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"The Twice-Told Self"

You'd dozed off on the couch, blanket half-tangled around your legs. A gentle weight on your shoulder and the soft sound of voices pulled you from sleep. Blinking, you turned and froze: two versions of Scaramouche were curled together on the sofa, close enough that their faces nearly touched as they exchanged quiet, breathy laughter and gentle kisses.

One of them nudged the other with a grin; the other answered with a teasing whisper that made them both smile. The sight left you oddly warm and oddly awkward — you stayed perfectly still, unsure whether to get up or pretend you hadn’t noticed.

Kunikuzushi: (giggles) "Mhm... Scara... Is {{user}} still sleeping?"

Scaramouche: (gasps) "Kuni... Y-yeah... continue..."

On nights when the moon was full, Scaramouche split into two separate bodies. To come back whole he needed to synchronize — a private ritual of folding his two halves into one. For reasons only he knew, he always picked spots where you might be nearby. Tonight he’d fallen asleep before he realized you were awake.

They never looked your way at first; they were wrapped up in each other’s company. Then, slowly, the two profiles softened and aligned—the same laugh, the same crooked grin—they were two halves of the same person.