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The first time Scaramouche sees Mona wearing his clothes, he almost has a conniption. 

She’s just - sitting there, on the sofa in the living room, wearing the hoodie he lost a week ago and those stupid oversized joggers she has to roll up at the ankles a dozen times. Reading a book. Wearing his hoodie. There’s a genuine moment of concern where he wonders if he really might pass out. 

“Why are you wearing my clothes?” he asks, and Mona has the nerve to ignore him and finish reading the page she’s on before she looks up, flipping to the next page as she peers at him.

“Hm?” she says, as though it isn’t a big deal. (It is, in fact, a Big Deal.) “Oh, this? It ended up getting mixed in with my clean laundry. Why?”

Scaramouche doesn’t quite know what to say. What the hell does she mean, ‘why’, he thinks, feeling a little hysterical. “Are you too poor to buy your own clothes?” is what he says instead, watching Mona roll her eyes and bookmark the fancy astrology book she’s reading with her fancy little bookmark. 

“Ha, funny, but no.” she says sarcastically, as though Scaramouche is an idiot. He hates it, but for some reason, he can’t pull his attention away from his hoodie for long enough to be properly mad about it. “But if you want it back that badly, you can have it, I suppose.”

Scaramouche watches in silent agony as Mona sits up, places the book down beside her, and brings her fingers down to the edge of his hoodie to pull it up. She gets far enough in pulling it up that Scaramouche gets a glimpse of the pale, soft skin of her stomach before Scaramouche has to turn on his heel and leave the room, storming back to his bedroom with his heart hammering in his chest.

“So can I keep it?!” Mona yells after him. He resists the urge to bang his head against his closed bedroom door.

 


 

Naively, Scaramouche expected it to stop after the first mix-up. 

It doesn’t. 

In the space of two months, he’s found her lounging around their apartment wearing his clothes, usually in various states of undress. One morning, he walks in on her reaching up to the top shelf of a cupboard for the granola wearing nothing but one of his more expensive shirts, and catches an eyeful of her black lacy underwear peeking out from under his shirt. Five minutes later, he’s in the shower with the cold water on full blast, staring at the tiled wall with a murderous expression.

His idiot friends are no use, either. He’d told Childe and Lumine about it one day after coffee, and they’d exchanged one of their stupid telepathic looks before turning back to him and morphing their expressions into something half-resembling sympathy.

“That sucks,” Childe says. “Have you tried just buying more clothes, though?”

“Or try stealing her clothes!” Lumine chimes in, doing an incredibly poor job of hiding her smile behind her coffee cup. “I bet you’d look cute in one of her dresses!”

So, as usual, Scaramouche is left to try and figure out the absolute enigma that is Mona Megistus alone. He knows she’s definitely doing this on purpose - after he starts to wash his laundry in zip-up laundry bags and then finds Mona wearing a shirt straight out of a load of laundry he’d done yesterday, it’s fairly obvious that she’s up to something. He just doesn’t know what that something is, and it’s beginning to feel more and more like torture every single day. At this point, he’s so used to cold showers that he doesn’t even think they work any more.

It comes to a head when she wanders into the living room one evening, balancing her laptop in one hand and a hot mug of tea in the other. Scaramouche glances up at her, silently hopes that she’ll drop at least one of the items she’s carrying just to be a dick, and then looks away. A second later, he looks up fast enough that his neck audibly cracks.

Mona turns to look at him as she sits beside him on the sofa, staring at him as though he’d grown a third head. “Um, can I help you?” she asks, sounding genuinely concerned. “Do you need to see a chiropractor?”

“What the hell,” Scaramouche replies, and it’s not his most intelligent moment, but she’s sitting there in that same godforsaken hoodie that’s been keeping him awake until the early hours, wondering if he should just smother himself to death instead of attempting to forget the way the sleeves fall over her hands and make little - God, it pains him to even think about it, but little sweater paws. This time, though, it’s a double-whammy - she’s wearing his fucking boxers under the damn hoodie, too. “Seriously, what is your problem?”

“Well, it seems to me like you’re the one with the problem,” Mona says, and Scaramouche can see through her bullshit so easily, he wonders why she’s even bothering to try and lie. “I mean, honestly, the way you’ve been glaring at me these past few days has been alarming.”

“Gee, I wonder why,” Scaramouche snaps, turning to face Mona head-on. She watches him with this strangely amused look on her face, like she’s goading him, and it pisses him off. “Did you burn all of your own clothes or something? Did you give them all away to the homeless? Is that why you’re sneaking into my room and stealing all of my stuff from the washing bag I’ve been purposely washing them in, you weird little psychopath?”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Mona replies, taking a sip from her mug of tea. “I would never sneak into your room, Scaramouche. It isn’t my fault that you choose to leave your clean laundry lying around all over the washing room.”

Scaramouche closes his eyes for a moment, clenching his fists so hard his knuckles turn white. “Why are you wearing my boxers,” he says after a moment, forcing his voice to be as level as possible. It takes an amount of patience he truly didn’t know he possessed, and when he turns back to Mona, even she looks a little impressed. “If you spent all of your money on stupid tarot cards again and can’t afford your own underwear, that’s a you problem, not-”

Mona sighs, loud and long. “I’m doing it to get your attention,” she says, using the moment of quiet to sip from her mug again as though she hadn’t just dropped a bombshell on him. Scaramouche watches her with wide eyes. Even despite his shock, a traitorous little part of him can’t help but notice the way the sleeves of his hoodie are curled around her hands as she holds her tea. “You must be more obtuse than I’d realised to not have figured that out yet, by the way.”

“What?” Scaramouche asks. He feels a little like he’s just been hit by a train. “What do you mean, ‘my attention’?”

“What do you think I mean?” Mona sighs, leaning towards him. “I - well, I like you, you stupid idiot. Do you think I’ve been laundering all of your clothes and wearing them just for the fun of it?”

“Yes!” Scaramouche exclaims. “And what do you mean, you ‘like’ me?” Suddenly, Scaramouche feels like he’s been dunked in an ice bath. “Wait, was this an attempt to - to seduce me?”

Mona has the audacity to roll her eyes, though her cheeks are turning a shade of pink that Scaramouche hates to admit is quite cute. “Yes,” she says after a moment, avoiding his eyes. “I mean, I was under the false assumption that you’re a normal person, and that it wouldn’t take months for you to finally say something, but it looks like that isn’t the case, and-”

“Oh, my God, Mona,” Scaramouche says, and before he can stop himself, he’s leaning in and pulling the mug out of her hands. “You’re so stupid.”

Mona makes an insulted noise, turning back to him with a look of outrage on her face. “You’re the idiot!” she argues. Scaramouche is too busy putting the mug on whatever part of their expensive coffee table is covered by one of Mona’s half a billion books to listen, and she’s still ranting at him when he turns back around and leans in close to pull her laptop from the arm of the sofa. “-like you! And - wait, what are you doing with my laptop?”

“I’m moving it, you dolt,” Scaramouche tells her, sliding it onto the coffee table alongside her cooling cup of tea. For a moment, he almost daren’t turn back around to face Mona, who is surprisingly silent from her end of the couch. Scaramouche runs a hand through his hair, takes a deep breath, and shakes off the odd sense of nerves curling in the pit of his stomach before he turns back around.

Mona is watching him a little apprehensively, but as he moves in closer, the look on her face turns into surprise. Scaramouche pushes himself all the way into her personal space, until he’s close enough to see the way the flush of her cheeks travels down under the neck of his hoodie.

“By the way,” he says, conversationally. Mona watches him with wide eyes, and he feels a strange little pang in his chest at the way her eyelashes flutter as she blinks. God, he thinks he might be in too deep. “Did you tell Childe and Lumine about your little plan?”

Mona’s eyebrows raise, just a little. “How did you know?” she asks, but Scaramouche shakes his head, cursing under his breath.

“I really am surrounded by morons,” he murmurs, even as he leans in to kiss Mona.

 


 

Half an hour later, and Mona is curled up on his lap, idly tapping through some silly astrology app on her phone. Scaramouche watches her silently, half wondering where his boxers might have landed when they’d been unceremoniously launched across the living room, until Mona glances up at him with a little smile playing at her lips. “Your clothes are really comfortable, by the way,” she tells him. He huffs a sigh, rolling his eyes and hoping she can’t see the way his cheeks flush.

“Uh, yeah, I know.” Scaramouche grumbles. “Or I used to, before you started hoarding all of them in your cupboards. On the topic, you need to stop stealing my stuff. Would you like it if I started stealing your underwear?”

He regrets it as soon as the words come out of his mouth. Mona looks up at him, her eyes glinting, and gives him possibly the most conniving smile he’s ever seen. To his horror, Scaramouche realises that he finds it hot, even as Mona nods enthusiastically.

Yeah, he’s definitely in too deep.