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“What?”
Blue eyes peeked up at him from behind ginger bangs.
“Nothing.”
Scaramouche frowned.
“I’m just at a loss of words.”
“That’s a first.”
Childe laughed. It sounded hollow, anxious almost. Even people who didn’t know him wouldn’t have fallen for such a sorry attempt of a laugh.
Scaramouche had hardly ever seen him like that. Childe was the most confident and nonchalant person he had ever met. Even among the eccentric and extraordinary members of the Fatui, the other stood out. No matter where Childe went, people turned around at him, eyes followed his every movement. It felt as if the entire world belonged to him, as if the planet revolved around this single person, and yet, it seemed like Childe couldn’t have cared about what people thought of him.
Now, lying in the dirt, wet hair glued to his forehead, a bruise forming on his lower lip, Childe looked like everything but the fearless and deadly Harbinger he was. He seemed insecure, and Scaramouche could tell it had nothing to do with his defeat. Childe had lost many of their sparring sessions, but he had never minded. They fought for the sake of fighting, to feel the thrill of battle in their veins as their elements clashed and their weapons met. It wasn’t about the outcome. They were strong, probably the strongest persons they had ever challenged, and win or loss didn’t change anything about that.
There was another reason for Childe’s behavior, and Scaramouche perfectly knew what. He had noticed a while ago, and even though he had doubted his instincts and told himself that he was imagining things, the other had made it very hard to ignore it. First, there had been stolen glances, then sudden questions about him and his person. It was weird but still something Scaramouche could shrug off as just Childe. However, when during on of their sparring sessions Scaramouche had landed a hit and launched Childe against a wall just because the other had been so distracted he had seriously forgotten to summon his daggers, he knew.
He knew, but he had had no idea what to do about it.
He still didn’t.
It would have been easy to just avoid him. They were Harbingers. They were busy, hardly ever got sent on the same missions together, and sometimes their assignments took so long, they didn’t see each other in months.
Yet, it wasn’t that simple.
Scaramouche would have never thought it possible, but Childe had caught his attention the moment the Tsaritsa had decided to welcome him among the Fatui. The only difference was that he was a little more skilled at keeping himself under control. Or so he had thought.
With the blue eyes still staring up at him and the chest rising and falling in a regular rhythm under his weight, he wasn’t so sure anymore.
“Don’t you want to get off me?”
Scaramouche held his gaze. Childe was right, he should get off already. He should have the moment their fight had been over, but somehow, his body just would move.
“Do you want me to?”
The blue eyes widened, and Scaramouche suddenly found it incredibly hard not to turn away.
He still looked so damn insecure.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed an arm move right next to where his knee was buried in the dirt, then fingers brushed his leg. It was fleeting, only a test whether Childe hadn’t just misheard.
When Scaramouche didn’t budge, a second hand followed.
“Took you long enough.”
His own voice sounded strange to his ears, and he seriously hoped the other didn’t notice.
Childe was barely touching him, but it was enough to stir him up. They had been close plenty of times, even in that same position. Almost all their fights ended with one of them on the ground and the other on top, grinning like an idiot.
Yet, Childe’s hands felt so different now. They were gentle, hesitant, so at odds with the ones capable of bringing down countless enemies in a few swift moves.
“What?”
Scaramouche blinked. Childe was studying him, but unlike before, a familiar grin tugged at his bruised lips.
“Are you at a loss of words now?”
“Shut up.”
Childe laughed. This time, it sounded honest.
“Make me.”
“Stop being so fucking cliché.”
The other laughed again, and Scaramouche leaned in to shut him up. He felt Childe flinch against him, but before he could draw back, the hands on his legs found his neck and pulled him closer.
Childe kissed him, bringing their lips together over and over again. Just like the fingers dancing over his skin before, the touch was barely a brush. It was as if he was testing the waters again, as if the previous insecurity hadn’t entirely vanished yet. Then, a tongue touched his, the grip in his neck tightened, and Scaramouche didn’t even try to avoid his sigh. He cursed himself for his lack of self-restraint, but fuck, he hadn’t expected that.
Childe wasn’t the first guy that kissed him, far from, but he was the first to kiss him like that.
Childe was skilled, incredibly talented at everything he did. He wasn’t the youngest Harbinger for no reason, but that didn’t mean he was also ridiculously good at that.
Yet, he was, and Scaramouche realized just how much he had been yearning for that.
And when Childe pulled back only to place another kiss on his lips, and blue eyes locked with his, he wondered how he had ever thought he’d be able to stay away from him.