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Scaramouche is fond of running his fingers down Albedo’s arms, watching his fingers draw furrows in the chalk powdering away under his fingers—pressing kisses to wrists with no pulse and grinning, all teeth, when the crescents he bites into Albedo’s skin fade away into delicate smoothness once again.
Albedo can never bite him back—not without breaking a tooth—and so he settles for leaving ice-cold kisses in trails along Scaramouche’s jawline, like a butterfly’s wings gently beating on iron skin that always runs hot. His lips ghost over Scaramouche’s neck, cheeks, lips, feather-light and soft, like freshly fallen snow.
And they are so peaceful here, two non-humans sharing such a human moment with each other. On any other day, the paradox would make him chuckle, but today’s winter is particularly cold, and he abandons chuckling in favour of snuggling closer into his boyfriend’s furnace-like warmth. There on the bed with his head on top of a pillow to insulate Scaramouche from the bitter chill that seems to emanate from Albedo’s skin, yet still resting on the other’s shoulder, he feels…peace. Contentment. Love and warmth, in all senses of the word, from the trapped heat under the thick blanket to the sun shining in through the window to the soft orange glow that resonates in the hollow where a heart would lie in his chest.
A moment of stasis, where all remains still, and happy, and warm. A silent moment, not even broken by the sound of breathing, where the air is so thick with domestic content that you can almost feel it in the air. Eternity, in the best sense of the word.
Scaramouche runs a hand through Albedo’s alabaster hair as the latter blinks lazily up at him. He chuckles. “It’s cute seeing you get all soft and cuddly when it gets cold. Usually, by this time, even though it’s ass-crack in the morning on a freakin Saturday, you’d be banging around in your lab, or in the kitchen, or doing something. I’m glad that at least during winter your body forces you to rest.”
Albedo hums, shelving his remark on how he does get enough rest, Scara, he only mixed his coffee with Monster six times this month, for another day, because it’s true that his body goes into a state of shutdown when the weather gets too cold. He can feel all the tension in his form start to unwind, relaxing into Scaramouche’s arms. He’s not in a state to say it right now—well, he could if he really wanted to, he’s not shut down to the point of inability to speak, but it would take energy that he’s not willing to sacrifice—but it warms his figurative heart to see Scaramouche so open with his emotions. Even the smallest thing, like It’s cute seeing you get all soft and cuddly when it gets cold is a stark difference from his initial closed off persona, where his pride would not allow him to have said something that even implied that he thought Albedo was cute. Progress, the alchemist thinks.
Shifting so that his head faces Albedo’s, Scaramouche speaks again to fill the content silence, because he is aware of Albedo’s current lack of energy as well as the fact that he isn’t usually talkative during episodes when his body is close to shutting down. “Let’s stay inside today. I know that the Fatui hail from Snezhnaya, but archons damn it, it’s too cold out there for my Inazuman ass. Besides, you’ll take one step outside and faceplant into the snow.”
Albedo lets himself laugh, the sound ringing out like the bells on his boyfriend’s ridiculous hat throughout the room and leaving said boyfriend’s face dusted in coral shades. He speaks for the first time that morning, voice gravelly from both the early time and lack of use. “Agreed…being lazy for a while in the morning is nice, but this lingering feeling of…lethargy…is getting old quickly. Can you grab the sunflower? I would like to sketch the scenery.” His request might have sounded blunt or insincere to some from the tone of his voice, but most of the people in Albedo’s life have long since gotten used to the fact that he struggles to emote, especially verbally.
The winter morning plus the fireplace not being lit contributes to how cold the inside of their room is. As he leaves his boyfriend trying to conserve residual heat under the blanket to grab the small lamp that Albedo uses as a relatively-portable winter heat source, Scaramouche smiles to himself, a real, genuine smile unlike the ferocious grin he wears during battle. Similar to Albedo’s earlier thoughts on Scaramouche opening up more, he also marvels at how far the alchemist had come since they first met. Previously, Albedo would be hesitant to ask for help, even if he needed it, out of pride and possibly also the fact that he had been alone for so long that he’d simply acclimatized to it—really, both of them had been—and seeing the reserved alchemist now more open and confident when asking for things and assistance warmed Scaramouche’s figurative heart even more than it usually was.
“You’re like a plant,” he teases, bringing the lamp Albedo created so that he wouldn’t have to rely on fireplaces during the winter over to the window, near the bed where he had seemingly sucked all of the heat out of the blankets. “There, this should keep you awake at least. I’ll go light the fireplace and make hot chocolate.” Albedo hums in thanks, walking over, unfolding the lamp and happily sitting under it as the sunflower-like creation sent beams of artificial ‘sunlight’ down on him. The soft glow kept him at least slightly warm, even though the bite of the cold made the temperature difference between the warm bed and near the window… noticeable. He unpacks his drawing equipment, staring out of the window and beginning to sketch the beautiful landscape.
Halfway through a sketch later, Scaramouche returns, sitting beside him and handing over a cup of hot chocolate. The smell of spices and warm cocoa filled the room as they drank from their respective cups, Albedo smiling in delight at the fact that his lover had added nutmeg and cinnamon. The thick, rich drink was the perfect start to a laid-back morning, cinnamon spice adding depth and even more warmth to the drink. Albedo adored the little things that Scaramouche did, like add spices to hot chocolate, or hold him close when it got cold, vehemently insisting that it was only so that Albedo wouldn’t collapse on the ground. The aroma of winter delights added to the moments of bliss, spent together in a cabin, sheltered from the harsh winds and falling snow of Dragonspine.
Looking away from his sketch, Albedo raises a quizzical eyebrow at his lover, noting that his face has gone completely flushed. Scaramouche, embarrassed to be caught staring, turns away, mumbling, “What? You…you’re just really pretty…”
The sight of Albedo sitting under the flower made Scaramouche’s heart race, as the pale yellow rays of the ‘sunflower’ enveloped him in light. His blond hair seemed to sparkle, accentuating the look of concentration yet serenity on his face as he drew the landscape in smooth, confident strokes, teal eyes gleaming with reflected light. He may have said “really pretty”, because eloquence never is his strong suit, but in truth, Albedo looked positively angelic. The irony amuses him—a boy born in the depths of the earth, compared to a being from the highest points of the heavens. Not like an angel could compare to him anyway.
Albedo smiles, turning away from the now-completed sketch to look at Scaramouche. He looks…smug, and the latter struggles to keep from going even redder because even though Albedo hasn’t said anything he knows that the other probably figured out exactly what made his cheeks go blistering red. They stare, for a moment, murky teal into violet lightning, losing themselves in each other’s eyes. The world falls away, in moments like this.
And while Scaramouche is mesmerised by what swirls in the depths of Albedo’s eyes, the other has leaned in and given him a peck on the cheek that makes him shiver, both from the perpetual cold of Albedo’s lips and the silent intensity of his mildness. Albedo smirks, and goes in again, planting a light kiss right on Scaramouche’s lips. The sketch lies forgotten as inhuman boys sit beneath artificial sun, laughing and teasing and sharing sweet, human moments, kisses flavoured with hot chocolate and cinnamon.
Sitting on the floor near the window under a sunflower, kissing a boy made of secrets and stardust, Albedo is content.
Sitting on the floor near the window under a sunflower, kissing a boy made of chalk and khemia, Scaramouche is content.
The happiness that blooms in balance, like a solar isotoma bursting to life, is something so incredibly human, even when shared by those without hearts beating in their chests or blood flowing through their veins.