[BEST FRIEND] Scaramouche

The clock on Scaramouche’s wall had passed midnight a while ago.

Neither of you had acknowledged it.

Your textbooks were still open across the coffee table, pages covered in highlighted passages and increasingly questionable annotations. A half-finished set of flashcards sat between you, abandoned somewhere around the point where you had both decided that knowing the difference between two nearly identical theories was apparently a problem for future you.

At least, that was what you had told yourselves.

“Read that again.”

You blinked at Scaramouche from your spot on the floor.

“You’re the one who wrote it.”

“I know.”

“Then why do you need me to read it?”

“Because your handwriting is somehow worse than mine.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Then you both burst out laughing.

It was stupid. Completely stupid.

But that had been happening a lot lately.

Ever since the two of you had been shoved together during Fresher’s Week for one of those painfully awkward group activities neither of you had wanted to participate in, you’d somehow become inseparable.

You hadn’t even liked him at first.

Well—like wasn’t quite the right word.

Scaramouche had seemed irritating.

Arrogant. Sarcastic. Impossible.

He’d taken one look at your group’s icebreaker worksheet and immediately announced that he wasn’t participating because it was ‘socially engineered torture’.

You had laughed.

He had glared at you.

And somehow, a few months later, you were sitting cross-legged on his living room floor at one in the morning, surrounded by enough university textbooks to qualify as a small library.

Funny how things worked.

“You’re staring.”

Your voice pulled him from his thoughts.

Scaramouche’s eyes flicked toward you.

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“I was thinking.”

“About?”

“Nothing.”

You narrowed your eyes.

He rolled his eyes.

“You’re annoying.”

“You say that every day.”

“And yet you keep coming over.”

You smiled.

“Maybe I like annoying you.”

“Hm.”

His answer was quieter than usual.

You tilted your head.

Scaramouche had always been difficult to read. Even now, after months of knowing him, there were moments when you couldn’t tell what was going on behind those indigo eyes.

But tonight, something seemed different.

Maybe it was the hour.

His usual sharpness had dulled around the edges. His shoulders weren’t held as rigidly, his expression wasn’t constantly twisted into that familiar look of mild irritation, and his voice had become softer without him seeming to notice.

He looked tired.

Not just physically.

There was something almost peaceful about him tonight.

You shifted closer, resting your chin against your palm.

“You’re tired.”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I’m perfectly awake.”

“You just stared at the same paragraph for five minutes.”

“I was contemplating it.”

“You were falling asleep.”

“I was not.”

You laughed softly.

“Sure.”

And that was precisely when it happened.

He looked at you.

Really looked at you.

Not the passing glances he’d grown accustomed to stealing when you weren’t paying attention. Not the quick looks he’d dismiss whenever you caught him.

This time, he let himself stare.

Your face was softer beneath the warm light of his apartment. Your hair was slightly messy from repeatedly running your fingers through it while studying. There was a faint crease between your brows from concentrating earlier, and your eyes were beginning to droop with exhaustion.

You looked comfortable.

You looked safe.

You looked like you belonged here.

With him.

The thought arrived so naturally that Scaramouche almost didn’t notice it.

With me.

His chest tightened.

He frowned.

That was strange.

Very strange even.

He looked down at his textbook. Why had that thought even occurred to him?

You were his friend.

His closest friend, admittedly.

The person he texted whenever something mildly interesting happened. The person he automatically looked for whenever he entered a lecture hall. The person who had somehow acquired a permanent place on his sofa despite never actually being invited to stay that long.

But still.

A friend.

That was all.

Obviously.

“You okay?”

He looked up.

You were watching him again.

“Fantastic.”

“You look like you’re thinking really hard.”

“I’m thinking about how much I hate university.”

“You love university.”

“I hate the people in it.”

“You like me.” You hummed with an almost prideful smile.

He froze.

You said it so casually.

Like it was obvious.

Like it wasn’t something that could make his brain completely short-circuit.

“I tolerate you.”

You smiled.

“That’s basically a confession from you.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

You laughed again, and Scaramouche felt that strange warmth return to his chest.

He hated it.

He hated how easily you could make him feel like this.

How he’d started memorising the little things about you without meaning to.

The way you always drank your water before studying.

The way you hummed when you were focused.

The way you’d unconsciously lean toward him whenever you were tired.

The way you’d call his name when you wanted his attention.

He knew all of it.

And apparently, he’d been paying far too much attention.

Scaramouche sighed and leaned back against the sofa.

“Come here.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“You’re falling asleep.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re literally swaying.”

“I am not.”

You tried to sit straighter.

You failed.

He gave you an unimpressed look.

“Exactly.”

You laughed sleepily and shifted closer, eventually resting against the side of the sofa beside him.

Your head tipped against his shoulder.

Scaramouche went completely still.

He could feel the warmth of you through his shirt.

For once, he didn’t have a sarcastic remark ready.

You were already half-asleep.

“You’re comfortable,” you murmured.

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Mhm.”

A pause.

Then, barely audible, “Thanks for letting me stay.”

His expression softened.

“…Yeah.”

He looked down at you.

Your eyes were closed now.

And for some reason, the sight made something ache quietly inside him.

He should have moved.

He knew he should have.

Instead, he stayed exactly where he was.

His head rested against the sofa, his gaze lingering on you as the room fell quiet.

The textbooks could wait.

The exams could wait.

Everything could wait.

Because somewhere between Fresher’s Week and countless late-night study sessions, Scaramouche had apparently made a terrible mistake.

He had fallen for his best friend.

And judging by the way his heart refused to calm down whenever you smiled at him—

he was beginning to suspect he’d been falling for you for a long time.

“You’re staring again,” you murmured with sleep.

He scoffed softly, “Don’t flatter yourself so much.”