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Childe thinks he might have bruised a rib, because his chest hurts like hell, and yet his eyes are fixed on the blood splattered on Scaramouche’s face, the red shining against the pale skin. Every breath brings a new pain, and he thinks it’s fitting, so fitting, because it’s always been hard to breathe around the Balladeer.
Lilac eyes turn towards him, and Childe forgets to breathe at all. “What the fuck are you staring at?” Scaramouche snaps, his eyes sharp.
Oh, of course he’s gorgeous - there’s never a day when he isn’t. But there’s something about the red against the pale, something messy, something decadent, and all Childe can think about is how much he wants to lean in, wipe it away with his finger, lick it away with his tongue. Kiss it away from those lips.
It’s not his own blood, of course. Most of what covers Childe isn’t his, either. He wishes some of it was Scaramouche’s, so at least he’d feel the other on his skin.
“There’s something on your cheek,” he says, touching his own. Scaramouche scoffs at him and wipes the blood away.
Perhaps that should help the ache in his chest. It doesn’t.