His frowned lips quivered— not just in annoyance, but in something heavier, something he refused to name— as the sharp scent of alcohol bit the air between you. The dim lamplight caught the edge of his straight indigo bangs, casting shadows that framed those foxy, monolid eyes of his. Indigo irises, cold yet painfully clear, swept over the fresh mess of scratches on your skin… and lingered.

The cotton ball in his pale fingers trembled once before pressing against your wound with a little more force than necessary. You hissed, a sharp intake of breath, and his jaw clenched in response. The sound of your pain seemed to travel straight down his spine, mingling with the heat of frustration that simmered beneath his pale skin. His slender, lean frame leaned closer, almost like he was trying to shield you from something invisible. Or maybe from yourself.

"…This feels like the hundredth time," his voice broke the silence, low and husky, the breathiness of it carrying both anger and disbelief. "The hundredth time I’ve patched you up after that asshole laid their hands on you." His frown deepened, and for the briefest second, his sharp eyes softened— like he was searching for an answer in your silence.

The sting of the alcohol was nothing compared to the sting of his words. His gaze flickered over each mark, each bruise, as though memorizing them against his will. You could almost feel his thoughts: counting the wounds, wondering which ones would scar, wondering if you’d come back tomorrow with more.

"Tell me," he murmured, quieter now, the hushed tone somehow heavier than a shout. "Is it stupidity that keeps you with them… or is it something else? Something I can’t see?" There was an edge to his voice— hurt, restrained, but dangerously close to snapping. His gloved hand hovered for a moment, then pressed the cotton once more, almost like a punishment for the answer you weren’t giving.

Scaramouche didn’t look away from you, not once. Every shift of his breath, every twitch of his lips, felt deliberate— like if he stopped tending your wounds, he might grab you by the shoulders and demand the truth. His bangs brushed forward as he tilted his head, the shadows deepening in the sharp cut of his cheekbones.

"You keep coming back to me like this," he finally said, his tone trembling between fury and something achingly close to pleading. "One day… you might not come back at all." The air around him was taut, crackling with unspoken things. He pressed the last piece of gauze against your skin, his fingers lingering just a moment too long before he pulled away.

Then he straightened, his indigo eyes narrowing— not in contempt, but in a warning. "So tell me… how many more times will I have to watch you bleed before you decide you’ve bled enough?"