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The Balladeer looks out into the horizon—the pinks and purples and blues of Snezhnaya’s sky have always reminded him of Inazuma. It’s not a good thing, but he holds it close to his chest, guarding it from public view like something pure.
Something precious.
Something meant to last for all eternity.
They have to be careful, as Harbingers. Any weakness, any crack in their masks will be exploited and drained until they are numbed to it. It’s why they only really associate with each other, at the end of the day.
Friends, colleagues that they might’ve known before always pushed aside and away.
Despite their differences, they each understand holding the burden of this nation’s safety, the weight that comes with playing the parts the Tsaritsa has so carefully scripted out and assigned to them.
Maybe he doesn’t really, truly like any of the people he shares a rank with, but...
They’re all each other have, and beggars can’t be choosers.
(He doesn’t really, truly like any of them, but he cares all the same. It’s a difficult thing. But Scaramouche knows it’s not one-sided—just simply something that each of them have to learn to deal with as they settle into their rank.)
He feels Tartaglia approach before he hears them. It’s a newer development, his tendency to seek out the Eleventh in every moment, in every room he steps into.
(It just so happens that this is his sector of the palace, and he isn’t...aware of how the other Harbinger got in.)
He is a fascinating person, with twists and turns for a personality, bordered with a thick coat of a genuinity impossible to understand.
They’re so confusing, so elusive that Scaramouche can pretend his newfound desire to know more lies in that, and that alone. He can pretend that the beating of his heart that comes with Childe’s stupid jokes, that the private, intimate moments spent in each other’s company are only results of his fascination.
And maybe it’s true, to some extent. Tartaglia understands most things better than others—the void of never truly fitting into a category, the silent ache that comes with being called a good man or a sweet girl, the way they are portrayed, and that’s sparked a curiosity that he hasn’t brought himself to smother yet.
“Hey,” Childe rasps, voice something soft, gentle, hoarse. Scaramouche immediately knows that the other had a long night, and maybe that says something—something he doesn’t want to think about.
Not now. Not ever, if he has a say in it.
He doesn’t, and he knows it.
“You look like shit.” He’s not lying, or, at least, not in the usual sense of the phrase. Tartaglia themself is as attractive as usual, but there’s a distinct lack of his regular eyeliner and confident prose.
Tartaglia chuckles, a fleeting thing—only a moment’s worth of laughter. The Balladeer commits the sound to memory despite himself.
“I know. Some asshole near Morespok decided it’d be a good idea to kill someone important, and now it’s this whole thing.” They click their tongue. “Well, it was this whole thing.”
Scaramouche raises an eyebrow. Near Morespok? Isn’t that where...
“No one I know was involved. You worry too much.”
He does, but now that Childe’s said it, he’s never going to admit it. “Pretty sure that’s you, dumbass.” Which is also true.
“Maybe.” Tartaglia closes their eyes, breathing out slowly. His breath is visible against the cold. He’s pretty like this—guard mostly down and hair still messy, usual attire mussed.
Pretty, but not quite presentable.
Scaramouche reaches out before he processes what he’s doing and before he knows it, his mind is screaming at him because this says too much, too much, they know. Childe startles, but presses their hand over his own when he starts to move away.
They’ve crossed lines before, crossed boundaries not meant to be touched through insults and jabs that lead into fights that leave them both bloody and bruised.
But this is different.
This undefined thing between them...
It might not be so undefined anymore, and that terrifies him in all the ways he’ll never repeat aloud.
(It’s a vulnerability that they shouldn’t have, and that’s all the Balladeer will ever really know.)
Scaramouche straightens the scarf around Tartaglia’s neck, hand moving up to his face and into their hair. This is breaking something. He can feel his guard crumbling as the other leans further into him.
Scaramouche opens his eyes after a moment of silently running his hands through orange hair, and Childe is staring at his lips, eyes darting all around his face, catching his eyes before his gaze settles at his mouth.
Is this okay?
It’s stupid that he’s even unsure. Because no matter how afraid he is—
He feels a shiver run down the other’s body as he traces the tattoo at the base of his neck.
—Scaramouche isn’t going to say no. He doesn’t think he’s physically capable of it, not when Tartaglia is looking at him like that.
He grabs the collar he just fixed and pulls, ignores the other’s quiet choke, and presses their lips together. Tartaglia melts into it first; he follows almost immediately, relaxing into this like they’ve done it a million times before.
Tartaglia nips at his bottom lip, and Scaramouche steps on his foot.
The Eleventh’s laugh really is a pretty thing.
He’s certain that he’s already too far past the line with the way his heartbeat is echoing in his ears. And maybe that doesn’t matter. Maybe it won’t hurt as much if Tartaglia’s past it too.
They part, and Scaramouche wants to cling to the warmth of Tartaglia’s body like it’s the only thing that matters. He doesn’t, though, watching as the other doesn’t do much more than stare at him, seemingly in awe.
For a moment, a silent, terrifying moment, Childe opens his mouth and the Balladeer is convinced they’re going to say something neither of them should.
He wants to hear it anyways—wants to hear what will make everything so much harder in the grand scheme of things. He wants to hear his given name on the other’s lips, in their voice.
He’s already fallen too hard to pretend that this didn’t happen, that they almost, almost—
I really like you, Tartaglia doesn’t say, instead, knocking their foreheads together as if to whisper I know, you don’t have to say it.
Instead, smiling against his mouth and asking if he wants food in a quiet murmur.
Scaramouche doesn’t know if he’s relieved or disappointed.
(Maybe both, if he’s being honest. But this is more than enough to make up for it.)
“Of course I’m hungry, asshole. It’s, like, four in the morning.”
“Alright, alright. I guess I owe you a meal. For last time.”
The Balladeer blinks, pressing his elbow into Tartaglia’s ribs. “I paid because I wanted to. You don’t—”
“Let me be romantic,” Tartaglia laces their fingers together, standing up straighter. “Or at least try to be.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Scaramouche mutters, even as he allows himself to be led into the kitchen by the hand. He doesn’t mind this.
He really, really doesn’t.
“So fucking ridiculous.”
“It’s part of my charm, darling. You’re just too short to see it.”
...maybe he minds a little bit.
(“It’s edible.”
Childe scoffs, narrowing his eyes playfully. “Edible.”
“Yeah. Barely.”
He’s lying and they both know it. This is the best thing he’s eaten in a while—and maybe it’s only because Tartaglia is the one who made it, all strong hands and whispered measurements.
They smile and lean a little too far into his personal space.
“You know, I think you owe me a kiss for that insult to my pride.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
He gets one anyways.)