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Scaramouche hasn’t had to hide from anyone in a bathroom since he was in high school all those years ago. Back then, it was a common occurrence to go whenever he had to –a bathroom, an empty gym, the corner of a deserted hallway– to be left alone and not have to force himself to interact with people that he genuinely doesn’t give a shit about. As an adult, if he hides in the bathroom while he’s on the clock, well, is not so much to hide from his coworkers as it is to hide from his responsibilities.
The fact that he’s stuck in a stinky bathroom where people apparently do not have any aim is Childe’s fault, like everything always is. He had insisted they come to this little high school reunion, even if it was just to gossip, and Scaramouche had tried to argue, he really tried (‘Childe, if I haven’t talked to somebody in a while, it’s simply because I don’t want to’ ). And yet, there he is. In this tacky, overpriced restaurant, trying to gather his bearings to go back to a room full people that he has either not thought about in five years, or has thought about in not a very kind way.
He takes a deep breath, unclenches his hands from the sink, fixes his posture and takes a few steps to walk back into the danger, struggling to open the door with his hip – he refuses to touch bathroom doors with his bare hands, he’s seen enough people walk out without washing their hands to risk it.
The music is too loud, the lights too dim to see anything properly, but that works in Scaramouche’s favor – if he can scurry around and have no one talk to him for the rest of the night, he will consider it an absolute success. As he approaches the round table Childe’s sitting at waiting for him, he sees another figure taking a few strides towards it too, and he freezes in place. He looks the same as he did when they went to class together, so it’s easy to recognize one of the douchebags that made Scaramouche’s life a living hell.
No fucking way he’s going to approach the table if that poor excuse of a person is also there, so he decides to take a step back, hide himself in the shadows and just wait it out so he doesn’t have to interact with someone that he has dreamed about killing in more than a few occasions.
“Oh, hey, Childe!” Their ex-classmate greets, voice chirpy as he approaches the table waving his half-empty drink around. By how slurred his words are, it must not be the first one. “How are things going?” He doesn’t give Childe any time to answer, though, because before he’s even finished sitting down, he’s opening his mouth again, pointing at the ginger’s hand with a gasp, “Is that a wedding ring?”
“Yeah,” Childe starts, bringing his hand up to showcase the simple metal band, and Scaramouche can almost feel that dumb smile that he gets every time he gets a question about the ring. “Yeah, it is.”
“Congratulations, man, I’m happy for you.”
“Thank you.”
“Who’s the lucky one?” He asks and, again, doesn’t give the ginger any time to answer. “I really hope you found someone better than Scaramouche, the relationship you two had was a bit… strange,” the dude has the fucking audacity to say, and Scaramouche can clearly see Childe’s whole body tense up like his fight or flight response is kicking in and the first option is winning. “Honestly, what was all that about?”
“What do you mean?”
He can’t even see Childe’s face, but he knows that tone of voice, and can picture his face on his mind without problem – furrowed brows, scrunched up nose, mouth turned downward in annoyance. Their lovely ex-classmate better stop talking, because it looks like he will get decked in the face. If it’s by him or by Childe, Scaramouche doesn’t know just yet.
“I mean… Why?” He asks simply, leaning back on his chair and twirling his drink. “The dude was unpleasant to be around, a bastard, really. He wasn’t even nice to you at the time.” Fair enough, Scaramouche has to admit that’s true, even if partially. If he was a little son of a bitch with too many issues to count and he lashed out at people who tried to get closer to him because he was scared that he would get hurt, that’s between him and his much needed therapist. “Between you and me, I think he had a weird vibe, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s become a serial killer or something like that.”
And okay, that’s enough standing around and eavesdropping without doing anything. Scaramouche covers the steps separating him from the table in a few strides and calmly rests his hands on Childe’s shoulders, who just looks up at him from his seat with an amused glint in his eyes.
“Maybe not a serial killer, but I am thinking about murder right now.” As soon as he opens his mouth, the other man’s smile immediately drops, and Scaramouche feels something akin to glee bubble in his chest at the sight.
“Oh, hey Scaramouche,” he answers lamely, and his tone of voice switches into something more innocent, like he wasn’t trash-talking just a moment ago. Fucking dumbass . “Were you listening in?”
“Unfortunately,” he chirps up, matching the tone with an excitement he clearly doesn’t feel. “Got anything else to say?”
“No, why?”
“If you want to talk shit, at least do it to my face.”
“You know what? Whatever,” he says, dropping the innocent facade and rolling his eyes, and takes a sip out of his drink. “It’s not a secret that I think you were a weird one, and it seems you still are.”
“And you still are a fucking asshole, so nobody has really changed, I guess.”
“I wasn’t an asshole just because I wanted to, you were a nightmare to everybody,” he scoffs, and leans forward in his seat – he tries to, seemingly, intimidate Scaramouche with his eyes, but the Inazuman is so used to nasty looks that doesn’t bother him one bit. “I don’t understand why someone like Childe liked you.” He must have drunk more than Scaramouche had initially assessed, because it takes him a whole minute of staring at Scaramouche’s hands in Childe’s shoulders to realize what’s going on. “You two are still together? Holy shit.”
“Why do you sound so surprised?”
“Well, I didn’t imagine it would last this long.” And probably, seeing it from outside, Scaramouche himself wouldn’t believe that their relationship would go any further than a couple of months, especially back then when Childe was so, so young and eager and Scaramouche did not match his energy at all – but that’s something that only him (and Childe, if Scaramouche’s in the mood) can say. Their relationship was not, is not, and will never be this fucking asshole’s business. Scaramouche closes his eyes for a second, willing his blood pressure to go down. Obviously, it doesn’t, specially not when he keeps talking, “Sorry to hear that, Childe, you deserve much, much better.”
And if Scaramouche ever thought him and Childe spend too much time together, it gets confirmed when they both blurt a heated “ Go fuck yourself ” at the same time.
Scaramouche’s patience runs dry when he sees their ex-classmate roll his fucking eyes once more, and he takes a step forward, more than ready to break a few teeth if he has to. He’s interrupted, however, by a hand that grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls back with enough force to make him stumble backwards. Childe’s laugh rings loud in his ears, and he has no time to process the situation before the ginger wraps an arm around his middle and all but carries him out of that tacky, tacky hole in the wall and into the warm air outside – he’s not keen on staying so, to his own surprise and probably Childe’s, he doesn’t even put up a fight.
“I told you it was a bad idea to come,” Scaramouche starts, expecting Childe’s arm to drop from his middle when they start walking. It doesn’t. They start walking back home, and Scaramouche is silently thankful that they have a short walk ahead of them so the night air can help him chill, even if just a little bit.
“Yes, honey.”
“I told you we should have stayed home and just checked social media if you wanted see how this bunch of fucking losers are doing. It’s not like any of them is doing anything interesting with their lives anyways.”
“Yes, honey.”
“Stop agreeing with everything I say.”
“Yes, honey.”
“Ajax,” he sighs, turning his body to give the man next to him a glare. In true Childe fashion, he doesn’t seem to care too much, and the thing that Scaramouche gets in return is a blinding, shit-eating grin.
“Sorry,” he says, obviously not sorry, and tightens his grip around Scaramouche’s waist. “Who cares about what they think, though?”
“I do not,” he argues, the anger he was feeling just a few minutes ago subduing into something more manageable. And he’s not lying – he does not give a single fuck, he hasn’t seen these people for years, and if everything goes as planned, he won’t see them ever again. But he would be lying to himself if he said there’s no resentment left in him. “But if they wanna talk shit, at least do it to my face so I can talk shit back.”
“For the record, I was two seconds away from decking that asshole in the face before you intervened.”
“Would you go to jail for assault for me?”
“Yeah, you’re right, I’m too pretty to go to prison,” Childe says, and Scaramouche isn’t sure if he’s trying to be silly to make him feel better or if he’s legitimately that up own his own ass.
“What an ego.”
“Well, if a whole lifetime of looking this stunning isn’t enough to have an ego…”
“When are you going to start that whole lifetime of, and I quote, ‘ looking this stunning ’?”
Childe uses the hand resting by Scaramouche’s waist to pinchs his side, and he apparently considers that delivers his message well enough, because he doesn’t outwardly say anything. Instead of taking the shortest, more direct route back home, Childe guides him to enter the park that covers a few blocks of the city, and Scaramouche doesn’t have the heart to even argue.
“Scara,” Childe starts after a few minutes of comfortable silence. “Have you ever posted a picture of your ring?”
“I don’t think so, but I think I haven’t posted in like three years,” he shrugs. “Also, I don’t think I had a good opportunity to take a picture. Where should have I taken it, Childe?” Scaramouche brings a hand to his chin, pretending to actually think about it, and he’s looking ahead, but still he feels Childe close his eyes in defeat and let a deep sigh.
“I get it.”
“Should have I taken a picture of the ring when I was choking on it?” Scaramouche offers with an innocent tone of voice, and he turns to look at the ginger – there’s a pained expression in his face like he, too, is remembering the not so clever placement of the ring in a cupcake that turned what should have been a harmless (if cringy) proposal into a health hazard. “At the ER?” He offers again when Childe doesn’t respond. “When I sh–”
“Okay, I said I get it, it was a shitty proposal.”
Scaramouche snorts. That’s one way to word it. “Quite literally.”
“It wasn’t intentional, I promise.”
“What wasn’t? The first-degree murder attempt or the proposal?”
“The murder attempt,” Childe says like the answer isn’t obvious. “It would have been accidental manslaughter, though, and you know it.”
“With the kind of luck you have, you would have gotten away with it on a technicality,” the Inazuman comments, and Childe lets out a huff of breath that pushes his fringe around. “I thought I would be the one almost killing you someday, but you beat me to it.”
“At least we got a good anecdote out of it?”
“A good anec–” Scaramouche interrupts himself, dumbfounded, and he brings up two very tired hands to rub at his eyes. “Do you know how it feels to wear a ring that you know has gone through your own intestines, Childe? Do you know?”
“I–”
“Let me tell you, not great. And the ceremony itself wasn’t much better, so.”
“I think calling it ‘ceremony’ is too generous,” Childe scoffs with a laugh, and maybe he’s right. Maybe rushing to the courthouse as soon as they were back from the hospital and signing a few papers doesn’t deserve the word ‘ceremony’, but well, Scaramouche has to refer to it somehow. “I think we should do it all over again.”
“No.
“Why not?"
“One time was enough already.”
“But I want to do it better this time.”
Scaramouche’s stomach drops to his fucking feet when Childe grabs his hand to yank him back and stop him on his tracks, and as he sees the ginger get on one knee in the middle of the park they were just casually walking around just one second ago, Scaramouche’s homicidal tendencies start to show up again.
“Don’t you fucking dar–”
“Kunikuzushi.”
“Ajax,” he hisses, trying to tug on the hand that Childe is holding, but the other man doesn’t buckle. “Ajax, fucking stop.”
“Will yo–”
“No,” he interrupts without a second thought, already reaching a hand to grab Childe by the collar and bring him to his feet. Before he can even do that, though’ he’s distracted by a loud gasp to their right, and he turns his head around – a couple people are standing, looking at them like their heart has just broken for the poor, ginger man who’s been rejected. Great, now he’s going to look like a heartless cunt. “Don’t mind him, he’s not being serious.”
The people don’t seem to buy it and Childe doesn’t deny it himself, but Scaramouche offers them a smile all the same and hurries to yank Childe (not by his t-shirt like a sensible person would do, but by his hair, like he deserves) and make him rise to his feet with a grunt and a small ‘ouch’ that’s almost immediately swallowed up by his laughter.
“I can’t go anywhere with you,” he hisses to Childe’s ear accompanied of a half-assed shove. After a few minutes of tugging the ginger so they get away from there as soon as possible, they start to walk side by side, Childe’s arm finding his middle yet again like it’s the most comfortable position for him.
Scaramouche feels a pair of lips on the crown of his head, a soft kiss, and a small smile against his hair, and he has to try to fight back the pull at the corner of his own lips.
“I think I still liked my original proposal better.”
“And I think I want a divorce.”