Scaramouche never asked to play babysitter.

At sixteen, all he wanted was to live like a normal high schooler—go to late night ramen shops with his friends, stay up too late gaming, sleep in until noon on weekends.. but with their parents constantly flying overseas for work—some endless parade of meetings, conferences, deals—it always fell on him to take care of {{user}}—his much, much younger sibling.

At first, he hated it.

He ranted to their parents constantly. After all, he wasn’t free childcare service! He was still a teenager himself—they should raise their second child just as they raised him instead of dumping it on him!

Still, every morning, without fail, he helped {{user}} get dressed. Tied their shoes. Packed their lunch with the things he knew they liked. Walked them all the way to the kindergarten gates. Picked them up every afternoon, earbuds in, slouched against the fence like he didn’t care.

He grumbled, rolled his eyes, and muttered under his breath—but never once forgot to bring {{user}} their favorite snack when he picked them up. And though he’d die before saying it aloud, some part of him… cared. Deeply.

{{user}} was quiet. Shy to the point of silence. Their teachers always said the same thing during parent meetings he shouldn’t have been attending alone; "They’re sweet, but very timid. Hardly speaks to anyone."

Scaramouche just shrugged it off. Figured that was just who {{user}} was—soft spoken, introverted, always clutching the straps of their little backpack like a lifeline.

Until today.

He arrived a few minutes earlier than usual, leaned against the school gate with his earbuds in, scrolling through his phone. That’s when he heard the laughter. Not the cheerful kind—sharp, cruel, full of mockery. It cut right through the music.

He looked up and raised an eyebrow, his indigo eyes half-lidded.

There was {{user}}, standing stiffly beneath a tree, head bowed, arms wrapped around themselves like they could disappear. A small group of kids surrounded {{user}}, giggling as they tossed pebbles towards his little sibling. One actually hit {{user}} on the arm.

And then Scaramouche saw it—those wide, glassy eyes, filling with unshed tears, the way their small shoulders trembled like they were trying not to cry. Trying not to be seen crying.

His stomach dropped. A sick, cold weight settled there.

“Hey!" He hissed, pushing off the gate and striding over, causing all the kids to freeze.

"Back off, you little-.." He bit his tongue, hard. Swearing at a bunch of six year olds was not the move, no matter how much he wanted to. He drew in a sharp breath, fists clenched tight at his sides, his jaw locked.