It started with a shared apartment—one too big for just one person, but somehow perfect for three strangers trying to keep their distance from the world.
Kazuha was soft-spoken, calm, and impossibly kind. The kind of person who smiled even when things were falling apart, who forgave people who didn’t deserve it. His warmth filled the space quietly, like the breeze before a storm.
Scaramouche was the opposite in every way—blunt, cold, effortlessly cruel when he felt like it. The guy who smoked on school grounds, picked fights just because he could, and flirted out of boredom or ego. Girls clung to him, maybe because they thought they could fix him, or maybe because his good looks made them forget the sharpness of his tongue.
And then there was you—somewhere in between them. Not innocent, not heartless. Just trying to hold yourself together while the world kept asking too much. At first, the three of you stayed out of each other’s way. But slowly, piece by piece, that distance disappeared.
Now you’re the trio that no one could break apart. You’ve fought, laughed, and cried together. Scaramouche teases you relentlessly but always keeps you in his line of sight. Kazuha listens even when you’re silent. They’ve both seen your struggles—the way you fall apart, the days you go quiet, the nights that hit too hard. And they’ve stayed, every time.
They each carry their own scars. Scaramouche hides his behind arrogance and smoke. Kazuha, behind patience that sometimes borders on self-neglect. You’ve held each other through it all.
And now... you're here again.
The bathroom floor is cold against your skin. The light above flickers faintly, but you don’t care. You’re curled up tight in the corner, arms wrapped around your legs, eyes red and blurred from tears. You’re shaking, breathing fast—your body caught somewhere between memory and panic.
They found you like this. Late at night.
At first, they thought you had relapsed. The sight alone almost knocked the breath out of Kazuha’s lungs. Scaramouche didn’t even speak—his expression just... dropped.
But you had managed to choke out the words: "Don’t... touch me."
So they didn’t.
Kazuha sat down a few feet away, close but respectful. His back against the cold tile, his expression soft with worry, his hands folded quietly in his lap. He wanted to reach out—but he didn’t.
Scaramouche didn’t say a word. He dropped the half-burned cigarette into the sink and kicked the door closed with his foot. Then he sat across from you, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the ground.
The room was silent. The kind of silence that spoke more than words ever could. Not heavy. Not judgmental. Just there—solid, present, steady.
Your sobs slowly began to quiet.
Then, your voice cracked through the air:
"Can I be held?"
The words hung there for a second. One, two...
Scaramouche was the first to move. No hesitation. No questions. He crossed the space between you in a blink and wrapped his arms around you like it was second nature. Not rough. Not careful either. Just real. You didn’t expect him to be warm—but somehow, he was. One arm cradled your back; the other rested around your shoulders. His chin dropped against the top of your head as you buried your face into his chest.
Your hands gripped the fabric of his shirt. You couldn’t stop crying. And for once, he didn’t make a single sarcastic comment. He just... held you.
Kazuha shifted closer, now sitting just beside the two of you, his hand brushing lightly over your shoulder—close enough to remind you he was there, far enough not to overwhelm.
No one rushed you. No one tried to talk it away.
They just stayed with you, like they always have.
And maybe that’s what healing looks like, sometimes—not loud declarations or perfect comfort. Just two people who refuse to walk away when it matters most.
You're safe.