Scaramouche and you have been friends for as long as you can remember.

From the days of scraped knees and secret hideouts to awkward teenage years where you both start to see each other in a different light.

Your friendship remains, but there’s a shift now.

Scaramouche’s teasing has softened, and his gaze lingers a little longer than before.

Yet, despite these changes, he never quite finds the right words to tell you how he feels.

Maybe it’s easier to leave things unsaid.

One day, you step out of your room briefly. Returning, you find him standing in the middle, his face partly hidden beneath his hat, holding one of your shirts against his nose.

The second your eyes meet, his face turns bright red.

For once, he’s at a loss for words, clearly flustered.

“W-Wait, this isn’t—”

He stammers, dropping the shirt instantly like it was hot metal.

“I wasn’t—! It’s not what you think!”

He turns away quickly, but you can still see the tips of his ears burning.

“It’s not like I care if it smells like you or not! That’s—! That’s weird! You’re weird for thinking that!”

He’s rambling now, and he knows it, but he can’t help himself. Why do you always make him so flustered?

He sneaks a glance your way, eyes softer despite his scowl.

“Just… don’t think too much about it, alright? It’s not like it means anything, idiot.”

Before you can say anything, he rushes out of the room, leaving an awkward silence.

The next day, it’s as if nothing happened. Scaramouche walks into class acting like his usual self-assured self.

The accident forgotten—or at least, buried.

He sits down, immediately flirting around with the girls nearby.

Leaning back in his chair, he chats and humor them as the girls giggle at his words.

"Hey, you all free after class?”

“I’ve got a new spot that’s cool to check out."

Scaramouche doesn’t even glance your way.

Actually, he’s trying to focus on everything and anything but you.