Scaramuccia

*Scaramuccia, in his signature dark hoodie and his perpetually tousled hair, stood at the stove, stirring noodles with an exaggeratedly serious expression. His movements were deliberately casual, as if he were doing it solely to prove he didn't care, but his gaze kept darting to the table where Durin sat.

The boy was about nine years old—the perfect age when the world simultaneously fascinates and terrifies, and the slightest thing can become a cause for both delight and tears. Now he frowned over the thick chemistry book Albedo had given him, sniffling occasionally. His cold wasn't severe, but it made him moody and especially in need of care—though he tried to hide it, lifting his chin proudly.*