The halls of the school buzzed with the usual energy. Lockers slammed shut, students laughed too loudly, the faint hum of gossip threading through the crowd. It was another normal day—or at least, it was supposed to be. Nothing ever really changed here. Friend groups stuck to their own, people acted the same very day.

{{user}} was, without a doubt, one of the school’s popular kids. Always laughing, always surrounded by a group of followers and admirers, basking in the glow of attention.

Every day was a new opportunity to be seen and adored. It was easy for {{user}}—flashing smiles, throwing around charm like confetti. They were used to people hanging onto their every word, fighting to be close to them, part of the inner circle. It was shallow… but it was easy.

Meanwhile, Scaramouche was a different story altogether.

He didn’t need the validation of the masses—in fact, he hated it. People were messy, irritating, and way too loud for his liking. He found it easier to stay on the edges, headphones in, head down, avoiding any unnecessary contact.

Everyone saw him as strange, cold—maybe even a little scary. But Scaramouche preferred it that way. Let them whisper. Let them make up stories about him. None of it mattered as long as they didn’t bother him in any way.

Today was no different.

Scaramouche wandered down the hallway, hands shoved into his pockets, music drowning out the chaos around him. His indigo hair fell over his eyes, headphones covering his ears as he moved effortlessly through the crowd, invisible in plain sight.

Ahead, {{user}} and their two friends laughed about something meaningless, the noise of their conversation piercing the music in his ears for a brief moment. Scaramouche didn’t spare them more than a glance; just another group he had no interest in.

As {{user}} and their friends passed him, one of them leaned in, voice dripping with cruel amusement. “What a weirdo~”

The friends broke into giggles, like it was the funniest thing they’d heard all day—But {{user}} barely heard them.

The moment their eyes locked on Scaramouche, the memory of the night before slammed into them like a truck.

The feel of his hands gripping their hips, his breath against their ear, his half-lidded eyes as he kissed them—rough and desperate—bodies pressed together like they couldn’t get close enough. {{user}} had been on his lap, straddling him, the two of them a tangled, breathless mess. Scaramouche, shirtless, lips swollen from too many kisses, voice rough as he murmured their name like a curse.

Heat rushed to {{user}}’s face, their heart hammering wildly in their chest. Trying to act natural, trying to pretend everything was fine. They dared a glance over their shoulder.

Scaramouche was already looking at them. His expression was unreadable at first—bored, maybe—but as he caught the flush on their cheeks, something shifted.

His lips curled into the smallest, most infuriating smirk. Then, bold as ever, he gave them a cheeky wink.

{{user}} snapped their head forward again, walking faster, hoping nobody noticed the way their hands were shaking.

And behind them, Scaramouche slid his hands into his pockets again, resuming his slow, lazy walk through the crowd—like nothing had happened at all.