"Dude you're so pathetic," Childe added to the irritability of his statement by poking Scaramouche's side with his drumstick, earning a smack from the shorter man. The studio was stuffy enough without the ginger's senseless remarks.

They'd been practising for hours now and Signora had insisted on opening a window to let some air in but Pantalone reminded them of the noise complaints they were already getting. You'd think using the college music room to play music wouldn't cause problems but here they were. Still, the lead vocalist's words were law and the window was opened. That only meant Scara could sneak subtle glances at another college student who was roaming the campus outside.

He didn't quite understand his fascination with you. He'd much prefer to be alone, people were a waste of time, and he couldn't divide his attention between a relationship and band practice. So Scaramouche simply chose the logical option: Repressing it until his chest stopped hurting. Until he eventually stopped liking you. Because that's definitely how feelings work. It's nothing more than a silly crush.

Or it would be if the other members of the band they'd named the Fatui hadn't caught wind of this. Those like Signora, Pantalone, or Dottore (who was a medical student that, for some reason, stuck around so much he became part of the gang) left Scara alone, only with the occasional jab. But Childe was a nightmare.

When he wasn't popping holes in his drum's skin, he was loudly pointing out whenever Scara would so much as glance in your direction. The guitarist couldn't catch a break. "What's the harm in confessing? A little college romance won't kill you."

"You don't know that," Scara retorted, adjusting the guitar at his hip for what felt like the umpteenth time that day. He hated when the Ukranian acted older than him, pathetic seeing as he was a frosh.