When Scar finally managed to start walking, he didn't stop.
Henry's injury proved a welcome distraction on his way to Violet City. He was grateful for it. He was also grateful that the familiar face had accompanied him the whole way here.
Violet City had always been one of Scar's preferred places in Johto. It was older, less alien than the bright lights and tall towers of so many towns and cities here. The trees grew thick, and the architecture was something at least a touch closer to Amestris than anything else in this wildly advanced world.
Down the well-trodden footpaths at the edge of town, Scar's steadfastness began to waver. He had carried groceries down this street. Handy supplies that were all his own. Sometimes, she would take his hand when they rounded the corner that cut off the view from the rest of the road.
He stopped for the first time in hours on that corner.
He wasn't sure he could start again.
Amit gave him a nudge in the back of his knees. It was enough to get him moving, even if it didn't stop the shiver that had taken hold of his chest, radiated through his entire body.
It was still here. The trees had grown closer. The facades of the paint (his paint) that faced the sun were a brush lighter. He shuffled past the mailbox without any names on it, around the back of the house, to the shed where he had once kept the myriad tools he had acquired. The cottage had been a dump when Lust first bought it, but Scar, for all of his difficulties staying housed, had thrown himself into its upkeep with the fervor of an entire crew.
And it had held.
Behind the shed was a lock box. Scar pulled the faceplate back with trembling fingertips. It took longer than it ought to have, but his fingers eventually turned each numbered gear to the correct orientation: 1 - 0 - 1 - 1. Another wave of nausea when it popped open, revealing a key, innocently staring back at him. He took it, holding onto hard enough that the metal edges bit his fingers, and shuffled around to the front of the little house.
The lock turned, and he closed his eyes.
Perhaps his mind had been blank for all these years, but something in him knew. It was the smell, first. Exposed wood beams, mostly. He pulled the door closed, teeth doing a number to the inside of his cheek as his hand clutched the doorknob, white-knuckled.
Scar opened his eyes.
There was the coat rack. The kitchen. The door to the bathroom. The couch. The loft. He leaned back against the front door, his knees losing the will to carry his weight as his misty eyes took in the only place that had come close to being his home in fifteen years. Drapes rested over the furniture. Dust hung in the air. The ice box was unplugged. Nobody lived here, even if it was still hers.
He forced himself to breathe.
He shuffled around the cottage on numb legs, eyes lingering on the countertop, the stove, the couch that wasn't any bigger than it needed to be. He leaned into the railing as he climbed to the loft, stared at the drapes covering the bed. Scar drew the bench of her vanity out, and he sat. The man staring back at him, sliding in and out of focus, looked exactly the same. Red rims around his eyes. Dead, unfeeling skin on his forehead. Hair once haphazardly buzzed now carefully trimmed up the sides into the shock of white on top.
There was a loose bobby pin on the desktop. Scar reached for it, his broad fingers and unsteadiness succeeding only at brushing it onto the floor. His heart jumped as if he'd just pushed a ceramic vase off a pedestal, but he crouched, fiddling with his fingers until he finally managed to pinch it off the hardwood.
Eye level, framed on the desk, was a photo.
Scar bumped his elbow on his way back up, but that went ignored. Bobby pin still curled in his fingers, he took the picture frame in his hand, careful to not disturb the dust that had gathered on the upper edge. It was the photo she had taken on Halloween— The first Halloween they had all been here. She was done up in some ridiculous number, her face painted. He looked… the same as he always did. He felt as if he were breathing through a straw as he nudged open the back of the frame. He wasn’t looking for anything. A date, maybe? It didn’t matter; he knew this picture. He knew this day. This photo was nearly nine years old.
Out fell, however, a folded slip of stationary.
His eyes narrowed. He set the frame down on the desk, back in the outline of its own dust, and unfolded the stationary just enough to see his own handwriting at the top.
Lust,
Nope.
Scar refolded the paper like it had been coated in poison and nested it behind the photo once again, closing the pins of the frame and safely containing the threat of his own emotional outpourings. Unthinking, he slipped the bobby pin into his pocket, brushed the dampness from his eyes, and pushed the stool in as he stood. His head was too heavy for his neck as he pulled his dresser open. Shirts were missing, but he didn’t notice. All he knew is that his things were still here.
Scar yanked off the clothes he had woken in, his shirt, his pants, his socks, and they fell to the floor, forgotten. He pulled his own, familiar clothes on in a fugue, shaking his hair out as he pulled on a shirt that had sat, untouched, all this time. Then in the top drawer…
A key ring. One for the front door. One for the shed. A tiny charm of a Skitty holding them together.
A lunchbox with a sticky note attached to the top, written in his hand, I know you won’t cook.
One dry flower.
His diary.
He was disturbing something. He knew he was. But when had he ever excelled at letting dead things lie? Scar snatched his keys and his journal. He closed the drawer. He wiped his eyes again.
His eyes caught on the coat rack on his way to the front door. On nothing more than impulse, he snatched his fur-lined coat, deep blue, the one she had bought him before he’d managed to start sleeping inside, and snapped the door closed behind him.
Violet City
Henry's injury proved a welcome distraction on his way to Violet City. He was grateful for it. He was also grateful that the familiar face had accompanied him the whole way here.
Violet City had always been one of Scar's preferred places in Johto. It was older, less alien than the bright lights and tall towers of so many towns and cities here. The trees grew thick, and the architecture was something at least a touch closer to Amestris than anything else in this wildly advanced world.
Down the well-trodden footpaths at the edge of town, Scar's steadfastness began to waver. He had carried groceries down this street. Handy supplies that were all his own. Sometimes, she would take his hand when they rounded the corner that cut off the view from the rest of the road.
He stopped for the first time in hours on that corner.
He wasn't sure he could start again.
Amit gave him a nudge in the back of his knees. It was enough to get him moving, even if it didn't stop the shiver that had taken hold of his chest, radiated through his entire body.
It was still here. The trees had grown closer. The facades of the paint (his paint) that faced the sun were a brush lighter. He shuffled past the mailbox without any names on it, around the back of the house, to the shed where he had once kept the myriad tools he had acquired. The cottage had been a dump when Lust first bought it, but Scar, for all of his difficulties staying housed, had thrown himself into its upkeep with the fervor of an entire crew.
And it had held.
Behind the shed was a lock box. Scar pulled the faceplate back with trembling fingertips. It took longer than it ought to have, but his fingers eventually turned each numbered gear to the correct orientation: 1 - 0 - 1 - 1. Another wave of nausea when it popped open, revealing a key, innocently staring back at him. He took it, holding onto hard enough that the metal edges bit his fingers, and shuffled around to the front of the little house.
The lock turned, and he closed his eyes.
Perhaps his mind had been blank for all these years, but something in him knew. It was the smell, first. Exposed wood beams, mostly. He pulled the door closed, teeth doing a number to the inside of his cheek as his hand clutched the doorknob, white-knuckled.
Scar opened his eyes.
There was the coat rack. The kitchen. The door to the bathroom. The couch. The loft. He leaned back against the front door, his knees losing the will to carry his weight as his misty eyes took in the only place that had come close to being his home in fifteen years. Drapes rested over the furniture. Dust hung in the air. The ice box was unplugged. Nobody lived here, even if it was still hers.
He forced himself to breathe.
He shuffled around the cottage on numb legs, eyes lingering on the countertop, the stove, the couch that wasn't any bigger than it needed to be. He leaned into the railing as he climbed to the loft, stared at the drapes covering the bed. Scar drew the bench of her vanity out, and he sat. The man staring back at him, sliding in and out of focus, looked exactly the same. Red rims around his eyes. Dead, unfeeling skin on his forehead. Hair once haphazardly buzzed now carefully trimmed up the sides into the shock of white on top.
There was a loose bobby pin on the desktop. Scar reached for it, his broad fingers and unsteadiness succeeding only at brushing it onto the floor. His heart jumped as if he'd just pushed a ceramic vase off a pedestal, but he crouched, fiddling with his fingers until he finally managed to pinch it off the hardwood.
Eye level, framed on the desk, was a photo.
Scar bumped his elbow on his way back up, but that went ignored. Bobby pin still curled in his fingers, he took the picture frame in his hand, careful to not disturb the dust that had gathered on the upper edge. It was the photo she had taken on Halloween— The first Halloween they had all been here. She was done up in some ridiculous number, her face painted. He looked… the same as he always did. He felt as if he were breathing through a straw as he nudged open the back of the frame. He wasn’t looking for anything. A date, maybe? It didn’t matter; he knew this picture. He knew this day. This photo was nearly nine years old.
Out fell, however, a folded slip of stationary.
His eyes narrowed. He set the frame down on the desk, back in the outline of its own dust, and unfolded the stationary just enough to see his own handwriting at the top.
Lust,
Nope.
Scar refolded the paper like it had been coated in poison and nested it behind the photo once again, closing the pins of the frame and safely containing the threat of his own emotional outpourings. Unthinking, he slipped the bobby pin into his pocket, brushed the dampness from his eyes, and pushed the stool in as he stood. His head was too heavy for his neck as he pulled his dresser open. Shirts were missing, but he didn’t notice. All he knew is that his things were still here.
Scar yanked off the clothes he had woken in, his shirt, his pants, his socks, and they fell to the floor, forgotten. He pulled his own, familiar clothes on in a fugue, shaking his hair out as he pulled on a shirt that had sat, untouched, all this time. Then in the top drawer…
A key ring. One for the front door. One for the shed. A tiny charm of a Skitty holding them together.
A lunchbox with a sticky note attached to the top, written in his hand, I know you won’t cook.
One dry flower.
His diary.
He was disturbing something. He knew he was. But when had he ever excelled at letting dead things lie? Scar snatched his keys and his journal. He closed the drawer. He wiped his eyes again.
His eyes caught on the coat rack on his way to the front door. On nothing more than impulse, he snatched his fur-lined coat, deep blue, the one she had bought him before he’d managed to start sleeping inside, and snapped the door closed behind him.