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ddarker-dreams · 2 years

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Deep Sea I. Yan Scaramouche x F Reader

>Rating: Mature. >Warnings: Mild yandere themes, amnesia (tags will continued to be updated as they apply). >Word count: 4.4k. >Deep Sea Index.

CHAPTER I // SHIFTING TIDES

Blue is the loneliest color.

Take the sky, the sea; both are encompassing swaths of nothing, equal parts desolate and alluring. How could they ever hope to rival the fullness of land? Life cannot be sustained in the air above or the ocean below. There’d be nothing but sinking — sinking and returning to the ground where your feet may once again touch solid ground — or sinking further into the salty water’s depths.

Your memory of the past might be hazy, obscured by a thick fog that refuses to let up, but there’s one thing you can never forget; and that is your love for the ocean.

Far off in the distance, okobo clank against the uneven turf of Amakane Island, bells chiming noisily.

Ten more seconds, you think.

You stretch your arms over your head, the sleeves of your kimono succumbing to gravity in the process. Amidst the pattern of flowers stitched into the fabric is a brown smear. It’s slight, so slight that one would require a hawk’s eyes to notice it, but you know what you’re up against. A frown finds its way onto your red painted lips.

Five more seconds.

The bells grow louder and so does your regret. You should’ve been more mindful of where you sat down. In your brooding, you failed to notice the long edges of your sleeves brushing against the ground. You had been so careful not to let it touch the bottom of your kimono too… what other misfortunes lie waiting in your path tonight?

Three.

You hear a telltale rustle from the shrubbery behind you.

Two.

Would trying to wipe it off do any good? Or would that further exacerbate the problem? You’re running out of time to consider your limited options.

One.

“There you are, nee-chan! Geez, I can’t believe you made me run all the way over here to fetch you—”

Misato forgets the rest of the chiding she no doubt had in store for you mid-sentence. Beneath the opaque moonlight, her figure comes into focus, and you note the embarrassment upon her white powdered face. Had her cheeks not already been dusted pink, you’re certain you would’ve seen her natural blush.

“I did it again,” Misato murmurs, momentarily forgetting your presence. She clears her throat and starts over. “I meant to say, there you are… [First].”

She speaks your name as if a blade was pressed to her throat. You cover your mouth to suppress a hearty laugh but you’re unsuccessful. Misato’s shoulders stiffen, then relax, and she eventually gives in to giggling at her mishap alongside you.

“Ishioka-sensei isn’t here, there’s no need for you to speak so formally with me.”

You’re grateful for the opening Misato’s self-perceived mistake granted. It’ll be a brief reprieve from whatever she ran to fetch you for, yet you welcome it with open arms. The dirt smear on your sleeve is going to be the least of your problems tonight. If Misato was sent to retrieve you, then that meant your absence went noticed by a certain shrewd iemoto. After you took such care to sneak out too…

“I know, but—” she stops herself from outright agreeing with you so as not to disrespect Ishioka’s judgment, “—I don’t want others to think I’m childish. Especially not you. I’m grown up now, aren’t I?”

Misato puffs out her cheeks at your amused expression. “Actually, please don’t answer that.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Your face spoke on your behalf.”

For having just boasted of her maturity, Misato’s voice took on an awfully immature lilt. You can’t bring yourself to mind. Closing the gap between you, you reach out to pat her on the head, then stop yourself after remembering how long it took her wareshinobu styled hair to be crafted. So you settle for patting her shoulder instead.

“See? This is exactly what I wanted to avoid,” Misato’s complaints fall on deaf ears. Your lack of blood relation mattered not, in your eyes, Misato is your indisputable younger sister. You fully accepted this role and happily so.

The serenity of the moment evaporates into thin air when she notices the smudge on your sleeve. You were trying to hide it until an instinct to comfort the youth took over, and in that moment, you knew you were in for an earful.

Her hazel eyes widen enough to rival that of a full moon. “Archons, help us all. If Ishioka-sensei sees this… oh, if she sees this…”

For once, there’s no banter ready to roll from your tongue. If you were in boiling hot water before, you’re in the lava of an active Natlan volcano now. Caught sneaking out past curfew and dirtying up a kimono that cost several hundred thousand Mora? You recall the omikuji you drew at the Grand Narukami Shrine at your last visit.

It seems like it will rain today. You may encounter an unpleasant situation.

As always, it vowed bad fortune. You don’t know why you bother visiting the shrine when you already know what the slip of paper will read before unfolding it. Misato once joked that she never realized there were so many different types of bad fortunes and that in a previous life, you must’ve upset the Narukami Ogosho.

“If you help me change when we get back, I can clean it before our next performance,” you urge. Misato heaves a sigh that puts an early end to your optimistic plan.

“That’s the thing. I came here because a patron put in a personal request to see you.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“No, tonight.”

You blink at the clarification. A patron wanted to reserve time with you tonight, after the ochaya was closed? Why would someone as strict as Ishioka agree to this? The woman had an iron will, unbreakable beneath whatever pressures were sent her way. When the Tri-Commission sought to pass a tax that’d hurt the hanamachi district, she personally organized meetings with the leaders to plead her case.

Needless to say, the law never passed.

“I thought it was strange too,” Misato admits. “I’m sure you guessed this by now, but Ishioka-sensei tasked me with finding you since I know you well.”

“A little too well, apparently,” you joke to lighten the atmosphere.

Misato smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Do you… come here often?”

“I wouldn’t say often, no,” you pivot on your heel and overlook the expansive waters. Lonely, lonely blue. “Sometimes I find myself wandering without any set place to go. And then… by the time I realize it, I’m back here.”

Misato doesn’t follow your gaze but finds interest in the soft soil beneath her feet. Her unnatural silence is made up for by the breeze, which brings with it rustling leaves and the ocean’s scent. You close your eyes and breathe in deeply. There’s no telling when you’ll be able to sneak out next, so you swear an oath to cherish the last few moments spent here.

Quieter than the dew sliding down blades of grass in the morning, Misato asks, “Do you wish to stay here?”

Do you?

When you turn around, Inazuma City awaits, with its tall buildings and blindingly bright lights. There’ll be consequences for your disobedience, a customer of unknown origin, and work. Here you were deluding yourself into believing that the night was over when it had only begun.

“No,” you turn around and come face-to-face with Misato. After a moment’s hesitation, she brings herself to look you in the eye, the sheen of which reflects your resolute countenance. “I believe I’ve been here long enough.”

“Then let’s head back.”

Misato prefers to use the main roads when traveling and often scolds you for not doing the same. She tells you that it’s getting more dangerous these days — tensions have steadily been on the rise. The Tenryou Commission’s military presence has increased, fewer people are being blessed with Visions, and even the Fatui don’t bother operating under night’s cover any longer. The strange foreigners donning masks gallivant about the streets in full view. While no issues can be connected directly to them, there are enough rumors floating around to bolster their negative reputation. You’ve been warned to avoid them when possible and took that to heart.

The walk back is quiet, save for your occasional comment and Misato’s futile attempts to clean your sleeve. Street carts have long since closed for the day, though some establishments that serve alcohol are open and thriving with laughter and loud conversation. The doushin patrolling the streets nod in acknowledgment of you both. High members in the government often come to the ochaya you work at for special celebrations or entertaining foreign diplomats.

Within Inazuma City’s hanamachi district, which can be found if one goes to the east section of Tenryou, sits the ochaya Shinju-an. The finest establishment to raise multiple generations of successful maiko and geisha. You’ve spent almost every day of the past three years working and training there, under the guidance of the renowned iemoto Ishioka Shizue.

“Try and keep your hands behind your back,” Misato whispers to you after turning a corner. A few more steps and you’ll be in front of Shinju-an. You spot Ishioka waiting for you outside and gulp.

Her head snaps at the sound of Misato’s bells. Ishioka’s astute hearing never fails to amaze you — there are several other maiko walking the street who wear okobo as well — yet she immediately knew which set belonged to Misato. She does not run to catch up to you despite the supposed dire situation. Firm and unshakeable as a mountain, Ishioka waits with her head held high for you to come closer.

“Thank you for finding our lost maiko, Misato,” Ishioka graces the younger girl with a tight smile. “It is a shame that she got lost while trying to get a head start on her chores, but these things cannot be helped. You’re free to rest for the night.”

Your iemoto has already devised a narrative for any prying eyes over your unconventional disappearance. If avoiding scandal was an art, then Ishioka is the undisputed master of the craft.

Misato bows and wishes you both a goodnight.

Ishioka slides the doors to Shinju-an open and gestures for you to come in.

Away from the public eye, her disposition takes a stern spin. “The matter of your… sneaking off will be discussed at a later time. I’m more relieved that you made it back within a reasonable time. Misato informed you of the situation, correct?”

After you nod, she continues. “Then let’s make haste.”

You raise no complaints as she sets to work on adjusting various aspects of your presentation. The questions that permeate your mind are best left unspoken, especially after she caught you breaking one of the rules. Maiko such as yourself have strict guidelines to follow for both your sake and the okiya you’re under. It’s this strictness that leaves you further perplexed about the unfolding situation. The rest of the geisha and maiko have finished their performances for the night.

To schedule a performance at a revered establishment such as Shinju-an, you must make an appointment up to weeks in advance. How is it that this person not only walked in and asked to meet with you, but also secured time to do so after the ochaya was closed? Were they too impatient to wait until tomorrow?

Ishioka tightens your long obi, which showcases the okiya’s iconic crest of a pearl on the back. This allows anyone who sees it to immediately know which okiya you belong to.

“I know you haven’t finished your training when it comes to conversation,” Ishioka begins, as if remorseful for putting you through this, “But please do your best. Take care to mind your expressions, smile when necessary, and allow him to lead the conversation. In the event of prolonged silence, you may speak of pleasant topics such as the changing season or upcoming events…”

“I won’t disappoint you.”

Shizue slides a kanzashi into your hair and lowers her voice. “Our patron understands how… unconventional of a request this is. He promised not to take more than fifteen minutes of your time.”

Under normal circumstances, it would take upwards of an hour to prepare for an ozashiki performance or appointment, but you never changed from your attire. All you had meant to do was take a brisk walk and return before anyone noticed. Perhaps it was for the best — due to this, Ishioka only needed a few minutes to make you presentable.

“There,” she sighs. “We mustn’t keep him waiting any longer than he already has. Follow me.”

She leads you to a room reserved for guests of great importance in the back. Your heart pounds away in your ribcage, frantic and vulnerable, like a butterfly caught within a child’s net. This would be your first time interacting with a customer alone, not having an older geisha overseeing and assisting you along the way. How could such a vital task be left in the hands of an amatuer? What would happen if you blundered?

You raise your shaky hands to the screen. Whoever sits behind here could determine your fate. Upon realizing this, you hesitate, to which Ishioka catches your hand and gently presses it against the door.

“Remember what you’ve been taught and you’ll do just fine,” Ishioka whispers just loud enough for you to hear. “And I almost forgot… refer to him as ‘my lord’ if you must refer to him at all.”

The door opens.

You’re immediately drawn to his eyes as if the both of you were on opposite sides of a magnet. They pull you in and keep you locked in place. What color could that be staring back at you so intently — purple? No, that must’ve been a trick of the lights. The longer you look, the more indigo they appear. What strange, strange eyes. Sharp, piercing, beautiful. Have you seen anything like this before? This shade, this intensity? That can’t be right. You’re certain you would’ve committed him to memory if your paths had crossed.

This person isn’t the kind who you meet and forget.

He sits in the center of the room, a cup of tea raised to his lips, which are pressed in a thin line. A large, ornate hat boasting transparent veils rests atop his head. From where you’re standing, you can see what resembles a kumadori mask decorating the top of his hat. That mixed with the striking red pigment around his eyes give the impression that he’s either a fan of kabuki theater or an actor within it. You tuck that observation away for future reference.

During your minarai stage of training, the geisha you learned under explained that customers give more away about themselves than they realize.

“It’s our job to notice these details within minutes of meeting our patrons,” she told you. “Everything about a person’s presentation reflects, to some extent, their inner self. Whether it be humility from wearing muted colors that match the rest of their party as not to stick out, to insecurity in grossly overdressing.”

His attire portrays wealth and high status. Black, red, purple; these weren’t colors worn by ordinary folk. The detail that most catches your attention is the golden mitsudomoe insignia upon his chest. That emblem denotes connection to the Raiden Shogun herself — not just anyone is allowed to wear it.

He exudes an aura of self-importance and greatness tangible enough for the air in this room to feel heavy. For a moment, you wonder if Ishioka made a mistake in bringing you here. He must’ve requested someone else and she misheard him. That remains the most plausible explanation in your awestruck mind. Your breath catches in your throat when his eyes flicker over your form from top to bottom. His facial features betray no confusion, so you must be who he asked for.

He lowers his cup onto the tatami. “Do you intend on gawking at me all night? I don’t believe that’s what I paid you to do.”

“I apologize,” you bow your head. You got too caught up in admiring his unique, embellished clothing to properly mind your manners. “May I ask what I should call you?”

“So you have been trained in basic etiquette,” he notes. Your smile threatens to give way. “You can refer to me as Scaramouche.”

Scaramouche. What a peculiar name — it doesn’t sound Inazuman or like anything you’ve heard of before.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord Scaramouche.”

“And you? You’ve got a name, don’t you?”

“I believe I do, yes,” you decide to take a risk by being playfully coy. “Suzuko—”

Scaramouche holds up a hand to interrupt you. “Your actual name.”

This man was nothing if not a herald of strange, borderline taboo requests. Upon being accepted to train as a maiko, you took on a professional name for work-related purposes; Suzuko. This was what customers referred to you as traditionally. The golden glint of the mitsudomoe symbol reminds you of your place. If someone with connections to the Raiden Shogun asks for your real name, then what is left for you to do but obey?

“I’m [First], my lord.”

For the first time that night, Scaramouche smiles.

You take the lull in the conversation as a chance to seat yourself next to Scaramouche.

If it weren’t for his discourteous tongue, you wouldn’t have minded entertaining him; he’s rather pleasant on the eyes compared to other customers. The closer you get, the more you’re able to take in his deceptively soft features. His skin is without blemish, his hair well kept and smelling faintly of orange blossom. You find him reminiscent of a porcelain doll, so uncannily perfect that the fact his chest moves when he breathes almost startles you.

“Do you always ogle your customers like this?”

“Only the ones I find handsome, my lord.”

He snaps his head in your direction and scoffs at the victorious smile on your lips. You must admit that it was a bold move — the geisha you shadowed told you to consider light flirtations as your hidden weapon. A way to reel customers in yet never catch them. She emphasized the concept of balance. Act too chaste and you’ll be considered a bore, too lascivious and you’ll taint your reputation.

“And here I thought you were nothing more than a pretty face who can dance better than the average person,” Scaramouche regains his composure and critical nature. “So you’re capable of entertaining conversation as well.”

“I have much to learn, admittedly,” you sigh. “I must not be proficient enough if you’re not taken with me yet.”

“And who says that I’m not?”

It’s your turn to stumble. Scaramouche notices your widened eyes then laughs, the sound dry and condescending. You recenter your focus before you can embarrass yourself further. This is good, though, you’re burning through the time. The fifteen minutes will soon be up and you’ll be released from this peculiar situation.

“Ah, how rude of me,” you glance down at his teacup and he does the same. “I might not be able to complete an entire tea ceremony for you tonight, but I could still refill your cup if you’d like.”

He shakes his head, his mind somewhere else, in a place you don’t wish to know.

“Do you enjoy this lifestyle?”

The question Scaramouche poses isn’t anything new. People are fascinated by geisha, their unique conduct, almost exclusive nature. That’s why bystanders trip over themselves to get a peak over forming crowds when geisha walk down the street. To them, it’s a symbol of a world they could never fully understand or participate in. People have asked you many things about your life and training. Whether you’re here by force, if you’re treated fairly, if it’s true that you can never take a husband should you graduate.

For some nagging reason, you don’t think he’s asking for curiosity’s sake. He’s asking you specifically, almost as if he were judging the value of a good at the market, learning of its history before coming to a decision.

“I’m grateful for the chance I was given. I won’t lie and say that it’s easy work, but the chance to preserve these traditions so they’re never forgotten is an honor.”

“Even if they’re the Raiden Shogun’s traditions?”

He doesn’t bother hiding the distaste in his voice. What little understanding of the situation you held is lost — how is it that he wears Her Eternal Excellency’s emblem yet speaks her name like a curse — should you agree? Would that incense him to anger? Or is this a test, and the moment you speak ill of her you’ll be in harm’s way?

It’s time for another gamble.

“Of course, my lord. Without the Narukami Ogosho, Inazuma wouldn’t be what it is today, and the two of us wouldn’t be sitting here and having this conversation.”

Whatever expression you thought your bold proclamation might earn, amusement was certainly not in the forefront of your mind. His laughter starts gradually, like a crescendo, rising in volume and intensity as if you told him the funniest joke known to man. Indignation simmers beneath the surface of your skin. Who did he think he was, acting so demanding toward you, the person he personally requested to see?

“You really—” he composes himself by placing a hand over his grinning lips, “—You really don’t remember a thing, do you?”

If you were boiling in rage before, now you’ve been doused in a pail of icy water.

Your fingers twitch by your side, and against your better judgment, you mutter,

“How do you know about that?”

The only people aware of your amnesia are Misato and yourself. That’s what you always thought. She swore herself to secrecy and had you do the same — it’d be dangerous for others to know of this glaring vulnerability. They could take advantage of you, claim lies to be fact, weave a narrative that benefits them at your expense. Not even Ishioka knew.

That fateful day, as Misato used a towel to soak up your body drenched in saltwater, she told you: “Some things are better left forgotten.”

“Answer me…!”

He shushes you by pressing a finger to your lips.

“Would you believe me if I told you?” Scaramouche muses, more to himself than you. There it is again, that otherworldly glow emanating from his eyes, plucking a chord within you thought to be broken.

If blue was loneliness, then what is purple?

There’s a gentle knock on the door, and faintly, you register Ishioka asking if his lordship was finished for the night as it was getting late.

“Another time, then,” Scaramouche stands up and dusts off his black shorts. “I’m sure this won’t be the last time I see you. Consider it a promise, [First].”

When you return to your home that night, your thoughts are occupied by the stranger in opulent clothing who spoke of you with uncomfortable familiarity.

The okiya’s okā-san, a retired geisha by the name of Ishioka Keiko, is the one who helps you out of your elaborate outfit. You see her reflection in the mirror, the warmth in her eyes, and the gray streaks growing more prominent in her hair. She handles you with the same care as one would their own child. She gently removes the kanzashi in your hair without pulling on the roots and hums Inazuman ballads that make your heart twist with nostalgia.

“I sometimes wonder if you’re from the Shuumatsuban clan,” Keiko muses. “I’ve known you to sneak out every now and then, yet I’ve never once heard your footsteps or the window opening. Tell me, what’s your secret?”

Your face feels warm. “You’ve known all along?”

“Call it a sixth sense, if you will. I’d often sneak out during my youth in search of things that I’d never find.”

Is that what you’re doing? Searching endlessly for something you’ll never find? You trudge back up to your shared room after wishing Keiko a goodnight and ponder on the matter. You’ve learned that memories aren’t owed to you. The past can be elusive as it pleases, acting like a mischievous kitsune avoiding capture after provoking nearby mortals. What choice did you have but to try catching it? Time and time again, you throw your arms forward, grasping for what’s gone in the blink of an eye.

Who you are, why you’re here, and whether it’s better to continue and forget rather than risk remembering something you shouldn’t.

Misato is up and waiting for you. A candle burns to her right, the wax low, the wick curled and blackened. She shuts the book in her hands that you recognize as her diary upon your entry. Two futons are laid out upon the floor — the one on the right is yours, the left, hers — just how it’s always been. She blows out the waning flame, submerging the room in darkness alleviated by moonlight’s steady streams.

You crumple onto the bed while she returns her diary to her little vanity. The bottom-most drawer, which she strictly forbade you from ever touching lest you intrude upon her privacy, opens and closes with a creak.

Your eyes are closed, but you know she’s looking at you. So you roll to the side and face her to show that you’re willing to talk should she find the words to ask. And she does, eventually, after the seconds drag on one after the other.

“What was he like?”

Indigo eyes. Skin as fair as snow. Rosy cheeks, rosier lips, always frowning, always scheming.

“Pretty,” you reply without thinking. Then, realizing that isn’t quite right, you add, “And hideous, in a way.”

Misato is silent long enough for you to assume she fell asleep.

“I hope you don’t have to see him again.”

Hope has never done you much good, but that doesn’t mean you’ll stop now. Some things are better left forgotten, you remind yourself. You have your younger sister. You have your work, your training, a purpose to pursue. Is that not more than enough? Whatever knowledge Scaramouche holds, he can hold onto the key, since what good will it do if he’s never able to reach the lock?

“As do I.”

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