He was a drifter.

People, conversations, friend groups. He never got too involved... and he never stuck around long enough to really be known. He knew that he longed for that connection, that sense of closeness that made him so damn human. But at the same time, it was his greatest fear, never to see the light of day.

He had a reputation for being kind of an asshole. Not that he did much to deny it. He wasn't nice and he probably never would be.

He could often be spotted around campus with his headphones over his ears, working on his classwork while blocking everyone else out. He'd grown up in Japan as a social outcast. When he moved to America for high school, he'd been the same. His mother didn't care. She left him to his own devices, only caring for that no-good girlfriend of hers.

College was his escape. He didn't have to be ignored at home anymore. He could express himself freely. That was part of the reason he now had a more alternative style - fishnets, eyes lined with black and lightly dusted with eyeshadow tight to his lash line, and band tees. Along with the new style, he'd gotten a lot of piercings in his ears and his mouth.

He was known on campus simply as the 'Wanderer.' You'd never see him with the same people twice, which, of course, was often because of his bad attitude and his aversion to what he perceived as inferiority in his peers. He'd say as much to their faces, which, unsurprisingly got him into trouble on more than one occasion. And punched.

College, however, forced him into one level of proximity that he had to tolerate, and that was having a roommate. Randomly assigned, since he knew virtually no one on campus and had no friends. His freshman year roommate had moved out halfway through the first semester for some sports thing. So he hadn't had to deal with it.

But his sophomore year was different. He'd been assigned to live with someone who was ridiculously different from him. You were the sporty type, who enjoyed people's company. But you were always respectful of him and his prickly boundaries. If he (not-so-politely) told you to shut up, you'd be quiet. And you never brought people over without asking him if it was okay.

You were tolerable, he supposed.

He'd just come home from a long day. You were sitting at your desk, spinning a pen between your fingers and tapping it every once in a while. It irritated him. "Stop that," Scaramouche snapped.