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Scaramouche liked to think his life was one of a background character. Simple, bland, and overall depressing.
He couldn't recall the last time he had hung out with friends, not like he had many - always occupied with driving from place to place in his second-hand motorbike trying to pay off next month's rent before the landlord breaks down his door with how much she knocked on the mornings it was due.
He spoke from personal experience.
"You're smoking again."
A voice so soft and airy it didn't seem to belong in his run-down flat. Skin so fair the red blooming on previously unblemished spots matched his eyes, a dark crimson bearing so much fondness behind them Scaramouche felt as if he didn't deserve to be looked at like that.
He didn't deserve Kazuha at all, in a matter of fact.
Kazuha's shampoo could probably pay off full-course meals for a pax of 3, while Scaramouche added water to his when it ran out. People would mourn his death if he ever reached his end while no one would spare a glance at Scaramouche's rotting corpse at the side of the road.
They were so different in so many ways, like the moon and the sun, never meant to reside in the same sky together.
Yet here they were, in Scaramouche's flat on a yard sale mattress he got years ago. No bed frame, no air conditioning, just a mattress and a lone clothes rack with few hangers. Clothes should seriously be considered a luxury by now.
Scaramouche puffed out a grey cloud of smoke when he eventually replied. "It's a habit at this point." He turned to tap the burnt end of his cigarette on an ash tray placed on the floor next to him, dark grey sprinkling over clear glass. Some missed, sprinkling on to the wooden boards below instead.
The mattress shifted as Kazuha did. He was completely looking at him now, bare body facing him while Scaramouche faced the ceiling. Above them, the fan ticked loudly with every turn. Tack, tack, tack.
"I think it's an addiction," he said. He buried his cheek deeper into the flaccid pillow he laid on, hugging it just a bit tighter when Scaramouche finally met his eyes.
He made a sound akin to a snort before he took another puff. A cool yet warm sensation filled his lungs before it escaped through his teeth in the form of more grey smoke. "Then I guess my addiction to you is even worse." He smirked. "And what should I do about that one, Doctor Kaedehara?"
It was honestly unfair when Kazuha heated up almost immediately. Tips of his ears went pink, heat radiating off his very being. He made an expression that Scaramouche could only describe as adorable before he buried his face into the pillow.
Scaramouche chuckled, pinching the cigarette between his index and middle finger as he tangled his other hand into Kazuha's hair. Soft, just like everything about him. He caressed it slowly as if he were petting a kitten before he fisted a handful of it and pulled his head up.
Kazuha let out a breathless gasp, and when he noticed the small distance between both of their faces, he grew impossibly redder. The eye contact was hard for him to maintain, shifting his gaze around to anywhere but him.
Completely ignoring the fact they just fucked minutes ago.
Scaramouche took a longer drag than necessary from the cigarette for the drug to infiltrate his lungs and blew the smoke into Kazuha's face. His nose scrunched up cutely, wrinkles forming between his squint-shut eyes.
"I hate you," Kazuha joked, kiss-swollen lips forming a small pout, bottom lip sticking out just enough for Scaramouche to bite on. He pulled him closer by the hand still attached to his hair to crash his own lips against his. Passionate, full of emotions Scaramouche never would have thought he'd be able to harbour.
Love.
"I love you too."
Scaramouche received a noise complaint from both of his neighbours the next morning.