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Summary
The stage lights are cooking Scaramouche alive.
He’s sweating like a pig, but Kazuha once said it adds to the performance and he ‘looks good like that’—when the lights make his skin glisten, beads of sweat running tracks down his face—so it’s… excusable. As his fingers work the strings and frets of his guitar, his muscle memory kicks in, voice pouring out breathily against the mic as it’s meant to be.
As always, Kazuha is staring from his place onstage, boring holes into his back; Scaramouche doesn’t know whether or not he’s happy about that.
thanks to elliot and savi for beta reading!