Work Text:
When word of the Eleventh Harbinger's imminent arrival comes, the Balladeer leaves his rooms for the first time in days, making his way as deep into the palace's winding maze of underground hallways as he can. A person could get lost down here and wander long enough to die of thirst without anyone the wiser, or so the rumors went.
It's hardly worth the effort, of course. He might as well have stayed in his rooms, staring blankly at sumptuous tapestries instead of bare stone walls. No matter where he hides, Childe has always been able to find him.
"You let her go there alone?" a seething voice rings out from behind him, shattering the heavy, sepulchral silence.
Scaramouche doesn't startle, even though he hadn't heard anyone approaching. He knows that his attention has been… lacking, lately. All the more reason to isolate himself as best he can.
"I was doing my job." His voice comes out flat, unfeeling. Good. "I had the gnosis. That was the priority." He doesn't turn to face Childe.
"Fuck the gnosis," Childe snarls. "You should've known—"
"It was her idea," Scaramouche replies. He feels like he ought to be snarling back, but he's grateful that he isn't. There's an almost painful tension in his shoulders, his jaw—everywhere, really—and he feels like he might splinter apart if he lets an ounce of emotion break free. "She—she wasn't supposed to be getting into any fights. She was just supposed to keep the Shogun distracted. There wasn't anyone else who could get an audience."
The lie tastes bitter on his tongue. He could've gotten an audience in a heartbeat. Signora had all the diplomatic connections, but the Shogun… she would've seen him, if he'd gone. He could've passed the gnosis to Signora instead, taken the more dangerous job for himself. Maybe if it had been him standing before that cursed throne… But he hadn't even considered it. He'd trusted too much in the feeling of a gloved hand brushing against his cheek and telling him that he didn't need to worry, that even if they'd been assigned to deal with Inazuma, he wouldn't have to see hide nor hair of his maker, not if she could help it. The assurance had warmed him through, at the time. The memory leaves him shivering.
"Bullshit. You're just making excuses." He's right.
"And you're just tilting at windmills." He's breaking.
He's not sure he can keep his fractured pieces together very much longer, with only his pride to glue them in place. And he can't get away from this confrontation—Childe isn't about to let him go that easily. But he's not sure he even wants to escape. Something hollow and angry in him just wants Childe to be the one to deal the final blow, and shatter him completely. And all he needs to do to satisfy that urge is…
Scaramouche turns, a practiced mask of apathy drawn over his face. "Your anger seems a little misplaced," he remarks. "Defensive, even. Are you sure it's me you want to be shouting at?"
Childe doesn't respond verbally, just stares back at him, furious and uncomprehending. There's color high on his cheeks, and his lips are pressed together, white with tension.
Well, it's an opening, and Scaramouche would be a fool not to take it.
"I think you know exactly how ridiculous it is to blame me for any of this without even knowing what really happened. Which means you're just looking to be angry for the sake of being angry. As a distraction, maybe. But, from what, I wonder?" He sees Childe's face twitch, and he presses forward, mouth watering, ready to viciously probe at the wound. He wants the reaction. Needs it. Needs Childe to explode into the violence the man loves so much. Needs to hurt, and be hurt. His lip curls. "Lemme guess. You were pleased for a moment when you heard, weren't you?" he spits.
Scaramouche doesn't see Childe close the distance between them. He only feels himself being hauled into the air by his collar and the sensation of hot, uneven breaths against his face before the blur of motion settles into Childe's livid expression, inches from his nose.
"Take that back," Childe says, low and dangerous.
"Why should I?" Scaramouche asks. He doesn't struggle in Childe's grip, just hangs limp. The only weapons he can bring himself to wield right now are his words. "It just stands to reason. Didn't she make a fool out of you in Liyue not so very long ago?"
"That doesn't mean I—!"
"Oh, save it for someone who cares," Scaramouche snaps. "I'm not taking back shit. You were pissed at her about Liyue, and you were happy she got herself killed in Inazuma, and now you feel bad and you're taking it out on me." He's breathing hard, through clenched teeth. "Now, come the hell on and hit me already, you fucking coward."
Childe's grip shifts. Scaramouche shuts his eyes, breathless, waiting.
But the blow doesn't land. He isn't thrown against the wall, or to the ground. Nothing happens at all.
He opens his eyes again, warily, to find Childe looking back at him with an unreadable expression. The fury he'd been prodding at—counting on—is gone now, or hidden away. Damn it all.
Childe opens his mouth, drawing in an even breath. "…What did you mean when you said 'what really happened'?" he asks, steady as an ocean swell. "She went to the Shogun, alone, and the Shogun killed her."
Scaramouche lets out a humorless laugh. "Sure, the Raiden Shogun dealt the final blow," he agrees, "but it was your damn Traveler that signed the death warrant."
Childe flinches at that—just like Scaramouche knew he would—and recoils. His hold on Scaramouche loosens abruptly, and Scaramouche barely manages to avoid falling to his knees as he's dropped back down to the ground.
"Yeah, I didn't think you knew that part," he says, drily. Slowly, he stands up straight again, and tilts back his head to look at the ceiling. "Stupid. So stupid," he says, to polished stone.
Childe's no longer breathing against his face, so it feels like he's not even there anymore, so far distant does he seem. Like Scaramouche is alone in this cold hallway, talking to himself.
"I had that Traveler right in front of me, powerless, just days before," Scaramouche says, remotely, lost in thought. "I could have easily…" He clenches a fist in the air. His nails are biting into his palm, he can tell. He doesn't quite feel it, though. So, at least there's that. "But then…" He huffs out a short, sharp breath. "Then, I had to go and think about what you might say about it if I did, and I let that fucking priestess talk me out of it."
"Are… are you trying to say this is my fault?" Childe's voice sounds scraped-raw.
Scaramouche doesn't look at him, just keeps his eyes on the ceiling and shakes his head minutely, letting Childe remain a blurred, hazy shape in his periphery. "No," he says. "Obviously, it's mine. For becoming so weak-minded that I'd let that sway my judgment."
He never would've done a thing like that before. Never would've spared an enemy or hesitated a moment or accepted an exchange when he could've taken by force instead. Not until he'd met Childe, and experienced his delight when he met a worthy foe. Heard him talk about protecting his siblings. Listened to him admit the complicated lies he tells them, in his efforts to cling as long as he can to their trust and love. Seen him live and laugh and wheedle and charm. Been wheedled and charmed, by him.
He'd let this man wear away at his defenses until he couldn't help but do things he thought would please Childe, in ways he thought Childe would approve of.
And now look at him. So weak. So foolish. If his old self could see him right now, he'd slaughter him on the spot, put him out of his misery. That Scaramouche would have killed that wretched Traveler in a heartbeat, and probably the priestess, too, and that irritating floating being for good measure.
If he'd still been his old self—if he hadn't changed—La Signora would still be alive.
He looks down at his own hands, staring at the familiar lines on his palms that he knows in his bones still match his maker's down to every last detail. It's his mind and his instincts that are unrecognizable now. "An unchanging eternity…" he murmurs. "I wonder if she had the right idea after all. Perhaps the me that was of any use to us has already eroded away. It certainly feels like it."
"No," Childe says. It sounds like the word has been wrenched out of him. But Scaramouche has no idea what exactly he's trying to contradict.
"…No?" He lifts his eyes to meet conflicted blue ones.
"It's not your fault you didn't murder the right people in advance. That's…" Words seem to fail Childe, and he trails off.
Scaramouche stares at him. "You were the one who followed me down here looking for someone to blame."
"Because someone should have been with her," Childe bursts out. "Someone on her side. She shouldn't have had to face that alone."
Scaramouche flinches. Childe barrels onward, heedless.
"You were there," he says. "If I'd been there, I could've…"
Right. Of course. If Childe had only been there, everything would have been puppies and rainbows and he'd have saved the day and overthrown a god, all before afternoon tea. Naturally, it's only because it had been Scaramouche instead that everything had gone so very wrong. In a world where Scaramouche had been cast aside again and replaced with Childe, La Signora would still live and breathe among them—that just stands to reason, doesn't it?
He tries, and fails, to push down the voice inside that's insisting those sarcastic thoughts are right.
Suddenly, Childe is pressed in close again, gripping Scaramouche's wrists. "That's not what I meant," he says, urgently, as though Scaramouche had said any of that aloud. Maybe he had. "I just. I thought we were all in this together. So I. That's why…"
His breaths are coming in short gasps against Scaramouche's face, like he's been doing something more exerting than have a fraught conversation. Scaramouche feels the bizarre urge to reach out, to gentle and soothe, but his arms are still being held in place, and he can't move them an inch.
Childe is looking through Scaramouche now, off into the middle distance, his expression pained and unhappy. "I was just so angry with her, about Liyue," he says, in hardly more than a whisper. "I'd barely said a word to her since."
Ah. A confession, it seems. And Scaramouche a poor choice of priest. He grits his teeth, and bears it.
"When they told me… When I found out she…" Childe swallows. Scaramouche watches his throat bob. "All I could think about was… how I'd never get a chance to tell her that I'd already forgiven her. It's all I've been able to think of since." He says it like it's a sword he's decided he has to fall on. How absurd.
"She knew," Scaramouche says, tonelessly.
Childe's face twists. "How the hell would you know that?"
"You can't hold a grudge for shit. She knew."
Childe closes his eyes. "Scaramouche, don't—"
"Childe." Some of what he's been holding back bleeds through, this time. "She knew."
Childe's eyes open back up. He looks… fragile.
"Fuck," Scaramouche swears under his breath. He tugs against the hold Childe still has around his wrists. Childe lets him go instantly. He starts moving back, but Scaramouche takes a step forward and grabs onto his shirt before he can make his retreat. "Come here," he says, unnecessarily, as he pulls Childe in, burying his face in the man's chest and wrapping his arms around his back.
Childe goes stiff for a moment, and then his whole body slumps a little. Scaramouche just keeps holding onto him, and doesn't react when warm hands lift up and make tentative contact with his shoulder blades, holding onto him in return.
Childe bows his head, pressing his lips to the top of Scaramouche's head. "I'm sorry," he says into Scaramouche's hair. "I know it wasn't your fault."
"Yeah. I got that," Scaramouche says.
"I shouldn't have—"
"It's okay." Scaramouche feels wrung-out. He'd wanted someone to blame him. Someone who'd lost as much as he had. But now he's just… tired.
He'd been going in circles for days, wondering what he should have done differently. But now, after facing down Childe, and clinging onto him like this… his buzzing thoughts have stumbled to a halt, leaving a shaky kind of calm in their wake.
And in that calm, he finally lets himself feel the true depths of his grief.
"I'll miss her," Scaramouche murmurs, quietly. He's glad his face is hidden against Childe's shirt, even though he knows it's an empty gesture. He's not keeping any kind of secret.
But it's fine. He can feel a matching trickle of tears soaking into his hair, after all. Fair's fair.
Childe's arms squeeze him tighter, almost hard enough to hurt, for just a moment. "I'll miss her, too," he murmurs back.