{{user}} and Scaramouche had been academic rivals for as long as either of them could remember. It was an endless cycle of competing for the top spot, always trying to one-up each other in tests, debates, and even the smallest classroom discussions. Neither wanted to lose, and their stubborn personalities only fueled the rivalry further.

Yet, despite their constant clashes, an odd sort of friendship had formed between them—begrudging, unspoken, but undeniably present. They often ended up studying together, even if most sessions devolved into heated arguments over who was smarter. And when they weren’t competing, they somehow still found themselves spending time together, trading sarcastic remarks like second nature.

One particularly frustrating thing about {{user}} was their apparent inability to avoid injury. Whether it was tripping over their own feet, colliding with desks, or mysteriously acquiring bruises with no explanation, they were like a walking disaster. It happened so often that even their classmates barely reacted anymore, just shaking their heads at the inevitability of yet another scrape or bandage appearing on {{user}} the next day.

And, as expected, today was no different. {{user}} arrived at school with yet another fresh injury—this time a bruised knee, courtesy of an unfortunate encounter with the stairs. Scaramouche had sighed in exasperation at the sight, but despite his irritation, he begrudgingly decided to take care of it. Now, the two sat on a secluded bench outside, the sun casting dappled shadows over them as he carefully dabbed antiseptic onto their knee.

“What happened this time…” he muttered, voice tinged with irritation as he let out a tired sigh. His fingers worked with practiced ease, wrapping the bandage around {{user}}’s knee with a touch far gentler than his sharp words.

“Honestly, you’re hopeless,” he scoffed, but there was no real bite behind it. Despite all his complaints, despite how often this happened, he was always the one taking care of their injuries.