Work Text:
Scaramouche doesn’t just ask for advice. For one, he doesn’t really need it. But also, asking for advice would require him to be vulnerable with someone about his problems. And that would be worse.
So, after his impromptu meeting with Kaedehara Kazuha, the resistance ally, Scaramouche vows himself to forget the encounter ever happened and bottle up any and all of his feelings. Because, realistically, Scaramouche doesn’t have feelings. He’s not a human person; he wasn’t made to feel love, or sadness, or anything. He knows that if he has any emotion at all, it’s a result of Dottore’s experiments. And it’s artificial, so there’s no need to think about it.
And yet, Kazuha’s notebook remains in his trunk. He hasn’t opened it since that day, but he can’t find it in himself to discard it. Perhaps that’s just indifference.
Besides, his mission in his homeland is over. He’s successfully stolen the Gnosis of his creator, and it has since been handed over safely to the Tsaritsa. With one Rosalyne Lohefalter dead, ten living Harbingers remain. And Scaramouche is only in contact with one, possibly the most unfortunate of all.
“Hello, comrade!” Tartaglia chirps, grabbing his shoulders from the back. He yelps, whipping his head around. The two are currently on board a ship, sent straight from Snezhnaya to escort them home. Tartaglia is dressed down, in a button-down shirt and pants. His red hair is messily strewed on top of his head, usually pale face sunburned from Liyue’s climate. He had spent so long there, the Tsaritsa was afraid she wouldn’t get him back.
Unfortunately for Scaramouche, she was.
“You’re chipper.” Scaramouche mumbles, inching away from him. He laughs heartly, ruffling his hair.
“Why, thank you!”
“It wasn’t a compliment, imbecile.”
Tartaglia chuckles, plopping down on his bed. The two are tasked with sharing a room, and it may as well be Scaramouche’s living nightmare.
Tartaglia sighs, opening his own trunk and pulling out a pen and ink, as well as a stack of paper. He sets it on the mattress, swinging his feet in the air like a schoolgirl.
“I didn’t know you could write.” Scaramouche remarks, smirking.
“I’m actually very good at it.”
“Sure you are.” Scaramouche laughs and sits down.
The room is quiet, save for the sounds of Tartaglia’s pen scratching against the rough sheet of paper. He hums softly, pausing before scribbling down some more. Scaramouche shifts awkwardly, pinching a small bolt of electricity in between his index finger and thumb. It crackles gently. He spreads his hand out, shooting the current at Tartaglia and zapping his neck. Tartaglia shouts, glaring at him.
“Seriously?” He pouts.
“What? It’s fucking boring here.”
“Yeah, well, I’m busy. So, I don’t know, maybe find something else to do?”
“You’re busy?” Scaramouche snorts.
“Yes, actually, I am.” Tartaglia gives him a look. “I’m writing a letter to someone. A lover.”
“Whatever.” Scaramouche mumbles, opening his trunk on his bed and shifting through his items. It’s mostly clothes, a few souvenirs, and a bag of Mora. He picks up an iron dagger, twirling the handle around in his fingers. The weapon is intertwined with copper, made especially to be wielded by an Electro vision holder. The wire flickers softly, buzzing with electricity. Scaramouche is easily bored by it and drops it on his desk. A waste of Mora. He doesn’t even like handheld weapons.
At the very bottom of the case is Kazuha’s poetry, loose pages falling out the side of the leather-bound notebook. Scaramouche glances at Tartaglia, making sure he’s preoccupied as he thumbs through the paper. Kazuha’s handwriting is smooth and graceful, each stroke carefully crafted with the perfect amount of pressure; the way his J’s curve upwards at the ends, and his G’s hook underneath the rest of the word. It matches the words that flow over the page, gentle and thought out.
The tips of Scaramouche’s ears burn, and he makes sure to look away from Tartaglia before opening his mouth to what he’s about to say.
“Tell me about them.” He mumbles. Tartaglia makes a sound. “Your lover.”
The man laughs.
“Why do you want to know?”
Scaramouche flushes, his cheeks reddening and fists clenching in his lap.
“Nevermind, I don’t even know why I asked. I don’t care.”
Tartaglia hushes, then lets out a sigh. Scaramouche hears him crack his knuckles.
“I met him in Liyue on my mission. He was kind enough to invite me out to dinner, but lacked the money to pay for the meal. I found him intriguing, so I treated him to it.”
“Sounds like a real asshole.”
“Hm. Well, I said goodbye and he walked me to my hotel. Before he left, he asked if I wanted to see him again, and I said yes. That was, if he paid for our meal next time. He agreed, and I went to bed. We met the next day, and then the day after that, and I ended up staying in his home.” Tartaglia sighs fondly. “I remember being attracted to how wise he was, and how much he knew about the city. I paid for our outings, and in turn, he gave me a complete tour of Liyue. Our first kiss was among the Glaze Lilies in Qingce Village. The moon was full, and I had gotten into a fight with some bandits earlier. He helped clean me up and took me into the village so we could look at the flowers.”
“Ugh. That’s so cheesy.”
“Maybe a bit. He brought home a bouquet we picked together and put them in a vase. They lived for a very long time, until we… had a falling out. They all died after I moved out, apparently. We didn’t talk for a bit, but eventually we both apologized to each other and made up. I had to leave a few weeks ago, but we promised to write back and forth every week. I’m not as smart as he is with words, but I like to tell him how my day is going, and what I did this week. That way he doesn’t feel so lonely.”
Scaramouche pauses, then looks back over his shoulder. Kazuha’s notebook is still in his lap.
“He knows you’re a Harbinger, right?”
“I told him on our first night together.” Tartaglia smiles. “Well, it was actually our second. The first night was mostly just sex.”
“Gross.” Scaramouche says, but he’s still looking at the other.
“You look troubled, Comrade? Could it be you have a disdain for me being in a relationship with another man?”
“Wh- no. I don’t give a shit about who you go to bed with. I just…” He sighs. “I don’t know. This was stupid.”
“Alright, good talk.” Tartaglia smiles. “You know, you can talk to me. I don’t know if you used to ask Signora for advice, but I’m here if you need me.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Everyone needs help sometimes.” He tilts his head.
“You’re too nice for this job.” Scaramouche remarks. Tartaglia throws his head back, laughing.
“I’m no better than the rest of you. We’re all the same.”
Scaramouche opens the notebook, staring at the dog-eared pages. Tartaglia catches him off-guard, reaching in and snatching it off his lap and holding it high above his head.
“Tartaglia!” Scaramouche screeches, lurching forward. “Give that-!”
“Whose book is this, comrade?”
“Nobody’s-! Tartaglia, I’m serious, don’t look in there!”
Scaramouche tackles him on the bed, pinning his arms behind his head. Tartaglia smiles fiercely, canine teeth gleaming. He kicks the shorter off of him, his vision lighting up and a torrent of water splashing Scaramouche across the face. He’s only playing; if he really wanted to, this could be an honest spar. But, for once, something is interesting the Eleventh more than a good fight.
“Who’s Kaedehara Kazuha?” Tartaglia grins.
“No one!” His face burns bright red as he pushes his wet bangs out of his eyes. He quickly zaps Tartaglia in the stomach with a small bolt of electricity and snatches his book back, holding it against his chest with both hands. Tartaglia falls back in a fit of laughter, wiping his eyes. Scaramouche flushes darker.
“So you are in love!” Tartaglia smiles. Scaramouche groans in embarrassment. “No wonder you were asking me about Zhongli. Hey, don’t be so shy, comrade! There’s nothing embarrassing about having a crush.”
“It is not a crush. I- I barely even know him.” He huffs. “You should know, you hook up with people all the time!”
“So you’re admitting you slept with him, then?”
“I-!” Scaramouche sits down slowly, loosening his grip on Kazuha’s notebook. “We didn’t, actually. Not like that. I met him in Inazuma, and he patched me up when I got hurt. I spent the night with him in a cave, and I haven’t even talked to him since then.”
“Mhm. Why’d you keep his journal?”
“I was going to get rid of it.” He says defensively. “I just forgot, okay?”
“Do you normally remember all the details of your hookups, or is it just this one that you recall so clearly?”
“Can you shut up?” He hisses. “I’m not in love. I literally can’t be. In fact, I’m not even a human being.”
“Actually…” Tartaglia gives him a knowing smile. “You kind of are right now. You obviously have emotions, right? I’ve seen you get angry. Who’s to say you can’t feel other things?”
“I’m not supposed to feel anything.”
“But you do. Because right now, you’re embarrassed, right?” He sighs, sitting down next to him on the bed. “Look, I’m sorry for grabbing your notebook. Even if it was really funny to see the look on your face. As your self-appointed best friend that’s also a human, I’m going to tell you what I think.”
“Why would I want to hear what you think?”
Tartaglia ignores him.
“I think you’re afraid to express your emotions because they’re all new to you, and you don’t like not knowing things. And I think you’re ashamed that you even have these emotions in the first place, because you see it as a mistake in your… programming, or whatever.” He elbows Scaramouche lightly. “Also, I think that haircut doesn’t frame your face well.”
Scaramouche sighs, dropping the notebook in his lap.
“You suck, you know that?”
“I get that a lot. Look, just… try to think about it, maybe? Spend some time processing your feelings? I don’t know, just do it. I’ve never been good at conversations.” Tartaglia stands up. “And if you want to, you should write a letter to him. I’m sure someone among our ranks has a connection. I’m gonna go spar with some agents. See you?”
Scaramouche huffs.
“Fine. See you.”
Tartaglia waves and walks out the door, closing it behind him. Scaramouche picks up a piece of paper and a pen, taking a breath and beginning to write.
And the words just start to spill out of his head like ink on a page.
***