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arrhythmia. [scaramouche/reader]

summary : scaramouche reads books about romance and love, but all of them are a hollow mockery compared to what he actually feels for you. tags : angst/comfort, character study, medical description of the body and viscera, mild gore and body horror (decapitation ment. but no one dies,) scaramouche origin spoilers + my own theories, 3k words. -> please be safe when reading! -> i edited the ending, so it's being reuploaded ^^

(page 1)

there is a muscle within the mortal anatomy that beats continuously and unconsciously.

it is a muscular organ, sinewy and dense, and though its size varies on the animal, it puts up quite a fight in trying to keep the beast it inhabits alive.

it is a vulnerable spot, a weak point of the body, and the hardest of the four to reach - the others being the kidney, the lung, and the jugular. but scaramouche finds it can be popped and burst with relative ease by jamming a blade between the ribs and the other musculature the steel finds there.

scaramouche has come to know this thing to be a "heart," and that - according to all of your books - it is the origin of love and the soul; its beat the single telling sign between a body and a corpse.

such a large vulnerability within the human structure would make any immortal lament, and despite how the body has evolved to protect itself, it just isn't enough.

scaramouche is perplexed, but he also finds himself lucky in that regard. he does not have a heart, and therefore he has one less weak point to think about. one less thing to keep track of.

(your existence is something else entirely, however.

it is no secret that the commanding harbinger has a soft spot for you, the onsite doctor assigned to his troupe. more often he can be found in the medical tent you reside in, browsing the books that line your shelves or having his wounds treated with lithe hands.

you are not a weak point, but also not particularly a boon, either, and he doesn't continue his train of thought past those two points. scaramouche dares not think of you in anything but simplicities; if he dwells too long he might even consider you something more, and he fears that "something more" will evolve into a vulnerability, something irritating that actively endangers his being.

that of which he ardently denies you be, despite every nerve in his body telling him otherwise.)

(page 2)

you are enamored by him, your eyes practically alight whenever he enters your office.

it's quite a small space, the canvas walls allowing perhaps a body or two to move freely within its confines, not to mention your personal belongings and the various miscellaneous medical appliances you are required to have on hand.

here, in this small space, scaramouche can practically hear your heartbeat. he bites back a scathing remark about your gaze and how it bores holes into him; his tongue itching to fight if only to soothe his nerves.

your specialties, from what he’s gathered snooping through your records, lie in internal wounds and unseen ailments, in treating the human body from the inside out. his underlings jest and call your pinpoint acumen for illness dealing with organs “spiritualism” as a joke, your senses psychic in some way, though scaramouche tells them off with much ardor: you simply specify in the viscera of the human condition. nothing special.

scaramouche can’t quite fathom the interest you've taken on him, or more specifically his body. outwardly, his naked chest doesn’t differ too much from the medical diagrams of bisected torsos that line your walls, but below the surface run deep scars of immortality.

within his chest, however, is a hollow hole where the magic that powers him dwells - the spell volatile and old and temperamental, much like its owner. as far as he knows, it functions quite similarly to that of its human counterpart. it responds instinctually to his adrenaline and stress levels, and it circulates magic to his limbs to allow proper movement and bodily health.

ei’s craftsmanship is impeccable, her prototype of a created being a success for all intents and purposes, even if he does not fully understand what it is that fills him. scaramouche has nothing to be proud of in regard to his physical form, having none of it be truly his. his magical core is a spell he does not know, and his intestines that line his stomach function a purpose he does not need, purely ornamental unless he decides to otherwise.

(and yet, even without a heart, you somehow find it within yourself to call him a work of art.

he’s flushing just at the thought.)

(page 3)

scaramouche has ingested bovine heart before on your recommendation when he offhandedly mentioned his interest in mortal anatomy, the meat said to be auspicious for prosperity. you also mentioned you were quite the cook, and he wasn’t one to refuse something so beneficial to fall right into his lap.

he had hoped that with this outing he’d discover why the mortal heart was considered the pinnacle of life, even if what he was digesting was derived from cattle. to him they were quite similar, if only different in physical size.

but when the porcelain bowl of stew was placed into his hands, he didn't gain any insight into love or life aside from how tough and fibrous the meat was. it doesn't taste too much different than the rest of the animal, and he can assume, therefore, that it isn't much special than the other cuts, either.

perhaps that's the virtue of viscera, a small part of scaramouche thinks, that they don't need active thought to function, that they can just be. raiden ei had given him a tongue and the ability to consume, so perhaps that is her gift to him - the propensity to have good food and good company.

conversely, a different, much larger, much more vocal part of him is angered, the taste of heart inciting a deep seated bone-crawling sense of injustice that that is all she had given him.

that of everything the raiden shogun could have ever given him, that of all the things his god given gift could be -

it was a function he didn’t even need.

but when his grip splinters the bowl and he stands to throw it somewhere into the woods, teeth bared - he remembers your recommendation, and that consideration alone is kind to the part of him that suffers. it does not sway his anger, but it does give him enough clarity to not break your china.

(scaramouche does find out one thing that night, however; that he purrs.

there’s the faint hum of magic when you press your head to his chest, and when you run a hand up the hem of his shirt you can feel the lightest vibration beneath your fingertips. the smell of wine and candles only seems to draw your ear closer to the sound, and he says nothing as you lean him back.

he can only hope that when you hear his soul thrum a little faster, your heart, too, responds in kind. your touch gentle as they run up his sides.)

(page 4)

there is a saying you told him once - "that love is what causes sacrifice" - but scaramouche finds that desperation is just as any of a good motivator, too.

the desperation to survive, the desperation to live another day.

the desperation to see you again.

you are not wrong when you say he does not suffer in the same way people do. true suffering is like a tidefall - no chance to breathe as it crashes in on you, and with tiding water it takes your chances of trying. but he has an infinite amount of tries - an infinite amount of choices - untouched as he is by the concept of "sacrifice."

and, typically, he is the one in charge of causing said suffering.

to scaramouche the heart and human body are so very fragile; easily rendable by both blade and fist alike, and he as an imitation is no different in that sense. however, the amount of his own arms and legs he's left in the name of getting a job done is no weight on his consciousness.

his lost limbs regenerating and snapping back together with swift force - the click of bone and the slick sound of flesh familiar to him at this point. to scaramouche the body is expendable and meant to be regrown.

(not yours though.

he'd shatter himself one hundred times over before he'd let a single thing touch your skin. and, perhaps in your better interest, he'd kill whatever was hunting him one thousand times over before it ever touched him.

he has no blood so he doesn't understand the true pain of bleeding out, slow and steady. but he knows, clinically, what it entails and the strain it puts on the body. it's natural to not understand what he doesn't have, so it reasons that he would have no real drive to understand the human anatomy more than he already does.

but scaramouche still remembers your face, your expression, and the horrid, grating sound you had made as his whole world tilted on its axis, his head lopped off in a single blow during an impromptu raid.

there was no blood, no fanfare, but you still reacted like his body had something to give; hands ripping fabric as if to tie him back together.

your soft hands coming up to touch his dirt-covered cheeks, to cradle his head for just a small moment in time, and he's caught off guard by the comforting touch.

insults to move, to get away, to leave jumped to his tongue - but then you're gone in an instant. instead you dragged his sword to your side as your body takes on a stance - tensing as if to defend him with your life.

all the while he had just watched from his spot on the ground, useless and powerless.

if you were to fall there, scaramouche wouldn't have had enough medical knowledge to treat you properly - he wouldn't even have had the proper knowledge of the human body to make sure you passed comfortably .

but more than that, he didn't know when he was going to be able to get back up. his movement coming back to him only in minute increments as his spine mended itself. he could only dig his fingers in pitiful, palpable fear.

thankfully the raid was successfully rebuffed and he responded to the aggressors in cruel kindness once everything was reattached, but it, too, still counted as one of his desperations. desperate to never see, nor hear, nor even feel, you do something like that ever again.

if that is what sacrifice is then love is terrifying.

love feels like watching the people you care for preparing to sacrifice themselves for you. love feels like wanting to preserve a person's future beyond your powers.

love feels like overwhelming waves as it crashes in on you, no berth of choice to escape it, dragging away your chances of even trying with its all-consuming tide.)

(page 5)

scaramouche feels like he's being ripped in two.

the urge to seek you out and simultaneously avoid you borderline violent in its intensity. his head hurts, his chest hurts, and his fingers itch to claw at the heat beneath his skin. he can't stop thinking about you, and it's both joyous and deeply infuriating - thoughts of you plague his mind at every corner and his chest feels - lighter almost.

scaramouche is slowly beginning to let loose the vice grip he has on his anger. this isn't good.

he flings himself upright in your bed at the revelation, his hands flying to his hair to grip the strands in a white-knuckled grip in an attempt to ground himself. scaramouche can feel his vitals fluctuating, his adrenaline and cortisol levels spiking, and an uncomfortable sweat begins to bead his neck.

his magic core physically hurts.

if he isn't fighting, if he has no anger, no drive - then who is he? if he were to continue the life he has with you now - what would even take its place then? you?

he twists to look behind him, panicked eyes falling to your sleeping form comfortable just beneath the sheets. the bitter taste of insecurity fills his mouth and he just stares.

would you even want to?

scaramouche releases his hair to reach for you instead, lightning sparking to his fingertips and he feels the familiar festering of magic beneath his skin. it pulses and blisters and aches with the need to touch - to ignite.

the possessive desire to be your heart is the strongest in these small moments that make his magic pressure increase. he could still perform its primal function; reach inside your thoracic cavity and, viscera in hand, pump the blood himself. blood is no deterrent to him, and the warmth of your heart would feel nice against his skin.

if he were to do that then he would be the origin of your love, of your soul - the performance of the adoration of life.

he would have full control over you; your heart sovereign to him. and in the moments when he questions his purpose you would have no voice to tell him otherwise. his anger is still his and you're still his and everything would be -

perfect.

scaramouche wants to vomit even at the idea.

he balks at how far his self-preservation will go, that he would even consider consuming you.

he closes his hand tight, knuckles turning white as he crushes the magic in his fist, purple lightning throwing shadows across his face in rebellion as he smothers it out with force alone.

it’s only when he opens his hand that the sticky-sweet trickle of ichor prickles down his hand, dripping from the crescent nails carved into his palm. it drops silver and gold onto the covers - dangerously close to your head like a sick offering. his love for you would wane on the obsessive; an overly religious priest and his unanswering god.

if he were to indulge in his power and desires unmitigated, scaramouche knows that his unchanging ways would put you in danger, that he would stifle and snuff you out like he had his magic. his anger would consume him, and then he would consume you; He, your singularity at the cost of your autonomy.

the warmth of the lightning and all his shifting must have woken you up and, without opening your eyes you sling an arm around his waist, your face pressing into his hip.

despite every nerve in his body lighting up in alarm, despite how little he knows of love and how that gives him weakness, gives way to his leaking hate - he presses his forearm to your crown in response. his touch is tentative and soft so as not to wake you, his palms up to keep it from dirtying you.

your hair is as soft as your skin and that makes him weak. a weak, weak puppet of a man whose hollow chest convulses with magic and fear and love when you nuzzle closer.

his assessment still stands, that a heart is no better than the other organs surrounding it; each with their own specified function, each doing their own thing. independent but still working for the whole. a collective.

but you are a foreign body to his system, and if he were to take you in you would become no better than the other organs that line his stomach; decorative, if only useful when he decides he needs you - a sick heart.

ultimately nothing has changed and scaramouche has come to an impasse. if this is what he is now, if this is what he’s come to - neither argument has budged and his identity remains split into two.

he's afraid . terrified. horrified.

but then he remembers what you would always tell him and while the fear itself doesn’t lessen, he becomes more confident.

among all the things he’s read in your library, your words trump all the medical knowledge he could have ever known. emotions stuffed between words like handwritten notes between pages let him know he’s doing good. that he’s doing well.

you speak of adoration and how much you love him. of how it’s ok. that it's normal to be scared in love. that it's normal to measure and prioritize different things. that it's ok to be, and that his lungs aren’t collapsing when his adrenaline increases, and that when his magic circulates faster than usual his heart won’t pop.

your words make him feel full in a way that his crass personality and violent temperament would have closed away otherwise. buried deep in his heart beneath his rage and disdain. and the way you press kisses to his forehead, your fingers intertwining with his, the back of his hand pressing against your cheek makes him feel sated in a way that he’s only read in romance.

your blush would surely be mirrored on his face if he had the capacity to.

( he's always been fascinated by it. that by some god-forsaken secret of the human anatomy instead of leaking from the tiny holes in your skin (pores,) the blood instead turns your complexion a pretty pink.

scaramouche finds his life threaded by complexities and hypocrisy, and in this newest crisis of his he, too, is no different in that regard. if only more volatile in his disposition.

but even then a part of him wants to keep trying. that he can one day be your heart, and you can be his. neither one nor the other.

so until then he will keep trying to better himself and learn from you.)

yes, there is a muscle within the mortal anatomy that beats continuously and unconsciously, and despite all his tries to understand it -

he's still learning.