forming a confusing maze of alleys and corridors not even the inhabitants themselves were able to memorize. It was a hideous sight, a half-alive blemish on the reputation of the city, filled to the brim with both the poor and the evil. There was not a single person out there who would willingly choose to roam the dark streets without a solid reason.

Well, maybe some impoverished students, not lucky enough to be in the possession of a car. That’s certainly the kind of a person that would be forced to indulge the city past midnight.

The dark-haired man shivered violently, a quiet curse pushing past his gritted teeth. A few seconds later, a new source of light appeared; born from a tiny spark, which glowed bright red when brushed against the tip of a cigarette. He breathed in, letting some of the smoke enter his lungs. This entire ordeal did not interrupt the efficient pattern of his footsteps. He was used to these late-night walks, having played out this exact scenario way too many times to count.

At a first glance, he did not fit in with his surroundings; in the dim lighting, it looked almost as if the white button-up on his back was glowing, way too clean and put-together. There wasn’t much skin showing, pale neck shielded by a black turtleneck, with the strap of an old camera wrapped around it like a necklace.

At this point in his life, the device was nothing but a noose, weighing his scrawny body down and onto the cold concrete below.

Some more smoke slowly floated up into the air through his nostrils. There was no time to think about it, not now. In less than six hours, he’d be back on his feet, commuting to the city center with the same amount of enthusiasm which, to be frank, equated to none at all.

Fucking lecturers. If he wasn’t this busy, he would’ve already…

His feet almost folded in on each other for a second and his small form wobbled dangerously before restoring the previous stance. The palm of his hand, pressed against a near wall for support, tightened into a fist. How utterly useless.

Just as he was moving the cigarette back up to his lips, the sound of muffled voices reached his ears. The brunet paused, his eyebrows drawing together. It was difficult to make out the words, or perhaps… whimpers of pain, mixed in with the rustle of clothing being pulled on. He never participated in any fights himself, but he’s witnessed quite a few, so this situation certainly seemed oddly familiar. And… definitely wouldn’t be surprising. Not here, not at this hour.

“Fucking beggars…” he scowled, gnawing on the butt of the cigarette with annoyance. 

Normally, the student wouldn’t engage, but it was too late to reconsider opting for a different route. He’d slip past unnoticed, pressed against the brick walls like a rat, just one of many traversing the city. Just a couple more steps…

Nimbly, the man hopped behind the corner, his narrow eyes widening in shock at the unexpected sight.

There was no fight, or, if there was one, the winner had already come out on top; a tall man with his back turned to him, hunched over, with an arm wrapped around the waist of a panicked woman. Her hands clawed uselessly at the attacker’s sides, painted nails flashing chipped red and black polish. She was thrashing around, but it was of no use. She stood no chance against the stranger, a fat spider, rolling his web all around her frail body. Her long legs were already giving out, the very tips of her heels caught in the hollow spaces between the panels of the pavement. The alcohol coursing through her veins surely wasn’t helping her break free, either. She called out desperately, the words slurred together.  

“Get off-!“ The lady cried out, eyes bulging out of her skull. Like a frog, the purr in the back of the brunet’s head supplied. The ones that make a funny noise when they’re stepped on, exploding underneath the sole of a shoe into a blotch of bloody slime. “Please-!”

He grimaced, feeling himself be glued to the ground. A wave of heat spread across his chest, and yet… he truly couldn’t move, entranced by the scene playing out in front of him.

The attacker leaned in, but from his spot at the crossroads, the murmur wasn’t audible. Whether it was an attempt at providing solace, or a threat, it was up for his imagination to decide.

And oh, it was running wild.

The student swallowed, finding his throat uncharacteristically dry. His sneaker slid across the wet gravel, recognizing that it was time to run— screw the shorter route, whatever was happening was not his business.

The woman let out a desperate screech, throwing her head back like an animal. “Help me!” Snot was beginning to clog her nostrils, combined with the salty tears. He knew the feeling all too well. Thanks to a last-effort rush of adrenaline, the blonde turned just enough, and their gazes met.

Fuck.

“You-!” she gurgled, the skin around her red mouth stretching in a nauseating grimace. Her teeth were crooked and uneven, the yellow enhanced by the color of her smudged lipstick. Thin lips parted again, tongue curling around another plea, which never fully formed. It didn’t get the chance to.

The glimmer of a blade. Then, nothing but crimson.

With a gasp, the photographer shut his eyes, heartbeat pounding within the confines of his head; at a pace so quick, he couldn’t even keep track of it anymore. By the time his ebony eyes have opened again, the woman was already dead.

A ragdoll, held up by the firm grip of the murderer. Or a marionette, with the strings cut off, dragged around by a reckless child. A gory slit stretched from one side of her jaw to another, a twisted smile… blood has begun to seep out, dripping down her neck and pooling in the curve of the collarbone.

He’s never seen a dead body before. People in a state close to death, yes, but not in a manner this cruel.

A disappointed click of a tongue pulled the brunet out of his thoughts. Suddenly aware of his surroundings, he swallowed nervously, gaze travelling up the woman’s limp body. The killer was still encased by the shadow, his hold on the corpse gradually loosening. She fell with a thud, first onto her bruised knees, then, face-first into the damp soil.

A single step. Then, another. The man’s beige coat was stained with specks of blood.

His body was moving out of its own volition, brain stepping off its throne to gracefully hand the reins over to the physical instrument. All of his muscles tensed up. He was ready to muster up the last scraps of energy for the day and flee if the need be. “This… is going to be difficult to get out of.” He heard himself point out, the remark followed by an internal string of angry curses. Of course, you idiot.

The stranger let out a low hum of confirmation, stepping close enough for the student to discern his features. The lower half of his face was hidden behind a face mask, rendering only his eyes visible. Sharp, like the ones of a hawk, with a thick, furrowed eyebrow above one of them. The other looked… weird, to say the least. The little hairs were much thinner, and the eyelid was droopy, a rare shade of red, or perhaps even orange, partially obscured by long strands of hair. “I wasn’t planning to get it over with this quickly.” To his surprise, the murderer has spoken up. The comment was surprisingly calm, albeit with a hint of frustration to it. The tip of his polished boot nudged the dead body, but to no avail. “…Not until you showed up, at least.” His head tipped to the side, like a curious cat mulling something over in its head. “You won’t say a thing about this, won’t you?”

The student hesitated, but it didn’t last long. He pulled on the strap of his camera for support, giving the stranger a sharp nod. “I don’t… care.” He managed to squeeze the confirmation out of his lungs, realizing with horror that somewhere along the road, the cigarette must’ve fallen out of his hand. “Let me go. This isn’t my business.”

A set of muscles underneath the face mask moved. It crinkled, so he must’ve smiled. Wide.  

“Go.”

The brunet did not need to be told that twice. He glanced at the mangled corpse for the last time, shocked, but not necessarily… scared. If not for the scarlet seeping into the ground, absorbed by the stomped-on weeds thirsty for any sort of nutrition, she could’ve been mistaken for a passed out partygoer, really. The realization caused something to shift near his abdomen area. It constricted uncomfortably. He licked at his bottom lip, set on retreating back to safety.

He was just about to disappear behind the corner when the raspy voice called out again. “Wait.”

The puny thing stopped, the corner of his mouth twitching in discontent. Waiting, whether it was for an additional statement, or to spring back into action… a chase.

“Your name.” It wasn’t a question, but an order; although, there was genuine curiosity behind it.

The dark-haired man did not turn around. For a split second, nothing but strained silence filled the air.

“Scaramouche.”

“Holy shit…”

Scaramouche groaned quietly, pulling a polyester blanket above his head and squeezing his eyes shut. Unfortunately, this makeshift shield wasn’t quite enough to drown out the insistent ring of the alarm clock wrecking havoc in the enclosed space; a flat, or rather, a painfully small studio, with barely enough space for one person to live in. And black mold, apparently. Black mold was doing quite okay in this environment, much to the current tenant’s dismay.

Lazily, the man parted his eyelids, blinking away the last bits of sleepiness and pieces of crust which had formed in the canthus. With an abrupt slap, the alarm died down, but the shrill was still ringing in Scaramouche’s head. He pulled himself up carefully, hands letting go of the sleeping mat. He had no choice but to get up and start the day.

He dreamt about…

Scaramouche winced, running his fingers through the thick, black hair. No, it was much too early to start thinking about the events which transpired the night before. This was the type of shit one was supposed to work through at a therapy session, if he was rich enough to afford one. And if he believed that those greedy assholes actually had their clients’ best interest at heart. Throughout his life, he’s seen a bunch of ads online; those smiling women dressed in formal attire, sitting in their cozy offices, spewing promises of healthy coping mechanisms, processing… healing.

Bullshit. He’s known that ever since the teachers first dragged him into the school psychologist’s office, where they sat him down and forced him to listen to all the obnoxious shit spewing out of her. Most people in the world were idiots. Some were just able to hide it better; usually under the pretense of talking all slow and clear, as if the kid was too dumb to see through it all. It’s been over a decade, and yet… his opinion hasn’t changed.

This was the first and last attempt his mother had ever made at repairing his flaws.

But it was much too early to think about that bitch, too.

Scaramouche rolled off the mat and pulled on the set of clothes he’d prepared on the chair the evening prior before wandering into the tiny bathroom. He hasn’t scrubbed the mirror in over a month and the sight of the dry drops of spit mixed in with toothpaste was getting on his nerves. He spattered himself with some water and soap before straightening up and taking a deep, calming breath.

Flat nose. A couple of beauty spots on his cheeks and neck. The very same, piercing eyes and the perpetual scowl. This was the kind of beauty people admired, but never dared to compliment outright, at least—not anymore. It helped Scaramouche get past the hell that was high school, but with time, it was getting more and more difficult to keep up the charming façade. He’s given up on it a long time ago. It was a pathetic reminder of what people truly saw him as.

His hand twitched.

Within a couple of minutes, the man was out the door, waving his camera around like a weapon. Just in case. He wasn’t planning on choosing the same route as yesterday, for obvious reasons.

He wondered if the body had been taken away… and if it was gone, then if it was thanks to the police, or the perpetrator himself. Stabbings weren’t unheard of in this part of the city, yes, but usually, it was between drunk men stumbling out of some cheap bar to take a piss. A crime of passion, a knife in between the ribs, but with a relatively high chance of survival. In most cases, the officers would wave their hand dismissively at the offender, tell them to shut up about the whole situation and let them go with a warning. This was different, though. Much more intentional and with seemingly no reason… unless Scaramouche happened to interrupt some sort of sick foreplay. The lady’s skirt was short, it wouldn’t be an issue to hike it up a little and have some fun, even if the other party wasn’t a willing participant. 

Feral and uncivilized, like animals. Scaramouche didn’t need to hide behind moral excuses to consider this sort of behavior extremely degrading. To stoop this low, and for what? A fleeting moment of pleasure?

Ultimately, it didn’t matter. She died.

A few stray rays of sunshine managed to break through the clouds, landing on his face and bringing upon a pleasant tingly sensation. Scaramouche stopped for a second, placing his hand on top of a metal fence lining the sides of a bridge and leaned out to watch the river underneath move. Restless ripples on the surface would transform into fully fleshed-out waves and hit the shore, eating away at the tiny, persistent patch of sand. For a moment, he’d considered snapping a picture, but decided against it.

The contrast in between the districts was truly staggering. Forty minutes later, Scaramouche was trapped in between examples of quality architecture, as well as an overwhelming amount of  expensive cafes and restaurants, not to mention some greenery: bushes and trees meant to impress the passerby. Scaramouche snickered, patting down the sides of his pants. It was a shame that he forgot to grab his cigarette pack. It was some sort of a ritual to scatter the ash and eventually, the stub, near the roots. Wasn’t a man allowed to have fun, after all? Especially on a day like this… after all that’s happened.

Soon, Scaramouche became just an insignificant part of the sea of walking students. Most of them formed small friend groups and, sometimes, the commotion would be interrupted by an occasional loud laugh and a dumb joke. They’d stumble into each other, apologize, focus their energy on greeting close friends and distant acquaintances alike. No one seemed to notice him in the crowd, and for that, Scaramouche was extremely thankful; his gaze was set on the building near the border of the campus. It was, perhaps, a little underwhelming, but made up for the lack of height with its width; the institute of arts, ironically, wasn’t too artistic in its appearance. His own little prison for, what, how many years…?

“Hey!”

Scaramouche jumped at the exclamation, the familiar sense of doom creeping up his chest. Not that guy. He didn’t need to turn to know who the remark was aimed at. Instead, the brunet shuffled his legs a little quicker, tearing through one of the friend groups gossiping underneath a massive oak tree.

“Kunikuzushi, wait!”

Ever the enthusiast. Scaramouche pursed his lips, accepting the defeat in total silence.

“Why are you rushing this much? It’s still a while before the classes start… God, you’re quick, eh?”

Soon, a freckled face entered his field of vision, alongside a mess of fiery hair and a wide grin. A few drops of sweat rolled down the boy’s forehead, but his cheeriness did not waver; he looked straight out of a cartoon, with denim overalls and neon yellow gloves on, stained with mud. Scaramouche scrunched up his nose, looking his new companion up and down. “Childe.” He muttered with resignation. “You stink.”

The ginger made a stunned expression, bringing his hand up to his nose with an experimental sniff. One of the fingers in the glove was hanging pathetically, tied into a knot right at the base. “Oh, that’s right.” Childe nodded, his tone serious. “I was sorting out the fertilizer when I spotted you.”

Scaramouche let out a heavy sigh. “And you came running here because…?”

Childe smiled and almost invisible wrinkles appeared in the corners of his big eyes. “To say ‘hi’. Why, is that forbidden?”

“You’re slacking off during work hours. I’m sure I could report it somewhere…”

“Oh, but you won’t.” Childe remarked with a light-hearted chuckle, staring straight ahead. Scaramouche noticed with a degree of satisfaction that the youth, alarmed by the earthy smell, would swiftly disperse and create a passageway for them to pass through. “Besides, I’ve worked my ass off yesterday… One of the guys had to travel back home, so I volunteered to grab his shift. And guess what? I have no classes today! Which means, I offered to work overtime at the pool, too. Busy day! Good day.” The man proclaimed with pride, forgetting the current state of his attire and wiping the tip of his long nose with the back of his hand. “Oh, shit.”

Scaramouche glanced at him, wholly unimpressed. “Great.” He replied dryly, slowing down as the two reached the main entrance of the institute. Childe scratched the back of his head awkwardly. “Something else?”

The redhead smiled again. “Well, I was thinking… Since I’m gonna earn a quick buck, maybe you’d agree to go out w—”

“No.” The shorter of the men intercepted sharply. “I’ve told you already. Fuck off.”

Chile groaned. “Kunikuzushi, you’re truly something e…” The man trailed off, lips parting. His azure eyes unfocused, clouded by thought, following something- or someone?- moving behind Scaramouche’s back. The brunet raised his eyebrows. It wasn’t unusual for the younger of the two to get distracted, but in the middle of a sentence… this was new. “Hm.”

“What is it?”

Childe pondered something for a while. “Nothing. I thought I saw something, that car… pretty sure… ahh, nevermind. You’re busy.” The boy blinked, pinning his attention back on the photographer. “Either way, you know how to reach me if you change your mind, yes? Good luck in class.”

Scaramouche shoved the wooden door until it opened, disappearing inside without saying goodbye.

Ajax, better known under the nickname ‘Childe’, was a recognizable persona around the campus. He appeared out of nowhere one day and stuck around, and for some reason, Scaramouche has fallen victim to his flirtatious endeavors. Most of the faculty teachers took a liking to the man, praising him for his vigor and kindliness; he was everywhere, all the time, scooting through the halls and whistling to himself. A self-proclaimed polymath, eager to fix anything for a chance to earn some extra money. He’d made up for his thick accent with a rare boyish charm, impossible to replicate, and played on the heartstrings of his peers with dramatic stories of how he’s been forced to abandon his family, move abroad and work hard to keep them afloat… including legends about how he’d lost his finger. Apparently, he’d tell everyone who asked a completely different version of the tale. Scaramouche has never asked. He wasn’t going to feign any interest and stroke the redhead’s massive ego.

For now, Scaramouche had to concentrate on his lesson.

The truth was, he’s been attending them for… long. Far too long. The memories of his old classmates were already starting to blur together into one, formless lump of foggy faces and hushed voices. All of them had either graduated or dropped out years ago, leaving him behind: growing older, uninspired, tired and so dreadfully bored. Every now and then, he’d decide to take a break, pull out of college and attempt to walk an independent path. And yet, every single time, the results would be the same. Always the same thoughts, haunting him, whispering into his ear at night. Informing him of how barren his life had become. Hinting at a way out of this mess.

The truth was, he was a twenty seven year old with no diploma nor any palpable plans for the future. One day, he wouldn’t be able to dance around this realization any longer. That day was not coming soon, even if time was mercilessly slipping through his fingers like sand. It was difficult to accept the passage of it, to internalize its flow. Count the losses, be put to rest. All of that was still ahead of him.

Twenty seven wasn’t that old.

Aside from the earlier encounter with Childe, the day passed rather peacefully, with no more surprises in store. He settled down in the back of the classroom, slumped in his chair, toying with the settings on his trusty camera. He fished a few dirty coins out of his pocket and paid for a watered-down cup of coffee, anything to fill his stomach for at least a few hours. He was staring, completely dead-pan, at a presentation which he had seen at least twice before, read word for word, with no useful insight from the lecturer.

He almost regretted waking up in the morning at all.

First, he waited for most of the other students to leave, wanting to avoid any more crowds. Then, he picked up his bag and wandered outside, almost immediately hit with a breeze of cold air. A girl ran out after him and cursed, pulling a coat over her blue curls and rushing in the direction of the parking lot. How lucky. Instead of following her, Scaramouche walked down the stairs, head hanging low. For some reason, he’d started feeling… uneasy. The images of the dead woman flashed in his brain out of nowhere. It would be a while before he’d be able to fully comprehend what happened.

A stronger gust of wind almost knocked him off his feet. A loud thunder rang out in the distance, the rumble echoing through the district. The photographer looked up just in time to see a branch of lighting sprawl out across the vast skies. His button-up fluttered on the gale, black strands of his fringe flitting furiously in front of his narrowed eyes. “Fucking hell…” He complained, chewing on his bottom lip. If he decided to venture back into the institute and take cover, he’d end up walking home late again. It was much too soon to take that risk… especially if the police force has already been dispatched to scout the area where the murder had occurred. With an exhale, the man pushed forward.

With a great deal of effort, Scaramouche parted his eyelids, trying to make sense of his environment. He’d have to tread the path carefully, preferably move alongside the buildings and take cover under their roofs. He was just in the process of analyzing where the next best location was when he noticed someone.

Despite the unforgiving weather, the person was standing tall, able to withstand the constant pressure of these conditions. They were leaning back against the side of a car; from far away, it wasn’t possible to accurately discern the brand. It looked to be silver, though, blending in with the gloomy background. The stranger was wearing a black coat, one that reached all the way down to his calves, tied tight around his waist, which helped it not give in to the force of the brutal winds. But what piqued Scaramouche’s interest were the messy locks of graying hair, pulled back into a low ponytail, tucked safely under the wide collar. Half of their face was hidden underneath a layer of breathable fabric.

It was almost like getting shot. The abrupt understanding, tearing through the slimy mounds of his brain like a lead bullet would.

His baffled expression must’ve caught the man’s attention. Slowly, and with almost surgical precision, his fingers stretched out, gloved wrist moving smoothly. Beckoning him over, as if he was summoning an old friend for a friendly chat and not leading a lamb to the slaughter.

Scaramouche stared in shock, laughter erupting in the back of his mind. You fool. You really thought you’d be left to your own devices? You’ve been dead since yesterday.

There was nothing to fear. Even if he was truly living on borrowed time, he would not cower like a worm at that pervert’s feet. Begging for mercy was out of the question. His fingers brushed against the smooth surface of the camera dangling from his neck, seeking the comfort he’d grown so accustomed to throughout the years.

Then, Scaramouche started walking in the direction of the car.

The stroll felt much longer than it must’ve actually been. His shoulders shivered from the cold, but for some reason, there was not a single seed of worry making itself known within his mind. Whether it was thanks to his stubborn nature, or the confidence he’s been blessed with at birth, Scaramouche was ready to confront the murderer. If he was to go out, he’d go out on his own terms. With pride, never fear.

“What are you doing here?” He inquired, crossing his arms over the flat chest. “You told me I was free to go. I haven’t told anyone about what happened.”

Up close, and in a much better light than before, the condition of the other’s profile left even more unanswered questions. A patch of sickly yellow flesh was stretching from the bridge of his nose across the cheek, going far beyond where his hairline should’ve been. The odd texture reminded Scaramouche of dead animals, sprawled out from a butcher’s hook or stuffed onto a cape stretcher. It looked tender to the touch, puffed up and swollen. In a way, Scaramouche recognized the older man’s fortitude. It must’ve been risky to go on a killing spree with a birthmark this unique and easily recognizable.

His thumb slid over the handle of a car door. “Come in.”

At first it was Scaramouche’s plan to wait until the other elaborated, but it didn’t seem like this scheme of his was going to work. Instead, the murderer turned around unceremoniously and scrambled into the driver’s seat. His movements were intentional and calculated, but stricken with something which wasn’t that easy to pinpoint. Age, perhaps?

Scaramouche’s jaw tensed. He glanced over his shoulder at the campus before getting in with a huff, not even bothering to look around for a seatbelt. The irony of it all was slowly starting to catch up to him through his haze of delusion. “Where are you taking me?” He grumbled, glaring at the reflection of the blue-haired killer in the spotless rearview mirror.  

His large hand wrapped around one of the electrical components. “Just some business talk. I’m sure you won’t mind.”

His eyelashes were light enough to pass as completely white, surprisingly long, although uncurled. The hooded eyes flashed bright red as the reflection stared back.

“…Do you?”

Scaramouche did not answer.

“Pick whatever you want, I don’t care.”

One thing Scaramouche did not expect was for the infamous criminal to drive him to some sort of a pub. At first, he was determined to memorize every lane and street sign, in case this turned out to be an elaborate attempt at a kidnapping, but gave up after a few minutes, getting dizzy from the insistent ogling out of the car window. After this unanticipated journey, he was led out of his seat and into the unassuming den. It wasn’t difficult to figure out why this was the stranger’s pick—it provided a lot of privacy. Everyone within was concerned with their own affairs and did not spare the peculiar pair even a single glance. The man held the door open for Scaramouche to pass through and if he didn’t know any better, maybe he would consider him to be a true gentleman. They sat down in the corner of the pub, separated from the other guests with a cheap, off-white folding screen. The lampion hanging over their heads cast vermillion onto both figures. A menu card was slid across the smooth, wooden surface of the table by his captor, but Scaramouche refused to pick it up.

Eventually, the murderer shifted, crossing his legs. “I said you can pick whatever you want.”

“I heard you the first time.” The brunet fired back, squinting with suspicion. “I am not going to accept any scraps from you.”

Cerise irises were burning holes into his body, the bizarre shade enhanced by the lantern dangling from the ceiling. “Fine.” He said simply, letting the matter go with surprising ease. Scaramouche suspected that if he had taken the face mask off, the corner of his mouth would twitch with anger, and the thought caused a shiver of almost perverse satisfaction to travel down his spine. “Cutting to the chase, I see.”

“I see no point in staying here any longer than absolutely necessary. What do you want from me? If you’re trying to blackmail me, then I’m sorry to burst your bubble, but I have no money. Even if I did, I wouldn’t give you any of it.”

He watched the man lean back in his chair, balancing himself on its’ back legs. “I don’t need your money. In fact, I think it’s quite the opposite, no?”

Scaramouche frowned. “What?”

“If anything, you need mine.”

Silence.

“I’ve been doing quite alright on my own. You don’t know… anything about me.” His growl cut through the eerie quiet.

“Quite the contrary.” The man shook his head, not hiding his amusement. “Giving me a fake name didn’t really do anything to help you, Scaramouche, especially because it was rather easy to follow you home. I cannot help but wonder what a person like you is still doing at university, too. You could use some extra money, right? Establish connections… Well, I know when to give credit where credit is due. You have the potential to be useful and it would be a… symbiotic relationship.”

“I’ve already told you, I don’t need any of your dirty money.” Scaramouche snapped, leaning forward so quick, the table moved with the sheer force. “Why would I put myself in danger for your sake?”

The outburst did not affect the murderer in any capacity, for he was still as calm as ever. “Oh, are you sure about that?” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I think you could benefit from this. You could finally pay for your medical bills again, continue the--”

“Fuck you.” Scaramouche hissed, nails digging into the wooden board.  “How did you even…”

The man shrugged casually. “I am a doctor. I know what the long-term effects of suddenly stopping the replacement therapy are. All I’m saying is, I could set something up for you, not only regarding this, but a surgery as well. This is me trying to help you out. I know that… medical matters push people to do the most drastic of things.”

Scaramouche rubbed the bridge of his nose, exasperated. He didn’t know how the man found out about this struggle of his, but… it would be a lie to say additional funds wouldn’t change his life for the better. Being forced to put his transition on hold due to financial reasons almost killed him, rendering him an empty husk of a man for… what had to be months. It was an embarrassing period of his life. Terribly humiliating. Kicked out and disowned at nineteen, he truly had no other choice.

He still remembered the expression of betrayal on his mother’s face as she stood in the doorway, blocking the entrance to their house with her body. It was almost like a… mockery, for this to be the final straw that pushed her decaying form off the bed for the first time in years. Nothing had ever worked this effectively: begging, pleading, oftentimes humiliating compromises, she was deaf to all of them.

“And what if I refuse to assist you?”

The blue-haired stranger clicked his tongue. It seemed to be a habit of his, one that would probably get annoying real quick.

“Well, I’ll have no other choice but to kill you.”

Scaramouche wrung his hands, staring down at his own lap with discomfort. Fucking hell. Who would’ve thought walking into the wrong alley at the wrong time would lead to a mess like this. But…

“You win, you sick fuck. I’m in.” He muttered, pressing cold hands into the depths of his pockets. “But you better keep your promise, because I don’t have anything to lose if you decide to fuck me over. Now, I didn’t catch your name.”

Slender fingers moved upwards, hooked underneath the face mask and carefully pulling one of the strings off, letting the piece of material fall to the side. Scaramouche watched as the man divulged the secret that was his face, the scorched and scarred flesh finally exposed in its entirety. Half of his face must’ve been blown off and it was a miracle that he was not only alive, but able to talk. The left corner of his mouth was elongated, clumsily stitched back together thanks to surgeons that surely meant to do well, but didn’t have much to work with. The disfigurement travelled down the doctor’s neck and the damaged skin formed a web of irregular shapes and textures. His sharp teeth were exposed too, a string of drool shining in the dark. When he smiled, his thin lips stretched around the gaping maw and Scaramouche shuddered, unable to tear his eyes away from the grotesque display.

“You can call me Dottore.”

Chapter Text

[ Let’s meet today. Be out of the house at 5pm, I’ll pick you up. – D. ]

The text message was still readable, despite the massive crack in the glass screen, spreading like a web from the bottom corner of the device. Parts of the protective film had begun chipping off and it was quite obvious the phone was barely functioning, quite similarly to it’s owner—running purely on spite. His grip tightened, the reddened knuckles turning white from the pressure. It’s been a couple of days of relative peace; long enough for Scaramouche’s brain to pretend that the wicked events he’d witnessed were part of some elaborate hallucination or a nightmare. Usually, he wasn’t one to remember his dreams, but whatever happened… it must’ve nudged the part of his brain responsible for those, because ever since, his mind has been exploding with a plethora of colorized and gory ideas almost every night. But, of course, all of it was just wishful thinking. A couple of days ago, him and the murderer parted ways fairly quick.  The man was even kind enough to drop him off by the crumbling block of flats with the dreadful promise of establishing contact soon.

And, there he was, once again in the backseat of the silver vehicle, which would surely also become a reoccurring part of his nightmares.

Scaramouche slid the phone back into the pocket of his trousers, then pulled the sleeves of his sweater over his cold fists. In front of him was the occupied driver’s seat, tousled blue strands sticking out in every direction.

Back in primary school, Scaramouche would often sit in the back of the classroom, with popular girls laughing and leaning back in front of him, completely unaware of their surroundings—of him, slowly losing his patience when another lock of meticulously braided hair would find its way on top of his open notebook. The urge to grab a rusty pair of scissors from his pencil case and snip it off was always strong, but back then, he was way too timid to commit to the bit. In the past, he was concerned about hurting others’ feelings.

This wasn’t the case anymore.

“So, where are you taking me this time?” He decided to break the silence, uncomfortable with the radio turned off.

Dottore replied right away, without even a second of hesitation- as if he was waiting for his partner to ask the question. “My house.”

Scaramouche gave a small hum of acknowledgement, stifling his own surprise at the casual delivery of Dottore’s words. He hasn’t had many run-ins with criminals of his kind, obviously, but to take such a huge risk right at the very  beginning of their partnership… he couldn’t help the small ironic smile that creeped up onto his face. How bold for the doctor to lay himself bare like this; right there, on the palm of his hand. This felt like a small victory, a battle won almost effortlessly. Even if there was some sort of a catch lurking in the background, for now, Scaramouche felt pleased about having the upper hand. “You still haven’t told me what part I am supposed to play in all of this.”

Dottore glanced up at the rearview mirror, his eyebrow raising slightly. “I suppose it was a mistake to assume you’d figure it out yourself…” He mused in wonder, as if to himself, causing Scaramouche’s newly established confidence to crack.

The brunet scoffed and crossed his legs, ignoring the way his cheeks flushed at the comment. “It’s about your face, isn’t it?” His voice betrayed offense, but also a pinch of triumph. “You can’t go around stalking and risking your own ass with a mug like this. You’ve probably had a quarrel with the force, a little bit too close for comfort.”

“Partly.” The confirmation was like honey for the bones. “Be patient, I’ll tell you the details when we arrive.”

“I am patient.” Scaramouche muttered, but his companion did not take the bait, acknowledging  his snarky remark with nothing more than a stern look.

Dottore was a surprisingly good driver. Scaramouche watched the surroundings blur together into one colorful stripe as they drove down the highway, out of the busiest part of the city. Scaramouche has never been there before, but in his head, the area was inseparably connected to white-fence suburbs and boring, traditional families. He wondered if Dottore paid rent, or if the house actually belonged to the doctor. Considering the esteemed profession, as well as the man’s mature age, Scaramouche leaned towards the latter.

Lucky motherfucker.

They stopped in front of a well-maintained building, with a simple patio and curtains pulled behind the windows, the owner’s not so subtle request for privacy. The gate was locked and there was a thick chain wrapped around the metal bars for extra protection. Behind the fence, he saw a row of overgrown bushes, which obscured the passerby’s view. It was… certainly something. Big, two stories high. Scaramouche has never lived in such luxurious conditions, first trapped in a terraced hell, then, condemned to surviving off of scraps in moldy apartments.

Dottore nodded towards the gate, pulling out a key from within his leather wallet. “Come on in.”

He took a few experimental steps, climbing up the terrace and reaching the main entrance, a pang of nervousness pricking his heart. His hand wrapped around the cold handle and he pulled down on it firmly, ready to explore the murderer’s lair.

“Welcome.” Dottore hummed, dragging the black face mask down in the privacy of his own home, a few smacks coming from his disfigured lips, now fully exposed to the cold air. He took off his coat and put it up onto the hanger before stepping into the spacious living room. Not wanting to seem like a shy child overwhelmed by the variety of wares at a candy store, Scaramouche followed his companion closely, pretending to be rather unimpressed with the estate. A couple newspapers lay abandoned on top of a glass table, surrounded by a crescent arrangement of cups, with dry rings of coffee staining the bottom of the porcelain. Dottore seemed like a pragmatic man, but the place was decorated in its own, rather unusual way; with some knick-knacks lining the shelves, pressed in between the much bigger mecha-models and souvenirs. A door to another room was ajar. It gave off the impression of an office, with the main desk perfectly visible from Scaramouche’s spot in the doorway. Dottore rushed to close it, but the damage has already been done, and the photographer caught the glimpse of a few shiny, mysterious components scattered beside a massive toolbox. Who would’ve thought, a handyman. “I would offer you coffee, but I finished it this morning.” He added with a casual shrug.

“…Why play pretend? We both know why I’m here.” Scaramouche cut him off, marching towards the vintage cabriole sofa and plopping down unceremoniously. Dottore chose to lean against the wall instead, with a clear and strategic view of the younger man sitting in front of him. “You took me here to explain things—well, I’m waiting. Go on.”

The doctor scratched at his chin, wiping some of the drool seeping from the torn thew with the sleeve of his shirt. “You guessed part of the reason why I brought you here correctly. Congratulations are in order.” Scaramouche scoffed at the thinly-veiled irony, but let Dottore continue. “I’m not really able to do as I please. Even with most of my face covered, my appearance is memorable. I’ve been on the move for a while, but if I want to keep living here, I’ll have to be even more careful. See, I am something of a… homebody myself.” He grinned, looking into his guest’s eyes with such intensity, it felt as if the remark was meant as some sort of a mutually understood joke. “You’re young and rather, hm, sightly; to be frank, that’s all most desperate people need to stick around. Not only that, you live in a district I haven’t explored thoroughly just yet. I lack connections with people like… you. And that’s why I’d love it for you to step in, both as the allure and a guide.”

“Will I have t—”

“No.” Dottore tilted his head, smiling. “No, the pleasure will be mine. I’m not asking you to join in, unless, well, you find yourself wondering…”

“Definitely not.” Scaramouche muttered, silently relieved. He’s had a couple of hours to get used to the thought of becoming complicit in the future deaths of many, but to hear he wouldn’t be required to stain his own hands with blood was somewhat soothing. He knew that most people, were they him, would freak out and spend sleepless nights wondering what went wrong in their lives for things to end up like this. As much as he’d hated to admit it, Dottore might have picked a good candidate for his plans. He was disgusted, of course, but… care? There was no care in his heart. He’d benefit from this deal and, besides, who knew? If the doctor was truly this experienced in such past-time activities and went years without getting found out, maybe he’d be safe. “Is this something you do… often?”

“Often?” Dottore repeated with a slow blink. “Oh, it depends on how you perceive ‘often’. I pride myself on being rather intelligent, I wouldn’t go on a wild rampage for no reason. There’s no purpose to it. One can call me many horrid things, Scaramouche, but at heart, I’ve always been a scientist. What you saw a couple nights ago was not planned in the slightest. If it wasn’t for you, I’d certainly take my time enjoying the show.” He muttered, but having noticed the brunet’s grimace, quickly corrected himself. “As in, I would’ve taken her here and killed her in a much more creative way. Really, I’m no brute.”

“So is this why you started doing all of this?”

Dottore stared at Scaramouche for a few tense seconds, toying with the hem of his shirt. “No.” He said finally, his expression unreadable. “Some people were just annoying.”

The student scoffed, not wanting to admit that this excuse felt much more… human than the pretentious, pseudo-scientific one the older man tried to provide. Sometimes, emotions were too encompassing to resist them, but Scaramouche would always hold back—well-aware of the fact that the consequences of letting go could be catastrophic. This here, the hunched guy standing in front of him with the scarred face and an aura of mystery to him was the answer to a question he’s never actually asked: what would happen if someone did actually snap?

Dottore was an ugly piece of shit, both inside and out,  but in all honesty, Kunikuzushi expected a person who has gone down this route to behave much worse. Ironically, it seemed like the doctor had his shit somewhat together, as opposed to him.

He stretched out on top of the couch, a small sigh escaping his lips. As if on cue, Dottore perked up and turned around on his heel, disappearing into one of the shadowed corridors. “Follow me. I’ll show you something.”

“Why?”

His chuckle was muffled. “I need to introduce you to my craft.”

Dottore passed by the office, with the door now shut closed, not sparing it any more attention. Scaramouche followed and gradually, the corridor became more and more cramped because of the various furniture that Dottore has seemed to hoard for some unknown reason. Most of the pieces looked vintage, but with a modern ‘twist’ to them, added as an afterthought by an aspiring DIY enthusiast. A peculiar glint twinkled in the darkness—a reflection.

The man paused in front of a picture frame set up on top of an antique drawer. It stood out because there weren’t any actual photos in the house, especially ones with Dottore himself in them. This one was an exception. It showed the doctor, who hasn’t changed that much at all—maybe aside from a smaller amount of grooves lining his forehead and cheeks, and with hair that resembled snow, not the color of the ocean. He was dressed in a professional uniform which blended into his pale skin and made the bruised, scorched part of his head even more grating to look at. His palm was resting on the shoulder of a sitting woman, with a brown complexion and kind, glassy eyes. In contrast, she wore a few layers of warm clothing alongside a brown blanket draped over her lap, folded so that it wouldn’t get in the way of the wheels of her wheelchair. Scaramouche narrowed his eyes, leaning in until the tip of his nose was inches away from the sheet of protective glass, the gears in his brain steadily turning.

He couldn’t help but notice the similar features. The very same hooked nose and oval visage. Even taking a completely different color palette into account, the resemblance was striking.

Scaramouche’s eyelid fluttered, the corner of his mouth dropping. Ah.

The sound of the footsteps ahead of him ceased, but Dottore did not approach, letting Scaramouche scrutinize every detail of the photograph. It seemed fairly commemorative and official, but what did not escape the brunet’s attention were the relaxed, almost jovial expressions brightening up both faces.

“My mother.” A voice cut through the still air. “I used to take care of her. She died two years ago.”

“I didn’t ask.” Scaramouche growled, straightening up rapidly. “Move.”

Dottore shrugged, not bothered by his new partner’s aggression. It was embarrassing to admit that the bitterness came from the shock at the realization that even someone as evil as him…

As they continued walking, Scaramouche felt acid travel up his esophagus, a familiar sting at the back of his throat. There were so many more things about the doctor to discover. He hoped not all of them would catch him off guard like that.

“This is where I keep all the trophies from the chase.” Dottore hummed, knocking his knuckles against the surface of a door in the back of the building, far away from the living room. “As well as the various tools that have proven to be useful throughout the years—"

“Is that a fucking lawnmower?” Scaramouche interrupted, pointing with his finger at the massive grasscutter pushed far into the corner, partly hidden behind a few tall sheets of rusted metal.

“Yes.” The man confirmed slowly, completely dead-pan. “But that’s a story for another day.”

This room was the biggest one, clearly meant as the homeowners’ main bedroom. Now, repurposed with a new goal in mind, it caused Scaramouche to shiver a little. He expected streaks of blood staining the walls and the ceiling, a gruesome display of guts and rotting corpses, but the chamber resembled a regular storage space or an attic instead. There was a huge operating table in the middle, with a few cables and a light bulb hanging overhead. Leather straps lay in a bundle, detached from the side hooks, and Scaramouche decided to ignore them for the sake of his own mental wellbeing. There were no windows, at least not anymore. A rectangular shape, filled in with cement and covered with a coating of paint on the right side of the torture chamber was the only indication of it ever existing.

He walked up to a glass cabinet, piles of trash and various items catching his eye. He tapped on the see-through exterior, analyzing the torn shreds of clothing, unpolished jewelry and documents stored within. A bit more to the side, behind a leather coffer, someone had placed a toy plane; not one of the expensive models, similar to the figures bought by the doctor himself, but a simple, plastic trinket. Scaramouche paused and his finger trailed down, leaving a small smudge on the glass. Underneath the tawdry plane, a doll, pink thread sewn into the shape of a fake, unnerving smile. A rust-colored stain tarnished the pastel blue of her polyester dress. Someone has tried to wash it off, judging by the faded hem.

They seemed well-loved. There was only one group in the society with enough time and innocence to get this attached to low-quality material goods.

“You want to take a closer look?”

Scaramouche jumped, swallowing some spit. His throat was dry and a wave of red began to creep up his neck and ears. The finger, still pressed against the glass, was shaking a little.

Again, this isn’t your business.

“Not really. This is all just worthless junk.” The brunet let out. “Why keep all of it here? It takes up space, you’re eventually going to run out of it. If you really want to keep some murder trophies around, you should just photograph these and invest in an album.” He blurted out, snickering at his own comment. How grotesque. After all, others kept well-maintained tomes filled with pictures of loved ones and their favorite memories. What a surprise would it be, to flip through pages expecting something similar, just to be met with depictions of dead bodies and bloodied dross. Assuming Dottore had a flair for art, maybe he’d even arrange them accordingly, matching the victims to their items. Almost like scrapbooking. “Easier to hide, too, if you’re ever going to get busted.”

“Ah, how insightful. It’s good to get a second opinion.” Dottore’s voice was so enthusiastic, it sounded more like sarcasm. “Unfortunately, that won’t work. I’d have to dispose of these one way or another and doing that properly takes time. I don’t share your passion for photography either.” His wide shoulders moved in a shrug. “But you’re welcome to take pictures… maybe you’ll get inspired.”

Scaramouche scoffed, pulling himself on top of the surgical table in the center of the room. Even through the thick layer of his jeans, he could tell the metal was awfully cold. “You’re such a fool, encouraging me to do all these things.”

Dottore smiled, but the expression did not quite reach his sunken eyes. His watchful gaze travelled up Scaramouche’s body, all the way up from the tip of his shoes to the collarbone, and for a moment, the man truly felt like one of his hospital patients.

The truth was, he willingly walked right into a murderer’s lair. If there was a fool in the room, it surely couldn’t have been Dottore. But, alas, he’d never let his own resilience wobble, not out in the open. He returned the bitter smile.

“…You must be planning another attack, soon.”

The blue-haired surgeon nodded, his hands connected behind his back. “Yes, but I’d rather you call it a… project, let’s say. This one will require a lot of preparations, but that’s part of achieving the thrill.” His arm reached up behind Scaramouche’s head and the sudden movement caused a smell to reach the student’s twitching nostrils. Bleach, or copious amounts of hand sanitizer. This theory was supported by the inflamed fragments of skin, most likely the body’s reaction to the strong alcoholic contents. But there was more to it, underneath the powerful odor of ethanol. Something fragrant, most definitely perfume—heavy and musky, somewhat pine-like. In his head, the scent suited rich ladies and the elderly more than someone like Dottore, but it was surprisingly pleasant.

The doctor pinched a small chain hanging from the lightbulb in between his fingers. With a single pull, a yellow, bright light filled the storage room. Scaramouche watched a wrinkle near Dottore’s hooked nose form, a symptom of an incoming scowl. 

“My job gives me access to various chemical substances that are out of reach for most, but I cannot keep relying on the hospital’s stock. Unfortunately, a while back, one of my informants lost his life… mind you, not at my hands.” Dottore sighed, glancing at his guest. Scaramouche felt the urge to withdraw, to keep a reasonable distance in between the two, but his body wouldn’t move. “Admittedly, I was considering pesticides, but a lot of them are illegal here, especially in larger quantities…”

“What about morphine?” Scaramouche crossed his arms over his chest, an eyebrow raising. “I don’t use drugs, but it’s fairly easy to come across dealers in my area. I’ve heard them mention morphine at least a couple of times…”

“It’s prescription only.” Dottore pointed out. “Not a bad idea in theory, but I’d like to avoid resorting to means commonly associated with my profession. It wouldn’t be obvious, of course, but I suggest we look into the pesticide thing first. Not to mention, it’s kind of… boring—"

“…You.”

“Hm?”

“You look into it. This is outside of my expertise.” Scaramouche reached into the pocket of his pants and pulled out a neatly rolled cigarette, not asking for permission to smoke inside. Dottore winced at the sight, but did not berate the smaller man. The cap of his lighter clicked quietly. “Morphine was my suggestion, but if you want to do it your way, so be it. Until you figure something else out, I’m not going to do much…” Some smoke oozed out of his parted lips with nowhere to go, shrouding their silhouettes.

Dottore snickered. “You’re quite a nuisance.”

“And yet, you recruited me. You wanted my input? Here it is.”

The doctor rolled his eyes, but the gesture did not quite turn out the way he wanted it to, considering one of them clearly lacked the ability to move in such a dramatic way. “Fair enough. I’ll devise a more detailed plan once I obtain the substances and assign you a role to play.”

The photographer let out a half-hearted grunt of acknowledgement. Dottore reached behind himself and took out a wallet from his pocket. It was dark blue and shiny, with no signs of wear in the leather corners. It opened with a click and Scaramouche caught a glimpse of the man’s ID card, but before he made out the doctor’s real name, it snapped closed.

Something starting with a ‘Z’… shouldn’t be too troublesome to find him online.

A couple of bills got placed right beside his thin hand. Big numbers. He hasn’t seen this amount of money at once in what must’ve been years… This was more than he usually had to spend for the whole month, and would definitely help him get through the next week or two.

Back at his apartment, the fridge was almost empty, aside from a few old cans of what could hardly be called food. He wouldn’t be able to survive off of these moldy scraps for long.

His palm moved over the small stack, a wave of embarrassment coursing through his veins. What an inconvenience it was to rely on someone else… once again. He’d managed to get rid of this habit years ago, but independence took a massive toll on both his body and mind.

“Consider this an incentive, as well as proof of my good will.” Dottore hummed and Scaramouche was thankful for the lack of eye contact. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he saw any traces of smugness, or even worse—contempt—on the other man’s battered face. Instead, he nodded sharply at the remark, holding back a string of frustrated curses.

“…If that’s everything, you can drive me to my flat now.”

His muscles ached so, so terribly.

At first, soothed by the warm water, the pain wasn’t that bad; bearable enough to not let it show. This was one of the very few things he’d been complimented on as a child; sitting on the curbstone in his neighborhood with scraped knees, getting his cuts or weak, dislocated joints treated... “Your pain tolerance is incredible”, the nurses would say with wonder, relieved to deal with him instead of another spoiled, crying brat. Despite his unassuming stature and a pretty face, he’s always been able to withstand nearly everything life threw at him. But this ability didn’t really minimize the pain itself, no—moreso, it affected the way Kunikuzushi reacted to it. He learned at a young age that pained cries wouldn’t summon a responsible adult to his side. It wouldn’t make it more likely for someone to come and lull the little thing to sleep in a comforting embrace. He’d dig his digits into the open wounds and watch the slough disintegrate under the pressure, the small, slimy pieces getting underneath his fingernails.

But now, the temperature of the water was deathly cold—almost burning, quite ironically— and it was pushing past his lips and into his throat, met with the hot meat of his gums. A mess of black hair shrouded his entire face, moving in a manner similar to tentacles. That’s certainly how he felt in the moment; a heavy sea monster, shielded from the frosty air above the still waters, but doomed to traverse the ocean never having experienced rays of sunlight shining upon his scaly flesh.

His eyes have opened, met with nothing but darkness. A few bubbles floated up to the surface from his nose, his constricted lungs convulsing like a butterfly struggling to fly.

He felt dirty. He’s felt dirty for a couple of days. There were invisible specks of blood all over his thin form, ones he found impossible to scrub off. He could soak himself in the bathtub and hope that one day, it would be enough; but it was foolish of him to assume his sins would perish without genuine remorse.

But he’s never been a religious man, not to mention one that ever admitted to his mistakes.

Scaramouche blinked slowly and brought his knees up to his flat chest. It’s been a while since his meeting with Dottore and the man wasn’t showing many signs of life. He’s been on the lookout for the doctor’s car around the campus, too, but it seemed like he got better at hiding the stalking. Maybe he’s been busy with his actual job, too. He’s definitely been making Scaramouche busy thinking about him, much to the photographer’s dismay. 

He couldn’t even get a good night’s sleep anymore…or anything that wasn’t a miserable nap ending after four hours of unrest. He’s begun to dream a lot, though. He was never much of a dreamer, in all senses of the word. He’d push through his daily life as if it was a nightmare, too, focusing all of his efforts into taking another step and not falling apart like a neglected machine on the verge of breaking down.

For all of his disdain towards other students, they lived a life carefree enough for him to feel a pang of jealousy shoot straight through the hollow space in his chest. Their biggest concerns were missing an assignment or having to buy a train ticket back home for the weekend, not having to deal with a killer on the loose.

Or someone like Childe who, despite all of his responsibilities, managed to keep up a cheerful persona. Scaramouche has seen him a couple of times around the campus, usually trying to walk by unnoticed, but there were many instances in which the ginger spotted him among other familiar faces and instantly lit up. They exchanged waves and Scaramouche could tell that, as he was heading towards his classroom, the cursed freckled face and bright blue eyes followed him closely until he disappeared behind the door.

He had never managed to catch Childe in his regular clothing or on his way to his own classes. He was always in between jobs or fulfilling favors; kneeling by a bathroom sink with a wrench in his grip or carrying bags of fertilizer out of the shed…

Water splashed around, disturbed by the sudden movement, threatening to spill over the cast iron edges. His loud, shallow breaths filled the deafening silence, droplets sliding down his porcelain face and body. The cold air of the bathroom hit him without a warning and the incoming fit of shivers made the process of crawling out of the tub quite difficult. Wet fingers began to grope about, sliding clumsily across the floor tiles until he felt a corner of his phone press against his thumb. He picked the device up, blinking quickly as the reflection of a damp, dripping wretch stared back. It was just as confused and shaken by the idea which had just entered its head.

It took a moment for his emotions to subdue. After all, he was pretty sure it was his first time dialing this specific number, buried at the very deep of his concerningly short contact list.

He pressed the phone to his ear, listening to the cheerful sound of a ringtone, still partly submerged in the freezing bathwater.

“…Childe?”

“I’m sorry, if I knew earlier you’d want to hang out, I would’ve booked a fancy place—but this one is pretty good, I swear!”

Scaramouche pushed past a lost couple, probably tourists, judging by how focused they were on a map displayed on their phone screen. A cloud of red hair has begun to blend in with the colorful crowd, the young man’s voice travelling overhead and becoming part of the unbearable noise, typical for the city streets at this hour.

“Wait up,” The brunet muttered, but his efforts were futile. Childe had managed to outrun him, rushing as if someone was constantly on his trail—in this case, no one but him, and his patience was running thin. He pulled the sides of his navy bomber jacket around his torso, shielding himself from both the cold and the elbowing of the passerby. “Fuck it, man.”

“We’re almost there!” Childe called out, and the fingerless hand shot out from the mass of moving flesh, pointing to the side. “Turn left now, alright?!”

Usually, Scaramouche would aim for a bit of disobedience, but he didn’t want to risk getting trampled under the restless mob. With determination he didn’t know he was capable of himself, the photographer dove into one of the narrow alleys branching out from the main street, a loud gasp tearing out of his lungs. At last, able to engage in the bliss that was reclaiming his personal space. Childe was already standing right by his side, with a straight back and spotted hands resting above his hip dips. At least half a dozen of handmade bracelets hung from his wrists, some showing off all colors of the rainbow, others with various neon charms arranged in order to create words—names Scaramouche has never heard mentioned before. This time, the ginger was clothed in faded jeans, a black leather jacket and a worn band t-shirt underneath. From a stranger’s perspective, the two looked as if their meeting was just a casual hangout, but the shiny gel slicking the redhead’s hair back was the ultimate proof of the opposite. This was serious, and for Scaramouche, the contrast in their respective intentions felt morbidly funny.

“I didn’t expect there to be so many people out at this hour…” Childe muttered apologetically, offering his hand to the other student, who refused the help and opted to straighten up completely on his own.

“Of course there would be many people out at this hour, it’s Friday evening.” Scaramouche countered, rolling his eyes and biting back a meaner remark that had already begun to form on the tip of his tongue. He couldn’t let himself go too far with the insults; he was there for a reason. On a mission.

“Uh. Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” Childe chuckled, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The gaudy wristlets jingled with the motion, louder the farther away they strayed from the busy road. “Again, I’m sorry. I would’ve never thought you’d actually… ah, screw this. Let’s just enjoy ourselves for a while. Look!”

Scaramouche glanced up at a pink sign, the rays of light dancing on his pale skin, glowing radiantly in the unpenetrated dark of the night. Windows placed on both sides of the entrance, although big, were almost fully obscured by grime and layers upon layers of stickers. A few plants of unknown origin managed to successfully grow by the few steps leading up to the main door, but the lack of sunlight caused them to bend in the oddest of ways, wimpy and deformed. The very ends of the leaves have already begun to brown a little bit, curling as if to tuck themselves away. There were no wallflower smokers with their backs pressed against the brick wall outside, but a wave noise coming from the inside hinted at the popularity of the dingy den.

“…You’ve taken me to a bubble tea shop?”

Childe grinned. “What can I say, the drinks are tasty and within a reasonable price range… Of course, the bill is on me tonight, so you don’t need to worry about that. I thought this would be a nice spot for our first, you know…”

“Don’t get your hopes up. I was just bored.”

“Figured that out.” Childe opened the door, bowing his head playfully. “It was either this or inviting you for a round of vodka shots, but I decided it’d be better not to scare you away too quickly, considering you’ve given me an actual chance.”

The brunet scowled, shaking his head. “Knowing you, drinking a round of vodka shots would make our conversation more bearable.”

“I’ll make sure to remember that for the next time.”

There might be no next time, Scaramouche wanted to interject, but hesitated upon entering the establishment. It was something akin to a club, or rather, his idea of one—borrowed from the trashy movies his mother’s fling used to collect almost religiously. She’d put them on for Scaramouche and, eventually, his little sister to watch while she cleaned the gloomy apartment, sorting the groceries and chasing loads of roaches away with a broom. Those were definitely the type of movies kids his age weren’t supposed to be watching, but truly, that was the least of their worries at the time. The model would run from one room to another while the children sat glued to the TV screen. The view unfolding in front of him was certainly similar to the scenes portrayed in those low-quality shows, albeit without drugs and scantily dressed teenagers. Nonetheless, the lamps shone bright, the people talked loud and the atmosphere was rather overwhelming. There was a row of bar seats organized by the window and that’s where Childe led him to, picking up a vibrant menu card from the nearby table. “Ooh, they’re having a sale for the raspberry matcha mix. What do you think?”

“I’d rather have something bitter. Just matcha, no unnecessary fruits included.” Scaramouche climbed onto one of the chairs, noticing with a degree of annoyance that the tips of his combats boots were barely grazing the floor.

“Back in the day, this would probably be my order, too. But having younger siblings changes you as a person and now I cannot even taste anything that hasn’t been sprinkled with at least a pinch of sugar.”

“That’s… kind of gross.”

“Maybe?” Childe hummed, as agreeable as ever. “Certainly makes the hours spent at the gym more worth it, though. Oh, the waitress—excuse me!”

This wasn’t a revelation. Scaramouche has seen the man running late from the gym, with a hilarious red mark on his tall forehead from a much-too-tight headband at least on two separate occasions. On top of that, even though Ajax’ toned arms were currently hidden under a layer of artificial leather, the student was aware of their existence. Childe seemed determined to upkeep the repute of a well-versed university sweetheart and there was no better way to win someone’s heart than charming them with looks. The Russian could hardly be described as handsome, with his awkwardly long legs, permanently flushed ears and nose, as well as the small eyes… but even Scaramouche couldn’t deny him a unique, boyish charm.

Not to mention, working out must’ve made manual labor much easier and that was exactly what Scaramouche was after.

“Have you picked the habit of exercising up after moving here for college, or was it already your hobby before?”

Ajax’ thin eyebrows raised in amazement at his colleague’s question. Initiating a conversation was already rare for Scaramouche to do, but actually keeping it going? This has never happened before. The younger man tried really hard to play it cool, but fidgeting with a charm hanging from one of the bracelets betrayed his anxiety. “I picked up gym after moving here. My hometown is really, really small and I didn’t have any opportunities to exercise with proper equipment. But I’ve always been a sporty guy… It was simply the matter of transitioning from ice hockey to lifting weights.” Childe mused, cerulean irises boring into the brunet. “Why? You eager to join in on the fun?”

“Not quite.” Scaramouche shook his head, observing the graceful movements of the waitress with both of their drinks on her tray. She maneuvered in between the other guests with the ease of a dancer, placing their order in front of their noses and disappearing as quickly as she had appeared. “I have no interest nor time to engage in sports, but I guess you could say I’ve started… gardening.”

“That’s… unexpected.” Childe said after a few moments of total silence. Even though Scaramouche knew there was no way for the redhead to know of his plans, somehow, the lack of an immediate reaction planted a seed of worry in his heart. Fuck, he didn’t even know if the scheming would be fruitful. Dottore was an insufferable asshole that overused convoluted sentences and vague implications to drive his point home. Even if Scaramouche had managed to get his hands on the pesticides with the help of uninitiated Childe, their purpose would still be unknown to him. Which, hypothetically, would clear him of any blame, wouldn’t it? “Since when? I don’t know if I can be of much help to you, honestly… My knowledge is still surface-level, I just dig in the ground and carry around heavy things… What would you like to know?”

“Everything?” Scaramouche cleared his throat, suddenly well-aware of his own lack of any basic knowledge regarding floriculture. “Uh… I’m very much a beginner, I don’t even know the names of half the tools I’ve seen online… I was hoping to see what you’re provided with and learn from that. I doubt the university would supply you with low quality shit, no?”

“Well…” Childe rubbed his pointed chin, lost in thought. Uncomfortable with the lack of a response, Scaramouche focused on his drink instead, attacking the paper straw with a full set of sharp teeth. The tea was good, with almost no hint of sweetness ruining the savory taste. “I could definitely send you some photos of the stuff stashed inside of the shed in two days, how about that?”

“Excellent.” Scaramouche murmured, placing the plastic cup back onto the counter. “…Could I go with you, see how it looks for myself?”

Childe’s light eyelashes fluttered a couple of times. “Well… If you promise not to snitch on me to the higher-ups? You know, for slacking off… or however you phrased that a few days ago.”

Scaramouche rolled his eyes at the playful tease, a wave of relief washing over him. He must’ve struck gold with this enamored kid following him around like a lost puppy… always at his beck and call. “We’ve got a deal.” He said quietly, sliding off of his stool. Childe turned, pausing with a straw barely an inch away from his mouth.

 “Wait, you’re leaving already?”

Scaramouche gazed into the hopeful blue eyes, feeling a few of the other guests brush against his back on their way to order more drinks. The light from the neon sign outside of the shop illuminated half of Childe’s youthful face, specks of pink like rays of sunlight passing through leaves in a forest. The background music was too loud to make out his words clearly, but the sadness twisting his expression was impossible to miss.

“Get off my dick, I’m just looking for the bathroom. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Gotcha.” Childe slurped on the liquid, not even trying to hide the wide smile. “…Have fun.”

“Shut up.” Scaramouche barely held back a dramatic gagging noise, scanning the room for the bathroom sign and spotting one on the other side of the store. Thankfully, there was no line, and so, he was able to sneak into the last stall very easily. He scrambled to pull his phone out of his bag, attempting to ignore the cacophony which penetrated the thin walls. With a heavy sigh, the man stared at the little icon in the corner of the screen, his finger hovering above it.

Goddammit, there was no use dragging this out.

[ i might have found a way for you to get the pesticides ]

[ call me in two days ]

Chapter Text

He’s always hated visiting grocery stores in this part of the city.

When it came to overstimulating one’s senses, there really was no place worse than the bright, loud supermarkets filled to the brim with people pushing their carts and, oftentimes, children tugging on their mothers’ sleeves as if their lives depended on whether they get to eat a sweet treat or not. Spoiled brats , Scaramouche would normally think, but the lamps hanging overhead blinded him too much to actually focus on spreading the usual negativity. With his dark eyes narrowed, he’s been staring at a plastic wrapper of some item he’d picked off the shelves out of boredom. Most of the words printed in a bold, dark font were a mystery to him; aside from the basic descriptors, like aqua or sodium chloride, he couldn’t recognize any of them. All the tiny letters were blurring together into one mass of incomprehensible verses and, eventually, Scaramouche sneered, placing the enigmatic bottle back down. Whatever the thing was, it cost like five bucks, and even with his budget for today…

The man halted to scan the room, but there was no familiar blue head traversing the store in sight—at least, not anywhere near. Scaramouche pushed the cart a little further, having to use more and more force with each passing second to gain enough momentum. The wheels of the metal thing haven’t been cleaned in months, years even. Lazily, like a disinterested cat, the brunet wandered the narrow alleys stacked with colorful products, following the lead of black stripes lining the floor.

It was nice to, for once, not have to look at the price tags of everything. The weight of the produce inside of the cart was comforting in that regard. Without any interesting topic to occupy his brain, the man’s thoughts trailed back to the unofficial ‘date’ of sorts from the night before.

To be honest, there was no reason to call it that , but the ginger’s intentions were crystal clear and Scaramouche wasn’t stupid. Only an utter fool wouldn’t notice the excitement shining in the redhead’s dull eyes, so overpowering it could almost overshadow the neon sheen present in the tea shop. Outside, a gentle drizzle had begun to fall, forming small puddles in every crack and hole of the asphalt road. Scaramouche watched them gradually fill up, all while the amount of tea in their respective cups kept decreasing. He’d reluctantly engage in small talk every now and then, not wanting to spoil the budding partnership; its petals have started to bloom and it could prove useful in the future. He’d allowed Childe to chat his ears off with more stories about his hometown and adventures from his day-to-day life, some more interesting, some a little less. He’d scrape his straw against the bottom of the plastic container, tearing the remaining pearls to pieces. During one of the tales, he’d reached his arm out above a trash can, just to be interrupted by the younger man’s abrupt gasp.

“What are you doing? There’s still some boba left in there.”

“…Not a big fan of it.” Scaramouche said slowly, hand still frozen mid-air. At most, he was surprised that something had succeeded at interrupting Childe’s word vomit. 

“Then give it to me.”

Ignoring the questionable hygiene of such an ordeal, the student watched his companion dip the cup unceremoniously, sticking his tongue out to catch all the bits sliding down the smooth plastic. Frankly, it was not a pleasant sight and many other guests have seemed to share this belief, frowning with disapproval at the couple’s antics. Upon noticing the mix of emotions boiling over on Scaramouche’s baffled face, the redhead beamed. “In my house, no food goes to waste.”

It was silly and that was the nicest term Kunikuzushi could come up with in these circumstances.

When they were heading towards the shop, the sea of people was impenetrable—but on their way out the door, the streets were uncharacteristically empty. If the two focused for a while, they could hear the sound of droplets hitting the roofs and coverings hastily pulled over the precious displays. Childe walked him right up to the nearest bus stop, squinting at the time table hung up on a pole, defiled by amateurish graffiti and obnoxious stickers. “Which one is yours? The next bus will arrive in… 3 minutes, I think.” His freckled thumb rubbed against the splash of  aerosol paint, but to no avail; it wouldn’t come off.

“I can get home with that one.” Quiet words were hastily spoken into the darkness, muffled by the rain growing in intensity. His knuckles were cold, even stuffed inside of his bomber jacket’s pockets. “You should get going now.”

Childe hesitated for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip in wonder. With his own jacket pulled over the messy strands of hair, he’d looked like an outlandish sea creature fished straight out of the water. Scaramouche couldn’t help a small snort slipping out. “…What? Planning to take a few extra days off work due to a cold? Shoo.”

The wrinkles in the corners of Childe’s eyes when he was smiling were quite charming. “Alright. See you soon?”

Scaramouche nodded sharply. “In two days.” He confirmed. “Don’t forget, though. I don’t have patience for constantly delaying plans.”

The boy promised to remember and there was no reason not to believe him. The light emanating from his joyous face kept him warm in the cold of the night for the next couple of minutes, even as his tall silhouette disappeared into the shadows. After waiting for Childe to leave, Scaramouche turned on his heel and walked away as well, ignoring the blue bus coming to a halt behind his back. Now, it was just time to wait… but not for as long as he’d hoped for. 

He wasn’t planning to see Dottore anytime soon, really. But, somehow, the doctor has stuck to him like a fat, blood-sucking leech.

A sound of something hitting the bottom of the cart pulled Scaramouche’s head out of the clouds; the photographer blinked furiously, a small hoarse cough tearing out of his throat. Of course, this was enough to summon the man himself, like some sort of an ancient demon. His gloved hands wrapped around the metal wire, every inch of sickly yellow skin concealed from the rest of the world. Long locks of hair dangled at the sides of his face, having escaped a loose ponytail resting in between his shoulder blades. This might’ve been the most casual Kunikuzushi has ever seen the doctor look. 

“I thought this shopping trip was supposed to serve my needs, not yours.” His voice cut like a blade through the tense silence, instantly met with a shrug. He gazed at the growing pile of supplies and ingredients, some of which definitely weren’t his additions.

“I’m not going to return here again today just to get stuff for myself separately.” Dottore replied simply, reaching out to poke at a tower of cardboard boxes with his pointer finger, watching it tip over with a satisfied smile—or at least, that was the expression Scaramouche thought was hidden behind a mask. “I’ll be paying anyway, so it doesn’t matter. Did you get everything you wanted?”

Scaramouche looked around, but nothing else caught his attention. At first, he was hesitant to use Dottore like this; not out of some respect for the hard-earned money or the older man’s wellbeing, but due to his own hurt sense of pride. There was something off about the way the surgeon treated him, coaxing him into his suffocating embrace with the promise of wealth and comfort. Even though Dottore has kept his distance in the literal sense, every time they’d meet, Scaramouche could almost feel the damp breath against the hairs on the back of his neck and the sound of the murderer’s labored breathing. There was danger lurking within and for now, he’s been nothing more than a sacrificial lamb waiting for the grand climax of a blood ritual. The crimson orbs drilled holes into his body, the thrill of the chase almost palpable. The taste of sweat tingled the very tip of his tongue and his heart fluttered deep, deep in his body, for once having an actual reason to beat faster, shaking off the last bits of drowsiness which have been holding it back for years. At last, he was forced into a state of constant anxiety, adrenaline buzzing pleasantly in his veins.

Dottore’s eyes squinted, framed by long, white eyelashes. Get out of my head.

“I think so.” Scaramouche murmured, nodding in the direction of a bored shopping assistant at her desk. “Let’s go.”

It felt weird to walk shoulder to shoulder with another person. As simple as it was, he hasn’t experienced any closeness in years. Dottore hooked a loose strand of hair behind his ear, revealing a silver luster covering his temple. Once again, Scaramouche had begun to wonder about the man’s age; due to the nature of their partnership, they haven’t really talked much about their personal lives. This sudden, sparked interest could come in handy one day. The more he knew, the safer his life would be.

In silence, the two approached the cash register. A pop of the cashier’s bubblegum balloon caused the man’s hand to clench into a fist. It sounded just like a gun going off. 

“You need a bag?” The blonde teen asked reluctantly, chewing loud enough for the sound to soar over the cliché, upbeat background song from the ancient speakers attached overhead. She was, quite shamelessly, checking out the battered half of Dottore’s visage. 

“Yes—”

“I have my own… Ah.”

The girl’s gaze slowly traveled in between the two, lips pursing to create another impressive balloon. “Mhm.” She glanced back down, probably at a phone screen hidden clumsily underneath the counter, limp wrist moving to scan the incoming products. Some cleaning supplies, bleach, cans of food…

“Marzipan?” Scaramouche smirked, following the route of the two beige packs sliding on top of a conveyor belt. “I did not grab those. Chocolate-coated…” He deciphered the wrapper out-loud, tilting his head. “How interesting.” 

Dottore snatched both of them with a scoff and a theatrical eye roll, plunging them into one of the plastic bags provided by the young shopping assistant. “What about it?” He asked calmly, but Scaramouche could swear that the tip of his in-tact ear had gained a rosy hue. His attempts at deflecting weren’t too successful…

And this was exactly why Scaramouche wasn’t too worried. He’s dealt with people of various backgrounds before. At the end of the day, all of them were more similar than they thought; personal goals and ambitions twisting and warping, all completely meaningless in the grand scheme of things. Dottore, while certainly an anomaly that had found its way into his daily routine, couldn’t have been too special. At their core, all men were the same; this was the only belief he’d inherited from his family.

Dottore picked up the bags effortlessly and, in turn, Scaramouche picked up the receipt, examining the long sheet of shiny paper and skimming over the final price of everything they had gotten. The jingle of the car keys signified Dottore’s growing impatience and so, he headed towards the parking lot—not without an annoyed sigh first, of course. Within a few seconds, the crumpled receipt sat comfortably in the back pocket of his pants.

He'd just opened his mouth to speak up again, ask about something insignificant or try to get on Dottore’s nerves a little bit more, considering that seemed to be the best way to actually find out more about him. But as soon as the photographer mentally prepared for the incoming interrogation, he felt a vibration in the bag he was carrying; tucked safely into one of the many compartments, his phone had begun to ring.

Dottore looked up immediately, cautious like a hawk, quickly locating the source of the noise. Hovering above the open trunk of his car, he took a second or two to analyze Scaramouche’s startled expression. “…Aren’t you going to answer?” The doctor mused playfully, gesturing vaguely in his direction. “I don’t think this is a daily occurrence for you.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Dottore was right.

He hasn’t had many numbers saved in his phonebook, really. A taxi driver, that one dingy pizza place down the street from his block of flats. One of his professors, the prissy lady that insisted on becoming his thesis supervisor… Childe, who has earned this spot thanks to being unbearably stubborn, as well as the newest addition—Dottore himself, who, quite obviously, couldn’t be the one bothering him at the moment. That would leave only one person among the suspects and Scaramouche dreaded looking down at the screen, for his intuition must’ve been correct.

The student wet his dry lips, taking a few small steps back and almost hitting the side of another vehicle. Dottore straightened up,  genuine intrigue present in the scarlet slits on his face. “I’ll be right back.” Scaramouche’s cold fingers wrapped around the buzzing phone, his own eyes still averted and searching around for an adequate spot to hide around in and wait out the storm. The last thing he wanted was for the blue-haired surgeon to gain even more blackmail material. “Don’t you dare drive off without me…” His voice trailed off and faded into nothing, the distraction hindering the basic functions of his body. Fuck.

It’s been… at least half a year, if not more. He wished hearing the sound of her voice would stop filling his heart with the same type of dread and sadness as in his childhood. There was no profile picture and instead of an actual name, only one letter described the caller: “Y”. 

His thumb swiped across the screen. “What do you want?” A short, aggressive bark was the only form of a greeting he’d offer to the woman on the other side of the line.

“My, my. Why so unkind? I just wanted to hear your voice.”

Scaramouche closed his eyes for a moment, gathering up the strength to reply to the teasing statement without losing his cool and throwing the barely-functioning phone onto the ground with all of his underlying strength. Usually, motivated by ulterior motives or the promise of a great pay-off, he’d find it easy to put on an agreeable front. There weren’t many people in the world capable of slamming his patience against the wall, repeatedly , but his mother’s high school sweetheart certainly deserved that title.

That one model who would always put on trashy shows for him and his sister to watch while she’d discreetly tidy up in the background, as much as possible during her short visits. The one that, despite her dainty and unassuming demeanor, would somehow always succeed at dragging a bunch of clothes up a flight of steep stairs and force him to try them on, unashamed of making pointed comments that stung like needles. The one that would take her time combing and braiding his hair while his own mother’s was still tangled within the bristle of the hairbrush; a result of hours spent untangling all the matts and knots. Her name was Yae Miko; the most annoying, insensitive and intolerable woman he knew, as well as the only beam of optimism present in his miserable childhood. 

“I told you not to call unless an emergency happened.”

“Mm, how do you know it hasn't?”

With just a little bit more of force, he was pretty sure he could leave a dent in the phone’s silicone case. “Because then, you wouldn’t waste your time on this pointless chatter and get straight to the point. Do you think I’m dumb? Next time I’m just going to block your number.”

Years ago, her velvety voice could’ve squeezed out a fair amount of tears from his tear ducts. It’s been too long now, though. Far too long. Her attentiveness  hurt the same, but there were no more tears stored within his form to cry with. “I’ve heard this exact threat many times and yet, you still haven’t. I think I don’t have to worry about anything in that regard.”

“You…” Scaramouche sucked in some air, a sharp whistle created from the friction in between his gritted teeth. “God, you’re already pissing me off.”

“I’m well aware of that. Either way… Since you’re so interested in what’s been going on over here, I’ll let you in on some things—”

“Did She ask you to call me?”

A beat of silence. He knew the answer even before the inquiry slipped out against his will, and yet in a true masochistic fashion, he still decided to blurt this painful concoction of words out—like phlegm, sticking to the walls of his throat, that needed to be discarded. Choosing to spit it out was the lesser evil. He wouldn’t be able to breathe otherwise.

“No, Kunikuzushi.”

Yae’s tone was even gentler, now. She was never one to enjoy inflicting senseless pain. Had he been an animal dying in her hands, she would’ve caressed him during the final departure.

“She never does.”

He knew this. He knew.

His eyes have parted again, blinking away the last bits of sorrow and frustration; an emptied well that has ceased to exist. Years ago, the pink-haired lady had chosen her side and now, she was the only one who still bothered to acknowledge his existence. 

“…I’m busy right now.” His lips have brushed against the corner of the phone. He didn’t even realize he’d been clutching it this hard. “Seriously, if you don’t have anything important to say, I’ll hang up.”

There was a long, drawn-out sigh coming from the port of his mobile. “Whatever you say. I don’t want to push you any further, but… if you ever do change your mind, please know that you’re welcome here anytime.” There was no trace of a lie in her words, but Scaramouche knew that Yae could only speak for herself. “I felt like it was important for me to reach out today for some reason… Are you sure everything is alright?”

Behind him sat Dottore, sprawled out comfortably in the driver’s seat, with long legs stretched out to the best of their ability. His head was tipped slightly, the face mask hanging from his ear by a sturdy piece of string, caught up in a blue crystal earring he’d always seemed to wear. Even from all the way across the parking lot, the air of confidence radiating from the man was making him feel dizzy. He was being watched, tirelessly, as if he was the single most interesting object in the whole world—him, at the very center of it, with his unironed T-shirt and smudged, red eyeliner. The gaze felt almost perverse in its intensity, like a scratch that would leave his bare skin burnt. The gash full of teeth broadened in a light, encouraging smile.

“Yes.” Scaramouche let out, watching as a ray of sunlight fell across the windshield and obstructed his view of the man inside. “Why wouldn’t I be? Don’t call again.”

Before Yae Miko had the chance to reply, he pressed the red button on the screen. A quiet, barely audible click against his ear. And then, quiet—yet again. The man scrunched up his nose, shaking his head in defeat. Despite the passage of time, somehow that witch could still tell when things were off. Whether it was some sort of a divine gift, like she’d half-jokingly insist, or just an extreme coincidence and life playing tricks on him, he didn’t know. With a sigh, reminiscent of the one the pink-haired lady somewhere far away had just made, he walked back towards the car.

“You’ll fall.”

The voice was cold and matter-of-factly, suiting the image of an old, tired scholar with arms crossed over his chest, standing to his side and watching the scene unfold.

“I’ll be fine—” Scaramouche hissed, stretching out until the joints in his limbs cracked loudly. At the sound, Dottore huffed, the wrinkle near the corner of his mouth deepening with disapproval. “What? Quit staring.”

“You’ll fall.” Dottore repeated, grim and serious. “…And you’ll have to scrape everything that spills off the ground, because I’m not planning to take another trip with you to the store anytime soon.”

“Ah, so that’s what it’s really about!” Scaramouche feigned surprise, taking a hold of the overflowing bags; propping them up in his arms, not nearly as effortlessly as when Dottore picked them up at the counter. His cheek, pressed against the harsh edge of a yogurt container, was one of the only elements keeping the delicate structure standing. One wrong step and all the fruits of their, or rather Dottore’s labor, would be lost. “I’m not letting you into my flat, I do not have a death wish.”

Dottore scoffed, watching Scaramouche try to balance himself with the soles of his trainers planted firmly on the ground. “Counterproductive. I already know where you live, so don’t be stubborn.” More than the suggestion itself, Scaramouche couldn’t stand the awfully condescending, parental tone. “It’s going to be such a waste. Olive oil prices have been soaring recently, just so you know. According to data, it’s—”

Scaramouche turned his head to bite back with a witty reply, despite his spectacular lack of knowledge about the international olive oil market, but in this exact moment, the delicate balance he’s managed to keep up began to waver. Panicked, the man tried spreading his legs further apart, but to no avail; he’d stumbled backwards, losing the battle with gravity pulling him onto the dirty pavement. “Fuck—!” He yelped, surely having turned a few heads around the block.

His eyes shut closed, but the anticipated fall did not come. Some air, squeezed out of his lungs in the form of a breathy whimper, was the only indication that something had happened—his back was pressed against a surprisingly soft, warm and uneven surface. A strand of cornflower blue tickled the front of his nose and the already recognizable scent of stale cologne, mixed in with the bitterness of a  disinfectant invaded his senses. A large, gloved hand was holding the bag upright, sides of that wretched yogurt container cutting into the soft, black leather.

What a close call.

“Told you.” The doctor’s voice was tired and pointed, with an almost motherly quality which nearly made Scaramouche hurl. “Ugh…” The displeased groan caught him off-guard as he was preparing a string of nasty curses. There was uncomfortable warmth creeping up his torso, sure to manifest through red patches blooming all over his neck. Dottore leaned back, spraining his head slightly to the side with a frown. Somehow, this was even more embarrassing than the tight clasp on the side of his trunk itself. 

“What?” 

“Smoke.” Dottore explained through clamped fangs; Scaramouche could see his jaw tense through the scarred, exposed flesh, the red gums of his teeth glistening in the muted sunlight. Scara’s eyebrow twitched in a questioning manner and the older man sighed. “Cigarette smoke. It’s all over you and, to be honest, it’s quite disgusting.” As if to accentuate his complaint, the doctor coughed quietly.

Scaramouche stared, not sure how to react to the blatant and shameless audacity of the murderer standing in front of him– daring to whine about cigarette smoke, out of all things wrong with the world. The initial shock successfully distracted him from the realization that just mere seconds ago, Dottore’s chest was pressed flat against his shoulder blades, his steady breath and the revolting whir of air pushing through the mucus-filled canals of his damaged mouth and nose a few inches away. Free of  the weight of the groceries, reclaimed by the doctor, he grazed his nails against the short hairs at the back of his neck, almost… disappointed to sense that all the warmth had already faded away. “…Just follow me.” He muttered, heading towards the entrance of the block of flats. 

If he cared more, he would apologize for the mess—but a part of him was almost excited to see Dottore fumble about in an environment like this. If anything, his revulsion would be the driving force behind his behavior; if cigarette smoke was enough to tick him off, then what about the mold? What about the stench coming from the pipes? Specks of blood and spit on the mirror? He hoped, with all his heart, that Dottore would feel uncomfortable—his own little victory, nearing with every quiet step heard behind his back. You are not welcome here.

Not much has changed these past few days. The polyester blanket was placed in a bundle on top of the mattress, his old camera lying abandoned in between its folds; the night before, uninspired and unhappy, he'd been sitting there tweaking the settings a bit and thinking about his college assignments. He’s kept the place as livable as possible; even though the shabby curtains were drawn and the floor tiles creaky, at least there weren’t any rotten scraps around. He didn’t have enough time in the morning to wash the bowl in which some soggy cereal was submerged in milk and the door to the wardrobe was wide open, barely holding onto the rusted hinges. In the middle of this cramped den, with his heels digging into the soft carpet fibers, now stood Dottore; expression unreadable, despite Scaramouche’s scrutiny. He hasn’t moved an inch, even when the host of this humble abode pushed past him, kicking open a compact refrigerator. “Weren’t you supposed to leave after carrying these upstairs?” Kunikuzushi muttered, dissatisfied with the lack of a reaction. Dottore hummed, nodding towards the corner of the ceiling.

“That’s mold.”

Scaramouche rolled his eyes so hard that it hurt. “How insightful.”

“Have you tried doing something about it?”

The brunet paused, remembering the fateful day when, equipped with a bandana and a pair of latex gloves, he’d tried to scrub the patch off on his own. Although the room was tiny, the ceiling was high— and after almost breaking his nose on two separate occasions, he’d given up and accepted the little fungus monster as his new roommate. “…Not necessarily, why?” He grumbled, wishing for the memory to go away. 

The doctor scoffed, shaking his head with skepticism. “God, Scaramouche, you must constantly be high from all the floating spores.” Clearly, this prospect seemed more amusing to him than worrying. “Is that why you’re like this?”

“Like what ?” Scaramouche closed his eyes, breathing out through his nose in exasperation.

Dottore let out another chuckle, stepping closer and casting an imposing shadow over Scaramouche’s crouching form. He was tall, taller than most people, and their current positions made their height difference even more clear. Despite that, Scaramouche wasn’t scared in the slightest. The tip of his guest’s shiny, black boot nudged his calf with gentleness he did not anticipate. “Don’t think too much about it.” He mused with a cheeky smile. “I’ll come over next weekend and get rid of it.” This was not a question, but a statement.

“…Don’t you think you might have some form of a savior complex?” Scaramouche got up, wiping the palms of his hands against the rough fabric of his trousers. For Dottore, this comment must’ve been the funniest thing ever—especially considering the use of the word ‘savior’. Nonetheless, he did not reply. Scaramouche shook his head.

“So, as for that friend of yours…”

Of course.

“I’ll take care of it. I don’t want you to meet him, you’ve latched onto every aspect of my life enough already.” The student grumbled, now facing Dottore with no other distractions to keep his hands busy. The surgeon had absolutely no shame, gawking like a hawk. His presence was overwhelming and, surely, if it wasn’t for his own valor, he would crack under the pressure of this watchful gaze.

“Oh, absolutely. Then I won’t dare to overstay my welcome.”

Scaramouche watched Dottore shuffle slowly towards the door. His high heel left an imprint on the dirty carpet.

“Remember patience isn’t my strong suit, though. I don’t wish to wait for too long. If something doesn’t work out… we’ll have to improvise.” He paused for a second, looking over his shoulder. The bright blue earring jingled quietly. “Can I count on you, Scaramouche?”

Scaramouche nodded, his hand resting on the counter turning into a fist. There was an odd sensation coiling in his gut, like a snake ready to bite. As surreal as it was, he’d have to find a way to connect both sides of his life together—his brain refused to accept that the next day, the reality of the situation Dottore put him through would irreversibly merge with the routine of the past couple of years. Confronted with the poised, crimson-eyed opponent sitting on the other side of the chess board, it was up to him to make the next move. There was a small, discolored pawn sticking to the sweaty palm of his hand. The faded wood was covered in tiny freckles of grime and paint.

“Oh my god.”

Scaramouche looked up questioningly, awaiting further elaboration.

“You look just like a mushroom.”

Scaramouche snorted, wiping the rain droplets off his cheek. There was a smudge of red on the rim of his sleeve, which definitely wasn’t a good sign. Usually, his eyeliner was unmovable, but for some reason, today’s rain… Lately, the weather has been all over the place; he’d always either overheat in zipped-up jackets or shiver out in the cold. This time, he’d put on a hat, his fringe sticking from underneath to the forehead. “I don’t know what kind of fucked up mushrooms you’ve seen in your hometown.” He replied with annoyance, pointing his finger at Ajax accusingly. “Besides, look who’s talking. A fucking… chicken or something.”

Childe winked, pulling the hood of his neon yellow raincoat over his head. “Hell yeah, I am.”

They’ve walked through the university’s lawn, shielding themselves from the strong gusts of wind bending the decorative bushes in half. The wet mud stuck to the soles of his shoes and he wasn’t looking forward to scrubbing it out of the rubbery ridges in the evening, but some sacrifices must’ve been made. “We could’ve just chosen to walk on the path!” Scaramouche whined, observing a few loose leaves getting caught in a stray whirlwind.

Childe shook his head. “Too slippery!”

Scaramouche grimaced at the thought. He’s had enough of falling into the arms of questionable men—maybe, in the end, walking on grass was a better idea after all. They were headed towards a shed hidden away in the shadows of the main building, with a tall fence surrounding it– Childe’s lair during work hours, a house to many tools and substances Scaramouche was after. The taste of rain was slightly acidic on his tongue and the clouds were hanging dangerously low. A bunch of keys dangling from the redhead’s belt was the only source of hope and a promise of a shelter.

“Okay, get in.”

Ajax stepped to the side, letting Scaramouche pass through the doorway first. Suddenly, the world grew a little quieter; even the whistle of the wind wasn’t as aggressive anymore, squeezing through the cracks in the wooden planks. Instead, the men were hit with an odd, earthy smell—one Kunikuzushi has smelled before, many times, in fact. On Childe’s idiotic overalls, his gardening gloves… Now, everything clicked.

Behind him, Ajax let out an incomprehensible noise, shaking the rain droplets off like a big, dirty dog. Soon enough, a small puddle had formed at his feet. He had to walk with his back bent and even like this, the top of his head was still occasionally touching the roof. “Welcome!” He proclaimed with pride, turning with his arms spread wide. “This is where basically everything is stored away! I keep some chips in the drawer, want a snack?”

Scaramouche shook his head, tearing the damp hat off his head. It was heavy in his hand, fully drenched and adding to the plash already staining the floors. “No need.” He muttered, hesitating for a second before approaching a box of tools stashed away in the corner. It looked similar to the one he’d caught a glimpse of on top of Dottore’s desk in his office, although the one belonging to the doctor was much cleaner and sturdier… in its prime and in the hands of a true professional, not some immigrant student looking to make a quick buck.

“You want to know more about these?” Childe asked, sitting on top of the main desk and crossing his long, crooked legs. “The one you’re holding at the moment is called a trowel. Be careful, I’ve had to wrap some tape around the handle after it broke off… And those are pruning shears, they’re used for trimming the shrubs.” He began explaining, watching Scaramouche pick up each mysterious device one by one; all while his eyes were scanning the room for something much more interesting.

“And that?”

Childe frowned, confused for a moment. “Oh, that? Just some fertilizer… This one is rich in potassium, helps the plants survive when they’re being tampered with a bit too much. I don’t think you’d need it if you’re just a beginner growing some stuff for personal use?”

Scaramouche smiled bitterly, running his hand over the smooth polyethylene. “I’ll do my research.” This was, quite obviously, a lie. “What about this one?” He poked a canister squirreled away behind the plastic fertilizer bag. Bingo.

He could hear Childe shifting and a quiet thud indicated that the man slid off the desk, approaching unhurriedly. His heart was beating hard in his chest, a bent knee digging into where his sternum was located. All of this felt awfully familiar.

“Oh… I don’t really use this often.” The cheerful voice supplied helpfully. “That’s a herbicide. Kills all the weeds in the blink of an eye, makes me cough like crazy no matter what gear I wear.” The lanky boy knelt at his side, wiping dust off the peeling label. “Thankfully, everything has been growing well lately. Since there’s so many people walking around the campus, it’s used only in special cases, when it’s really difficult to get rid of invasive species.” He used his middle finger to tap the synthetic material. Scaramouche’s gaze was drawn to the light scar stretching from his knuckle in the place of a non-existent digit.

There were no windows in the shed, but up-close, Childe’s face was perfectly visible, too. He could see every spot of discoloration and orange freckle, sometimes close enough to form actual patches of one color. “Why?”

Scaramouche shrugged, breaking off the eye contact awkwardly. “I’m just curious. How much does it cost?”

“I don’t even know… I get provided with a few bottles and told how to use them.” The redhead admitted, feeling the floor around before plopping down cross-legged. “Around twenty bucks, maybe? If you’re aiming for the stuff readily available in stores.”

“And the things that aren’t?”

Childe smiled even wider, his dark blue eyes narrowing impossibly more. He’d taken a few seconds to scan Scaramouche’s neutral expression. “…Why?”

Scaramouche sucked in some breath abruptly, straightening up and glaring at the ginger. “Again, I’m just curious. Who would’ve thought that a hobby as innocent as gardening would have so many intricacies and limitations.” He explained coldly, wanting to avoid raising suspicions. Despite his cheerful persona, Ajax was much brighter than it seemed. Some surmise was inevitable; Kunikuzushi just didn’t want it to snowball into something much more dangerous.

“Well, it depends. I don’t know the details… I suppose some are off the charts completely, and for some others, you need a permit; if you’re a farmer or represent an institution. Like anything law-related, it’s convoluted and I don’t know what category this bottle belongs to… You’ll have to ask someone else if this topic interests you.”

Scaramouche hummed in acknowledgement, silent for a few seconds. Any more questions would cross the line of doing friendly research and planning something less than legal. He might have agreed to help Dottore out, but that did not mean risking his own wellbeing; not to such a drastic extent, at least. He’s already done a lot of favors for the man. His role was that of an informant and a guide, not a… colleague of sorts. A co-partner , even.

Actually, that didn’t sound half bad. It rolled off his tongue easily.

“Can I borrow it?”

“Oh?” Childe blinked, shrugging after a moment of consideration. “Ehh, sure. I don’t think I should let you do that, but I don’t use it much anyway. Just make sure to return it within a week, alright? Don’t get me in more trouble than I’m already in.”

“Already in?” The photographer asked half-heartedly, scrambling to his feet and gathering the canister up into his arms before the gardener had the chance to actually think this decision through and change his mind.

He heard Childe’s laugh, the flash of crooked teeth lining the sunny smile. It was incredible, the dedication with which the man was committed to playing the part. This did not seem like a performance, Ajax did not have the allure for that. Nonetheless, he’d kept parts of himself at bay; there was energy coursing through him and, if he was a better man, Scaramouche would feel worse about handing the boy’s fate to someone with much less self-control. This young man was a whirlpool out in the sea and the pull of his dull eyes was not something to overlook.

“Because of you.”

Scaramouche felt tension leave his muscles, shoulders drooping at the simplicity of statement. He didn’t need Childe to elaborate, he didn’t even w ant him to. He moved the bottle under the side of his jacket, hearing the toxic liquid splash inside. The wind picked up, blowing even louder than before, giving the illusion of a shack that would soon shatter into millions of wooden shards.

“…I’m just excited to see you find joy in another interest. Doesn’t always dragging that camera of yours around get a little boring?” Childe flailed his wrist around, quick to change the topic. “I think gardening can only do you good… it’s relaxing, you know? Hopefully it’ll make you smile a bit more.”

Scaramouche hummed, looking up at the ceiling. “Wishful thinking.”

“No, really. I mean it. It’d suit you and your—” There was a playful glint in Ajax’ irises. “…mushroom-self.”

“You’re still going at it…” The photographer made a snide remark, caressing one of the buttons on his camera absentmindedly. Moments like these, they weren’t inspiring, but certainly made him feel some sort of way. “I already took off the hat.”

Childe was still just a kid, an overachiever getting on his nerves more and more with each passing day. One day, if everything went well, he’d ask him if he could be his model, if only for one insignificant photoshoot. He’d reminded him of someone, someone also from the long-forgotten past; the memories were blurry, but the resemblance still uncanny. It must’ve been Yae’s influence, him reminiscing so much… 

Maybe it was a selfish desire, but he’d wanted to capture this youth and commit it to film forever– before its fire would be extinguished.

The window was left ajar, putting the thin curtains into gentle swaying motions. The room was cold, but under a fortress made out of quilts, the freezing temperature was easier to withstand. This had been recommended to him by a certain doctor: to ventilate the space well before anything could be done about the dark excrescence which had overran the corner.

[ Do you need me to go over everything again? ]

The ridges of his spine were pressed against the wall. His fingers felt stiff and clumsy. His skin was dry to touch, but he’d felt as if it was coated in a layer of disgusting, cold sweat.

[ no ]

[ i got it all ]

The sequence of words was like a prayer to him at this point. These past couple of days, he’d been oddly at peace with what was coming—but now, the night before, panic had begun to settle in. Dottore was careful not to let a lot of details slip, probably out of worry. This was their first mission, first project together. It’d take time to build trust and perhaps, it could never be fully achieved. The canister was already in the back of the doctor’s car… so was the rope, a few vials of liquid he couldn’t read the name of and many other strange items. He’d witnessed them getting loaded into the trunk, waving some of the heavy smoke away. 

The old man watched him drop the butt of a cigarette onto the ground. His words were the purr of a fat, lazy cat. 

Give it your best.

[ Fine. Delete these messages. I’ll see you tomorrow. ]

With a shaky breath, he put the phone on top of a nightstand. He could see the moon through the gap of the window and the sight calmed him down, if only a little bit. After a minute or two, the device had buzzed again and he couldn’t help but to sneak one last glance at the latest notifications.

[ Goodnight, Scaramouche. ]

[ Sweet dreams. ]

Chapter Text

Number six. 

A round face, reflected in the amber liquid, was staring up at him. It appeared nearly motionless, if not for the small ripples in the alcohol due to the loud music and other guests shaking the entire club awake at such a late hour. It wasn’t easy to recognize himself like this, with dark eyeshadow smudged all over his eyelids and a crimson tint on his lips. Aside from the usual red eyeliner, he wasn’t a big fan of makeup. He’s never had any problems with skin nor insecurities regarding the way his features looked, and so, he’d deemed it completely useless. And yet, there he was, gawking in disbelief at the likeness of a lithe, dark-haired man down below, trapped within the transparent walls of a glass. 

There was a pleasant buzz in his head, which must’ve been linked to the few other empty cups pushed aside, near his elbow. He couldn’t drink too much– this night was special and he had to remain sharp. If it wasn’t for the kindness of the amused bartender, who happily agreed to dilute his drinks with water, he’d probably be wasted beyond belief. He didn’t have time, nor enough finances, to treat himself like this most of the time, so it was tempting, but… What could he do?

How ironic. He didn’t even have the resources to get wasted and drink himself to death. It’d be a good way to go. 

Scaramouche couldn’t help a small, bitter chuckle from escaping at the morbid thought, leaning the back of his hand against his cheek. The man sitting in front of him perked up at the sound, parting his lips in a proud smile, seemingly thinking he’d succeeded at cheering up his companion. “Ah, there it is! You have such a pretty smile. Has anyone ever told you that before?” His question, accentuated by a loud hiccup, made Scaramouche’s expression turn stone-cold again.

“Nope. Never.”

You shall not murder. 

“Clearly, other men haven’t been treating you right then, Kabu.” The drunkard spluttered, shuffling closer rather indiscreetly, betrayed by a slight stumble. “Hey, you, I asked for another round of shots like ten minutes ago!”

Scaramouche smiled apologetically at the bartender, but the corner of his mouth twitched in annoyance. He’d barely stopped himself from retching at the smell of sweat and alcohol coming from the man and this lack of any etiquette whatsoever was seriously testing his limits. He’d been advised to use a fake name for the duration of the entire ordeal and it was paying off. He wouldn’t be able to withstand hearing his actual name slurred out in such a disgusting way. 

This moron was correct about one thing, though. Lately, other men haven’t been treating him right.

Swooshing the alcohol in the glass with a lazy flick of his wrist, Scaramouche sighed heavily, thinking back to his partner in crime. Yes, he’d recognized the irony of thinking about another during a ‘date’ of sorts. Somewhere out there, the doctor was on the hunt: lurking and waiting for the prey to stumble drunkenly into his grasp. In this scenario, Scaramouche was a shepherd leading a sacrificial lamb right into the maw of a starving vulture. What a terrifying thought, for this to be the last thing you see on this earth. 

His teeth grazed against the glass lightly, a blush– not caused by alcohol alone– creeping up his pale face. Food for thought, really. 

“What’s up? You seem a little nervous, babe.” 

Scaramouche sucked in some air, narrowing his eyes in another fake smile while looking into the fogged up ones of the man sitting dangerously close to him. “Don’t worry about it… It’s just not often that I get to chat with new people. I want to make a good first impression.” He replied in a sugary tone, leaning in slightly and licking at the rim of the cup, collecting the bitter droplets with his tongue. He could tell all these teases had a desired effect on the stranger, enamored by any cheap trick.

This pervert would be dead by the morning. This knowledge made it easier for Scaramouche to be more disgusted with the man than himself for playing along.

Dottore let him choose the victim. I don’t care, he said this exact phrase, word for word. It’s better to not have a ‘type’ in this line of work. Choose anyone; preferably of the weaker stature and mind, if you know what I mean. 

Someone drunk out of their mind and aroused enough to pursue a random, pretty-faced thing sitting by the counter. Got it.

As the man began to talk again, sharing irrelevant details about his life and boasting about getting a new car, multiple even, obviously , Scaramouche drifted off again, thinking back to the conversation he and the doctor shared nearly three hours prior. 

They were waiting in Dottore’s car, parked a few buildings away, watching the sunset on the horizon; or, at least, that is what Scaramouche was doing, totally bored. Dottore, who was wearing sunglasses– they suited him, unfortunately, so it didn’t feel right to insult his appearance this time– was focused on flipping through a newspaper, catching the edge of each individual page on the pad of his gloved finger. For a few drawn-out seconds, Scaramouche watched the man do this with surgical precision, scanning the headlines of the articles in passing. His attention was far, far away and he didn’t pay any of it to the dressed up brunet sitting in the passenger’s seat. That simply couldn’t do. Maybe for Dottore this was a day like any other, but Scaramouche felt as if his stomach acid had begun to erode his own organs. He’d shifted with an ostentatious sigh, reaching into the pocket of his pants in search of a familiar, little box, and that was enough to shake the doctor out of his trance. “No.”

“Eh?”

“In this car, smoking is prohibited.” Dottore said simply, presumably giving the younger man a judgemental stare. It was difficult to tell. “And you will attract too much attention standing outside while dressed like this. Just leave it for later.”

Scaramouche rolled his eyes, but moved his hand out of the pocket obediently, setting them on top of his lap instead. Pleased with such an outcome, Dottore let out a hum of approval and, after fixing the frame of the sunglasses resting on top of his hooked nose, brought the newspaper up to his face.

Scaramouche couldn’t sit like this any longer.

“Since when have you been doing this?”

The surgeon could, very easily, deflect the question– not to mention, go the low-effort route and simply ignore it. For another few seconds, Scaramouche assumed that was his plan because of the continuous crinkle of newspaper pages. Mysterious as ever. No changes on that front. 

“Why now?”

Scaramouche turned towards the window, using the side of his thumb to wipe away some of the grime which had accumulated in its corner, blocking his view of the parking space. They must’ve been in some sort of a blind spot at the moment, but the risk of someone spotting them and recognizing their appearance was still quite high. It wasn’t unusual for young couples and rowdy teenagers to take this route and who knew who they would find skulking in the dark? After all, that’s exactly how Scaramouche himself got roped into this mess and he doubted Dottore would be open to accepting new members into their little party. “I’m bored, that’s it. You could entertain me for a while instead of making a show out of pretending like I’m not here at all.”

“Clearly, you’re delusional. I’m not making any show at all.” Dottore said in a grudging manner, but a playful nudge of Scaramouche’s knee against his thigh calmed him down. Carefully, he’d folded the newspaper and placed it in a hidden compartment, contemplating his reply. “...Since college.”

Scaramouche straightened up so quick, the joints in his neck must’ve popped. “What?” He asked, observing Dottore’s face for any sign of an incoming explanation, a twinge of humor, anything. He did not get any of that. “No way. How is this even possible…?” He cackled, shaking his head slowly. “What, it must’ve been like… at least fifteen years since you went to college.”

“Fifteen?” Dottore intercepted, now– finally!– amused. “If I recall correctly, it’s closer to twenty, if not twenty-five.” He rectified with a degree of genuine pride and a casual shrug, trying so hard to seem unbothered. Scaramouche blinked, doing the math in his head in complete silence. Before he could finish– always an artsy kid, never too talented when it came to science and numbers– Dottore spoke up again. “I’m fifty two, if that’s what you’re wondering about.”

What came next was the sound of a deflated balloon when Scaramouche slid a few inches down his seat, slumped and staring at Dottore with unexplainable concern and suspicion. “That’s insane .” He muttered with a slight frown. “That’s exactly twice my age. God, not to mention– You’re older than my mother .” He spat out this word as if it was a slur that has barely managed to push past his gritted teeth, as if it was the biggest insult he could bless the man sitting by his side with. “You truly are one sick motherfucker, Dottore.”

At this comment, the man in question smiled, following suit and leaning back in his seat. “I can’t do much about age, Scaramouche. You didn’t seem to mind it that much before.”

True, Scaramouche thought to himself, but he’d never share this sentiment out loud. The scar, which must’ve been a horrendous and life-altering deformation in the eyes of many, helped distract onlookers from both the wrinkles and the silver strands of hair hidden among the more saturated, blue ones. If Dottore wasn’t making up some elaborate lie, then this only confirmed that he had some really good genes. The brunet would’ve never guessed his age, not unless he was intentionally trying to hurt his feelings and awaken some insecurities.

“Obviously, because I didn’t know.” Scaramouche grumbled to defend his own hurt pride before attempting to steer the conversation back into its previous direction. He’d take time to unpack this piece of information later. “...How come your university did not realize, kick you out…?”

“Specific circumstances, I suppose. My fellow students thought I was weird, but that’s not an excuse for any valid connections between me and the crimes to be made. You don’t get kicked out of school for being weird . Contrary to popular belief, the odd ones don’t usually turn out like I did.” Dottore sighed dramatically. “They took me in for regular questioning, but I was never considered an actual suspect.” 

“Why?” Scaramouche frowned, cocking his head to the side. “If they took you in to ask a couple of questions, you must’ve been involved somehow. What made them write you off as harmless?”

Dottore shook his head. “That’s a story for another day.” He mused, but his reluctance was obvious. Normally, Scaramouche would press for more details, but something in the surgeon’s attitude and his unnatural grimace told him to just move on. With a nod, the student looked through the windshield, left to wonder about what exactly happened in Dottore’s past that was such a sensitive subject. 

“...Since you’ve asked me a question, I think it’s only fair that I get that chance, too.” Dottore cleared his throat. What made it notable was that he hadn’t reached back for the hidden newspaper. Seemingly, the doctor wanted to chat. “What made you choose photography as your major?”

Scaramouche sneered, pulling his leg close up to his chest and resting his boot on top of the plush seat. “Smart. Very smart.” He mumbled. But… this was a good way to ease his nerves and focus on something else, postpone the anxiety which came with becoming such an important player in this soon-to-be death game. “Fine. When I was a child, my hobby used to be dancing, but I had no way to actually pursue this passion. And it’s not exactly…” He’d struggled to word the next statement properly, closing and opening his mouth a few times like a drowning fish. Dottore waited patiently in silence. “... Masculine. I had no ambitions for the future, but wanted an excuse to leave my childhood home and getting a diploma felt like a good one. No one would question it. My choice was sort of an accident, I’m not going to lie… As a teenager, I received my first camera. Maybe it wasn’t the best model out at the time, but it also wasn’t a useless toy. Encouraged by… the person that gifted it to me, I started taking pictures everywhere I went and eventually, had enough of a portfolio to apply to a few decent universities. I was accepted into some, rejected by others. It didn’t matter. I just wanted to run away and cut my family off.” 

He’s never gotten to speak up about these events. It was… surprisingly easy. Maybe because Dottore didn’t know him back then. He was a blank canvas for the man to defile in various ways with his violent perversions. Scaramouche wished he had the luxury of being able to erase that part of his youth from his memory, too. From his mother, sister… his first and, at the same time, last real boyfriend. He lied to his partner. Back then, he did have many hopes for the future; although life was difficult, there was something worth fighting for. 

Not anymore. There was comfort in letting Dottore meet him as a bitter, resentful twenty seven year old rather than a tired but hopeful– and most importantly, stupid – child. 

“As you can tell, none of it really worked out.” Scaramouche added quietly after a beat of silence. “I did leave. That’s the only thing that went according to plan.” 

Dottore nodded slowly, soaking in all the information. His interest was surprising. Perhaps he was planning to go after his family after all of this, too. The ridiculousness of the thought made Scaramouche snicker. If he asked politely, Scaramouche would provide him with his mother’s address himself.

“I can relate.” At his companion’s scathing glare, he rushed to retract this statement. “To an extent, of course. When I was a kid, I used to spend hours dissecting frogs on the curb in front of my house. That did not give me the best reputation, but my mother knew how to flip things on their head. In her words, this behavior did not make me a ‘dangerous little monster’, but a ‘curious prodigy’. She was over the moon to find out I was planning to work in the medical field.” Dottore chuckled, taking off his glasses and cleaning them with the rim of his shirt. “It snowballed from there.”

“Must have been nice to have a mother that cared.”

“Yes.” Dottore agreed, finally able to look Scaramouche directly in the eyes. “It was.”

Scaramouche did not like the way this conversation was going. He regretted ever speaking up. “Was that before you got the scar?”

These words had the intended effect. Dottore soured within a second, flinching back with his brow furrowed. Similarly to when they talked about the first murder, it took the man some time to think of an answer. If there was a connection to be made here, Scaramouche pushed it into the back of his head, into a box marked ‘for later’. “...I think it’s time for you to shine, doll.”

Scaramouche laughed out with an eye roll. “Alright, I get it. Crossed a line?” He said sarcastically, placing his hand on top of the handle which would push the car door open. “If you want me to fuck off, just say so. I can’t promise I’ll take it well, though.”

Dottore smiled lightly to himself. The crisis has been avoided. They’d leave a bigger fight for another day. “It’s time for you to go out there and do your job. Remember about everything we’ve discussed. Good luck.”

Scaramouche scoffed, pushing his foot against the door and letting the cold air hit the exposed skin of his legs. It was a sobering sensation, one that made coming to terms with what was about to come a bit less stressful. “I don’t need it.” He said with unwavering confidence, stepping out onto the gravel. He was just about to shut the door behind himself when Dottore called out after him unexpectedly.

“Scaramouche.”

The young photographer turned, looking into the cramped space within the car. “What?”

“Take my coat. It’s cold outside.”

It was cold outside, yes.

The black coat was currently wrapped around his form, sliding off his back and exposing his naked shoulders to the public. He’d been dwarfed by its size, but while sitting, it could pass as an oversized accessory and not a gift borrowed from another man; like a robe draped carefully over his lap, some sort of a decorative piece. It was clearly working. When another shot of flavored vodka was placed in front of him with a clink, Scaramouche had no choice but to focus on the lonely bachelor trying to flirt. “There you go. No need to thank me, this one’s on me!” The guy said, boasting the full set of pearly white teeth in a flashy smile.

In comparison to him, Dottore truly wasn’t all that bad.

“You’re too kind.” The brunet muttered, glancing around. This was the peak of the club’s activity; he couldn’t see a single unoccupied spot, every square meter overridden by a colorful mass of partygoers. No one would pay any attention to the two if they slipped outside. Scaramouche tipped the shot glass over, letting the cold liquid drizzle down his throat. The flavor scratched at his taste buds, but a slight hint of strawberry made it possible to swallow. “Mm… I think I need to go outside and get some fresh air. It’s terribly hot in here, don’t you think?”

His bottom lip brushed against the man’s cleanly shaven jaw as he whispered into his ear. The stranger’s warm breath tickled the skin of his collarbone, damp and musky. 

“Yes, that’s an excellent idea.” The gravelly voice stammered a little, another hiccup sneaking in. “I will join you.”

The bait was taken. It was easier than Scaramouche thought it would be, much easier. The lack of self-preservation instinct in these losers was truly staggering.

Back in his highschool days, one of the substitute teachers decided to put on a documentary during his biology class. It was a day like any other. Sensing that nothing noteworthy was about to happen, the frail thing curled up in the back of the classroom, pressing a connector into the slot of his phone and attempting to untangle his headphones; all while absentmindedly staring at the projected video. It was his first time seeing a praying mantis up-close. The creature looked straight out of a horror movie, with her bulging eyes and jerky, deliberate movements. Her head shook like a loose bead propped up on a stick as she approached her mate. He watched, entranced, as the bug began to tear into the body of the male, tearing it into small, easier to digest pieces right after copulating. It took him at least an hour afterwards to shake off the unpleasant feeling, a result of witnessing an act this cruel. 

Who would’ve thought he’d take on her role one day. He wondered how little Kunikuzushi would feel about this turn of events.

“Let’s go on a small walk.” He suggested after tearing through the crowd with the man’s tight clasp on his wrist the entire route towards the main exit. Soon, trashy pop songs got muffled by the heavy door and Scaramouche was finally able to let out a sigh of relief. A few streets away, Dottore was waiting patiently for the two to approach. The most difficult part of the plan had already been executed. 

“Sure.” The man’s confirmation sounded like a frog’s croak, heavy and slurred. His footsteps got louder. “Let’s head over there.”

Scaramouche turned his head, following where his index finger was pointing. It was in the opposite direction of where he had planned to take the guy. “Oh…” He hummed, trying his best to sound casual. “I am not from around here, I don’t really know that part of the city. Maybe we can leave exploring for another day?” 

“Come on, don’t be a killjoy.” The man insisted, stumbling a little closer. The photographer pulled on the lapels of the borrowed coat. It reached all the way to the middle of his calves. “I know the way, follow me.”

“No, I don’t…” Scaramouche let out a soft laugh, trying to conceal that heat had begun to creep up his neck. His heartbeat was pulsing within the confines of his head and though it was cold outside, in the middle of the night, his cheeks were burning. “I–”

Up close, the man’s features were straight up ugly. Not in the way he was used to, no– each part of his face was proportionate and sculpted nicely, without any obvious flaws. His teeth were white, nose long and straight, and though the overuse of alcohol took away some of the charm, Scaramouche could see the potential. No, the man wasn’t bad-looking by any means, but the thing was, both of them were haunted by nefarious ideas of how the night was going to go. That is what made him this ugly and, stumbling backwards, the student wondered if his own face also had that wicked quality. 

“I told you to follow me, you sleazy bitch.”

Strong hands wrapped around his waist, pushing him against the wall so hard that his occipital bone almost hit one of the sticking out bricks. The man’s palms were sweaty, touching the small patch of exposed skin on his stomach, where the untucked shirt rolled up. With a yelp, Scaramouche pressed his short nails into the stranger’s chest, like a cat with extended claws– all while the gears in his head were turning at a neck-breaking pace. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t happen. No, he wouldn’t allow this– he wouldn’t be reduced to the same position his mother was in–

“You motherfucker,” Scaramouche seethed, frothing at the mouth and thrashing enough for the attacker to let go for a second, annoyed with the smaller one’s antics. “One more step and I’ll tear your dick off, don’t even try me, I am not joking–”

“Quit moving–!” 

“Fuck you!”

A third shadow appeared, stretched out across the dirty pavement, exposed by the light of a nearby street lamp. The next insult got stuck in his larynx, unable to push past the blockade. Met with Kunikuzushi’s unreadable expression, the man paused for a second, breathing heavily. The pupils of his gray eyes were wide and crazed, like a stray, beaten dog scurrying for cover. “What?” He growled, flicking his dry tongue across his lip. “You won’t be smiling when I’m done with you, fa–”

A quiet thud. 

Scaramouche let his eyes close for a few seconds, panting, with his hands tightening into fists against the wall of a building pressing into his spine. The man from the bar never finished his sentence, but there wasn’t much left up to imagination. “About time, Dottore.”

The doctor dragged the body of the attacker away from the site illuminated by the light of the tall lamp. Now, kneeling in the shadows and hovering above the guy’s limp torso, he was listening for any sort of breathing pattern. It was a strong hit to the back of the skull, one that Scaramouche was surprised to see come from a self-proclaimed fifty two year old. Even if it wasn’t fatal, it proved to be just enough to knock the pervert out. “Don’t get cocky. You’re lucky I got impatient and decided to drive closer to the bar.” Dottore remarked with skepticism, tapping his fingers against the flabby forearm. “He’s still alive, by the way. Really, was this your best pick?”

“You could see for yourself, he was slobbering all over me. It takes a man thinking only with his dick to agree to dip a party with some random guy.” Scaramouche bit back, wincing as he smoothed out his mesh shirt. He could still sense the faint memory of damp hands on his abdomen. He’d have a lot of scrubbing to do in the bathtub once he got home. “I would be able to fight him off without your help, anyway.”

“Of course.” Even though there were no traces of doubt present in Dottore’s answer, it still managed to irk him. “Now, it would be nice if you helped me lift him up. I parked the car close enough, but it’d still be a shame if anyone spotted us in the middle of carrying him over there.”

Scaramouche glowered at the body, crossing his arms. “No way. I fulfilled my part of the deal and I don’t even want to look at this loser anymore…”

Dottore let out a heavy sigh but didn’t try to argue or plead. He slipped his arm underneath their victim’s pits, propping him back up with a grunt. He was taller and that’s why their current pose looked almost like a hug from behind, a caricature of what a gentle embrace should be like. He scrunched up his nose, creases cutting through the shapeless slabs of reddened scar tissue. “Who would’ve thought, also a smoker… You clearly have a type.”

Scaramouche let out a short bark of mocking laughter. “Shut up.” He said with a grin, walking past Dottore into the alleyway where the surgeon came from. “Let’s go.”

He’d gladly use the opportunity to hitch a ride back home. 

Like with many things where Dottore was involved, it couldn’t be that easy.

Instead of his own, tiny studio apartment, he found himself in the peaceful suburbs once again. Under the cover of the night, the surroundings looked much different, but one thing persisted– it was quiet, with not a single dog howling at the moon nor a child crying. Convinced Dottore was going to delve into his neighborhood, his first reaction was to jump and interrogate the old man, feeling a pang of nervousness prick at his heart. Multiple scenarios of what could possibly happen went through his head all at once, but upon noticing his reaction, Dottore snickered. “No need to get all jumpy, Scaramouche. We’re driving to my house first.”

“Why? I told you, my job here is done. I don’t want to get involved anymore!” Scaramouche growled, ready to make a fuss. “It’s late, too…” He complained,  pulling the borrowed coat tighter around his small frame. 

“There’s a high likelihood of our, hm, guest over there, waking up in the backseat in the meantime.” Dottore said coldly, hands gripping the steering wheel and turning it to the left. They drove down another long road, the buildings outside blurring together into one shapeless mass. “I’d rather he do that at my house than in the car. You’ll live… You can stay overnight if the need arises.”

“ Stay overnight? ” The brunet spat out viciously, throwing himself back against the seat like a trapped, caged stray. “What, like we’re some teenage girls in middle school meeting up to gossip about boys? That’s pathetic. I need to remove all the stuff from my face as quickly as possible, it feels gross…” He rubbed his eye, glancing at the dark smudge of eyeshadow present above his wrist. 

“I have some micellar water in the bathroom.”

“Man, fuck you.”

They spent the rest of the journey in silence. Eventually, the vehicle came to a halt past the gate and in Dottore’s yard, disappearing behind a fence of overgrown bushes. It was his second time visiting this address and not much has changed. He kicked the door and hopped out onto a stone-laid path, turning around to face the host. “So, what’s your plan for transporting him?” His voice was, intentionally, much quieter, merely above a fleeting whisper. He didn’t like talking this low, it sounded way too benign. 

“What are you talking about?” Dottore’s soft voice matched his own. “We’re just helping a good friend get to safety after a crazy night out.” His teeth flashed in the darkness and Scaramouche inhaled slowly, stopping himself from an ostentatious eye roll. This was serious, but Dottore sure as hell wasn’t treating it like it was. He caught the keys flying the distance in between them, the cold metal sticking to his sweaty palm. “Open the door and clear the way.”

He obeyed, because there was not much else he could do. 

Scaramouche knocked Dottore’s combat boots to the side, passing through the hallway into the living room. One of the windows was open to let some fresh air in. The couch was pulled back, transforming it into a pretty comfortable sleeping space; with a blanket and a pillow scattered on top, Scaramouche believed this was where the doctor had spent the last few nights, watching the TV screen until the late hours of the night… maybe even into the morning, until birds sang their joyful song and the sun appeared on the horizon. Behind him, there was a sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor tiles. “You know where to go…” 

Scaramouche kicked off his own boots near the kitchen, breathing a sigh of relief and staggering farther inside. “Yeah, yeah. Unfortunately I am familiar with the layout of your house.” Past the photos of Dottore’s mother, the damaged furniture, stepping into the territory not easily accessible; into the rooms that weren’t meant to be viewed by the general public… Into the space that, by some crazy turn of fate, he’d gotten access to. An honorary member of sorts. The realization made him snort. 

Dottore huffed and pushed the man’s unconscious body onto the surgical table in the center, cracking his knuckles. He’d made the necessary preparations and the place was much more organized than the last time Scaramouche found himself inside. Ever the wallflower, the student retreated, the ridges of his spine pressed back against the heavy door. He was going to keep his hands clean, in all senses of the word.

Dottore looked over, leaning in to pull a few mysterious bottles from underneath the table. “You know, if the police found out, you’d go to prison anyway for assisting me. Are the few extra years off your sentence worth it?” He asked with amusement, placing the bottles on the side of the table and pulling on the leather straps instead, fastening them around the man’s limbs. 

“Few years can make or break a man. You should know it best, considering how you decide to spend your free time.” Scaramouche fired back, watching the scene unfold with a heavy heart. “Besides… I would most likely be let out on probation much earlier than you’d expect.” 

“Oh? How so?” Dottore asked, pulling out a small, slim container from the back pockets of his trousers. Long fingers moved around the clasp and soon, he’d fixed the black silver frame of regular glasses on top of his hooked nose. They suited him. He knew how to wear expensive things well. 

“Impeccable behavior.” Scaramouche replied without a hitch. “Why, do you doubt me?” 

Dottore chuckled, the faintest of smiles present on his creased face. “You’re quite funny sometimes, Scaramouche.” With this, their lighthearted exchange was officially over. It was time for the final performance of the night to begin and Scaramouche watched the drunk man’s immobilized body, secured to the cold surface, as if he was a pinned butterfly. Soon enough, its wings, soaked in blood and gore, would be spread and pierced through with long, sharp needles, the hands of a vulture digging deep into the soft, pulsating organs. 

At least, that’s what he’d imagined the night before, staring with parted lips up at the ceiling with morbid fascination, reawakened by his own, grotesque fantasies and a hand nestled inside of his pants.

“I don’t get why you wanted to go the extra mile and get your hands on this.” Scaramouche managed to let out, nodding towards a syringe which had appeared in Dottore’s hand. “I’ve had enough of that ‘thrill’ you mentioned at the bar.”

Dottore shrugged, focusing on filling the blank space up with the toxic liquid. The room soon became filled with the bitter smell of rot, or garlic, or even petroleum. It was a rancid bouquet of odors. “Can’t always do the same thing, over and over… I enjoy doing this, being creative. If I dispose of them in a way that will lead to them being found, it’ll be harder to assign the murders to one person. You know tha, you’re smart.” He smiled when the glass clinked against the sterile table. “Are you, perhaps, trying to ease your nerves by talking?”

“No.” 

Dottore raised his eyebrow even higher. “Well then… brace yourself.”

One of the plastic bottles was sealed. Dottore unscrewed the lid and Scaramouche waited for another foul smell to reach his nostrils, but no such thing happened. The liquid inside was crystal clear and, seemingly, unscented. Water. The doctor straightened up and with one, rapid movement, splashed it onto their prisoner’s peaceful features. 

He’d gasped, loud and raspy, his wet eyelashes fluttering for a few seconds as he’d regained consciousness. Scaramouche winced as the man coughed for a few seconds, turning his head from left to right, realizing with shock that his arms and legs were tied down. Dottore knew how to tie a tight knot, and on bare skin, both the rope and the leather straps were bound to leave deep, burgundy marks. “What…” The captive wheezed, spitting out some of the water that trickled into his nose and stung at the back of his mouth. His torso convulsed with incoming nausea. “What– where… where am I?!” He’d moved his shoulder experimentally, but couldn’t shift it even half an inch. Scaramouche watched as the black voids of his pupils expanded. Real panic had begun to settle in. “What… Let me go! You hear me?” 

“Yes, you’re making it rather difficult not to hear.” Dottore muttered, leaning in and staring their prisoner right in the eyes. He’d grabbed a cylinder-shaped object and with a click, a new source of light appeared in the dim room;  a bright beam of a flashlight. “You seem to remember what had happened, though. That’s good. I’d be upset if you were concussed… All that hard work for nothing.” He clicked his tongue, flashing the device right into the man’s scared face. “Follow the movement of my finger.” 

“You checking for brain damage? I can tell you he has some just by looking at him.”

“Scaramouche.” Dottore glared at him with disapproval, shaking his head lightly. “You’re so unserious .”

“I will get a lawyer.” Their captive spoke up again, clearly in a mental state bad enough to ignore his kidnappers’ surly remarks. “I will get a lawyer and you will regret this. I am telling you, if you do anything to me, you’ll never get to feel sun on your skin again–”

“Cut the poetics, please. I can only take so many annoying individuals in my household at once.” Dottore curled his fingers into a tight fist, ignoring Scaramouche’s irritated scoff. “How about we get to work?”

“I told you. You’re on your own here.”

Dottore reached for the filled syringe again, shrugging. He wasn’t even fighting anymore, letting Scaramouche take cover under the comfort of his own delusions. At this point, the guy from the bar was visibly shaking, his jaw tense enough for his teeth to clink together repeatedly because of the uncontrollable tremors. This felt like watching a car crash– the sinking feeling of knowing exactly what was about to come, yet being unable to cast your gaze aside, even if only for the sake of your fragile psyche. It wasn’t his first time seeing death– but the evening when he met Dottore for the first time felt different. Everything happened so quick, the glint of a blade, then, a splash of red– and it was over. But this time, even though he’s had a personal gripe with that pervert, the thought of his incoming demise still made him anxious. With a shaky breath, Scaramouche wiped the palms of his sweating hands against his bottoms, deciding to focus on the doctor’s back instead. He’d wondered if his expertise and confidence came from years of working in the medical field or out there, choosing people to kill with the same casualty of deciding what to have for breakfast. His confidence was almost, almost admirable. 

The man yelped when Dottore tugged at the collar of his shirt, squeezing his cheeks and tilting his head to the side, scrutinizing his terrified face. The needle inched closer mercilessly, ignorant to the constant thrashing against the tightly-tied ropes. At this pace, he was sure to get friction burns, although Scaramouche doubted he’d be alive for long enough for this to be the biggest of his worries. He rubbed his wrists together, involuntarily imagining them bound in the very same position. 

He had to learn how to stop his mind from drifting in this direction.

“Please…” The captive whimpered, gurgling out a desperate plea as a last-resort plan. “Please, do not–”

Scaramouche wasn’t close enough to see what was done to him, but the drawn out screech gave him a general idea of how painful it must’ve been. The doctor pressed harder on the man’s esophagus, reducing his squealing to breathy noises of despair. Dottore drew his arm back in, giving the photographer a glimpse of the hideous view. A pale, ashy tongue, pierced with the needle in the middle, twitching from pain. It was long enough to reach farther into his mouth, stabbing into the wet palate behind the front row of teeth. He’s watched a few videos about medieval torture methods in the past, bored out of his mind alone in the studio apartment, and this looked eerily similar to some of the techniques described in it. It was almost comical– wanting to avoid any more damage, the guy kept his mouth wide open, the skin tearing in the corners of his mouth. Like a dead-eyed fish about to take a big bite…

Some runny snot dripped down his nose and into the open, shivering maw. 

If Dottore noticed him stepping out of the room, he did not let it be known, busying himself by murmuring something incoherent into the ear of his victim– their victim. This was their doing, because if Dottore was the teeth of an anglerfish, then he was the illicium and the lure. He’d caused this, he’d helped– voluntarily, at that. He knew right away what the outcome of this would be, but he did not anticipate his own reaction. 

Nearly tripping over Dottore’s boots abandoned in the hallway, crossing past the empty kitchen, dropping onto his knees by the entrance and going through his stuff with a feverish determination of a man clinging to the last bits of his sanity. The device almost slipped out of his sweaty grip, but he’d caught it at the last second, bringing it closer to his spasming chest. He couldn’t help the excitement blooming somewhere within his ribcage, curling like a snake down, down his abdomen, in places that definitely shouldn’t be affected. This feeling… 

Inspiration, for once. The thrill of reaching for the forbidden fruit. It reminded him of coughing up cigarette smoke for the first time behind the school building many, many years ago. The bitterness was almost too much to handle, filling his throat with black smog and traveling into his lungs, but the moment his chapped lips spat the thing out, he knew–

He got hooked. He got hooked on such sinful pleasures way too easily. He’d remembered the monotone voice of his mother telling him to be careful. He remembered snickering to himself back then, narrowing his eyes and staring at this caricature of a living being; a malnourished hag with skin like old leather telling him how to behave?

Ludicrous, truly. And yet, her warnings were burned into his memory to this day, over a decade after the fact.

She sounded tired, drilling holes into his small body with her sunken, dull eyes. She had no more strength to resist his constant struggle. She’d had enough of fighting. He hated her, he hated that she was right, he hated that even after years of neglect, she knew him and that whatever she saw, she wasn’t interested in pursuing further. She sat at the edge of her seat next to a table in the tiny dining room, slender hand pressed against her forehead. Long strands of greasy hair concealed her expression, but even if she sat straight and proud, Kunikuzushi still wouldn’t be able to look anywhere else but at his own, dirty shoes. 

I’m tired.

She always was. 

I don’t want you to fight me anymore. 

His heart ached, but gaze remained cold.

I don’t know where you’re going with your life. I can see  you’re falling in with the wrong crowd and that concerns me. But go on and do what you feel is best. I will not stop you.

No matter where life would lead him, deep inside, he’d always be shackled down by being his mother’s daughter. 

Wandering back into the room almost didn’t feel like a conscious decision. His feet walked on their own, a moth to light, into the direction of where Dottore was tormenting the poor soul. Even though no more than five minutes passed, things have progressed quite significantly. There was coughing and there was wailing, and there were multiple holes decorating the bloodied organ, and there was still an entire syringe full of deadly liquid splashing against the walls of the tube. 

“Step back. You’re in the field of view.”

Dottore blinked, slowly turning his head to look at Scaramouche. “What?” He whispered, lips parted slightly. His eye was crazed, pupil expanded and so large, it looked like a black and glistening void. Soon, understanding lit up his wrinkled face, paired with something else– pride and a sense of sick, sick accomplishment. This must’ve been the wrong crowd Mother warned him about, but if this was who fate has sent to him to entertain him— then so be it. A change of pace and a secret to keep made life worth living, again. Something to live for. Something he’d lost, foolishly waiting for his past lover to return. Like this, he’d reconcile with the concept of death. 

He raised his camera, aiming it directly at the slobbering, marred opening and hooking his finger underneath the focus ring. Then, he pressed on the shutter release. 

Click.

Scaramouche didn’t need to look up to know that Dottore was smiling. 

That sound would follow him for the rest of his life.

Click. Click. Click–

Now, he was left alone to deal with the consequences of his actions. 

The house had a pretty big yard. He hasn’t been in the back garden before, so for now, the area below the raised terrace remained unexplored. For how much Dottore seemed to care about machines, he certainly did not share the same enthusiasm when it came to flora, as exemplified by the wilting plants and overgrown shrubs. This disastrous situation looked like something Childe could have swiftly taken care of.

But, for now, that ginger boy was the last thing on Scaramouche’s mind.

The student let out a deep sigh, belching the last puff of smoke before pressing the burning stub of the cigarette against a flat plate set out on top of the garden table. His other hand was still wrapped tightly around the camera, thumb pressing continuously on the control button. Images flashed on the display screen, changing like a slideshow with each tick of the device. Adrenaline has worn off and right now, every single picture looked the same. Maybe it was just his brain playing tricks on him, or maybe he’d thrown away the last scraps of his humanity for nothing. Either way, these photographs would be useful in one way or another. His professors kept nagging him about the non-existent theme of his project assignment for a while and now, finally, he knew what to send over– provided Dottore kept supplying him with unwilling models, of course. It was a risky game, but one he was willing to bet his life on. 

“That’s a good one.”

Scaramouche hummed in agreement, lifting the camera closer to his face, focused on the pixels making up the gnarled, mutilated and barely recognizable form. From this perspective, the most damage has been visible. No wonder this was Dottore’s favorite. “With some work in the editing software, it’ll look even better.” He mumbled, setting the camera down beside the tray with an ever-growing pile of ash on top of it. “The lighting was shitty as fuck. I’ll have to add some color grading for it to appear cohesive.” A moment of total, deafening quiet. “Have you… finished?” He asked cautiously, aware of the fact that even when shielded by a tall fence made out of thujas, they were still, very much, in public.

Dottore nodded, taking a step closer and placing the palms of his hands on the back of the seat Scaramouche was sitting occupying. They smelled like soap, synthetic raspberry or something similar– fruity and nausea-inducing. “Yes, for the most part. I’ll take care of the rest tomorrow, after dropping you off at your place.” 

Scaramouche stared off into the distance for a moment. It took him a while to get over the death of that random woman. This time, days of mulling over these events would turn to weeks, if not months. Slowly, Scaramouche moved his head back, until the top of it was met with Dottore’s stomach. His face looked a little funny from this perspective, with the mature skin wrinkling at his neck, part of the damaged lip hanging uselessly, just like the loose strands of hair. If he moved his hand up, he would be able to tug on them, pull him down and face him properly at his level. He felt Dottore’s abdomen move with each calm, deep breath, crimson eyes meeting his own. “Dottore, did I do well?”

Dottore’s answer wouldn’t actually matter to him. He knew better than to fish for compliments from an individual this sick and unreliable– no, he wanted to say something different, something which had already evaporated from his thoughts with no traces left behind. What mattered was the satisfied grin blooming on the doctor’s face. His hand moved from the back of the chair, pawing at his shoulders instead, like a lazy cat kneading. “I would be lying if I said your composure wasn’t surprising to me. I suppose that’s why, that night, I decided you’d be a good partner.”

Scaramouche smirked when Dottore’s hand moved farther down, brushing against his collarbone. When the man leaned in, he did not try to interrupt or jump back. Just like death, this felt inevitable. He’d known things would turn out this way the moment he sat down with the pathetic, old maniac at that secluded bar, stupidly agreeing to the terms of their alliance. 

Their kiss tasted like blood and metal. 

He’s kissed before, of course. Even though he wasn’t a sentimental person, he’d still remembered how it felt… warm and wet, interrupted by giggling of two adolescents savoring what must’ve been youth, sweet like nectar. It soured way too quickly, but such was life. He’d always danced with death, and back then, as a conflicted teen, he didn’t realize that he’d kissed a walking corpse. That boy was the first person to be interested in the real him and, according to others around them… he’d brought out the best in that weird, long-haired girl walking around in oversized clothes and with a sad look in her eyes.

Scaramouche has changed a lot since then. Unlike his first ever crush, Dottore had the ability to bring out the worst in him and, fuck, that was even better. 

Dottore’s hand dipped into the crook of his neck, sliding across a thick carotid artery and wrapping around, fitting perfectly with each curve of his body. His back arched, pushing up against the face squished against his, feeling the cold tip of Dottore’s nose nudging his cheek. Enabling his previous urges, he clutched his blue bangs like the handles of a harness and sank his fangs into the meat of the busted lip. One of them was panting, but he was too dizzy to accurately discern who it was… as embarrassing as it was, he couldn’t rule himself out. “If you choke me,” He’d whispered, chewing on the scarred piece of skin and scratching at the back of Dottore’s ear with his nails. “I’m going to beat you up, badly. I did not get the occasion to show off what I’m capable of today, after all.”

He’d felt Dottore chuckle rather than hear it, the older man’s body trembling with stifled laughter. “You seem like the type to hate it.” The digits caressed the underside of his smooth jaw instead and Scaramouche closed his eyes with a satisfied purr. “I would never do such a thing.”

Scaramouche huffed, letting his doubts be quelled for the time being. “These words don’t mean much coming from your mouth–!” The same mouth, mere moments later, latched onto his neck and bit down hard enough to leave a dark mark. When his breath hitched, Dottore seemed to be particularly proud of himself for disturbing his composure. “Fuck…” He mumbled, nuzzling his nose into Dottore’s thick, graying hair, feeling the man’s tongue lap at the fresh hickey. 

First raindrops have begun to fall, a gentle drizzle serving as the perfect backdrop for the couple’s antics, sheltered under a roof. With each kiss and puncture, Scaramouche’s desire only grew stronger; the desire to have this vile thing cower at his feet or tremble underneath his heel like a pathetic bitch. For some reason, Dottore had a soft spot for him and the very same hands that had just killed a man were now petting the exposed skin of his shoulder, mindful not to nudge his flat chest– so tender when they wanted to be. Scaramouche lacked that ability– it seemed like everyone he’d ever cared for met the same fate. That’s why, at some point, he stopped caring at all. Dottore… He’d never thought he’d let some freak twice his age slobber all over him but he’d have to admit– it’s been a while since he was this close to someone else. He couldn’t exactly be too picky about the men he’d be willing to go to bed with; he’d hoped Dottore would spare him the indignity and not comment on it. 

“Do you,” he breathed out softly, staring up at the cloudy sky. “...have any condoms here?” 

Dottore froze for a split second with his lips glued to the side of Scaramouche’s neck. “No.” He replied, gnawing at one of his beauty spots, as if pondering something. “I have never had sex before.” 

Scaramouche blinked. “What?” He straightened up, causing Dottore to lose grip on his body, and turned to face the man hovering above him. “Are you joking?”

“No, I’m being honest.” Dottore shrugged, tilting his head to the side. “I never felt attracted to anyone, so I don’t have any laying around.” 

Scaramouche stared, searching for any traces of irony in Dottore’s face, but it truly did seem like the doctor was telling the truth. Something about the man being so eager to lose that for his sake… It did wonders for his wounded ego. The brunet let out a grunt, standing up and fixing his shirt, casting one last glance at the extinguished butt of a cigarette. The current situation called for another one, but he’d do without it. “Well then, don’t even think about it. I’m not risking it.” He grumbled, bypassing Dottore to get back into the house and snatching his camera off the table. “...Buy some for next time, though. Now, show me the way.”

The added remark made Dottore laugh a bit and he turned, following in Scaramouche’s footsteps. He heard the sliding door leading to the terrace shut behind his back. “Show the way where?” 

“The bedroom and the bathroom. I told you I have to take the makeup off and I am not going to sleep on that flimsy couch.” Scaramouche began shaking the mesh top off his shoulders, aware of Dottore’s burning, hungry gaze on his lower back. “You could join me in bed, if you want. There are many other things we could do… But I’m not going to repeat the offer, so think quickly about what you want.” 

Dottore’s red eyes narrowed slightly. It didn’t take him too long to make this decision. “Head left. The main bathroom is connected to the bedroom, you’ll find both the micellar water and the cotton pads in there.” 

This was a verbal confirmation of his willingness. Whatever what they had was, for Scaramouche had no name for it, they’d have to commit to it. And, perhaps it was foolish how little the current state of things bothered him. 

Chapter Text

When he’d woken up, there was no one laying on the other side of the bed.

It was cold. Not too cold, though– goosebumps appeared on his arms and the dark hairs on them stood up, but it wasn’t too bothersome; he’d roll off the mattress soon in search of his clothes. They must’ve been on the floor somewhere, perhaps kicked under the bed in the feverish frenzy of last night. For now, Scaramouche wasn’t too concerned with their fate. He had more pressing matters to think about and just enough time to go over everything that had happened in peace. 

His pale legs were tangled in a pale blue quilt pulled all the way up to his flat chest, leaving only his shoulders and the collarbone exposed. There were two pillows under his neck, ‘for support’ as he explained to an amused Dottore while snatching the one belonging to him late into the night. Despite the vulnerability of his current position, it wasn’t all that bad; maybe because he did not have to face the doctor staring at his body with the fervid red eyes, examining every inch of it as if he was some sort of a test subject. He was all alone in the spacious bedroom, for once able to stretch out all of his limbs without touching the walls and having to lay curled up in order to take as little space as possible.  

Finally, after a few minutes of resting in total silence, the brunet gathered up enough courage to lift the edge of the quilt and look down at his torso. “Fuck.” He breathed out in disbelief, blinking slowly. 

Although the two did not have sex for obvious reasons, the time they had spent together certainly wasn’t all that innocent, as evidenced by the current state of his thighs, as well as stomach. There were dark bruises and purple marks scattered all over, tingling a little when his thumb brushed over them with mild curiosity. Despite all the alcohol consumed by him the day before, the bloody murder had successfully sobered him up and he remembered all of it. 

Less than five hours prior, he was standing in Dottore’s bathroom.

He was looking at his own reflection in the mirror, wiping the smudged eyeshadow off with a cotton pad, hyper-aware of the doctor’s presence in the other room. He could hear him shuffle around, probably changing the bedsheets for Scaramouche’s sake. The door was ajar, just enough to let a thin ray of light in, and after a moment of consideration, the brunet decided to just let it be. The mesh shirt slid off of him rather easily, so did his pants. Dottore provided him with a bunch of cosmetics and Scaramouche was pleasantly surprised to discover the older man wasn’t one of those lazy bachelors using one shower gel for absolutely everything. He got his own, fresh towel, as well as access to a proper shampoo, conditioner and regular soap. All of them had the same coffee-like scent. 

It felt good to wash up. When the water hit his naked skin, it felt like the drizzle of a morning rain, cleansing him of all his sins and previous inaction. The glass walls fogged up as the brunet alternated between boiling hot and freezing water, all of his muscles tensing up at the rapid temperature changes. That’s what he needed to convince himself he was still alive; to convince himself he has not become some sort of a humanoid caricature, unfeeling and rigid. The thermoregulation sensors somewhere in his rotten brain were, thankfully, still in-tact– he wasn’t even sure if that’s where the feelings of both warm and cold came from. He could ask Dottore, make use of the medical knowledge he’d accumulated over the decades… But he probably wouldn’t.

Pressing his cheek into the palm of his own hand like a cat starved for affection, he couldn’t wrap his head around what his life has become. There was not a single speck of blood to taint the flawless form of his body and yet, Scaramouche felt filthy– however, not minding it nearly as much as he should. 

When Scaramouche walked out of the bathroom, Dottore was sitting on the right side of the bed, right by the bathroom door. Despite the size of his body, there was barely a dent in the bedding, making it appear as if the environment was wholly unfamiliar to the man, who was ready to flee at the nearest opportunity. Even his approach to material things was cold and methodical. Everything here was supposed to serve him and there was no room for emotional attachment– if Scaramouche’s living conditions screamed hatred, then Dottore’s place on earth radiated lukewarm indifference. There was something to be said about his partner choosing to spend his lonely nights on the couch in the living room instead of here. But, Scaramouche thought with a little grin, he’d make sure to give Dottore some new memories to associate with the plain bedroom.

“Did you choose this spot just to watch through the gap in the door? Pervert.”

Dottore smiled lightly, idly fiddling with his thumbs. “Didn’t even think of it. I’ll keep that in mind for next time.” He replied calmly, watching Scaramouche approach with the curiosity of a true researcher. 

“Next time?” Scaramouche laughed out, smoothing out the folds of the shirt which Dottore had so generously lent him. The ends of his dark hair were still wet, with water droplets sliding down his neck and underneath the collar. “Not sure if I’ll let you survive until then.”

Dottore was not only tall, but also quite wide, which meant straddling his hips was no easy task. He kept his arms glued to his sides, letting Scaramouche pick his own pace; the student was both disappointed and glad that, despite having no previous experience, there were no signs of nervousness on his partner’s face. With a gentle push against his sternum, the man lay back, wavy hair curling around his cautious face. His finger dragged down the doctor’s clothed chest, until it reached the zipper of his trousers, but Scaramouche wasn’t fully set on what to do just yet. Dottore was waiting patiently, studying each of Scaramouche’s features. He called him ‘easy on the eyes’ or something along those lines once and normally, he wouldn’t bother remembering a detail like this, but… For a man this fixated on the ugly, deeply hidden parts of the human body to say this, it must’ve meant something. He was alive, breathing, with a beating heart underneath the mounds of flesh and yet, Dottore was attracted to him nonetheless.

“I think,” Scaramouche lowered his voice, teeth grazing Dottore’s ear. “I think I should make you eat me out, first. What do you think, Dottore?” 

No matter the reply, he’d still go through with the plan. This was a rhetorical question, one that served only as a way for him to enjoy the possible frustration or pitiful sounds of disagreement. Instead, what he was given was a small nod. Harshly, the brunet tugged on the blue locks, the sweet whisper turning into a growl. “I asked , so answer me. What do you think , Dottore?”

Dottore hissed, moving his head back against one of the plush pillows, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a dry swallow. “Gladly.” He let out, lips parted. “If you guide me.”

This was a challenge for both of them and Scaramouche would be lying if he said he wasn’t eager to test his luck.

When he ground back against Dottore’s lap, the man rewarded him with a breathy, barely audible noise right before their lips touched again, moving in tandem. He was quite clearly excited and it was somewhat flattering to feel the hardness pressing into his inner thigh, but he’d have to wait. It was Scaramouche’s first time dabbling in physical intimacy in a while and he wanted to make the most of it; besides, using force to order Dottore around would conceal his own incompetence. He’s gotten rusty. 

Scaramouche nibbled on his lover’s bottom lip, running his tongue alongside the scarred flesh, over the raised patches and the web-like outlines. He wondered if Dottore had needed skin grafts after the initial injury happened. He wondered how much it hurt. He wondered what it would take to replicate that suffering, and if Dottore would mind going through it at his hands. 

They parted eventually, panting against each other’s warm mouths and Scaramouche decided to once again take the lead. He straightened up and pulled the borrowed shirt up, tossing it carelessly onto the wooden floors. It did not last even ten minutes on his body, but Dottore certainly wasn’t going to complain. The older man’s hand moved, stopping mid-air. “Can I?” He asked and Scaramouche’s grin widened. 

“Good. Go ahead.”

There were scars all over his chest. Thin, horizontal lines covered the area below his collarbone, reaching in a ladder pattern down his stomach. They did not stand out too much, the pink and white blending seamlessly into the rest of the skin. The dozens of moles all over were more distracting and Dottore’s gaze followed them instead; as if he was trying to map out their exact placement, connect them in his head like constellations. His thumb rolled over each ridge of his ribs, lips moving soundlessly around the numbers and Scaramouche let him have this, let him have him. For once, the man’s hands were bare and rid of gloves, with an expert precision in their movements. They slid down his sides, past his hips, stopping at the thighs. Dottore looked up expectantly, causing Scaramouche to smirk, cocking his head to the side. “I’ve never had a guy be this eager to be used.” He commented, touching under the surgeon’s chin, looking him up and down. “What a nice surprise.”

“Get on with it. Show me what I’ve been missing out on.” Dottore muttered, digging his nails into Scaramouche’s legs. The brunet chuckled, shoving his partner harder against the bed and crawling up, hand back in the thick strands of graying hair, pulling him against himself rather unceremoniously. 

It felt a little odd to be doing this again. When Dottore’s tongue moved in between his legs for the first time, over the sensitive growth, he couldn’t help jumping a little in surprise, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Fuck,” He cussed, shutting his eyes and gripping harder at the base of Dottore’s curls. Encouraged by his reaction, the doctor tried doing the same thing once again– sloppily, with the clumsiness of a real virgin, but enough enthusiasm to make up for it. He rocked his hips against Dottore’s mouth, watching the man’s long eyelashes flutter and a deep wrinkle form in between his eyebrows. It must’ve been difficult to breathe like this. The realization only made him even wetter. 

When Dottore finally broke free, gasping for air, there was a string of drool connecting him to the space in between his legs. The texture of his scar against the tender parts tickled, but it wasn’t exactly uncomfortable. He’d swallowed, fingers brushing carefully against his core. Scaramouche gritted his teeth with impatience, grunting; a sign for the man below to dive back in. Obediently, he did, pressing the tips of his digits into the heat. He moaned quietly, biting down on his own bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. His palm tightened into a fist on top of the bed’s headboard, knuckles white from the sheer force of the hold. “Is that all you can do?” He provoked anyway, going for the low-hanging fruit. When Dottore hummed in a half-hearted response, the vibrations caused him to shiver and whine out another curse. 

As twisted as the thought was, the doctor was good at handling bodies. The sensation of fingers inside of him resembled a medical examination, but Dottore drove them in deeper, rougher. It didn’t take Scaramouche long to feel the first sparks of an incoming orgasm set off in his abdomen. The man groaned, throwing his head back and squeezing his thighs around Dottore’s face. “More–” He growled angrily, rolling his hips back. “For fuck’s sake, Dottore–”

His voice broke and if he wasn’t in the middle of an orgasm, this would ruin the rest of his night. When Kunikuzushi was younger, he’d been terrified of making love to someone– because in his head, he’d always be at a disadvantage. With his chest and legs bare, he couldn’t hide his insecurities and the wretched body he’d been cursed with at birth. He was violent because the other option was to be docile and he’d rather die than submit. This was a little death in itself– for a split second, the idea of choking Dottore to death flashed through his unstable mind, tremors of fulfillment still coursing through his muscles. 

Dottore coughed quietly, taking just a moment to recover before planting a few small kisses above Scaramouche’s pubic mound, sucking on the delicate skin until there was a bright pink mark showing. Still sensitive and throbbing, the brunet watched himself get adorned with bite marks and even more hickeys. “Scaramouche… did I do well?” His voice was hoarse as he mocked Scaramouche’s question from before, flashing him a toothy smile. The student’s heart beat a little quicker, breath hitching. 

This man was something else entirely .

Scaramouche rolled off his form with a heavy huff, reaching down to collect some of Dottore’s drool and his own dampness, which had mixed together into a wet mess. “Not half bad.” He shot back, rubbing the stickiness in between the pads of his fingers. “Lower your pants.”

Dottore blinked, looking confused. Scaramouche snorted and raised his eyebrow. “What? I am not that much of a bitch. I can see you’re rock-hard, don’t you want to do something about it?” He asked ironically, running a clean hand through his own, still drying hair. It would be easier to cope with the aftershock of his climax while indulging something to distract him.. “Come on, unzip.”

The doctor cleared his throat, only now showing any symptoms of hesitation. Still, fighting it off, he grabbed the metal pull of the zipper and hooked his thumb underneath the waistband of his underwear. This time, it was Scaramouche’s turn to admire. Dottore was rather well-built, not muscular in the slightest, but with a good amount of chub to muffle up his bones. A trail of hair ran down the exposed part of his sickly pale stomach, light and fairly thin, with white stretch marks extending all the way up to his waist. He was attractive, right up his alley; although the brunet knew this surely wasn’t a common sentiment. Starting to get impatient, Scaramouche was the one to pull the black boxers down, wrapping his sticky fingers around Dottore’s dick. It was heavy, but fit well into the warm palm of his hand; not too big, just average, like the rest of the man. Right after the first stroke, some precum leaked onto his wrist. As endearing as the sight of the surgeon writhing below him was, Scaramouche did not feel the need to drag this one out. He’s already had his fun. 

Scaramouche swiped a thumb over the smooth tip, lazily collecting some of the precum. “I should have you like this more often.” He teased, throwing his bare leg over Dottore’s, not caring if his own come would leave a dark patch on his jeans. He picked up his pace quite significantly, tearing a muffled moan out of his lover, whose immediate reaction was to move his forearm over his eyes in shame. “That’s nice.” The younger one whispered, squeezing the shaft gently. “Let’s find out if I can make you do that again.”

The dick twitched in his grasp, just like Dottore’s quivering lip. Scaramouche knew it wouldn’t take long to push him over the edge. He leaned in closely, pressing his nose into the crook of the deformed neck, breathing in the scent of his perfume and sweat. Sharp teeth sunk into the malleable skin, staining the scar with the half-dry specks of blood from his damaged lip. The man’s back arched and that’s all it took– cum stained his fingers, and a sense of satisfaction filled his chest at yet another sweet sound of release which did not come from his own mouth.

That’s exactly what happened the night before; and even though now, the morning after, the same bed was empty, the memory of their bodies pressed into each other was still fresh in his mind. 

Scaramouche sat up slowly, wincing at the sore tension which had built up in his limbs. He might’ve gone a bit too wild with the positions; he was nearing thirty after all, as difficult as it was to accept. He didn’t even want to imagine Dottore’s neck cramps, or else he’d actually start feeling genuinely bad for the old motherfucker. “Dottore?” The man called out, pulling the T-shirt from the evening before back on. “Are you there?”

There was no reply. Scaramouche sighed and patted down the quilt until he felt the rectangular shape of his phone underneath. It was rather early, just a couple minutes past seven. Perhaps Dottore was out getting rid of the body, or at a store, or maybe he’s had enough of him around after the younger man was no longer of use. He wouldn’t blame him for finding out that the forbidden fruit was bitter and stomach-turning all along. Scaramouche decided to ignore the ache in his chest and looked around with a frown. Without a car, he wouldn’t be able to get home; he had no reason to this early, anyway. It was the weekend, so he couldn’t excuse himself with attending classes nor having an early shift at work. But, on the other hand, if Dottore was gone…

Scaramouche hopped off the bed and wandered outside, his bare feet met with the cold resin tiles. Using his experience as an unruly teenager in a neglectful household, he’d quietly begun scouting the entire house. One pair of shoes was gone, and so was the coat, which confirmed that he was alone. 

And so, within five minutes, the student was in the process of digging everything out of Dottore’s bag. 

Most of the items were horrendously boring. There was an unopened tissue pack with a cutesy plastic print on the front, another pair of eyeglasses, a black face mask… What he’d deemed slightly more interesting were the sharp pocket knife with an ornate handle and a burgundy lipstick. He raised his eyebrow, popping open the cap and looking inside. It was used, probably more than halfway through, and smelled faintly of violet flowers. He doubted it belonged to one of the victims. If that was the case, Dottore would have placed it alongside the other ‘trophies’ and reminders of his crimes.

When he dropped the lipstick back into a compartment inside of the bag, something else entirely caught his eye– a wallet, thick and expensive. It wasn’t even the prospect of obtaining more money that filled the brunet with hope, but the personal documents encased within. 

His hands shook lightly as he glanced inside, eyes widening at the sight of an ID card right there, on display, glistening under the light of the lamp hanging overhead.

“Zandik.”

Zandik…

It was a lovely name. Middle Eastern, Scaramouche concluded, bringing the card up to his eyes. It required him to move his lips around each consonant in a unique way, one he’d associate with Dottore forever now. It suited his demeanor, equally tough and strident. “Zan-dik…” He whispered once again to himself, highlighting each syllable. How utterly homey .

If the date on the ID card wasn’t fake, then that meant Dottore wasn’t lying about his age either. The guy in the photograph looked almost the same, if it wasn’t for a few less gray strands of hair and the wrinkles not being quite as deep. Grisly, but in the most magnetizing of ways. 

Carefully, Scaramouche put the wallet down where he’d found it. He managed just in time, because as soon as he’d straightened up and walked into the kitchen to look for something to eat, the main entrance creaked and the sound of jingling keys echoed through the hall. He couldn’t focus on picking the food off the shelves, still processing the newfound details about Dottore’s life. Was his name a guarded secret or did he introduce himself by this fake alias just to match his own? Would he get upset upon finding out that he’d gone through his stuff? Maybe, just maybe, knowing his real name would open a completely new realm of possibilities. He wondered if he’d uncover any more mysteries by typing it into the search bar on his phone, and just how much they’d affect his opinion about the man in general. 

“I see you’ve already woken up.” 

Scaramouche hummed in acknowledgement, weaving his hand through a bunch of tomatoes, lettuce and other vegetables. “How perceptive.” He picked up some radish, rotating it in front of his face to check for any imperfections. Dottore’s taste in food absolutely did not match his own, but it’d be good to finally eat something fresh and nutritious– something that wasn’t a bag of frozen, pre-packaged vegetables from a supermarket. “Where have you been?”

Dottore walked up to him slowly. Scaramouche did not have to turn around to notice the surgeon approaching. The heavy steps, as well as the smell of disinfectant which had followed him everywhere, betrayed his intentions and close proximity. His hand grabbed the door of the fridge and he opened it a bit wider, glancing inside. “Hm. I still have some leftovers from yesterday’s dinner. Take whatever you want.” 

Their conversation didn’t feel any different and Kunikuzushi did not know how to feel. Sure, there was a barely noticeable strain to the surgeon’s voice, a certain casualness that came off as forced, but the interaction sounded… stale. They’ve done this before, said similar things, just using different words. Before Scaramouche went down the route of dwelling on things out of his control, Dottore intercepted with a reply. “...I was getting rid of the corpse, actually. I wanted to do it while it was still dark outside and I assumed you’d be asleep at this hour. If I knew you would wake up, I’d leave a note behind.”

“I figured you had business to attend to.” Scaramouche mithered, walking underneath Dottore’s arm to reach the counter and slapping the cluster of radish onto a cutting board. “Is the car clean? I want to go back home, but can wait here a bit longer if it means not having to dabble in the guy’s blood.” 

“...Yeah, as long as you sit in the passenger’s seat. The backseat is, uh, off-limits , if you know what I mean. Still, I’m heading to work in about an hour, so I can give you a lift.” Dottore closed the door to the fridge with a thud, connecting his hands together behind his back. “Don’t worry about the clothes from yesterday. I’ll throw them into the washing machine here and give them back to you the next time we meet.”

“That’s a deal, then.” Scaramouche nodded, glancing at the clock hanging by the open window. The lace curtains moved gently with the wind, resembling the rim of a summer dress more than anything else. There was a blade in his hand, a simple tool meant for cutting up ingredients, and gripping it felt right. “Come and help me make breakfast. The fridge at my place is empty and I am not planning to starve for the rest of the day.”

And, just like that, Dottore listened. As they stood beside each other, preparing the meal, Scaramouche realized that there weren’t many people in the world that did.

When, many years ago, he’d shared his plans for the future with his acquaintances and family, almost all of them looked at him weird. Photography isn’t lucrative , they’d say, shaking their heads at the dark-haired thing cradling a camera close to his chest. What about finding a job? Renting a house? Marrying a good, hard-working man and settling down? 

Ironically, the only people who didn’t ridicule him for this choice were, in this order: his first boyfriend, whose opinions didn’t really matter at the end of the day, considering he ended up six feet underground, and his mother, who just looked at him with hazy eyes and nodded confusedly, barely registering his words in her depressive drowse. Now, after over a decade and hanging on by a thread in college, Scaramouche knew that they were right. Maybe not about marrying, but most definitely about picking any other major. 

Still, it came with some perks which not all students knew about. For example, some really big discounts, which– unfortunately– did not apply to students nearing thirty. But another thing was a free subscription to some decent editing softwares. Even without his own laptop, he could sit for hours in the IT room, logged into his account and working on boring assignments. Anyone could enter this space, which sometimes meant stumbling into people Scaramouche certainly didn’t want to see while slaving away by the PC. 

“Hey, Kunikuzushi! How are the plants doing?”

Scaramouche closed his dark eyes, taking in a deep breath before muttering out a tepid reply. “Quiet down, you can’t yell in here. They’re doing alright, thanks.” 

Ajax rolled a swivel chair closer to where Scaramouche was hovering over his unfinished project, dropping his backpack down by his friend’s leg. “You’re right, sorry. I just haven’t seen you in a while and you haven’t replied to any of my texts. I was starting to get worried.” The redhead whispered ostentatiously, leaning in confidentially. “I’m on my lunch break right now. You want to go and get something to eat together?”

“No chance. I’m here for a reason, can’t you see?” Scaramouche motioned vaguely towards the computer screen, which now showed only a blank canvas. He’d clicked off the gory photograph he’d been editing as soon as he spotted Childe on the horizon, not in the mood to concoct an entire fake story about finding a model who’d agreed to participate in a photoshoot like this for free. Besides… he did not know much about Childe’s past, but for anyone who had a bit of experience dealing with injuries, it’d be obvious that the ones captured in the picture weren’t the work of a talented make-up artist, but very much real and dangerous wounds. Either way, that missing finger of his… He must’ve lost it somehow, so the theory of Ajax being knowledgeable about this topic wasn’t all that far-fetched. 

“Ahh…” Childe’s warm smile fell for just a moment. “Got it. It’s a shame, a new spot has opened up and it’s been racking up positive reviews online... Well, technically, I took my lunchbox with me, so do you mind if I sit here and eat with you?” 

Scaramouche looked up from the screen, glaring at Childe wordlessly for a second. Then, he moved his hand and tapped on the laminated flyer glued with adhesive tape onto the desk’s surface. “Eating and drinking is not allowed here. You’re going to spill something and have to pay back for the damage. Let me tell you, the lady working here will raise absolute hell if you break these rules.” 

“Since when have you been the one caring about this stuff?” Childe laughed, a bit too loud, turning a few heads into their direction. Some other frustrated student, seated a couple meters away, hissed a muffled ‘shh’ his way and the ginger grimaced apologetically, trying to unwrap his sandwich as quietly as possible. “You’ve always struck me as a rebellious type of a guy, you know?” 

“Listen, I might not abide by the rules all the time, but I’m also not stupid. You don’t want to get on that woman’s bad side, especially if you’re planning to spend a lot of time rotting in here.” Scaramouche grumbled, narrowing his eyes when Childe rolled the aluminum foil sheet into a small, crinkled ball. Then, he’d taken an absurdly big bite out of the sandwich, which almost caused the slices of tomato and cheese to slide right out and onto his lap. 

“I’m guessing you’re not sitting here willingly, then?” The younger man asked, mouth full of unchewed food. Scaramouche shook his head. “Interesting. What is this new thing you’re working on? Come on, show me. I’ll give you a professional and totally unbiased opinion.” He beamed, revealing crumbs of bread stuck in between his crooked teeth. 

“I’ll pass.” Scaramouche said quickly, glancing at the computer to make sure that the images weren’t showing anywhere, not even in the miniature display screen. “Finish eating your sandwich and get out of here. I wasn’t joking about being busy, my final grade depends on this.”

Childe sighed, taking another bite, this time slightly smaller. He didn’t seem to have any liquid with him to drink in case of choking. “I was hoping you’d be a bit more talkative today.” There was genuine disappointment in his voice. “So, I’m guessing that means you aren’t free to hang out in the evening, too?”

Scaramouche gritted his teeth. His silence, albeit short, was very telling. “I’m already meeting up with someone, sorry.”

“That guy from the car?”

In that moment, it was as if time itself slowed down.

Scaramouche’s eyes widened, head snapping back up to look Childe in the blue, dull eyes. He was watching closely, trying to gauge his reaction– for the sake of his own curiosity, because it was impossible for Ajax to have some sort of an agenda here. But this only reminded him of one important thing. There must’ve been a reason why this man managed to leave the country and secure a spot at this university, not to mention figure out a way to keep a few jobs when, for many, being hired at one was already an impossible task. Whether it was for the boyish charm or his impeccable perception skill, Scaramouche didn’t know, but… Maybe Ajax was a force to be reckoned with. For his own good, it was important to keep him away from all of this mess. “What the fuck do you mean?” He asked in a breathy tone, betraying some of his anxiety. 

Childe shrugged casually, picking at the whole wheat bread slice. “You know, that one guy… A while back, while we were talking, I saw a car drive by multiple times. And then, when the heavy rain hit, I went to hide in the shed. I saw you from a distance and was planning to run out after you, but that’s when you got into his car.” He recalled in excruciating detail, but through the deafening beating of his own heart, Scaramouche could barely hear anything. “Tall, long hair, wore a coat, I think? It’s been a while. I just haven’t seen you talk with anyone before, much less get into their car so freely… What, is he like, your boyfriend or something–?”

“Shut up.” Scaramouche growled, tightening his hand into a fist. “Did no one teach you how rude it is to assume and ask about what doesn’t concern you? It’s none of your business who he is, so fuck off.”

Childe popped a few seeds from the loaf into his mouth, frowning while looking at the man sitting next to him. “Kunikuzushi, why are you always like this?” He muttered. “I am being nice and you always find ways to blow up at me. I don’t care about who that man is, whether it’s a boyfriend, family friend, sponsor– whatever. You’re right, it doesn’t concern me. I just thought that, after the meeting at the tea shop…” Childe winced, placing the uneaten half of his lunch back into the plastic container. “...That we could officially become friends , I guess. I’ve always wanted to.”

Scaramouche parted his lips, but that’s when one of the employees passed them by and pressed a finger to their lips threateningly, brows furrowed in exasperation at their misbehaviour. Ajax pulled the sleeve of his shirt over the lunch box, making a funny face and waiting for the guy with dyed hair to withdraw in tense silence. “...I don’t want you to ask about him, alright?” He grumbled, pulling his jacket tighter around his slender form. “It’s personal. I’m glad for your help, but I don’t want you to insert yourself into my private matters.”

Childe smiled lightly, but with a degree of sadness Scaramouche did not expect from him. It was almost as if there was something unsaid hanging in between them. If Dottore’s gaze was intense and piercing, like the same fire which had burnt off half his face, then Childe’s was more like high tide; cold, engulfing, chilling to the bone. Stare into his eyes for too long and you’ll feel like drowning . Suddenly, everything made sense. Now, Scaramouche knew why, submerged in water in the bathtub at his studio, his brain came up with the idea of asking Childe for help. There seemed to be so many wild currents battling for dominance inside of him, boundless energy that would, one day, break through the dam and bring upon disastrous consequences. “Whatever you say, Kunikuzushi.” 

Scaramouche nodded, resting his back against the uncomfortable office chair. “Thanks.” He took in a deep breath, moving his head forward until the black, uneven bangs covered his face. It was a welcome respite from having to talk and be judged for any moments of weakness. “You should leave now.” He added quietly. “I will reply to your messages in the evening.”

Childe finally took the hint. He’d picked up his backpack, with many various ornaments, pins and keychains– some of them looked handmade, probably by his many siblings– hanging from the zippers. “I’ll be waiting.” He said cheerfully, smiling down at the shorter man. “Talk to you soon?”

Scaramouche nodded, waving his hand as if he was swatting at a fly. “Yeah, yeah. Go before you get both of us kicked out for good.”

This interaction, for some reason, didn’t feel fulfilling.

Scaramouche glanced back at the grotesque photographs, once again faced with the sight of a deformed tongue and bruised lips forming a perfectly round, burgundy ‘o’. Humans weren’t supposed to see such a tragedy, that’s why for most, blood and guts… all of it was impossible to take on with a straight face. Death was a natural part of life, but as for the dead; they were meant to be given proper burial, covered with a layer of dirt and given back to the soil, where they came from. Hanging out so often with Dottore changed his perspective a lot and the lack of real friends definitely wasn’t helping in his case. Childe was a breath of fresh air; someone who led a relatively stable life, worrying about things so… ordinary. Who knew, maybe he’d settle on denying his advances just for a chance to chat about something normal.

Scaramouche felt himself curl up slightly, pressing one of his knees up to his chest. He’d never find his own place in the world. Disgusted by the plain, dysfunctional domesticity of his childhood home, he’d ran away; and now, having experienced this independence, why was he suddenly longing for normalcy–?

It’d pass, eventually. Like everything else in the world, it’d pass. 

Perhaps, if all the blood coursing through his body flowed down at once, it’d damage his brain enough for him to become free of all responsibilities, duties and obligations. It was just a self-indulgent fantasy of his, one of many he’d consider while laying on the naked mattress with his feet up in the air, pressed flat against the wall. He’d painted his nails black and was now just trying to pass the time while they dried, holding a phone above his face and scrolling, procrastinating the actual goal he’d set out for himself that evening– researching more about the doctor who had suddenly entered his life and threw him off the right track.

Dottore had been in the flat again a few days prior. He’d come prepared, carrying a suitcase full of tools, cleaning supplies and sponges, still in his hospital uniform and an indigo lanyard around his neck. The ID card was hidden underneath his shirt– for no reason, really, but Scaramouche was glad that the man did not suspect any foul play. He’d spent the entire evening fixing up the malfunctioning door of his wardrobe, as well as scrubbing his beloved mold pet off the ceiling. Even after finishing these tasks, he’d seemed to linger around, standing by the counter and washing the dishes while telling Scaramouche about his patients. They talked, argued and engaged in not-so-playful banter for hours, until Scaramouche’s phone lit up and showed that, in the blink of an eye, it was midnight. Yet another day has passed;  another day of the media being silent about a newly missing man, another day of no police force showing up at his door. What the two committed… It felt like a dream and maybe Scaramouche would successfully gaslight himself into thinking it was one, if not for the presence of fully edited and polished photos in his gallery.

In contrast to him, Dottore’s behavior did not change at all– even if it did, Scaramouche would suspect it to be the fault of their near-intercourse, not any moral dilemma connected to taking the life of another.

Either way… he couldn’t put this off any longer. He needed to check.

Scaramouche frowned, typing Dottore’s first and last name into the search bar and pressing another key on the phone’s screen. Then, he watched as the loading screen booted up, tapping his foot against the wall to the rhythm of a song he’d heard on the radio and had stuck in his head ever since. Finally, after what felt like hours, a bunch of results appeared. Most of them were just some newspaper articles where he was barely mentioned… clearly, not much of a representative. Scrolling through the photos which also came up, Scaramouche couldn’t spot the man anywhere, not even in the very background, among all the other pixelated faces. Keeping to himself… yes, that was very much on point for Zandik. But he wouldn’t give up so easily, patiently clicking through mountains of red herrings, dead ends and worthless pages of medical nonsense. 

After the fifth attempt of tweaking the words just enough to achieve a slightly different outcome, he was just about to give up, when a new link popped up– some sort of an archive, presumably, for a medical academy. The site was slow and Scaramouche suspected that this time, it wasn’t only the fault of his slow Internet. It was kept in a style which he’d describe as somewhat vintage, at least for the digital world; with a brown banner above a bunch of photos and an icon in the shape of a quill. At the beginning, all the photographs were black and white, taken decades upon decades ago. On some of the scans, he could see creases and other signs of use; faded fingerprints, lines done in pen or even rings from displaced coffee mugs. Gradually, the photos became more colorful and lively. Breathless, Scaramouche’s lips moved in tandem with the passing years, counting, until…

He did not even spot him at first.

The picture wasn’t special in any way– just a group of young people, all of them with gentle smiles brightening up their hopeful faces. Instinctively, the brunet had been looking for the familiar scar, the sky-colored hair, the bitter and all-knowing smirk, but… the person in the photograph wasn’t like that at all.

Zandik used to be beautiful .

He was standing with his arms crossed over his wide chest, partly in the dispersed shadow of a nearby oak tree. There was a playful twinkle in his eyes, reflecting red in the camera, a stark contrast to the white of his skin and hair. It was significantly shorter back then, not even reaching his shoulders. Stray hairs would curl on top of his head, snow-like locks that could not be held down with any sort of gel or spray. They reminded Scaramouche of the portrayals of renaissance cherubs, with their playfully innocent expressions and delicate features. He looked young, younger than his colleagues, but most importantly– his face was fully in-tact. There was not a single flaw on the side which nowadays, was marred and hideous. Nothing that Scaramouche could spot thirty years after the fact, at least; nothing but the sharp jawline, high cheekbone and a toothy, captivating grin. His eyelids were pulled open a bit too wide, as if the young doctor was trying too hard to fit in and behave like a human being, but it was oddly… charming. He had a slight overbite, much more noticeable when there wasn’t anything more drastic to pay attention to. There  used to be a small dimple on his smooth chin and Scaramouche was suddenly overcome with the need to fantasize about pressing his finger or tongue into it.

The buttons of his shirt weren’t buttoned up correctly, creating an awkward fold underneath his fancy bowtie. He must’ve been so, so excited for the picture day, ever so fashionable. Scaramouche could imagine the young boy– boy, not man, because he couldn’t have been any older than twenty four– standing in front of a mirror, attempting to tie it with shaky hands, too thrilled to focus. Perhaps his mom was there to help him out, iron his shirt and tug at his hair with a brush… maybe she was filled with too much pride to notice this mistake too, rushing her dear boy out the door. 

Scaramouche sucked some breath in, feeling an unfamiliar tingling in the corners of his eyes. Trying to distract himself with anything other than this thought, he’d begun to examine other parts of the picture. This time, his attention diverted to a woman standing right beside Dottore. Even though there were a bunch more students included in the pic, all of them kept each other at arm’s length, clearly grouped together only for the sake of snapping that photo. Scaramouche knew this reality all too well from the photographing gigs he’d taken on in the past, some of them at conferences where everyone pretended not to actually hate each other’s guts. It was even more noticeable at weddings, where individuals from completely different sides of the family had to pretend to be friends, smiling awkwardly at the camera. But these two… Scaramouche wouldn’t be surprised if they were acquaintances, maybe even actual friends. 

It could’ve been his personal bias, but he’d describe this lady as a typical mouseburger. She wasn’t unattractive, there just wasn’t anything even remotely interesting in her looks. Was she not right by Zandik’s side, he’d look past her without even thinking about it. The rims of her eyeglasses were thick and dark, blending into the brown skin and the barely visible freckles on her long nose. The black hair was put up into a low ponytail. She was tall, probably a few centimeters taller than Dottore himself, introducing the trope of a good-hearted nerdy ‘girl next door’ into the onlooker’s mind. Every other person was just dressed in formal attire, but she was the only one with a lab coat draped over her shoulders. If there was a plaquette attached to her breast, Scaramouche couldn’t make out the name. 

He couldn’t help but notice that their elbows were almost touching, as well as the way she was glancing to the side– unable to look away, just like Scaramouche himself. Clearly, they shared a specific kind of weakness for the very same man. 

For some reason, this felt important. It’s as if the answer was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t squeeze it out of himself. Dottore has never mentioned any friends and, conveniently, glossed over his years at college, too. Best case scenario, the two have lost contact– it’s been decades, after all– but…

Scaramouche stared into the woman’s radiant eyes for a few more seconds, his chest tightening. Conducting a little investigation on his own couldn’t hurt, and, perhaps, if he tracked this girl down, she’d be able to tell him more about Dottore. Looking at the photograph, his brain refused to accept that’s what this boy has become– a cold-blooded murderer.

The brunet groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose, tossing the phone to the side and rolling onto his side, with his cheek pressed against a cluster of thin blankets and dirty clothes he’d put there instead of a laundry basket. Between worrying about being discovered and juggling his job with attending classes, his head had begun to hurt. It was only fair to have a well-deserved break, locked away from the world in the lightproof box that was his flat. He was just about to doze off with his knees pressed against his chest and one of the blankets thrown loosely on top of his form when loud knocking interrupted the dead silence.

Just two knocks, very gentle– so gentle, in fact, that at first Scaramouche was convinced he’d dreamt them up. His eyes shot open, but he didn’t move. If it was a solicitor or a random drunkard who tried to get into the wrong studio by accident, they wouldn’t try knocking again. But, whoever the person on the other side of the door was, they did . There was some shuffling and then, yet another knock. It couldn’t have been Dottore either; that man would just text him or give him a call if he needed to see him, telling him to get out of the building as quickly as possible. Realizing he wouldn’t be able to avoid confrontation, Scaramouche got back up and dragged himself over to the entrance, pushing a chair with his school bag out the way. “I’m coming.” He called out, a loud curse tearing out of his throat after almost tripping over a broken down vacuum cleaner. His hand played around with the lock for a second before wrapping around the door knob and pulling it back. “I’m–”

It was a knee-jerk reflex. If not for the clawed hands slithering its way into the gap of the doorframe, he would have shut the door in her face and flopped back down onto the bed, about to use the pocket change he’d received from Dottore to order alcohol and drink himself to death. Unfortunately, there existed someone who knew him well, and that certain someone was standing right in front of him for the first time in years.

She looked photoshopped into the filthy surroundings, standing with her feet glued together, as if wanting to avoid dirtying her heels with the grime accumulated over the years out in the hallway. Her skirt was short and tight, wrapped around each curve of her body; up the wide hips, chubby waist and a sizable bust. Shameless and with an aura of confidence unbecoming of a mature woman, she was sure to turn heads on the streets, not embarrassed of admitting just how much she enjoyed this recognition. She hasn’t changed much over the years, holding up well for someone whose fortieth birthday had passed long ago. Long, heavy earrings hung from her stretched ears and her lips, painted the color of magenta, were arched in a smile. A moment passed before the pink-haired woman raised her plucked eyebrows, giving the shorter man a meaningful leer. 

“Well, aren’t you going to let me in? It’s good manners, Kunikuzushi.”

Chapter Text

Scaramouche stared in total silence, thin fingers gripping at the side of the creaking door. The woman standing in front of him was naturally much taller and her heels only made the height difference even more visible; even if he spread out his arms to cover the scene behind him, she could’ve easily looked over his head into the studio. He’s gotten used to things being dirty and broken down, but suddenly, he’d gotten self-conscious; he did not experience such a turmoil of emotions even when Dottore came up there for the first time. Perhaps it was because the doctor looked fairly normal in his regular clothes, while the all-encompassing air of luxury clung to the pink-haired model like cheap cigarette smoke. She’s always been a judgemental one and, while he was still technically part of the family, Scaramouche wasn’t as worried. Now they’ve become strangers and the thought of Yae Miko realizing his failures as an adult man was truly sickening. The woman quirked her thin eyebrow and, upon realizing that she would not get a reply, stepped in. As if a magical seal was suddenly broken, Scaramouche jerked violently, turning around and facing her back. “What are you doing here?” He barked, following her in like an angry dog foaming at the mouth. Unbothered, Yae Miko sat down at the small table and crossed her legs, wiping a few crumbs off the seat with a flick of her wrist. “I’ve never invited you!”

At first, something akin to genuine surprise which couldn’t be described as inherently negative bloomed in his chest at the sight of Yae Miko at his doorstep. But now, when the reality of the situation sank in, he quickly came to his senses. This was no time for a cutesy family reunion.

Yae shrugged, reaching down to release the ankle-strap heels but keeping her feet in the insoles. The student narrowed his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching. The floor wasn’t that dirty– a little cold, the tiles cracked, yes, but he wasn’t one to enjoy living in filth and sweeped fairly often. “Why, I found myself nearby for a modeling gig and decided to visit while I was in the area.” Her tone suggested that she thought it was the most obvious thing in the world. Just like with his phone number, he’d given her his address once before, similarly– just in the case of an emergency. And, similarly, Yae Miko clearly wasn’t interested in using this information only in the case of an emergency. He called bullshit on the ‘modeling gig’ excuse; the drive from his childhood home was over six hours long and considering her previous attempt to contact him, this couldn’t have been a coincidence. He knew her true intentions and she knew that he knew. They weren’t stupid. It was a delicate balance.  But if things kept going on like this, welcoming people with the intent of fucking up his daily routine would become an unfortunate pattern of behavior. 

He didn’t answer and the woman took this chance to stare his pathetic, small form up and down. She clearly missed the opportunity to choose a career path in the medical field, because the burning gaze of her violet eyes was as scrutinizing and precise as Roentgen’s rays. If she came here to confirm her suspicions or get rid of a hunch that was telling her something was wrong, she was about to get severely disappointed; everything here indicated things were bad, very bad. Scaramouche gritted his teeth, his jaw tense.

He wondered what exactly she saw, because her face did not betray any of her thoughts.

If there was still a version of the old him– the shy and timid young girl–then it must’ve existed only in his family’s blurry memories. But, admittedly, Miko has never slipped up once. It was likely that instead of that pathetic thing, what she saw was the tough man he’d grown to become. Meanwhile, the model’s features were eternal and forever unchanging. The heavy makeup filling in the wrinkles on her forehead made the passage of time very clear, but undeniably,  it was still the same old Miko he knew. 

“...Anyway, be a good host, won't you?” She spoke up slowly. “It’s been a long journey. I’m in the mood for some tea, or at least water with lime…” 

Ever the fancy one, indeed. That thing also hasn’t changed in the slightest. Nevertheless, Scaramouche turned sharply and reached up for a sturdy mug on the shelf, nearly smashing it on top of the counter– just to make sure Miko knew she wasn’t actually welcome here. He didn’t bother cutting up the citrus or searching the cupboard for stale tea bags, filling the thing to the brim with tap water instead. “What, are you planning to report back to Her?” He asked finally, still hunched over the mug which, at this point, had begun to overflow. “Whatever you say to her about this place, just know that I never regretted leaving. Not even once.” A few steps and one stern look later, the mug was placed in front of Miko, droplets spilling onto the smooth surface of the table. Scaramouche refused to sit down in front of her, standing with his arms crossed over his chest. 

Miko let out a small noise, something in between a snort and an exasperated sigh. “Kunikuzushi, Ei doesn’t know that I’m here.” She said as if she was explaining something to a very stubborn child. “Despite what you believe, me, her and your sister don’t have some sort of a pact to torment you. Although that does sound rather amusing, doesn’t it?” She smiled lightly and placed her hands on top of her lap, not sparing the mug a singular glance. “How you feel about anything to do with her is not a mystery to me. I suppose I should consider myself lucky that you still tolerate me.”

“Are you really that surprised?” Scaramouche spluttered, beginning to lose his non-existent patience. “God, what did you expect, coming here out of nowhere? I did not block you because–” The man stammered for a second, racking his mind for an answer that felt appropriate. If he really wanted to disappear for good, he definitely could; but for years, he’d been living mere hours away, with only a single thread to connect him with the past. Yae was the one holding onto the other end of it; an unspoken agreement to co-exist in this world without getting in each other’s way… an agreement which wasn’t respected and he couldn’t even get genuinely mad at it. “...Because you’ve done some good things and it’s only fair. But if, after a decade, you decided to discuss it in hopes of setting up a lovey-dovey family reunion, just get the fuck out of here. You should’ve made an effort back then, when I was still a naive kid. Maybe then, you could’ve taught that bitch how to parent.” Scaramouche hissed, spitting the insult out as if it was bitter poison burning his throat. He came off way more emotional than he’d wanted to be, but the truth was, none of them have ever talked about the events that transpired within the privacy of their home. Distraught by the recent crimes, it was much easier to catch him off-guard.

Miko came here of her own accord, and so, became an easy target to lash out on; that is, until she’d part her magenta lips and fire back with something even more nasty. “You lied to me. You said it was possible for things to, one day, get better. But you’ve always known She wasn’t going to change.”

Miko’s plum-colored eyes darkened in an instant at the profanity thrown her partner’s way. She tapped her long claws against the rim of the cup, so sharp, Scaramouche could easily imagine they’d feel like needles pricking at the skin. “Just because I know how you feel about her doesn’t mean I won’t defend her, Kunikuzushi.” She spoke loud and clear, in a tone condemning all disobedience. “You need to understand… Not everyone is against you. One thing I can assure you of is that Ei has never done anything with malicious intent. You, on the other hand, have done just that, didn’t you? You tricked yourself into thinking you’re hated no matter where you go.. Stuck in a limbo, because that’s exactly what this place is.” Even though she hasn’t let the mask of a good-natured, charming socialite slip, it was obvious her words carried actual meaning. She spread out her arm, fingers almost grazing the other wall of the studio. “I must admit, if I have one regret, it’s letting both of you stay with Ei for this long. For years, I assumed that being with the biological mother was the best fate for all children, but now I see that wasn’t the case. If I could turn back time, I would give you away and pray for you to find a home warmer, kinder , somewhere else. But the simple fact is, there’s nothing to be done about this now. You’re nearing thirty, Kunikuzushi. If you wish to keep your distance, I don’t blame you, but you mustn't alter the facts.”

“Oh, shut up.” Scaramouche growled, feeling something tug at his heart strings. “She kicked me out as soon as she found out that I’m…” Again, he’d begun to fumble his words, the inside of his mouth way too dry to speak. Miko always had this effect on him– it was so, so difficult to stand your ground when faced with someone of such strength and power emanating from within. To add onto that impression, this was a sensitive topic for him, too. 

“She never kicked you out.” Yae Miko cut in right away, not even letting the man finish his sentence. “She never kicked you out, and even if she did, it wouldn’t be because of that . I can’t say I think she handled that matter well… but it was purely because of shock, not contempt or disgust. Even I didn’t expect things to unfold this way… You certainly surprised all of us that day.” Scaramouche’s palms have begun to sweat, clammy and gross when tightened into fists. “And then, almost right away, you slammed the door closed and left while Ei tried to follow after you. Don’t tell me you don’t remember?” Even though Miko’s voice was still soft and gentle, it felt like mockery. “Or is this another one of those little details your brain decided to refine to try and make things easier for yourself?” 

“How do you know it wasn’t because of that? You don’t know shit .” Scaramouche breathed out, throat constricting with effort. 

For the first few years after running away, he couldn’t even bear to think about what had happened. 

He’s never been close with his mother. His early childhood was filled with neglect, but as a little child, he simply couldn’t understand what was wrong… or whose fault it was. He’d try so desperately to hold onto the sleeve of Ei’s shirt and attempt to drag her off the stained mattress. At some point, he’d stopped trying to do that and instead, started climbing into the makeshift bed beside her, small arms wrapped tight around her middle. His lips moved against the sickeningly damp fabric, the silent plea of a lonely daughter never acknowledged.

Now, Scaramouche could compare it to hugging a corpse. The only signifier of the woman being alive was her slow, shallow breathing. 

By the time Ei had recovered enough to function on her own, he’d long moved to sleeping in a different, cramped room. Alone.

Nonetheless, he’d spent years dressing his sister up in his own clothes, rolling up the sleeves of old sweaters when they reached past her slender fingers. He’d ask Yae Miko to bring in groceries and move the bowl of unfinished rice his sister’s way, lying about not being hungry. Despite the hardships the two faced together… The only thing he saw was a miniature version of his mother. She was an exact copy, both in her looks, as well as the behavior.

It was stifling. Suffocating, even. When Miko talked about the power of womanhood and solidarity, trying to convince them to keep their hopes up, Kunikuzushi felt sick to his very core. If even that wasn’t quite right, then really, did he ever truly belong? 

That fateful day, his sister was sitting at a table in the living room with dark hair covering her face. She had always been quiet when her brother and mother were arguing, if you could even call it that; while he was raising his voice, turgid with incoming tears of frustration, she was only squeezing in a couple of short, concrete rebuttals. What they were fighting about that time, he couldn’t recall. It’s been too long. His skirt was long and flowy, and as he paced around the room, he resembled a mourning widow, which wasn’t an entirely unjustified association. It couldn’t have been long since Niwa’s fatal accident. He’d still had the promise ring hanging from his neck back then, tucked underneath his shirt and pressed close to his heart. He couldn’t bear the reality of that life anymore, and something was said, something wholly irrevocable. 

The rest was a haze. 

He must’ve grabbed his bag, packed months prior to the revelation, and then found himself on the city streets. As if a significant part of the argument disappeared… Ei’s shocked eyes, his sister’s unmoving form, the cold rain running down his cheeks and chin and neck–

One day, after many winters have passed, suddenly everything clicked. Perhaps Yae Miko was correct– perhaps Ei’s expression wasn’t one of disgust. Perhaps it was him who stumbled outside, deaf to his mother’s weak protests. Perhaps, that one time, it was both of them at fault.

But Miko said it herself. He was nearing thirtymand whatever the case might be, his heart was set on hating his mother until the very end. 

The model avoided his question and looked around for a distraction, eventually settling on a box of cigarettes. Without inquiring, the woman grabbed one and searched her white purse for a pink lighter. “I know many things you’re not aware of, Kunikuzushi.” She fired back, as if he was an annoying fly to swat at. “I’ll tell you this– it impacted her, yes, but not for the reasons you might think. Ever since you were born, she’d always say you looked just like Makoto. I’m sure you’ve heard that before, but you might not have realized how much of a deal it was for her.” Yae Miko sighed deeply. “This resemblance didn’t make it easy for Ei, as you can probably imagine. The pregnancy didn’t happen late into her grieving… Two life-changing things happening almost at once, she did not stand a chance.”

Makoto… Scaramouche has heard this name before.

He’s never gotten to meet his aunt and didn’t really have any interest in who she was as a person while still walking this earth. He’d found out she was the main reason for his mother’s depression relatively early on and considered her as nothing more but the source of all his anguish. There were barely any mementos of her scattered around their home, but he’d seen her a couple of times, mostly at Yae’s place. The two girls were identical twins only in theory. In practice, Makoto’s face was fuller and shoulders rounder, and in each photograph, she was smiling so wide that he couldn’t even see her eyes. In a couple of them, she was holding onto Yae’s hand, with his mother standing like an ominous shadow behind the two. They truly did seem to be attached at the hip.

“You even have a mole in the same spot as she did.” Miko added after a pause, tapping the very high of the right cheekbone. “She was a wonderful girl and, for a long time, my best friend. Ei never understood her quirks, but was always at her side. You wouldn’t understand how strong their bond was– no one can. Not even I do, despite how much time I’d spent around them.” Yae hummed. “Don’t blame Ei for not knowing how to deal with you, too. In her head, it was as if she’d lost Makoto three times. For the first time when she’d died, the second when she wasn’t able to bond with you, and the third time, when it turned out you were never quite like Makoto at all.”

“And that’s weakness .” Scaramouche hissed, moving his hand to disperse some of the dark smoke pluming from her mouth. “My whole life, you’ve been there to witness the failure that my mother was. Do you think these excuses will make me… understand? Forgive?” He laughed mirthlessly. 

Miko always had some sort of a plan, scheming and arranging things behind everyone’s back. “I’m going to ask for the last time. Why did you come here?”

Yae leaned back in her chair. The fur on the collar of her jacket was fluffy enough to tickle at the bottom of her chin, but despite the classy outfit, the woman, in that split second, just looked… tired. She was clearly pondering something, her face unreadable. For bystanders, the nature of the romantic relationship between Yae Miko and his mother was unnatural and did not make any sense– they were so different, standing at the opposite ends of a spectrum… But Scaramouche noticed the more subtle similarities. Both of them refused to put their emotions on display; but while Ei embraced this quality, Miko would overcompensate and use overplayed feelings as some sort of a shield. Always smiling, chuckling, leading people astray– if the world was a stage, then she was standing in the center of it, performing for one person and one person only. 

Finally, the model tilted her head back and rolled the thin cigarette in between her fingers. “To remind you that, in a case of emergency, you’re still going to be one of us, of course. I’m going to be in the city for about a week or two, up to a month.” The rest of her monologue remained unsaid. The meaning behind it was obvious, though.

I’m here to help.

Suddenly, the older woman pushed herself up, tapping the tip of her heel against the sticky tiles. She glanced down at the untouched tap water, her nail clinking against the porcelain. “Much appreciated, Kunikuzushi.  Alas, my responsibilities are catching up to me. Mm, I wonder if taxis roam this area…”

God, she was both insufferable and way too enigmatic. All her secretiveness was starting to make his head hurt. Help? Help with what and, most importantly, why now ? “You’re leaving already?” He blurted out, rushing to clarify. “...I think that’s for the best, actually.”

She smiled slightly at the off-handed comment, heading towards the way out of the studio. Scara had already turned around, letting his face drop now that Miko couldn’t see his expression, when he’d realized that the clicking of her heels abruptly paused. Curious, he looked over, noticing Miko stared at something farther to the side.

It was Dottore’s shirt, the one he’d borrowed from the man after staying over at his house for the night. It was clearly a few sizes too big and completely not his style, not to mention, way too good of a quality to belong to him. The brand name on the back of it was recognizable and indicated it couldn’t have been cheaper than fifty dollars, and had Yae leaned in to take a whiff, despite the laundry detergent it’s been treated with, maybe she would have still been able to smell the scent of cologne and disinfectant clinging stubbornly to the fabric. Her eyes lit up with something akin to understanding and with a silent, mouthed ‘interesting’ on her lips, the woman stepped out. Just like that, everything in the flat was back in its place, as if no disturbance ever happened. 

Slowly, Scaramouche slumped back onto a chair like a deflated balloon. Rubbing the bridge of his flat nose, the man stared into his own, deformed reflection in the abandoned mug, his heartbeat pulsing in his ears. He started to feel oddly nauseous and a part of him wanted to peek out of the window, trying to find the pink head among the gray crowds. But he’d waited this urge out, like most things in his life, clawing at the end of his shorts for comfort. 

You’re still going to be one of us…

What a joke. Instead of reassurance, this line in particular only made him even more determined to go against their wishes. Whatever happened in the future, he was all on his own. For some reason, his eyes moved back to stare at the neatly folded bundle of a pale blue shirt in the corner. 

All on his own, but only to an extent. 

It’s been around a week since Miko visited him and that’s precisely why he’d avoided spending his free time at the gloomy flat, opting to frequent Dottore’s place instead. It’s become colder outside too and the weather became a good excuse to keep asking the man for rides to and back from the university building. While most other students huddled together in the uncomfortable public transport, he was lying with his car seat pushed all the way back and the sound of whirring car engine to lull him to sleep. He’d avoided Childe this past week and, to his surprise, it seemed like this strategy wasn’t one-sided, because no red-headed youth popped out of nowhere to aimlessly follow him around in the crowded halls. Even though he’d responded to the younger man’s text messages as promised and the two had an amiable chat, the tension in between them was very much there. It was obvious that the mention of the mysterious ‘man from the car’ struck a chord with Scaramouche and, presumably, the fact this was the thing that ticked him off really hurt Childe in return. It was not a shocking revelation; the kid clearly had his eyes set on him right from the very beginning. Whether Scaramouche would be his first heartbreak or not, it didn’t matter; this was the way of life and he’d learn it one way or another. 

There was a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and the muted noises of a turned-on TV, some old sitcom from Dottore’s youth to be exact, played in the background. He was sprawled out on top of the couch with a phone in his right hand, feet propped up on a coffee table. If it wasn’t for his left hand tapping out an uneven rhythm against his own forearm, he’d seem fairly comfortable in his spot. The doctor was kneeling by the edge of the couch and even though Scaramouche was trying not to pay any attention to him, he could still see the top of his graying head in the corner of his vision. He was fiddling with something on top of his lap, long bangs bouncing with each jerky movement, and the student felt himself drawn to his partner.

Dottore looked up after a moment spent in silence, glancing at Scaramouche’s phone first, then at his expressionless face. “You might want to be present for this one.”

Scaramouche rolled his eyes. “I used to do this every few weeks for a couple of years, it’s not like it’s my first time… Just carry on.” He mumbled, kicking his leg up a bit. Dottore shrugged and listened to the order, putting on a fresh pair of gloves. 

Of course, if that was the case, the surgeon wouldn’t be asked to perform this task. In actuality, his own hands were trembling and he didn’t trust himself not to hit a vein or spill the thick liquid all over the floors somehow, that’s why he’d asked a professional to do this. Said professional had already started to draw up the medication from the transparent bottle rather expertly, even though Scaramouche doubted it wasn’t his first time injecting someone with testosterone. He carefully rotated the syringe, raising it in front of his eyes– his glasses back on– and pressing on the cap to make sure there were no air bubbles trapped inside. Scaramouche unintentionally pressed his thighs together, deciding to leave investigating how exactly this sight made him feel for later. 

“You know, you could easily put some poisonous shit inside of me right now and I wouldn’t even know.” Scaramouche pointed out seriously, masking his anxiety with senseless rambling. In response, Dottore just raised his eyebrow and the corner of his mouth twitched upwards.

“You’ll have to wait and see.” Surprisingly, the doctor played along. He gestured with his free hand. “Pull your shorts up.”

Scaramouche listened, hooking his fingers underneath the pant leg and hiking it up almost all the way up to his hip joint. He hasn’t shaved, not bothering with it at all anymore; the pattern of beauty marks continued up his leg, spotted about all over. Dottore’s hand moved above the exposed skin, a centimeter away from actually touching it, until he settled on a specific spot and rubbed at it with a cotton pad soaked in strong alcohol. There was a firm, comforting grip on his knee; one that didn’t make Scaramouche feel trapped, but quite the opposite. It was one that coaxed him into staying in place, which proved to be beneficial in the end, because Dottore didn’t ask him if he was ready or warn him in any way. 

The syringe did not even make any sound. All that he sensed was the odd sensation of the tight muscle giving way to the metal rod, the overwhelming pressure and then, the incoming relief. The brunet did not even flinch, eyes fixed on the phone screen, although he was reading the passage shown on it for the third time and still not comprehending it in the slightest. He hadn’t moved at all until Dottore finally pulled the needle out, patting Scaramouche’s knee lightly. “Done. How are you holding up? I can do it for you next time, too, if you want me to.” 

Scaramouche let out a breath, finally dropping his phone down onto his lap and leaning forward to examine the tiniest puncture. He moved his leg experimentally, but aside from some tingling, everything was in order, so he let Dottore put some gauze on the red dot and tape it in place. “Maybe it’ll become a way for you to be of use, somehow.“ He said half-heartedly, not putting much venom into his jabs anymore. While he was busy stretching out his limbs, Dottore moved the phone, worried it’d fall onto the ground due to his partner’s constant shifting– but when he noticed what site was open, he frowned.

“You know… checking these websites will only make you appear more suspicious. If anything serious to worry about came up, I would let you know.” 

Scaramouche froze, dropping his arms back to his sides. He knew that, of course he did, but knowledge itself wasn’t enough to stop a man from resisting his urges. He’d been awaiting news about a mysterious disappearance to break out, but they just… wouldn’t come. It’d be good to know what exactly the situation was; just how much information about the case was released to the public, what to look out for, but aside from a couple small paragraphs in a newspaper and statements from concerned family members, there wasn’t anything of significance brewing. He supposed many people disappeared each year, and foul-play wasn’t usually involved. He wouldn’t blame an adult for deciding to fuck all responsibilities and leave  their boring life forever, but the lack of a reaction in the community was unnerving.  

“You’re saying this only because this isn’t your first time.” Scaramouche grumbled, tearing the phone out of Dottore’s hands and covering the screen with his sleeve. “I don’t want to rely on you for every single piece of information.”

Dottore chuckled quietly, rubbing the side of Scaramouche’s knee with his thumb. He didn’t take off his gloves and the feeling of rubber latex catching against the skin was thrilling in the most shameful way possible. “Experience is something you gain with time. It’s true that, usually, it’s better to aim for a slightly different demographic; the poor, the homeless… the ones that are abandoned and unaccounted for. Like it or not, all people have a set worth in the eyes of society; and once you start noticing these things, you cannot go back.” Suddenly, Dottore stopped– so did his thumb, now becoming completely static. He’d swallowed his next words, finishing this sudden monologue with much more thoughtfulness than before. “...But consider our last excursion a much-needed change of pace.”

At this, Scaramouche glowered.

Dottore was a grown man with a job that required a lot of common sense and intelligence. He wasn’t the type to excuse himself with recklessness, if only for the simple fact he did not possess any. A ‘change of pace’ wasn’t all that needed when his life– their lives– were on the table, like a bet in a hazardous game. If his previous claims were true and he’s been killing since college, he must’ve paid extra attention to not getting found out. Now that Scaramouche was thinking about it with the proper clarity of mind, Dottore’s actions were uncharacteristically risky, especially for a murderer of his caliber. Maybe it was a symptom of a mid-life crisis… Who knew what sort of inner turmoil was brewing inside of the surgeon’s brain considering how deeply damaged it was. Still… it just didn’t sit right with Scaramouche. Wanting to ease his growing suspicion, the brunet spoke up cautiously. “Do you have any plans for the future?” He asked sharply, but felt the need to clarify. “For any future kills, I mean.” When said out loud, this sentence carried no weight and it was almost laughable how flat it came out.

Dottore finally pushed himself back up and dusted off his pants, collecting the stuff from the floor before throwing it into a plastic trash bag. He smiled flippantly at the ridiculous question and sat down on the couch with one leg crossed over the other, a hand propped up against his cheek. “How eager. It hasn’t even been a month.” He said with amusement. He looked so composed and calm now, but the brunet wanted nothing more than to wipe that ironic smile off his face. He knew it to be possible thanks to the night the two spent together– the night that they still haven’t discussed. “But no, not really. It’ll come to us eventually. After all, winter is near; longer nights, shorter days…” He trailed off softly. “And the snow. Makes it more difficult to dig in the ground, but we won’t have to worry about that too much. It makes it more complicated to follow the trail of the criminal and keeps the body in excellent condition… What do you think about a short hike in the mountains, Scaramouche?”

At first, the student thought Dottore was completely serious, but the longer the man spoke, the more obvious his sarcasm became. As he continued, Scaramouche’s mouth curved in a disappointed scowl. “You’re stupid.” He commented, kicking at Dottore’s thigh with his foot. Dottore grabbed at his ankle with a laugh, immobilizing it instantly. Despite Scaramouche’s continuous scoffing, he did not let go, one of his eyebrows quirking up. Usually, the older man was wholly unreadable, with a stone-cold expression that made it impossible to peer into his thoughts. This time, it was different, because both of them must’ve thought about the very same thing. He knew that letting the doctor into his pants was a thoughtless decision, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. They couldn’t circle around this topic much longer, slowly closing in with each stray touch and wistful glance. “And rather disgusting, too.” He continued scornfully, uselessly trying to steer the conversation into a different direction. “I can barely stand to look at you.”

Dottore didn’t seem too moved by the insults, leaning into them as if he was whispering sweet nothings into his ear instead; ever so curious to play whatever game they were playing. The palm of his gloved hand moved higher up his calf and those dark, crimson eyes were the only source of light in the dim room. His silhouette was illuminated by the TV screen behind his back, the constantly changing colors drawing his eyes to Dottore and Dottore only . “Oh? And what else?” The surgeon asked and although his voice was lighthearted, his  haunting expression reminded him of back when they were near the bar and he was standing tall above the lifeless body of the guy he’d punched, with his chest rising and falling, strands of hair wild in the nighttime breeze. 

Scaramouche’s words did not even register in his brain before he blurted them out. “I want to photograph you.”

Dottore paused, the playful mood dissipating in less than a second. He’d straightened up, the hold on Scaramouche’s leg loosening. Perhaps this was a mistake, but what’s been done was done– and Scaramouche had no choice than to push on relentlessly. He’s already been dancing with fire this entire time and now that he thought more about it… it made sense. He’s long been fascinated by the scars on Dottore’s left side, the swirls of red and pink tangled together in elaborate webbing, stretched over the high of his cheekbone like carrion on a skinning rack. His aesthetics would suit his little side project, the scarred flesh beside pictures of the bloodied gums and tongue of their latest victim… For once in his life, Scaramouche was inspired to create something beautiful . There weren’t any recent pictures of Dottore online– nothing but that one ancient photograph back from his college days. However, Scaramouche knew that bringing it up now would only set the man off. He didn’t need to know that Scaramouche knew . His existence was a devastating calamity, waiting to not only be witnessed, but also recorded.

Scaramouche was up for the task, if only Dottore agreed to become his model. 

He knew that if he let the matter go and didn’t intervene, he’d most likely be met with rejection. As such, the student pushed against Dottore’s thigh again, leaning forward until the blanket wrapped around his shoulders lazily slid off the back of the couch. Now, he was staring intently into those crimson orbs, so big and shiny they almost didn’t look human. The tips of his fingers grazed the surgeon’s cheek and, even though their current position wasn’t very comfortable, it wasn’t enough to deter them from sharing a deep kiss. When his fingers moved into Dottore’s hairline, threading through the long strands of thick hair, Scaramouche thought— it was true that Dottore was ugly, especially compared to the young Zandik from the past. But that version of him, although handsome and virgin in its innocence, did not appeal to him in the slightest. This Dottore was the one he wanted to kiss breathless, the one he wanted to watch writhe underneath him in barely disguised pain, coated in a layer of lust. 

His tongue moved over the irregular mound of flesh near Dottore’s teeth as he thought back to his recent findings; namely, that one expensive lipstick that did not appear to be a trophy from a murdered victim hidden inside of the doctor’s bag. The shade of it would blend beautifully into the redness of the scar, highlighted in the lenses of his camera. “Let me do this.” He whispered, but it was no desperate plea. Dottore sighed against his lips and that’s the moment Scaramouche realized that with this order, he had won the battle. Even though his leg cramped after the injection, he climbed on top of the taller man, scratching lightly at the back of his head with a satisfied grin. As he twirled a lock of blue hair around his finger, his teeth grazed the man’s deformed ear.

“You know… I could doll you up.”

His knuckles were red and irritated, shaking violently in the freezing cold. He tried to light up a cigarette, but each spark resulted in nothing, and his thumb has begun to go numb from all this fruitless effort. Resigned, the short man threw the useless device back into his backpack, chewing on his bottom lip instead to ease the hunger of an addict. It was dark and the environment reminded him of his first meeting with the murderer, and the flick of a blade, and the blood squirting out of a neat, smile-like cut on a certain woman’s neck. All that didn’t happen too long ago, but in the grand scheme of things, each passing day felt like an entire century. Now, with Dottore’s financial support, he didn’t have to work as long. A while back, he asked for less hours and it paid off. Still, some later shifts had to be taken, and this was one of those special evenings. Everything felt frozen in time… as if nothing bad– or good?– ever happened. 

His jacket was too thin for the rapidly changing weather, which also meant that if the phone inside of one of its pockets rang, Scaramouche would instantly be able to both hear and feel it vibrating against his ribcage. Such was the case now, but the man walked on, trying his best to ignore the constant nagging. He didn’t feel like focusing on a call when all he wanted was to curl up under a blanket at home with some hot water to drink. He’s always preferred text messages and had it been someone who knew him well, they’d realize this and stop the assault. But, when the phone started buzzing for the fourth time, Scaramouche couldn’t take it anymore and halted with annoyance. Without even sparing the screen, displaying the caller’s name, a single glance, he pressed it against his cold cheek.

“What do you want?”

“Kunikuzushi…”

Scaramouche blinked, pulling his face away from the phone to double check. Sure enough, the person on the other side was Childe, but the tone of his voice betrayed that something was… wrong. They haven’t talked in person for a while, which appeared to be the redhead’s preferred way of communication, so Scaramouche assumed the boy was offended and wouldn’t bother him until the end of the month. A call at such a late hour wasn’t expected.

“Yes, that’s me. What’s up?” He confirmed, furrowing his brows. The slurry of words made him suspect that Childe was drunk, but his thought process was too clear for that to be true.

There was silence, interrupted only by a deep, wet cough. “...Ajax? Is this some sort of a joke?”

“No, No– I’m sorry, I need a moment–” Childe refuted quickly, the hurry making him wheeze. He managed out a few more words in a language Scaramouche couldn’t understand, each syllable sharp and intimidating. It must’ve been some slavic curses. He wasn’t well-versed in those. He’s known only two languages and because he didn’t have to speak Japanese anymore– his mother’s primary language– he’d forgotten a lot of its quirks. “It’s… good to hear your voice. I thought you wouldn’t pick up.”

“That was the plan.” Scaramouche admitted, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Are you drunk? If you want me to pick you up from somewhere, forget all about it. I have no car.” He went quiet for a second or two. Even though he previously ruled out the possibility of substance abuse… “Or are you high? God, do not tell me you’re high–“

”I‘m not!” Childe cut in quickly, mouth so close to the receiver, Scaramouche heard his voice crack. “I don’t touch that stuff, it’s just… Kunikuzushi, can you come? Please. I need, uh, your help.”

“Can’t you call the police or an ambulance?” Scaramouche groaned. ”I don’t think I, out of all people, will be of much help…”

“I can’t-!” Childe raised his voice, but then shut up, realizing what he had done. When he spoke up again, it was in a much gentler tone. “I can’t. I’ll tell you everything when we meet, okay? Ugh…” 

“Where are you?” Scaramouche inquired, turning around sharply to take in his surroundings. The closest bus stop was five minutes away and there was some change making noise in the back pocket of his jeans– usually reserved for buying protein bars at a vending machine at his work, but he’d live without it next time. It would be just enough for a one-way bus ticket. “Childe. Childe? Fucking hell, don’t faint, I’m coming to get you. Send me your location through text, I’ll find you.”

The redhead was silent and Scaramouche checked again to see if the call had disconnected. “I’m in… in one of the alleys branching out from the Old Town.” He said slowly, swallowing his saliva loud enough for it to be heard. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me until I get there.” Scaramouche muttered, his voice grim as he opened Childe’s text message and zoomed in on his exact spot on the map. It would be around twenty minutes until he arrived like a knight in shining armor, ready to rescue a princess in distress. “And if you lose consciousness, I’ll kick your ass so hard, you won’t even think about sleeping for the next couple of days. Understood?”

Childe laughed softly, replying in a muted whisper. “Of course. Don’t underestimate me, though. I’m holding up better than you think.”

Scaramouche remained on the call for the next twenty four minutes. He found a seat in the back of the empty bus, right by the window, and watched the scenery change as the two talked; he’d force Childe to strain his memory and tell him more stories about his childhood, his siblings, all of his jobs. Most of it was straight-up nonsensical. The man would mix up names, years, sometimes get distracted enough to start chatting about something completely unrelated to the topic at hand. But the most important thing was, Scaramouche kept him awake. This was one thing he’d remembered from the biology classes at school, as well as the scarce first-aid programs introduced to him in his early youth. With the device still clutched in his hand, the student hopped off and began snooping around, searching for the familiar sight of the orange hair and lanky, awkward silhouette. “I’m close. Look around, you might–”

In that exact moment, Scaramouche’s eyes got fully used to the dark and he noticed the shine of a rectangular screen a bit farther away. He picked up his pace and walked into a narrow alleyway, sending droplets of dirty water flying after accidentally stepping into a puddle of rain. “Childe.”

It was him, undeniably so. Even with the hood of his jumper pulled over his head, Scaramouche could see the specks of red staining the inside of the fleece. The kid’s legs were pulled up to his chest, taking up almost the entire width of the small street, the tips of his sneakers– with shoelaces untied– touching the brick wall. He was gripping his own abdomen, near the sternum, fingers scabbed with what used to be fresh blood.The burgundy crust got underneath his fingers and even trickled down his trousers, half-dry in the crotch area. Aside from that, his fair, freckled face was now spotted with bruises; purple, pink, red…

He was punched hard enough for one of his dull eyes to barely open. He was staring his rescuer up and down through the tiniest slit in between his swollen eyelids, grinning wildly. Despite all the damage and the obvious suffering, the boy seemed to be in high spirits, instinctively tearing his palm away from the wound to wave at his friend. “H-hey.”

Scaramouche froze, blinking a few times. “What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?”

“It’s a… long story, ouch–” Ajax whined when the brunet kneeled down on the pavement, using the flashlight of his phone to examine the injury. However, it was of no use. He had zero medical knowledge and his conclusion was simply: it definitely wasn’t pretty. “Mhm… I got into, uh, a little altercation with some fine gentlemen… Safe to say, they saw they were losing and brought a knife into what was supposed to be a fair fist fight.” Childe licked his bottom lip, tasting the crimson liquid splotched all over. There were no traces of fear present in the account of these events.. He had the voice of a fourteen year old child telling his friend about a nasty fight that broke out in the halls of their school, not a man who, apparently, got stabbed right in the stomach. “Don’t call the ambulance… I don’t want police to get involved–”

“Childe, you’re bleeding out .”

“No, I’m– well, maybe?” Ajax winced, another cough sending his body into a fit of spasms. “It can’t be… that bad. And– fuck, sorry you have to be dragged into this mess, hah… I didn’t want you to find out…”

Scaramouche did not comment, thinking to himself about Dottore and all of his endeavors. Childe did not know that, but he’s been keeping in touch with someone whose crimes were far worse than a street fight gone wrong. Besides, frankly, the brunet did not look forward to any run-ins with the police force himself… just in case. Still, having another corpse at his disposal, although unintentionally, also wasn’t the best case scenario. “Someone needs to look you over. Are you sure you don’t know anyone…?”

Chide was as pale as a ghost at this point, the color gone from his rosy cheeks and the tip of his red, long nose. “No… All my family stayed back home and I don’t really have many other friends.” 

Other friends. Kunikuzushi closed his eyes, collecting himself, all while Childe continued this sentiment. “By the way… If I do pass out, could you keep this a secret from them? Mom often calls me in the morning… just say I got wasted at a party or something, and also, if I’m late to work–”

Scaramouche tuned Childe’s enthusiastic rabling out, reaching out to press on the skin next to the uneven stab wound with a frown. This wasn’t something that would heal on its own and he wondered if the dark dust around it was scabbing or dirt from an old blade. There was only one person he knew who had experience with this sort of stuff.

He’s done fairly okay so far avoiding these two sides of his life blending together; making two people who definitely shouldn’t meet each other, meet each other. But there was no other option. He wouldn’t be able to drag Childe all the way back to his own apartment unnoticed, and even if, what could he do? Clumsily clean the cut with tap water of dubious origins? Feed him the scraps of vegetables he’d boiled into a watery soup? Under his inept care, Childe would probably pass away sooner than later, and a smile on his lips wouldn’t be enough to convince the police officers of his innocence. 

Scaramouche reached into the pocket of his pants, shaking his head. “I know someone.” He mumbled, opening the contact book and scrolling down nervously. “But you have to promise me something.”

Childe’s pained panting was that of a dog about to be put down, heavy and unprepared for what was coming. “Hmm?” 

“Whatever happens, you have to keep your mouth shut and let me talk in your stead. Only me.”

Without waiting for a reply, he pressed one of the small icons with his thumb. It didn’t take long for the man on the other side of the line to pick up, his voice deep and rough. 

“Scaramouche?”

Chapter Text

The call was short and concise, even more so than Scaramouche would’ve liked. 

Childe had been falling in and out of consciousness throughout, leaning against Scaramouche’s shoulder as he talked into the receiver, attempting to explain the situation in a way that didn’t betray his genuine concern. Though earnest, this attempt wasn’t successful in the slightest, considering that he was essentially begging Dottore to save a life– not even the impatient, monotone tone of his voice could have convinced the doctor of this not being the case. Still, much to his surprise, Dottore did not pry into any details, silent for just a few seconds on the other side of the line before inquiring about the state of his new patient, sounding equally unbothered. Some exasperation was present, but looking at the time, it was clear that the man must’ve just gotten off his shift at work. After a few questions– how deep is the wound? What was used as a weapon? Is it the only present injury? – Scaramouche heard a deep sigh. 

“I’ll be there.”

These words should be comforting, but Scaramouche felt acid travel down his throat and he could only nod, glancing down at Childe’s youthful face, devoid of color. “Better hurry. He doesn’t look very good, must’ve been laying here for a while before I arrived.” 

There was regret settling in his heart, but Dottore was the best option in this case. Who else could he have called, Yae Miko? What would an old model do in a situation like this, when one’s life was at stake? Not to mention, what a personal failure it would be, to reach out after denying her countless offers to help in the past. 

Scaramouche felt the same way he did when he had just met Dottore, small, weak and unsure; a hissy kitten throwing a fit, trying to seem bigger and more threatening than the wild tiger pawing at it with amusement. Throughout all the weeks the two have spent working together towards the same goal, he’d gained a semblance of dignity and his own identity; he’d just started feeling like Dottore’s equal, for gods’ sake! And now, there he was again, with his head hung low having to ask for a favor. One that certainly had a price tag on it, at that. The doctor had a soft spot for him, but that affection did not extend to any other individuals, as far as he was aware; especially not people like Childe, loud and young daredevils who did not know when to shut up. 

He was just in the middle of checking if Childe’s stab wound had begun to bleed again when he heard rumbling footsteps in the distance. He’d looked up just in time to see Dottore enter the alley with a phone in his hand and a black bag hanging from his shoulder. Even though the man had come to help them, Scaramouche still felt somewhat cornered. His hand quickly slid underneath Childe’s cheek to make it look like the ginger had just leaned into him. He could sense a drop of sticky saliva dripping down his wrist and winced, looking straight into those crimson, scrutinizing eyes. “Finally.” His own voice echoed against the walls of the nearby buildings. “I doubt there’s any traffic in the streets at this hour, what could’ve taken you this long?” Dottore ignored him and took a few more steps, kneeling by Ajax’ side with a frown. 

“I parked my car not too far from here. Get up and move him upright, we’ll need to carry him there.” 

Even though both of them were standing at Childe’s sides, it did not escape Scaramouche’s attention that Dottore, who was leading the way back to the vehicle, didn’t seem too eager to hold him up. As such, the task fell on his own shoulders, and considering the height difference, it wasn’t easy; he’d almost tripped three times.

 As a criminal himself, Dottore didn’t even ask why the two did not go to the hospital or called an ambulance. The atmosphere was tense, even as the two got into the backseat and Scaramouche reached over Childe to grasp the safety belt. Even though he’d kept an eye on the rearview mirror, Dottore didn’t sneak any glances back at them, focused entirely on the road for the duration of the journey back to his house. 

The brunet let out a shaky breath, finally able to relax… somewhat. He’d run his fingers through the greasy, orange hair, occasionally held together by specks of dried blood. Underneath his fingertips, there were countless little scars and barely healed scabs, hidden away from the world on the man’s scalp. He’d grazed his nails against the temple, finally finding an undamaged spot. 

 If not for today, he would’ve never known.

When they reached the living room, Dottore dragged Childe over to the couch and laid him down flat, having thrown aside both his sheets and blankets first. The young man let out a whimper of pain, but remained unconscious, even when the doctor slipped on his latex gloves and grabbed one of his tools, probing the engorged, red wound. The silver glint flashed dangerously in the dark. “Like a stray dog in the streets,” the surgeon muttered under his breath, leaning in so close that if it weren’t for the face mask, his nose would touch the swollen meat of the cut. “...Running around and getting thrashed. If you cannot take a beating, you shouldn’t even dabble in this business. The wound, it’s filthy.”

Scaramouche frowned lightly and cleared his throat, inching closer from his spot on the armrest of the couch. “I haven’t seen any dirt or rust in there.” He said quietly, forcing his own, rigid shoulders to shrug casually. Dottore clicked his tongue but quieted down, leaving his partner to soak in the anxiety and the tense atmosphere, suffocating everyone in the close vicinity. It was damn near unbearable and, bitterly, Scaramouche wished to be interrogated instead– to have the murderer push him against the wall and start demanding answers, yell at him, do anything that would give him the chance to fight back. As things stood right now, he was helpless to defend himself, withstanding each of Dottore’s cold glances like a brutal punch to the gut. Just when the silence got too stifling, the blue-haired man straightened up abruptly. The ends of the green gloves were stained dark with red and the cut seemed a little wider than before; a crimson opening, something within pulsing like a bird trapped in a cage. He must’ve really taken his time digging in there, presumably fishing out all the alleged ‘dirt’. 

“I will have to head out. Not everything I need is kept here. Right now, the priority is to make sure that the wound stays clean. Considering where we are right now,” He moved his bloodied hand, pointing at their surroundings with a neutral expression. “...It’s easy for an infection to appear, and something like sepsis can run rampant in the organism. And once we cross that bridge, there’s no going back– he’ll have to be transported to the hospital and be observed in the intensive care unit. I can stitch him up, but I need proper equipment to do that. For now, I cleaned out most of the dirt using… cruder methods.” Scaramouche couldn’t offer anything more than a simple nod, clueless when it came to the medical matters. “I will try to return as quickly as possible. He won’t or, well, shouldn’t die in the meantime, not when he'd been clinging to life for this long.”

This made sense. Dottore fancied butchering people up, not putting them back together; this household could’ve contained a bunch of toxins, blades and ropes, but not ointments and the thread needed for sutures. Still– it was very late and Childe’s condition looked serious. Scaramouche’s lips parted a few times, but no coherent words came out for a while. “...Alright. Is there anything I need to do while you’re gone? What do I tell him when he wakes up–?”

“He shouldn’t.” Dottore interrupted, pulling off the dirty gloves and rolling them into a small, wrinkled ball. “His body has been put under too much stress and gave out. He shouldn’t be awake for a couple of hours, at least.” He got up and tossed the ball into the trash bin, on top of the plastic containers and organic scraps from that morning’s breakfast. “Control his breathing every now and then. Send me a message if anything goes wrong.”

“I will.” Scaramouche confirmed quietly, ready to curl up on the free side of the sofa like a cat when Dottore cut in again.

“And–”

“Mm?”

Dottore stared at him for a long while. “We’ll talk later.”

Scaramouche was frozen in place for a few awfully long seconds, his brows furrowing lightly. This interaction… It brought back the memories of getting into lots of trouble as a child and getting caught red-handed in the act; or, even worse, waiting motionlessly in the principal’s office for the man to arrive and scold you for every wrong you’ve ever committed. His teeth clinked when gritted together in frustration and he gave Dottore another sharp nod. “Fine.” He grumbled, turning so that his back faced the guy. “I won’t go anywhere.”

Dottore did not say his goodbyes and the noise of the door closing was the only sign that he’d left. Scaramouche closed his eyes, sitting still for a while before opting to pick up the abandoned blanket and wrapping it tightly around himself. Now, all that remained was to wait. Minutes passed, one after another, but he didn’t have it in himself to try and nap. Childe was almost like a corpse– pale and unmoving, his shallow breaths getting louder sometimes, more panicked. Maybe it was due to a particularly nasty nightmare, where his attackers were in the pursuit of him; maybe he was reliving the stabbing all over again. Scaramouche knew that even if he asked, Childe probably wouldn’t remember after waking up from this delirium. 

He had his cheek propped up against the back of his hand, deep in his own thoughts, when a small whine roused him. One of the black eyes opened, focused and cautious. 

“...He told me that you’d sleep through the entire night.”

A pair of big, dull, blue orbs was gawking right back at him. 

“It… it does feel like I’m supposed to be sleeping right now…” Childe whispered slowly, sentences still slurred and uneven. His chest rose quickly, just to deflate half a second later. “Where are we…?”

Scaramouche blinked. He wasn’t prepared for this part, hoping to have at least a few more hours  to come up with decent excuses, but he’d have to improvise. Childe was famed for being rather resilient and clearly, his ability to survive the worst circumstances known to man wasn’t a joke. “Hold on–” the ginger looked around groggily, straining the synapses in his brain to connect the dots. “Th-that man, that older man you’ve been seeing, this is his place, right?”

Smart. Pretty fucking smart . 

Scaramouche winced, but Childe rushed to clarify with a humorless chuckle. “No need to worry… I won’t pry. If– If it really is him, then he’s helped me. I appreciate that…” He’d been talking for too long and a violent cough caused tremors to run through his entire body. 

“Let’s not talk about him right now.” Scaramouche waved his hand dismissively, glancing nervously around. “He’s gone to get some medical stuff, you know, to patch you up. How do you feel?”

“Like a guy who just got stabbed?” Childe mused with a tired, playful smile and Scaramouche nearly rolled his eyes. There he was, back to his usual self. The youth tried to pull himself up, moving his palm over his side, a safe distance away from the cut. His muscles were trembling from the effort, but Ajax regarded them with nothing more than a curious stare, stretching his digits as far as they could go. “It feels… bizarre. Almost as if something w-was about to spill out… kind of gross, eh?” He licked his dry bottom lip and patted his own hip, giving silent praise to his body for enduring so much. “I’ve had worse things happen to me.”

“Still, it seems like something that should be perfectly avoidable. People don’t just happen to get into fights like that.” Scaramouche retorted, crossing his arms over his chest. “So, what did you get yourself into exactly?”

Maybe it was heartless, forcing Childe to talk in a state like this. But, again; he had a hunch that the boy would be more offended if he treated him like some fragile thing made out of glass. His suspicions must’ve been correct, because he did not hesitate, replying right away as if nothing was wrong at all. 

“I am a college student all alone in a foreign country, do you think that these few jobs would b-be enough to support me and my family…?” Childe chuckled darkly, one of his eyelids twitching. “I got into some shady dealings… Not much to talk about, just a way to earn some cash on the side… I’ve already told you. I-I’m not into, like, some deep crime shit.” He explained, cocking his head to the side. “Don’t worry.”

The brunet just snorted. Even if Childe turned out to be a drug dealer or a thief, these acts paled in comparison to his own. ‘Don’t worry’... as if he wasn’t currently in a serial killer’s lair, exposed from all sides. Maybe if it wasn’t for his presence here, Childe would freak out. Him acting this relaxed and familiar with the place was some sort of an anchor, a promise of temporary safety; he’d seemed at ease and it affected others’ behavior, too. 

“I won’t.” Scaramouche fiddled with his own fingers for a moment, eventually reaching for the damaged box of cigarettes in his pocket. “Whatever matters you get into, it’s your business. Just make sure that the next time you lose a fight, you have some sort of a plan B. I’d rather avoid involving my… friend in these affairs. This is a one-time thing, do not get used to it.” Dottore was gone, so he was bold enough to light a cigarette inside, hoping that his natural charm would be enough to soothe his annoyance later on in the day when he, inevitably, smelled the remnants of smoke. He was too stressed to pass up on the opportunity and too unsure to leave Childe on his own in the living room. 

“Got it.” Childe moved weakly to show his fellow student the thumbs-up gesture, coughing after having a puff of smoke blown into his face. Scaramouche just nodded in acknowledgement and, eventually, Childe batted his eyelashes at him questioningly. The brunet sighed and handed him the lit cigarette, letting him take a drag. “I usually avoid the stuff, but… special circumstances, I-I suppose.” 

The conversation wasn’t flowing too nicely. The boy wasn’t as experienced with this harmful habit of his, and his grasp on the thin cigarette was a tad awkward. Some tobacco, burnt into ash, fell down onto the blankets. His knuckles were bruised and colored almost the same way as the burning flare. “...Do you know how I lost my finger?”

Scaramouche straightened up slowly after a pause. “No. All I know is that you tell everyone a completely different version of the story.” 

“Well, for you, I’d… I’d be willing to speak the truth.” Childe mused playfully, passing the cigarette back to Scaramouche and awaiting his reaction expectantly. “...Would you like to know?” His voice was barely above a whisper. 

Scaramouche, for some god-forsaken reason, felt his ears start to turn red, but his face was as cold and fair as always. It was good that Childe was talking and not even rambling senselessly too much, still somewhat clear-headed. If Dottore was there in the role of an actual doctor, he’d probably order his partner to lean into it and ask many questions.  “Not really, but… do speak. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to faint again.”

Childe didn’t mind if his story served only as a distraction. He was still a bit groggy but more grounded in reality now that he’s had a purpose and a reason to stay awake. Even his voice smoothed out, quieter, but without that pained stutter. 

“I am one of the middle siblings. I don’t know if you have any, but… you can probably take a guess about how my childhood was. My mom has always had a soft spot for me, though… We didn’t have much, living rather far up north, but it was enough.” Although his eyes were as cold and dull as ever, Scaramouche swore he could visualize the snowy plains rather easily just listening in. “It was a different story when it came to my father, though.”

“He is a strong man, of strong character, I mean. If he wasn’t working, he’d sit in his armchair by the window and smoke and we… we wouldn’t talk often. I think he wasn’t too happy with me.” Childe grinned, putting his uneven set of crooked teeth on full display. “He’d always berate me for being too loud and stubborn, especially when I started acting out as a teen. I’d run away from home just for the sake of it, but then be dragged back, because you can’t get too far when you’re up to your knees in snow. I am certain I was the reason for half of the gray hairs on my mom’s head.” Just at the mention of that old, good-natured woman, Ajax seemed to loosen up. Scaramouche’s gaze hardened slightly, but the other did not notice. “Things changed when I grew older and, well… My dad figured out that I was into men, too. Don’t get me wrong, there were already many reasons for his dissatisfaction with who I was– with me . This was the final straw, I think. He’d decided that I should be sent away for a while because our conservative village wasn’t the best place for me to be in. I wasn’t even against it, really! I had never been away from home for long and I was excited to meet new people, prove myself to him.” Now, he’d slowed down, weighing each word. His accent became thicker, too, but Scaramouche understood everything clearly. Still, he couldn’t understand how this tale of Childe’s childhood was connected to him losing a finger.

“It was some sort of a camp for troubled teens. I fell right into the routine. It was strict, but for the first two weeks I truly felt… good. We worked, played around when no adult was looking, exercised… but quickly, those other kids realized that I had a bit too much fun. It wasn’t supposed to be like that. Those children were mostly aspiring criminals, petty thieves and bullies. I didn’t have a reason to act out, especially because, fuck, let me be honest– the captain of our group was straight-up incredible. To this day, I haven’t met someone as amazing! I wanted to impress him and he’d noticed, because I was told that if I did well and attended the camp a couple of years in a row, I could become a counselor there. And it clicked, Kunikuzushi. I finally had a goal. Was that what my father expected to happen, I… doubt it. But nearly a month had passed and I was halfway through the entire thing.”

Childe used his left hand and gently rubbed  the scarred spot, inadvertently bringing Scaramouche’s attention to it, too. He’d never noticed it before, but the other three fingers also bore signs of scarring, although they were attached firmly to the rest of the limb. An odd sense of foreboding bloomed in his abdomen.

“One night, that captain of mine finished patrolling our quarters and I snuck out, wanting to prepare everything for the next day. Find some firewood, clean up the place, anything to get some praise from him in the morning. I hadn’t noticed that three other teens followed me out of the building. I don’t know what they had planned for me at first, but it was probably just to shove me around a bit, teach me a lesson and then, let it go. All of it changed when I walked into the machinery room. I don’t even remember why anymore…” 

The living room was cold. It must’ve been, because Scaramouche felt goosebumps all over his forearms. 

“Everything happened really quick. It didn’t hurt at all. Realizing what had happened, they rushed to turn the thing off, but it was already too late. They screamed and the captain reached us in less than two minutes. I was on the floor, and half of my hand was butchered.” Childe’s voice was low, but pleased, and the playful glint in his eye never got snuffed out. His tone did not suit the subject matter at all. For him, it sounded almost like a… happy memory. Like something that would bring one nostalgia, not an immense amount of trauma a child couldn’t ever truly heal from; not with the reminder of what had happened, literally, at hand. “Some bruising or a sprained ankle could be swept under the rug, but this? They managed to sew the fingers back at the closest hospital, well, aside from the one that got entirely massacred. And, look!” Ajax raised his entire arm, moving it mere centimeters away from Scaramouche’s unsettled face. “They told me I recovered beautifully. It was such a nice thing for them to say. When I returned home early, my father pretended I was a ghost. He never bothered me anymore and would only shush my mother when she’d cry too much.”

Scaramouche was speechless for a long time. “And you just… carried on like that?” He asked carefully after finally coming to. Childe nodded with a casual shrug.

“It’s not as bad as it looks. It would be more troublesome if I lost the entire arm or died. But this is pretty fun, especially when I can tell my siblings stories about how I had battled a Siberian tiger or exchanged it for treasure out in the sea.” Childe laughed softly, throwing his head back to face Scaramouche fully. There was a thin layer of sweat shining above his brow. “Keeping the truth a small secret from them is worth it. We all have those little things we choose to omit, don’t we?”

Scaramouche grimaced, not cheering up even when Childe elbowed him gently. “Hey, if that story was a bit too much for you, then you can rest easy. I am feeling a little bit tired now…” Whatever energy Childe had regained, all of it was already depleted. “But me not having anything more to say doesn’t mean I’m not able to listen.” He added slowly, blinking up at his only friend. “I can see you have something on your mind.”

Scaramouche smiled bitterly. “A secret for a secret? That’s not how I operate.” He resorted to his usual demeanor, hoping Ajax wouldn’t probe and bother him too much about this. Maybe under different circumstances, he’d give in and tell a story of his own in exchange- just one couldn’t hurt. But considering the one he’d hidden in the deepest confines of his heart, all the other ones paled in comparison. He had innocent blood on his hands and the proof of his mishaps tucked safely into one of his unassuming photo albums, next to the inconspicuous pictures of when he and Dottore played around with the man’s burgundy lipstick. Nonetheless, both pages were stained red; it was a pitiful sight. 

“Still worth a try.” Childe mumbled, his head inadvertently lulling to the side. “You’re so closed off…”

Scaramouche stiffened up when Childe pressed a little closer, his muscles tensing up and twitching with the effort it took not to push him aside. Even though the man had almost dozed off again and his face was ashen, those half-lidded dead fish eyes appeared clear. His slender fingers brushed against Scaramouche’s arm, only a thin layer of fabric in between their skins. “I’m still willing to give chase, though.” 

For the love of the game.

Why, instead of feeling like the main prize desired by everyone entering the competition, he felt instead like the type of ‘game’ hunted for sport? Basing off of Childe’s words alone, the meaning wasn’t clear, and both felt rather awful to consider. Giving chase… 

The much-too familiar sensation of drowning cast a shadow over Scaramouche’s stone-cold heart. He’d sink to the bottom if needed, but not without putting up a fight.

He knew Ajax loved him. The younger man had made it rather clear many times; though no explicit gestures were ever exchanged, Kunikuzushi wasn’t an idiot who needed a kiss or a one-night-stand to confirm one’s feelings. He had a pretty face and an unobtainable aura which made both men and women determined to get their way. Childe did something rare by actually trying to befriend him first, but in the end, the result was the same. And maybe, if their lives were less wretched and filled with a bit more tenderness instead, this would have worked, but as things stood... Scaramouche wasn’t cut out for this type of life, sitting by the cozy fireplace amidst a snowy, domestic scene. The cups of hot tea wouldn’t warm his freezing hands and the smell of homemade pastries wouldn’t soothe the ache in his chest. Out there somewhere, there existed plenty of people who would have loved an arrangement like that, but Kunikuzushi wasn’t among them. In Childe, there was a spark that couldn’t be ignored, one of possible danger, but it wasn’t up for Scaramouche to explore or manage. 

Many years ago, he’d once believed that this was a good way to live out the rest of your days. Holding his beloved’s hand and looking into his eyes, these stories of a healthy marriage and peaceful country-living were rather enticing. Now, the idea of collecting dust at a man’s side was… revolting, no matter how nice, or well-off, or smart he was.  

His dark eyes narrowed and lips almost formed the start of another sentence, but that’s when the two heard the distant sound of jingling keys from outside the room. Scaramouche gritted his teeth and, wordlessly, scooted over to the other side of the couch, his face turning into nothing more than a mask with a permanent scowl of annoyance etched into it. 

Soon enough, the doctor appeared in the room, examining the scene in front of him. His partner was pressed against the armrest far away from Childe, a contrast from the relaxed position from earlier. His eyes were like daggers, slashing at anyone who would dare to question him. As such, Dottore glanced to the side, gaze landing on Childe’s contorted body, glaring at the brunet with a hankering so intense, it was unbecoming of a man this young. The surgeon’s brows raised slightly. “I see you’re awake.” He said, approaching the youngest of the three. “How remarkable. You’ve lost quite a lot of blood earlier…” He leaned in and fell into a deep silence for a moment. “Mm, not only that, but you’ve disrupted the scabbing process, too. Look, you’re bleeding again.” His voice seemed nonchalant,  but Scaramouche had enough wit to recognize the tacit dryness hidden within. “People like you never learn.”

Scaramouche couldn’t bear to watch anymore. He’d pulled himself up abruptly and wandered into the kitchen, absentmindedly digging through the food in the fridge, scanning the shelves and rearranging items that definitely didn’t need to be rearranged. Every now and then, a pained whimper or Dottore’s rough instructions would reach his ears, but he’d positioned himself to face the window on purpose. 

He couldn’t help but think back to the tale he’d heard from Childe. The image of a rosy-faced child in a warm winter jacket and a toothy grin flashed momentarily in his head. What a shame.

“...Don’t even think about heading back to work anytime soon, unless your goal is to fuck up the perfectly fine stitches I’d just put down. Take at least a week off, that’s the bare minimum. If your breathing becomes unreasonably fast, you start shivering, feeling lightheaded, do not contact me or Scaramouche. We won’t be able to help you at that point. Instead, you should get to the nearest hospital as quickly as possible. If–”

“Scaramouche?”

The man in question froze. If not for Ajax’ interruption, he wouldn’t have detected anything weird, but just now he’d been reminded of one very important thing– he’d become Scaramouche just a mere few months ago, and in the consciousness of only one man.

“Oh,” Childe sucked in some air, voice sluggish, but pointed. “Scaramouche, like that, uh, theater character…? What an odd nickname.”

The thick glass panel reflected the deathly pallor of Kunikuzushi’s face. His fingers slipped, the grip on the rim of a cup loosening. 

“Why the fuck would you say that?” 

Scaramouche was pacing around the room, moments away from bouncing off the walls like a feral animal in distress. His hair was messy, loose strands falling over his eyes, now narrowed in anger.  

Dottore seemed unfazed, following each of Scaramouche’s movements calmly, as if assessing the level of danger in this situation. For now, in his mind, there must have been none. “What’s the issue? Can I not behave the way I want to in my own house? Scaramouche, please. I know that lately, your common sense has been rather muddled and out of place, but you certainly notice the irony here, no?” A derisive smile bloomed on his wrinkled face.

“Oh, so that’s what all of this is about.” Scaramouche snapped, approaching and slamming his palm against the wardrobe. At the last second, he’d slowed down, reducing the noise to a muffled thud. The furniture shook slightly. “Of course. Of course, I should have expected you’d get fussy about this…Weren’t you the one to insist that we become partners? What about the entire ‘mutual support, mutual benefits’ thing? I ought to help you out, but the moment I need a favor, you’ll do anything in your power to fuck me over?” The brunet scoffed with disdain, annoyance coiling in his gut. “I was so careful not to reveal too much about you, but you just had to confuse him with the stupid ‘Scaramouche’ thing!”

“Quiet down.” Dottore spat icily. “He’s still sleeping downstairs. Weren’t you the one worried about waking him up earlier?"

“You… You!” Scaramouche thrashed about for a moment, turning and pointing at Dottore’s form with genuine hatred written out on his dollike face. “How dare you make a scene at your age? What, are you jealous or something?”

“Don’t think so highly of yourself.” The temperature in the room dropped below zero. Subconsciously, Scaramouche shuddered. “You’ve introduced a complete stranger into this household. I told you to be careful, especially now, so soon after we’ve killed someone. You musn’t mingle with people so carelessly anymore. I can already tell that brat is too nosy for his own good. Am I not helping you out enough? I’m letting him stay over and, who knows, perhaps I’ve saved his life, too…”

“A murderer talking about saving a life. How touching.” Scaramouche seethed, turning to face the door. 

“And a doctor, too. I’ve rescued more people from the brink of death than the ones I’ve killed.” Dottore stated matter-of-factly, tilting his head to one side. “How many lives have you saved, Kunikuzushi?”

This here was exactly what Scaramouche had been worried about all along.

How troublesome it was to feel attached to a person… and how even more annoying it was to let them go in the end. He must’ve been a fool, hoping they’d respect each others’ boundaries and coexist peacefully. He’d fed this monster and now, it demanded more, unceasingly so. 

 His steps, light as a feather, retracted in the matter of seconds. With a swing of his fist, he’d taken hold of Dottore’s neck, using all of his force to slam his back against the soft mattress. The taller of the two did not fight back, the smug air about him persisting despite the aggressive assault. Scaramouche straddled his hips, making sure to kick his shin for good measure while he was at it. Squeezing until the faintest sheen of pink covered Dottore’s wan face, he’d managed out a couple more words. “Don’t think you’re so fucking smart…” His warm breath was inches away from his partner’s long, hooked nose. “Zandik–”

Air got pushed out of his lungs way too quickly than it should have. He’d felt like a dog’s squeaky toy, or as if he was trapped in a quickly depressurizing cabin, rendered speechless for a split-second. He kicked out despairingly, planting yet another kick on Dottore’s leg as they rolled around in the sheets, locked in a passionate embrace. The weight on top of him was downright crushing, tough as rubble and impossible to fight back against. But instead of assuming an offensive position, Dottore grabbed his wrists so tight they could easily snap and growled in his face. “Do not call me that name ever again.” 

“It’s… it’s only fair,” Scaramouche wheezed, throwing his head back and staring up at the headboard with a strained grin. “Don’t you still use it at work?! Eye for an eye, you motherfuck–”

Dottore’s hand slid underneath his shirt, creeping past the waistband of his pants and up, until it reached the flat plane of his chest. He’d pressed down hard, right on top of the sternum, and the weakened heart within fluttered violently. “What are you doing–?” Scaramouche spat out, clawing at the sheets. He wasn’t too comfortable with others pawing at his torso, couldn’t keep the dysphoria at bay, but Dottore’s actions were less motivated by lust and more by anger, so, ironically, it wasn’t all that bad. “Fuck off, fuck off–”

“Where did you even learn that?” Dottore mused, as if to himself, but continued after a moment of grim self-reflection. “You’re even more sly than I imagined. Well, color me surprised. You sure know how to rile me up.” When the doctor moved to shove him again, Scaramouche straightened up abruptly, aiming at Dottore’s forehead with his head. The man let out a low curse, but it had the intended effect and he inched away slightly, breathing heavily with a new red bruise above his brow.

They stared in silence for a long time, listening in. There were no noises coming from downstairs. The hem of Scaramouche’s shirt was still pulled up, revealing the soft, pale abdomen. 

His lips parted. “If you hurt me, it’s over.”

What happened next barely counted as sex.

Scaramouche had a feeling that if he were anyone else, Dottore would tear into his insides and stain the sheets bloody red without hesitation. In one moment, that cold mouth was on his again, fervent, but clearly still holding back. The man had more experience cutting up bodies than providing pleasure and it showed through his actions. The stiff hands, unfocused eyes, annoyance and frustration bubbling underneath the surface... And yet, the brunet did not feel scared, even when that crushing weight was on top of him once more. His fangs sank into the delicate skin below Dottore’s ear, spitting insults as if they were loving whispers instead. They mixed in with the rushed kisses pressed onto his unshaven jaw, clammy fingers running down the curve of his neck, chest, stomach. 

This was the man he hated. This was, also, the same man he’d grown to–

His trousers caught on a sensitive patch of flesh and the man yelped out in shock. When Dottore’s neat nails pressed down on the protruding scars from his teenage years, his breath hitched and he pulled on the grizzled hair, gasping softly. None of the bites he’d obtained could be explained as regular hickeys, just like the red scratches on his lover’s back did not look like ones born of love-making. 

Even lodged in between Scaramouche’s legs, Dottore would lean in for guidance, pressing his face to the smooth and flat chest. Underneath his cheek, there was an uneven heartbeat. It stirred sadly, like a struggling butterfly, and the unrhythmical beat gave him a much-needed peace of mind.

He smiled, then bit down.

His lips were so bruised, it was difficult to hold a cigarette in between them without it hurting. He’d pinched one end of it in between his front teeth and patted down his side of the bed lazily, searching for his lighter. He’d pulled his shirt back on, letting it fall loosely from his shoulders. 

When the lighter clicked and the tiny flame lit up the darkness, Dottore did not move to stop him.

His wide back was turned away from him, head lowered. Strands of hair hung over his shoulderblades; he must’ve let them dry in a ponytail, judging by the odd shape of the curly locks.  Long, thin stripes of bright pink formed a messy ‘X’ across his spine and Scaramouche stared, unable to look away from his perfect, little work of art. He’d puffed some smoke into Dottore’s direction, an empty tease, and rolled onto his side.

“You’ve called me Zandik before.” 

Scaramouche hesitated, looking lost for a second. He’d already forgotten about this mistake of his, considering their circumstances; and yet it seemed like this matter in particular weighed heavily on Dottore’s mind. “It wasn’t that difficult to find out.” He muttered, eyes closing sleepily. Normally, he’d hate to doze off with the sickly sensation of stickiness still in between his thighs, but right now? He couldn’t care less. He’d been spent, in all senses of the word. Only the usual emptiness remained, paired with a peculiar ache whenever his gaze landed on Dottore’s shadowed silhouette. “I came across a couple websites. I couldn’t find any recent photographs of you, but I did find a few from your youth.” 

Dottore did not answer, but his shoulders shrank even more. Scaramouche coughed lightly, waving away the gray wisps. “Do not blame me. I am a photographer, after all…”

“Have you discovered any news clipping regarding what happened back then?”

Scaramouche paused, not noticing the ash which had plummeted from the end of his cigarette onto his shirt. He’d thought back to his frantic research, but couldn’t recall anything quite this drastic. Something to warrant an actual… news report? No, definitely not. He’d only seen pictures of the young Dottore and that plain-looking lady glued to his side, maybe a few mentions of the man receiving scholarships or useless college awards, but all of it was written with so little care, he hadn’t paid any attention to it. This couldn’t have been what Dottore meant. “No?” He replied, although it sounded more like a question. 

“Then I’ll tell you.” 

Dottore turned abruptly, the white of his eyes shining in the omnipresent darkness. It was still about thirty minutes before the first rays of sunlight would grace the world. Scaramouche had been awake all night, running around the city, stressing over Childe’s condition and now, after having played around with Dottore, he’d felt utterly exhausted. But he didn’t dare shut his partner down at a time like this.

“I’ll tell you exactly how I got this scar of mine.”