you and scaramouche are both drama majors and have been at each other's throats vying for the same lead roles since high school. but when you're both cast as each other's love interest in your second year of university you're forced to be civil with...
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"My wrists are still sore from earlier today," you complain, popping the can of beer open that Scaramouche had offered that was in the cooler of his car.
He'd driven you both to a park to practice lines, sitting in the trunk and using the stars above as your light source. It would be romantic if it wasn't Scaramouche who did it and if he wasn't constantly correcting you when you messed up.
Scaramouche doesn't reply, looking over to your wrist that held a mark remnant from the handcuffs. He reaches over, grabbing ahold of your left wrist and rubbing his thumb against it.
"You should ice it," he mutters, grabbing an unopened can of beer and pressing it against your wrist, the coldness of the metal soothing your bruise.
"Have you been icing your wrist?"
"Yeah, because I'm not stupid."
You send him a glare and pull your wrist back, icing it with your own beer instead. His warmth on your hands gave you an odd feeling.
"I think that's enough for tonight," you sigh, growing sick of the script that stared back at you from your lap.
"Do you want me to drive you back?"
"Not yet, being outside is nice," you answer, "Your company is decent."
"Just admit you enjoy my company?"
"Not a chance."
It grows silent again, apart from the low vibrations of the car's engine and the occasional snap of another can being opened. You were afraid of it getting awkward so you let out the first thing that came to mind.
"Wanna play twenty-one questions?"
He lets out a low chuckle, "Are you trying to find out something dirty?"
"No," you scoff, "It's not like you have anything juicy anyway, your first kiss was with me."
"No need to remind me, but fine," he answers, crushing an empty can and opening another one.
"Okay," you hum, racking your brain for a question, "Most embarrassing thing you've done while drunk?"
"Other than willingly hanging out with you? Letting Childe give me a stick-and-poke tattoo."
"Of what?"
"That's two questions, not one," he grins, "My turn. Most embarrassing thing you've done when drunk?"
"I threw up on Aether and Lumine's father in highschool," you answer, wincing at the look on Dainsleif's shocked face that was still ingrained into your mind.
"I probably shouldn't have given you beer then, no?" he teases.
"I'm good with alcohol now," you huff, "Sort of."
He sends you an eye roll, but for once it lacks any malice.
"Are we friends?" you question, looking down into your now empty can of cheap beer, immediately regretting the question. Maybe you weren't that good with alcohol.
"You tell me."
"You're supposed to answer the question," you point out.
"I don't think think I'd sit at night playing a dumb game with someone who wasn't my friend," Scaramouche shrugs.
"So that's a yes?" you smile, ignoring how elated that made you feel. Weird.
"It's my turn to ask," he counters, "Biggest fear?"
You muse at the thought, "Probably that I'm wasting my time trying to pursue my interest in acting and it won't go anywhere."
He lets out a snort, "Really? That's stupid."
You're about to defend yourself but he continues.
"It's stupid because you're a good actor," he says.
"Are you trying to comfort me?" you smile, nudging him on the shoulder.
"Trying? Did I not?"
"You did," you reassure, holding back a laugh at how distraught he sounded.
"Whatever, you go," he mumbles, already on his fourth can.
"Toughest pill you had to swallow?" you question, eyeing him as he drains half the can.
"That I'll never experience a mother's unconditional love," he deadpans, throwing the can he was drinking behind him into the backseat.
"Oh," you let out, not quite expecting that, "I'm sorry to hear that," you slowly say, not expecting him to be open during the silly game you came up with.
He shrugs.
"Does she not support you?"
"That's your fourth question," he says, "And no, she doesn't."
"She'll see what she missed out on when you prove her wrong," you say, "When you make it big."
He gives you a fleeting glance, "Are you trying to comfort me?"
"Trying?" you smile, "Did I not?"
"Maybe you did," he slyly says, averting his eyes from you.
"I guess the world sucks, huh?"
"Yeah," he agrees, dragging a long sip of what was now lukewarm beer, "But I think I'll forgive it because at least it has you in it."
You pause, the can of alcohol hovering in place at his words, "What?"
"Just realized I'm too drunk to drive right now," Scaramouche mumbles instead of acknowledging your question.
"Should we call an Uber?" you ask, realizing he wasn't sober enough for making conversation, yet alone finishing the game.
"Soon," he mumbles, leaning his head against the side of the trunk, letting his eyes fall shut, "I need a minute."
"Alright," you comply, feeling your eyelids feel heavy as well, "I'll wake you up."
