Chapter Text
“Really, really?” Teucer blurts out from behind her, finicking with a loosened joint on the toy with small, pale fingers. “So you’ll come play with us, right?” Scaramouche nods in response, glossed over rosy lips curling into an ever so slight smile. Tonia pops her head up mildly and wipes a smear of sugar dusting from her cheek, setting down a half full package of jellies down with a crinkle of the sheer beige waxpaper.
“Actually?” she starts bewilderedly, tossing the bag between each of her freckled hands with a soft thud for each juggle. “I thought you’d be like Uncle Pulcinella… He never wants to do anything with us. Do you even know him?” Scaramouche toys with an uneven indigo strand resting at the side of his face. Uncle. Certainly a… peculiar honorific for someone as stern, cunning — yet somehow additionally useless as the Rooster.
“You look at him and think he’d have the same personality as Uncle Pulcinella and his grey hair?” Anthon dryly muses from behind, calmly prodding at his gifts — words laced with more spite than query. Childe slips out a rushed laugh before Scaramouche eyes him harshly, accompanied by a nudge in his side soft enough to stay playful. Childe hooks his calloused fingers onto the fluffy cotton lining of Teucer’s hood and hoists him up effortlessly, the boy giggling as his feet dangle in the air momentarily before being sat back down next to Tonia with a gentle ruffle of his pale ginger tresses. Scaramouche feels the slight nudge of sleek fabric against his bare knee, eyes drifting to his side and locking on Childe resting his cheek against his gloved fist, lazily smiling at him with a lingering gaze. He slips out an inaudible scoff, barely masking a sneer before fixating his gaze back onto Childe’s siblings. Exactly as Childe mentioned to him, same autumnal ginger hair and pale skin sprayed with a dusting of freckles. Except their eyes are so starkly different from Childe’s no matter how similar they’re molded to be.
A familiar gaze yet an unfamiliar look.
They have a different kind of life floating within them, the soft, sparkling gleam that caught a glint matching with their smiles dripping with raw innocence that Childe never seemed to wear in his, no matter how many cocky smirks or toothy grins he’d parade around with. He almost wants to scowl at the thought of Childe’s gaze. Oceanic and annoyingly wistful every time he’d even mutter the first few lines of a proposal to spar. Perhaps the perpetual exposure to violence and bloodshed the Fatui graced their workers with had crawled up his veins, tinged his heart and corroded his spark — but with how eager he is to spar until he’s rolling in the high of battle, it wouldn’t make sense now would it?
Teucer jumps up to stand, swinging his arms around and barely reaching Childe’s eyeline.
“Oh, yeah! Can we go to the lake right now? We were all waiting until you came back to go!” he perks sweetly, Tonia giddily nodding along behind him, Anthon following suite with just a drop less of enthusiasm.
Scaramouche’s eyebrow raises slightly at the idea, but stays perfectly silent out of sheer politeness. The fireplace next to them simmers with a soft, blistering crackle, charred ebony iron spikes being casted with the embering luminance of flame honing in on his cheeks in a tender, fiery caress. He pushes a cluster of hair away from the side of his face, warmth branding itself against the height of his knuckles.
“Hah… that depends…” Childe admits, crouching down to Teucer’s eye and scratching the back of his neck mindlessly. “Is Ma and Pa home right now…? I wouldn’t want to take you three out that far without their approval.”
Teucer offers an ever so slight frown, accompanied by a subtle shift in his eyes as he shakes his head. Childe sighs deeply and pats his brother on the head.
“They said they were going to the markets and not to worry because you’d be coming back.” Anthon explains, very flatly, at that as he mindlessly runs his finger down the protruding seam of a velvet chair.
“Then it’ll be a no.” Childe declares with a genuine ruefulness.
Anthon and Teucer just drawl. Tonia lets out a whine so awfully dramatic you could close your eyes and perfectly envision it coming from a doll faced theatre actor. Childe breathes out a soft laugh, flipping away a bundle of ginger tresses touched with a strand of champagne.
“Seriously…! But with you and Scara that’s two grown ups!“ she huffs, crossing her arms so abruptly the air tears to accompany the movement. “That’s not even… that—“
“I’m sure your brother would let you go some other time.” Scaramouche cuts in earnestly, the edge of his lip dabbed with the twinge of a smile. “Wouldn’t you, Ajax?” he adds tauntingly, gaze shifting as he eyes Childe next to him, still trying to get used to the name “Ajax” falling off his own tongue.
“Actually, actually!” Tonia finally exclaims, suddenly all bright and glowing as if the previous tantrum was just an afterthought — hell, maybe even never existed in the first place.
Childe’s eyes sharply dart over to Scaramouche, face suddenly blooming with a blossom of pink on his cheeks. Scaramouche offers nothing back but a blank stare merging with the ghost of a smirk.
“Ah… Why yes ofcourse…!” Childe reassures almost sheepishly, hands gravitating back up to rubbing the back of his neck. “Just maybe not now though… The whole of Morepesok is covered from the ground to sky in snow, wanna go out and—“
“Okay!” Tonia chirps, jumping up and violently shaking Childe in some sort of hug before running off and gripping her brothers by the wrists, dragging them out to the corridor with a bolted shuffle of elated giggles, rampant steps and mild shrieks. The trio disappears into the depths of the corridor, soft afterglow of flickering candlelight draping in ribbons over their shadows. Scaramouche slowly stands, the flowy ends of his charcoal kimono brushing against the back of his calves as he does.
He can just feel Childe’s gaze still locked on him.
“What are you staring at.” he spits out dryly, crossing his arms and staring at Childe up and down. Childe snickers back at him, freckled face flashing a dimple just for a second — he can see the smirk rousing just from looking at his eyes. Childe chuckles a little before standing up next to him, dusting off his knees.
“You know, I honestly never expected to see this side of you so raw and open.” Childe admits, head cocking down slightly to look at him. Scaramouche can’t help but scoff.
“Already back to running your mouth with your idiotic rambling, aren’t you Tartaglia?” he remarks sharply.
“You always refer to me with such formal honorifics, I haven’t a clue whether to call it rigid or reverent. I’m sure we’re on much closer terms than that.” Childe snarks, curling a strand of Scaramouche’s hair off the top of his head with his gloved fingers. Scaramouche clicks his tongue.
“Aren’t you the observant one.” Scaramouche says. “I simply just want to reiterate your place, since you always act as if you don’t know it.”
Childe offers a stark laugh in response.
“Oh? So you’re not going to deny the closeness thing for once? The thought of Scaramouche himself being benevolent and gentle to my siblings. I must be dreaming to even see this with my own eyes.” he continues, voice suddenly swirling into that of a serenade. Scaramouche almost wants to slap the tone straight out of his lungs.
“I tolerate you at best, Tartaglia.” he retorts, eyes drifting back onto him — or more so the smirk still plastered on his face. The expression shifts to a cocky grin. Scaramouche momentarily shifts his focus to the hallway, the drifting sounds of Childe’s siblings chatter and jingles seeping into the main room drowsier than the flailing streaks of midwinter luminance shining through the frosted windows.
“Oh? Is that so? I can’t say I didn’t guess…” he asks, voice dragging into a sigh at the end. “Honestly don’t even know what I was expecting from—“
Scaramouche grips the side of Childe’s collar, yanking him down at eye level. He grips a fistful of the dip of his collar, coarse soft maroon fabric brushing against his fingertips — knuckles going from porcelain to ghostly. Childe’s scarred lips part to say something before going back to being shut. Scaramouche gives out a subtle snicker, driving his nails into the side of Childe’s neck.
“At a loss for words now, Tartaglia?” Scaramouche says slyly, dragging his finger up the side of Childe’s neck, running along the smooth yet battered length of his scars. “Sometimes no insult is derogatory enough to describe you.”
Childe chortles a little, tightly gripping the height of Scaramouche’s sleeve in return. He leans in closer, smelling of sweet glacial berries and faintly of some sharp cologne that he can’t quite place the notes behind. Certainly sharp… almost a little metallic.
“Maybe that just means you’re getting rusty then — I can certainly place a few on you.” Childe states, the vehement rush of rose in his face slowly dissipating. Scaramouche scoffs in return, yanking him down further, nails planting subtle crescent shaped indents in its wake. He feels the warmth of Childe’s shallow breathing, gentle and caressing on his cheek before he releases him. Scaramouche shakes the tension out of his veins, flexing his fingers as he flicks Childe’s hand off from his shoulder. Childe’s head dips slightly to give him a smile more condescending than friendly before snaking around him, the metal trimmings of his scarf catching the slimmest semblance of gleam. He turns, hand finding its way to his own hip.
“Going to come along, my dearest Scaramouche?” he prods, the mockery just stabbing through the thin veil of his ever so flowery words. Ridiculous. He always had this little act of his — the way he’d formulate a both egregious and overly flashy mash of words by lathering a bunch of overly decadent — and rather ridiculous eloquences on one of his titles just to get on his nerves. Humans and their knack of coming up with nicknames.
“You pose that like I have much else to do.” he retorts dryly, fingers curling against the silky lacquer fabric encasing his wrists.
“No endearments for me?” Childe claps back, effectively ignoring anything Scaramouche wanted to spite. Childe spins the simple silver band resting on his pinky, giving the puppet that blend of wry half lidded eyes and that boyish grin he’d give to anyone charmed enough to give attention so that they’d trust him a little more.
So utterly contrived, and so unbearably arduous to look at. Childe tugs at the glove tightly clinging to him and begins striding down the hallway, Scaramouche’s begrudging footsteps syncing up with his, eccentric and doll-like against the subtle heaviness of Childe’s clicky heels — the two synced tunes merging and harmonising into some sort of eternal melody.
Childe tugs at the string of a lamp sitting near the doorway, its spray of illumination fading away as the hazy angelic light leak from the window seeps through as the last source of glow. The aged silver of his keys grind against each other as he swings them around mindlessly whilst tugging the first of two doors open, golden iron swirls creaking at its hinges.
Scaramouche hears the faintest shuffle of leather next to him before turning to the faint tugging upon the silks of his sleeves. His brows furrow for a second before being quelled back into serendipity.
“Scara? Do you not need to wear coats?” he questions with the quizzical innocence of pure curiosity. Scaramouche’s eyes shift ever so slightly. Although it’s undeniably blissful to be sheathed in a coat amidst the cold, it’s not like he actually needs to wear one. He can fare perfectly fine in any sort of weather, and it’s more of a hassle than a blessing to go out of his way and bask himself in the proper attire for the occasion nature chooses per day. He shakes his head mundanely.
“You don’t have to worry.” he explains with far more warmth than he realises he’s letting on. “I don’t get too cold.”
“Oh, so you’re just like Ajax!” Teucer brightly connects.
Every thought he’s ever conjured begs to differ.
He cocks his head to the side a little.
“How so?” he half mutters half questions — the ghostiest of smirks trilling at the corner of his lips.
“Brother always double— no triple checks that we’re wearing our coats before we go outside since he’s worried about us getting sick.” Teucer admits matter of factly. “But he doesn’t wear as much as he tells us we should because he also doesn’t get cold!”
Scaramouche crosses his arms and glances at Childe out of the corner of his eye. Of course, he has no way of knowing for sure on whether that’s a lie or not unless he went so far as to pin him down and interrogate him or something of the sorts. But he wouldn’t bother putting so much effort to find out something so trivial. Humans are just so easy to read — one little shiver and you can tell exactly how they feel.
He watches as Childe securely does the last button on Tonia’s gentle beige coat and loops the end of Anthon’s scarf thickly around his neck, giving a subtle flick to one of the vermillion burgundy tassels. He softly pats each of them on the head, hands working with such perfected affection it’s hard to conceptualise those are the same hands that often end up wielding blades of rushing stream tainted into a crimson ocean, radiating the wrathful stench of fresh blood instead of the flurry of sheer affection.
He lets out an exhale and gives Teucer the softest smile he can possibly conjure. Childe snaps back up and dusts off the edge of his own coat, the rustle of slick metal keys clanking against each other muffled within his grip. He gently pushes his siblings aside and unhooks the aged locket chain keeping the door secure, the howl of winter instantly brandishing around the house. He glances back at Scaramouche with that same, cocky, overly sincere grin. Scaramouche returns it with a scowl.
— ₊˚⊹ ᰔ . ݁₊ —⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ˎˊ˗ —
The snow smells sweet again.
Sugary and fresh and decadent like the ice encased coating of raw glacial berries — yet also sickeningly cloy and guttural as it floods through his senses. Scaramouche nudges off the cluster of snow lapping at the back of his exposed heel, brows furrowing as a draught of seaborne wisps sweep the bitter freshness of sea salt onto his face. He knows Morepesok’s a seaside town, but what he was, rather rudely at that, caught dumbfounded by is the fact the pestering sea spray still manages to warp its way through the persistent rhapsody of ice that eternally plagues Snezhnaya. He almost half expected the ocean to be so frozen solid you wouldn’t even be able to think of it. But here he is. He crosses his arms mindlessly, bitterly drumming his fingertips against the soft nudges of his arm guards. The sun droops slumberly in the late afternoon sky, faint traces of borealis cascade shattering waves of snowlike clouds to trace an azure teal limelight around the star. It’s an admittedly pretty sight, the type that makes your eyes want to bleed.
Tonia presses two gloved hands against a substantial mass of snow, snow drifting off of the snowman in waves as she shapes it intently, kneading the crystallised snow with her knuckles as Childe holds the base snowball steadily, one knee burying down into the depths of feathery white beneath him — tongue shooting out in concentration. She boasts the proudest of grins when she finally plucks Childe’s mask off the side of his head and prods it deep into the snow as an imagination of its face, only for that smile to be instantly reshaped as a scowl when Anthon’s snowball swerves past Teucer’s head and slams hard into her cheek. She lets out a wail and turns away from both of them, not even bothering to retaliate. Scaramouche breathes out an airy sigh, tapping his foot against the bed of snow with a soft crunch accompanying each movement. Little divots of footsteps in varying sizes dot the field, many other clusters of children accompanied by older siblings and exhausted parents — each group evoking riots of laughter and other shrieks of giddiness.
Humans. Such strange creatures that can somehow find waves upon waves of ecstasy and amusement in something as simple as snow. And he’ll forever mourn the way he’s once again on some level of closeness with one.
He hears the heavy crunch of snow sinking into each other behind him, eyes pulling shut briefly before he opens them again with a weighted sigh.
“What do you want, Ajax?” he mutters sharply, drenching his name in extra spite.
Childe tips his head down slightly to reach his level, a smirk playing on his lips.
“You look a little lonely, Scara.” Childe says sardonically. “Makes me feel kind of sad for you, honestly.”
Scaramouche clicks his tongue at the nickname before it even registers in his mind. He swiftly turns to him, face much closer to him than he’s anticipating.
“You’re not actually capable of forming something smart to say, aren’t you?” he seethes. “Maybe a good slit to the throat would help, how about that?”
Childe’s expression shifts before it falls back into a snicker. Scaramouche internally retches. Childe tilts his head to the side, lips parting slightly as he looks down at him, snow dragging down lightly in little whispers atop his head, but he doesn’t seem to care. He can’t stop himself from noticing the flattened mass of autumnal hair in lieu of where his mask normally resides, so utterly stiff in contrast to the unruly curls flowing around him. It agitates him a little, like something as mundane as an askew hair strand can simply just be pushed away and yet he refuses to act on it.
“That mad over the nickname, hm?” Childe asks sultrily. “You don’t seem to mind when my siblings call you that, yet when I call you it you look like you’re about to backhand me — I can’t help but pick up on the blatant favouritism.”
Scaramouche grinds his teeth together and darts his gaze straight at him.
“You can think for a second, can’t you?” he remarks, hand reaching up to toy with the ends of his hair before tugging at it. “Your siblings are admittedly sweet, the same can’t be said for you.”
Childe offers an expression similar to that of a puppy denied affection for a second.
“Is that so? You think I can’t be sweet, hm?” he asks with mock sweetness.
Scaramouche’s voice drops to a whisper before he speaks.
“Oh I’m sure.” he hisses. “Go ahead and try and charm me like you do with everyone else you encounter on a mission.”
Childe just lets out a laugh and steps behind him, Scaramouche’s interest piquing as he hears the sound of fabric shifting behind him.
Childe shucks off his coat and drapes it over his forearm, smirking ever so slightly as he walks behind him chortling some quiet tune.
“You sure look a little cold.” Childe finally says.
Scaramouche snaps his head back at him.
“Now what could possibly make you think I of all people would succumb to such a trivial issue?” he snides. “I’d expect someone like you to have that problem.”
Childe raises an eyebrow.
“Almost sounds like you’re concerned about me. You truly have me touched, my oh so dearest Balladeer…”
Scaramouche rolls his eyes and snarls.
“Do the whole world a favour and never let another word slip out of that mouth of yours again.”
Childe says nothing, Scaramouche almost finding himself pleased with his compliance until he feels a heavy weight cast on his shoulders.
“Tartaglia— What the hell are you doing?”
Childe just laughs.
Childe’s jacket just feels so warm.
He feels Childe drape it around his form with almost blisteringly warm gloved fingers that linger for far too long. The collisions of silky fur wrap around his neck, fervent heat blossoming around his body as ravels of fabric wrap down to his feet.
“What are you even trying to achieve here?” he spits out — his question more of a demand than a query. “Do you think I’m made of glass?”
Childe looks down at him with a subtle smirk sported on his lips, his glare almost condescending.
“You look rather deep into things sometimes, you know? I was just a little concerned about you — does that hurt you so much now, dearest Balladeer?”
Scaramouche mutters something faint enough for Childe to not pick up on.
"How romantic of you.” he says, getting a rustled laugh from Childe. “So now you act all chivalrous — could’ve sworn you weren’t capable of practicing any form of respect.”
Childe opens his mouth to speak, much to Scaramouche’s annoyance.
“You’re so hard to read sometimes, always so forward about your disdain to me yet you never actually try and avoid me. Talk about being confusing.
“Don’t you dare think so highly of yourself.” Scaramouche seethes bitterly.
Childe crosses his arms and gives a half fulfilled chortle at Scaramouche’s reluctance to entertain him, tilting his head as he watches his siblings from afar, Scaramouche following his gaze, eyes darting around to follow flapping arms and treading feet hastily trying to dodge rampant onslaughts of tiny snowballs being fired at each other.
Scaramouche tugs at the fluffy fur linings of Childe’s cloak, aureate swirls of fluff almost too blissfully warm as it brushes the gentlest tremors upon his arms.
He loathes how much he likes it.
Why did Childe even sling it on him anyway? Although the two of them would bicker at each other whenever they got the chance to, Childe would always come back even more conniving, and with that — his banters got even more stupid.
Scaramouche slinks a foot behind the other, Childe’s heavy cloak grazing the back of his feet as he flutters his eyes shut, only for his interest to be recaptured at the sound of shuffling snowfall and fabric.
Scaramouche flits his right eye open slightly, looking Childe up and down as he crunches at a compact snowball perfectly snug in his grasp, tossing it up and down.
“What pathetic excuse of an idea have you—“
He doesn’t even manage to get the last of his sentence out before the snowball strikes him right in the cheek.
His voice betrays him as he abruptly splutters, entangling wisps of frost seeping over his cheek like the first embrace of winter, clumps of snow dusting at his shoulder and falling off in waves.
“What was that even for?” he exclaims with a lot more emotion than he’d like.
Childe doubles over and laughs, cackling violently and clutching his stomach.
“You should see the look on your face…!” Childe wheezes out between laughs.
Scaramouche’s teeth sink into his own tongue. He tightly grips the edge of Childe’s jacket before speaking.
“You mortals will laugh at anything, won’t you? It’s almost pitiful.” he snaps.
Childe gives a barely faltered smirk.
“You’re no fun sometimes. Wouldn’t hurt for you to loosen up even just a little bit.” he remarks.
Scaramouche reaches down and forms a snowball aimed right at Childe’s mouth.
He wonders why he’s doing this.
As much as he dreads having to deal with Childe’s antics, he can admit that for a human of all, his presence is rather… entertaining — to say the least. Certainly infinitely more entertaining than he ever could’ve anticipated, for if there was no other option, he’d rather be locked in a room with whatever nonsense was on Childe’s mind as opposed to any other harbinger.
For someone so annoying, he just can’t seem to get him out of his own head.
His lingering is almost pestering, like a particularly stubborn splinter that gets embedded into your veins and permanently threads through your bloodstream, or the way the second the glare of sunlight gets to feast upon your eyes it stays fortified there even when you close them.
Childe wipes at the frosty coat of snow pebbles chewing at his scarred lip, eyes widened for a second before they return to their typical boyish form.
“Oh? Can’t say that’s what I was expecting…” he muses, stretching his arms behind his neck, vehement red scarf billowing against his back.
“Must you comment on everything? It’s why most people advise you to keep your mouth shut.” Scaramouche jeers.
Childe wipes at the corner of his lip and forms another snowball.
“Hey now… I’m just saying. Didn’t expect you to finally spar with me so easily — it’s certainly interesting coming from you.” he retorts back.
Violet eyes roll, sparring with Childe was always the same sequence of song and dance. Fight for a little — end up with Childe all battered and bruised beneath him and listen to him drawling for the next hour or so about how he wasn’t giving his all. Besides, the few times he’d agree it would always end in him parching bandages onto his seeping wounds, scornfully murmuring every profanity he could think of. Perhaps he would only tend to him to prove a point, with a drop of vindictive amusement mixed in between. Scaramouche himself can’t quite place why he puts up with Childe’s antics so much to begin with.
Scaramouche tilts his head to the side just enough for the snowball to sail past his neck. His eyes stray off to notice Tonia pressing herself against her newly crafted snowman as her brothers rapidly pelt each other with minuscule snowballs.
“Any kind of battle just has your tail wagging no matter how… unconventional it is, hm, Ajax?” Scaramouche remarks, aiming a snowball at Childe’s shoulder that he barely manages to dodge.
Childe snickers and wipes the callous smirk right off Scaramouche’s face with a frigid hit right at his knee.
“Hah, so you do like calling me that. I’ll keep it in mind.” he says.
Scaramouche lets out a huff and hurls another snowball right at Childe’s chest.
“Idiot.” he softly hums to himself. Childe drops a dark laugh in response.
Scaramouche almost wonders if he’s drunk on some sort of unforeseen intoxication the air unknowingly carries to even agree to this.
The way they fall into the fight is far less familiar than what it usually is. They chase after each other, arms reaching down to scrape at the light dusting of snow and heaving barely formed snowballs at each other with practiced precision, Scaramouche twirling and ducking around Childe, hastily avoiding each onslaught of snow — coat heavily dragging through the air and occasionally slapping down onto the snow bed. Childe laughs with each throw, bulky footsteps planting compressed indents and crunchy paths into the snow, dusted coatings of Scaramouche’s sandals clicking into the earth and trampling over Childe’s erratic trails. Childe laughs haughtily as he falls to the ground, leaning back to aim more of the compact snow at him that Scaramouche narrowly dodges as he dances around each shot.
“I expected you to be a little better at this, you know…” Scaramouche murmurs bluntly, dusting off the freckled remnants of snow clinging to his knees.
Childe shoots up and fires a snowball straight at Scaramouche’s head, the ball exploding upon his cheek and splaying the porcelain specks into his hair.
Scaramouche splutters and scoffs with a cutting edge, leaning in to grip the tight maroon fabric clingy to Childe’s arms.
“You’re taking this far more seriously than I’d—“
Scaramouche reaches down, tightens a boulder of snow in his grip and smashes it straight on Childe’s head — snow smothering into the flattened mound where his mask should be.
“I never said I didn’t like it—!” he yelps with stellar conviction.
Scaramouche pauses as he dances behind him and fondles another snowball.
Sometimes he finds himself acting in a way that could be deemed as another betrayal — of his body against his mind.
“You started this, there’s no one to blame here but yourself.” He ripostes.
Childe laughs defeatedly.
“I guess you could say that, hey—!”
Childe cackles relentlessly as he chases after Scaramouche, kicking and barely scraping his frame with coatings of snow, Scaramouche eventually finding himself snickering along with him. He ducks under Childe’s raised arms, grunting slightly as they trip over each other and descend hastily into the earth in a mess of fabric and tangled limbs and heavy thuds.
“Ajax you—“
His mind spins around inside his head, dazedly misting away in shreds before silkily falling down to reality within a second.
Scaramouche groans as his calves collide with the rows of pillowy snow beneath him, Childe’s cloak fraying out and shoving scrapes of snow away from him. The tender folds of the coat cling to his skin and wrap around each sweeping of snow frosted at him, the fervent fiery embrace melting it into a glaze of dewy sheen merging with the clots of cotton. His eyes dart around befuddledly, arms sprawled out and thigh prodding into the sturdy leather strap encasing Childe’s thigh.
It’s so… warm. Disgustingly, excessively warm.
It shouldn’t be warm.
Scaramouche fumbles around with enough nonchalance as he can possibly manage, frost squalled fingers finding themselves buried inches into the snow, then pressed against the scratchy pleats of Childe’s rolled up sleeve, then back into the snow again. He grunts again, the crisped edge of Childe’s collar poking at his cheek — coarse as it grits at him with each of Childe’s subtle movements. Childe tilts his head down as far as he can, dull azure gaze melting into the gleaming indigo pressed against the top of his chest staring back at him. Scaramouche holds his gaze almost violently, as if daring Childe to try and break it. Childe lets out a disgruntled snicker before throwing his head back, chuckling and hollering at the ridiculousness of it all. Scaramouche feels the relentless pounding of Childe’s pulse strumming against his flesh, heartbeat rising and falling with his breath in stagnant silence that feels all too loud this… close.
He’s breathing.
It’s so human, so raw, real, rustic — repulsive.
Why is it so warm?
The throb of his heart bites at him, Scaramouche’s cheek coursing with careens of soft crimson, frigid whispers glossing over the petals of rose fluttering down his neck — tinges of bitter, raspy sting striking at the contrast. He scratches off the last bits of crystals before frantically hoisting himself up and flipping over to crouching right above Childe’s head.
“Shut up.” he orders, thermalities on his cheek still lingering.
“Little boring if I’m the only one being told to shut up, you should too — it’ll keep things interesting.” Childe claps back, still buried in the snow, scarf chasing down his frame.
“Don’t even think about getting cocky now.” Scaramouche seethes back, leaning further downwards.
Childe tilts his head to the side a little, his forsaken boyish grin boasting on his face.
“Didn’t expect you to lose a spar in such a way. I’ll keep this one on the record.” Childe mutters, auburn fringe thrown back to catch a glimpse of more of his freckled skin, kaleidoscopes of tanned dots reaching up to etch at his hairline.
He almost wants to slap the look off his face — punch, scrape, scratch. Whatever, as long as he can get that annoyingly careless little look away from his vision. Scaramouche nips at the tip of his own tongue.
“Keep stroking your own ego, you think I’d actually put effort into this kind of fight?” he breathes through his teeth.
“Hah… you know how badly I want you not to hold back for once.” Childe says almost wistfully.
“Keep dreaming, Tartaglia. Want to be dead so badly too?” Scaramouche shuts down.
“I doubt you could even get close to killing me with just some snow.”
“Don’t test me.”
Childe chuckles up at him and stares. Just staring at him with no word that can correctly gauge the intent behind his gaze. Scaramouche drives his teeth into his cheek and shovels snow onto the side of Childe’s head.
“Gonna help me up?”
Scaramouche scoffs — very loudly at that.
“You’re awfully stubborn sometimes, don’t you know that Scara?”
“Do you think I’m as foolish as you are, Ajax?” Scaramouche sneers. “We both know in our dealings such traits are never a bad thing.”
It’s Childe’s turn to roll his eyes.
“Not very good for being sociable." He gruffly mutters under his breath.
“What was that, my dear eleventh?” Scaramouche asks with mock sultriness, tilting his head with a smirk.
Before Childe can respond, Scaramouche hooks his hands under Childe’s arms and stands, abruptly hauling him up and tossing him over his head, the ginger palming face first into the snow behind Scaramouche. Childe grunts and groans in response as the excess dusting drips off Scaramouche’s hands and onto the back of his head.
“That hurt, you know?”
Scaramouche’s grin falters just slightly.
“And now you want it to be an issue? Aren’t you the measly little thing that enjoys getting thrown around like a personal slapstick?”
“I won, I won, I won!”
Scaramouche blinks slowly before slinking his hand down to Childe’s side, fingers weaving between the ice cold of metal bands and leather, standing and rushing to drag Childe up with him. Teucer bubblyly prances over to them, skipping prints into the snow bed and giddily flailing his jacket engulfed arms around — Anthon and Tonia sulking as they follow along him. Scaramouche’s porcelain fingers draw out of Childe’s sturdy grasp, heartbeat rhythmitically striking through his fingertips and dotting against Scaramouche’s hands. Childe rubs at the frosty tips tinging at his fringe before snickering lightly — rushing over within a second to catch Teucer in his arms before he fumbles into the snow, Scaramouche internally yelping as Childe yanks him along, coat slapping violently against his back.
“Brother! Scara!”
Childe laughs lightly as Teucer hops up and down, shaking snow off his figure.
“Did you see?! I won, I won!” He grins triumphantly, waving to both Childe and Scaramouche with expeditious swats. Anthon groans and leans to the side, Tonia slipping out a bratty scoff.
“They fell into my snowman.” Tonia sniffles with a stamp of her foot. Anthon just deadpans her in response.
Childe gives the most lighthearted of laughs and drops to Tonia’s eye level, Scaramouche taking a couple steps after him with a cock of his head.
Childe tugs Tonia in for a hug, sweetly patting her back as he does. Scaramouche’s gaze falters, internally wincing as something inside him contorts against his own will, tangling thorvined messes of wires constricting inside his chest, scratching at porcelain walls — threatening to cave in and rupture through his body all at once.
“Tonia, Tonia… You needn’t worry, you know I’ll help you rebuild it.” Childe tenderly reassures, Tonia swallowing a bitter sulk in response.
“Yeah, but… And then… I don’t like that!… And… “ Tonia continues rambling between angered huffs,
Teucer swings his arms around as he chatters, tipping back and forth as he tries to steady himself into the snow, little boots jittering downward into his own footsteps and grasping onto the embellishments of Anthon’s scarf to catch himself from toppling back. Scaramouche finds himself letting out a mildly amused exhale.
Seeing Childe in such… warm circumstances is almost disgustingly jarring.
It doesn’t take much to deduce that Childe is the summery sort of person — the ones that reek of radiant sunshine and gleaming heartthrob, amongst the ranks of the harbingers, he just looks oh so awfully out of place. Even any idiot with nothing but a severed cluster of cells floating around where their brain should be could figure that out. It’s not necessarily the kindness per se that’s so uncanny, he’s seen that quality seeping through all of his charming acts, especially when it’s all up in his face — but just how saccharinely tender it is. Especially in contrast to how used Scaramouche is to seeing Childe giddily searing through the battlefield having masses upon masses of blood streaking down his body.
So which one is real? The blood soaked persona he so desperately hides or the snow careened masquerade he so valiantly shows?
Maybe all humans are like that.
Pitiful, two faced creatures with eyes that cry, hearts that betray, fingers that curl in the cold and bodies that succumb to the weakest of illnesses.
And oh, how he resents the fact that there was once upon a time he wanted to be that so badly.
Tonia giggles a little as she dabs at her waterline with her knitted sleeve, jumping onto Childe’s back and resting on his shoulders. Tonia grins before tapping onto Scaramouche’s shoulder subtly, he tilts his head to look at her as she waves her aureate pom-pom sleeves at him.
“Ajax says he likes you more than the other people from work. I like you more too! I like your makeup! It’s really pretty!” She says cheerfully, rocking back and forth on Childe’s shoulders, bubbly braids bouncing with her. Scaramouche blinks slowly before glancing at Childe who just diverts his gaze. Human children have always been just so… sweet.
Scaramouche gives her a soft smile and thanks her earnestly. Her eyes sharpen, nose scrunching up in concentration.
“Can you teach me how to do it, pretty please?” she asks again.
“Sure.” he replies gently.
Tonia squeals in delight before continuing to ramble her questions.
“Oh! Oh! I’m gonna try it on Ajax! You’ll help me, right?!” she suggests between giggles.
Scaramouche glances at Childe, watching the sun-kissed freckles on his nose slowly start to scrunch up.
“Sure I would. I’m sure your brother would be perfectly fine with it.” Scaramouche reassures, side glancing Childe as he does.
“Wouldn’t you, my dear Ajax?” Scaramouche coos, gripping Childe’s chin angled in a way that just looks like a friendly tease, voice perfectly mimicking the annoying tone Childe uses to say that phrase to him.
Childe’s eyes glaze over for a second.
“Well, why yes, of course.” he replies warmly, jaw tightening within Scaramouche’s grasp. Tonia slips out a high pitched cheer.
Something about the image of Childe being used to test cheap kiddy makeup products is ridiculous.
“Hey! Hey! Can we have a rematch!?” Teucer brightly calls out from behind the three of them, the sudden voice making Scaramouche realise how long he’d been gripping Childe’s jaw for.
“No!” Tonia blurts out with a huff. Childe follows Scaramouche’s gaze to the distance, spectral flurry of snow hazing over the horizon and slowly drawing in, driving everyone back into the warm sheltering nurture of their homes.
“Some other time. Ma and Pa will be looking for you by now. When the blizzard passes, hm Teucer?”
“But there’s always a blizzard!” he whines.
“Listen… I don’t want any of you getting sick.” Childe explains, head tipping slightly.
“Fine…”
The rest of the conversation phases out in Scaramouche’s head.
Another betrayal, for some ungodly reason he keeps replaying Childe’s pulse engraved against his skin. The disgustingly detailed fervency of it spreading down to collapse into the tightening stalagmites devouring Scaramouche in the most tantalising of ways — a feeling that he can’t even explain why he’s enduring it.
What a joke.
“Let’s go home.” Childe finally says, eyes meeting Scaramouche’s as he drags his siblings along.