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The wind is cold, blowing loose purple strands of hair over Kunikuzushi’s face. His feet are bare, white as porcelain and unscathed even as he navigates the rocky beach. Stones prick at his skin, but his face remains somber, as though he can’t feel it at all.
The privacy of the beach is comforting, and the openness of the space is unnerving at the same time. The sky is dark and grey, thick clouds blanketing Inazuma. The faint light of the Sacred Sakura tree is visible from where he stands.
Slowly, he sinks his feet into the freezing water, the bottom of his kimono soaking wet. Long, dark hair falls over the surface of the sea as he kneels in the waves. The cold steel of a knife presses against the exposed part of his neck, drawing the faintest amount of blood.
He doesn’t scream, or look to see who wields the weapon. Instead, he closes his eyes and arches his neck so that his head faces the stormy sky.
***
Scaramouche jolts to life, his hand instinctively flying to the back of his neck. His shoulders sink with relief when there’s nothing there.
A nightmare.
How juvenile. As though there’s any possibility that he’s unsafe here. Still, he flicks on the light by his bed and gets to his feet, tightening his robe around his waist.
The room is dimly lit, as he likes it. A large mirror stands in the farthest corner, beckoning Scaramouche over to it. He walks across the room, quiet footsteps echoing around the walls. He stops when he sees his reflection, silk nightgown tossed over one shoulder.
His hands pull the sash open, the garment falling to the floor softly. Not a single scar is visible on his thin body; he was made in the perfect image of his Creator. His hands immediately gravitate to his breasts, bound tightly under a roll of white bandages that seem even darker than his skin in the light. Even touching his chest fills his stomach with dread, but it must be done, and it must be now.
For a split second, as he unravels his bindings, he swears he can see those long, violet locks falling effeminately over his narrow shoulders. It’s not just unsettling, but deeply sickening. He can’t get rid of her.
***
Made in Her image, Scaramouche is small with feminine features. He’s often mistaken for a woman by his subordinates; apparently, he’s known for his reaction to the remark. His skin is perfectly white, smooth with not a single scar. No matter how he tries to burn, scrape, or bruise himself, it always returns to its uncanny condition.
His fellow Harbingers know him to be temperamental and isolated, spending much of his time alone by the frozen lakes of Snezhnaya. He likes the way, in the cold, that his fingertips and nose tinge slightly pink. He looks human, even if only for a second.
Something no one knows about is the nightmares. Cold, empty dreams where he’s vulnerable, back turned to a mysterious nobody wielding a sword. He always wakes up before they cut into his neck, jolting up in a cold sweat with a pit in his stomach.
At the time of his creation, the only emotion Scaramouche knew how to feel was sadness. Overwhelming, raw grief that enveloped him like a thick fog. When he passed by others, they remarked being stricken with sorrow, having to hold back heavy tears. The puppet seemed to always be crying; even when his eyes were closed, wet eyelashes and weepy, blurred irises hid underneath.
After being taken in by the Fatui, the illustrious Il Dottore granted him with another emotion: anger. Soon, it was all he felt. Everything made him angry; the way the others looked at him, the way he looked at himself. He no longer cried.
But now, he feels a tinge of sadness again, knowing his ship is on its way to his place of birth. He will undoubtedly have to face his Creator. And the people of Inazuma; the people who were supposed to be his. He had failed them as a leader. He had failed Ei as a daughter. He had failed himself as a human.
***
There was a boy Kunikuzushi met, not long after his creation. He had pale blond hair and eyelashes, with long legs and sunburned cheeks. He carried a long sword and a tattered notebook, filled to the brim with scattered poetry and notes about nature.
When the boy first came across him, he was draped in dark robes- his long hair cascaded over his shoulders, and the corners of his eyes were wet with tears. They had met in Chinju Forest, among the luminescent blooms and dark, fragrant grass. Kunikuzushi was wandering, his hands pressed in front of him daintily as he walked down the illuminated path. He almost seemed to float, and carried a strange aura with every step of his bare feet.
“Hello,” The poet had said. Kunikuzushi noticed the way he shivered with sadness for a second, but didn’t turn away from him. “Are you alright?”
Upon the realization that Kunikuzushi would not answer, the boy stepped closer to him and held his hands out with his palms to the sky.
“I do not intend to harm you, miss.”
For the first time since he was addressed by his Creator, Kunikuzushi spoke.
“I am not a woman.” He said, his voice softly echoing through the empty forest.
“My apologies, then. My name is Kaedehara Kazuha. What’s yours?”
“Kunikuzushi.” He had responded.
Kazuha took his hand, and for a second there was something there. Something other than sadness.
***
The waves crash against the hull of the ship as Scaramouche’s transport docks in Ritou. He looks down at the water, a dark indigo that seems to hold all the night sky within it. Once, a poet had described his eyes this way.
An unnaturally cold hand rests itself on Scaramouche’s shoulder. He instinctively flinches, his eyebrows furrowing in disgust.
Signora breathes gently, her blonde hair curled and parted meticulously over one of her shoulders. Her gloves are lace, and they reach up to her pale elbows. Scaramouche hates looking at her, so he doesn’t.
“Do hurry up, dear.” She says, her words cutting into his neck like ice. “We don’t have forever to look at the ocean.”
He growls under his breath, shaking her hand off of him. He isn’t afraid of this place. Truly, the people of Inazuma are beneath him. There is no one here for him to care about.
The cold nips at him and Signora’s noses as their subordinates escort them through the city. Signora relishes the dirty looks given to her by the citizens, but Scaramouche simply turns his nose up and ignores them. Different as they may be, the two Harbingers understand the dangers of showing vulnerability somewhere like this.
Not that Signora’s ever felt vulnerability, outside of her meetings with the Tsaritsa. Her unconditional devotion to her archon makes Scaramouche sick. He hates her the most, second only to his Mother.
He dares to hope Signora will be gone soon.
***
One night on his trip, he goes out for drinks in Inazuma City. The faces there are all new, and he can’t seem to remember any particular one of them; luckily, they don’t recognize him either.
He swirls the dark liquid in his cup, staring down at it bleakly. Besides the chatter of patrons, there’s nothing interesting in here. Laying low is an impossible task for someone like him.
That is, until the bell of the door rings and a man walks in, dressed in a cloak. It’s an unusual fashion choice, especially for Inazuma; it immediately catches Scaramouche’s eye.
When the man lowers his hood, Scaramouche nearly drops his glass. He has soft pink cheeks and white hair, a single red streak down one of its sides. He seems to have a similar reaction to Scaramouche, his eyebrows furrowing and his pink lips parting in an o shape.
The stranger takes a few steps closer to the bar, sitting down on a stool next to Scaramouche. He smiles at the bartender and politely asks for a drink, bowing his head.
Scaramouche can’t take his eyes off of him.
He looks so much older, yet still carries the same youthful glow that he did before. His cheeks are tinged pink from the sun, pale freckles dotting the bridge of his nose. When he smiles, the corners of his mouth and eyes wrinkle and his dimples become slightly visible.
He looks back over at Scaramouche, who quickly turns his nose up and crosses his arms.
“I’m sorry, you…” The man pauses. “You look like someone.”
“I am someone.” Scaramouche huffs. “My name is Scaramouche.”
“Kaedehara Kazuha.” He smiles. “I’m sure you are. Just maybe not who I thought at first.”
Scaramouche looks down at his lap. Kazuha is thanking the bartender and taking a sip of his sake. He drums his fingers on the table.
“Can I buy you another drink, Scaramouche?”
And so, eventually, Kazuha ends up in his bed.
Scaramouche stays in a rented-out home in a remote part of Narukami Island, just south of Inazuma City. The bed he sleeps on is hard and uncomfortable, and the room is far too stuffy. There’s a tea table in the corner of the room, ivory chopsticks and porcelain teacups resting daintily on top of it.
Kazuha is gentle and slow; he gives Scaramouche time to adjust, and the opportunity to refuse an offer. Out of all the people the Balladeer has slept with, he has to be at the top of the list.
Still, laying next to a sleeping body is strange. He can hear Kazuha’s shallow breaths, watching as his pale eyelashes flutter under the dim light of the room. Scaramouche had refused to take his shirt off, and Kazuha hadn’t minded.
It infuriates him to no end. Kazuha was too kind, despite not remembering who he was. He was gentle with him, he handled him like he were glass about to break. Scaramouche doesn’t need saving, or coddling. He needs a rough experience where he can’t think about himself or say no to anybody.
The worst part is the way Kazuha smells. Like fresh maple leaves; nearly identical to the scent that enveloped him for years as he sat alone in Shakkei Pavilion, waiting for someone to save him. He doesn’t need saving anymore. He doesn’t need anyone, especially not Kazuha, who was too selfish to even remember him.
And again, he’s overwhelmed with that artificial anger, coursing through his body and raising goosebumps on his skin. His hands seem to work on their own, reaching up to his sleeping partner’s neck and slowly wrapping around his warm throat. He holds them there for a second, before pressing all of his strength into the other and strangling him.
Kazuha’s eyes flutter open, focusing in on Scaramouche’s crazed expression. But instead of screaming, or prying him off, Kazuha rests his own hands on top of Scaramouche’s, running his fingertips over his knuckles gently and staring up at him with sad eyes. Scaramouche continues choking him, until something in him snaps and he lets go of Kazuha’s throat. His head sags in defeat, hands finding their way to the ground on either side of Kazuha’s head.
Kazuha coughs, then tilts Scaramouche’s chin up with two of his fingers. He stares into his dark, starry eyes and wipes his tear-stained cheeks. Scaramouche brings his own hand to his face in surprise. He hadn’t realized he was crying. Looking down, he sees the teardrops pooling in the corners of Kazuha’s eyes as well.
“Kunikuzushi.” Kazuha whispers.
Scaramouche makes a sound, a mix of anger and sadness and something completely new. It bubbles up in his throat, warming his insides.
“Kunikuzushi.” Kazuha says again, bringing a hand down to his chest. Scaramouche winces, but Kazuha doesn’t make any more moves. He’s feeling his heartbeat.
“Sorry--” Scaramouche chokes out, breathing heavily. Why is he saying such a thing? He’s not sorry.
He’s prompted with an urge, suddenly; it’s one he doesn’t want to act on, but he does.
“I keep having nightmares.” Scaramouche whispers, his voice hoarse. It’s the first time he’s said it out loud. “Where someone is behind me. Trying to hurt me. And I think it might be you.”
Kazuha kisses his knuckles gently.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
Scaramouche nods, shutting his eyes.
“I know. That’s why it’s so stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.” Kazuha whispers back, pulling him in so that Scaramouche’s head rests in the crook of his neck. “I want you to know that you’re safe here. With me.”
And that feeling is there again. That warm, hazy feeling that spreads from Scaramouche’s stomach to his fingers.
“I barely know you.” Scaramouche whispers. “I tried to hurt you. Don’t you want to hit me? Just do it. I’m not--”
“I don’t want to hit you. I just want to hold you like this. Can you be okay with that? No hitting?”
And suddenly, Scaramouche knows what feeling it is. It’s something he’s only ever heard about before, but somehow he knows it.
It’s fondness.
And when he sleeps that night, in the safety of Kazuha’s arms, no nightmares plague him.