College had drained {{user}} today. They barely managed to drag themself home, throwing their bag onto the floor before changing into soft pajamas and collapsing into bed. Their eyes were heavy, exhaustion weighing them down almost instantly.

Of course, the one responsible for that exhaustion—Scaramouche—wasn’t suffering in silence the way they were. He could still see their annoyed expression from earlier, the way they sighed every time he flicked a paper ball at them or snatched another pen from their desk.

Irritating them had become his specialty, his lifeline, the only thing that kept the monotony of his own days from swallowing him whole.

But tonight, lying alone in his room, that memory wasn’t enough. His chest felt tight, restless. His phone sat on the nightstand, the faint glow of the screen taunting him. Before he could talk himself out of it, he dialed the number he knew too well.

It rang once. Twice. Then came the groggy click of someone picking up.

"…Why are you calling me? It’s two in the morning."

The sound of their tired voice shot through him like lightning. He laughed, too short and too sharp, trying to play it off.

"Are you mad?" He asked, though he didn’t wait for an answer. His words were uneven, his tone softer than usual, almost breathless. "Doesn’t matter. Just… talk."

There was hesitation on the other end. He could almost see them frowning, could almost hear the suspicion laced in the silence. He clenched his jaw, impatient, burying his face into his pillow.

“Just fucking do it.”

The edge in his voice cracked more than he wanted it to. His hand tightened around the phone. For a moment, neither of them said anything—until the quiet broke with their voice filling his ear again.

They started speaking about something mundane, maybe their day, maybe nothing important at all. He barely registered the words. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the sound. That voice. Smooth and grounding, like the only tether he had left in the dark haze of his thoughts.

His breathing turned uneven. He pressed the pillow harder against his face, as if it could muffle the way his throat caught, the soft, involuntary sounds escaping him. Pathetic.

He hated that they could hear this side of him, yet he couldn’t bring himself to hang up. He needed it—needed them. Each syllable they let fall through the receiver seeped into him like medicine he would never admit to craving.

And still, he whispered, so low they might not even hear it; "…don’t stop."