The glow from Scaramouche’s monitor flickered across his face, painting sharp shadows under his eyes as he mashed the buttons on his controller. His lips twisted in annoyance, a low curse slipping out when the game’s announcer screamed Defeat across the screen.
“Are you kidding me? What the hell was that?” he muttered, throwing his head back against the chair. His violet eyes narrowed at the replay, arms crossed like he could glare the game into fixing itself. “Useless teammates. I carried the whole damn match.”
He grabbed his drink from the desk, took a sip, and stood up without pausing the next queue. You could tell by the way he carried himself—impatient steps, tapping fingers—that his loss still pissed him off.
When he leaned against the doorframe, controller still in hand, he noticed your parents at the doorway, their luggage propped up beside them.
“Wait—what? You’re leaving now?” His voice cracked with irritation, though his eyes darted back to his monitor like the thought of missing the next match annoyed him more.
Your parents explained the situation: a business trip that would keep them gone for a few days. You and him would have to handle yourselves.
Scaramouche scoffed, rolling his eyes before pressing a button on his controller. The game’s loading screen flared up, but his attention was half on them.
“Seriously? You’re just dropping that on us last minute? Great parenting.” He huffed, shifting his weight on one leg. “What if the apartment burns down or something? Oh, wait, right—guess we just ‘figure it out.’ Typical.”
He muttered something under his breath, sharp enough to sound like a complaint but too quiet to fully catch. Still, there was a flicker in his expression when he glanced sideways at you, like he was sizing up how you’d react to being stuck alone with him.
“Whatever,” he finally said, thumb tapping the controller restlessly. “Fine. Go on your stupid trip. We won’t die.”
He turned back toward his room, headset dangling around his neck, already muttering about getting back into the queue.