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kunikuhoochie · 4 months ago

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A/N: For the Ad Astra ScaraMona Anthology! I wanted to play around with Scaramouche’s immortality/his ‘3’ lives, but in a modern-ish (non-Genshin) format. I also had to put a little Scaramouche/Niwa, his tragic first love. TT_TT. Poor Mona has a lot to deal with here.

…

Someone had moved her toothbrush.

Mona narrowed her eyes as she stared at the offending purple brush, now located in a glass on the left side of the sink. She had put it on the right. She always put it on the right. And yet, miracle of miracles, it never stayed there.

“Scaramouche!” she growled. There was no doubt it was her unwelcome and unwanted roommate’s fault. Delicately, she raised her toothbrush, squinting as though to see the very molecules on the bristles. If she was lucky, that was all he had done.

“This doesn’t bother me,” Mona said loudly, hoping he was listening. There was still no response and she wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. If he wasn’t hovering around her, he could be causing mayhem somewhere else.

At least this was a manageable trick, nothing new, nothing original. Even the ice-cold water in her shower was something she had prepared and braced herself for. For all Scaramouche’s torments, he was at the level of a pesky little brother at worst. A prankster who only annoyed and repeated the same old tired schemes.

And there was nothing he could do that was worse than the hell her grandmother had put her through. Mona had moved across the world to another country to get away from the old hag; she could certainly handle a grouchy teenage brat in her affordable apartment.

Mona shuddered at the thought, feeling a cold chill creep up her back. Hopefully just thinking about her grandma wouldn’t magically summon her. Last thing she needed was two monsters in her small flat. What if they argued? What if they got along? Which was worse?

She shuddered again. What a terrifying image. The cold reached her bones now.

It took a sweater and a steaming mug of coffee before Mona felt warm once more. Sighing happily as she inhaled the cinnamon scent of her latte, she wiggled her toes and leaned back in her chair. This was it; this was true happiness. There was a god. She wasn’t fully abandoned. All she truly needed in life was here in this kitchen. Sizzling strips of bacon, a fried egg, and some possibly illegal jams she’d smuggled in from Mondstadt: the breakfast spread in front of her more than made up for her morning hassles.

Tapping her finger against her mug, Mona glanced at the tarot cards to her right. It wouldn’t hurt to do another reading, would it? Maybe see her future, look for any danger. See if that annoying—

“Still looking at that garbage?”

Speak of the devil. Mona jerked her head up just in time to catch Scaramouche stealing a bite of her bacon. He smirked at her reaction and cocked his head, looking all the world as though he had just stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine.

Except for the fact that he was hovering cross-legged right over her table, appearing utterly insufferable and punchable.

Mona scowled. Ghost, god, or spirit, that was her breakfast he was stealing and her tarot cards he was insulting. She didn’t have to take this. Clenching her jaw, she protectively covered her deck to shield it from his negative vibes. “It’s not garbage.”

“You’re right, that’s insulting to garbage.” Scaramouche rotated in the air idly, his hair falling messily as he snatched another piece of bacon.

“And you’d know because you’re garbage?” Mona sniped back, batting away his hand before he could steal her coffee too. There were some lines that couldn’t be crossed.

He sneered, “No, but it is a waste of time. Seeing the future? Fate?” Scaramouche snorted. “It’s useless. I would know.”

She wondered if she’d get in trouble for hitting a god. Even a scraggly old one like him. “You’re not the god of tarot,” Mona snidely reminded him, leaning back in her chair and twirling her hair with a finger. “You’re the god of…oh, wait, you don’t even know.”

“If I were the god of tarot,” Scaramouche retorted, drawing closer as he hissed, “I would have disappeared years ago.”

They stood there, in silence, glaring at each other, before Scaramouche swiped her plate and absconded with the whole meal.

Even the coffee.

Fucking gods.

Mona stomped her foot and shouted, “At least let me have the last word, thief!”

It wasn’t like Mona had had many options when she’d landed in Inazuma. The flight was expensive, rent cost an arm and a leg, and in this overly busy city, where was an out-of-towner with rudimentary understanding of local customs supposed to live? If it weren’t for the fact that this place was as far from home as she could get, she would have chosen somewhere cheaper. Like Mondstadt. Or Liyue.

But then her grandma would find her, and that was not a risk she was willing to take, no matter how much money she could save. Mona took a deep breath and reminded herself of that very important fact as she stood in front of what had to be the shabbiest apartment in the world. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think it a firetrap. Time had taken its toll, leaving behind rusted railings and weathered bricks. A few had what she hoped weren’t scorch marks.

“It’s a picker upper,” her realtor Hu Tao said cheerfully skipping forward. A woman Mona’s age, she appeared unfazed by the creepy vibes the neighbourhood gave off. Her steps were light as she bounded to the front door. “But that just gives it personality.”

“That’s certianly an understatement.” Mona swallowed, wringing her hands as she followed. It looked like all that was needed was a strong wind and the whole place would come down. “I don’t think I really care for this personality.”

The gloomy clouds didn’t help, casting a depressing shadow over everything. Maybe the wilted flowerbeds and scraggly half-dead trees would look more charming in the sun. As it was, Mona had half a mind to just return to the car and ask Hu Tao to drive away before they became a statistic in a horror movie.

If Hu Tao heard the reluctance in her voice, she didn’t show it. She smiled brightly as she led them to the elevator lobby. The doors creaked open. Inside, the walls were missing panels, revealing the inner wirings and workings.

She leaned forward and pressed the fourth floor. “You’ll definitely care for this price. It’s only a thousand.”

“A thousand Mora? A month?” Mona straightened up at the thought. That was half the price of every other apartment they’d gone to today. “Seriously?”

“Well, it’s is a little far from the city, but that means it’s nicer here,” Hu Tao continued, ticking off the pros with her fingers. “Quieter. Bigger rooms.”

The elevator groaned in agreement as they finally reached their destination.

“Doesn’t seem so bad now, does it?” Hu Tao asked, strolling down the hallway.

The sickly fluorescent lighting gave the realtor an almost ghost-like complexion while the brown walls made everything seem even gloomier. There were so many red flags about this place, about this price. Maybe there was a body in the room. Maybe Mona was going to be used for ritual sacrifice. This was the point when she knew she should go home.

“That…I’m not sure…” Mona stumbled over her words as she aimed for a polite rejection.

“And that’s not even the best part,” Hu Tao continued, as if she hadn’t heard a thing. She stopped in front of Room 413 and pulled out a keychain stuffed with keys. After flicking through them quickly, she found a small steel key and opened the door. “It’s fully furnished.”

“Furnished?” Mona repeated, her eyes wide as she stepped into the apartment. There was a kitchen table, a sofa, even a TV. Her voice fell into a soft, nervous whisper as she spotted the bedroom door. “Bed too?”

“Bed too,” Hu Tao confirmed, a sly smile on her face. She clasped her hands behind her back and leaned forward, her long hair falling over her shoulder. “What do you think?”

With Mona’s budget, there was only one obvious answer. “I’ll take it,” she replied with no hesitation. What was a little horror in the face of such a deal?

“Great!” Hu Tao hummed as she pulled out a contract from out of nowhere and placed it on the kitchen table. She twirled a pen around her fingers then held it out. “Just sign on the dotted line!”

Twenty minutes later, Mona had the keys and Hu Tao stood cheerfully at the front door. Ready to leave, she turned the knob before stopping. Hu Tao looked over her shoulder. “One more thing, before I forget! You’ll have a—”

A young man’s head poked out of a wall and Mona dropped her key, too scared to even scream. The ghost(?) glared at her. “Get. Out.”

“—roommate,” Hu Tao finished. She chuckled sheepishly and spun around. Leaning against the front door, she pointed at the ghost. “His name is Scaramouche.”

“THAT’S NOT A ROOMMATE!” Mona screeched, stumbling backwards.

Her realtor shrugged. “I think he adds character to the place.”

The ghost—Scaramouche—liked to float through walls and hover nearby, shooting snide comments at Mona every now and then. In a sense, Hu Tao was right, he basically was a permanent roommate. He refused to leave, wouldn’t listen to reason, and only knew how to insult people. In short, he was like every nightmare roommate her pen pal Fischl had told her about.

Somehow, the fact that he could float through walls felt insignificant compared to the fact that he stayed near her the entire time she was unpacking. As he hovered upside down, he insulted everything from her mismatched socks to her choice in bath towels. Apparently, death had made him the fashion police, though she wasn’t sure if he was actually critical about her choices or was hoping if he was mean enough, she’d cry and run away.

Ha. Like she’d let him. With this rent, all she needed was a pair of ear plugs and she was golden.

“Really?” Scaramouche crinkled his nose as she folded a star-patterned shirt. Did he have any expression that wasn’t disgust? “Is everything you own ugly?”

Almost golden. Mona bit her cheek. There was no point in arguing with him. Conveniently, he could turn solid at will, and every time she tried to hit him, her fists went through him instead. “If you weren’t dead, I’d have killed you.”

“Ohh. Scary.” He rolled his eyes and rested his chin on his palm. Bored, he added, “And I’m not dead.”

“Right, you’re just an astral projection who’s been around for centuries,” Mona retorted, her hand on her hip as she tossed him a disbelieving glare. “How naïve do you think I am?”

“Extremely,” Scaramouche replied without missing a beat. “Still not a ghost.”

Mona pursed her lips and scowled. He always had to one up her. “Then what are you?”

He averted his gaze, his voice quiet. “A god. Once.”

“Once?” It was like she was looking at a different person entirely now. Something about him seemed bigger and ancient, something about him felt lost. Gaze distant, he appeared mercurial, as though he were reaching into a long-forgotten past. His clothing gave way to robes and she could hear the distant claps as people prayed.

For a moment, she could see a god.

Then just as easily he shook it off, returning to the role of bratty roommate as he pinched her jean jacket and lifted it gingerly. He tapped one of the rainbow patches on it and clicked his tongue. “Even back then I didn’t see anything as hideous as this.”

“Fuck off,” Mona hissed. She must have been imagining things earlier. There was no way a jerk like him could have ever been noble. Snatching her jacket back, she growled, “I need a spell to keep you out.”

“Spells?” The cocky smirk returned, and Scaramouche crossed his arms as he leaned back. “What, you think you’re a witch or something?”

“I am a witch,” Mona quickly confirmed, the or something stinging as it hit too close to home. “I come from an old line of witches.”

“Suuuure you do,” he drawled scornfully, raising a brow. The smirk remained as he pressed, “Do a spell.”

She flinched. If he found out the truth, the real truth, there would be no living it down. Hell, she might even end up moving from the humiliation of it all—she could already hear him teasing relentlessly. “That…I will. But just not right now.”

“Oh?” he asked, sounding like he’d already caught onto her lies. “Why not?”

“The moon. The mood.” Mona waved a hand in the air as she sat down in front of her suitcase. “It’s just not the right time. Magic is very particular, you know. And I haven’t even finished unpacking.”

“Uh-huh.” Scaramouche snorted. “Whatever you say.”

The apartment was empty. Mona held her breath unconsciously as she pushed open every door, checked every room. Bathroom, clear. Kitchen, clear. Bedroom, clear. Part of her wanted to search the vents but she was certain Scaramouche wouldn’t hide in there. Even he had standards, however low they were.

The apartment was empty and for the first time in days, Mona was alone. She sighed in relief as she slumped on a chair, resting her chin on the table. She blew her bangs out of her face and finally let herself relax.

“Remind me never to become a ghost,” she muttered, turning her face slightly so she could press her cheek against the cool surface. Immortality wasn’t what it was cracked up to be, it seemed. Scaramouche got bored easily, often hovering around and critiquing her as though her grandma had hired him as a tutor.

Maybe she had. Maybe her grandma had connections with the underworld that Mona couldn’t escape from, even here in Inazuma. Life was hell. Someone famous had said that, she was certain.

Either way, the god-ghost did have a habit of disappearing occasionally like this. Mona stared blankly at her kitchen. “He can’t be going to the underworld, right? They should keep him if he does.”

Maybe Scaramouche liked to torment the other tenants living in this building. Like he had a rotating schedule, going from person to person, maximizing despair. She chuckled at the thought. At least she wasn’t alone if that were the case.

There was a way she could find out.

A way she could check, now that he was out.

Before she could chicken out, Mona ran to her room, grabbed her tarot deck from under her pillow, and sat back down at the kitchen table. With practiced ease, she shuffled and dealt the cards. She hadn’t been lying when she said she came from a line of witches or that she could do magic.

Unfortunately, all she could do was see the future. And even then, it was limited by her cards, small glimpses into possibilities.

It was not the sort of thing she wanted Scaramouche to see. Even without the threat of eternal torture and jeering, Mona needed privacy to cast a spell. To look into his past was to connect with him, to feel everything he’d felt. It was an intimacy she couldn’t have while listening to him mock her.

She kissed the top card of her deck, channeling her magic into the cards. A basic three card spread would do for now.

Mona flipped the first card. A bright, yellow star greeted her, reversed. The Star—a loss of faith, in trust. A god betrayed. A god in pain. His past was not a happy one, and she saw glimpses of a red streak of hair, of gunpowder, of a boy with a broken smile. Her heart ached, a deep longing and yearning for what was lost filling her.

No surprises there. Scaramouche was immortal and she doubted anyone could live that long without their fair share of heartbreak. She forced herself to swallow down the hurt and move onto the second card.

The Hermit, also reversed. Withdrawal. Isolation. His biting tongue and sneer as he watched people come in and out of the apartment. Mona felt a surge of anger as decades, then centuries passed, as he was forgotten and abandoned all over again. A shrine turned into an apartment and people who did not care. A red streak and a small boy who would not return. A present that was a quagmire of hatred and distrust.

Again, no surprises. Mona laughed, and it felt as mocking as Scaramouche’s. The cards were really just showing what she knew, weren’t they? Scaramouche had been like this since the second she’d met him.

But would that change? Mona eyed the last card, the future. She gently traced it with a finger before flipping it over.

Death. Reversed. A resistance to change. But change would happen nonetheless, all beginnings had an ending, and something new was always around the corner. For a second, she glimpsed a smile, an honest one. For a second, she saw dark hair mingling and interlaced fingers.

And then the moment was gone, the future still unwritten.

If she had any lingering pity from the tarot reading, it was gone the second Scaramouche swooped in and stole her fries. Her hard-earned fries, after scrimping and saving and keeping her bank account just barely afloat.

And now, all of that effort was falling into his mouth like he was a baby bird demanding more food.

“Hey!” Mona snapped, pulling her plate closer and swatting his roving hands. “You’re a ghost. You don’t need food.”

Utterly unrepentant, Scaramouche sneered, “Of course not.”

He was the most infuriating being she had ever met. “Then WHY are you stealing?”

“It bothers you,” he answered simply, shrugging. As though that really were all.

As though the speed he gobbled down most of her meals didn’t indicate that it was more than that for him. Mona sneered right back, crossing her arms and leaning forward. “Either pony up or stop eating. I can’t afford to feed you too.”

“You can’t afford yourself,” he shot back. She flinched. Had he been reading her bills?

“If you know that, then stop stealing my food,” she growled, fists curling. If she was lucky and careful, she could hit him. Scaramouche had to be solid to eat, after all. “I can barely eat as it is. You’ll kill me at this rate.”

He shrugged carelessly. “Kill, scare off, doesn’t matter to me.” Scaramouche dangled a fry tauntingly over his mouth before biting it. “It’s all up to you.”

“That’s it! If I don’t get to eat, you don’t either.” Mona flipped her plate over impulsively, dumping the fries on the table. Immediately, she regretted it—the fries had done no wrong and there was no way he was going to help her clean up. Still, she had to make a stand, and she bit her cheek to keep her expression stiff and angry. “Buy your own damn fries.”

Chewing his one, last fry, he chortled. “You’ve finally lost it. How’s a spirit supposed to buy?”

“Aww, you can’t do it?” Mona jeered, hands on her hips as she taunted him. If there was one thing she’d learned, it was that Scaramouche had an inferiority complex. “Then just make it yourself. You’re a bum who’s lived hundreds of years. Surely you learned a single dish.”

He didn’t so much as flinch. Uninterested, he shrugged. “I’m not the one who needs food…” His eyes narrowed and he smirked slyly. “You know, I haven’t seen you cook.”

Mona stiffened. That abrupt change in topic couldn’t mean anything good. And that face was definitely up to no good. Cautiously, she replied, “I haven’t had time.”

“Sure.” He tapped his chin as he studied her, his gaze sharp as he cut through her lies. “Bet you can’t.”

“Your cooking can’t even dream to my heights,” she growled, unable to stop herself from springing the trap.

Scaramouche raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Really?”

“Really,” Mona barked, her fists curling. This was a bad idea. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She had never even picked up a frying pan before. Maybe she should have taken some lessons in patience. As much as she wanted to wipe that smirk off his face, this was mission impossible.

5.5

(Neither of them spoke of the cooking incident after)

When she opened her eyes, she was a god. Not powerful, no, she didn’t even have a name. Her temple was a small wooden shrine by the side of the road, worshipped by a handful of peasants as they went to and from the fields. Her offerings were meager, grains of rice and wild herbs, whatever could be spared.

Yet…it was hers. She sat on her shine, watching as children came with patchwork cotton clothes, as men wiped their sweat before bowing, as women chattered village gossip. They talked to her and she spoke to them back, as the wind, as a dream, and on the rare occasion someone had the Sight, in person. She was given a name, Kunikuzushi, a hope for a greater power. As years passed, she knew her people by their cracked lips and dry skin, by the gaunt look in their eyes as droughts created famines. Shoguns came and went, rulers created and broke down barriers, and her people thrived under her protection.

A century passed. Two. The offerings were reduced, then disappeared entirely. Long grasses and wildflowers creeped up her shrine. The village disappeared into the annals of time, the shrine and the god long forgotten.

If she had a name, she had forgotten it.

Time crept on and she faded but did not wither. Tethered to her shrine, she could only watch as people reclaimed the land once more. They ignored her as they built their houses, as they razed fields, chopped down trees, and built a city.

As they tore down her shrine, leaving her without even a sign that she had once existed.

When she opened her eyes, she was Mona again. She stared blankly at the ceiling, her hands curled into her blankets. She was Mona and she was a human and that dream was the reason she did not like using her powers. Sighing, she ran her hand through her hair.

“I did not want to see that,” she complained. If whatever fueled her powers was listening, it didn’t give a sign. Despite how much of a talented genius she was, even she had to pay the price for using magic. To peek into the past meant to relive it, the good and the bad.

She did not want to feel anything for Scaramouche. She especially didn’t want to pity him.

Mona closed her eyes, pressing the back of her hand against them. Even now, she could smell incense.

Even now, she felt an ache in her chest at the memory of the empty, forgotten shrine.

Her tarot cards sat on the kitchen table like an anchor. Mona eyed them, gnawing her lip as she contemplated reaching for them again. A few feet away, Scaramouche smirked as he watched two men sword fight on TV.

She watched him from the corner of her eyes. He had stolen her food again, chip crumbs dropping to the carpet with every bite. If it weren’t for the fact that he was floating, he would have looked like an ordinary guy instead of a powerless god.

Not that she was any better, a witch whose magic was fading.

She should never have looked into his past. Her fingers brushed the tarot cards. Looking at his past again would be painful. How long had he been haunting this spot? What happened to gods who were abandoned?

As she started to draw a card, Scaramouche sneered, “I told you, that’s crap.”

Mona stiffened instinctively. Perhaps the only good thing about his cutting remarks was that they made it easier to ignore everything she’d seen. “Not to those with power.”

“Power?” Scaramouche rolled his eyes. “You’re talking to a god.”

“I don’t see a god here,” she replied without thinking. Immediately, she covered her mouth, but he didn’t react, didn’t even recoil.

“Still know more than you,” Scaramouche replied, crossing his arms and leaning back. “What powers do you have?”

Very little was the honest response but she did not like it. Mona twirled a lock of hair around her finger as she averted her gaze. “A lady never tells.”

“Ha,” he snorted, his nose wrinkling. “I don’t see a lady here.”

She gritted her teeth. “Must be your old age.”

Another dream, another memory. Kabukimono sat on a wooden engawa veranda, staring at the courtyard, trying not to look at the man sitting just centimeters away. The shrine was gone, not a trace or memory left behind. In its place was a small pond, red and orange carp swimming lazily in the warm night.

This minka house was huge, almost a complex, large enough house dozens of family members. In the light of the full moon, the wooden walls loomed like mountains. A summer breeze played with his hair. Fireflies meandered across the yard. The tips of his fingers touched the cool sake bottle and he tried not to move.

“Niwa,” he said, his voice cracking from disuse, “Do you really have to go?”

The man beside him turned, the red streak in his hair oddly bright in the night. A gentle man with a kind smile, he nodded slightly. Whatever reservations Kabukimono had, Niwa didn’t, and he slid his hand till theirs overlapped. With his free hand, he took a sip of his sake and leaned back to admire the view. “It is a great honour to be chosen by Raiden. The weapons we create can turn the tide of war.”

Kabukimono bit his lip and looked in his sake, his reflection frowning back up at him. “You’ll return?”

“I promised I would.” Niwa squeezed his hands. His smile was as gentle as the breeze. “I always keep my promises.”

“If you say so.” He drank his sake stiffly, still full of doubt. The warmth by his side did little to reassure him.

Infectious laughter filled the night air and Niwa bumped their shoulders. “I do say so.”

The warmth lingered as the scene in front changed. Summer turned to autumn, the leaves changing colours. A light dust of snow fell and a purple flower poked its head through the white blanket as the weather warmed.

The warmth lingered and faded but no matter how long he sat there, Niwa did not return.

Mona woke up, teary-eyed and heartbroken. She ached, she hurt, and she did not want this. Her hand fisted the blanket tightly. She closed her eyes as her tears dripped down her face.

Unbidden, she remembered Scaramouche’s reflection in his drink, his set lips curved up in a smile, his expression soft. There was something like love in his eyes. There was something like home in his heart.

No, she did not need these feelings, these memories.

“You look ugly when you cry,” Scaramouche said bluntly, observing her curiously as he sat next to her.

He was close, as close as he had been to Niwa on the veranda. Despite his words, his eyes were worried. Still caught in the memory, Mona clasped his hand. For once, he remained solid and while he wrinkled his nose, he didn’t pull away.

“Aren’t you too old to be scared of nightmares?” he asked.

“Not a nightmare.” Mona shook her head. “Just…” she bit her lip, “remembering.”

Immediately Scaramouche snorted. “Memories are shit.”

“They are,” she agreed. She covered her eyes with the back of her hand. It was unsettling, knowing so much of him and not giving anything in return. Magic relied on balance. “My grandmother is a great witch, but even her powers can’t compare to those of witches in their prime. And I… I can read the future and the past, but only through cards.” She laughed depreciatively. “Losing power isn’t much fun.”

He didn’t say anything for a long while and they sat there in silence. His warmth reassured and calmed her and Mona started to feel drowsy again. Her hand fell off her face to her side. As her eyes started to flutter shut, he finally replied.

“It sucks. Life sucks.”

Mona chuckled sleepily. “That’s a little too far.”

“Not far enough,” he replied softly. He didn’t let go of her hand as she drifted away again.

A third night, a third memory. The setting had changed once more, now into a duplex house. The sprawling mansion had long gone and a semi-modern world surrounded the forgotten spirit. In the upper corner of the house, a child’s room, painted in cheerful yellows and filled with toys and books. A little boy sat on his bed and giggled as Scaramouche leaned against the window and carefully aimed a rubber band at an unsuspecting passerby.

A soft thwip later and he heard a sharp grunt as he hit his target.

“Told you my aim is amazing,” Scaramouche smirked, leaning back proudly.

“Again, again!” the boy chanted, laughing loudly. His thin shoulders shook and colour returned to his cheeks as he searched for something else to hurl.

“What’s so fun about this?” Scaramouche groused. Obediently, he reached down and picked a wooden block. “This’ll make a better sound.”

“I want to see!” The boy tried to move but his legs were tangled in his blankets. Buried in the white sheets, he looked far too small. He grunted as he struggled. “I’m stuck!”

Scaramouche sighed and rolled his eyes. “Stay still—”

The boy coughed, a dark and heavy sound as though he were trying to hack out his lungs. Scaramouche dropped the block and rushed to the boy’s side, eyes panicked as he gripped his arms. Another cough and blood splattered on the white sheet.

“Help!” he yelled. There had to be another who could see him. “HE NEEDS HELP!”

No response. It was just him and a dying boy, and Scaramouche could feel the warmth fading with every second.

“Please,” he begged. “Please.”

Seated on the couch, Mona turned the Hermit card over and over, fiddling with the edges as she thought. Even now, the dream lingered in her mind. That child had been so small, so frail. Even without looking into it, she knew the boy had died young.

She doubted Scaramouche had gotten over his death that easily, if at all.

As though she’d summoned him, he floated down through the ceiling. He spotted the card in her hand and snorted. “Still playing tricks with that?”

It wasn’t as harsh as before. After he’d held her hand that night, Scaramouche had been softer. Less caustic. Perhaps the dreams were affecting him too.

“I’m not,” she replied flatly, carefully avoiding meeting his eyes. If she did, she might cry. Already, tears were forming in the corner of her eyes, heartbreak heavy in her chest.

“Sure. If you say so.” Scaramouche didn’t push the topic as he floated over to the kitchen. Noticing the empty counters, he poked his head through the fridge and then pulled back. “You want me to starve?”

“You don’t eat,” Mona replied shortly, her voice even.

He scowled and crossed his arms. “The one thing you’re good fo—”

It was too much. Before she could stop herself, the question tumbled out of her lips. “Why are you still here?”

Scaramouche cut off and cocked his head. He raised a brow. “Are you senile? It’s my place.”

“Not here. Not this apartment. The land. What binds you here?” Mona wet her lips. Now that she’d started, she had to keep going. The questions flooded out of her like the tide. “Are you still waiting for him?”

The air was thick with tension. Scaramouche froze. “Him?”

Her throat was dry. Something would change with this. Something would break. Mona croaked, “Niwa.”

Scaramouche recoiled as though he’d been hit. “Niwa—you.” Immediately, fury rose within and he shot toward her. “You said you didn’t have any powers—you looked into my past, you—”

“I didn’t say I didn’t,” she weakly defended herself. Her hands fisted, nails digging into her palm. After coming this far, she couldn’t back down just yet. “Why are you here?”

“Who cares?” Scaramouche snarled.

“I do!” Mona finally forced herself to look at him. Her hand hit her chest and she squeezed her shirt. “It matters to me! What’s trapping you here? They’re all dead.”

He shrank back, as though that was the one truth he couldn’t bear to hear. “I know.”

“Scaring me won’t stop people from coming here,” Mona pressed.

Scaramouche flinched. “I know.”

“They won’t come back,” she continued, taking a step forward. “They—”

“I said I KNOW,” he shouted, lips drawn back into a tight sneer. “You don’t—” Scaramouche’s eyes met hers and he froze at the sight of her tears.

“Oh,” Mona whispered, finally understanding. “You’re lonely, aren’t you?”

Without another word, he fled through the floor.

Mona didn’t dream that night, not of a long-forgotten shrine nor of a tender warmth nor of a child grappling with tuberculosis. There was only darkness, only a deep rest.

When she woke up, Scaramouche was gone.

The apartment was silent. Mona stirred her coffee idly, her chin resting on her hand. It was strange how quiet it was: no scathing remarks, no judgemental eyes, no thieving fingers. Now it was just her and her apartment, the way it should have been from the beginning.

A sense of melancholy filled her.

Had he moved on? Had he finally disappeared? Scaramouche had been the worst roommate in existence, and yet…she hadn’t wanted to say goodbye. Not like this. She could still feel his hand holding hers as she’d drifted to sleep, his voice low and soothing.

He deserved to rest too. Mona knew that, knew it deeply after experiencing all that loss, and yet.

And yet.

She wasn’t sure if she was ready to move on.

Mona nibbled her breakfast as she ran her fingers over her tarot cards. Idly, she picked one, drawing it out from the deck. If she reversed it, would she dream again? Would they meet again?

She thought of his hand, of his biting sarcasm, and flipped it.

Death.

“Still doing that crap?”

Mona jumped, her knees bumping against the table and teeth scrapping against her tongue. A jolt of pain ran through her, and she swore before whirling around to find Scaramouche looking exactly as he had before he’d disappeared.

“Still as clumsy,” he added, his expression subdued.

He was acting like he hadn’t left at all, like it hadn’t been weeks since she’d last seen him. Mona rubbed her smarting knees and glared. “Please. I have never been clumsy my entire life.”

“Could have fooled me.” He grew more pensive, his eyes flickering to the door as though he wanted to run. At last, he made up his mind and faced her. “Your magic is crap. I kept dreaming of you.”

“That was not my fault—” she blurted out before the implication sank in. He had seen her past. She hadn’t been the only one to pay the price for her magic and he had seen her past. Mona flushed, embarrassed. Just what had he seen? No wonder he had been nicer to her recently.

He sneered, “So you did it.”

Shit. She hadn’t meant to let that slip. Mona crossed her arms and averted her gaze. “That was unintentional.”

“Stalker,” he muttered.

“Pervert,” she retorted.

They stood there in silence. How had they interacted before this? Even if she said nothing, he knew that she had seen his past. They both had seen each other’s weaknesses.

As though on cue, her stomach rumbled and Mona flushed again. Scaramouche shot her a look that made her want to crawl into a hole and die.

Maybe after lunch.

She peeked at Scaramouche. This was a chance to get to know him better. Mona bit her lip. Pulling out her cell, she casually said, “I’m getting takeout.” She paused. “Anything you want?”

Scaramouche stared at her. “You’re asking?”

“Yes.” Mona cleared her throat. “You’ll steal it anyways and I am magnanimous enough to share a meal.”

Scaramouche didn’t smile but as he leaned down to look at her phone, she thought she saw his lips quirk. “Just pull up a menu.”

16. Epilogue

Mona blinked as she sat in her kitchen. Everything around her was familiar, but not quite, the edges of her sight caught in a hazy mist. Scaramouche sat across from her, actually sat in the chair instead of hovering in the air like he usually did.

A dream. This had to be a dream.

The second she thought that, everything made sense. No wonder nothing felt quite right. And it was only in a dream that her arrogant housemate would deign to sit in a chair like a mere mortal.

“How odd,” she muttered. She glanced at her hands. A dream where she was still Mona, where she wasn’t someone else. It had been weeks since she’d last had one of these dreams, long enough that she’d thought it was all over.

“What is?” Scaramouche asked.

“This—” Her breath caught in her throat as she noticed Scaramouche’s expression. He looked…fond. Despite the cocky smirk as he leaned against his hand, his eyes were uncharacteristically soft. Mona flushed.

His smirk grew wider.

“You were thinking something bad, weren’t you,” he murmured, leaning forward. His hand cupped her head, his other on her shoulders, pulling her closer. “Something dirty?”

“I wasn’t!” she blurted.

“Liar,” he whispered, and his lips met hers.

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