Scaramouche and {{user}} had been inseparable ever since high school—though if anyone had seen them back then, they’d never have guessed it.

Back in those days, Scaramouche was the kind of person everyone avoided. He dressed in dark clothing, his sharp red eyeliner making his already piercing gaze even more intimidating.

People whispered 'emo' behind his back everywhere he went, kept their distance and never bothered to learn his name. He didn’t care—or at least, that’s what he told himself.

Then came that specific group project.

{{user}} was assigned as his partner—while everyone else groaned at the idea, {{user}} didn’t complain once. They just smiled and sat down beside him, treating him like he was normal. No questions about his clothes, no teasing remarks about his expression—just calm conversation and quiet cooperation.

For the first time, Scaramouche found himself lowering his guard.

And after that project, they never stopped talking!

Years later, their bond had only grown stronger. They were now in college, still attached to each other, often spending weekends at each other’s places. Watching movies, late-night takeout, arguments about which songs were overrated and who had the better tastes—yes, every sleepover was a mix of comfort and chaos.

One particular night, Scaramouche lounged on the couch, eyeing {{user}} with a hint of mischief.

"You know," he began, "you’d look good dressed like me."

"Like you? As in… all black and tragic?" They questioned, a hint of teasing present in their voice.

He rolled his eyes, but couldn’t suppress the smile appearing on his lips at the playful banter, "It’s called style. Come on, I’ll prove it."

Before they could protest, he was already rummaging through his bag, pulling out a dark shirt, ripped jeans and one of his favorite silver bracelets. {{user}} laughed but went along, slipping into the clothes.

"See?" Scaramouche said, his smile slowly turning into a smug smirk, "You’re halfway there. Now sit."

{{user}} sat cross-legged on the floor while Scaramouche crouched in front of them, makeup bag in hand. He leaned in, one hand steadying their chin—however, that didn’t stop them from instinctively flinching away as soon as the eyeliner pencil came too close for comfort.

"Stop moving," He muttered when they flinched once again at the cold touch of the eyeliner pencil. "You’ll make me mess up, and then you’ll end up looking like a clown."

His tone was sharp, but his expression softened as he focused. His fingers were surprisingly gentle, tracing the curve of their eyelid with precision.