I NEED A PART TWO TO SAFETY SCISSORS STATTTT. WHAT ABOUT SCARAS POV??? IS HE DENSE??? I need the reader to DIE and scara finds out and hes zcrushed and RAGH ANGST RAGHHHGHGGRR
𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐬 . . .
. . he just keeps losing everything again and again and again.
// tws ; slight cursing,, ; gn reader ; modern & high school au, hanahaki au
a/n: THANK YOU SM FOR HTIS IDEA OMG ILY
link to safety scissors !!
in his dreams, everyone else was irrelevant.
it was only him and you, you and him.
but now, with you gone, he could only wish his dreams were reality.
if only he wasn’t so fucking dense, if only he saw the way your eyes followed him whenever he was in class or in the halls or in the park or anywhere.
he wished he saw the adoration in your eyes before they were dull, showing the everlasting sign of death.
he wished he saw how your eyes lit up whenever he entered the room before they were blurred and bleary with the cloud of death.
he wished he saw how your eyes followed him like contrails before they were staring blankly at the ceiling of your house.
why did he have to be like this?
if he had just told you his feelings maybe you wouldn’t be dead.
maybe he wouldn’t have lost you.
but maybe life was a losing game for him. he didn’t even have the chance to win—he just lost everything again and again and again until there was nothing left for him.
he lost his mom, his childhood friends, everything.
even you.
—
he remembered that in middle school he had been assigned a project with you.
the moment he heard your name with his, he felt the unusual sensation of butterflies fluttering in his stomach.
at the moment, he had just wished you would disappear so that these fucking feelings would go away.
he regretted thinking that so, so much.
karma just kept eating him up and spitting him back out.
—
you and him had both been working on the project, and one thing had led to another and he had suddenly wound up with your left earbud in his ear.
scaramouche wanted you to hate him, wanted you gone.
so he scrunched up his nose in disgust, trying to act indifferent to you and your feelings.
“you listen to this fucking stuff?” he spat, hoping you couldn’t see through his guise.
you had just stayed silent, switching the song.
scaramouche could almost hear the silent cracking of your heart.
—
acting indifferent wouldn’t help anything.
scaramouche should’ve known from all the mistakes he’d done in the past that indifference would go against him, it would never help him.
but he had still acted uncaring anyways.
you were dead now, and all because he decided to act apathetic in order to hide his own feelings for you.
—
he had a memory that, once, in class, you were both seated together. in what seemed to be a haze of nervousness, your leg bounced up and down as you took shaky breaths, anxious and flustered by the fact he was sitting next to you.
scaramouche didn’t know what to do.
maybe if he acted bitter and shit you would stop liking him and these stupid fucking feelings would go away, right? it had always worked in the past, so it wouldn’t fail him now.
but it did. it faltered and failed him and now he regretted it all.
“can you stop that?” his sharp voice cut through the deafening silence of the classroom like a butter knife. you had glanced up, your eyes meeting his. scaramouche’s hands were clenched into fists, cold and clammy from anxiety.
wait, why the fuck was he nervous?
he took a shaky breath in, hoping this angry guise was working. he tried to scowl at you, watching as your eyes filled with the lightest layer of tears, making your eyes look like glass.
“sorry,” he silently watched as you apologized, immediately dropping your gaze down to the desk. scaramouche felt a soft pang of regret, but decided to ignore it.
“whatever,” he spat out, rolling his eyes. his neck and face were burning and his ears had the lightest tint of pink to them. scaramouche prayed that you didn’t notice how flustered he got.
—
maybe if he had confessed, you wouldn’t be gone now.
but no, he just had to keep losing everything again and again and again and again.
he broke into a coughing fit, bringing a hand up to cover his mouth.
and, as scaramouche lowered his hand, a singular purple petal fluttered onto his palm.
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