In the midst of dawn, the sky seeps lilac-pink; a canvas of dripping watercolor, the sun is still in its ascent. Half-delirious, Scaramouche slides into the kitchen with ease now that he’s been living here for a while now, finishing off his morning routine with his tea. The scent of jasmine filling the air and his sinuses, paired with the warmth stirring in his hands, the only good side to a bound-to-be inevitable day of suffering. Despite the earliness of the morning, the tv has no manners when blaring its voice into the living room, alongside the glow emanating from the screen, it’s brightness overpowering the warmth from the overhead lights from the kitchen he sits over. Leaning over the burnished marbled counter to the kitchen island while sitting laid-back on the stool. He’s never particularly worried this time of day, when the pain in the ass that annoys him so much usually sleeps in during the mornings.. or so he thought.

“Good morning, you’re up early.”

There’s a flash of light behind indigo optics; like lightning in the centre of a storm, the eye of a storm—his. In tandem with his friend’s voice, the only person he tolerates best out of the mess of the world, coincidentally the pain in his asses brother, he catches a glimpse of you as you emerge from the shadow of upstairs that slowly fades from the light shedding from the down. Eyelids drawing over, hazarding a silent glare your way, before he shifts his gaze towards his tea, which he sips silently in mild irritation.