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He has never felt rage like this in his entire time of working the Tuesday morning shift. There’s no other way to describe his anger other than a flaming ball of colorful curses and violent fists boiling in his chest and all ready to make their way flying at that orange-haired brat who thinks he can just–

The bell above the door rings, and Scaramouche lifts his head up just in time to see Childe the Clementine Head saunter out the café door as if he did not just drop the biggest metaphorical bomb–in the shape of a hot pink sticky-note–on the counter. 

Scaramouche is so tired of this.

It’s now Thursday, which means the employee schedule for the following week is posted. And every Thursday, without fail, Scaramouche walks into The Walnut Café during his afternoon shift and checks the schedule with a prayer on his lips to whomever is up there that he is not scheduled for the Tuesday morning shift. 

Every week, Scaramouche is let down. Hu Tao enjoys this way too much.

“Something the matter, ‘Mouche?” a cheerful voice rings from where Hu Tao is sitting in the back of the room, sorting through bags of coffee beans. If it were socially acceptable to curse out one’s manager, Scaramouche would have done so long ago. It’s a bit ridiculous, really, how someone this young has managed to climb her way up the ladder and now, as a second-year college student, has somehow become the supervisor for multiple university upperclassmen.

Whatever. As a senior, Scaramouche finds a secret satisfaction in that he will always have two years’ worth of knowledge on Hu Tao. 

“No,” he scoffs, snatching his uniform from his locker and preparing for a peaceful afternoon at the café. 

Of the few days in the week he works at The Walnut Café, there aren’t many things worth noting. (Aside from the Tuesdays. The fucking Tuesdays.) Students come and go as they please, utilizing the ambiance for a quick study session or a hangout space. 

Contrary to popular belief–or the belief that his co-worker, Mona, holds–Scaramouche is actually a good worker. He makes drinks quickly, never loses track of the cash he needs to handle, and can be quite friendly when he wants to be. While customer service may not have been his first choice in employment, he will begrudgingly admit that he’s grown quite fond of the café and the people here. 

Dare he say, he’s even made friends with his coworkers. Hu Tao can be a real pain in the ass sometimes, but is unexpectedly good at giving advice and oddly supportive. Zhongli is just fucking weird, but it’s a brand of weird that Scaramouche can appreciate. Xiao doesn’t talk much, only occasionally inputting his opinion when Zhongli and Hu Tao have debates about the most obscure topics, but he has his roundabout way of caring for people. It’s a little too sweet for Scaramouche’s taste, but he can’t complain. 

Mona is probably the co-worker he is closest with, if only because Hu Tao insists that they share all of their shifts together. Something about Mona being the only employee “assertive enough to put Scaramouche in his place,” whatever that means. At least he can bully her for being broke.

As if summoned, the door to the employee room bursts open with the flair of two purple pigtails. “My dearest and shortest friend, Scaramouche! Isn’t it lovely to see your smiling face!” Mona skips over to her own locker and makes sure to add a condescending little head pat with her greeting. 

Scaramouche scowls. “I’m not smiling.”

Mona laughs, snatching a leftover pastry from last night’s shift. “You’re as delightful as ever. At least it’s your last shift before Tuesday rolls around again! I mean, two days ago was pretty bad; I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so angry. Ah, the next four entire days, Clementine Head free–”

Scaramouche can already feel the relief blossoming in his chest. 

But unfortunately for Scaramouche (and thus also for his flatmate Venti), much of the weekend is spent agonizing over the stupid fucking sticky-note that Childe the Clementine Head had left on the counter last Tuesday.

Because, of course, leave it to Childe the Clementine Head to somehow manage to torture Scaramouche even on his days off.

God. When can he catch a break?

“Scara,” Venti blurts from the living room. He’s watching some sort of nature documentary on the TV. “Can you stop growling under your breath? It’s really bothersome.”

Scaramouche groans and collapses on the dining table from where he’s sitting. “No can do,” he grumbles back, mentally weighing the pros and cons of tearing the note to pieces. It’s already crinkled near the edges from where he gripped it too hard, the black ink slightly smudged. The worst thing is, it’s not even on one of those cheap pale yellow sticky-notes he normally gets. It’s hot pink. That fucker.

Scaramouche hears the soft rustling of a blanket and the chair across from his being pulled out. “What is that?” comes Venti’s voice, a hand already reaching out to read the note. 

If Scaramouche had any more dignity, he would be seething with embarrassment and anger. As it stands, he’s just tired.

“‘ScaraGrape, there’s narwhal else for me but you,’” Venti reads, voice filled with such emotion that one would think he were rehearsing theater lines. “‘Text me? XOXO, Childe.’ Oh, there’s even a drawing of a narwhal. How cute!”

Scaramouche rolls his eyes. XOXO. Who even writes that in today’s day and age?

“So?” Venti prompts, clearly unaware of the agony this is putting Scaramouche through. “Are you going to text him?”

Scaramouche snatches the hot pink sticky-note from Venti’s hand. “Of course not,” he hisses. “Are you insane?”

A small frown forms on Venti’s face. Scaramouche almost begins to laugh, because he sort of looks like a sad weasel. “Well, from what you’ve told me about Childe, he seems to be a nice guy,” Venti points out, with absolutely no tact whatsoever.

“N–Nice?” Scaramouche manages to cough out between laughs. “He’s a fucking menace, that kid. Only a year below me and he thinks he can just do whatever the fuck he wants, act like he owns the entire café, being all friendly with Hu Tao as if she couldn’t kick his ass in a fight–”

“But didn’t he buy you a jelly-filled donut once?” Venti interrupts with a smirk on his face. Scaramouche’s tirade comes to a halting screech. If he wasn’t angry before, he is now. The memories of the day which sealed the fate of Scaramouche’s neverending loathing and anger toward Childe the Clementine Head resurface. ‘Have a jelly-filled donut, ScaraGrape! Ha ha, get it, because jelly is made from grapes?’ 

“Yeah, a jelly-filled donut because he calls me ScaraGrape, and he fucking bought it from our café! I can just take those whenever I want!” 

“But you guys have matching fruit nicknames,” Venti counters, hand under his chin, as if this single fact alone is enough to prove that Childe the Clementine Head is, in fact, a decent human. He looks so content and self-assured in this statement, all wrapped up in his blanket burrito. Scaramouche resists the urge to bonk him on the head with his fist. “Besides, he leaves you notes all of the time, right? Why are you so mad this time?” Venti asks between giggles, clearly finding this to be the most amusing spectacle on earth.

And before you ask, no, Scaramouche does not keep these stupid notes. They go immediately into the recycling bin, because while Scaramouche is a self-proclaimed dick, he does do his part in recycling. Take that , Childe the Clementine Head.

“Someone’s smiling!” Venti teases, accompanied with various pokes to Scaramouche’s cheeks. “Does the thought of Childe’s notes make you that happy?”

Fuck, Scaramouche thinks.

“Fuck,” Scaramouche says. “I’d rather die than ever feel anything akin to happiness around him. I was just thinking about how I’m clearly a better person than him.” It’s the truth.

This makes Venti burst out into laughter and almost tears, for some reason. It’s not until he begins wheezing that Scaramouche is vaguely concerned for his flatmate. He needs him to split the rent, after all. “A better person,” Venti mutters to himself while still giggling his ass off. “I’m gonna go, uh, continue my documentary. Ehehe.”

And with that, Venti hauls himself and his blanket back to the TV. What a weirdo. Scaramouche shouldn’t have expected Venti to be of any help with this predicament, anyway.

Like clockwork, Childe the Clementine Head pushes the door open to The Walnut Café at nine forty in the morning every Tuesday to grab a drink and breakfast before presumably heading to class. 

It’s a matter of luck, really, how good of a mood Scaramouche is in that morning. If Childe the Clementine Head catches him on a good day, he’ll be lucky to be let off with nothing more than a grimace and a please don’t come back! If it’s a bad day, well–Childe the Clementine Head should just be glad that Hu Tao is always in the periphery, ready to smack Scaramouche upside the head should he try anything out of line.

The first Tuesday after the godforsaken pink sticky-note incident, Childe the Clementine Head enters The Walnut Café exactly on time, as he always does.

God, what is that man even wearing ? Scaramouche is going to have to create a Campus Fashion Police in earnest just to prevent him from ever seeing this atrocious red and gray striped sweatshirt again.

Mona begins to laugh as soon as she sees Scaramouche’s expression.

“No running away from this one, ‘Mouche!” Hu Tao delightfully sings from where she is filing paperwork. Her brown hair shakes as she practically vibrates with excitement. No one manages to rile Scaramouche up quite like Childe does, after all.

Scaramouche manages to make himself look busy the entire time Childe the Clementine Head and Mona chat about whatever-it-is as she takes his order. It’s a comforting job to lose himself in, wiping down the glasses and counters and pointedly pretending that Childe the Clementine Head just does not exist . 

His plan becomes exponentially harder, however, when Childe the Clementine Head seats himself on the barstool right in front of where Scaramouche is aggressively wiping a stain from a glass. “Good morning, ScaraGrape!” he grins.

Scaramouche returns the infuriating smile with a grimace. “I would really appreciate it if you didn’t bother the other employees while waiting for your order, Clementine Head,” he shoots back. Scaramouche is minutely aware that somewhere in the back, Mona and Hu Tao are watching this exchange go down with smirks on their faces. 

Childe the Clementine Head pouts.

What the fuck?

He pouts a little harder. “But ScaraGrape, how else can I talk to you? I waited for a text from you the entire week, you know,” Childe the Clementine Head laments, sounding way too dramatic for Scaramouche’s taste. He might as well have mock-fainted in distress. 

Scaramouche snorts. “I’m sure you did,” he responds with nothing but sarcasm. As if . Clearly, this whole ploy was just another one of Childe the Clementine Head’s many ways of pissing Scaramouche off as much as possible. He hates to admit it, but it works. He scrubs at the glass a little harder, even though the stain came off long ago. 

Childe the Clementine Head puts his elbow on the counter and leans his head in his hand. If he leans any closer, Scaramouche will not hesitate to reach out and pinch his arm. “I really did!” Childe the Clementine Head protests, sounding like a seven year-old who just lost his favorite toy. “I even chose the most romantic sticky-note I own. Wasn’t it a nice change-up from the normal yellow ones I leave? And what about the narwhal drawing? You thought it was cute, didn’t you? Didn’t you? Oh, don’t frown, I can see right through you!” With each little remark, that stupid smile just grows larger.

Childe the Clementine Head clearly does not know when to shut up. 

“Jesus Christ,” Scaramouche groans, seriously at his wit’s end. “Mona, can you please deal with him?” It pains him and his pride to delegate this minor inconvenience to someone else, but Scaramouche really cannot bring himself to look Childe the Clementine Head in the eye right now. “After all, you took his order.”

Mona giggles and skips over. “Why, of course, my dear Scaramouche.” She ruffles his hair too aggressively, and now he’s sure it sticks in all sorts of directions. Great.

He spends the next few seconds desperately trying to smooth down his hair through the reflection of some glasses when he suddenly hears what is probably the biggest act of betrayal in existence. “Oh, silly Childe. If you wanted Scaramouche’s number, you could have just asked us!” Mona’s voice is absolutely full of evil delight as Hu Tao cheers her on from the side. 

Scaramouche is at the scene in a split second, grabbing one of Mona’s pigtails in his left hand and one of Hu Tao’s in his right to tug them (gently; he’s not a monster, God) into the employee room.

“That is not what we will be doing today, girls,” Scaramouche seethes. “You—” he points an incriminating finger at Mona. “—I expected better. We’ve known each other for how long and you still think it’s funny to entertain that stupid clementine idiot’s ideas. And you —” he points even harder at Hu Tao. “—You’re the manager, for goodness’ sake. How can you let your employee get away with sabotaging another?” There’s steam coming out of his ears.

And then, because he feels bad about leaving the café temporarily unattended, Scaramouche storms out of the employee room. He prepares Childe the Clementine Head’s order as quickly as he can before aggressively setting it on the counter.

“I don’t know why you’re so friendly with my manager, but please don’t ever return to this café again,” Scaramouche says. For added effect, he grabs a napkin and pen and—in his worst handwriting—scribbles out, I am Childe the Clementine Head, permanently banned from The Walnut Café.  

He leans over the bar, careful not to knock into any food or drink items, before yanking Childe the Clementine Head’s stupid ugly hood and shoving the napkin inside.

“So grumpy today, ScaraGrape,” Childe the Clementine Head tsks as he gets up from the bar. “See you next week! Make sure to text me.” 

And then the bastard winks. 

That weekend, Venti asks the question that Scaramouche has been asking himself ever since Childe the Clementine Head first stepped foot into The Walnut Café .

“Scara, if you hate seeing Childe so much and Hu Tao won’t change your schedule, why don’t you just quit?” 

How he wishes this were as easily done as said.

“If your broke ass can pay an entire month’s worth of rent alone, then I’ll quit and go live on the streets,” Scaramouche answers with absolutely no life in his voice. He’s slumped over his textbooks in the living room, eyes narrowed at Venti snacking on some dried apple crisps. 

Venti munches and munches. Then he winces. “Nevermind, ScaraScara.”

ScaraScara . That’s new.

It must show, because Venti brightens up like a fucking light bulb. “Isn’t that the cutest nickname! I thought of it last night while singing in the shower.” He munches another apple crisp with all the self-assurance in the world.

Now, Scaramouche is no stranger to Venti’s tendency to sing everywhere he goes, especially in the shower. No matter how wonderful someone’s voice is, incessant singing will inevitably become annoying as hell, and Scaramouche constantly reminds Venti of this. Does he ever listen?

That was a rhetorical question. Of course he never fucking listens.

Except, hold on—

“You creep , why the hell were you singing my name in the shower?” Scaramouche yells, sitting straight up. Venti’s eyes twinkle with mischief. 

“Oh, no reason,” he says evasively. Just to drive his point home, he picks up an apple crisp and shoves it in Scaramouche’s mouth. “Don’t keep your mouth open, the fruit flies in this apartment will make a nice cozy home there!”

Scaramouche chomps the apple crisp with all the dignity of an infuriated, overgrown boy. “I’m ‘nna be paying attention to your singing now, ‘ou jerk . If I ever hear you singing ’nything bad at me, I will—”

Scaramouche doesn’t get to finish his sentence. Venti’s disrespectful ass is already on the other side of the apartment in his own room.

“Another week and no text! ScaraGrape, are you trying to kill me? No, that can’t be it. You don’t really hate me, do you?” Childe the Clementine Head looks a bit worse for wear, eyes not completely alive as he takes a seat after placing his order with Mona. 

He’s lucky Scaramouche is in an okay mood today. He can thank Venti’s toned-down singing from this morning.

“I thought you’d never notice,” Scaramouche drawls. Doesn’t Childe the Clementine Head get tired of this? Surely there are better ways to make Scaramouche angry than continuing a futile attempt. “Give it up, Clementine Head. I’m not messaging you. The note’s long gone.”

Scaramouche doesn’t even feel bad as he says it.

Well.

Childe the Clementine Head tries for a smirk, but it really only reaches his mouth. If Scaramouche weren’t the tiniest bit empathetic, he would’ve burst into laughter right then and there.

“You threw my note away? You sure do play hard to get,” Childe the Clementine Head says. (Did that one orange cowlick always fall like that?)

Scaramouche scoffs. “As if. I recycle , you asshole. Something I’m sure you’ve never heard of.”

Mona snorts from where she’s working behind the espresso machine. How childish of them!

This time, Childe the Clementine Head’s smirk is genuine. “Recycle? Pssh. Do you have this in your apartment?” And then he whips out a photo on his phone, clearly of hand-labeled sorting bins for trash, paper, plastic, vinyl, and even compost. At the edge of the photo stands a smiling, tall man with long, blue hair, hand raised in a thumbs-up. “My flatmate and I made these last semester.” 

Compost. What kind of monster is he?

This is insane.

Childe the Clementine Head can’t be a good person, because this will ruin every image of him Scaramouche has in his mind. It must be fake. Real bins, maybe, but a fake flatmate. There’s no way in hell those are in his apartment.

“I don’t believe you,” Scaramouche says simply. “How can you prove that this is yours?”

Childe the Clementine Head grabs his food and stands up to leave. “Maybe if you had texted me, I would’ve been able to video call you and prove it.” Then he has the nerve to shrug , that asshole. “But since you recycled my phone number, looks like you’ll never get the confirmation!”

God, that fucker .

“YOU’VE GOTTA MESSAGE HIM,” Venti screams. “There’s no way he fucking composts! I call bullshit!” He seems genuinely upset by this fact. Scaramouche taught him well.

“Scaramouche, clearly he said that because he knows you won’t message him, and then he won’t have to prove it,” Xiao says, the epitome of calm and collected and I-don’t-give-a-shit-but-I-care-about-you-in-some-regard. Venti could learn a lot from him.

(In all honesty, Scaramouche didn’t even know that the two knew each other. The two of them sitting at their dining table is just a recipe for a migraine. He doesn’t even possess the mental energy to look at them.)

“Bullshit, bullshit,” Venti sings, happily drinking his apple cider. “Bullshi—HEY.”

Scaramouche cracks open one eye. Xiao has Venti’s mug in his hand, held high above Venti’s head where he can’t reach it. “It’s like you get drunk off of this, or something,” he mumbles, heading to the sink to pour it out. Venti angrily stomps his little feet in his seat.

“Xiao is so mean to me,” he laments, poking at Scaramouche’s cheek. Poke poke poke. “Is he this mean at work, too?”

Before Scaramouche can begin to speak, Xiao cuts in from the kitchen sink. “Not a word, Scaramouche. Besides, I’m one of the only people at the café who doesn’t bully him about Childe,” Xiao says, somehow managing to keep his face deadpan while also expressing a clearly covert wish.

Scaramouche smirks. “Don’t listen to a word he says, Venti. Xiao is absolutely intolerable at work. Rudest coworker I’ve ever met.” 

Xiao looks like he’s physically restraining himself from sprinting over and absolutely decking Scaramouche. Venti gasps dramatically and stands up from his seat. “Xiao!” he wails, joining him by the sink and grabbing his shoulders. “How could you!” There’s a cheeky grin on his face, betraying his false-panicked tone. 

Xiao now looks like he’s physically restraining himself from bursting into flames.

Scaramouche sighs. All in a day’s work.

It takes a few minutes, but eventually Xiao and Venti are seated back at the dining table. The only major difference is that now Venti is sitting in Xiao’s lap, but Scaramouche supposes that he can’t really expect anything else from them. 

Besides, at this rate, Xiao’s hair will probably end up turning pink, too. Zhongli will have a field day with this. (Or, Scaramouche surmises, as much of a field day that someone like Zhongli can have.)

“So, so, so,” Venti chimes, wiggling around in excitement. Xiao looks like he’s dying. “What’s your plan, ScaraScara?”

Scaramouche thinks deeply. Well, his first plan is to figure out how to discreetly take a photo of Venti sitting on Xiao’s lap to show everyone at the café.

Then he thinks even more. It’s not as if he wants a video call confirmation, really. That would not only admit defeat against Childe the Clementine Head, but also, in effect, indicate that their relationship is something more than just douche-customer-bothers-barista-every-Tuesday. 

That would not be desirable.

But on the other hand, Scaramouche can’t help but feel the slightest bit curious. How can Childe the Clementine Head, clearly the biggest white-boy-dick Scaramouche has ever met, be the type of person to compost ?

Scaramouche steels his resolve. “I’m not going to come in any sort of contact with that pest outside of café hours. He sucks and he does not compost. I refuse to believe it.” 

This is only partially a lie. 

He is never going to admit it in one million years, but the main reason Scaramouche refuses to text Childe the Clementine Head is that, well, he recycled the note already. That’s one and done. Out of sight, out of mind…? 

Except clearly, with a flatmate like Venti, that hasn’t been working out very well. 

Not working out very well, because that very note that is somehow staring up at him from the dining table, smudged narwhal drawing and all. 

What the fuck?

“What the fuck?” Scaramouche mutters, looking at all of the creases from when he crushed the note in his palm that have been meticulously flattened out as well as possible. He whips his head up. Venti looks suspiciously guilty. Xiao’s pinkness has gone down a bit.

“What is the meaning of this, Venti,” Scaramouche deadpans. “Spit it out.”

“Well,” he draws out, scratching his head. “Ehe. It’s hard to miss a hot pink sticky-note in the recycling, you know. I assumed you would want to message him eventually, so I spared you the trouble!”

Scaramouche must look one move away from bonking Venti’s head again, because he hurriedly continues. “A-And this way, you can still message him without losing your pride! Just tell Clementine Boy that your bestest friend and bestest flatmate Venti came to your rescue.”

This is ridiculous. Scaramouche grabs the note, stands up, and rips it in half before letting it drop in the recycling, once again. “Venti, I appreciate the intent. I really do. But all that pest wants is a rise out of me, and I’ll be damned if I lose to him.”

Venti grins despite all of his hard work being tossed down the drain. How strange… 

“That’s not true!” he sings. “I, love expert that I am, don’t think that anyone would ever leave sticky-notes for you so often out of anything other than infatuation.”

Scaramouche gags, choosing not to mention that Childe the Clementine Head hasn’t left a sticky-note since that hot pink one. Infatuation. Xiao cocks an eyebrow up at “love expert.”

“Besides, look what I have! I’ll text it to you.” And then Venti’s phone comes into view, Photos app open with a meticulously framed hot pink sticky-note.

Damn it.

Scaramouche drags his feet into The Walnut Café’s back room the next Tuesday morning. Mona and Hu Tao are already prepping the café for opening when he walks in, but they immediately cease all movement to look at him.

“What,” he grumbles.

“HAPPY TUESDAY,” Hu Tao cheers, even going so far as to make jazz hands. What the hell. Why is his manager literally a twelve year-old? “Ehe, aren’t you excited, ‘Mouche?” 

Scaramouche can’t decide which is worse: the fact that Tuesdays with Scaramouche are now a celebrated event, or that Hu Tao acts a bit too similarly to a certain teal-haired flatmate for his sanity. 

“Let me guess,” Mona chirps in all her self-assured air. She sure loves hearing herself talk. “You haven’t texted Childe yet?” And then she flips a pigtail and answers herself before Scaramouche can even respond. “Who am I kidding? Of course you haven’t.” 

Scaramouche narrows his eyes. “Duh.” When it’s clear that he doesn’t plan on explaining further, the girls sidle up to him. 

“Good, good,” Hu Tao whispers as if she’s planning a crime. Her face turns into this sinister grin as she rubs her hands together. “We, your lovely friends, have devised a plan for you to finally accept your suppressed feelings for Childe so that you two may frolic into the sunset together the next time he visits! Which, might I remind you, is today.” 

Mona nods aggressively. “That’s right. Because we love and support you, we want you to be happy. I’ve never seen you smile, after all,” she sneers light-heartedly. 

Well, she’s not exactly wrong.

“But how does interacting with Childe bring me any happiness whatsoever?” Scaramouche grumbles as if he’s teaching kindergarteners. “Have you guys not noticed the pure rage he makes me feel?” 

The girls nod as if this was the answer they were expecting. “Of course, of course,” Hu Tao appeases. “But we talked this over with Zhongli and Xiao–”

They what?

“–and we all came to the consensus that you secretly find him attractive but cannot express your emotions in any other way aside from aggression,” Mona finishes. 

Since when were these two so close? This is not going to be good.

Scaramouche resists the urge to turn around and go home right this moment. “Wrong, wrong, wrong. Stop running your mouths and actually open this damn café,” he blurts, moving to busy himself with grabbing some cleaning supplies.

It’s at this moment that Zhongli walks in the back door. He doesn’t even greet anyone, instead going straight for a “Scaramouche, your face is looking unnaturally red. Do you have a fever? Are you feeling alright?” One look from Mona and Hu Tao has him backtracking. “Ah, I understand now. We were talking about Childe, yes?”

“NO, WE WERE NOT,” Scaramouche growls, leaving the employee room. Why is Zhongli even here? He never works the Tuesday morning shift.

Zhongli puts his jacket and purse away into his locker. “Is the plan still on, girls?” he asks, grabbing his uniform.

Hu Tao and Mona nod, twinning grins on their faces. Zhongli nods back. “Understood.”

Childe the Clementine Head is wearing that dumb grey and red striped sweatshirt again, and Scaramouche is starting to wonder if he has a shortage of clothing. It’s so ugly. Ugh.

This is the second indicator that today’s visit from Childe the Clementine Head will not be a good one.

The first, which he has not forgotten about, is that godforsaken plan Mona and Hu Tao were discussing earlier. Scaramouche doesn’t have the faintest clue of what it is, but he just knows it can’t be good.

The third, and quite possibly the worst, is that Childe the Clementine Head does not take his order to-go today. Instead, he comfortably settles himself in the chair in front of where Scaramouche is stationed. His head is in his palm and his eyes are on Scaramouche. After receiving his coffee and his un-boxed breakfast sandwich, Childe the Clementine Head begins eating right from his seat. In his ugly grey and red striped sweatshirt. Scaramouche feels a headache coming on.

“Good morning, ScaraGrape,” Childe the Clementine head greets casually around his cup of coffee. A bit too casually for Scaramouche’s taste. He grunts in response, busying himself with realigning some equipment.

At any given moment, Hu Tao and Mona could come crashing from the employee room with whatever ridiculous plan they have in mind, and Scaramouche decides to stay on his guard at all times. The last thing he needs is to humiliate himself in front of Childe the Clementine Head.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m eating here today?” Childe the Clementine Head asks, munching happily on his sandwich. It’s almost as if Scaramouche hasn’t left him on read in-real-life for the last three weeks. What a fucking weirdo.

Scaramouche shakes his head. “I’m not feeling inclined to learn anything about you as a person, so no, I won’t ask.” It’s too bad that Tuesday mornings aren’t exactly the busiest times, and Mona and Zhongli seem to be handling all of the customers fine on their own.

(So if that’s the case, why did Hu Tao assign him to come into work this morning? Bitch.)

Well, there’s always the option to just disappear in the back room under the guise of taking inventory, but Scaramouche feels like Hu Tao would just smack him if she saw him slacking off back there. 

Childe the Clementine Head giggles a little. (Um.) “My morning class was cancelled today!” he exclaims, clearly elated at this fact. “So naturally, the most logical option for me to make the most out of my Tuesday morning would be to come and visit you and your cute little grape face.” Childe the Clementine Head then nods self-assuredly.

“My what? ”

Mona snickers somewhere in the back.

“Grape face,” Childe the Clementine Head repeats. “Your cute little grape face.”

Scaramouche pinches his nose bridge. “I thought that when I never sent you a text message after three weeks, it was a pretty clear indicator that I did not want anything to do with you,” he seethes. 

“My youngest brother Teucer loves grapes!” Childe the Absolute Dick Head continues instead. “His favorite are the green ones that are super sweet; what are they called again?”

Scaramouche waves for help in desperation toward Mona. Mona just completely ignores him.

“Cotton candy grapes!” Childe the Clementine Head says. “Cotton candy grapes… What a fitting nickname. ScaraGrape is also sweet, just like those cotton candy grapes.”

Scaramouche thinks that this idiot must have a death wish. How does his brain even come to this conclusion? Scaramouche ignores him for almost an entire month and he calls him sweet?

“Fucking Clementine Head,” he says. “Please do not try to sweet-talk me. I am not interested.” And then Scaramouche turns to head into the back room because he is literally just out of options.

The swinging door doesn’t budge. Fuck. Is it stuck? Scaramouche pushes a little harder.

“WHAT’S THE PASSWORD,” comes Hu Tao’s voice from inside. She pushes back against Scaramouche harder, almost making him lose his footing. 

“What the hell,” Scaramouche hisses back. “What do you mean ‘password’?” This wasn’t in the employee contract.

“WHAT’S THE PAAAASSWORD,” Hu Tao sings back. 

“We don’t have a password,” Scaramouche says back. “Can you just let me in so I can do inventory?”

“IF YOU DON’T KNOW THE PASSWORD, YOU CAN’T COME IN!”

“Since when do we have a password?!” Scaramouche is at his wit’s end. How can he not out-push a scrawny sophomore?

“SINCE LAST NIGHT,” she continues to sing.

“That’s just not tru–”

Shit. That’s the plan. 

That’s the whole reason Zhongli is here. To take over Scaramouche’s duties so that he’s left dealing with Childe the Clementine Head. But how did the girls even know that Childe the Clementine Head’s class was cancelled today? 

Nevermind, Scaramouche decides. He does not want to know how.

“If there’s nothing else to do,” Hu Tao whispers through the crack in the door, “there’s a charming third-year redhead sitting at the bar who looks in desperate need of attention.” And then she giggles, pushing the door harder just as Scaramouche lets his guard down. He goes flying backward, ass landing on the floor. Childe the Clementine Head quickly stands up from his seat, peering over the bar.

“My sweet cotton candy grape? Are you okay?” 

No, Scaramouche thinks. He is not okay.

He stands up and brushes his pants off, trying to collect himself and act as if he hadn’t just done the single most humiliating thing on earth in front of a handsome man he is working really hard on to ignore.

“Oh, good, you look fine!” Childe the Clementine Head grins. “Now, care to chat? You don’t seem to have much on your hands right now.”

Scaramouche finds himself… considering. His options are either to commit a verbal hate crime against Childe the Clementine Head, or to sit and listen to him run his mouth. Scaramouche will gladly take the former. 

Then Childe the Clementine says, “Since you don’t have anything on your hands right now… You could take mine?” He sticks his hands out, clean from sandwich crumbs because for some reason, he carries around pocket-sized hand sanitizer that is aloe and lavender scented. 

(What were the consequences of punching a customer in an establishment again?)

Scaramouche scrambles to grab a towel and begins scrubbing at the pristine countertop. “Sorry, Clementine Head. My hands are full.” For good measure, he shrugs. That’ll really show Childe the Clementine Head he doesn’t care about him. 

But then the towel stops moving. Scaramouche looks up to see Childe the Clementine head grabbing the other end, a smug look on his face. “Cotton candy, the counter is already clean! Besides, it hasn’t hurt you in any way. No need to scrub at it so aggressively.” And then he tilts his head. “Although, that is kinda hot.”

Scaramouche’s face turns red with anger and he feels his ears heat up. Mona and Zhongli continue to pretend the two of them do not exist.

“You–you bas–!” Another customer takes a seat near Childe the Clementine Head, and Scaramouche barely stops himself from bursting into verbal flames. Begrudgingly, he puts the towel down and looks at the clock.

Fuck. It’s only ten in the morning. Childe the Clementine Head has only been here for twenty minutes, and Scaramouche isn’t on break for another two hours. There’s no way he can handle the constant barrage of verbal vomit from Childe the Clementine Head for that whole time.

And Hu Tao is still guarding the door to the back room.

It’s dangerously starting to look like Scaramouche has no other course of action but to surrender to their plan. 

But what even is the goal of the plan? Just to get them to talk? Weren’t Mona and Hu Tao spewing some shit about frolicking into sunsets and suppressing emotions?

Sunsets and emotions. What a horrifying combination. Scaramouche shudders.

Childe the Clementine Head’s voice brings him back to the present. “–mouche. Cotton candy. Sweetie. ScaraGrape. Scaramouche. Cotton cand–”

“WHAT,” Scaramouche blurts. He’s relieved to see that the customer sitting near Childe the Clementine Head had received their carry-out and left, giving Scaramouche all the room in the world to verbally smack him as he pleases.

Childe the Clementine Head shrugs, blue eyes twinkling at Scaramouche. By now, he has finished his sandwich and properly disposed of the trash. (Of course.) “You just spaced out for a bit. Are you feeling tired? Do I need to convince your manager to ease up on you? Where even is Hu Tao, anyway?”

Something that sounds suspiciously like Hu Tao’s black nails scratches at the door to the back room. What the fuck.

The worst part about all of this is that Childe the Clementine Head sounds genuinely concerned. This is not an emotion Scaramouche thought he was capable of feeling.

Scaramouche scoffs. “If I were delusional, I’d think you were almost worried about me,” he grimaces, not looking Childe the Clementine Head in the eye. Blue is such an ugly color, especially when paired with red and gray.

Childe the Clementine Head frowns a bit. Oh, no. This can’t be good. Scaramouche does not know how to deal with sad people.

“Well, delusional is one way to describe you…” Childe the Clementine Head then muses, as if he wasn’t nearly pouting two seconds ago. 

“Fuck off,” Scaramouche seethes under his breath. Then, he asks, “Don’t you have anywhere better to be?”

Which isn’t exactly what he meant to ask. 

In reality, Scaramouche was going for something more along the lines of why would you want to waste your time talking to me; shouldn’t you worry about more important things, but somewhere along the way his brain-to-mouth filter has a colossal malfunction and the question is a lot more passive-aggressive than he intended.

Childe the Clementine Head snorts. “Well, I do have to get to my professor’s office hours at ten-thirty, but what better way do I have to spend my time until then than with my favorite person?” He accents his question with a ridiculous tilt to the head. 

It isn’t cute.

“I’d hardly consider myself your ‘favorite person,’” Scaramouche points out. “I mean, I curse at you all the time, I’ve recycled all of your sticky-notes, I refuse to message you…”

Oh.

Perhaps Scaramouche has been a bit rude.

A bit… mean. 

Scaramouche rubs at his temples. Should he apologize? 

But on the other hand, Childe the Clementine Head has been rather overbearing… 

Childe the Clementine Head is just sitting there, grinning at Scaramouche, completely ignorant of his current mental state.

Fuck. What a punchable, not-apologizeable face. 

“That may be true,” Childe the Clementine Head says. “But I suppose when someone is in love, they are much more forgiving.”

Now that has Scaramouche laughing, nevermind the internal panic that begins to rise in his throat. Love?

“Love?” he wheezes. “No, no, no. That has never been in the equation. You’ve only known me for three months; that’s just not possible.” He finds himself bending over the counter, unable to hold in his laughter. And Mona and Hu Tao believe this can turn into something real.

Childe the Clementine Head hums. “Three months is quite a long time, cotton candy,” he says. He’s smiling a bit but his eyes are blank. 

“But, still,” Scaramouche insists, although he doesn’t really know what he’s insisting for anymore. He’s saved from the trouble, though, because suddenly Childe the Clementine Head is getting up from his seat.

“Well!” he laughs. “It was nice talking to you, as always, cotton candy. I, uh, office hours calls!” And with the lack of tact of a stone statue, Childe the Clementine Head makes a quick move for the door, banging into a few chairs on the way. It’s not even ten minutes past ten.

Did Scaramouche say something wrong?

He’s scratching his head, trying to convince himself that no, Childe the Clementine Head was not acting stranger than usual, when his eyes land upon it.

On the counter next to his coffee, an innocuous clementine rests on top of a pale yellow sticky-note.

A clementine for your troubles. Do you know the brand? They’re Cuties Clementines. Doesn’t that suit me well? - Childe the Cutie Head

Later that day, Scaramouche sits on his bed while staring at the clementine so hard it might actually explode. He vaguely registers Venti’s humming from the living room as he makes dinner (Venti can cook?) but settles for focusing all of his brain power on the stupid fruit in his hands. 

He can’t believe Childe the Clementine Head actually gave him a clementine. Fuck. He has got to stop calling Childe “Clementine Head,” because all mentions of “clementine” now remind him of the word “Cutie,” and Scaramouche doesn’t think he can handle that.It actually looks like a very high quality clementine, Cutie sticker on it and all. As a general life rule, Scaramouche enjoys fruits, so he can’t bring himself to simply throw this out. He could give it to Venti, but that would definitely not go over well.

In fact, it would probably go something like this:

Venti, do you want a clementine.

Oho? What’s this, ScaraScara! A clementine, just like your admirer Childe!

No, Venti. It’s literally just a clementine and I do not want it. Do you want it.

Did Childe give this to you? Did he, did he?

[…]

He did! And you don’t want to eat it but you also don’t want to throw it away.

[…]

Ohhh you’re so considerate! Such a kind friend… 

[...?]

This looks like a very nice clementine. Come on, Scara. You probably didn’t even thank him for this, did you?

Venti, how–

You could text him your thanks! Ohh, you wanna text Childe so bad.

No, I don’t?

Ehe, are you sure about that!

The hundreds of other scenarios of this exact situation all end up with Venti pressuring Scaramouche to text Childe, so he quickly scraps all of these ideas.

But internal-Venti is correct. Scaramouche never did thank Childe for the clementine, because he high-tailed it out of the café before anyone could insert a word. 

And as much as he loathes Childe, leaving a kind action unthanked will forever weigh on Scaramouche’s conscience. He wasn’t raised as a rude kid, after all.

Well, Scaramouche supposes. He could always leave the thanking to do next Tuesday, and then he won’t actually have to text Childe.

It’s a win–win situatio–

Fuck. No it’s not.

If Scaramouche thanks Childe at the café, he will never hear the end of it from Mona and Hu Tao. Mona and Hu Tao will definitely hear it and then definitely proceed to bother the shit out of him for the next four hours.

This sucks. Maybe if he weren’t such a nice person, he wouldn’t be having this kind of problem right now. 

Scaramouche looks desperately from the clementine in his hands to his phone next to him on the bed. Back, forth, back, forth, hoping for any semblance of an answer. Venti hums away past the door.

The photo of Childe’s number sits innocently in the message thread between him and Venti, burning a hole through his phone. It would be so easy to just send Childe a simple thank you for the clementine and then get it over with. So easy. In fact, Scaramouche could just block him afterward.

Scaramouche is embarrassed to say that it takes an entire twenty minutes of agonizing before he finally decides to just screw it and text Childe. By this time, Venti has finished up whatever it was in the living room, and the apartment is completely quiet, save for the storm Scaramouche has yelling up in his brain right now.

Ugh. Leave it to Childe to exploit Scaramouche’s kindness just for a simple text.

Scaramouche’s palms are just the slightest bit sweaty as he pulls up a new message thread and types Childe’s number into the recipient field. 

Thanks for the clementine , he types out, and then stares at the unsent text. Is it too insincere? Is it overly sincere? What will Childe even say in response?

Thank you for the clementine, he tries. A bit more formal, perhaps, would be good.

This is Scaramouche, by the way, he then types.

God, what is he doing? It’s not like him to fret over something as trivial as this. He’s in the middle of frantically deleting his message and starting over again when a loud crash comes from Venti’s room. Scaramouche panics and drops his phone, watching it hit his knee before clattering to the floor.

“JUST DROPPED MY TEXTBOOK,” Venti yells. “I’M FINE.”

I’m not, Scaramouche thinks as he picks up his phone to see Thank you for the clementp sent from him to Childe, no doubt from when his phone hit his knee. Immediately, the typing bubble shows up on Childe’s end. Five successive messages show up on his screen.

Scaragrape?

It’s you, isn’t it?

I knew you’d come around!!

This calls for a celebration!

But first, i should teach you how to spell clementine

Sorry, my cat touched my phone

You have a cat?!  

Pics pleaseee

No 

This was a bad idea. Scaramouche doesn’t have a cat.

In a moment of panic, Scaramouche blocks Childe’s number.

The next time Childe comes to the café, he is significantly more… subdued.

He places his order calmly, sits down at the bar calmly, and leaves calmly after grabbing his food.

As soon as he walks out the door, Mona and Hu Tao pounce on Scaramouche with suspicious looks in their eyes.

“What did you do, ‘Mouche?” Hu Tao asks disappointedly. 

Mona nods. “You messed something up, didn’t you?” 

Scaramouche groans. What didn’t he do. “It’s not a huge deal, you two,” he tries. He’s not sure if he’s convincing them or himself. “You guys have always been way more invested in this than me, but don’t worry. Nothing happened.”

A hand lands on his shoulder and whips him around right as he begins heading for the back door. “Scaramouche. I don’t believe you,” Mona says pointedly, eyebrow raised. 

“That makes two of us!” Scaramouche replies with the fakest smile on his face. He gently shakes Mona’s hand off of his shoulder and disappears in the back room. For the remainder of that shift, Scaramouche doesn’t speak much, and Mona and Hu Tao thankfully have taken the hint (finally) and leave him relatively alone. 

Everything is fine.

Childe doesn’t even come in the next week.

Well.

Scaramouche really doesn’t know what to say to that, and he tells Mona and Hu Tao as such. They slowly sheathe their metaphorical claw holds on the Scaramouche–Childe drama. It’s a miracle, yet it doesn’t feel right.

The week after Childe’s absence, a tall, blue-haired man enters the café for the first time, according to Hu Tao. “I’ve never seen that blueberry hair in my life!” she whispers dramatically.

It takes Scaramouche a few seconds, but he promptly realizes that this is Compost Flatmate. Oh, God. What is he doing here?

“What are you doing here?” Scaramouche says out loud accidentally. Mona slaps him in the back, hard. “Sorry,” he lamely amends. 

Compost Flatmate simply smiles. Oh, and it is not a particularly nice smile. He looks… rather angry. Rather sinister. Scaramouche, for a fragment of a second, genuinely fears for his life.

“Why, hello,” Compost Flatmate greets. He then peers at Scaramouche’s name tag. “Scrappymulch. I’d like to place my order, please.” When he stands up straight, Compost Flatmate has a solid ten inches over Scaramouche. It’s ridiculously humiliating, although not anything particularly new or unexpected.

Mona chokes. “I told you your handwriting sucks ass!” she snickers. 

“Shut,” Scaramouche hisses under his breath as Mona heads off to make some drinks. He turns to fully face Compost Flatmate. No way he’s backing down from this metaphorical fight. “Sure!” he says chirpily, being sure to appear as ingenuine as possible. “What would you like?” And though it pains him, he sends Compost Flatmate a grin.

Compost Flatmate looks like he’s two seconds away from either bursting out into laughter or jumping the counter to throttle Scaramouche. He’s clearly holding back some form of rage when he says, “Well, well. If I’m not mistaken, you’re the one giving our dear Ajax so much trouble, correct? My order today is simple, I only want for you to–”

Scaramouche frantically waves his hands in front of him. “Hold on, hold on. Who is Ajax? I’ve never met an Ajax in my life.” 

And then Compost Flatmate has the audacity to laugh . A full on belly laugh right in the middle of the café, even Hu Tao walks over to check on the commotion. “You–!” he breathes out in between laughs. “No wonder. Okay, okay. Nevermind then. I’ll take an iced black coffee and the cutest cake pop you have; please and thank you!” Compost Flatmate then fishes around in the pockets of his unnecessarily obnoxiously designed pants to grab his wallet.

“A cake pop.” Scaramouche deadpans, turning to Hu Tao and then back to Kaeya. “We don’t sell cake pops here.” 

Hu Tao hums, tapping her finger on her chin. “You may be right, ‘Mouche. But–!” She turns to Compost Flatmate. “You’re here on behalf of Ajax, aren’t you?” 

Scaramouche groans and throws his hands up in the air. “I thought you said you don’t know this guy!” he laments. “And who the hell is Ajax?” 

Hu Tao, of course, avoids all of these questions. “It isn’t hard to connect the dots, my friend!” she grins, turning back to face Compost Flatmate. “As for you, dear customer, I will have that cake pop out for you soon, on the house! It may take a moment, as I’ve never made one of these before, but worry not! It’ll be delicious.” 

Scaramouche greatly doubts her last statement. Also, he knows that Hu Tao is, like, the manager. Or whatever. But is this something she even has the right to do? 

She seems to read his mind. Before he even asks anything, she simply says, “Marketing strategies, ‘Mouche! It’s always good to build relations with your customers.” With an infuriating wink and the tip of her tongue sticking out, she disappears into the kitchen. 

Which leaves Scaramouche alone to deal with Compost Flatmate. He seems immensely invested in something on his phone, so Scaramouche turns to begin making his coffee once the payment is completed. God. What kind of person drinks iced black coffee, anyway?

After a few minutes, Scaramouche sets the coffee on the counter without a word. Hu Tao still seems busy with the cake pop, so Scaramouche figures this is the best time to ask the question that has been nagging his mind for the last few months.

“So,” he begins, clearing his throat. Compost Flatmate looks up from his phone, eyebrows raised. “Are those compost bins in your apartment real?”

It takes exactly half a second for Compost Flatmate to begin laughing obnoxiously, again. This is getting extremely irritating. Scaramouche suppresses the strong urge to punch the counter.

“You–” Compost Flatmate wheezes. “You are exactly like what Ajax described you as.” Another wheeze. “Amazing. It’s almost as if, ah, ah. Nothing.” He then suddenly straightens up, wiping all semblance of a smile off of his face and sticking out his hand. In all seriousness, as if conducting a business proposal, he says, “I’m Kaeya.” 

The man in front of him continues to be so incredibly difficult to comprehend. Scaramouche hesitantly shakes his hand. “Scaramouche. And this Ajax you speak of is…?”

“Ah!” Kaeya says, perking up. “One moment.” He begins to search frantically for something on his phone. After a few moments, he pulls up a photo. And, oh.

Oh.

It’s a photo of Childe grinning at the camera, eyes crinkled up and orange hair slightly ruffled. In his arms is a small puppy, equally excited and eyes shining. The photo is so unbelievably pure and everything good in the world that Scaramouche can’t bring himself to look at it for longer than three seconds.

Kaeya just sits there, proudly holding his phone up with a smirk on his face. “Childe,” he says. “Ajax. This is him at the animal shelter, picking out a puppy to adopt, because his younger siblings had been begging for a puppy for months.” 

It’s obvious that Scaramouche looks confused beyond belief, and Kaeya hurries to clarify. “Let’s compare Childe to the suave man who tried to sweep you off your feet while hiding the fact that he has watched Kaichou wa Maid-Sama four times. Ajax would then be his big brother side, the caring and sweet side who dotes on those he cares for and even cooks for them.”

This new information is… surprising. Not in the way that Scaramouche wasn’t expecting Childe to be like that. The big brother doting Ajax sort of… suits him. No, this information is surprising because it makes him feel a bit stupid in the head and the heart. He’s starting to understand how Venti feels when he goes on one of his rants about Xiao’s warm eyes.

And then Kaeya really drives the bullet home. “Ajax only shows up with those he really cares about, so I’m not really surprised that you didn’t know that was his real name.”

Well, now Scaramouche is just upset. 

“I–” he begins, not really sure what he wants to say but only knowing that he wants to retort, somehow . He and Kaeya engage in a staring contest for a few seconds before Hu Tao bursts out of the kitchen, grin on her face.

“I’ve got your cake pop!” she cheers, holding on to what looks like a bloated lollipop. Upon closer inspection, it’s actually a decent cake pop, complete with decorations to make it look like a little hamster. Scaramouche cocks an eyebrow at his manager. She only winks.

Kaeya, because he is just like that, breaks into loud applause in the middle of the café. “Why, thank you! This is absolutely adorable. I’ve got to send a photo to Ajax. He loves animals, you see,” Kaeya says happily. Scaramouche begrudgingly thinks of Childe and his narwhal puns.

Hu Tao nods enthusiastically. “I’m glad it’s to your liking, Mr. Blueberry! I’ve got other important things to attend to now–you know, like paperwork~!” she says, rolling her eyes in good nature. “Later!”

Kaeya turns his phone around once more. The message thread between him and Childe (aptly nicknamed Roommate Ajax <3 ) is on the screen, and the typing bubbles are appearing on Childe’s end in response to the hamster cake pop photo. “Watch this,” Kaeya says smugly. 

Two seconds later–

WOWIE that’s so cute !!! I want ittt :((

Clearly, Scaramouche has made some sort of facial indication that Childe’s message caught him off guard, because Kaeya nods without even seeing his screen. “Ajax,” he simply says. 

Scaramouche rubs his temples. “With all due respect, Kaeya, this feels like you’re just trying to rub the whole I-know-Ajax-and-you-don’t thing in my face.”

Kaeya sets his phone down excitedly. “You’re exactly right!” 

Scaramouche flattens his eyes. What is this guy’s deal? Surely he isn’t just trying to… guilt Scaramouche into talking to Childe again, is he? (Because it’s working.)

“What’s your deal,” Scaramouche says flatly. “Did you only come here to mock me?”

Kaeya begins grabbing his things, preparing to leave. He speaks his final thoughts to Scaramouche over his shoulder, just to add on to the dramatics. “Like your lovely manager said, I came here on behalf of Ajax, of course. Childe may not seem upset, but Ajax definitely is. I simply paid a visit to knock some sense into your little brain, obviously.” And just when Scaramouche thinks Kaeya is done talking, he lights up again. “Oh! And about those compost bins,” he snickers. “They’re real.”

The door opens, the little bell tinkles, and Kaeya is out the door.

Scaramouche drops his head onto the counter. He feels a little helpless. 

Hu Tao is suddenly at his side, rubbing his back soothingly. “You look like you need a bit of a break, don’t you, ‘Mouche!” 

Yeah, he does.

Venti pokes at Scaramouche’s limp form laying across the couch. “Hey,” he pouts. “Scara. Scooch over. Gimme room. Gimme, gimme.” Poke, poke. Ouch. “Get up! ” Scaramouche doesn’t budge, so Venti jumps horizontally and latches onto him with a big oof . “Hey, you big loser. What are you moping about?” 

Scaramouche struggles to sit up under the weight of his flatmate. “ Yeesh, Venti , get off– ”

Venti shuffles around a bit before settling comfortably between Scaramouche and the armrest of the couch, draping a throw blanket over them. He latches on to Scaramouche’s arm like a cuddle leech. “Scaraaaa~~” he sings. His face is still turned to a pout, eyes big and pleading.

“ Whaaaat. ” Scaramouche sings back with as little life as he can. Venti begins pushing buttons on the TV remote, and Scaramouche feels himself physically droop as he sees Romantic Comedies pop up on Netflix. 

“Please, no,” Scaramouche groans.

“YES!” Venti cheers. He’s already pulling up his all-time favorite, Ten Things I Hate About You . Scaramouche is hardly surprised. Venti watches this at least once a week. Normally, he is content with watching it alone, not bothering Scaramouche except with his occasionally extremely loud and sudden commentary. But today… “You’re in such a grumpy mood, and this will definitely make you feel better! I promise!”

It does not make Scaramouche feel better.

In fact, it makes him feel more lame than he already did. 

As a general rule, romantic comedies and Scaramouche are not a very good mix. Scaramouche is neither romantic nor comedic, and he prides himself on being a nuisance to those around him. (That’s just how he shows his love and appreciation to them, okay?)

Venti once made him watch To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before , the first ever rom-com he has watched, and that’s when he decided he would never touch the genre ever again. If you really think about it, wasn’t it a bit ridiculous that this girl gets herself into all of this trouble because she couldn’t let go of her past infatuations?

A bit silly, if you ask Scaramouche.

That’s the whole point of these, Venti had whined. They’re silly, feel-good movies!

Scaramouche, eyes flattened at the TV, vehemently denies this claim. The entire excruciating hour and thirty-nine minutes is really quite painful to watch as the main couple continues to dance around each other like headless chickens. 

On top of that, Venti will not stop nudging and poking Scaramouche, looking at him with a wink and an I wonder who this reminds me of!

Scaramouche stares. “Who.” 

“Duhh~~” Venti says as the credits begin rolling. “You and your redhead lover boy!” And then, because Venti is not completely an idiot, he hops off of the couch just out of reach. Just in case.

Scaramouche doesn’t have the energy to take a swing at him. Instead, he just laments his lack of good decision making skills. “What ‘redhead lover boy,’” he says flatly. “I don’t talk to him anymore.”

Venti goes quiet, hand over his mouth. “Is that so!” he manages, actually sounding a little bit concerned. He turns the TV off and settles back on the couch, fully facing Scaramouche. “Do you wanna talk about it?” he asks, determined look on his face. It’s nice of him.

“Well,” Scaramouche begins, completely unsure of how to preface this. “I blocked him?” 

And just like that, Venti goes from being genuinely concerned to launching himself across the couch and batting his fists against Scaramouche. “You what!? ” he screeches. “After all that work I did for you… just to have you block him! Why did you do that!” Sitting up straight, Venti does a little huff. 

God, the inner theater kid that Venti has. “Calm down, calm down,” Scaramouche attempts. “I just–I’m not really sure. I told him I had a cat on accident. And then I panicked, so I blocked him.”

Venti stares. Very intently. “I can’t believe you. Hand your phone over. We’re gonna unblock him and then apologize,” Venti sighs. “If you want to, of course,” he adds as an afterthought.

Scaramouche turns this idea over in his head. Both the pros list and the cons list are incredibly long, he can’t even begin to comprehend it. 

“Or, if you want, I’ll do it all by myself! After all, you probably don’t know anyone else who is as good at social interaction as I am… I was able to break past Xiao’s walls, after all…” Venti hums. Taking advantage of Scaramouche’s momentary lapse in judgement, Venti lunges at Scaramouche’s sweatshirt pocket for his phone.

Scaramouche is snapped extremely quickly out of his long-winded daydream. “Fuck–Venti, what are you doing–!” He makes a move for his phone, now high up in the air as Venti holds it up. Scaramouche scowls. They are the same height, and Venti knows this, crawling to gain an advantage from the top of the couch backrest. 

Venti grins down at him. “Whaddya say, roomie? Let me? Please?” 

He’s fighting a losing battle, and he knows it.

Kaeya Alberich, Scaramouche soon learns from experience, is the biggest nuisance he’s ever met (aside from himself, of course). 

“So, you unblocked him.”

“Yeah.”

“What prompted this, hmm?” Kaeya slowly traces the rim of his glass of coffee, looking extremely contemplative.

“Well…”

“Oh, it’s nothing! Don’t look so nervous, I’m not going to eat you, jeez. I’m just thinking that this message doesn’t seem very–well– you ,” Kaeya says, looking at his own screenshot evidence, courtesy of Childe. He’s at the café again, seemingly for no reason other than to cause some chaos. Once again, he stands out in his shockingly bright highlighter blue sweatshirt. It’s, of course, extremely in character with what Scaramouche knows about Kaeya, but he still finds himself wishing Childe were here to at least make this interaction less painful.

Scaramouche rolls his eyes. “Way to state the obvious,” he responds without amusement. It wasn’t his fault that you weren’t able to unsend messages, and Venti had taken a few too many creative liberties with his apology text. 

Kaeya snickers. Scaramouche takes this as a learning moment and tries to suppress his anger. “It was just so cutesy ,” he says. “So cutesy, in fact, that Ajax had messaged me immediately after wondering if he had done anything wrong.” 

This is literal torture. As if Scaramouche weren’t already pissed off enough at Venti’s hello childe! (*ﾉωﾉ) i’m very sorry about everything that happened, please forgive me! and please come back to the cafe! i miss you! (°◡°♡), now Kaeya is here to make it all the more worse. 

Despite everything, though, Scaramouche can’t help but be just a little bit curious. “He thought… he had done something wrong?” It takes everything in him to not sound like he is overly invested, lest Kaeya burst out into laughter again.  

Kaeya laughs anyway. “You sure seem interested, huh? How’s this: I show you what Ajax messaged me–” He pauses to give his phone a little shake. “–if you tell me what you really think about him!” 

Scaramouche immediately refuses. “That’s a horrible deal, are you kidding me?” he shoots back. “All I get out of this is to just see a few text messages?”

Clearly, that was the incorrect answer, because Kaeya takes this opportunity to back him into a corner. “‘Just a few text messages,’ huh? Is the information that you would offer me in return worth that much more? Are there some deep feelings in there you’re not exposing?” With each question, Kaeya leans closer and closer to Scaramouche, glint in his eye. 

Scaramouche frantically looks around for help, feeling his face heat up, but Mona and Hu Tao have conveniently made themselves scarce. Damn it.

The truth is–and he would never admit this to anyone , let alone Kaeya –Scaramouche has done much thinking regarding his stance on Childe, ever since the week he stopped coming to the café. Now, Scaramouche isn’t stupid , and can clearly tell the signs of an ongoing infatuation when it presents itself. All of those hours of painful agonizing instead went toward thinking about why, how, what happened to cause this? ...And with Childe the Clementine Head, of all people?

Venti had kept telling him that it’s not stupid, Scara! and that this is just something that happens when you’re interested in someone! but none of his reassuring words managed to calm the inexplicable disappointment that settled in Scaramouche’s chest every Tuesday that Childe did not show up at nine forty. 

It’s all fine. Besides, there is a currently more pressing issue, presenting itself in the form of Kaeya Alberich continuing to smirk at him. “So?” Kaeya asks. “What’ll it be?”

Scaramouche clicks his tongue. What a cunning little brat. “Fine. I’m worried about him, okay?” he seethes. “I’m–I’m worried that I did something so dumb that he doesn’t want to see me anymore, and it’s totally fine if he doesn’t. I’m just worried. That’s all.” 

Kaeya’s mouth slowly widens. “Oh,” he settles for, a knowing smile beginning to grow on his face. “Very interesting. Interesting indeed.” 

Kaeya sure knows how to rile someone up. “Well, where’s your end of the deal?” Scaramouche asks quickly. As soon as Kaeya places his phone on the counter, Scaramouche grabs it.

[Attachment: 1 image]

Kaeya!

Did i do something wrong? :O

HAHAHAAHHJDFJH

HOLD ON

LET ME CATCH MY BREATH

okay

well

well for starters, that’s definitely not him

lmao

Thanks, genius

I knew that !!

Do you know who he lives with?

no

you should find that out for yourself ;)

Wtf i was just curious

How do i respond D:

idk with like a heart emoji or smthg

KAEYAA

Can you please make yourself useful

i’m being serious

make your intentions known, u kno

NO i do not know ??!

This is so mortifying

don’t say anything stupid

i’m serious, say something all cute and cheesy like

“of course i forgive you and i will be back next week mwah”

WTF???

You’re making it very difficult to like you

do u have anything better

Well

exactly. ;D

lay it on real thick

Then he’ll think i’m not being serious??

well are you?

Well, yes

I would not like for him to hate me

Preferably , I would like the opposite

OUGH

ajax confession era???

No??

Shut the

Fucku p

As soon as Scaramouche scrolls past these messages, Kaeya quickly snatches his phone back up. “Nuh uh uh,” he tsks. “No more for you.”

Scaramouche recoils. “Hold on, give that back! Let me see that again–” He leans over the counter in a futile attempt to recover Kaeya’s phone. “What do you mean, ‘confession era’–Kaeya! Give me that back, you–”

Kaeya scoffs. “Scaramouche. I barely even know you. If anything, you should be thanking me for all that I’ve already done for you,” he says, all high-and-mighty and self-assured. It’s almost as if there’s a metaphorical glow around him in the café, his confidence oozing off of him in waves. Scaramouche cannot stand him.

But Kaeya is also right. He doesn’t owe Scaramouche anything.

Damn it.

Scaramouche exhales loudly before letting the issue drop. (The Scaramouche two months ago would have latched onto this like a starving panther, so this is considerable character development, in Scaramouche’s book. Take that, Venti.)

As Kaeya saunters out of the café, Scaramouche slowly realizes that this is still, more or less, a win. He may have just gotten publicly humiliated by some blue-haired gremlin in the middle of his own place of employment, but after all is said and done, Scaramouche thinks he knows what he should do.

“Fuck, what the hell should I do?” Scaramouche groans, rubbing his face in his hands.

He’s so drained to the point of talking to himself, not even sure how to process all of the information Kaeya had given him. And while Venti may have gotten him into this absolute shitshow of a mess, Scaramouche is absolutely positive that he will be equally as unhelpful to solve it. 

So now, Scaramouche is busy pacing around the small green area in the center of campus, alone. Thankfully, Kaeya had decided to bless everyone with his presence during Scaramouche’s Thursday shift, and central campus is relatively empty this random afternoon. Not only does this give Scaramouche the freedom to think out loud, but it also brings the benefit of a whole weekend of rest before Tuesday… not that Childe was coming to the café anyway.

But what is there to even think about?

‘ Ajax confession era ’? 

What does that even mean?

Besides, Childe had seemed awfully… defensive after Kaeya had made that claim. It’s not like Kaeya’s running his trap really… means anything.

Speaking of Childe, it has been three weeks (which is an entire five-hundred and four hours) since Scaramouche last saw him. And as much as Scaramouche had tried to convince himself that No, I’m extremely glad that idiot isn’t showing up at the café , he (very unfortunately) came to terms with his romantic inclinations toward Childe just a few days ago.

(It was an awfully gruesome and mind-twisting ordeal. Definitely low on the list of moments Scaramouche would like to relive one day.)

And now with the possibility that maybe, by some sliver of miraculous luck or fate, Childe may also have romantic feelings toward Scaramouche, things have completely turned upside-down.

At the very least, Childe does not hate him, nor does he never wish to see him again, so that tiny weight is lifted off of Scaramouche’s shoulders. 

Too suddenly for his taste, his phone pings with a message. Scaramouche almost walks into a tree.

Scaragrape, what kind of people are you letting touch your phone?

Fuck. Speak of the fucking devil. Scaramouche gingerly lowers himself to the ground, leaning his back against the trunk of the tree he just nearly collided with.

Ah, that…

It was my roommate, Venti.

He’s helpfully unhelpful

Sorry if he caused you any confusion

It’s okay! Not your fault

I am curious though

Was he lying?

Oh God. Scaramouche cannot do this. How mortifying would it be to admit, over text, that Venti was not lying and that Scaramouche did, in fact, miss Childe?

(That is a rhetorical question.)

Scaramouche types and deletes over and over. Types and deletes. What’s an appropriate response to this? Type some more, delete some more.

Clearly, too much deliberation was taken, because after three full minutes of attempting to type out a response, his phone begins to fucking buzz as Childe’s caller ID appears on the screen.

Scaramouche jerks in shock. 

And because he is just like that, he lets the phone ring for six rings before hesitantly hitting the green circle. He doesn’t even say anything.

Five seconds pass by before a hesitant voice comes up on the other side of the line.

“Scara…? Are you there?”

And at this very moment, Scaramouche decides that he will never make fun of Venti’s poems about Xiao anymore. Hearing Childe’s voice after three weeks of absolutely no contact is… it’s… Well. It’s something, alright. It’s getting harder to focus on the phone by his ear when he can hear his heart pounding through it.

“Uh, yes. Yes, I’m here. Why did you call?” he manages.

Childe chuckles slightly. “Those typing bubbles sure were going on for a while… I thought it might be easier for you to say what you were thinking.” 

Scaramouche freezes. While that is true… “Are you free right now?” he blurts out instead. 

“Aw, are you saying that you want to see me?” Childe responds before adding on a laugh. Scaramouche swears his heart is about to pound its way out of his eardrum. “I’m just teasing you. Yes, I am free. Wanna meet somewhere?”

He takes a deep breath. “Let’s meet by the small gardens by the undergraduate library. I—I think I’d like to take a walk around there.”

“Perfect! I’ll be there in 10.”

“Yo!”

Scaramouche jerks his head up to see Childe walking over, a hand in the air and a grin on his face. He waves hesitantly in response.

“How are you?” Childe greets cheerfully, as if they haven’t seen each other for three weeks and as if Scaramouche isn’t currently trying to apologize for his shitty behavior toward him.

“Good,” is what he settles for instead. “You?”

Childe’s eyes sparkle. “Great! It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”

Yeah, no shit, Scaramouche thinks. “Yeah. The café has been less exciting without you,” he says honestly.

It must be the right thing to say, because Childe lights up like a little dog. Oh no. “So, um, what was it that you wanted to tell me?” he asks. His blue eyes are staring intently at Scaramouche, and Scaramouche feels incredibly useless and small (smaller than usual) under his watch.

Scaramouche coughs uncomfortably. In-person interactions have never been his favorite. “Well, um, for starters, you wanted to know if Venti was lying or not. You know, about how I wanted you to come back to the café and how I missed you and that shit.”

Childe nods along encouragingly, not saying a word. It only makes Scaramouche more nervous (but in a good way…?).

“What I wanted to say to that was that I—I was worried about you and worried that I did something so stupid that you decided that you never wanted to see my face again.”

Childe opens his mouth to protest, but Scaramouche just (gently) slaps his shoulder. 

“Let me continue. I know that’s the case, because I’ve been such a fucking dick to you, blocking your number for no good reason and everything. And I’m sorry for that, and for all of the stupid things I’ve said to you,” he blurts out. 

And because Childe is a menace, he begins laughing. Scaramouche genuinely feels offended for a split second before Childe’s eyes crinkle and he looks at Scaramouche with a kind smile. 

“I didn’t ask to meet you here because I wanted an apology!” he laughs. “Although it was appreciated and you are mostly forgiven.”

The anger in Scaramouche’s chest slowly dissipates as Childe continues with sparkling eyes. 

“To be fair, I thought that your attitude toward me was completely warranted. I mean, I was always coming on so strong and bothering you at work, and I want to apologize for that. I stopped coming to visit you because you made it pretty clear, after blocking me, that my advances weren’t welcome, and that’s fine!” Childe says. “We can still continue to be friends, I’m sure.”

“Fuck—no, you’re misunderstanding, Childe!” Scaramouche frantically says. He takes a big breath before continuing. “Well, it is true that toward the beginning, I thought you were annoying as hell and flirting with me to bother me. But as time went on, Venti kept telling me how sweet it was that you were taking time to see me and leave me notes, and I think that after a while, I realized that he was correct.” Another big breath. “Your advances were… welcome, eventually. And because I’m an idiot, it took you not visiting and multiple lectures from your roommate to realize how poorly I understood everything.”

Childe gasps dramatically. “I’m not a player, dearest Scara! I would never toy with you for fun!”

“Well, I know that now!” Scaramouche scowls.

“I’m glad—wait.” Childe stops comically in the middle of his thought. “My roommate?”

Scaramouche lets out a groan just thinking about it. “Unfortunately. I can’t believe I needed some Sonic the Hedgehog wannabe to slap some sense into me.”

Childe looks like he’s deliberating between letting out a cackle or absolutely smothering the poor innocent bystander tomato plant. “Fucking Alberich… What did he say to you?” he asks fiercely, placing his hands intensely on Scaramouche’s shoulders.

Completely on accident, Scaramouche laughs. Something about Childe’s reaction to the thought of Kaeya gives him a little more confidence. “Nothing too incriminating,” he says, forcing himself to stay composed even as Childe stares right into his eyeballs. “Something about a confession era…?”

Right as these words leave Scaramouche’s mouth, Childe does three things very quickly all at once.

First, he rips his arms off of Scaramouche’s shoulders.

Then he turns around, crouches on the ground.

Finally, face in his hands, he lets out an impressively loud yell.

Exactly zero seconds later, he stands back up, drops his hands to his sides, and smiles. “Haha. Kaeya’s a funny one,” he says nonchalantly.

Scaramouche’s stupid heart jumps when he sees that Childe is actually blushing . “Um, yeah, he sure is,” he responds. 

Childe’s face is only getting redder. Scaramouche almost feels bad. 

“Uhh. We can forget that Kaeya told me that?” he tries. 

This was the wrong answer.

“NO,” Childe says, with the most resolute expression Scaramouche has ever seen. “I WILL do this. I promised myself I would.” 

And before Scaramouche can even fit in a question or even a single word, Childe grabs his shoulders again.

“Scara. Please go on a date with me,” he says resolutely, never losing eye-contact. It’s honestly very impressive, considering that his earnest eyes make Scaramouche even want to look away, let alone the words he just said. “We can postpone the confession era until you’re ready. We can go on as many dates until you feel the same way about me. Ah, ah, but of course, if you don’t at all, you can cut me off at any time. Really! There will be no hard feeli—NMPH?”

Frankly, it’s adorable that Childe did not notice how in his own excitement and nervousness, he had been slowly inching his head toward Scaramouche’s. Close enough that Scaramouche’s barely had to tilt his head up to plant a firm kiss on Childe’s lips.

“…Scara?” Childe forces out, face again beginning to turn an alarming shade of red. Scaramouche feels his entire body vibrate with nervousness.

“You were talking too fast,” he bullshits. But it makes Childe smile. “I’ll go on a date with you. Just a warning, though, I’m positive that I feel the same way about you. But we can keep going on dates anyway. If you want to.” A genuine smile grows on his face.

The hands on his shoulders get replaced by forearms as Childe envelops him in a crushing hug.

“Of course I want to!”