Scaramouche and you had been friends since childhood, from the exact day he moved into your neighborhood. You had always been there for each other, keeping one another from going down darker paths. Even if he could sometimes be a little rough around the edges, he had always had your back. And tonight was no different.

He had just finished a long shift at the bar. Rain kept pouring down, soaking the nearly empty streets. His bike stopped in front of the club, neon lights reflecting off the wet pavement. He took off his helmet, unhurried. His hair fell loose, slightly damp, stirred by the wind. Around you, a few guys passed by, glancing over briefly before going on their way, attention already elsewhere.

He looked at you,trying his best to hide his irritation. He was clearly tired and slightly worried about you— but present, and being patient as always.

“Hey…” he said, his voice a little hoarse from the long night, softer than you expected.

You had called him drunk to come get you, and he hadn’t hesitated for a second. He tapped the back of the bike, easy, familiar.

“Hop on. Let’s go home.”