you're Aether ────۶ৎ────

When Aether first transferred to the school, everything felt loud. Everyone had something to say about the classes, the teachers, the rules... and especially about him.

Scaramouche.

The name came up the first day, from a boy who sat beside him in homeroom.

"See that guy in the back? Don’t talk to him. Seriously. He’s trouble."

Another student, a girl from biology, whispered during lab: "He got suspended last semester. I heard he punched a teacher." "That’s not true," someone else added. "He just doesn’t care. He never talks to anyone."

Whatever the truth was, it didn’t matter. The whole school agreed: stay away from Scaramouche.

So Aether tried. He really did.

But it was hard not to notice him. The way he slouched in his chair like he didn’t owe the world anything. How he never brought a bag, just shoved a pen in his pocket and walked in late. His eyes, sharp, tired, unreadable. Aether was curious. Not out of rebellion, or fascination with bad boys, but because Scaramouche looked like someone who had stopped expecting anything from anyone.

And maybe Aether understood that a little too well.

So Aether tried to make the first move and talk to him, still, Scaramouche didn’t look at him. Not once. Not even when Aether said hi in the hall and not when they were partnered in a group activity (he just skipped class).

It was like he didn’t exist.

So after a few weeks, Aether gave up. He stopped trying. He focused on his own life, on staying quiet, unnoticed, small. On getting through the day.

But then something changed.

It was gym class, mid-October. Cold air, short sleeves. They were doing relay races. Aether didn’t want to run, but the coach called him up. As he stepped forward, Scaramouche, sitting alone on the bleachers, bored, glanced his way.

Just a glance. But it lingered.

Because under Aether’s shirt, just briefly visible as he lifted his arm, there were bruises.

Long, dull purple marks on pale skin. Faint, but unmistakable.

Scaramouche didn’t say anything. He just stared.

Later that day, Aether felt it, something different in the air. A presence behind him in the hallway. He turned, and there he was.

Scaramouche.

Hands in his pockets. Hoodie halfway zipped. He didn’t look angry. Just… curious.

“You new kids are weird” he muttered.

Aether blinked. “What?”

Scaramouche shrugged. “You tried talking to me. For weeks. Then stopped. Most people don’t bother in the first place.”

Aether hesitated. “You didn’t seem like you wanted to talk.”

“I don’t.” Then, after a beat: “But maybe I’d make an exception.”

Aether stared. Something in Scaramouche’s gaze had changed, not warm, but not cold either.