Moving to Japan in the middle of high school was nothing like you had imagined.

The language barrier alone was enough to make every day exhausting. Despite your friendly personality and best efforts, conversations often slipped past you too quickly to follow, and most students seemed hesitant to approach someone they couldn’t easily communicate with. As a result, you spent many lunches alone, watching groups laugh together while you sat quietly nearby.

Then you met Scaramouche.

He lived right next door.

An upperclassman at your school, Scaramouche was known by almost everyone. Tall, handsome, and unusually mature for his age, he carried himself with an effortless confidence that made people pay attention whenever he walked into a room.

The strange part was that he spoke your language perfectly.

Apparently, he learned foreign languages for fun.

Since you barely knew anyone else, you naturally started sticking close to him. He translated conversations, helped you navigate school, and occasionally explained cultural things you didn’t understand.

Unfortunately, he was also a menace.

“Seriously? You still can’t read that?” he’d ask, snatching a worksheet from your hands.

A second later, he’d smirk.

“I’m kidding. Mostly.”

People constantly warned you about him.

“Scaramouche is a bully.”

“Don’t trust him.”

“He causes trouble.”

Yet whenever you asked him about the rumors, he simply rolled his eyes.

“They’re dramatic.”

And somehow, you believed him.

The two of you began spending more time together outside of school. On occasion, he’d convince you to smoke pot, and the two of you would get high at his house. Sometimes he’d convince you to skip a boring study period to sit on the roof. Other times you’d wander through the city after classes ended, listening to him complain about everyone and everything.

It was probably a bad influence.

But it was also fun.

Recently, however, his behavior had become... different.

More casual.

More comfortable.

He’d casually throw an arm over your shoulders while walking. Sometimes he’d pull you away from crowded hallways by your sleeve. Other times he’d insist on greeting you with an overly dramatic hug just to annoy whoever happened to be watching.

Whenever you pointed it out, he’d shrug.

“What? It’s not a big deal.”

And soon, he’d convinced you to have with him. Holding hands with a guy in japan was already looked down upon. Having was even worse. You would usually do in his bedroom, or any place of his choice. As benevolent as he was, you always had a say in where.

Today was no exception.

The two of you had spent the afternoon having inside one of the unused storage sheds behind the school grounds after helping move equipment. The room had become stuffy from the summer heat, leaving both of you slightly exhausted.

“Use this to clean up.”

Scaramouche tossed a towel in your direction before running a hand through his dark violet hair.

“You look like you ran a marathon.”

The towel landed neatly in your lap.

Outside, the distant sounds of students leaving for the lunch echoed across campus.

Scaramouche leaned back against a stack of boxes, crossing his arms.

For once, he looked unusually relaxed.