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“You know, Scaramouche, it could do you well to smile instead of smirk maliciously more often.” Signora snickers, ruffling his hair. He pushes her pointy nails off from his scalp, shoving his hat back on his head with a vulturine scowl. “You are the least liked by your peers, you should be glad your puffy little face is adorable enough for me to tolerate.” Her silky voice is inherently calming, but with context, it makes Scaramouche furious. And defensive.
He points a sharp finger at her face, leaning as tall as he can without looking ridiculous. “I didn’t ask for your input, number eight. ” Crossing his arms, Scaramouche smirks, learning back and shrugging his hands. “Oh, that’s right. You’re eight, and I’m six, which means I’m superior and you should be kneeling beneath me, heathen.” He steps closer, but as per usual, Signora doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest, lips pursed and eyebrows raised.
“Cut it out, Scaramouche. I’ve dealt with enough of your shit to blink at your pitiful attempts at intimidation.” Oh? He made Signora swear, so it must’ve meant he’d struck a nerve. A small nerve at that, but so long as he could get Signora off his back, it worked.
With a wave of a black gloved hand, Signora haughtily strutted off, making a show of flipping her hair on the way out. He sighed, not quite from relief.
Scaramouche was tired. Not that he’d ever admit it to anyone in this godforsaken ice palace, but he’d just gotten back from a long mission in Inazuma. Inazuma, where some people had recognized him, screamed, and he’d been forced to use violence. Inazuma, where he had to hide his vision or else every bastard in the area would come yelling at him. Inazuma, where he felt homesick. Where he saw how much his home had changed, how much cruelty Baal had gained, and how the people there were suffering.
Inazuma, a country sized reminder of why he ran away and joined the Harbingers in the first place. The only place that could truly cause that numb pang in his heart, that longing for a blurry childhood that he’d sworn to forget.
He never got any sleep in Inazuma, regretfully. He’d sit up in his bed, reliving old memories, tossing and turning until he got up, irritated, threw open the window and got pathetically teary eyed as he gazed out at the nighttime lights of the city below. Where his brain allowed his eyes to indulge in the weakness that was crying over mere sentimentality.
Honestly, when he’d approached Signora, he’d been searching for a mentally competent harbinger to share a conversation with. The recruits either showed outward hatred towards him (which he kindly repaid with an electric shock near fatal) or were terrified of him (having to share a conversation with those cowards was even worse), so they weren’t an option. Dottore, while they got along in terms of philosophy and outlook on the rest, wouldn’t even think twice before insulting his human weakness and laughing.
He wasn’t going to tolerate half-witted insults, and barely any of the harbingers actually acknowledged his presence, let alone would be willing to listen.
Oh, archons, that only left a single fucking harbinger he actually talked to left.
Maybe he’d just skip the whole wanting to be open about his feelings thing. He’s done it for this long, he supposes he can keep it up longer. So, Scaramouche begins walking at a fuming pace to his room, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to block out the thought that he ever considered venting to Tartaglia to be an option.
Sure, he may be getting a pounding headache, and his entire mind is still back in Inazuma, taking in the nostalgic scenery, and sure, maybe seeing some of the places where he and the few friends he’s ever made used to hang out before he left caused him to feel lonelier than ever and curse his existence, remembering how they used to hug him when he got upset and how he hadn’t been hugged by anyone in over twelve years but--
“Well, would you look who showed up at my door of his own volition, for once.” Comes a lighthearted voice, and Scaramouche immediately backs away, clutching at his hair, wondering how the hell his footsteps led him here.
Childe’s standing right there, in casual clothing rather than his usual harbinger look, staring at him with curious delight. And the warm air that rushes in from the door is so refreshing, enticing and begging him to melt inside. And then the question, innocent and prying, finds itself into Scaramouche’s brain. Should he?
….No.
Shoving his face in his hands in his face further, Scaramouche takes a deep breath, buries the shame under his hat, turns around, and sets off to sleep the utter embarrassment off until morning.
Until Childe, that asshole, grabs his wrist and steps forward. Scaramouche tugs away, but he often forgets that while his fighting style uses catalyst, strategy, and range, Childe’s is based on agility and muscle. He hisses through barred teeth, glaring Childe in the eye. The other is staring at him with a sense of genuine seriousness that he’s never seen before. “Hey. What’s going on?”
...he knew Childe would notice, he knew he would (pretend to) care, and not diss him like the harbingers, or say horrendous things about him that he tried to repress but eventually got to him, so why ? Why did he show up at Childe’s door, lost and afraid, the opposite of the dignity and very person that he’s worked to build up for the past years?
He knows the answer. But it scares him to ask.
“Come on, Scara.” It’s a nickname that nobody but Childe’s had the guts to call him before, and although he hated it with a passion at first, it’s grown on him from the small amount of time they’ve spent together. And he hates that. “What do you want?”
Scaramouche closes his eyes, tenses up, and practically throws it out there, too wrapped up in his own misery of a weakling to give a fuck anymore.
“...a hug.”
Childe just stands there, eyes wide as saucers and in a fit of shock, as if he can’t process the answer, and oh god, Scaramouche thinks, I just asked the eleventh harbinger to hug me . Panic breaches his senses and he yanks his wrist away while Childe’s distracted, thinking he should leave this damn palace while he can. He can’t believe that he let himself be vulnerable, he can’t believe he even uttered the word ‘hug’ in a sentence, but most of all?
Scaramouche can’t believe he’s going to run away from this when he wants it so badly. His brain reprimands him. Coward.
Scaramouche lets out a yelp as Childe snatches up his wrist again, this time pulling him further and into a tight embrace.
He suddenly regretted his decision.
Because it was so warm, so comforting to be in someone’s arms again, face lying against Childe’s warm clothes, arms wrapped around his torso, that he almost forgets himself and sinks into it. Instead, Scaramouche decides to struggle, to get out of this addicting drug before he’s showing affection of all things. Disgusting. So he reaches up his hands to punch at Childe’s chest, but it comes out weaker than he ever intended. He keeps punching weakly, trying to pull away with all the physical strength left in this exhausted shell of a body, but the ginger has him in a deadlock.
“Sorry, I was just a little surprised at the request. I mean, you of all people? The terrifying electro harbinger, my senior, asking for a hug?” Childe coos teasingly, and Scaramouche makes an even stronger, ire filled effort to push away.
“Don’t make me regret this, you heathen. ” Scaramouche glowered, digging his nails into Childe’s arm, wanting to make him bleed. Childe just laughs him off, which only fuels his rage more, pushing and kicking at the body in front of him. “I take it back, let me go!” But the statement comes out more sad than intended, and Scaramouche’s eyes are beginning to tear up, which isn’t exactly a green light for his captor to release him.
And then, Childe just responds to his struggling by pulling him in the room, still hugging, kicking the door shut, and reaching a hand up to toss off his hat and run through his hair. And archons, that makes it all so much harder to get away. Scaramouche’s hands drop to his sides, limp, and all logic leaves him. He leans in and buries his face against the man’s chest.
Childe loosens his grip to a comfortable state now that he’s given up on trying to pull away, and tries to smile when he speaks. “You look tired.” He blinks, entirely unaware of the baggy, exhausted eye bags underneath his eyelashes that Childe is seeing.
Scaramouche stiffens, but at another touch of his hair he relaxes into their hug again. “No shit.” He manages to grunt out, all the tough exterior not quite eroded yet.
Childe chuckles so very characteristically of him, rubbing Scaramouche’s shoulder, which just causes him to weaken (relax) even more. “I heard you just came back from a long time in Inazuma.” Childe pauses, pondering for a moment of silence and continuing to massage his shoulders. Scaramouche thinks he might fall into a daze. It’s terrifying. “I doubt it’s from travel exhaustion…” he trails off, and Scaramouche can’t help but give a reluctant nod. Suddenly Childe tenses up. “I think I understand. You’re homesick, aren’t you Scara?”
He grits his teeth, looking up at Childe’s accomplished eyes with a fiery glare. “You bastard, how did you--”
“I am too.” Childe confesses out of the blue, and Scaramouche is shut up sufficiently. “I know I’m Snezhnayan, but I have siblings at home, and the Tsaritsa doesn’t allow many visits, nor tolerates them in the first place.” The ginger laughs again, but it’s sad and regretful this time. Scaramouche opts to comment on nothing, instead politely (that’s new for him) letting Childe have his moment.
If Childe can share, so can he. He’ll probably force Childe to not mention any of this when he leaves, anyway. “Inazuma has gotten even more strict than when I left because of it.” He sighs into Childe, who is listening with a care he didn’t know the idiot had in him. “I suppose I’m a little homesick for the Inazuma of my childhood. Going back there reminded me that I never want to return again.” He clenches his fists, nails digging into his palm. “There’s no one left for me there anyways.” And at the thought of it, Scaramouche, in a moment of pathetic contemplation, sniffles.
Childe pulls back from the hug, and Scaramouche almost chases it back, but instead Childe sits down on the bed and pats the space beside him. Scaramouche has already fucked himself far over at this point, so his walks with unsteady legs and sits down, leaning against a gray covered shoulder, at which luckily Childe doesn’t seem to mind. “Hey, comrade, it’s okay to cry, you know?” Scaramouche shakes his head.
“You’re lucky you’ve won the battle this far, I am not exposing myself any further.” Childe looks at him with pleading eyes, and Scaramouche leans forward, burying his face in his hands. “...at least not today.” The eleventh nods, and pushes Scaramouche’s head to his shoulder again, with a steady, calloused hand.
“Alright, alright, I’ll lay off for now.” He retreats, and Scaramouche almost smiles in relief. Almost. Childe wraps an arm around his shoulder, to which he almost pushes off, but honestly? On the way back to Snezhnaya, he hadn’t gotten sleep in days, and all this touchy feely shit is really starting to exhaust him. As his eyes slipped closed, Scaramouche felt content, as if a hunger was clenched. And, although he was unaware, Childe felt equally satisfied next to him.
+
Signora has knocked angrily around five times on Childe’s door, and she knows he’s in there from that obnoxious snoring. She’s announced very loudly that the Tsaritsa has a message for him, but clearly this imbecile isn’t catching the noise. At this point, all of this is an utter waste of her precious time and she figures she’ll just burst in. She just prays to her poor troubled heart that Childe doesn’t sleep nude.
She prepares for the worst when she turns the handle, blinking slowly as she takes a step inside. But the sight that greets her is exactly the opposite of what she expected.
Childe has his arms wrapped around Scaramouche, and they’re both laying quite comfortably on the bed, in closer proximity than she’s ever seen any of the Harbingers even dare to approach each other before. It’s such an odd sight, like it’s out of a dream, to see such an odd pairing. She smirks. Childe and Scaramouche, who would’ve thought. Well, they were the most innocent of the harbingers. So prone to emotions, and no matter how much they’d gone through, still so new to the world. She almost pities them. In fact, they’re probably the only combination of harbingers that could, or would indulge in love. The rest of them are far too hurt and overall fucked up to do so.
She takes a Kamera from Childe’s desk, snaps a few shots, and prints them. And god forbid, when looking at the photos, she sees a slight smile on Scaramouche’s face, and tears streaked down his cheeks.
Deciding to put off the Tsaritsa herself for later, Signora struts out, prideful, and just before she shuts the door, comments something she is very much aware that little brat will never hear. “You look like such a pinchable little fellow with a smile on your face. Told you so. ”