Work Text:
Today was one of your busier days, and for good reason: it was the monthly uniform repair and tailoring day for the Fatui stationed in Fontaine. You would close your studio for the day and focus on getting through as many uniforms as possible on your client list. You worked from the faint glimmer of dawn all the way to the late afternoon, with few breaks in between. Luckily, the Fatui were always happy with your work, even praising your skills when you repaired some atrocious damage to their garments. You waved them off, not taking their compliments close to heart. There was always room for self-improvement.
As your last officer bid goodbye, you turned to look at your daily planner. You forgot one certain individual would visit you today, also for the monthly repairs. It was none other than The Sixth, Scaramouche. How could you have forgotten? It wasn’t rare for you to see a Harbinger, let alone tailor their garments, but the Balladeer paid you more frequent visits than the rest. At first, it was to fix his attire, but it slowly turned into an excuse to talk to you in private. You shared stories of times long gone, debated about old theatre plays, amongst other things. Perhaps today would also be a less work-related meeting.
You heard the door to your studio open as the familiar bells chimed. Yes, it was indeed him, the man who brought both destruction and excitement with his visits to Fontaine. You rose from your desk and made it to the entrance of your studio.
“Long time no see, Scaramouche,” you greeted him, smiling.
“Likewise,” he answered curtly.
You invited the Harbinger to stand on the elevated part of the floor in your studio while you went looking for some pins and thread. You hummed as you glided around your desk and cabinets, graciously opening and closing their drawers. It was your small ritual; it helped you immerse yourself in your craft. With the same elegance, you walked back to the Balladeer, who was staring through the window near the entrance.
“We are doing the monthly repairs, I presume?” you inquired politely, although you both already knew the answer. The Balladeer gave you a quick nod, followed by:
“Get it over with quickly, Y/N.”
Always in a sour mood when he arrives , you thought to yourself as you went to work on his arm guards. You took your client’s left forearm gently, expecting some damage done to the arm guard. Apart from some electro residue, the material was still in mint condition. As expected of your client. You removed the residue with the power of your dendro vision and moved on to the other arm to do the same thing.
Now, time for those bizarre shorts. You hated working on pants when a person wore them, but you learned to put up with it. You noticed the inner edges of the shorts were fraying and asked the Balladeer to spread his legs. He complied, letting out a small grumble.
“I’ll trim off the excess and stitch the linings back together,” you explained. “Tell me if you get uncomfortable, Scaramouche.”
You didn’t hear a reply, and started methodically fixing the shorts. Thankfully your client let you move his legs around freely, as if he were a doll. He did that often, becoming this pliable. You always chose to ignore it.
“Tell me,” you started as you moved on to his shirt’s sleeves. “Did you get an interesting task from the Tsaritsa? Is that why your mood is better than usual?”
He turned his head to look at you. His eyes always amazed you with their indigo hues, resembling dark storm clouds, waiting for the perfect moment to let the lightning hidden inside of them spark. Today, the two clouds were eager as ever to show off their power.
“Well, for starters,” Scaramouche said with a hint of pride in his voice, “we got a traitor’s location in Mondstadt. La Signora’s lackeys should take care of them easily.”
“But?” you asked. You knew he couldn’t tell you the entire plan, but you were fairly close to him. You got along pretty well, you could be considered his friend, and every Fatui member was impressed by that. The Balladeer apparently had the personality of a cunning bratty child, but you digressed. The Inazuman man was just extremely impatient.
“But I have something else planned for the foreseeable future,” he smiled. It was not a smile of simple happiness, it was the smile of someone who craved revenge.
Oh heavens , you sighed and went to work on his torso. There were some dents on the circular sigil on his chest, a first during your time working with Scaramouche.
“Do you know why I wear that sigil?”
You froze for a moment, and shook your head. You noticed that the air in the room became more dense and cursed yourself for asking the Harbinger about that plan of his. Nevertheless, you went back to work. You carefully removed the sigil from his chest, exposing his tule undershirt and a scar. You felt compelled to touch it, a mysterious force guiding your free hand towards it.
“That scar has a purpose,” he confessed nonchalantly as you stopped moving your hand midway. “It is a vault to store an important someone’s ‘heart’. Heh,” he paused to look at you, “don’t worry, it’s near impossible to open it. You can touch it.”
“Maybe another time, Balladeer,” you replied, staring back into his eyes. No dye could replicate their color, and so you decided to indulge yourself in Scaramouche’s gaze, albeit for a moment.
Something sparked within you, but you ignored it. You had to fix the sigil’s dents before curiosity got the better of you. You went to your workbench and put the sigil down. Then, you used your Dendro powers to bind new metal to the dents where it was missing. You were too absorbed watching your elemental power at work to notice your client’s frustration rise.
“Are you not interested?” Scaramouche implored. “And here I was thinking my stories have been the highlights of your work days…”
“They are, they are,” you assured your friend. That doesn’t seem to be the correct word . “There is one thing I can’t understand, though: why would you need to store a heart?”
A silence fell over your studio as the last word spilled over your lips. You turned around slowly towards Scaramouche, and saw that his smile became a scowl, evil due to overflow any minute. Yet, his eyes told you something else. Within them, you saw a trace of child-like hurt.
“What a stupid fucking question,” he seethed through his teeth. “How dare you question my motives! I thought it was obvious why I desire that heart, but let me rephrase it for you, since you seem to be more deaf than a mole rat: I am not like you human scum, I am free from death and destiny. And you — you’re a fragile, sad excuse of a porcelain doll, doomed to die alone!”
At this point, you stopped listening to his tirade, and continued fixing the metal sigil. You’ve known for a while that Scaramouche wasn’t human, although he never said it outright. It was almost too obvious: his pliability, surreal eyes, the way the air changed in accordance with his mood. All those details, big or small, made him an intriguing individual. The way they mixed seamlessly into his personality also made you want to get to know him more, and you have; on a rare occasion, the two of you would talk over a bottle of imported wine about the past not as colleagues, but as friends. You enjoyed those moments because the Balladeer made you feel more understood in an indescribable way, as if he had known you in your past life.
However, a phrase peaked your attention:
“And guess what! My creator forced me to suffer in a human world because I wasn’t up to her impossibly high standards. Can’t you fucking see now?! The heart will make me whole, I must take it, whatever the cost may be! God, you humans can’t think properly at all!”
And on that unpleasant note, Scaramouche was done shouting. The studio became quiet again, except for the Balladeer’s ragged breathing. You looked solemnly at him, not knowing what to say. You wanted to comfort him, but you knew better: he did not understand the meaning of care, nor would he want to at the present time. It was tragic, really; the perfected image of humans that knew nothing of them. For that, he cursed at those who did not meet his standards.
“Are you actually deaf?!”
You didn’t answer. You just looked at him with something visibly disgruntling to the Balladeer. It wasn’t disappointment, or hate — but something distant to the both of you. You saw he was more confused than ever, not used to this kind of attention. The storm in his eyes calmed down into an overcast day, devoid of any anger or hatred. At that moment, the metal sigil was fixed, signalling for you to return to your role as a seamstress. You walked back over to Scaramouche, trying to hide the fear in your steps.
For the first time since you’ve known him, you noticed how short he was compared to you. The elevated floor always brought his head up to your chin, but now you saw that the man was much shorter. You found this new detail endearing.
“My eardrums are still intact,” you tried to joke, but that only resulted in the Balladeer looking disappointed. With enough courage, you reattached the sigil back on his chest, gently patting away some stray creases and fixing the position of the sigil. When you were finished, you kept your hands on his chest for a while. It felt like the right thing to do, and Scaramouche wasn't trying to kill you with his bare hands. You hummed with content; it was a moment of peace.
“Why are you like this?” Scaramouche asked suddenly. “How can you retain this, I don’t know, majestically calm composure? Have you gone insane since the last time I visited?”
“Sir—” you start.
“No honorifics, if you’ve forgotten already,” he interrupts. “I just want a clear answer.”
“Well, my past has not been kind to me, as you know already. My previous employers forced me to learn to live with constant insults and in a loud environment, if you see what I mean. It was…” but you didn’t want to continue. Those years were long behind you, and didn’t need to be elaborated on.
“You humans are so difficult to understand, I can’t believe Teyvat still lives in relative peace.”
You couldn’t help but stare at Scaramouche. Why didn’t he want to know more? The Fatui and the clients outside of it always wanted the details of your past, and even the least curious ones always managed to pull some information out of you. Wasn’t Scaramouche a known manipulator? If so, why was he sincere with his intentions right now? Regardless, your heart clenched for the first time in centuries, all because you felt accepted. A hint of rose colored your cheeks as a result.
“Well, are you done with that repair business?”
“Oh, yes I am, sir,” you replied quickly and backed away. Then, as if on cue, he grabbed your wrist tightly. You realised your mistake: you used honorifics with him, again. Was really that bothered by it?
“Can you stop using those bloody ‘Sir’ things with me?” Scaramouche barked. “You’re not my underling, Y/N, so why bother?”
“It’s work protocol, and out of respect,” you answered even quicker, “for your organisation’s authority in this city.”
“Blah, blah, blah! You really are insufferable in the professional environment. But at least this quality of yours earned you some respect.
“Anyways, I cannot stay for longer with you, I have a few meetings to attend. My apologies.”
Scaramouche let go of your wrist and stepped down from the elevated floor in your studio and headed to the door. You noticed his hesitancy to open it, as if he was awaiting some sort of cue from your side. You obliged:
“Before you leave, how should I address you when you return?”
A new silence filled the studio as the Balladeer’s eyes gazed at you. The storm has cleared a bit; streaks of sunlight shone through.
“You assume I will return, huh?”
“Yes. Will you not?” Your voice sounded strained then, and Scaramouche took notice.
“Don’t fret uselessly like this, you know I always come back,” he answered, a semblance of an amused smile appearing on his face. “Well, I’ll reveal this: do not refer to me as ‘Sir’ or anything else when we are alone. To you and my old friends, I am Kunikuzushi.”
You stood silent. You remembered that Kunikuzushi was a stock character in traditional Inazuman theatre, an evil schemer at that. A befitting name for him, but only at a glance. Moreover, only you and whoever his friends were could call him that. It made you feel somewhat special, even though your relationship with Scaramouche was special enough on its own.
You stood there again for a moment until you noticed Scaramouche grew frustrated. Another cue for you to speak.
“I’ll take note of that,” you said and unconsciously slid your own hand over his wrist. Your grip, unlike his, was softer, kinder — an affirmation rather than a threat. You saw Scaramouche’s posture soften at the touch and solidify again. He was unsure what to think of this rather intimate touch, surely.
Why am I doing this?
“I’ll be waiting for your return, Kunikuzushi,” you said, smiling softly. You had more than enough patience and years to wait. Scaramouche looked at you with those overcast eyes and turned towards the door. He opened it slowly, exited the studio and looked back at you. There was no readable emotion on his face except a hint of pink. He bowed in your direction and bid farewell, morphing back into his Fatui persona. You returned his bow and watched him walk away until the only remnant of him was the faint smell of Inazuman rain on your shirt.