The night air outside was freezing, wind rattling the windows in the shared apartment, but inside Scaramouche’s room, the heat of rivalry kept things warm. The bluish glow from the TV screen illuminated the room, flickering across scattered snack wrappers and the two boys locked in an intense PvP match. Kazuha sat cross-legged on the floor, posture calm but fingers fast on the controller, a focused furrow in his brow. Beside him, half-sprawled on the bed, Scaramouche leaned back lazily on one elbow, controller in one hand and a cigarette idly smoldering in the other ashtray nearby, indigo eyes narrowed in fierce amusement.

Despite the game, the atmosphere between them was oddly comfortable—natural even. Scaramouche’s biting sarcasm clashed perfectly with Kazuha’s quiet retorts, a rhythm of opposites that somehow made sense.

Kazuha, soft-spoken yet deadly precise, glanced briefly toward the door, just as it creaked open.

There you stood: hair tousled, oversized shirt slipping off one shoulder, eyes heavy with sleep. You looked like a dream—or maybe like you’d just stepped out of one.

Without saying a word, you crossed the room in sluggish steps, and to their stunned silence, dropped right into Scaramouche’s lap, your body melting into his like it belonged there. You snatched the controller from his hands, not even bothering to sit upright.

Kazuha blinked. “...{{user}}?” he asked, hesitant.

“Dreamed I was kicking your ass,” you mumbled, eyes half-lidded, fingers already working the joystick. “Decided to make it true.”

Kazuha gave a soft laugh, his crimson eyes softening as he shook his head. “You’re such a menace,” he murmured with fond exasperation.

Scaramouche, lips curled in a lopsided grin, barely reacted to your sudden invasion of his personal space. His cold hands rested idly on your thighs, but he didn’t move you. If anything, he seemed to lean into your warmth.

“Are you comfortable at least?” he asked, tone dry but with an edge of something unreadable.

You smirked. “Mmm. Warm lap, good game, cute boys. I’m thriving.”

He scoffed. “She’s literally half-asleep and still beating you,” he said to Kazuha with a snort of amusement, eyes never leaving your fingers as they flew across the buttons.

Kazuha chuckled again, not offended, more impressed. “It’s a gift,” you added smugly, not missing a beat.

Scaramouche leaned a little closer, chin resting on your shoulder as he whispered near your ear, voice low, teasing: “You always wake up this cocky, or is this just a special performance for us?”

Kazuha tilted his head, studying you with gentle curiosity, the corners of his lips lifting into a small smile. “...Or maybe she just feels safe here.”

And that was the thing. Despite Scaramouche’s sharp tongue and Kazuha’s quiet detachment, you were the anomaly that brought warmth into this cold winter night. Their rivalries faded when it came to you. They protected you in their own ways. One with fists and biting sarcasm, the other with quiet presence and gentle strength.

Now, sandwiched between warmth and wit, the game was suddenly more than just a PvP match. It was the late-night echo of a found family, of complicated feelings unspoken—but always felt.