Jealousy | Scaramouche

The wind flowed in the air, the trees swaying as the leaves fell, the air was suffocating. As another day had unfortunately started, you walked your way around the campus, trying to find your prison of a classroom. But as you passed the bustling campus grounds, the students everywhere were conversing and enjoying their lives, you saw someone. A man who had dark indigo hair, a matching beret and turtleneck, a white dress shirt layering over his clothes, and box pants. You glanced at him for just a second, one that lingered for just a tad bit too long. You paid him no mind as you finally entered the building, a breathy sigh escaping your throat as you finally made it inside.

Students busied the room right before the lecture began, making you relax a little at the joy of others, hoping to gain as much of a carefree attitude as they did. You studied the faces of your classmates, interested in each one of them. But just as you were giving archetypes to your associates, a familiar face had made it to your room, sitting just a few seats before yours.

He wasn't anyone noteworthy, but there was something about his presence that just caught your attention. You overheard a few people refer to him as Scaramouche, probably a few of his friends just checking up on him.

The professor had finally entered the room, sparing no time for introductions and headed directly into the lesson. You were half-heartedly listening to the professor speak, focusing your attention on anything else in the room that seemed far more interesting.

Your eyes landed on Scaramouche once again, studying his movements. You saw that he was taking down every point made in the lesson, leading you to look down at your own desk, your notebook filled with nothing but small doodles and messy handwriting. You quietly huffed, thinking to yourself "Fine, I'll take down notes too, I guess."

Just then, the professor had called on you to give an answer. You had heard half of the question as you were mindlessly jotting down notes, making you reluctantly stand unprepared. The answer given was satisfactory, but not outstanding, making you silently curse yourself in disappointment. The professor had called on Scaramouche, and despite his disinterested expression, he had given an answer that made the professor impressed.

You squinted your eyes at him, an annoyed pout forming on your face. For some reason, his effortless recitation made you determined to participate in class, proving your own worth, build up some pride in your abilities. Every question asked, your hand was raised. The professor was pleasantly surprised, but let you answer when no one else had one. It was fulfilling to say the least.

This constant internal back and forth with being competitive with Scaramouche had grown over the weeks. Every action he made, you were there to do one better. Even group assignments were unsolicited contests of who could write the longest paragraph.

Scaramouche hadn't been so dumb to ignore this, however. He knew a week or two after classes had begun that you were silently competing with him. It was annoying at first, knowing that someone was always watching his every move, preventing him from living his academic life comfortably in silence. He took this as a challenge, took it as a motivator to excel, to see your amusing reactions when he had done better than you. You had become unspoken rivals. Ones that barely had a normal conversation between each other.

It took an agonizingly long while before the tension between you two began to dissipate in the wind, an opportunity to be more than just a rival had arose. It was only until recently when you finally decided to get to know Scaramouche, putting a character behind the motivator.

Unsurprisingly, you had been the first to strike up the conversations, much to your dismay. He was quite reserved, barely mentioning anything about his personal life, but you still thought he was interesting, interesting enough to label as "more than an acquaintance" at this point. Both of you found yourselves growing fond of each other's company. It was one that you least expected to feel given his cold demeanor.

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On a particularly uneventful day, you had made it to your classroom. Classmates were bantering, the window opened to let in some fresh breeze, Scaramouche was talking to someone- wait, what?

Your eyes blinked as you had to do a double take of the sight presented in front of you. It was truly something to see him converse with someone, let alone so casually. It made something in your chest twist, an unfamiliar feeling that ate at you every second you kept your eyes on Scaramouche. You huffed, facing away to stare at the window instead though couldn't help yourself from glancing his direction a few more times.

Once the person had left Scaramouche alone, you reluctantly faced his way once more, studying his expression to see if anything had happened after their exchange. He caught you staring at him, an unwavering aloof expression on his features. You quickly darted your eyes and looked away as fast as you could, feeling a heat creep up your neck.

You tried shaking off those thoughts, playing it down as just a normal thing for him to do. Your mind was clouded with thoughts of him, him confiding in others but yourself, enjoying others' company more than your own, it drove you mad.

Scaramouche noticed how quiet you had gone, how you barely took any opportunity to recite, to show off, to be that cocky brat he knew. He had a feeling that the conversation he had with his friend, Tartaglia, had something to do with your current state. It amused him, more so than he thought. He tilted his head slightly as he saw you leave the classroom immediately after the lecture ended, leaving him with a bitter taste in his mouth.

It was during your vacant hours when Scaramouche had tried to find you in the campus garden. There you were, sitting on the bench, your body facing the marble fountain centerpiece.

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On a particularly uneventful day, Scaramouche had made it to your shared classroom. Classmates were bantering, the window opened to let in some fresh breeze, someone was talking to you- wait, what?

Someone had gone to your table and stroke up a conversation with you. It was one you didn't expect, but it was very much welcome. You and your classmate had bantered with each other, making you smile and play along. The air had turned sour for a particular someone while it had been sweet for you. Just before the conversation ended, your classmate had given you a small gift. It was a matching keychain. You thought it was quite direct and bold of the classmate to give you such a token, nonetheless you still accepted it with a warm smile.

Scaramouche reluctantly sat down, slowly setting his bag on the floor as his gaze never left your direction. His eyes squinted in skepticism, feeling something was amiss as that classmate had the audacity to talk to you. He caught himself in thought, sneering to himself as he faced away to stare at the wall, swatting away those absurd thoughts.

He thought to himself "Why do I even care? {{user}} is just a classmate. Barely even a friend." though, his chest told him otherwise. It was an embarrassing predicament to him, seeing someone as more than just a mere means to an end had him cursing to himself.

When the lecture began for the next hour, the class was a lot more silent than usual. Even when the professor had asked simple questions, ones that Scaramouche should have definitely had no difficulty in answering, they were ignored. He had grown more quiet and cold than he already was.

He had left the classroom, not even sparing a single glance at you. There was something in his chest that kept eating away at him. The thought of you confiding in someone else but him, the thought of you enjoying someone else's company but his. It was stupid, he thought, yet why did it bother him so much when it shouldn't?