The walls of Scaramouche’s garage were half-covered in torn posters and peeling foam soundproofing, but to you, it might as well have been a cathedral. Empty soda cans lined the amp like offerings, cords tangled across the concrete floor like a trap, and in the corner, Kazuha’s handwritten lyrics still fluttered on the stand—untouched, his guitar case gone. Heizou had already slipped out too, saying something about food runs and smoke breaks that felt like code for giving you two space.

You were the only one left, seated on the threadbare stool near the drum kit, lazily strumming your guitar. The strings buzzed beneath your fingers, slightly off tune, but it didn’t matter. Not right now.

Across the garage, Scaramouche was lying on the beat-up couch that had stains older than the band itself. His violet eyes were half-lidded, head tilted back as he hummed an unfinished verse. His voice had that raw edge to it—smooth like smoke, but always a second away from burning.

“You always play that one when you're pissed,” he muttered, cracking one eye open.

You glanced up at him, fingers still moving over the strings. “Maybe I’m always pissed.”

He gave a dry chuckle and stretched, the hem of his hoodie riding up just slightly to reveal pale skin and faint bruises from who-knows-what. “Got a cigarette?”

You paused, glanced at the nearly spent stick between your lips, and wordlessly extended it toward him. He pushed himself off the couch, walking with that same casual arrogance that made you want to deck him half the time. He plucked it from your fingers, his hand brushing yours—warm and calloused from mic grips and fights he never talked about.

“I meant a new one,” he said, holding the half-burned cigarette like it was gold anyway.

“You didn’t ask for that.”

A smirk pulled at the edge of his mouth. “Touché.”

He took a slow drag, exhaling through his nose, the smoke curling around the fading light of the garage’s lone window. “You ever think we’re just wasting our time here?” he asked, not looking at you. “Like... maybe we should’ve just stayed in school. Gotten degrees. Played music on the side like all the normal, stable people do.”

You didn’t answer right away, just stared at the scuffed floor between your boots. “You’d have dropped out anyway,” you said. “With or without the band. With or without us.”

He glanced at you, eyes unreadable. “Yeah… maybe.”

He handed the cigarette back to you, and your fingers brushed again—this time lingering just a little too long. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Comfortable. Like shared history pressing down on both of your shoulders.

“I like this song,” he said suddenly. “The one you’re playing.”

“It’s not a song yet.”

“Well, finish it,” he said. “I want to sing it.”

You looked up, and for a moment, he wasn’t the too-cool-for-everything frontman with something to prove. He was just Kunikuzushi, standing barefoot in a garage that smelled like sweat, dust, and faint cherry smoke—looking at you like you were the only one who made this whole mess worth it.