art and love

‘I’ll say the little guy was fussy and kept wanting to see her, if she asks,’ he thinks.

Three measured rings of the doorbell, all met with no response, deepen his worries. He maneuvers his hold so that the kitten is being carried only in one arm, and uses his free hand to rapidly type in your passcode.

“[Name?]” He calls out as he makes his way into your living room. Scaramouche doesn’t really fancy intruding in rooms with closed doors, so he searches for you in your open areas first. 

Not in the living room, not in the kitchen either. In your studio, perhaps. The last remaining room in your unit not barred by a door, having merely an archway.

There, he sees you facing a canvas resting on an easel, your silhouette embraced by the warm rays of an early sunset. Beside you stands a wooden cart, its contents in disarray — some brushes in and some out of the jar, unused palettes scattered haphazardly, paint tubes strewn about. Some even rolled onto the floor.

He sees you making a light stroke somewhere, then hears you sighing deeply after. He then watches as heavy strokes follow, evidently fueled by frustration.

“Meow.”

Only at that sound do you stop.

No words escape Scaramouche even when you stand to greet him and Grayie. With your figure no longer blocking the canvas, he can see everything now.

Impressionist strokes in varying deep shades of blue consumed the canvas, going in all places, yet going nowhere all the same. As if grasping for countless things, yet achieving nothing.

Is this a fucking silent outcry?

“Hey, are you okay?” He says softly as he steps closer. 

You laugh. “You’re the second person to ever ask me that after seeing something I made.”

“Who’s the first?”

“Albedo, an artist friend.” You mumble. “You know, I’ve had countless exhibitions ever since I graduated, but can you believe you’re only the second person to ask that? None of the crowds present at my exhibitions bothered to do that. They asked a lot of things, but never that.”

Scaramouche frowns at your sarcastic smile. “What do you hear from them?”

“‘How much is this?’ ‘What would look good in my mansion?’” You laugh again, albeit without humor. “Someone even asked me, ‘Will the price of this piece appreciate in two years?’”

You scoff. “Like heck I would know?”

You drop your brush, the clacking of wood against wood being a sharp noise across the silent space. “Okay, enough of the sad stuff. Why are you actually here?”

“Nothing.” He says as he sits down on the rug, legs crossed, serving as a very comfortable bed for the kitten who started snoozing due to the singer’s light rubs. The fake excuse he came up with is now all forgotten.

“Did you want some company?” You hummed, looking down at him.

You were now seated back on your decently high stool, with him on the floor. And suddenly, you start to realize that he wasn’t really as big as you thought he was. Big in a sense that he was this untouchable, invincible being. 

No, he wasn’t all that.

It’s moments like these that make you realize how beautifully small and human he could be. Him having his brows slightly lifted into an ease, his still expressionless face that usually expresses indifference but is now the epitome of calmness, his slender fingers softly playing with cat fur the same way he lightly strums the strings of his guitar when he’s deep in thought. 

And his eyes.

His eyes that for some reason, take your breath away more now than they ever did before — despite the lack of stage production, of carefully planned outfits, of intricate camera angles. Which is really weird, you think. Because why does your heart grow more out of control when seeing him with his hair unkempt, his clothes loose and casual, his posture laid back?

“Am I that pretty in your eyes, miss painter?”

You blink fast. ‘No way I’m outright admitting straight up to that smug face of his that I was admiring him.’

In a desperate attempt for an excuse, you unconsciously blurt out a portion of your inner thoughts.

“You’re blue,” you say.

“What?” His brows furrow. “You mean the color? Or my mood?” He also remembers your canvas. Aren’t you the blue one here?

“Both. You’re blue because you’re blue.”

“What?”

You merely smile sheepishly before looking down, proceeding to fiddle with your fingers. Perhaps, you think you’re talking weird and nonsense. But to him, you aren’t. A part of him suddenly wants to do better, better in a sense that you can find comfort and solace in him. He wants to be someone you wouldn’t feel the need to hide yourself from when divulging your own quirks.

“You see, I sometimes see colors in people. Well, not really see, but — yeah. I don’t know. I can’t explain it either. I’m not good with words. They are not my strong suit.”

They are his.

“For example, my friend Venti is green. Albedo is gold. Don’t ask me why. They just are.”

“Yet you can explain why I’m blue?”

“Maybe you’re just lucky because blue is also an emotion.”

“So you think I’m gloomy and sad? I’m starting to think you dislike me.”

“What? No!” Defensive, you fix your posture and look sternly into his eyes. “Blue is not just straight up gloomy. Sometimes it can be melancholic. Sometimes calm. At times, distant.”

Unbeknownst to you, in his point of view, you look lost. 

In him. 

You’re staring into his eyes as if you were seeing something different entirely as you were talking. Until he can’t take it anymore and turns his head away. And you finally realize, then mimic his actions.

“Besides,” you say, tone light to change the mood. “How can you think I dislike you just because I gave you the color blue? You should feel honored, actually. Blue is one of the colors I tend to gravitate towards. I feel personally connected with it.”

At this revelation, he suddenly starts to get what you mean. He realizes you probably resonate with blue too, all because that’s what you are, and that’s what you ever feel. 

He recalls every single moment. When you’re sad, your eyes are bleeding blue behind the mask of composure you’ve learned to master. Even when you’re happy, he feels that nostalgic and sentimental blue seeping through. 

Scaramouche wants to say a lot of things. But he doesn’t. And instead, he says —

“You don’t dislike me?”

“No!” You respond in a flash. “Oh my god, did I ever do something to give you that impression?!”

“So you like me then?”

I CAN SEE YOU — scara x reader smau

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‘I’ll say the little guy was fussy and kept wanting to see her, if she asks,’ he thinks.

Three measured rings of the doorbell, all met with no response, deepen his worries. He maneuvers his hold so that the kitten is being carried only in one arm, and uses his free hand to rapidly type in your passcode.

“[Name?]” He calls out as he makes his way into your living room. Scaramouche doesn’t really fancy intruding in rooms with closed doors, so he searches for you in your open areas first. 

Not in the living room, not in the kitchen either. In your studio, perhaps. The last remaining room in your unit not barred by a door, having merely an archway.

There, he sees you facing a canvas resting on an easel, your silhouette embraced by the warm rays of an early sunset. Beside you stands a wooden cart, its contents in disarray — some brushes in and some out of the jar, unused palettes scattered haphazardly, paint tubes strewn about. Some even rolled onto the floor.

He sees you making a light stroke somewhere, then hears you sighing deeply after. He then watches as heavy strokes follow, evidently fueled by frustration.

“Meow.”

Only at that sound do you stop.

No words escape Scaramouche even when you stand to greet him and Grayie. With your figure no longer blocking the canvas, he can see everything now.

Impressionist strokes in varying deep shades of blue consumed the canvas, going in all places, yet going nowhere all the same. As if grasping for countless things, yet achieving nothing.

Is this a fucking silent outcry?

“Hey, are you okay?” He says softly as he steps closer. 

You laugh. “You’re the second person to ever ask me that after seeing something I made.”

“Who’s the first?”

“Albedo, an artist friend.” You mumble. “You know, I’ve had countless exhibitions ever since I graduated, but can you believe you’re only the second person to ask that? None of the crowds present at my exhibitions bothered to do that. They asked a lot of things, but never that.”

Scaramouche frowns at your sarcastic smile. “What do you hear from them?”

“‘How much is this?’ ‘What would look good in my mansion?’” You laugh again, albeit without humor. “Someone even asked me, ‘Will the price of this piece appreciate in two years?’”

You scoff. “Like heck I would know?”

You drop your brush, the clacking of wood against wood being a sharp noise across the silent space. “Okay, enough of the sad stuff. Why are you actually here?”

“Nothing.” He says as he sits down on the rug, legs crossed, serving as a very comfortable bed for the kitten who started snoozing due to the singer’s light rubs. The fake excuse he came up with is now all forgotten.

“Did you want some company?” You hummed, looking down at him.

You were now seated back on your decently high stool, with him on the floor. And suddenly, you start to realize that he wasn’t really as big as you thought he was. Big in a sense that he was this untouchable, invincible being. 

No, he wasn’t all that.

It’s moments like these that make you realize how beautifully small and human he could be. Him having his brows slightly lifted into an ease, his still expressionless face that usually expresses indifference but is now the epitome of calmness, his slender fingers softly playing with cat fur the same way he lightly strums the strings of his guitar when he’s deep in thought. 

And his eyes.

His eyes that for some reason, take your breath away more now than they ever did before — despite the lack of stage production, of carefully planned outfits, of intricate camera angles. Which is really weird, you think. Because why does your heart grow more out of control when seeing him with his hair unkempt, his clothes loose and casual, his posture laid back?

“Am I that pretty in your eyes, miss painter?”

You blink fast. ‘No way I’m outright admitting straight up to that smug face of his that I was admiring him.’

In a desperate attempt for an excuse, you unconsciously blurt out a portion of your inner thoughts.

“You’re blue,” you say.

“What?” His brows furrow. “You mean the color? Or my mood?” He also remembers your canvas. Aren’t you the blue one here?

“Both. You’re blue because you’re blue.”

“What?”

You merely smile sheepishly before looking down, proceeding to fiddle with your fingers. Perhaps, you think you’re talking weird and nonsense. But to him, you aren’t. A part of him suddenly wants to do better, better in a sense that you can find comfort and solace in him. He wants to be someone you wouldn’t feel the need to hide yourself from when divulging your own quirks.

“You see, I sometimes see colors in people. Well, not really see, but — yeah. I don’t know. I can’t explain it either. I’m not good with words. They are not my strong suit.”

They are his.

“For example, my friend Venti is green. Albedo is gold. Don’t ask me why. They just are.”

“Yet you can explain why I’m blue?”

“Maybe you’re just lucky because blue is also an emotion.”

“So you think I’m gloomy and sad? I’m starting to think you dislike me.”

“What? No!” Defensive, you fix your posture and look sternly into his eyes. “Blue is not just straight up gloomy. Sometimes it can be melancholic. Sometimes calm. At times, distant.”

Unbeknownst to you, in his point of view, you look lost. 

In him. 

You’re staring into his eyes as if you were seeing something different entirely as you were talking. Until he can’t take it anymore and turns his head away. And you finally realize, then mimic his actions.

“Besides,” you say, tone light to change the mood. “How can you think I dislike you just because I gave you the color blue? You should feel honored, actually. Blue is one of the colors I tend to gravitate towards. I feel personally connected with it.”

At this revelation, he suddenly starts to get what you mean. He realizes you probably resonate with blue too, all because that’s what you are, and that’s what you ever feel. 

He recalls every single moment. When you’re sad, your eyes are bleeding blue behind the mask of composure you’ve learned to master. Even when you’re happy, he feels that nostalgic and sentimental blue seeping through. 

Scaramouche wants to say a lot of things. But he doesn’t. And instead, he says —

“You don’t dislike me?”

“No!” You respond in a flash. “Oh my god, did I ever do something to give you that impression?!”

“So you like me then?”

I CAN SEE YOU — scara x reader smau

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