JUST MY TYPE

truths

scaramouche's red-tinted face was not what you expected to see as the first thing you woke up. "what the fuck...?" you mumbled, your vision still blurry from the sleep. "get up. i know you carried me here, but still, get up. i know we're friends, but that does NOT give you an excuse to lay your head on my lap," scaramouche's angry voice resounded in your ears. actually... his voice was laced with something else. embarrassment, 

wait... his lap?

"ew ew ew ew ew WHAT THE FUCK!?" you yelled, your head shooting up, as far as humanly possible away from his lap. he recoiled with disgust, shaking his head. "i fainted. i know that much. but you? why would you faint?" he groaned. 

you retorted in a very unamused tone."can you shut up? I'm not much happier about this than you are." as if on cue, childe stepped in. "good afternoon, you two! it is me, tartaglia. how are you two on this fine, sunny afternoon?" before he could even finish the sentence, scaramouche hurled a pillow at him to shut him up. 

"ah. it seems you haven't lost your strength even after fainting..." you comment, laughing awkwardly, to which the indigo-haired boy simply huffed, rolling his eyes. "scarymoose, you didn't have to do that... your good old pal just wanted to ask about your maid costume. we want to know your measurements since our class already did it while you were out like a light." childe's cheery tone only seemed to dampen scaramouche's spirits. 

"ah. the measurements. any chance i could... you know, wear the butler costume?" it was in a nervous tone that scaramouche asked this as compared to his usual, more haughty tone. it pissed you off if you were being honest.

"stop trying to get out of this. heeheee, text me the measurements!" childe replied with haste, skipping out of the room nonchalantly, whilst a certain indigo-haired boy buried his face in his hands. 

"we're not good friends, I'm aware. still, care to let me know why you're like this?" you asked. it was because he was a member of the school-part of your duty. not due to your beating heart, not due to your worry for him. no. it was your duty, you repeatedly told yourself. 

"[name], how do you impress a girl?" his question was abrupt and certainly threw you off. "what?" your voice was shaky. why? 

"did i stutter? I'm the one embarrassing myself here," he muttered. 

"a-ah. okay, um. i think... it depends on what kind of girl you're into?" you asked, that... uneasiness still present. "the type that is hard to get, but not on purpose. as in, she's not impressed by anything i do. at all."

"oh. uh, you can try... instruments! you can play well, if i remember correctly from kindergarten," you commented. "your piano was amazing."

"piano?" he scrunched his nose. "it sucked. there was no emotion at all." 

"but it was beautiful, no? as a bystander, i enjoyed your pieces. it reminded me of nothingness and everything at the same time. hard, but not too hard. with a touch of delicacy. even my art teacher thought it was good!"

the mere mention of the art teacher caused him to freeze up, for reasons you did not know. 

scaramouche's pov.

i quite literally froze up at the mention of her art teacher, and it was so incredibly, indefinitely humiliating. that woman? thinking it was good? impossible. 

i asked her before. i had taken pride in my piano and made sure it was perfect. yet that woman told me it was okay. not even good. 

and for some reason when she says it that woman agrees? how fake. how... pathetic. 

"she said it was good?" i asked, swallowing hard. "i drew an art piece to convince her. at first, she said your piano playing was emotionless. so i drew a bird trapped in a cage to show her. your piano playing reminded me of it. then she said it was good-" 

i hugged her.

i fucking hugged her. whilst crying. 

was this a dream? a nightmare? which mentally deranged fool hugs and cries in the arms of a girl he's trying to impress? yet all i could do, was cry. 

she had stood up for me. it had earned my mother's praise.

now that i recall it? that photograph i had taken which was still in my wallet- that painting she was holding- it was a bird trapped in a cage. 

i don't know if i hate her for being able to accomplish what i couldn't, or i love her so damned much i want to cry.