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childe was no stranger to the darkness. from the abyss that he had fallen into as a child to the haunting remnants he found every time he shut his eyes, childe knew that the inconceivable darkness of the abyss had stained him. the dark was one of the few things that truly scared childe, but not in the typical sense. it wasn’t the dark itself, necessarily, but the implications it brought with it. it was the way that the darkness always wormed its way into his nightmares of losing his family, of failing the tsarista, of harming his friends. no matter the outcome, the darkness was almost always the instigator of these fears.
he wished he could get used to the nightmares, but with each night that he awoke covered in a sheen sweat and breathless, his hope dwindled. each was the same as the last, his eyes burning, throat stinging, and chest heaving as he scrambled to find a light. tonight was no different.
swinging his legs over the side of the bed almost mechanically, childe moved around his hotel room on something akin to autopilot. carelessly rummaging through his small dresser, he searched for some clothes he could wear – something more suitable than the boxer shorts he currently wore, but also not his typical attire. he didn’t want to be recognized – a difficult feat for someone of his status. finally, he pulled a pair of shorts and an old sweater from the depths of the wardrobe, tugging them on. as he dressed, a lone thought rattled in the back of his mind that perhaps if he did not dress like tartaglia, he would not be tartaglia. maybe, then, he could walk as ajax tonight. maybe, he could pretend that the darkness had not yet found him, even if just for a moment.
his feet carry him out the door of his room and he lets them lead, the sights around him blurring into a kaleidoscope of sorts. his vision only refocuses when he realizes that his feet have lead him to the harbour-front. eyes tracing over the moonlight adorned water, childe sat cross-legged at the edge of one of the vacant docks. he couldn’t bear the thought of hanging his legs off the side of the dock or of letting his feet go anywhere near the water – it was too dark. too deep. he chastised himself internally for his irrationality – he has a hydro vision for fucks sake, and yet he can’t handle the water in front of him? he grit his teeth, nails digging into his thighs, and realizes that he is shaking. the more he looks at the water in front of him the deeper the pit in his stomach grows, and so he casts his eyes up to the moon instead. it warms his face in a way that only the sun should, and childe wonders if it is a residual side-effect of the abyss, another inkling of the weight he was destined to shoulder. childe then decided, rather quickly, that he fucking hates it. yet, he can’t bring himself to look away. he can either stare at the moon with an intensity he wishes would shatter it, stare into the murky depths of the water, or focus on himself. the thought of the water sends a shiver up his spine, and he wasn’t feeling particularly inclined to commit to any self-discovery at the moment, and so he settled on glaring at the moon distractedly. truly, at this point, it didn’t matter where he chose to focus his attention anyway. he was lost in his thoughts by now, his mind racing. unconsciously, he dug his fingernails harder into his thigh, where he knows they are leaving little crescent moons of their own. absently, a part of him wondered if he was gripping hard enough to draw blood. another part of him desperately hoped that he was, and that the sight of his own crimson blood dripping from his fingers would be enough to convince him that he is alive. that he is human.
he realizes that he is spiraling, and childe can’t help but wonder if he is going crazy. an old theory resurfaces in his mind, that perhaps this was the doing of his delusion. after all, the physical side-effects of bearing a delusion were well-known to those who possessed one. it wouldn’t be a far stretch to assume that the effects didn’t stop there. childe wondered if they were named delusions for this reason, and he shuddered at the thought.
“tartaglia,”
a voice breaks through his train of thought and into his somewhat foggy mind, and childe registers the owner of it immediately. he makes no move to acknowledge him, though, and instead opts to refocus his attention on the moon in a weak attempt to fight back against the haze in his mind. he wants to disappear.
moments later, a hand on his shoulder drags his attention away from the moon once more. when the hand gently squeezes his shoulder, he finally turns to meet lilac eyes. to anyone else, the expression painted across them would appear as indifference. childe, though, can see the concern. the questions. childe reeled inwardly – he doesn’t need concern. he doesn’t need to be weak. what he needs is to fucking disappear or stop thinking or –
“childe,” scaramouche prompted him, squeezing his shoulder once again. childe vaguely registered the sixth moving to sit beside him, their shoulders brushing against one another. childe found that his eyes were now glued on scaramouche’s legs, which are dangling carelessly over the water, and his breath catches in his throat. they’ll drag him down, too. they’ll take him. they can’t take him. no, no, n – scaramouche squeezes his shoulder again, and he lets out a shuddering breath.
childe doesn’t quite know how to describe the relationship that he and scaramouche have. in public, others are quick to assume that they are enemies. constantly at each other’s throats; scaramouche bristling with anger and childe grinning from ear to ear as he riles him up. privately, however, scaramouche and childe had come to develop a strange friendship of sorts. childe easily considered scaramouche to be one of his closest friends, and he knows that scaramouche felt the same, though he would seldom admit it. he didn’t need to admit it, though. childe could tell from the look in his eyes that he has long learned to identify as fiercely veiled concern and from the way they brush against each other in passing. he could tell by the way that scaramouche came to him, and only him when he was troubled. the way that he came to him despite having a reputation of being a lone ranger, of sorts. these moments, of course, were kept in strict confidence between the two of them.
this was not the first time that scaramouche had come across him like this. in fact, the first time that childe had truly conversed with scaramouche hadn’t been so dissimilar. late at night and in the dead of a schneznyan winter, childe had found himself pulled from a nightmare and had let his feet guide him out into the wilderness, wandering aimlessly and not stopping even when his lips became tinged blue from the bitter cold.
“you’re going to freeze to fucking death.”
normally, childe would have retorted that scaramouche would freeze faster given his attire, but he didn’t have the energy tonight. every ounce of energy in his body felt as though it had been drained and he was surprised that he was still standing. now that he had stopped moving, the sheer cold had begun to set in, and childe’s teeth chattered as he shrugged and forced out a raw “so be it.”
there was a pause, and childe could feel the eyes on his back studying him with an intensity that would surely break anyone else. finally, a firm “no.”
childe turned, finally, to face scaramouche. he didn’t miss the flicker of emotion that crossed over his senior’s face, and he realized that he probably looked like shit. his face was wet from a combination of the snow and tears and he knew that his face would be red, too. his eyes probably looked lifeless, and by the archons, he felt dead.
scaramouche had guided him back to zapolyarny palace with a gentleness he had never seen nor expected. he had led him back to his room, ordering a subordinate to go find something warm and digging through childe’s belongings until he produced something that wasn’t soaked through and frozen stiff for him to wear. he had sat with childe as he sipped at his tea, his fingertips slowly regaining feeling. between sips, he talked to scaramouche. he hadn’t forced him to, but childe’s mind felt so groggy and cold that his lips opened and spilled by their own volition. he spoke of the nightmares and the abyss. he told scaramouche how typically it was fine but on nights like these he was so desperate to make it stop that no, he truly could not have cared less if he had frozen. he just wanted to feel alive, and if the only way to feel alive was through freezing to death, then so be it.
as his body slowly became known to him again from the warmth of the tea and his room, his mind did too, the confessions that childe spilled out slowly thawing the ice that had been accumulating. by the time he had finished talking, he was thinking rationally enough to almost regret saying all that he had. he expected scaramouche to yell at him, to curse him out, to tell the tsaritsa. he had not expected scaramouche to awkwardly reach out and grab his hand, squeezing it gently. he had not expected scaramouche to drop his façade and try to help him. he had not expected this to become the beginning of the secret they would harbour for years to come.
their friendship began that night, and the two continuously found solace in one another over the years. scaramouche had sat with childe through several sleepless nights before one time, in the dead of night, childe had heard a knock on his door. still awake, and keenly aware of who stood on the opposite side of the wooden door, he had opened it. scaramouche had looked exhausted, and childe had ushered him in. childe had sat with scaramouche as he softly spoke of the details of his most recent mission. as he divulged the details of his home country, of his life before becoming a harbinger. childe had listened more intently than he had ever listened to anyone, and by the end he was gripping scaramouche’s hand in the same way that scaramouche always held his.
in that moment, they both truly realized that the comfort that they were able to afford one another, despite needing to be kept under tight wraps, was something that neither of them would trade for the world. secrecy was a small price of pay to have a friend in their line of work. someone who they could trust, and someone who understood.
“you look more dead than usual,” scaramouche comments, direct as always. childe would have laughed if it weren’t for the feeling of dread steadily growing in his chest. he would have laughed if his current preoccupation were anything other than the almost overwhelming desire to yank scaramouche back from the water and drag him as far away from it as possible. his lips move before his mind has a chance to catch up.
“i wish i was.”
scaramouche stills at this. it was far from childe’s first admission of wishing he was dead, but it is, childe considers, probably the most direct he has ever been about it. he notices that scaramouche’s eyes are scanning his face, brows knit together in a scowl of sorts. childe curses the fact that he is trembling and shifts his gaze away and back to scaramouche’s legs dangling above the water.
scaramouche’s eyes follow his, and childe chokes out a soft “don’t touch the water.” he’s going crazy, he must be. it feels as though he is losing his fucking mind. he knows it. it’s just water, and he’s on dry land, so why does it feel as though water is filling his lungs?
“why?” scaramouche inquires, slowly pulling his legs up to sit cross-legged like childe, and childe lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. he also realizes that scaramouche has shifted closer to him, his hand moving from childe’s shoulder down to his hand, gripping it firmly.
“dark,” childe replied simply, his eyes returning back to the moon. he let out a shaky breath before adding on a quiet “the… abyss.” his eyes are stinging and he blinks, and he feels a finger wipe his cheek gently a few moments later. he realizes that he is crying, and his chest is burning. in this moment, he is sure that he’s drowning. soft hands cup his face and his eyes are redirected into wide lilac ones.
“breathe, ajax,” scaramouche directs, and childe feels himself instantly relax at the use of his real name. he tries to breathe and decides to focus on scaramouche’s eyes – eyes that are the same colour that adorn his estranged homeland. eyes he has always found entrancing. scaramouche’s eyes are searching his with an intensity that makes him truly feel like a child, and childe wonders if scaramouche is looking directly into his soul.
it takes a few minutes, but he can breathe now. he still feels as though he is less than in-touch, and his skin is crawling, but he has stopped crying and he no longer feels as though he is being held underwater. “why do you wish you were dead?” scaramouche asks, and childe stares at the water. he wonders what it would feel like to actually drown.
“i feel like i’m going crazy, scara,” childe admits, his lips moving silently as he searches for the right words. finally, he settles on a soft admission of, “i want to disappear, to where nobody can find me.”
“where the abyss can’t find you?” scaramouche pries gently, and childe flinches. scaramouche hums softly.
standing up, scaramouche reaches his hand down towards childe, who peers up at him with tired curiosity. childe looks so young and scared in that moment, and scaramouche feels a pang. while the two of them aren’t far apart in age, childe is both the newest harbinger and the youngest of them all, something scaramouche thinks that all eleven of them, including childe himself, have forgotten.
“let’s walk,” he suggests, and childe takes his hand, letting scaramouche lead.
to childe’s surprise, scaramouche takes them back to the very hotel he had originated from. it makes sense, he supposes, to put them both in the same hotel. but still, how had he not noticed? momentarily free from his haze, he quietly asks, “why are you in liyue, scara?”
scaramouche just hums in response, and childe realizes that they’ve come to a door inside the hotel. scaramouche digs a pair of keys out of his pocket and opens the door to a room that essentially mirrors childe’s own, albeit a little tidier. leading him in, scaramouche gently shuts and locks the door behind them.
“take your shoes off, don’t track dirt in,” scaramouche grunts, and childe can only obey. he wonders if this is how qiqi feels, only able to act if told explicitly what to do. shaking his head, he takes his shoes off, placing them next to scaramouche’s. distractedly, he wanders to a couch in the middle of the room and sits down, eyes glossed over as he loses himself in his mind once more.
he only snaps back to reality when a pair of lilac eyes have once again met his own, and he registers that scaramouche is crouching in front of him, his hands on childe’s knees to steady himself and his eyebrows knit together. he has an expression on his face that makes childe feel as though he is searching for something, and childe can’t help but ask, “what are you searching for, scara?”
“you,” scaramouche replies instantly. childe’s confusion must have been evident on his face, because scaramouche continues a few moments later. “you’ve been zoned out ever since i found you at the docks,” scaramouche explains, his voice stoic yet bordering on gentle. “do you even remember walking here?”
childe took a moment to think, and he realizes with a start that no, he can hardly remember the trek from the harbourfront to where he sits now, save for a few fragmented and admittedly distorted flashes of memory. he shakes his head. a moment later, he breathes out a soft “you won’t find what you’re looking for.”
scaramouche hums softly in response, his thumb tracing slow circles on childe’s knee. “and why is that?” he asks. this time, childe replies without hesitation,
“the me you’re looking for is long gone,” he explains, his eyes focusing haphazardly on the door over scaramouche’s shoulder. “the me that you’re looking for rotted in the abyss.” his voice shakes as he says it, and he registers scaramouche’s vacant hand on top of his, his fingers slowly working his way under childe’s hand to release his grip on the couch. childe realizes that he’s been gripping the edge of the couch so tightly that his knuckles have long since turned white. he loosens his grip and allows scaramouche to hold his hand, like he always does.
“i don’t believe that for a second, ajax,” scaramouche murmurs, and childe feels a pang of… anger? guilt? grief? surge through his chest at the use of his name, now.
“ajax is dead,” he manages to spit out. his eyes are burning again, and he squeezes them shut.
“i’m looking at ajax right now,” scaramouche replies easily, “and you may wish you were dead, but you aren’t. you are here. you are not the abyss, and for now, you don’t have to be tartaglia or even childe. you are you, ajax.”
for the first time since his nightmare earlier in the night had ripped him from his slumber, childe feels truly grounded. sucked back into the present, childe suddenly feels. he doesn’t want to cry any more in front of scaramouche; he hates crying in front of others. he hates being weak. but archons, the words that rolled off of scaramouche’s tongue so easily and the way his violet eyes bore into him as though he was truly seeing straight into his soul… childe felt seen. he trusts scaramouche, and he knows without a doubt that scaramouche would never lie to him about this. in this moment, he could be ajax once more. childe realizes that he is trembling again, and his breath seems to have escaped him. he vaguely registers scaramouche’s hands gripping his arms as he guides him from the couch to the floor, maneuvering the both of them so that childe is firmly in his grasp. childe chokes out a sob, his hands finding their way to scaramouche’s shirt, his fingers curling themselves into the fabric as if scaramouche would disappear if he were to let go. scaramouche let one hand trail soft circles on childe’s back while the other combed through his ginger locks gently. in the midst of it all, childe can’t help but wonder for the millionth time why scaramouche cares so deeply about him of all people. he wonders, in the back of his mind, if it’s for the same reason that childe cares so deeply about him. he brushes it off – questions for another day.
they stay like this for a while, until childe’s sobs have reduced themselves to no more than raggedy breaths. scaramouche’s hands have not stopped moving, and his chin has come to rest on top of childe’s head. the sun is rising now, childe can feel the gentle heat on the side of his face, and when he finally opens his eyes and pulls back to look at scaramouche, he can see the soft glow of the morning sun highlighting his face. the latter is looking at him with a gentle look that childe has only ever seen him wear in private. concern and… adoration, maybe? childe has never been able to place it, and he sure as hell knows better than to ask. still, the look is just as warm as the morning sun against his skin and childe can’t help the soft smile that forms on his face as he finally locks eyes with scaramouche. back in the present, and with the warm sun caressing the both of them, childe no longer feels as though he is drowning, nor does he wish to. he thinks, if anything, he would love nothing more than to wander above land with scaramouche at his side.