Chapter Text
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Scaramouche woke to the lines of his digital alarm clock, in neon red: 01:01am. He screwed his eyes shut. Too early.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
He folded his pillow round his head and pressed it to his ears.
Knock!! Knock!! Knock!!!!!!
“Ugh..!” He threw his blanket off and stormed out of his room. Each step he took added more and more fuel to his fire of fury, and by the time he’d reached the front door, he was considering homicide.
What was one crime on his already long track record?
Throwing open the door, he found himself with a man strewn across his doorstep, sobbing inconsolably. “Oh, Thank my Lord! You really exist!” he clutched at Scara’s trousers, breathless, “Please, Witch, my mother is very sick and doesn’t have much time left and the doctors–”
Scaramouche kicked him off lightly, making him stumble down the doorstep onto his bottom.
The man blinked up at him owlishly.
He took a deep breath in. Then a deep breath out:
“THE WICKED WITCH IS THAT WAY , STUPID!” he screamed, with his whole throat, slamming the door shut!
“Is this the right house?”
Kazuha’s clients have been echoing the same sentiment lately. ‘I got lost’ or ‘I mistook someone else for you’ or ‘I went to your neighbour’s house.’
He poked his tongue into his cheek. Perhaps he was a.. little curious about this apparent neighbour.
What did he look like? Why did he live out in the wilderness?
..Could they be friends?
He ignored that train of thought– focusing on the opportunity before him as he took a bow. “The Wicked Witch of the Forest; pleasure to meet you.”
When he glanced back up, the man was blushing.
Intended affect achieved. Humans were statistically kinder to those they deemed attractive after all.
“How may I help you, sir?” Politeness. Establishing yourself as a “helper” and not a “trader.”
And at the same time, Kazuha was taking note of the unblemished skin of his palms, his well-kempt hair and the jewels on his watch.
A tall and handsome young man having of money.
Kazuha’s developed a habit of sorts– guessing what his client’s want before they tell him. Since this man seems fairly untroubled himself… it’s probably..
Helping a family member?
“My mother is sick.” Bingo. “She only has a month left to live and.. and I..” he panted, “I’m not ready to see her go.”
Kazuha raised his hands gently. “Take a deep breath. It’ll all be okay soon.”
The man looked up at him, eyes twinkling, “ Really? ”
Desperation. Panic. Hope. The man was young, likely unafraid of death at that age… and he was doing this for his mother.
Creatures of Empathy, that’s what the witches called mankind. They meant it as an insult.
“When will you be ready?” Kazuha asks, softness in his tone.
The man seemed to fidget. “Ideally, she’d live on passed my death but..” he rubbed at his neck, “That’s asking too much, isn’t it?” After a long moment, he blurted out, “Five years! Just five more years with her.”
“Very well,” he shut his eyes. “Then, for the woman who birthed you from her very self. Who clothed and fed you. Who rubbed your sick off the floor and read you to sleep.” He extended his hand, “ Give me twenty years of your lifespan. ”
The man spluttered. “Hah!?”
When he received no response, he frowned, slamming his hand against the door frame. “How do you expect me to do that!? I go to Harvard, you know!? I’m going to have a good future! I can’t just–!”
“So you won’t.” Cut them off when they start listing valid reasons. “That’s what I’m hearing correct? You refuse to give a portion of your life to the woman who gifted you with it in the first place? Your mother, whom gave up those same years of her own life to raise you into the very man you are now. Your mother, who probably pays for your fancy college fees, doesn’t she?”
Kazuha had read his future for that. Kazuha knew he was right.
“Very well then,” he began to pull back his hand, and shut the door, “I sincerely hope you do not regret your decision in– what was it? A mere month’s time.”
“ Wait..!”
Kazuha knew he had sealed the deal.
The man reached out and grasped his hand with a firm shake. “I’ll– I’ll do it!” He could almost hear the thoughts through his head, ‘ What kind of son would I be if I didn’t?’ and such.
Kazuha wondered what that was like. To be a son.
“Then we have a contract. Here are the terms:”
He called upon the wind rustling through the leaves outside, the soil from the ground beneath his dwelling, and the sunlit-enchantment born in his very blood.
“One: your mother will live 1825 days longer, and you 7305 less.”
“Two: if you betray me, your eyeballs will fall from their sockets, your organs spill from your mouth, and the young of roaches hatch from your every orifice. May you die a painful death.”
And then, Kazuha shook his hand, with a smile.
“Three: You will never go to heaven.”
After that successful deal, Kazuha slept.
It was unfair. Extremely unfair. Yes, he did grant the stranger’s mother five years of his lifespan.
What he neglected to mention was that Kazuha himself stole the remaining fifteen.
Think about it: if you donated a whopping sum to charity, and found out only 25% of that money was actually aiding your intended cause, there’d be outrage. Kazuha made it sound as though it was a conversion error, that twenty of his years equated to five of hers– but really he was just reaping 75% of the benefit for himself.
‘How does he sleep at night knowing he does this?’
He does not.
He sleeps midday, actually, in his sunflower bed. That’s why it’s advised to visit the Wicked Witch in the nighttime.
Wicked Witch.
He was wicked, wasn’t he? It was in the name. It was what he was born to do, just as humans were born to die, and rabbits born to breed, he was evil and always going to be evil and there was nothing–
Then he felt it.
Someone had crossed the protective barrier around his flower bed. Someone was approaching him.
In an instant, his eyes were blown open and inches away from him... shadowed by the burning sun was.. a man.
He’s so beautiful, Kazuha flushed.
Wide, charcoal eyes. Sharp bangs that fell above his cheekbones, the colour of a pitch black night, contrasting his milky pale skin.
Were humans meant to be so beautiful?
And then Kazuha realized himself. His hair was down form its usual braids, frizzy and curled in all different directions. He– oh Gods.. He looked a mess!!
“Um,” the stranger said. Kazuha realized he’d probably been starring far too long of a time. “You good?”
“Y-yes!” Why was he stuttering!? “Are you a client!?”
“Nope. I live around here.” Then he gave Kazuha a glance from the side, smirking. “Your clients should get a better sense of direction though.”
The boy looked around, graciously giving Kazuha the time to process (and stare at his face.)
This was the mysterious neighbour? Him? Why did his clients fail to mention that he looked like splendor reincarnated? Born of stardust and moonlight? Like he had frickin watercolour for irises?
And also oh no, had his clients been bothering the pretty stranger? That wasn’t good.
“The sunflowers..” the boy started, startling Kazuha out of his daydream. “They face you.”
Ah. “I have sunlight in my veins. They grow toward it.” To make a show, he stood up, circling around. As he walked, the flowers changed direction, tilting toward him. “See?”
The man looked at him, mouth slightly agape. “Wow.”
Kazuha smiled. “Cool, right?” And then, summoning all his razzled courage asked, “May I have your name?”
He breathed, “Scaramouche.”
“Scaramouche. May I ask you a question?”
He nodded.
“Why are you living in the woods?”
At that, Scaramouche went silent. For a long moment, he was staring at him, and he simply stared back, and then Scaramouche stood, dusting the dirt off his trousers.
“It’s about time I return,” he looked off. “Nice meeting you, Kaedehara.”
He frowned. The winds rustled around them, echoing his sadness, and Kazuha clutched tighter onto the sunflower stalks.
“Nice meeting you too, Scaramouche.”
It was.. a matter of trust, wasn’t it?
Yea. When Kazuha thought back on it, a human living in the woods probably had good reasons. Those reasons were probably not something revealed to a stranger.
Yikes. They were having a good flow of conversation too. Kazuha’s question ruined it.
He flopped forward unto his coach, kicking his legs back and forth as his emotions sent the vinery swirling his cottage haywire.
He’s so bad with humans! So bad at this! What does he do!?!?/$:&3!
And then it hits him.
Cookies. The one thing that’s always helped him seal the deal with especially difficult clients – baking them a warm batch of cookies.
Kazuha was a phenomenal cook, an an even more exceptional baker. Cookies took the shortest time and humans went crazy for them.
That’s the plan! There’s chocolate chips in his left-upper cabinet, sugar always lying around the house, and collecting eggs takes no time at all!
“Shiro!” he called out, and behind him the dust in the air solidified in a spinning tornado into his Familiar. “Could you fetch me another sack of flour from the human world?”
Shiro meowed, and then vapourized into thin air.
He bit his nail as the cookies heated in the oven.
It was cookies. Just cookies. He’d baked a thousand batches before and everyone loved them. There was no reason to be this nervous?
But what if he didn’t like them? Curse the winds and their perfect synch with Kazuha’s own thoughts.
Perhaps..
A little bit of cheating would be fine, right..?
He summoned a minsicule little drop of sunlight to his fingertips, and then drew a little circle in the air, “May you be loved.”
He then pulled the tray of cookies out and blew the spell off his fingertips, lightly sprinkling the cookies.
It was a love spell, but in such a tiny dose did nothing but make the cookie a little more likeable. Like a small shot of caffeine. But tasteless.
Alright, he thought, holding up the tray. Let’s do this!!!
I have no idea how to do this..!
He was at Scara’s doorstep, plated cookies in hand, and literally trembling.
What was he even meant to say? “Hey. I wanted to apologize for prying”? Or maybe he shouldn’t bring attention to it at all! “Hey. I hope we can be friends”? Is that too forward? Can you even ask such a thing? Isn’t friendship supposed to form via natural happenstance? What if there’s some secret second meaning to giving cookies to someone that Kazuha is uneducated on?
Also, Kazuha’s starting to get how his clients got the wrong idea. Take one look at Scara’s house– rusting metal, blackened windows, an overall dreary vibe– it’s no wonder people assumed he was a witch. Why did he live like that? Could he ask? Or was that also prying? Why were there so many questions!?
For starters, he just has to knock right!?
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Lightning struck. Not literally, but Kazuha felt it– an intense fury burning from the other side of the door.
“THE WITCH IS TO THE LEFT!” Wow. That is anger.
Kazuha shivered, hands trembling harder. Already off to a horrible start. Geez, were his clients that frequent?
Maybe he should call out. Say something like “It’s me”? But– but what if Scaramouche refuses to open the door then. That’d be bad. Uh.. uhh..
Knock! Knock! Knock!
He decided on knocking again.
That stormlike anger skyrocketed tenfold, and Kazuha could hear now the thunder footsteps of Scaramouche’s wrath approaching the door..
Shit. He wasn’t ready. Not at all.
But the footsteps were getting closer, and closer– and Kazuha didn’t want to face an angry Scara and–
The door opened.
Scaramouche looked left, right, and then down at the plate of cookies left on his doorstep.
From behind the house’s walls, Kazuha panted out gasping breaths of air, his heart thundering.
I… I did it…!
And yet at his bedtime the next afternoon, the winds– his most trusted companion– would come whistling to his flower bed in the sun-soaked rays, whispering into his ear..
He didn’t eat them..
He didn’t eat them….
Kazuha did not want to believe it.
But the winds didn’t lie.
The winds never lied.