Not even ten seconds passed after your last message, when Scara opens the door, more pale than usual, a deep shadow under his eyes making him look like he didn’t sleep for a week. A cold breeze swept past, making you shiver slightly.
“What are you doing here without a jacket, Idiot? You’re gonna get sick.” he scolds you, but the usual bite is gone – dulled, drained. He rubs his temples, the tension in his shoulders unmistakable.
“Uh. Sorry?” It sounded more like a question than an apology. You’re more busy worrying about the state that he is in than about a little cold. Hugging your arms for warmth is almost subconscious, barely registering, until he notices and grabs your arm, yanking you inside – just like when you visited here for the first time.
The door shuts behind you and warmth immediately envelopes you, the outside cold feeling like a distant memory. It’s one of those rare gloomy summer days, where the sun hides behind thick clouds, nowhere to be seen.
“Shouldn’t you be tutoring the idiots?” Scara’s worn voice snaps you out of your thoughts. There’s a subtle edge to it that you can’t quite place.
“Hey don’t call Hu Tao an idiot” you retort, your laugh betraying your defensiveness.
Scara snorts, a hint of a smile showing despite his fatigue. “So Xiao is free game?” His brow arches, the words light but landing with just a bit too much weight.
You let the comment slide, instead focusing on him again. “I cancelled. I could feel your frustration through the screen so I figured you might need some company or motivation.”
He blinks, words setting in slowly. “You didn’t have to do that…” his tone is softer now, all edge gone, the crease between his brows easing slightly.
“I wanted to. That’s what friends are for.” you offer him a small, reassuring smile.
“Yeah… friends.” The word lingers on his tongue, quieter, almost reluctant.
A pause stretches between you. It’s heavy, but not uncomfortable.
“Oh wait– I almost forgot!” You rummage through your bag, the muffled clatter of your things breaking the silence. “I stopped by the store on my way here. I don’t know if you’ll like this though…” You pull out a bar of bitter coffee chocolate, holding it up with a sheepish grin. “You said you like bitter stuff so…”
He just stares at you with an unreadable expression.
“…Not a fan?” you ask hesitantly, your hand faltering a bit.
“No- I mean yes!” he replies quickly, stumbling over his words. The tips of his ears and cheeks grow faintly red as he looks away. ”I just… didn’t expect this. But I appreciate it, thanks.”
You lead him to his room, noting how disorganised it looks– papers scattered, books laying around. That’s so unlike him. Just like the messages earlier, where he’d questioned whether he could even ace the final. Something is off.
You glance back at him, already suspicious. “Did you eat lunch?”
Classic Scara dodging the question. At least that part is typical.
You tug at his hoodie sleeve, looking at him more insistently this time. “Hey. Answer me.”
“…I didn’t eat yet.” he admits reluctantly, avoiding eye contact.
You exhale sharply, exasperation slipping out. “Figured. Did you take breaks?”
“…I’m taking one right now?” he offers, tone edging upward as if testing the waters. Even he knows it won’t satisfy you.
“Yeah, no… Scara you need to take care of yourself” you rub your temples, clearly upset at his lack of self-preservation. ”Take breaks, even when you’re stressed. Look at yourself. You look even more dead than usually.”
He frowns, a flicker of defensiveness on his face before exhaustion dulls it and his shoulders slump. “Don’t nag me…” You keep glaring at him, so he adds in a more somber voice. “But I guess you are right… sorry.”
You sigh in resignation. At least he’s beginning to understand. “I’ll make you lunch. You’ll take a break and then you can continue studying, okay?” you suggest, putting your focus on support rather than scolding him.
He hesitates – you can see the protest forming – but it dies on his tongue. His gaze drops, and he nods, resigned.
This time, you made him sit down at the kitchen table while you cook a late lunch for the two of you, any attempt from him to contribute being firmly shut down.
You glance at him over your shoulder, noticing the tension in his face and the way his fingers drum lightly on the table. “Uhm… can I ask…” your voice is gentle, careful and hesitant. “Where is all this stress coming from? Normally you don’t look this pressured. I mean, I know that you care about your grades, but…” you trail off.
He just stares at his hands on the kitchen table, fingers curling nervously. “You shouldn’t worry about it. It’s the final. Of course I’m stressed… everyone is.” he mutters.
You hum thoughtfully. “Haven’t ever seen you like this before, though.”
He just shrugs tightly, like he wants to shut the subject down. Then, he mumbles under his breath, like he wants you to hear but doesn’t want to fully commit to the statement. “Anything less than an A makes me a failure”
You stop stirring, letting the spatula rest against the pan. Turning around fully and leaning against the counter, you ask him. “I got a B in psychology. Am I a failure now?”
His head snaps towards you. “No, but that’s–”
“Different?” You tilt your head slightly, probing further. “How so?”
His gaze drifts back to the table. He bites the inside of his cheek, clearly contemplating his next words. Then he quietly admits. “…I guess my mom’s expectations are just… higher than anyone else’s. I mean– she’s a professor and all. So in her eyes, if I don’t ace this… I’m a failure.”
You sit down next to him, putting your hand over his, that can’t seem to sit still. “That’s… harsh of her” you mumble, concern evident in your tone.
“I know, but it’s nothing new. I just… deal with it.” he replies, sounding more resigned than upset.
“By ignoring your own needs over finals…?” you glance at him, voice soft but pointed.
He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Anything to avoid the lecture about getting a B+… or how this was such an easy exam.”
You give his hand a light squeeze, defensive on his behalf. “I know it’s not that easy, but if she’s disappointed, that’s her issue. Not yours. Entirely on her for setting the bar at stratosphere levels.”
“I know… but like you said, it’s not that easy…” he trails off, voice quiet, still unsure.
“We’ll try to make it as easy on you as possible today then, okay? We got this.” you decide, before standing up. With a small grin, you ruffle his hair gently, earning a faint, reluctant smirk in return.
“…Okay” he exhales softly, some of the tension leaving him. You reach to turn off the stove, the food is done, you serve it on two plates.
Later, in his room, you’ve been helping him study. He’s going through the slides of each topic one by one again, while you sit beside him, flipping through flashcards, ready to quiz him once he finishes reviewing them.
“Alright” you say, reading the question out loud “Which specific economic and religious factors contributed to the fall of the Ming Dynasty in China?”
He blinks, hesitates. After a minute of thinking, he resigns. “I…I don’t know.” Frustration creeps into his voice “This is useless. I’m useless. Why am I even–”
“Stop.” You cut in quickly, interrupting his spiral before it can get out of hand. You set the flashcards aside. “You’re just tired. And frustrated. And nervous. Time for another break.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezing shut. “A break won’t make me ace this.”
“Neither will exhausting or tearing yourself down.” you counter gently but firmly. “Come on, genius. Break time.”
“…Fine.” He sighs, having no energy to argue with you. He reluctantly closes his laptop. “Happy?”
“Very.” you reply with a smug grin, victorious. “I think some movement wouldn’t hurt though. We’ve been sitting here for hours, let's go for a walk”
summary⎯ It starts with a note in philosophy lecture. They sit together once, then again. Now they’re texting, sharing notes, and maybe something else they won’t admit. Minor in philosophy, major in denial.
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