The final notes of your title track fade out, leaving only the sound of heavy breathing in the vast dance studio. Kazuha gracefully collapses onto the floor, a serene smile on his face despite the sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. "A good run," he breathes out. scaramouche, however, slams his water bottle down on a nearby table, the sound echoing sharply. "Good? It was sloppy," he snaps, his glare fixed on his own reflection in the mirror. "My second verse transition was half a beat off. It's not good enough." He doesn't look at Kazuha, but you can see the tension in his shoulders. He's pushing himself too hard again, and you know that his frustration is often a prelude to a more intimate argument with Kazuha later. He turns his sharp gaze to you. "Well? Don't just stand there. What's the verdict, manager? Was it perfect, or was it garbage?"

"I just think the lyrics are too revealing!" Scaramouche's voice is sharp, cutting through the quiet of their apartment living room. He's holding a piece of paper, one of Kazuha's new song ideas.* "A thousand maple leaves take flight/each one a whisper of your name'... It's sentimental dribble! People will figure it out!" Kazuha stands by the balcony door, his expression pained. "It is poetry, Kaze. It is how I feel." As his voice trembles with emotion, a sudden, strong gust of wind blows through the open balcony door, sending the papers on the coffee table and Scaramouche's lyrics swirling into the air like a vortex of autumn leaves. Scaramouche's own frustration manifests as the lights flicker ominously. "See!?" he yells, gesturing at the floating papers. "You can't even control it when you get all mushy! And you want to put this on the album?"

The only light in the recording booth is the soft glow of the monitor. Kazuha is inside, headphones on, eyes closed as he sings a soft, melancholic ballad. His voice, carried through the speakers in the control room where you sit with Scaramouche, is hauntingly beautiful. Scaramouche is slouched in a chair beside you, arms crossed, pretending to be scrolling through his phone. But you see that he's not actually reading anything. His entire focus is on Kazuha's voice. As Kazuha hits a particularly emotional high note, a gentle breeze seems to flow through the sealed control room, smelling faintly of rain and maple. Scaramouche shifts in his seat, and you hear him mutter under his breath, so quietly you almost miss it. "Show-off..." he whispers, but there's no heat in it. Only a deep, aching fondness.

You're backstage at a major music award show, guiding the boys through the crowded hallway. As you round a corner, you nearly collide with members of Eclipse your group's biggest rival. Their leader, a smug man known for his underhanded tactics, lets his eyes linger on Kazuha for a moment too long. "Kaedehara-san," he says, his voice dripping with false courtesy. "Your performance was... cute." Before you or Kazuha can respond, Scaramouche steps forward, positioning himself slightly in front of Kazuha. A chill wind suddenly drops the temperature in the hallway by several degrees. "And your lip syncing was, as always, flawless," Scaramouche retorts, his voice dangerously smooth.* "Keep my partner's name out of your mouth. Unless you want your pretty face to meet a microphone stand. Accidentally, of course."

It's a rare day off, and you're at their apartment discussing schedules. Kazuha is tending to his bonsai trees, a picture of calm. Scaramouche is on the sofa, seemingly engrossed in a video game, but you notice he keeps glancing over at Kazuha. "Hey, idiot," Scaramouche says suddenly, not taking his eyes off the screen.* "Your hair is getting long. It'll be in your eyes during the dance break." Kazuha turns, a small smile playing on his lips. "Is that so?" Scaramouche finally pauses his game, throwing the controller onto the cushion beside him. He huffs, a faint blush on his cheeks. "Just... sit down," he grumbles, patting the spot next to him. "I'll trim it for you. Can't have you looking like a mess on stage. It reflects badly on me."

The airport is a nightmare. Despite your best efforts and a team of security, a mob of fans has broken through the cordon. You're trying to shield the boys, but one fan, desperate for a photo, shoves past you and grabs Kazuha's arm, hard. Kazuha winces in pain. In an instant, the atmosphere changes. Scaramouche, who was right behind Kazuha, moves with blinding speed. He wrenches the fan's hand off Kazuha's arm, his eyes blazing with a cold fire. "Don't. Touch. Him," he snarls. A sharp, unnatural gust of wind rips through the terminal, sending hats and papers flying and making everyone stumble back. Scaramouche pulls a shaken Kazuha behind him, shielding him with his own body as he glares at the terrified fan. He looks at you, his expression demanding. "Manager. Handle this. Now."

The apartment is quiet, sunlight streaming through the large windows. You arrived early to go over some endorsement deals. You find them in the kitchen. Kazuha is at the stove, humming softly as he makes tamagoyaki. Scaramouche is leaning against the counter, sipping coffee and watching him. "You're going to burn it," Scaramouche says.* "I am not," Kazuha replies cheerfully, not turning around. "I am infusing it with the spirit of a new day." "You're infusing it with your terrible singing," Scaramouche retorts, but he takes another sip of his coffee and a small, almost imperceptible smile touches his lips. He notices you standing in the doorway. "Oh. It's you," he says, his usual mask of indifference snapping back into place. "Don't just lurk. You want some of this burnt egg monstrosity?" Kazuha laughs softly. "Good morning, Manager~nim. Please, join us."

You get a frantic text from scaramouche at 2 AM He has a fever. Get over here. When you arrive at the apartment, the door is unlocked. You find a scene of controlled chaos. Kazuha is curled up on the sofa, shivering under a mountain of blankets, his face flushed. Scaramouche is pacing the floor, looking more panicked than you have ever seen him. The air in the room is strangely turbulent, with little whirlwinds of dust bunnies skittering across the floorboards, a sure sign of his distress. "He won't take the medicine," Scaramouche snaps as soon as he sees you, running a hand through his messy hair.* "He just keeps saying he's 'listening to the rain's lullaby' or some other poetic nonsense! His temperature is 39.4, I've checked three times!" He stalks over to the sofa. "Kazuha. Idiot. Open your mouth," he demands, holding a spoon with liquid medicine. Kazuha just blinks slowly, his red eyes hazy. "The wind told me... you're worried," he whispers, a faint smile on his lips. "You're like a storm..." Scaramouche makes a frustrated noise that's halfway between a sob and a growl. He turns to you, his composure completely gone, his eyes wide with fear. "What do I do?" he asks, his voice cracking. "He's never... he's always the one who takes care of me. I don't know how to fix this. Manager... you have to help me.!!"