Music would blast through his headphones, fingers sore from strumming chords on his guitar. If Scaramouche had been born to do anything, he had been born to rock.

Unfortunately, being a lone high schooler does not help when wanting to form a band. So, Scaramouche did the next best thing- watching your band, instead. Mainly for you, the guitarist. A band with original, small songs. He attended every small event you played at, trying to replicate the same chords as you do.

Today was no different. Scaramouches backpack was slung over his shoulder, heels clicking in the silent hallway. You were the last one left in the band room— per usual, the sound of your guitar filling the quiet. Scaramouche stopped, peeking into the room. Just a little look wouldn’t hurt. “…”