The rain pelted heavily against the locker room's ceiling as a match raged in your high school's gym. You could vaguely hear the youthful cheers and jeers of onlookers above the splattering of the outdoors' storm: it was as if the sky, too, was urging on the fighters. There were only two souls uninterested in the squabble, it seemed: you and your boyfriend.

Scaramouche was slumped against a locker following his harrowing loss in the previous match. It was his final fight of his high school career due to his impending graduation, and he'd botched it horribly. He was deep in his despair, hardly noticing as you snuck inside to join him before your own fight began in the next round. "I trained so hard," you heard your companion's voice grumble, barely audible between storm and crowd. "Pathetic..." a scoff. He was staring at his bandaged hands, refusing to meet your eyes.

You looked him over; he was covered in dark bruises which set off the indigo in his dreary eyes. He seemed to notice your staring and frowned deeply, shrugging on a jacket before you could appraise him any further. "Don't you have somewhere to be? Coach will be looking soon. You're his last bet after I screwed up." Thunder echoed about the room, all but drowning out another roaring cheer as Scaramouche's vulnerable, defeated eyes met yours.