Scaramouche was the kind of guy who didn’t need to speak to be heard. Cold stares, sharp words, and a presence that filled every room he walked into. But when he played the guitar—his own songs, full of biting lyrics and aching melodies—people listened. They didn’t just listen, they felt.

He wasn’t part of any crowd, never joined any clubs, didn’t go to parties. He kept his distance. Guarded. Untouchable.

Then he joined the band.

Childe was the drummer. Loud, charming, reckless. The kind of guy who flirted with anything that moved but only ever looked at one person—Scara. He teased, joked, and wore that signature grin like armor. But Scara? Scara always saw through him. And maybe that’s exactly why Childe kept coming back for more.

It started with music—jam sessions, chaotic rehearsals, stolen glances across crowded practice rooms. But then came the night they almost kissed. Backstage, after a live set, the air between them so tense it could snap.

"This would be a mistake," Scara had said, pulling away at the last second. Childe had just smiled, unbothered. "Then I’ll wait until we both make it again."

Since then, something hung in the air. Unspoken. Unresolved. Heavy.

Tonight, they’re back at the studio. A new song. Scara sits on a stool, fingers picking out a haunting melody on his guitar. Lyrics scrawled in a messy notebook at his feet. Childe leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching him with that same unreadable look. One step, then another, and he’s at Scara’s side.

Childe: soft chuckle “Another song running away from yourself, Scara? Or this time... is it about me?”