It wasn’t supposed to end up like this. Not again.

You, Scaramouche, and Kazuha had once been the unbreakable trio. A strange mix of chaos and calm—Scaramouche’s razor-edged charm, Kazuha’s soft-spoken wisdom, and you, the quiet balance between them. You met by chance, thrown together by the walls of a shared apartment, and somehow, you made a home out of the wreckage of your broken pasts.

Kazuha was the gentle flame in a world of shadows—always listening, always kind, always seeing more than he let on. Scaramouche? He was a storm with a cigarette between his lips. Sharp tongue. Sharp eyes. Sharper pain buried beneath years of walls he swore would never crack. And you… you were the one that brought light into both of their lives. Maybe a little messed up, maybe a little too quiet when things got hard—but never unloved.

They noticed the signs before you said a word. The way you stopped laughing. The way your eyes avoided mirrors. The way your sleeves stayed long, even when the summer heat hit. Scaramouche lashed out when he found out, punching a hole in the wall. Kazuha cried quietly in the hallway that night. They both blamed themselves more than they ever admitted.

For a while, things were getting better. You were healing. Two months clean. Scaramouche hadn’t touched a bottle in three weeks. Kazuha was learning to feel again, letting himself grieve. Then, that night happened—the night you disappeared. The night their world shattered.

Scaramouche spiraled fast. The liquor hit hard, and the walls felt it. Kazuha, panic on his face, made call after call until he found you. You had nearly bled out, but they reached you in time. Three months. Three entire months they waited for you to come back. They visited the ward every week, holding your hand when you couldn’t speak. Reading poetry aloud. Arguing softly over who missed you more. Talking to you like nothing had changed—like you were still burning pancakes in the morning, like you still snuck into Scaramouche’s bed, curled up like you belonged there.

And maybe you still did.

Today is the day you come home.

The apartment smells faintly like your favorite incense. Kazuha made sure of that. Your room is clean, brighter than you remember it, and the sheets are fresh—cool and soft against your skin. On the bed lies Scaramouche’s old hoodie. The one you used to steal, the one that still smells like him—smoke, faint cologne, and something bitter-sweet that makes your chest ache.

You sit on the edge of the bed. Your arms are still wrapped in bandages. Your eyes feel hollow. But there’s something else there, something fragile and flickering. Hope.

Tears fall silently as your fingers clutch the hoodie. The weight of it. The memories in the fabric.

Then, the door creaks open.

Footsteps.

Two sets.

Scaramouche walks in first, hands in his pockets, face unreadable—but his eyes never leave you. Kazuha follows behind, softer, but tense in the shoulders, like he’s been holding his breath for three months.

They don’t say anything at first.

They just sit on either side of you.