The kitten quietly shivers in your arms. You automatically try to give it warmth by rubbing your cozy, knitted sleeves against it — only to realize that it was useless because your clothes were as soaked as its fur.
You hurried inside your condominium building, only nodding at the guard instead of your usual greetings. Fortunately, the elevator arrived quickly today. ‘Honestly, who would want to go outside in this crazy weather?!’
Now walking along your floor’s hallway, you were mentally berating yourself for causing such a trail of mess that the maintenance staff would have to clean up.
‘I am NOT forgetting my umbrella anymore.’
‘Or maybe I should just not go outside anymore.’
‘I’ve left a trail of puddles, haven’t I? Then they would follow the trail and trace it to my unit. Then they’re gonna know it’s me. Oh god—’
“[Name]?” You’d recognize that familiar, sharp tone anywhere. “Why the fuck are you so wet?”
Huh?
You blinked. “What?”
“What ‘what’?”
You cough in an attempt to swallow down the laughter bubbling in your throat. Scaramouche panics, running to get closer. Though, when he does, he fusses. Arms only hovering, not touching. Lips merely parting, voicing out nothing.
He doesn’t know what to do.
So he does what he does best.
“This is what you get from showering in the rain.”
Masking his intentions through crafted teasing.
Your face heats up at the close proximity, sensing his hand closely behind you. An inch closer and you’re sure he’d come in contact with the drenched fabric of your sweater. And the sheer knowledge of what could be causes you to fail in discerning whether the shiver that just ran down your spine was because of the cold, or because of him.
You laugh to distract both yourselves. “That’s not why I coughed, Scara! Why would you say it like that earlier!”
“What did I say?”
“You asked me why I was wet!”
His brows furrow. “But you are?”
Your lips curve, but you don’t reply. You only stare back, hoping that he’d realize what you were pointing at by himself.
Scaramouche thought he’d seen delight in all forms, but you managed to surprise him in another way again. Or maybe he just wasn’t looking at others properly before, and this was the first time he did. Because since when did pure amusement look so apparent in one’s eyes? So bright and glistening, so much so that not even the twinkling raindrops resting in your eyelashes could repress it.
He just stays still standing there for a while that you’re the one starting to get embarrassed instead of him. Was he really that slow or is your mind just so… questionable? You almost think that you should just let it go because he doesn’t seem to get it, but you notice his ears starting to flush red.
You smile. He blinks.
“So you realize now what you said. Good to know my mind isn’t the issue here!”
“What?”
You hum, not bothering to repeat what it is he said earlier in consideration for Scaramouche’s pride. At least he now knows! So he’s also the type who gets embarrassed by stuff like that.
‘Him with his flushed ears looked so adorable.’
Meanwhile, the man with you remained puzzled. He was just admiring your eyes.
So what the fuck did he say earlier that made you this teasing?
Scaramouche sighs. “Dry yourself immediately when you enter your unit. Take a quick shower, too. Don’t let yourself get sick.”
“But I have to dry the kitten first.” You raise up the kitten even more. “It’s shivering, see? It might get sick.”
“And you won’t?” He flicks your forehead and gives a contemplative stare at the kitten in your arms, before finally sighing and taking the little one away from you.
“Hm?”
“I’ll dry him instead. You go ahead and have a warm shower first. Come back to my unit after you’re done.”
“Okay, I’ll just ring the —”
“The passcode’s ‘0-1-0-3’.”
Hello?
“Why are you telling me your passcode?! Are you stupid?!”
He smirks. “Wow. That’s the first time I’ve been on the receiving end of that question for once.”
“Shush! No, why did I even ask. You’re actually stupid.”
“I’m not. I just thought, aren’t we friends at this point?”
“Wait, really?”
“Ouch,” he says plainly. “Was I the only one thinking that?”
“No, I didn’t mean it that way! Fine then, I’ll say mine too.”
“You don’t have t—”
“Mine is ‘0-3-0-1’.”
I CAN SEE YOU — scara x reader smau
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NOTE: so like, if we think about it, at the end, yn did call scara sir 🤔🤗 also song lyrics scara wrote is from 'aphrodite' by the ridleys ^^ pls listen if u still haven't it's such a good song :))
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“I think we should just keep it,” says the man who is currently walking beside you on the way back to your units from the admin office.
“Poor little guy…” The ‘it’ in question lightly meows in your gentle hold. “It’s been a week since we told the landlord to notify the neighborhood about the stray kitten we picked up… but no one has reached out.”
A hand makes its way into your view, his palm lightly ruffling the fur on the little feline’s head. “That’s why I’m telling you we should just keep it. Besides, it does seem like a stray.”
You find no fault in his idea, honestly. If there was no one else to take care of the kitten, who better than you two who found and started caring for it? There’s just something. Something important you unconsciously buried in the back of your mind, only for it to crawl back up into the surface again when you least needed it to. Your brain tends to do that, you realize. It seems to follow a cruel routine — when it senses how light-hearted you feel, it’s as if it automatically calls up the claws of gloom to envelop your heart and drag it back down.
Like when you have a light, bright precious shade of yellow, suddenly smeared with a deep, gloomy blue. And suddenly everything turns dark green, like that of depressing, murky waters.
“Hey, what are you thinking about?” Scaramouche’s voice was low, hushed. Yet lacking the usual bite his remarks usually have.
You frown and start unconsciously fiddling with stray furs. “Just that… I’m thinking… Maybe it’d be better if the kitten stays in your place, Scara.”
“And why would that be? Is this you escaping responsibility for our —”
“...You know I won’t stay here for long.”
The steps that used to match your own just a second ago paused. That totally slipped his mind.
“So, I think it’d be really sad if he gets used to my place, and me, probably, when in fact… I’d be returning to Mondstadt in barely two months.”
also little bonus from me hehe our cuties scarayn this chapter <3
(this isn't meant to be indicative or to portray yn in any way :> pls just think of it like a fanart hahdsha imy all (╥﹏╥) !!)
SUMMARY — you’ve been stanning scaramouche, a soloist, since before you can even remember. with the thinking that “he is out of your reach” and “we live in different worlds” already ingrained on your mind, just what are the odds that he already happens to be one of your stan account mutuals?
status: on-going | taglist: closed
genres: social media au, celebrity au, modern au, crack, fluff, a sprinkle of angst (?), hidden identities
You did not expect your neighbor to be the very first thing you see in the morning after opening your door.
He blinked. “I was just about to ring your doorbell.”
“Uh… Hey, good morning!” You smiled sheepishly. “Is something the matter?”
Scaramouche stares at you blankly, in disbelief even, making you wince. Did you do something wrong, something that disappointed him? Your face paints an even more clueless expression as he sighs while resting his right hand on his hips and lifting the other one that’s holding a —
Parcel?
“What’s that?”
You feel a light flick on your forehead. “Are you blind or just stupid?”
“Excuse me?” You softly gasp. “I’m fully aware that that is a parcel? But why are you delivering it to my unit?”
Scaramouche slowly steps forward.
And you continuously back up.
“Because it seems some pretty little idiot wrote mine instead of hers as a mailing address for one of her impulsive orders,” he said as he headed straight towards that one shelf in your genkan that now became a storage for unopened parcels instead of shoes.
You find it quite funny how familiar he already is with the furniture placement in your home — mostly because he was the one who built them anyway. It felt as if it was only yesterday when you were telling him where you’d like things to go, though you of course assisted him in assembling and carrying too.
You let out an apologetic sigh. “Sorry for the bother, really. I’ll double-check for typos next time, I promise!”
“Don’t mind it.” He waved dismissively. “Better me than others."
“Hmm?” He didn’t really let you hear the last part clearly.
“Nothing.”
Scaramouche was already starting to head out of your unit when he heard you behind him, matching his steps and pace. And it was exactly then that it occurred to him that you were dressed a little more polished than your usual loose loungewear.
“Are you going out?”
“Yeah,” you mumbled, putting on your shoes. “I was about to head out for lunch when I saw you in front of my door.”
His brows furrowed. “Lunch?”
“But what about the dinner I cooked and gave you last night? I thought you said it was too much and that it’d last you until lunch today?”
“Well…”
“Well?”
“...I couldn’t sleep and got hungry around midnight so… I ate it.” You reveal as you close your front door after both you and Scara got out. It was so obvious he was about to let out a follow-up, but something made him stop on his tracks.
Someone, rather.
A purple-haired woman, either in her late twenties or early thirties, stood in the hallway, just in front of the door of your neighbor — her left hand resting on her hip, and the other tapping on her phone.
She had sunglasses on, but it concealed nothing to you, who had eyes for detail. To you, who knows Scaramouche’s connections decently well.
She’s —
“Ei? The heck are you doing here?” Scaramouche hissed. His sister, recognizing the voice, promptly turns towards your direction, removing her glasses in the process.
“Oh. So that’s why you can’t hear your own doorbell.”
Her electric eyes flashed a hint of bewilderment, and then shortly, amusement. Her brother was not in his own unit. Rather, he was next-door. With his neighbor. Who was a woman. One that she recognizes.
You couldn’t possibly prepare yourself before she bolted straight to you and reached out her hand, hoping for a brief shake, which you recognized and reciprocated in the blink of an eye. A custom in high society. “Hello, [Name], right? I love you and your works. I actually own a few of your paintings!”
“Oh my gosh.” Your eyes brighten. “Thank you so much! I’m glad you liked them!”
Scaramouche stands even closer to you, his arms now crossed. “I didn’t know you were an art enthusiast.”
“You would know if you came over to my house once in a while. I love beautiful things, what can I say,” Ei quipped.
“Your palate says otherwise.”
“Just say you’re a dango milk hater and go.”
Dango milk? That’s a thing?
The woman in front of you softly taps your shoulder. “I’m so sorry that you were the unfortunate girl who had the misfortune of dating my brother. Are you sure you don’t want to do better? He’s way too —”
“Wha—”
“Huh?!”
Silence wafts through the air. Not the comforting one, nor the awkward one. It was like the silence before the storm. Or the one during a drum roll just before the winner was announced. Or the one between two people contemplating on finally crossing the line.
It was the kind that takes breaths away.
You instinctively turn towards him, only to find him doing the same. Pairs of eyes meet one second. A blink, and suddenly you’ve both turned away again.
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Yeah!” You frantically wave your hands dismissively. “I’m not. I’m actually the artist he has to work with for the album cover, and I was having trouble finding a place to stay temporarily so he helped me and I ended up here. We aren’t together!”
His sister gasps a long ‘oh’, and as she does, she gives both of you the look — a little longer on Scaramouche, though. The look that feels as if she knows something you both do not. It was a little unsettling.
“Okay. If you guys say so.” She shrugs.
From your peripheral vision, you make out Scaramouche crossing his arms and rolling his eyes. “Stop disturbing her now, sister. She’s about to get her lunch, you know?”
You must’ve hallucinated how her eyes twinkled as if scheming.
“Oh, perfect! As compensation for my mistaken assumption, do you want to eat lunch with us? It’s just me, my brother, and four other friends.” Before you can even reply, she follows her own statement up. “Don’t worry, it’s going to be in a reserved space in a private restaurant. There won’t be any media and random people around, so you can be comfortable!”
‘Why are you worrying about me when you guys are the ones who are much more well-known?’ You cried internally.
Not used to rejecting someone, you merely smile and nod, “Sure!”
She heads off, leading the way to the basement and to her car which is slotted at Scaramouche’s guest parking lot, next to his own.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he spies his elder sister’s minute actions. She was moving her things sitting on the passenger seat to the rear.
She was about to make you travel with her.
“She’s riding with me,” Scaramouche declares before he can even stop himself. At this, Ei raises a brow. “But you hate having to drive people?”
“I’m not driving her to some other place? We have the same destination to go to and to go back home to.”
You bite back the urge to butt in. He hates having to drive people, really? But didn’t he offer to drive me back to my hotel before?
‘Oh god, I’ve been inconveniencing him so much ever since we met,’ you realize. The thought plagues your mind even as the singer opens the familiar passenger seat door of his obsidian car for you.
And as soon light welcomed you both out of the basement, you finally muster the courage to speak on what’s bothering you.
“Hey, are you sure you’re okay with me coming with you guys for lunch? If you aren’t, you can just drop me off somewhere here and let’s just make up an excuse that something came up.”
He gives a brief glance, before focusing back on the road and tightening his grip on the gear shift. “Are you okay with it?”
You frown. “You’re just returning my question!”
“Just answer.”
“I’m good with it, I guess? As long as your friends are okay with it too. Oh my god, are they okay with it? Come to think of it, only Ei invited me —”
“Knowing my sister, she has already notified them the moment she got in her car. And knowing them, they’re probably busy being too ecstatic at the news of another person joining.”
“Okay, that’s good to hear.” You flash a small smile. “But what about you?”
“If you’re good, then it’s fine with me.”
You sigh and slump down on your seat. “Still, sorry for always inconveniencing you.”
Scaramouche winces upon hearing your words like it’s a reflex.
Inconvenience?
That’s what you think you are?
Does he look like a philanthropist to you? Or does he look like some guy who’d volunteer to do something that feels like an inconvenience to him?
He was about to voice it out, appalled by how you view his actions — his actions that just naturally came to him at moments and never once felt like inconveniences.
But then he realized.
Is that how you view yourself?
You were so close to forgetting that your very normal, always-within-reach, one-call-away neighbor was actually an insanely renowned celebrity, especially in this country.
Especially when he’s looking so casually handsome in the driver’s seat, with you beside him as his car idled at a parking lot.
Only for you to be reminded of his cruel reality as he puts on a mask, dishevels his raven hair — which fell so perfectly despite the random directions he brushed them in — and slides on his glasses (you found out a few days ago that they’re actually prescription).
“Are we ready?” He asks after.
“I think I should be the one asking you that, actually.”
You hear a muffled chuckle behind his mask. “Let’s just go.”
Walking beside you, he slightly keeps his head down, constantly fidgeting with the few strands framing his face. “Do you always do this when you have to go out?”
He urged you to walk closer to him, lightly trapping not even an inch of your right sleeve between his two fingers. You furrow your brows, but also soon realize that he only did that so you could hear him clearly despite his mask. He’s so annoying for making me feel things for simple actions. “Not really. Depends on when I want to be seen or not.”
“When we met at the park before you weren’t wearing any.”
“That was a secluded area.”
“Figures.”
“Hello, good day! Do you have a reservation or should we prepare for a new table?” The usher at the entrance greets.
“We have a reservation under ‘Raiden’.”
The usher’s face lights up in recognition, and immediately leads you two through a dimly lit hallway filled with several wooden sliding doors, which you assume opens up to different VIP rooms.
Now, you were not new to such luxurious dining experiences. But that was back home. In Mondstadt. And that was with your parents — a pair of narcissistic and pretentious people who always favored what’s traditional and theirs over those that are foreign to them.
All the traditional Eastern elements in the establishment awed you. The dim, warm, cozy lighting. The sliding doors with wooden frames (maybe you’ll ask Scara what they’re called later). The wooden beams stretching across the walls and ceilings, tainted with just the perfect shade of varnish that suits the place. The unmistakable expertise in ikebana, so apparent in the structures and color harmony of the potted plants scattered strategically in the area.
“I really love the architecture here.” You unconsciously blurted out.
You hear him grin. “A shame we left your art materials at home, huh?”
He merely shakes his head at the scoff you gave him. Really, would it hurt you to admit that he was right? Scara smirks internally at what he just inferred from a tiny interaction — you actually had a little more pride than you try to display.
He breathes inwardly.
Excitement? Maybe. Interest? Most likely.
Just how much more of your tiny fragments can he find underneath that hardened layer of sand you built, he wonders.
“Here’s the reserved room.” The usher says as he motions toward a closed door. “Enjoy your experience, dear guests.”
Your companion immediately slides the door open as soon as the usher leaves. “We’re here, peasants.”
The chaotic chatter that flowed out as the door slid open immediately died down as all eyes went on you.
“Oh, look who’s here.”
‘God I hate being the center of attention and having people stare right at me,’ you thought.
Your shoulders unconsciously stiffen, and in a blink, Scaramouche is now in front of you, as if a shield. A shield you didn’t even have to know you need for it to serve its purpose.
“Scara and [Name],” Ei greets. “Glad to see you two made it safe. Come, sit here”.
She pointed to two empty seats on her left. The low table was long and rectangular, with a warm rich wooden finish. On the two short ends were Yae and Aether, and at the other side, opposite to where Scara, Ei, and yourself were sitting, there was Lumine and —
Oh gosh.
One look at her in person and you can instantly understand why Scara fell for his open secret of a long-time first love! Well, open secret to his fandom, at least. Or to those who can catch on easily.
“This is [Name],” Scara first introduces you to everyone as you two sit, making you internally sigh in relief. I didn’t have to make the first move, thank you! “She’s my neighbor. And a friend.”
You gasp. “We’re friends?”
He frowns. “We aren’t?”
Aether, who has just started sipping his green tea, chokes.
“Yuck, Aether!” Lumine, who was nearest to him, cries. She hits him several times, leading the other blonde to shield himself and wave off his sister’s hands. “Lumi, stop! Nothing came out!”
“Still disgusting.”
“Not my fault those two are trying to make me laugh?!”
Scara raises a brow as he pours water into your glass, to which you respond with a hushed thanks. “We just arrived and you’re already making us your clowns?”
“Bastard, you know that’s not what I meant!”
“Language,” Ei warned in a low voice.
Yae just shook her head. “You act as if this is new to us.”
“We have a guest.”
Most eyes look at you for a moment. You almost thank Scara again for his shoulders coincidentally rising at the time, making you not fully visible from everyone. “No no, it’s okay! It’s actually refreshing and comforting, my friends act almost the same as you guys!” You smile.
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NOTE: i kept up with my streak 😋!! also probably one of my fav chapters to date hehe
Scaramouche had always quite excelled at reading between the lines.
So when he saw what you had sent towards Aether in the group chat, he had an inkling that there was more to it than most people would think. Or maybe it was because he was a fellow artist (despite his being a completely different field from yours), that he can feel it immediately.
‘Right space.’ The unconscious use of the word ‘masterpiece’, despite not even being asked of it.
It causes an unwelcome sting in some part of him — the thought that you might be going through something he was just getting out of. Something you helped him get out of.
So now he is standing outside your door, looking at the fluffy thing — Grayie, as you guys recently agreed on — he is currently carrying against its own will. Scaramouche felt a little guilty disturbing it from its afternoon nap, but what else was he supposed to use as an excuse if you asked him why he wanted to visit your unit?
‘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?!”
