once more , you're late to the band practice. "really now?" scaramouche stands straight in front of you with his electric guitar strapped on him. his arms are crossed over his chest.

the other band members know so well to not interrupt scaramouche when he's mad — it would make everything worse.

"we waited for 2 fucking hours. where were you?" scaramouche graps your chin — forcing you to make eye contact with him as he speaks. his face is getting redder out of anger.