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A headache. A throbbing pain on his lower back. An empty cupboard.
Scaramouche ticks the reasons that ruined his mood for the entirety of the day. He stares angrily at the cabinet, at the glass container devoid of grinded coffee it supposedly should have housed. Even his packets of tea are nowhere to be seen. You’ve gotta be kidding me. He pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling his headache pound harder against his skull, it’s too fucking early for this.
Closing the cupboard with far more strength than needed, Scaramouche pads across the kitchen with a goal in mind. Fetch a glass, drink water, and go back to sleep in hopes it will remedy the aches of his body. It mostly does the trick, sometimes it makes the pain worse than before. Either way, sleep is the only option available.
Glass obtained from the cabinet below the kitchen counter, he reaches for the jug of water conveniently left on top and fills the glass half-full. Scaramouche downs it in three gulps, the coolness had eased the parched and sandy sensation in his throat when he awoke minutes ago. Though, still craving for something warmer, Scaramouche decides warm water would have to suffice his wants for now.
Distracted by his thoughts, Scaramouche doesn’t sense the tall figure approaching him until he felt arms sneak around his waist from behind. A bare chest presses against his back, a kiss on the expanse of skin exposed between the curve of his neck and shoulder. His grip on the glass tightens unconsciously, muscles tensing as his brain perceives the actions to be a way of slowly working him up.
Archons, am I with a horny teenager? Whatever, he doesn’t have the energy to put up with Tartaglia’s insatiable libido. He’ll kick him out if he tries anything, on that thought, he’s kicking him out now. That way he’s eliminating all the chances of worsening his headache when Tartaglia has a knack for making things difficult for him.
Scaramouche faces Tartaglia, and the arms around him slacken only a little, keeping their bodies close together – warm against each other.
“Good morning,” Tartaglia greets him, lips pulled into an easy smile and eyes softened by residual traces of sleep. “You’re up early.”
He sharply sucks in a breath. Tartaglia’s bright smile remains on his face, he looks ethereal illuminated by the filtering sunlight of the early morning. And it’s too early for Scaramouche to burn his eyes when he’s not even staring at the fucking sun. So, he looks away, glaring at the spotty tiled floor of the kitchen.
“What do you want?” Scaramouche spats out weakly. Celestia have mercy, today is not his day.
Fully expecting the lines of you or anything obscene, he’s stunned to hear something else come out of Tartaglia’s typically crude mouth.
“For breakfast? Oh!” Tartaglia perks up, a bright shine flashing briefly in his eyes. “Let me cook this time.”
Tartaglia proceeds to kiss his cheek before releasing him from his arms. Scaramouche stands rooted on his spot, stunned that the situation progressed differently from what he anticipated. He blinks. He was certain Tartaglia would say something moronic – you’re all I want – and it would have been the perfect opportunity to get rid of him and have the peace of not being bothered by the presence of another person.
However, Scaramouche isn’t sure how to react to this.
Instead, his mind switches priorities and centers on Tartaglia’s volunteer to cook breakfast. As soon as it completely registers to him, a chill runs down his spine, the image of a monstrous stew appearing at the back of his head as though burned to memory. It serves as a reminder, a warning.
“Hold that fucking pan.”
Tartaglia glances back at him from where he stood in front of the stove, holding the pan as he’s told like an obedient dog.
“What?” He asks, confused.
“I don’t trust your cooking.”
Tartaglia’s features convey the absolute offense he took in Scaramouche’s claim.
“Hey! You said it tasted good!”
He pouts and Scaramouche feels a little guilty, a little. It was good, he’ll acknowledge up to that point, but it looked too much of a bloodbath than an edible meal. He’s not keen on finding out what breakfast is on Tartaglia’s standards of cooking. Tartaglia maintains the pathetic drenched puppy look, and Scaramouche feels himself giving in towards the taller man’s weird demands. The most he can do is observe while Tartaglia cooks.
“What do you even plan to cook?” He sighs.
“I haven’t thought of that.” Tartaglia admits sheepishly, scratching the back of his head.
Scaramouche’s headache returns, or it never left as he was promptly distracted. He tampers down his flaring temper because he truly doesn’t wish to start an argument with Tartaglia, not right now when all he wants is to pass out on his bed. Does he really have to deal with Tartaglia? Sleep is the better option, definitely.
“I’ll help.” He says instead.
Excitement glints in the blues of Tartaglia’s eyes and Scaramouche is reminded of the ocean he loved to watch in his hometown. He’ll never forget how the water sparkled as if it’s surface was made of crystals when the sun rose at the east. He’s never felt quite the same towards the shores of beaches in Liyue, nor in the frostbitten air of Snezhnaya’s coasts.
There’s a token saying that he learned recently, no place like home, and Scaramouche thinks it would have been fitting if Inazuma is where his home resides. Home is rather an abstract concept, manifesting in different forms not limited to one location – be it a house, a town, or a region. Those waters, the sound of crashing waves, and the salty air were a kind of their own. Scaramouche will never find them anywhere else again.
They were like Tartaglia. Meeting him was nothing but a mere chance, a play on the whims of fate. Maybe he was lucky. Maybe not. All he knows is he’ll never meet another quite like Tartaglia.
All he knows is this is where it feels like home.
“Really?” Then conflict crosses Tartaglia’s expression. “Ah, but you seem tired. I want to do something for you.”
Tartaglia looks at him in earnest, displaying a sincerity he would’ve recoiled from as though physically burned had it been a year ago. The eleventh Harbinger? Tartaglia? Genuine in his words and actions? Scaramouche once believed it was an inconceivable concept and he was sorely mistaken.
Among the people he came across, Tartaglia, or rather Ajax, is by far the most genuine – possibly the only one who’s not afraid to be real around him. He made him realize that there are those who wear their hearts on their sleeves even in front of those who hide behind masks. Taught him that honesty is not a weakness, that it possesses the fatality of a weapon.
The truth wounds the heart deeper than a blade, never assured if the tear will eventually heal.
What they’re holding now is a double-edged sword.
“If I can’t eat it, then that beats the point.”
“Fine.” Tartaglia concedes, yet a touch petulant that causes Scaramouche to raise an amused brow.
Weirdo. He muses but keeps it to himself.
They manage a decent meal with the scarcity of resources left in Scaramouche’s kitchen, an issue he forgot until this morning. Tartaglia insisted on doing the cooking himself, for the shorter man to see and accept that he’s a competent cook. That he can manage frying ham and eggs without morbidly distorting their appearances as per Scaramouche’s words. The man in question rolls his eyes at the other’s childish insistence.
The underside of the eggs turn out slightly charred and the sliced ham were burnt at the corners. It wasn’t the best Scaramouche had but Tartaglia looked too proud for achieving the bare minimum, he couldn’t bring himself to dampen his spirits. He simply harrumphs and eats his fill. Breakfast goes by strangely peaceful, a serene he hasn’t experienced in a while, and certainly not in the presence of another Harbinger.
Though, Tartaglia isn’t just another Harbinger anymore. To say that he’s familiar with his company is glossing over it. With each return the stay is longer, and the longer he stays the more space he takes up until there’s a yawning chasm in his absence.
Scaramouche watches him clean up his side of the table, Tartaglia catches him staring as he stands up and grins widely, still on that weird good mood of his. He closes his eyes for a long moment, massaging his temples with both hands. He’s had enough brightness in one day, if he lingers around Tartaglia his headache won’t disappear.
Scaramouche dumps his plate on the sink unwashed, passing on the responsibility to his future self.
He passes by Tartaglia lying on the couch on his way to the hallway that led to his room. The world shifts beneath his feet before he realizes that it’s because Tartaglia has yanked him down onto his body. He must be completely out of it today to allow the younger handle him like a ragdoll, pulling him by the wrist out of the sudden without fearing the consequences. He really ought to respect those who are older than him.
Tartaglia rests an arm over his hip, hand combing through his hair from under his skull, and for the second time of the day Scaramouche identifies the actions intending to arouse him. His stomach churns, bile tastes on his tongue and the thought of doing it now makes him sick. He’s not in the mood for Tartaglia’s advances and his pride surely won’t hesitate kicking him out. Sucks for him, trying to trick me with a barely decent meal.
Before he could do anything, Tartaglia adjusts his position a little higher, partially sitting up. He leans back against the arm of the couch with Scaramouche still settled on top of his chest and in the middle of his legs. Tartaglia’s hand starts massaging scalp, slowly working away the building headache.
A satisfied hum fills in the silence. Scaramouche’s eyes roll back at the soothing pressure.
He doesn’t find the strength in him anymore to peel himself off. Strangely, lying on top of Tartaglia wasn’t as uncomfortable as he initially thought. The bed should be his best choice to rest in but the warmth of being snugly pressed against another body wins him over, and he moves to find an angle where he can comfortably lie on his side. He leans on Tartaglia’s shoulder, his own hands finding Tartaglia’s unoccupied one and absentmindedly toys with his fingers.
Another hum resounds this time coming from Tartaglia and Scaramouche’s body feels all tingly.
They weren’t strangers with intimacy. Scaramouche has every part of Tartaglia memorized. Every mark, bump, and scar on his body is committed to memory. The act of sex itself was an intimate arrangement, wasn’t it? Something like this – being so physically close – shouldn’t feel odd. It shouldn’t make him flustered like he’s never been this close with a person in his life.
But, somehow, their closeness at the moment feels too innocent. It rattles a part of him.
“We don’t have anything to eat for lunch. Do you plan to go out today?”
Lunch? It’s hardly beyond dawn and the sun had just taken its highest spot in the sky. Lunch can wait for a few more hours.
“Don’t want to.” He answers, slipping into a tone that’s too childish for his liking.
Amusement was clear on Tartaglia’s voice but he says nothing about Scaramouche’s demeanor. “I’ll go. What do you want for lunch? Any food to-go?”
The first thing his mind tells him to do is to complain.
What impeccable timing for Tartaglia to get up and leave just when Scaramouche is finally comfortable and doesn’t want to move an inch in his spot beside him. Scaramouche had been under the impression that he’s been doing things in consideration of his wellbeing. How foolish of him to assume it will last until the end of the day.
Is it even that important to go out – then it fully registers to him. Tartaglia will do what?
It was one thing to cook for him, volunteering to replenish his supplies is excessive. Why is he suggesting this? He glares at the odd-looking figurine on the kotatsu table as if the object holds the answer to his question. Tartaglia brought it back when he spent a week in Fontaine on a diplomatic delegation. Wait. The figurine is one of the gifts Tartaglia loved to give him. It had been months since then.
Scaramouche arrives at the startling realization that Tartaglia practically has been living with him.
With that in consideration, it wouldn’t be so strange that he’d offer taking up the responsibility of restocking Scaramouche’s apartment with supplies and resources because of the fact that he lives here as well. He consumes water, food, and shares most of the things with Scaramouche.
Then comes a far more pressing realization.
“You!” Scaramouche pries away from Tartaglia’s warm embrace and pokes an accusing finger on his chest. “It was you! You finished all of my coffee!”
Tartaglia’s expression morphs from disappointment at Scaramouche separating himself from his hold into a shameless grin.
“Whoops. Thought you wouldn’t realize.”
Scaramouche fumes at the sight of Tartaglia looking neither guilty nor apologetic.
“How would I not realize? I’ve never ran out before!” He screams, lungs burning up in anger. The strong urge to kick Tartaglia off the couch is at the forefront of his brain, and he would have succumbed to the pure rage that pumped in his veins if Tartaglia hadn’t spoken.
“Sorry, sorry. I’ll buy you the most expensive one in compensation.”
Tartaglia appears serious, all hints of teasing gone, it pacifies a small portion of his anger.
“I don’t want that. I prefer my coffee that you finished.” Scaramouche is still a spiteful person.
“Alright. I’ll buy that one.” Tartaglia surrenders, holding both hands up. “Anything else?”
Eyes narrowing in suspicion, he inspects Tartaglia for underlying schemes or motives.
“What about you?” He asks. All of this feels unnaturally easy, there has to be something in exchange. Tartaglia can’t possibly be willing to do chores because it’s necessary, and that he can do so. Not when these chores involve him.
“You want something out of this, don’t you?”
“Oh no, you caught me. There’s actually an ulterior motive behind all this.”
Scaramouche frowns. Unimpressed with the obvious theatrical nonsense of the other.
“I want you to relax. Rest up.” Tartaglia says.
Scaramouche visibly stills at his words. He’s never gotten well at processing and receiving care from others, even with Tartaglia who’s becoming increasingly vocal about his concern for him.
“Are you implying I’m delicate?” He deflects because that’s what he’s good at.
Tartaglia’s laughter booms within the four walls of the place. “Oh, far from it, my tiny ball of raging fury.”
“Fuck you.”
“Not now.” Scaramouche deliberates wiping the infuriating smug look on Tartaglia, whether to wipe it off with his fist or his lips.
“You’re impossible.”
“I know you’re strong. I’m being selfish about wanting to take care of you.” Tartaglia cups his jaw gently. “Will you let me? It’s not so bad to let others look after you.”
Scaramouche glances away from Tartaglia’s eager gaze, pink warmth on his cheeks as he tries to regain the steady pace of his rapidly beating heart. Damn Tartaglia and his godforsaken mouth. It’s beyond him how Tartaglia manages to stomach uttering embarrassingly soppy phrases. He would have bitten his tongue off on the first word if he willed himself to do the same.
“You always have your way whatever I do.”
When he finally musters the courage to look back, Scaramouche’s lungs constrict almost painfully in his chest as Tartaglia smiles at him softly. He looks at him as if Scaramouche is the only person worth his attention and it’s overwhelming – a large wave sweeping him along the tide, soaking and drowning every inch of his body. Scaramouche doubts that he’ll grow accustomed seeing adoration clearly on Tartaglia’s being and know it’s directed at him.
Or, maybe he will but the air knocking – breathtaking part will never go away. It will always feel the same when those pair of ocean eyes set on him, reflecting the calmest waves or a surging storm. Scaramouche regards none of the differences, all emotions within Tartaglia are reverent towards him even those most violent and volatile. Especially, those most violent.
Isn’t it outstanding of him to provoke Tartaglia’s wildest sides? Driving him into insanity and far from the listless drag of the world where his eyes mirror murky waters, unrecognizable, dead. It used to be only when riding the highs of battle did his eyes bear color in them.
Now, there is an ocean. Capricious, perhaps, but nonetheless beautiful in its tranquility and chaos.
“If it means anything, you always have your way with me too.”
Tartaglia leans in and steals his breath away in a kiss. Scaramouche melts almost instantly as Tartaglia tenderly holds his face in his palms, drawing him in with no intention to let go. Something pools in the cavity of his chest, and his heart swells in a warmth that feels different. The way Tartaglia’s kissing him feels different.
Scaramouche was used to roughness. He was used to the certain edge that came with Tartaglia’s kisses. It has always felt like Tartaglia was chasing after something, desperately and greedily taking every gasp and sound. Kissing him always felt like it was the last.
This time around feels like the first he’s ever had Tartaglia’s lips on him. Tartaglia kisses him slowly as if they have an eternity at their disposal. As if the world will bend at their feet, offer all the time they can have – all the time they desire to have. The soft press and languid slotting of their lips is intoxicating – addictive like every other kiss they shared. But, despite the haziness of his mind, Scaramouche realizes he likes kissing Tartaglia this way too.
Being with Tartaglia felt like a never-ending state of catching his breath. A constant rush of matching up with his pace, refusing to be left behind, to be defeated. Moments had always been fleeting when it came to them. Or, perhaps, it hadn’t been for quite a time now.
Scaramouche likes it either way. There’s comfort in the slow, unhurried way Tartaglia’s hand slides down his arm. They draw apart from each other, breathing heavily.
“Come back soon when you go out. I don’t like waiting too long.”
A knowing flicker dances playfully in ocean eyes and Tartaglia smiles at him shamelessly endeared.
“I will.” He promises.