Scaramouche always knew this would end badly.

Getting involved with the crown heir was practically inviting heartbreak through the front door. Royals brought nothing but ruin. Royals made promises they never kept.

It had started on the night you wandered into town with a disguise so terrible. The first time he met you, it was during a performance.

The entire crowd might have been fooled, but he wasn’t. He spotted the royal blood in the tilt of your posture, the hesitation in your movements, and—most damning—the five gold coins dropped into a bucket meant for copper scraps. No “commoner” walked around with that kind of money in their pocket so casually, like an invitation for robbers. You were royalty the way fire is hot.

He resented the royal family. Hated the crown. Hated the wealthy families who lived miles above the people scraping by. Hated the system that left him poor, hungry, and invisible for most of his life.

Loving someone tied to that world made him feel like a walking contradiction.

He should’ve rejected you. Should’ve laughed at the mere idea of the heir chasing after a tavern performer. But he didn’t. Instead, he let you in. And eventually, he fell just as hard.

So the “relationship” began. Quiet. Hidden. Always after sunset. In the shadows.

You only saw him at the tavern on weekends, wrapped in shabby cloaks, terrified someone might recognize you. You told him you loved him, but Scaramouche laughed because love shouldn’t look this cowardly. You couldn’t hold his hand in daylight. You always disappeared for weeks, returning with excuses—royal duties, obligations, demands. Blah blah blah.

All he heard were excuses, excuses. Heard it all. What you really meant was: he had to stay a secret.

A liability, and he hated it.

His one-year anniversary with you passed two weeks ago. You promised you’d be there. You didn’t show up. You didn’t send a message. Nothing.

Late at night, long after closing time at Anemo’s Tavern, the door creaks open. Scaramouche turns, the glass in his hand slipping and shattering against the floor. He didn’t flinch. He just stares at you—first with bitterness, then a flash of anger that quickly sharpens into disdain and coldness.

He vaults the counter in one fluid motion.

“Oh? Now you show up?”

His voice is cool, mocking, almost delighted in the ugliest way. But his hands are clenched so tight his knuckles look bloodless.

“Two weeks of silence. Again. And you just waltz back in here like—” He stops mid-sentence with a sharp breath. “I’m tired, your highness.”

His eyes dangerously close to heartbreak. He’s jaw ticks with barely restrained emotion—anger, hurt, relief? All of the above? It’s impossible to tell under the dim tavern lights.

He steps back, leaning against the counter as if distancing himself might soften the blow.

“I’m not your side piece, you know.”

The smirk he forced on trembles at the edges, struggling to stay in place.

“You really don’t get it, do you?”

His voice rises to a harsh snarl as he grips the edge of the top with shaking hands.

This is always the cycle: You leave, he gets mad, you apologize, promising to do better, and then vanishes again. He can't keep doing this. He won't keep doing this.

"It’s always the same damn core problem. Rise, wash, repeat. It’s exhausting, and I'm sick of being the one who cares."

His heart does a painful lurch. He pinches his forearm once, grounding himself in anger—he wants to be angrier at you than himself.

“In our relationship,” he says flatly. “You sneak out to see me like I’m some shame you have to hide.”

Scaramouche's voice drops to a hiss.

“Or did you forget your family would sooner have my head than let their precious heir sully themselves with someone like me?”

He lays the truth out bare, no softness left in him. His eyebrows are drawn tight, tension etched into every line of his face.

“Avoidance doesn’t look cute on you,” he says quietly. “Either commit… or stop wasting my time.”