Scaramouche's head felt fuzzy. It was a pleasant covering over his thoughts, preventing him from really reacting like usual or thinking with words that were complicated.

He sighed, shaking his head to try and get rid of the fuzziness, though he found himself reluctant to do so. It felt nice. He felt relaxed, calm even.

He instinctively leaned into a hand cupping his cheek. He could hear them speaking, but he wasn't processing the words very well.