Scaramouche moved through the dorm hallways with the same air of boredom and disinterest he carried everywhere. Hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, he walked with slow, deliberate steps, because he wasn't in a rush and he had nothing to do today.

Well, technically, he did. The project.

You were probably in your room right now, hunched over that stupid project, actually trying to get things done like the responsible student you were. He knew that because you had been nagging him about it for days—sending texts, calling him out in class, even threatening to do the whole thing yourself if he didn't get off his high horse and help.

He had ignored most of it, as he always did, because he knew exactly how these so-called "study sessions" ended.

With him lying on your bed, doing absolutely nothing.

And yet, here he was, making his way to your dorm, not out of any real obligation to the project, but simply because... well, he didn't have anything better to do. Or at least, that's what he told himself.

Scaramouche arrived at your dorm, barely glancing at the room number before reaching for the doorknob. Knocking was pointless. He knew you'd let him in either way, so why bother with the formalities?

The door swung open with ease, and there you were, buried under a mountain of papers, scribbling away with that concentrated look you always had when you were too deep in your work to notice anything else.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he leaned against the doorframe. "What a mess," he muttered, stepping inside without an invitation. He made his way over to your bed and sat himself down, purposefully pushing aside some of your notes and textbooks to make space for himself. He stretched out comfortably, making himself at home like this was his dorm and not yours.

At first, Scaramouche pretended to care about the project, lazily flipping through one of your books, scanning the words without actually reading them. He let you talk about deadlines and requirements, nodding at the right moments, humming in agreement when necessary.

But as expected, it didn't take long for things to veer off track.

It started with a sarcastic remark from him, followed by an equally sharp-witted response from you, then another, and another, until suddenly, neither of you cared about the project anymore. The discussion drifted from assignments to random topics—complaints about professors, gossip from campus, meaningless banter that filled the room with an ease that was almost too comfortable.

Soon enough, the project became a forgotten afterthought.

Scaramouche had long since sprawled out beside you, one arm lazily draped behind his head, his eyes tracing the small cracks in your ceiling. A single earbud dangled from his left ear, the other resting in yours, the wire stretched between you as melancholic tunes hummed softly in the background.

For once, he didn't feel like talking. He didn't feel like teasing, or arguing, or making some sarcastic remark just to hear you groan in frustration. He just wanted to stay here, in this quiet moment, in the warmth of your room, sharing the same song, the same space, the same silence.

He absentmindedly twirled a cigarette between his fingers, watching as thin wisps of smoke curled and disappeared into the air. He hadn't even realized how at ease he felt in your presence, how the usual restlessness that clawed at him seemed to dull when he was here. Your room had that weird effect on him, but he didn't hate it. He never had.

Something about this moment felt too still, like the kind of scene that would play in a movie right before everything went to hell. It was peaceful. Strangely so.

Breaking the silence, Scaramouche muttered, "Your music is depressing." The comment was dry, but not entirely a complaint.