He saw you with him—with that person he hated most in the entire school.
Childe.
Laughing with him. Leaning into him. Touching him like you used to touch Scaramouche. Lovey-dovey. Comfortable. Close.
It twisted something deep in his chest—something ugly, jealous, and humiliating. It should’ve been him beside you. Him making you smile like that.
But he guessed this was the price you paid when you loved someone who didn’t love you back.
The next day, Scaramouche locked himself in a bathroom stall, sitting hunched in the cramped cubicle as he wiped at the shimmering tears slipping down his cheeks—tears that weren’t entirely normal. Tears that glimmered like crushed stars on his skin.
“Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, voice shaking. He knew what this meant. He knew this disease, this curse, the one that bloomed when love hurt too deeply.
He just never thought he’d be the one suffering from it.
For what felt like the hundredth time, he brushed the glittering residue away, smearing the last of the star-dust tear tracks off his face before pushing the stall door open.
He stepped out, shoulders tight, jaw clenched—
Only to freeze.
Your voice echoed into the bathroom.
“Scaramouche?”
His blood ran cold.
No. No, no, no— Not now.
Scaramouche bolted immediately, cursing under his breath as he took off down the hallway.
But he could hear you behind him— Footsteps. His name again. Closer.
And he ran faster, heart pounding, terrified of what would happen if you saw the stars he cried over you.