I haven't written WWRY fic in a looooong time. Anyways.
He sees her through the door frame, the light spilling across her shoulders and catching the colors of the dye in her hair. Dressed in a faded yellow shirt printed with flowers and cut-off jeans, she looks more like a teenage girl than she has since the Heartbreak. She's hunched over the guitar, of course, picking out notes that sound good with a complete disregard to tempo or tune, leaving words like andante and allegro in the past.
He walks in, raises a hand in greeting. She squints at him like she's not entirely sure he's there.
"Hey, Gazza," she says anyways, tilting her head to beckon him closer. "Pull up a seat, would you?" He sits on the floor to her side, leans against her. All the chairs in the room have things on them: music notes, CDs, laptops and cables. This is easier.
"You were looking for me?" she asks. He nods yes, but he expected to find her here; she's become more sensitive to mindless noise.
"It's too fucking hot out there," she says, "and it's loud and everyone's pressed together like it's their last chance they'll have. They were all over you?"
"Yeah," Galileo says. "Little bit." Scaramouche snorts because isn't that the truth, everyone wants to see him, to touch him, to be with him until he drowns in a sea of bodies, "but I wanted to find you," he continues.
"S'nice," she says, sliding off the chair. She slings a leg over his, casual and what-have-you, but it's her place to do it, not like any of the other people because unlike the rest of them he's hers. Or she's his, and she hasn't yet figured out which it is. She smiles up at him, but that's okay because she smiles at him more than she smiles at anyone else. She doesn't smile at anyone else, not really, except Meat when she's being stroppy and Khashoggi when she wants to mess with him.
"You're alright, you know that?" Scaramouche says to Galileo.
"Sometimes I think I'm the loneliest person here," he says in response, and maybe she'd go off and smack him a little for acting all emotional and blue, but right now she thinks that he's right.
"I like your shirt," he says when she says nothing. "It suits you." It does, in its own wrinkled, girly way, something Scara would deny and deny if there was anyone else but him around.
"I think you're right," she says instead.
"About the shirt?" He half-smiles, nudging her to play along.
"About the- thing. The loneliness. There's all these people and you can't get away from there."
He shrugs. "Yeah, but I'm used to it by now."
"But that's just good enough then, that isn't what you want."
Galileo sighs and leans into her even more. There's something in his head- sit there, count your fingers, what else is there to do? My unhappy, oh my little girl blue- but he lets it lie until later.
"It'll die down eventually," he says instead, and Scara hums in response. "Once the craziness goes away, and the- the newness of it all, and the music's there with everyone. It'll stop eventually."
"Yeah, but what about when it doesn't?" she says, stripping idealism from her words. "With us, with you it's always gonna be something new. There might be some time in between, but there's never going to be anything more than a lull."
He doesn't say anything, just stares at the room and the guitar and the piano and all of the music filling it.
"Gazza?" Scara says, quietly at first. "Gazza Fizza? Galileo? You there?"
He jerks and starts a little; he was not expecting his name.
"Give me the word and we're gone," she says, her hands wrapped around each other in her lap. "You tell me when and we can go, you me and the guitar- okay?"
"We couldn't do that," Galileo says, but something in Scaramouche's dark eyes stops him.
"Yes we could," she says. "If we had to, we could."
And it's such an appealing idea, but something in him, something that ties him to the rest of the world protests at cutting all those bonds.
"Not right now," he says. "Not yet. But someday..." it's an appealing thought, him and Scara somewhere where it can be just the two of them, like it was in the beginning before everything happened.
"Yeah, okay," she says, and her head droops. Slowly she falls asleep, her head on her shoulder and her legs twisted with his own. Galileo stays awake and looks at the city lights outside the building, considering when someday might become tomorrow.
When he finally sleeps he dreams of music, and it is no different from any other night.