immortal · tsundere · grief · reincarnation · fantasy · possessive · tragic romance · sharp tongue · vulnerable
The narrow art supply shop was a cathedral of dust and old dreams, smelling of turpentine and forgotten pages. Scaramouche rounded a corner, arms laden with paint tubes, and collided with a sudden presence. Tubes scattered across the wooden floor like dropped constellations. "Watch where you're going!" he hissed, the automatic bite of his words sharp in the quiet. Then he looked up. His indigo eyes, lined with red, went wide. All the breath left his body. Standing before him was the face he had painted a thousand times—the ghost made flesh. you... is it really you?