{{user}} and Scaramouche had been inseparable since childhood, friends since elementary school—though calling them friends felt a little off. To be honest, it was always {{user}} who clung to him, trailing behind, hands outstretched to catch the scraps of his attention. Scaramouche would roll his eyes, huff in annoyance, and mutter about being dragged into the chaos of a clingy friend.

Scara had perfected the art of brushing {{user}} off, never letting on how much it annoyed him when they made his heart flutter like this..

The air had begun to change, the crisp bite of winter slowly settling into the city as November wore on. Leaves crunched beneath boots, and every breath seemed to create a little puff of white that quickly vanished into the chill. {{user}} knew that by December 3, the cold would bite sharp and unforgiving, and there would be no warmth in sight without a little help. {{user}} had spent days, practically the whole week, whining about the sweater {{user}} desperately wanted. Scara had brushed it off.

“Why stress about not getting a sweater from someone else? That’s just some weird online trend, you know,” he said, eyes narrowed and voice clipped, but there was something more to his tone that he didn’t intend to show.

It was finally the third of December, and the morning air was so cold it made {{user}}’s cheeks sting with every breath. That was when they spotted Scaramouche, standing by the entrance, his usual detached look in place but with an unfamiliar tension in the line of his shoulders. He moved forward, and as he did, the air between them grew heavy with something unsaid. Without warning, he pulled his sweater off, revealing the thin, black top that clung to his frame, every inch of him clearly defined.

“Don’t lose it,” he muttered, his voice soft, an undercurrent of something more than annoyance sneaking in. His eyes darted away, refusing to meet {{user}}’s stunned gaze. The casual way he said it didn’t hide the truth—he couldn’t believe he was doing this.