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It’s not often that Sumeru City sees days of tempest. The rainforest wields its name as a weapon (landslides in Vimara Village, floods in the Apam Woods), but Sumeru City mostly goes unaffected, shielded by the Great Tree’s titanous body and the Akademiya’s crafty, strategic architecture. Some days, though, seasonal showers thicken to wintry storms — in such cases, all citizens are advised to avoid going outdoors until the rain no longer poses a risk. Those are the few times the city truly sleeps, Treasure Street quietens, and the single in which Zubayr Theater will not hold its weekly performances.
Of course, as it is with most things, the Akademiya operates differently.
Scaramouche is still not used to it. He doesn't think he'll ever get used to it: the rain, the noise, the everlasting, smothering sensation of other bodies sharing the same space as him at all times. The Akademiya does not disencourage solitude, seen as it's inherent to every scholar, but paradoxically makes it quite easy to find companionship in piles of shared work, clashing thesis, or pointless assignments from unbending professors who cannot seem to understand their demands are unfeasible.
This is more or less how he becomes acquainted with Sethos. It isn’t, on the other hand, exactly the reason why they get… close (which does not seem like the right word to use here — it’s either a hyperbole or an euphemism), nor why they end up where they are, on this particularly rainy day:
“Hey, did you get those Henna Berries I asked you to?” Sethos pops his head behind the kitchen’s archway, face slathered in a thick, grayish herbal essence that made it look as if he had stuck his head in wet cement. “I was thinkin’ of making us something sweet? Like cupcakes or something.”
Scaramouche, though secretly glad for a distraction from his gruelling classwork, gives him a flat look. “Why are you covered in crap?”
“Why are you dodging the question?”
“You want me to eat sweets?”
Sethos grins, cheeky and sly. (More like slimy, really, considering his face situation.) “Lesser Lord knows you need some.”
Scaramouche throws an Anemo-powered cushion towards him, which Sethos swiftly grabs, obviously, fast as lightning, his eyes never leaving Scaramouche for a second. It’s another thing Scaramouche has yet to get used to, the way Sethos looks at him — ravenous, attentive. Eyes like a Rishboland Tiger’s, studying Scaramouche’s every movement, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.
This arrangement, because Scaramouche refuses to call it anything but that, had started shortly after Sethos moved to the forest, a couple of months into their rickety-rackety, push-and-pull, might-kick-or-kiss-or-kill-him relationship. Sethos needed a place to stay until he properly settled down in Sumeru City, and Scaramouche was more or less coerced by the Dendro Archon into offering him the spare room in his (slightly too big for himself) apartment.
“It’ll do you good to share a space with somebody else,” Nahida had told him. “Scorching heat on a snowy day shall become warmth once you get used to it.”
Her analogies often oscillated between outstanding cleverness and unbelievable silliness. Scaramouche found that to be the stupidest one yet, but had not the heart to tell her how much he disagreed. She was making an effort to help him after everything, and despite himself, Sethos’ presence was not intolerable. He was insufferable, yes, especially after they got used to each other and he found out just exactly how to most effectively grate at Scaramouche’s nerves, but not in a way that made Scaramouche want to strangle him on the spot.
“Come on, can’t you give me a straight answer just once?”
In his most monotone voice, Scaramouche says, “I didn’t. Go get them yourself. Why do you look like that?”
“Some Amurtans saw me running errands earlier today and asked me to try this new skin care lotion thing they're developing.” He pulls a face, nose scrunched and mouth pursed, testing how the lotion gives. It crinkles the layer on his forehead. “I earn extra cash for every detail I add to my feedback, so I’m keeping it on for as long as I can.”
“So?”
Sethos pauses for a moment. “Half an hour into it. Feels kinda refreshing, but mostly sticky.”
“Looks like shit,” Scaramouche adds. Sethos pouts. “You oughta be more particular about these favors of yours. What if it’s made of something toxic?”
“Well, that’s exactly why I’m testing it, isn’t it?”
Scaramouche scoffs, “Someone will walk all over you someday.”
“You wanna pitch in to go first?” Sethos retorts easily, and bunts Scaramouche’s middle finger with a flying kiss. “Anyway, you didn’t get the berries. So what’re we having for dinner?”
“You wanted to have sweets for dinner?”
“It’s raining! We should do something fun!”
“Can’t you just make something up? I’m busy.”
Sethos approaches to eye his notebook curiously. “Haven’t you been working on this draft for like, a week now? When’s it due anyway?”
“A week ago.” A moment of silence. Scaramouche looks over his shoulder, and his nose nearly brushes onto Sethos’ cheek. He flinches back just in time. Sethos’ eyes are wide and mirthful. “What?”
“Nothin’. Didn’t peg you as the type to finish assignments overdue, that’s all.”
“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me,” Scaramouche says, and it sounds a lot sillier than he’d intended it to be. Sethos grins.
“Guess I’ll have to stick around for longer, then,” He presses his lips to Scaramouche’s earlobe, “to learn them all.”
Their living arrangement had been Nahida’s idea. What came after, though — footsie under the cafeteria tables, shared glances in-between classes, sneaking under the covers when one got home later than the other — was entirely their fault, and something Scaramouche still doesn’t know what to make of.
The rain slashes against their windows, relentless and rambunctious. Scaramouche does not like to admit it, as it tends to happen with him, but something about the storms tips him over the edge, makes him jittery, expecting some big, foreboding thing to crash down upon him at any moment. It reminds him of remote islands and a land where tempest is everlasting. And the quiet streets, of a palace devoid of life, of idleness and a garden made for him as a hunter would gild a birdcage—
“I’ll figure something out. How d’you feel about meat rolls?”
And then, there’s Sethos. Warm, noisy, over-the-top; at the same time, thoughtfully subdued. He wields lightning in a different way, a propeller rather than a blade — after all, his eyes are sharp enough, Scaramouche thinks. His tongue, the slope of his jaw. He is, in every capacity, a true child of the desert: his intentions malleable as sandbank, and hiding just as many secrets, but sometimes, too, an effigy of an oasis, a breath of fresh air after hours on trek. Whatever that means. Scaramouche figures he has been spending far too much time around Nahida and her silly connotations.
“Scara?”
Scaramouche blinks back to his senses. “Do whatever you want,” he says quickly. “I don’t care.”
Sethos is patiently standing by the stove, his face blank but attentive. (His eyes are sharp and strip Scaramouche of every uncertainty.) He pauses for a minute. “Meat rolls it is, then.”
They lull into comfortable silence. Scaramouche should really go back to this terrible essay and get it over with before the rain stops, but he cannot help watching from afar as Sethos works. It’s strange, still, as he’s told himself countless times before, to have a body occupy the same space as him so naturally. To fit somewhere alongside him.
Sethos’ back has gotten broader and his hair longer, reaching short of his butt. He’s tanner, too, and bulkier, and every other grandiose thing that comes with age and time. He’s deft and smart and — here Scaramouche pauses, because Archons know how humiliating it is to think it — beautiful, really.
Thunder rumbles. Scaramouche is suddenly, abruptly struck by the unwavering certainty that one day, none of those things will be part of his life anymore. Sethos is mortal and frail and he will die. He will die, and Scaramouche won’t, because there is nothing in this world capable of killing him in a way that matters.
(Sethos, he thinks distantly, will die, and then perhaps Scaramouche will die as well. After all, what will the world have to offer when Sethos is gone?)
“What’s on your mind, honeydew?”
He hasn’t turned back, still fiddling with the pans and seasonings. Scaramouche pulls a face. “Don't call me that.”
“You like it,” Sethos says melodically. He gives Scaramouche a glance over his shoulder. “But really, what’s got you so quiet?”
“Is it so foreign a concept to you that you feel the need to question me?”
“And snappier, too. Something’s definitely up.”
Scaramouche balks at that. “Have you ever contemplated the possibility that you’re clinically unwell?”
“Never thought you of all people would be a mental health advocate.”
“Do you want to be kicked out?” Thunder rumbles, and Scaramouche’s chest clenches. Somehow, Sethos seems to notice it, sense it, whatever it is his psychopathy earns him, because he immediately turns to Scaramouche with a concerned expression. “What?”
Sethos’ eyes flit between the window and Scaramouche. “‘S gotten colder, hasn’t it? I’ll get you a blanket.”
“If I wanted a blanket, I would’ve just grabbed —”
“Oh, sorry, I phrased it poorly—I am going to grab you a blanket ‘cause I don’t want you to be cold. And I wanna do something nice for you.” Sethos smiles that practiced smile of his, deliberately cordial. “So I’m getting you one. Alright?”
Scaramouche’s mouth clicks shut. He grumbles something in response, which seems to satisfy Sethos enough, or maybe he just doesn’t care and would do it anyway.
Meat sizzles and fills the air with spices. Scaramouche has identified at least three when Sethos’ comes back and makes a dramatic display of tucking him in.
“I still have to finish that,” Scaramouche tries to argue when he sees Sethos set his notebook aside. Sethos tuts.
“I’m forcing you to take a break before dinner.” He fluffs the pile of cushions behind Scaramouche’s back and pushes him gently so that he’ll lie down. “It’s a countermeasure for you to stop thinking!”
“Unlike you, that’s quite hard for me to do.” Sethos backs away once he’s satisfied with his work, hands on his hips and all. Scaramouche is positively wrapped up. “I feel like a pita pocket.”
Sethos cackles. “Aww, you actually look like one!”
“You’re so annoying—” Lightning casts chiaroscuro on Sethos’ face. Scaramouche doesn’t know what flashes in his, but it’s enough to make Sethos’ laughter die down.
He makes a complicated expression. Then, Sethos sighs.
“Alright.” He starts fishing for Scaramouche’s hand within the blanket wrap. “Come on up.”
Scaramouche balks. “What?”
“The Pita Hat Guy strategy didn’t work, so I’m going for a new approach.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Somehow — deft hands, warm and rough —, Sethos undoes the wrapping in no time, and suddenly Scaramouche is being pulled against a hard chest, Sethos arms woven around him securely.
The world stops for a heartbeat or two. Scaramouche can hear it in his ears, louder than the thunder, reverberating all over his body. It’s hard to tell whether it’s his or Sethos’.
Sethos whispers, “Stop thinking. Looks like your head’s gonna catch on fire at any moment.”
Ah. So he did notice.
“I’m not,” Scaramouche lies. Sethos examines him for a long, long moment. So long Scaramouche sort of wants to crawl out of his own skin. He bites, “You stop that.”
“What?”
“Watching me. Your eyes are so green, it’s unnerving. And that disgusting stuff all over your face doesn’t help in the slightest.”
Sethos actually laughs at that, full-bellied, and his chest rumbles with it. “You know what? I’ll take that as a compliment!”
“Do whatever you want,” Scaramouche scoffs, but goes easily when Sethos tugs him closer by the waist.
“Y’know I’m not going anywhere,” Sethos whispers onto his sternum. Scaramouche’s whole body tingles. It’s such a human reaction for him to have, he’s taken aback by it.
“Do I?”
“I’ll tell you again if you don’t.” He looks up through thick lashes, green eyes sharp as a grass blade, feverishly attentive. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay for as long as you’ll have me.”
The first time he and Sethos kissed, it was raining as well. A sudden downpour in a weekday afternoon, just after Scaramouche had finished his last midterm, and felt ready to incinerate anyone on sight. Thunderstorms followed him home, each step a flash of thunder and a clap of lightning, the streets dark, quiet, grayscale. Such a pointless thing to fret over, such a human thing to do, yet he had been discarded precisely because of that: too human and too godly to be enough of any. Then he got home, and there was Sethos at the stove, and the whole house smelled of chazuke, and the new lamp Sethos had bought for the living room was orange and warm and welcoming, and he looked at him with those sharp eyes so softly and said, “You okay? I figured the rain caught you by surprise, so I made us some tea” and then nothing mattered, not anymore, not the rain nor the thunder nor the midterms. He grabbed Sethos’ face and did something that actually felt right, no matter how much he’d regret it later.
He does it again now, cupping his cheeks, pressing their lips together with all the careful intent of someone who isn’t yet sure they are allowed to do so. Sethos holds his waist tightly, and tells him, no words needed, yes you are. I’m not going anywhere. Love me however you like.
He litters Scaramouche’s face in pecks when they part, and Scaramouche huffs, no bite to it, simply because it’s less mortifying than laughing or crying. “Stop— you’ll get that crap all over my face!”
“Oh well, tough luck for you!” Sethos puckers his lips and frowns when Scaramouche presses his hand against them. (Of course, at the best of his capacity not to touch the green-mask-thing.)
“Sometimes I think you like me too much,” he says gruffly. Sethos does laugh, because that’s how he is: carefree and wonderful and beautiful.
“You know I’m not good with moderation.”
“I think you’re quite moderate when you want to,” Scaramouche argues. “You just don’t seem to want to when we’re with each other.”
“‘S not that I don’t want to.” He hooks his fingers under Scaramouche’s chin and tugs it up, steady, so that their eyes will meet. All around them turns to dust: there is only green, green, green. “It’s kinda hard, when you’re around.”
Scaramouche pinches his neck, and Sethos mock-cries. “Flatterer.”
“I say nothing but the truth!”
“Well, oh-pure-hearted, I think you left our dinner to burn.”
Sethos pauses. They both glance at the stove, though little can be seen through the thick sheer of black smoke. “Oh,” he says. Then, cheekily, “Well. About those Henna Berries—”
Scaramouche kisses him again. The green stuff brushes against this cheeks and his nose, but perhaps Scaramouche also likes him too much, because right now, he couldn’t care less.
“Get that shit out of your face first,” he says onto Sethos’ mouth, “and we’ll figure it out.”
(Sethos holds him and nothing matters, not anymore, not the rain nor the thunder nor the looming beast of loss that comes with loving all that is blood and all that is mortal. They have each other now. And for now, that shall be enough.)