After escaping from a gang he'd joined in the lower points of his life, trying to take over another gang but eventually failing, and becoming an outcast, Scaramouche decided to leave everything behind and assume a new identity.

He changed his hair, his hat, his clothes, his whole aesthetic, and decided to leave Kyoto all together. He wandered the Japanese countryside, giving himself time to contemplate and think of a potential better future for himself.

At the time, he was trying to find a job. He was in between two rather small villages: walking along the paths beside rice fields, asking workers if they needed an extra hand while he headed to the other village. However, he had decided to take a break in the nearby woods.

The sun was shimmering through the trees: their leaves bright green and shimmering. As he lay on the grass, chewing on some of the raspberries he had purchased from a merchant earlier, he noted how when the wind blew, the leaves formed the shape of a smiley face. He chuckled to himself. How soft he had become.

Suddenly, a strange leaf caught his attention. It wasn't flailing in the breeze, attached gently to a large, overarching tree, but it was instead red and fluid in motion. A Japanese maple leaf, floating slowly towards him. Reaching up, Scaramouche plucked it from the sky.

He sat up, cross-legged, and observed it; surprised to find writing on one side. In delicate black ink, someone had written an elegant poem about freedom. Scaramouche read it over and over. He didn't understand. Where had it come from? Who wrote it? Should he find them and give it to them? He read it again. This person's writing was perfection: every curve of every character in perfect calligraphy. How did they achieve this on a leaf?

For a few days, he found more leaves. He followed their trail like a sign. He read and collected them, trying to identify the person who wrote such beautiful poems. Eventually, he decided that this person must be a girl: the writing was too flowery and hopeful for a man. Yet it held such a deep feeling to it: every character and every phrase.

The mystery poet wrote more frequently over the next week. Scaramouche kept following the floating writing. Soon, the autumn leaves fell and the snow began to fall. Scaramouche, deciding that following leaves was less important than finding warmth, decided to focus on his search for work and a hotel.

Steering away from that blissful week of wandering, he rejoined society for a bit. He spent the few coins he had left on a hotel room for the next few nights. But every time he was ready to fall asleep, he got anxious. Was the girl okay? Was she still writing poems? What if he lost her trail, and would never find her?

The next morning, he was awoken by aggressive knocking at his door.

"You're supposed to be checked out," a man called.

Scaramouche startled suddenly awake and packed what little possessions he had, throwing them into his satchel. He opened the door a minute later to find the owner of the hotel standing with a guest outside.

"I'll be off then," Scaramouche pushed passed them.

He huffed and walked out of the village, trying to find somewhere to rest peacefully. His breathing was visible in the cold, snowy air- and eventually, he began to shiver. Finding a random rock out in the wood, he sat down, sighing.

At least it was a better life than being a gang member, eh?

Suddenly, a meowing caught his attention. It was sweet and quiet, and immediately drew his attention. Listening harder, he heard it again. A tiny, weak meow: but not one of pain or suffering, just a tiny one, of innocence.

Scaramouche followed the noise a few meters down towards a frozen creek, where he caught sight of a young adult cat, white as the snow with red-amber eyes. It looked cold.

As a changed man, he had taken it upon himself to try and be nicer. While his bratty side certainly existed and usually took over when it came to interaction with humans, when it came to animals, he wasn't as hesitant to help. Animals were innocent. They couldn't truly harm him.

So he made to grab the cat and warm it in his robes, as a good average human being would do. But the cat jumped. It scrambled away from him, glaring, and walked off haughtily. Scaramouche began to follow it, when he noticed a maple leaf stuck in the snow.

Keeping an eye on the cat, who had sat and started licking it's paws, he reached for the leaf. How was this girl still getting perfectly red maple leaves at this time of year? Was she some kind of crazy leaf-collector?

The poem wrote of companionship and loneliness, just as most of the others. This author was way too deep. After reading, he stuffed the leaf into his bag, and went back towards the cat, which had begun walking about.

Following it once more, he found himself walking downstream from the creek, and nearly gasped at the suddeness of a lake stretched out before him. He watched as a streak of red broke the white and blue air of the lake and trees. There was a person skating peacefully over the lake in hand-made skates.

A small hole in the ice occupied the center of the lake, where a fishing rod sat drooped into the water, held up by a box and some hay rope tying it in place. The figure paused suddenly as the cat walked out up to it on the side, mewing.

The person squatted down and pet the cat's tiny white head, smiling. Then they looked up and met Scaramouche's eyes. Just like the cat, the man's eyes were red, but his were more gentle and peaceful than the confident cat's. He stood, leaving the cat to watch the fishing rod, and skated over to Scaramouche.

"Hello," He called.

Scaramouche refused to respond, eyes stuck on the whiteness of the boy's hair.

"What are you doing out here? You're not dressed for this cold," he pointed out, slowing to a stop before him.

"You aren't either," Scaramouche retorted.

The man looked down at his rather old, battered-yet-beautiful clothing, and smiled softly. He looked back up at Scaramouche, who realized that the man had a small streak of red in his ponytailed hair.

"Care to join me?" he glanced from Scaramouche to his wooden ice skates.

Scaramouche rolled his eyes and scoffed, drifting his eyes off to the cat, which now sat with it's head hovering over the water, searching for fish. Scaramouche's stomach grumbled. He hadn't had a good meal in a week or so.

"Could I offer you some food?" he questioned.

Scaramouche grumbled and turned away, walking back into the forest, away from the boy and cat. He didn't know why he did it; probably because he wasn't interested in making friends, or wasting days away skating instead of finding a decent job. Or maybe he just didn't want to eat smelly lake fish.

—

Scaramouche continued to follow the girl's poems. Recently, they had wavered in quantity, and Scaramouche went a whole day without seeing one. But for some reason, he felt that he had to do it. He wanted to find the girl. At least now he had somewhat of a goal in life.

Whenever possible, Scaramouche would stop at the same town where his hotel had been. The poems stayed around that relative area, so he thought it would be convenient to try and find a bit of work.

He paused, though, at the sight of a white cat licking its tail outside of a small store selling basics like flour and carrots and wood. Scaramouche stared at the cat for a bit, trying to register why it would be here. The man from the lake is probably nearby, right? Or, Scaramouche thought, it was just another white cat.

He was proven wrong when the ice fisher came out of the store, holding a bucket full of fish bait. He waved politely to the store owner, which Scaramouche could see through the flaps of the windows, and then slid the door closed.

Scaramouche realized he was standing in the middle of the road when a large horse nearly ran into him as it trotted down the dirt path. Quickly, he dashed off to the side, and hid behind the wooden post of a store to keep out of the fisherman's sight.

He dipped his head low in his hat and watched as the boy touched his own hat and called to his cat in the process. The cat, apparently named Chihayaburu, strolled casually right up to him and followed him at his heels. Suddenly, however, Scaramouche noticed something even more intriguing about the man.

A small red maple leaf fluttered to the ground from his satchel when he set a brisker pace and walked away from the store, his large woven basket tied to his back. Scaramouche's eyes were set, very focused, on the leaf. It was unmistakably plain, without a poem, or any writing of the sort. Why should he assume that this fisher was the poem girl, just because of a leaf?

But, who would have a red maple leaf in winter?

Scaramouche shook his head, and when the other boy turned around a street corner, he walked out towards the store front and picked up the leaf. Confirmed: no writing. Yet it was definitely the same type as the others.

"Something the matter?" a voice interrupted his thoughts.

Turning, the blue-clad boy faced a tall, katana-wielding man with a purple uniform and a metal helmet bearing the symbol of the Shogun. This must be a shogunate warrior. Shit. Scaramouche wasn't the best with the authority: especially when his mother was the one at the top of the ranks, probably sending soldiers after him still after all the years.

"Nope," Scaramouche eyed the katana.

The man stared at Scaramouche for a second, taking the short man in. Scaramouche pulled his hat down further over his eyes, the silver parts reflecting the sunlight. After a minute, the soldier took off down the street.

—

Scaramouche followed the ice fisher the next day. He followed the trail of poems and ended up hiding behind a tree near a frozen pond, watching the boy saw a hole into the ice. He had walked a while: about three hours, just following the out-of-place red leaves. There were quite a few, at least five, along his path. At times, he got lost, but the leaves showed him the way.

Scaramouche watched for a while. After he sawed his whole, the man prepared his fishing rod and cast it into the freezing water. He caught fish more frequently than Scaramouche would have expected, and ended up with a basketful by nightfall.

Scaramouche didn't know why he was still sitting there, alone, beneath a tree, in complete darkness and silence aside from the scratch of the fisher's skates on the surface of the pond. Maybe it was because the life of a fisher intrigued him; maybe it was the freedom of wandering the woods; maybe it was the beauty of the poems, or the mystery of their author (who Scaramouche was close to deciding was the fisher as a fact).

Once he was done skating, the boy packed up and left. Scaramouche followed him.

After an hour, they wandered into a tiny town. The few people outside that late waved to the boy, calling out to him joyously, and he waved back to them, calling them by name.

So, this must be a common location for him to return to. Was this his hometown? His base of operations? Scaramouche had expected it had been the previous, much larger village: but not many people knew the cat owner in the previous town.

The boy entered a store, greeted the owner, and came out with an empty basket. Then he walked the streets until he came upon a tiny house. He took a key from his satchel and opened it up, entering, letting the cat in, and then closing the door behind him.

—

For a few weeks, Scaramouche followed the poems and confirmed that the boy was indeed the author of them. He also caught him skating multiple times on different lakes, and often found himself watching as he sold his treasures in the village.

A few times he was caught watching, however.

The fisher had been sitting on a rock beside a lake, writing gently on a leaf, the cat sitting on his lap. Scaramouche, while waiting on his job application to be processed by a store manager in the fisherman's town, decided to follow the poems and found him there, sitting quietly. He found himself watching the other for a while; watching the smooth lines of the characters unfold.

After a moment though, the boy looked up and away from his poem, staring at the lake. Suddenly, he turned and looked behind him, right where Scaramouche stood.

"Do you need something?" he asked.

Scaramouche froze completely.

"Don't think I haven't noticed you there," he chuckled poetically.

Scaramouche grumbled to himself and moved around the bush he had been attempting to conceal himself with. He stood in full light, for the first time, directly next to the boy he'd basically been stalking out of boredom.

The white cat leapt from his lap and approached Scaramouche, meowing at him and rubbing against his legs. Scaramouche struggled not to bend down and pet the adorable creature.

"My name's Kaedehara Kazuha," he reached out his hand.

Scaramouche didn't take it, out of stubborn pride, and decided instead to look out at the frozen lake as if there was something more interesting out there than Kaedehara.

"Alright then, keep your secrets," Kazuha smiled.

For the next month, they saw each other less because Scaramouche's job request had been accepted, and he actually had a stable job. But when he could, he'd seek out Kaedehara at the local lakes and rivers. Kazuha always spotted him, now that he was looking, and asked him what he wanted. Scaramouche always ignored him.

To tell the truth, Scaramouche didn't know why he was avoiding Kaedehara. Maybe it was his anxiety of getting to know new people, especially nice people. Maybe he was just a changed man after leaving the mafia and had become an introvert. Maybe he had abandonment mommy issues. Who knows. Maybe it's all of the above.

Scaramouche stood behind the counter of his new store job, boredly staring into space. He had forgotten how much of a horrible waste working was. Sitting alone and doing no activities; barely any breaks to go do what he wanted; not even a book allowed.

The flow of customers was probably one every two hours. Seeing how tiny the town was, it made sense- but it being logical didn't ease Scaramouche's boredom. As much as he hated to admit it, he missed tracking down Kaedehara's next position and ignoring his actions. It gave him a sense of satisfaction to see the other try and fail.

He also couldn't help but miss the cat.

Suddenly, the bell rang, speaking of the devil. Kazuha fluttered in, immediately heading to a corner of the store. Scaramouche's eyes trailed him as he selected a box of fish bait and a few loaves of old bread that shouldn't be legal to sell. Too bad there was no FDA in olden-days Japan.

Anyway, Scaramouche watched as Kazuha approached the counter, realized who was the cashier, and smiled.

"The wind spoke to me of change, though I must admit this is not what I was expecting," Kazuha said.

"Maybe you're misinterpreting it," Scaramouche retorted.

"Perhaps," Kazuha set his goods on the counter.

Scaramouche counted up the cost and asked Kazuha for that amount. Kaedehara handed it over, and Scaramouche put away the coins silently. Kazuha; however, didn't leave the shop. He was looking at the materials carefully, and then Scara noticed how a sudden flash of realization crossed his face.

"I forgot something, I'll be coming back," Kazuha smiled and headed towards the bait area again.

Shrugging to himself, Scaramouche decided to be nosy and look through the things Kazuha bought, and maybe he also glanced inside of the small satchel the maple boy had left on the counter.

Average fisher things like bait, some kind of repair tools he guessed was or a fishing rod, and items like a needle and thread and some food. In the pouch, though, Scaramouche caught the gleam of shining ice skate blades, and instantly his mind was filled with images of Kaedehara floating atop the lake.

Also inside the personal bag was a stack of red maple leaves, a good few turning brown and crusty, tied together with a brown string. Next to the stack was a tiny box Scaramouche guessed had a quill and ink inside. Glancing in more closely, the final item appeared to be some kind of polish for a blade. For a sword, he guessed.

"Scaramouche!" a voice suddenly rang out, angry.

Scara quickly leaned back from his rummaging in Kazuha's stuff and turned to face his new manager.

"What are you doing?" The manager hissed.

Glancing behind him, Scaramouche noted that Kazuha had disappeared completely behind the single aisle in the store, away from the manager's sight.

"Those are our goods. Just because you work here does not give you the right to take them! You have to pay," the manager argued.

"They're a customer's! If I was trying to steal them, why the hell would I dump them on the counter?" Scaramouche retorted.

"If they're a customer's, then why are you picking through them? We discussed our policy when you applied here," the manager insisted.

"Yeah, yeah," Scaramouche rolled his eyes. "What, are you gonna fire me for looking over at someone's stuff?"

"You were more than just looking. That's someone's private property, I've told you about our rules here. And yes, I will fire you. You've been nothing but annoying," the manager glared.

"What? Are you serious?" Scaramouche's heart dropped. He wasn't actually expecting to get fired over something so ridiculously stupid.

"Get out," he ordered.

"No, I'm keeping this job, you bitch," Scaramouche turned and fully sized up the manager.

"Now you wanna fight?"

"Yeah."

"I'm two feet taller than you."

"So?"

"This is a waste of time. Leave."

"Make me."

The manager, literally, made him. He physically lifted our tiny boy off the ground and carried him towards the door. For more humiliation, the manager gave him an aggressive shove and a kick while Scaramouche was already lying in the snow.

That was the first time he saw Kaedehara after the conflict began. The fisherman could be seen through the windows, gathering his things calmly. Scaramouche spat on the snow. He'd misjudged Kazuha's character; he'd expected maybe a bit of care, based on his observations of the other.

"And you can't stay upstairs anymore, either," Scaramouche's manager twisted the dagger. "Take your possessions and leave within the hour, not that you have much to take anyway."

At that, Scaramouche leapt from the ground and barreled into the man, head-first. He wasn't having it. Scaramouche was way too stubborn and proud for his own good.

Immediately, the buffer one shoved the shorter to the ground without much effort, and punched him, completely unnecessarily. He was readying for another punch when he was stopped.

Kazuha stood in between the two. His face, from what Scaramouche could see from his position behind him and on the ground, was completely serene. He held a protective arm out behind him in Scara's direction, and held the other hand toward the manager, as if telling him to stop. He did.

"Kazuha? When did you get here?" The manager blinked.

"Those were my things he was looking through," Kazuha said. "And I'm okay with that. He's annoying, sure, but he doesn't deserve a beating. Choose the path of peace, friend."

The manager lowered his fist, knowing not to argue with their local fishmonger on which many people depended on for food. Kazuha turned to face Scaramouche, who was bleeding from a nasty wound on his cheekbone, made from the manager's wedding ring upon harsh contact.

"Let's get you home, eh?" Kazuha smiled sweetly and helped Scaramouche up by wrapping an arm around the other's bicep.

The two left the manager behind them as they walked across the street, the previously-employed boy trying to push away Kazuha's helping hand. He wouldn't let go, however, as he led the other to his own house. Opening the door, Scaramouche was met with happy meows and the scent of fresh bread.

Kazuha sat Scaramouche down on a pillow meant for seating at the foot-tall table, and then went to go prepare some tea. They sat and drank together in silence, their knees touching as they both sat criss-crossed.

Once Scaramouche was fully warmed up from the tea, Kazuha surprised him by suddenly touching a wet cloth to his bleeding cheek. Scaramouche slapped him away.

"I can do it myself," Scara insisted, taking the cloth.

"Alright," Kazuha nodded. "Anyway, I must go feed Chihayaburu."

Kazuha walked off into another room, the white cat purring at his heels.

The place where their knees had been touching for the past few minutes stung in longing for the contact again, and his cheek hummed from the feeling of the wet cloth. Scaramouche watched as the other left, all the way until he disappeared. He didn't know why he felt some sort of longing for his silent company again.

Shaking his head stubbornly, he pushed the feeling away and cleaned up the blood on his face until Kazuha came and sat next to Scara once again.

It was very silent. Kazuha took out the materials he had just bought from the store and began organizing them on the table, examining the quality of the hooks and bait. Scaramouche watched quietly, not bored, but comfortably without things to do.

"Why is it that I meet you so often by the lakes?" Kazuha asked suddenly, glancing at Scaramouche. "Do you long for the water, the fish, or the company?"

"None of the above," Scaramouche looked away. "Curiosity, at first. Then after... no idea."

"The company, then," Kazuha smiled softly.

"I literally just said not that," Scara turned towards him again.

"Mhm," Kazuha looked him in the eyes. "I don't mind, truly. I often find myself lonely, too."

"I-"

"Don't deny it. I can tell a lonely person from any other," Kazuha leaned closer and shook his head.

Was it true? Was Scaramouche just lonely? No, he thought, of course not. He had convinced himself he was simply curious. He wanted to learn what the leaf poems were about, and who had written them. He kept coming back because he was curious about the author, he wanted to learn more. That was all.

"Anyway, you are welcome to stay here if you like," Kazuha said as Chihayaburu pranced over, licking its lips. "And if you're looking for a job, I've got one for you."

"I can't stay here," Scaramouche insisted right away. "I barely know you."

"Simple acts of kindness are beneficial to both sides," Kazuha pointed out. "For you, your life could take a turn for the better. For me, it will win me the favor of the gods. Mostly, however, I will be cured of my lonesome situation. My only friend is a cat."

Scaramouche looked at the white furball which had curled in Kaedehara's lap, a smirk playing at his lips. Good points, he must admit. Might as well take advantage. The main concern, though, was the thought of settling down, and then abruptly being pushed out, like he always was. Or the fact that he'd be staying with a stranger. That's dangerous bc stranger danger is real yo.

"I'll consider it, but no promises I'll stay."

—

Scaramouche, two weeks later, had been accepted as one with the household. He'd wake at 6am to Kazuha playing a Floral Zither, and he'd stubbornly shout at him to shut up. Kazuha would play louder.

Then they'd both walk out into the hallway and head to the kitchen, where Scaramouche would search through their fish stash. His only skills being working in fields, organizing items, and cooking (all from different jobs he'd picked up over his life), he couldn't do much more to help other than cook. So he prepared fish every morning that was ready for dinner after a long marination process he was working on perfecting.

Kazuha would head out after eating some rice for breakfast. Scaramouche would prepare fish, then head outside and contemplate life. Kaedehara would come home after fishing, smelling disgusting, and Scaramouche would order him to take a bath. He'd feed Chihayaburu, who he'd nicknamed Chi, and then prepare dinner.

He'd settled into this routine so much so that Kazuha took him by surprise when he asked to change it up.

"I offered when you first started saying here a job," Kazuha said. "I think now's the time we begin your training, no?"

"Training? Want me to call you senpai or something? I think I can figure out whatever you want me to do easily enough on my own, thanks," Scaramouche snarked back.

"You'll come fish with me. The lakes are large, we can sit far away from each other and fish through the ice holes. I'd first, though, have to teach you the ways of fishing, of course," Kazuha continued.

"How much would I get paid?"

"As much as the fish you catch sell for."

—

"Here, I've got you some ice skates," Kazuha produced the skates from his bag as they neared the lake.

"No way am I using those," Scaramouche glared at the other.

"It's easy, I even taught Chihayaburu to use them," Kazuha nodded at the cat, who was sitting in one of Kazuha's skates, panicking as he glided out onto the lake without a way to stop.

"...I don't think he's trying to use it," Scaramouche watched as the skate toppled over with a lack of momentum, and Chi hopped out quickly.

Kaedehara turned back to Scara with a smile.

Once the skates were on, Kazuha guided Scaramouche over the ice. He was not appreciating the difficulty of ice skating, not to mention the amount of items they both carried on their backs. Scaramouche's fishing basket and rod weren't heavy, but enough to unbalance him.

"Wrap your arm around me," Kaedehara insisted.

"No," Scara's simple reply showed his stubbornness. "I can do it on my own."

Kazuha rolled his eyes and grabbed Scaramouche's hands, facing him directly. He started pulling him forward, skating backwards with ease. He pulled him around for a bit, encouraging him to move his feet as well. The bumpy, imperfect ice of the natural lake caused many issues, but eventually, Scaramouche attempted to skate on his own.

He kicked his right foot forward, but apparently he had put too much force behind his foot, and went slamming into Kazuha. Without losing balance, Kaedehara supported him against his chest.

Scaramouche was shocked by the collision, and had to take a sharp breath of air before scraping against the ice to regain his own balance. It wouldn't have been possible with Kazuha's support.

"Why are we even skating, anyway?" Scaramouche huffed, using Kazuha's forearms as leverage to pull himself to his feet.

"Because skating is faster than walking, plus this lake produces a river which leads to another lake, which we'll need to reach for more fishing later today," Kazuha reasoned. "I get your point, however. We came here to primarily fish, not skate. How about we take a break and set up a new ice fishing hole?"

That's just what the two did. Kazuha produced a wooden saw he'd made himself, and taught Scaramouche how to cut a hole through the thick ice. He then sat close to the other and taught him the ways of fishing. How to be patient, and how to tell if a fish had caught the bait, even if deep underwater.

"I've begun attaching weights to my hooks so they sink low where some of the bigger fish live, but you might find difficulty reeling them in from the bottom, so we'll save that for about a month into your training," Kazuha explained.

"A month?" Scaramouche looked at him weirdly.

"What? Did you expect it to take more time?" Kazuha tilted his head.

"No, I'm just- nevermind," Scaramouche shook his head.

He was surprised Kazuha was considering hosting him for so long. He hadn't expected the kindness and patience of the other boy. He had been ready to either leave or be kicked out after a few weeks.

Turns out Kazuha was expecting him to live with him for longer, or at least work with him for as long. Was it kindness? Was it him trying to seem nice, or was he being genuinely a kind person?

"You've become lost in your thoughts," Kazuha said abruptly. "That's no good as a fisherman. You've got to learn how to ground yourself."

Scaramouche looked at Kaedehara, who still sat close, holding a baited fishing rod. Keep him grounded from his thoughts? The only thing Scaramouche could think of that would suffice was Kazuha's gentle smile, and the way his hand brushed his when he handed the rod over. Scaramouche shook his head.

Those thoughts were so sudden, so random. What the hell? Nothing had prompted them. He tried to think of other stabilities in his life- but only came back to Kazuha. Who and what else had stayed safe and secure for more than three days? His brain must've already accepted Kaedehara as his rock subconsciously.

"Still lost?" Kazuha asked as he stood. "Try poetry sometime. I find it remarkably helpful. Anyway, I'll leave for my fishing hole, which is over there."

Scaramouche followed his finger, and realized Kazuha would be very far away. All the way across the lake.

They were silent for a few hours. Kazuha had caught ten fish in the first hour, Scaramouche had only two. He was not patient enough for this.

Suddenly, Chihayaburu meowed at him, rubbing against his thigh. Scaramouche glanced at the snow-white cat and realized there was something tied with a string around its neck. Taking it from the cat, Scaramouche observed the rolled up paper scroll.

He opened it and found a note: You seem oddly not-grouchily bitter and quiet. Is something bothering you? -KK

Scaramouche turned the paper over and then looked at Kazuha, who was clearly busy writing something on a red leaf. Sighing, Scaramouche acknowledged the reason behind the note. Yeah, for the past hour he'd been lost in his thoughts.

He didn't know why. He usually wasn't. It was a strange occurrence.

Then he realized that maybe there was a cause: a conflict in his brain. He'd been thinking over and over about the fact that Kazuha assumed he'd stay for the next month- maybe longer. He'd never been appreciated anywhere before. He thought maybe he was getting cozy with a routine, and that maybe he was starting a job: but he didn't think Kazuha would want his company.

Too much thinking. Scaramouche didn't like thinking. But this problem was deep in his brain, the question being "why the hell is Kazuha helping me?". Was he taking pity on him? Was he actually nice? Was he doing it to take advantage of his labor?

Scaramouche can not STAND nice people. They're so confusing! Nobody made him think this hard over nothing for hours besides nice people.

Anyway, he turned back to the note. In his fishing bag that Kazuha had packed for him, he found a tiny charcoal pencil. Scaramouche adjusted the fishing rod so that it balanced between his knees and armpit before using his hands to write a response: I'm fine. And quit worrying over nothing, it's annoying as hell. -S

He gave it to Chi's little string collar, and the cat meowed at Scaramouche expectantly.

"Shoo," Scaramouche waved the cat off towards Kazuha's direction. "I have no treats for you."

Chi seemed to huff a bit and turned, trotting towards his favorite owner.

—

A few weeks passed, and Scaramouche could proudly say he could fish.

He caught nearly as much as Kazuha every outing, and while they waited for the fish to bite, sometimes Kazuha would lift him to his feet and take him skating around the lake. When the two got home, they dropped off their fishing baskets, and pick the best few to cook for dinner, which Scaramouche prepared.

Every week, Kazuha would take his fish and restock his stall at the market, which Scaramouche ran sometimes. He made a good amount of money, but found himself barely using it. He and Kazuha already had free food, entertainment, and he had been living for free in Kazuha's house.

Scaramouche, however, still struggled to wrap his head around Kazuha's kindness. The man let him stay for a month after that, and never asked for any of the money he made. A month later, their routine was all Scaramouche knew, and he was starting to enjoy the simplistic life of Kaedehara Kazuha.

Over this time, Scaramouche has begun to realize the true nature of Kazuha's kindness.

They'd hold hands while skating across a lake (Scara always huffed and blushed, looking away from their hands with an annoyed expression) and Kazuha would catch him when he nearly fell, and surface him from his thoughts when he was distracted. He didn't hesitate to perform these incredibly simply, but unbearably kind actions.

It was nearing spring, now, and the lakes were growing too dangerous to walk on. During this season, Kazuha taught Scaramouche how to safely fish from the shore. Scaramouche didn't say, but he missed ice skating.

The trees blossomed pink and green, the lakes melted, and the weather warmed. So progressed the year, and the relationship of both boys.

"Why'd you let me stay here?" Scaramouche asked one morning as they sat close together with their tea and Chi.

"What do you mean?" Kazuha asked with a gentle smile.

He looked at Scaramouche sincerely, and Scara felt himself heat up. Now it seemed like a stupid question.

"I mean," Scaramouche cleared his throat. "I'm annoying. Why'd you let me stay with you for so long?"

"Frankly..." Kazuha looked into his tea. "I enjoy your company. And, of course, your labor- but mostly, it seems I have become attached to you. My life was quite lonely before, and more difficult. You help me both physically and in a mental sense."

"Ah," Scaramouche nodded, hot. "But if we switched roles, I bet I'd just leave you to fend for yourself. Yet I'm still here with you, and you even taught me how to fish."

"That's your nature," Kazuha explained, gently patting Chi's head, earring purrs in return. "Although, I believe if our roles were to switch, you'd find some kindness deep down and invite me in."

"Maybe, but only because of your charm," Scaramouche replied.

"Charm?" Kazuha smiled, looking at Scara. "Thanks."

"I take it back. You've got no charm at all. You're annoying and stupidly poetic in a complicated way," Scaramouche glared at Kazuha.

"Stubborn as always," Kazuha's eyes smiled. "Always choosing the opposing side."

"More fun that way," the other said simply. "Wait- about being poetic. Why do you write those poems, anyway? The ones on the leaves?"

Kazuha sighed contemplatively.

"Both as a way of grieving and moving on," Kazuha finally said. "I express my sorrows of my past, while welcoming a bright future. That is why my newer poems include you more than those from my past, because I am moving forward."

"You write about me?" Scaramouche blinked.

The fishmonger flushed through a smile, but was still able to maintain eye contact, albeit not without a glance at Chi as a distraction.

"Yeah," Kazuha said in the end. "I enjoy writing about you. You're interesting."

"That isn't creepy," Scaramouche jokes, though he's a bit embarrassed at the idea of being in a poem.

"Maybe I'll teach you to write, then you can write about me," Kazuha chuckled, though still a bit red.

"Sure," Scaramouche's brain pictured the two huddled close and writing on leaves.

The rest of breakfast was pretty quiet, only interrupted by Chihayaburu's purrs.

—

A half year later, when the lakes frosted over gently at night, and the leaves faded to brilliant hues of red, Kazuha and Scaramouche found themselves walking together through a forest of Japanese maples, both carrying matching lightweight satchels purchased with their savings.

Chi walked between their legs, occasionally scampering off to pounce on a mouse or leaf, but otherwise, the family walked in comfortable silence.

It was a ritual, of sorts.

Kazuha, every year in late September, chose the sunniest day to collect maple leaves which he'd use throughout the entire year for poems. This is when, just for Kazuha, the year started. It was a day of reflection and new life to him.

So, it was understandably shocking when he asked Scaramouche to join him. He had agreed, of course, through his surprised blush. He knew how important it was to Kazuha. To be included was like a full acceptance of Scaramouche as a member of Kazuha's life.

"That one is perfect," Kazuha mumbled, suddenly reaching to the grown and picking one out.

"This okay?" Scaramouche held one up.

At Kazuha's nod, he'd put it in his bag. It went on like this for a while, until they took a break on a rock.

"Here's to a year of being together," Kazuha raised his little waterskin to the sky. "And to a new year."

"To a new year," Scaramouche nodded, copying his motions.

While Scaramouche grew distracted by Chi running up to him with a dead bird and a joyous expression, adding to a pile of other tiny animals left at their feet, Kazuha watched Scaramouche silently.

"No, Chi," Scara scolded, leaning over the edge of the boulder. "We don't want them. No, stop. I'm not petting you. Go get stuck in a tree again, you adorable pest."

Kazuha's chuckle surprised them both, and Scara turned to his friend curiously.

"Nothing." Kazuha waved his hand dismissively. "Just thinking about how you're an adorable pest."

"What?" Scaramouche blinked and heated. "I'm anything but adorable. You're the adorable one. I'm sexy."

Kazuha leaned back on his hands, smiling at the trees.

"I was thinking the exact opposite," Kazuha teased.

"You're not sexy," Scaramouche shook his head, contemplating. "You're mysteriously cha- Wait, you're just tricking me to get compliments!"

"I complimented you first," Kazuha looked at his friend.

"Ah, sure. Adorable pest. That's a compliment," Scaramouche rolled his eyes with a smirk.

Kazuha leaned close to Scaramouche's face, and Scara nearly backed away before finding courage to accept the embarrassment.

"Then I'll cut it to just adorable," Kazuha said, observing the other's face. "You do have a cute nose."

He leaned away, and Scaramouche was left to huff and turn his attention to the cat, only to realize it had run off again into the red landscape. He decided to look at the pile of dead rodents and birds.

They'd grown a lot together over the year. Kazuha gently glanced back at his friend, as if any sort of sound would alert him of his gaze. Scaramouche had changed a lot, and mostly for the better. He couldn't be more proud.

He felt very lucky to find someone like Scaramouche in this mess of a world.