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Childe had hardly taken two steps through the door when the shouting started.
"Are you finally back? Where have you been?" Scaramouche's aggrieved voice rang out from further inside.
Childe wasn't too proud to admit that hearing Scaramouche's voice anything but perfectly content or calm still made him itch to drop everything and run to the man's side, weapons drawn, even after this long in the safe haven that Mondstadt had turned out to be. But Scaramouche sounded annoyed, rather than actually distressed, so he shoved that instinct firmly down.
Thankfully, Scaramouche's next words came quickly afterwards, and reassured Childe completely. "Get in here," he said. "I need you to move this fucking bookshelf, it's on the wrong side of the room."
So, not exactly an emergency. Childe shook his head and stopped to hang up his jacket at the door and kick off his shoes. He didn't want to track dirt inside their nice new house and give Scaramouche another reason to yell at him.
They'd saved up their pay to make an offer on a little townhouse in a bustling neighborhood not far from the Knights' headquarters, and had only closed the deal and started moving in the day before. They hadn't really needed to save up at all, of course—they'd taken off with enough of the Fatui's funds on hand for that much at least—but it had been worth going through the motions, to keep up appearances. Better to avoid any questions or speculation, for everyone's sake.
On now-only-sock-clad feet, Childe wandered down the entry hall and took the first right turn, into the room they'd decided would be their den, to see just how dire the bookshelf situation was.
Scaramouche—because Childe's eyes were always drawn first to Scaramouche, whenever he entered a room—was perched on the back of the sofa, which had sometime today been turned and dragged to smack-dab in the middle of the room, instead of staying where Childe had left it that morning, along the far wall. Scaramouche's feet were on the sofa cushions, and he was glaring daggers at the bookshelf, which had the near side positioned quite a bit further away from the wall than the other, like someone had tried to shimmy it over to a new position by his lonesome, and given up partway.
"What happened here?" Childe asked, with raised eyebrows, leaning against the doorframe for effect.
Scaramouche didn't answer the question, of course. He turned his head to glare at Childe instead, pointed at the shelf, made an emphatic gesture with his thumb, and said, "Just move it over there. Now."
"Yessir, right away, sir," Childe drawled, with a lazy salute, privately relishing the way Scaramouche's face went a little red when he said it. He pushed off from the doorway and moseyed on into the den to get a better look at the task Scaramouche was foisting onto him.
The couch would need to be moved first, of course. Childe didn't know why Scaramouche had put it in the middle of the room, but it was now directly between the shelf and its ultimate destination.
"Wanna help me with the couch first?" Childe asked, without much optimism.
Scaramouche just shot him a withering expression, rather than bothering to voice a 'no.'
Childe sighed. "Well, get down at least. You'll topple off the back if I move it while you're sitting on it like that."
After a few grudging seconds, Scaramouche condescended to do as Childe asked, hopping daintily down with a huff and standing aside. "I wouldn't have," he insisted. "But it'll be easier to direct you from over here. The sofa should be over there." He pointed at the other side of the room, exactly where it had been before. There wasn't a hint of chagrin on his face.
"Sure thing," Childe said. He made his way around the back of the couch to the far end, so he could drag it rather than try pushing it alone. It was only then that he caught sight of the shelf-side of the bookshelf. He'd only been able to see the solid back of the shelf from the direction of the doorway, angled like it was.
The thing was… the shelf was half full already. And some of the objects occupying it had clearly been jarred by some sharp movement. Scaramouche had apparently put several dozen books and some other odds and ends onto the shelf before he'd decided it was on the wrong side of the room and tried to move it… without emptying it first.
Gods, Childe loved him.
"What are you grinning at," Scaramouche said, flatly.
Alas, Scaramouche never could stand it when anyone laughed at anything he did, especially when he was being ridiculous. "Oh, nothing, nothing," Childe said quickly. "Just, uhh, happy to help!" He busied himself with the couch. He had to squat to get one hand under it, using the other one to stabilize the back as he lifted that side up and started to drag the thing over to the far wall.
"There," he exhaled, as he scooted it back into place. He straightened back up and looked Scaramouche's way. The man's face had reddened again, and Childe tried not to preen too much. "That good?" he asked.
"Tolerable," Scaramouche said, with remarkable composure. "Now the bookshelf."
Childe glanced at the shelf, and felt the urge to laugh rise up in him again.
"What's so funny," Scaramouche said after a moment, his voice turning dangerously frosty.
"Uh, I was just…" Childe scrambled for a subject change. He didn't think Scaramouche would take kindly to constructive criticism at the moment vis-à-vis his unpacking technique, or to the hilarity Childe was finding in it. And, anyway, hadn't there been something Childe was supposed to… oh, right! "Hey, do we need a vase?" he asked, innocently.
Scaramouche narrowed his eyes, but he took the bait anyway. "Why do you ask?"
"Oh, well, I was just at the Angel's Share after my shift and was telling everyone the good news about the house," Childe started to explain, relieved. "But then Master Diluc got weirdly insistent about giving us a vase as a housewarming gift. I said I'd mention it to you and let him know." Childe had never actually owned a vase himself, and wasn't sure what he'd do with one, but Scaramouche was the more refined one between them—inasmuch as either of them fit that description—so he'd thought maybe Scaramouche would have a use for it.
Scaramouche didn't say yes or no quite yet, though. He'd raised his eyebrows at the mention of Diluc. "Was Kaeya there?" he asked.
Childe blinked and thought back. "Um, yeah, Kaeya was around. Why?"
Scaramouche huffed. "Well, then, obviously, he didn't mean it about the vase. He was just messing with Kaeya." And then at Childe's blank look, he elaborated, "Our esteemed Cavalry Captain once gave him what I'm told is a truly horrendous vase, which now occupies a place of honor in Ragnvindr Manor. He's not going to actually give it to us. And I wouldn't want the thing, anyway. Nobody does. Well, except for Diluc, evidently."
"Huh," Childe said.
"Can't believe you didn't know about the goddamn vase," Scaramouche grumbled at him. And then he turned away from Childe, crossing his arms meaningfully.
That was an invitation Childe could never turn down. He sauntered right over and wrapped his arms around the shorter man from behind, bending to nuzzle at his cheek.
"Sorry to disappoint," Childe murmured against his skin. "But how do you always know all the gossip? No one ever tells me about the vase drama."
Scaramouche leaned into the contact, but his voice remained perfectly dry as he replied, "I listen."
"...I listen!" Childe protested.
Scaramouche let his head fall back, thumping it against Childe's left collarbone and angling to meet Childe's eyes, without pulling out of his arms. "Not when people aren't talking to you, you don't," Scaramouche said.
Well, that was near enough to the truth. Scaramouche had always been better at that sort of thing than him—all of the rest of them had been, too. But they were getting dangerously close to topics best left in the past, so Childe replied neither in agreement nor in self-defense.
"Well, I still can't imagine Diluc thought I was in on the joke!" he said instead. Then he hummed thoughtfully. "Maybe I should say you said we do want it. See what happens."
Scaramouche actually laughed, which sent a warm thrill through Childe's body. "He's going to cut you off if you play games with him, you know."
"Well, he started it, using me to play games with Kaeya!" Childe said, with exaggerated offense. "Anyway, that wouldn't be such a horrible price to pay. All these Mondstadt brews are a bit too weak for my tastes."
He regretted it almost as soon as he said it. He tried not to reference their life from before their self-imposed exile too much. Sometimes just hinting at it would throw Scaramouche into a funk that lasted for days or weeks on end, which always sent Childe in turn into a frenzy trying to cheer him back up. So he avoided talking about how much he missed Snezhnayan vodka, or about how absurd it was that Mondstadt basically shut down whenever it snowed, and he certainly didn't talk about the people they'd left behind or the people they'd lost. No matter how much he ached to. It wasn't worth the risk.
But, today, at least, Scaramouche didn't seem bothered by his little slip, and Childe breathed a sigh of relief.
"Hmph. We'll see if you're singing the same tune after you've been banned from every tavern the man has an ounce of influence over, you drunkard," Scaramouche sniffed. He shouldered Childe off, and Childe let him go. The man was like a cat, only tolerating a little bit of contact at a time, and Childe had learned well how not to get clawed.
Freed, Scaramouche spun on his heel, glaring at Childe, and Childe endeavored to look contrite for whatever it was that he'd done, which he was sure Scaramouche would inform him about momentarily. "Heading straight to the tavern after work? Even today? While I'm here busily unpacking and setting everything up?"
"I was being sociable!" And it wasn't as if Scaramouche never stopped off to drink after work himself, though he preferred to tuck himself into a corner at one of the quieter drinking establishments, where the more disreputable of Mondstadt's citizenry tended to imbibe.
But no, Scaramouche was never interested in excuses when he got a bee in his bonnet about something. Time to pick a fight instead, and work out Scaramouche's pent-up annoyance the old-fashioned way.
Childe collapsed onto the sofa behind him, stretching dramatically and putting the back of his hand over his face. "I know we decided to buy this house together, but I didn't realize you were going to become such a nagging wife..." he said, with an air of fatigue, fully expecting Scaramouche to tackle him, possibly with a weapon in hand.
Instead, what followed was a silence that lasted just long enough to become intensely awkward. Childe lifted his hand and opened his eyes in confused trepidation.
Scaramouche's face was conflicted, and bright red. Childe felt heat creeping into his own cheeks in response, without him even having the first clue what had gotten into Scaramouche this time.
Scaramouche put a hand in front of his face, as if to hide behind it. Childe watched, still baffled, as he swallowed, his throat bobbing.
"...Is that a proposal?" Scaramouche asked, in a controlled tone.
Childe's heart skipped a beat. His mouth went dry. "D-do you want it to be?"
Scaramouche's shoulders seemed to wind even tighter. "Well if you can't be bothered to do something romantic..." he said, through clenched teeth.
"The last time I tried to do something romantic, you threw a book at me," Childe said, a little blankly.
Scaramouche made a noise like a teapot and gestured violently with his hands, in a motion not unreminiscent of the event in question. "I was in an important meeting!" he exclaimed, all righteous fury.
Childe's heartbeat was pounding in his ears. He leaned forward and reached out a hand to grab Scaramouche's wrist, yanking him closer.
Scaramouche yelped as he was pulled into Childe's lap on the couch. "Hey, what—!"
Childe buried his face in the crook of Scaramouche's shoulder, squeezing him tight. "I love you," he said, feelingly. "I love you so much I can barely stand it. Please, please, will you marry me?"
"I…" Scaramouche started, sounding a little winded. His hand had moved up to rest on the back of Childe's head, as if by reflex. "You're… you're not even gonna kneel?" he asked, weakly.
In one sharp motion, Childe pulled back and flipped them both around so that Scaramouche was the one sprawled on the couch and Childe was kneeling between his legs, gripping his hips. "Please," he repeated, chest tight.
Scaramouche was blinking rapidly, and breathing almost as fast. His mouth was open, but nothing but empty air was coming out.
Then, finally, he raised a trembling hand to Childe's cheek and said, "Yes." The word sounded like it had been wrenched from his lungs, but Scaramouche didn't pause to draw another breath before he swooped in to capture Childe's lips.
Childe kissed him back with a fervor. That tightly wound knot at his sternum dissipated like it had never been, and something solid and warm replaced it. Something newly certain that Scaramouche… that Scaramouche would soon be his, in every way that mattered. And that he'd be Scaramouche's in return.
It felt like the permanence he'd longed so desperately to find again, that he hadn't suspected Mondstadt could ever provide. Not on that stormy night when they'd sought shelter behind this city's gates, after so many harrowing weeks of flight—when all that had consumed his waking moments was the fear that he'd have to spirit Scaramouche away again, drag him away again… and the fear that he wouldn't ever be able to banish the alarming blankness that had taken root on Scaramouche's face.
But, that was all in the past. Today, now, when Childe pulled back, he found Scaramouche smiling lopsidedly at him, a contented light in his eyes. And Childe smiled serenely back, threading their fingers together and holding tight.