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The worst part is that Scaramouche actually respects you.
It’s something everyone in the Fatui knows by now: that you’re the only Harbinger he can tolerate, the only Harbinger he’s willing to work with, the only Harbinger he respects enough to invite to these little strategy missions.
It’s the highest honor one can receive from a man like Scaramouche, who’s known best for his averseness to all encounters that don’t directly benefit him. And yet, it’s nothing more than that: a distinction in his mind between the incompetent and the competent, useless and the useful.
You simply happen to fall into the latter category.
You’re not sure if that makes it better or worse.
“And I was also thinking that as soon as we’ve set up enough microfinancing loans, we could start to move into the city. Get the towns on the outskirts used to Fatui presence, and then hit the Inazuman capital with our people just as they’ve begun to hear of us. The only problem there is that we’d need to combine our forces if we want to effectively disperse our agents, which would leave us open to attack…”
You tune the man out, barely paying attention as he continues on about infiltration tactics.
After all, it’s not the Fatui you care about.
It’s him.
“But I suppose getting a third Harbinger involved would only complicate the situation, since we’re the only diplomats who’ve ever been sent to Inazuma. Which would mean…”
“A third Harbinger wouldn’t need to be involved in our diplomatic operations,” you say, interrupting the man. “Assume that your and my forces completely focus on intelligence within the city. If we bring a third Harbinger in, we can keep them excluded from the operation and tell them to solely focus on keeping guard to protect us from attacks.”
Scaramouche hesitates when he hears your idea, and then his face breaks out into the rare, thankful smile that you joined the Fatui to see.
“Of course,” he says, bringing a glass of wine to his lips as he leans further back in the chair. “As expected of someone as strategically inclined as you.”
You can only smile, grateful that the man you adore is giving you a compliment. The fact that he only likes you for your brain is a thought you refuse to entertain.
“You’re too kind, Balladeer.”
“Only because you deserve it,” the man says, something flashing in his eyes that could be counted as less-than-innocent, though you know by now that it’s nothing you can pay attention to.
“Well, my efforts would be useless without your men,” you respond, bringing your own glass to your lips as you lean back in your armor, letting the thick metal clink against the chair when your back hits it.
“Nonsense. Your mind is sharp enough that a loss in resources wouldn’t hinder you.”
“That’s…” true.
And that’s probably the worst part of all.
You don’t need Scaramouche at all—don’t need him, don’t need his men, don’t need any of his diplomatic connections to achieve the goal the Tsaritsa has presented you with. It’s a painfully obvious fact given your track record: near-perfect except for the single blemish that forced you to join the Fatui in the first place—but the Tsaritsa has always known that your blunder was intentional, that there was never any flaw in your plan, that you consciously outed yourself as Snezhnaya’s most wanted thief so you could get closer to the mysterious enigma that was the Sixth Harbinger.
Yet, as you sit in his room, drinking his wine at his table to concoct a battle plan to work around his men, you’re no closer to the man than when you first joined.
Or—perhaps that’s a lie. Perhaps you know more about him now than you did before.
After all, back when you didn’t know him, you believed him to be a pretty man with a penchant for draconian punishment. Both true, except that now, you know that he’s already been promised to another—and that Scaramouche, the Balladeer, Sixth of the Eleven Harbingers, is someone who would never stoop so low as to cheat.
Yet, he respects you.
Or rather—he respects your mind.
“Something wrong?” Scaramouche leans forward with a hint of vague concern in his eyes, and you hate how you know that it’s that: vague concern, distant and hazy because your relationship doesn’t warrant any actual care.
“Nothing, Balladeer. Just thinking about a plan I’m going to present to the Tsaritsa tomorrow.”
“Ah,” he hums, not bothering to ask because he knows it’s likely confidential. “Well, you should relax. I doubt that your plan has any flaws, and even if it does, the Tsaritsa will trust you enough to allow you to execute.”
“Right.”
“No, I mean it.” Scaramouche offers you another rare smile, pushing the glass of wine closer. “People need to indulge every now and then. Even Harbingers. You’ll be better off if you give in to what you want.”
It’s out of character for him to look out for you like this, but you accept the glass regardless.
“There’s no point,” you mutter, gazing at your wavy reflection in the deep red liquid. “I want too much. Can’t have it all. There’s a reason I got caught for stealing.”
Not quite the reason he must be thinking, but yeah, the reason does exist.
“I’m sure you can steal whatever you want if you try hard enough.”
“Easy to think,” you mutter, taking a long sip. “But some things aren’t a matter of strategy.”
“Oh? Pray tell, who could be standing between you and what you want?”
Your expression turns bitter, turning into what has to be a sharp glare as you let out all the resentment that has been festering from years of being nothing more than a distant friend to Scaramouche.
“You. You make me want things I can’t have.”
Scaramouche’s smile doesn’t change at that, and your heart sinks when you see how he doesn’t even think to ask what you mean.
He knows, you realize, staring hopelessly into his violet, unchanging eyes. He’s known.
God, that’s embarrassing. That the man you’ve been obsessed with since you joined this wretched organization knows you like him, knows you think about him day and night, knows you’d do anything for him—and he never bothered to say anything.
How humiliating.
This is rejection, isn’t it? This is his way of telling you to crush your hopes and move on because this is as far as you go: being an aid to his strategy, nothing more than a tool to advance his success.
You stand abruptly, not even sure what you’ll say in your shame when you head out—but, then you remember what he said earlier—and things begin to feel different.
I’m sure you can steal whatever you want if you try hard enough.
Your devastation turns incredulous, and you suddenly think about how you first learned that Scaramouche was engaged through some table talk among the low-level recruits. You’d believed it at the time, but Scaramouche is the kind of ass to spread those rumors so suitors won’t approach him, right? He’s the kind of man to consciously put up a distant facade to keep everyone he doesn’t like away, right? And he’s been inviting you every other night to talk about bullshit strategy you couldn’t care less about, keeping you close, if anything, and—
Ah, fuck.
Your face changes as you continue to stare at Scaramouche, trying to dissect his expression for a hint of what he’s thinking. Alas, it’s useless: he wears the perfect poker face, lips curled as he waits for you to make the next move.
Hesitant, you take a seat.
He does nothing in response, though you swear his grin widens the slightest.
And so with no encouragement but the unbridled courage of adrenaline running through your veins, you open your mouth and say things you should have said long ago.