Chapter Text
Scaramouche’s heart dropped when the elevators opened to reveal the entire set ready. He took one step outside and hands immediately grabbed onto his arm like he’s a prisoner being dragged back to his cell, kicking and screaming. Not that he expected anything less.
“You are unbelievable!” Mona hissed as her manicured fingers dug into his skin. Scaramouche was about to retort, but he bit his tongue and choked as she threw him into a chair. Brushes slid against his face and a hairdryer fanned against him in an instant. Mona continued in her Fontanian fucking accent, “The entire crew’s been waiting for twenty minutes. Do you even know who you are modeling for?! Are you even taking this seri—”
“I was stuck in traffic!” Scaramouche snapped. The make-up artist tilted his chin up to apply lipstick and he tried his best to glare at Mona, who hovered over him at this angle. “And if they’re mad I’m late, tell them to go fuck themselves. They want me to model their… what was it?”
Mona crossed her arms. “Spider-man suit.”
He wrinkled his nose. “The fuck kinda deals are you signing me on?”
“You didn’t read the primer…” Mona pinched the bridge of her nose as if asking the archons for patience. After a few deep breaths, she said, “This isn’t just any Spider-man promotion. The Kamisato Ayaka got an exclusive interview with the hero himself, but he left before they could shoot the cover. And they want you—” Mona pushed a finger against his forehead and he scowled. “To model it. It’s Kamisato Magazine. So shut up and don’t complain.”
“Bitc—”
“Eyes up,” the make-up artist ordered, holding eyelash glue too close to his eyeballs for comfort. Grumbling, Scaramouche complied.
“Can someone ruffle his bangs?” Pierro rubbed his forehead as he sat on the director’s chair. He continued, sounding more enraged as each word came out of his mouth, “Why would Spider-man, who just removed his mask for a quick rest after saving an entire town, have perfectly brushed hair? Where is the common sense?”
When no one moved in fear, Mona barked the order and a stylist rushed to where he stood. The spotlights directed at him blurred their faces and he sighed as another stylist retouched his make-up. This Spider-man suit clung to his body as if its life depended on it. His only saving grace was an employee turning on the electric fan for a realistic “windblown” effect, which wasn’t much, and only left more work for the editors to clean.
“Much better,” Pierro said, when the stylists went back to their spots. “Scara, darling, please pose.”
I’m doing this for the paycheck, Scaramouche reminded himself as he crouched down and extended an arm out as if webbing the photographer. His mask was down, so his facial expression was important. He looked at the camera through his fake heavy lashes and donned a smug smirk on his lips; no one asked him to do this, but he might as well give some character to the nation’s hero. Spider-man better fucking thank him.
“Perfect, perfect!” Pierro clapped. He looked at the Kamisato’s representative. “Would this pose be alright?”
Ayato nodded, eyes scanning down Scaramouche’s form. “It looks fantastic. Heizou can edit in the debris to make it look the theme. I’m sure the fans will love the smile.”
Then hurry and take the goddamn picture. His muscles ached from the pose.
“Boss!” a cry came from behind the directors. A man with blonde hair and a black headband ran up to Ayato. Between breaths, he said, “The photographer’s arriving late due to traffic!”
Scaramouche glanced at Mona. Told you the traffic’s fucking abysmal.
She rolled her eyes.
A beat of silence came around the room. Then, Ayato let out a small laugh and faced Pierro, obviously trying to save face for his magazine. “I apologize for my employee’s tardiness. I’ll deal with this issue quickly to prevent your models from waiting.”
Pierro replied with an equally honeyed voice and a smile. “No worries, sweetheart. The traffic really is to blame, isn’t it?”
“It really is.” Ayato nodded. While the air was light, he excused himself and stalked toward his panicking photography crew.
As they figured shit out, Scaramouche stood up and stretched his muscles before he could sore them. Mona and Pierro walked to him and Mona gave him a water bottle, which he drank greedily, droplets escaping and crawling down his jaw. He skipped half his breakfast after turning on his phone to see the time. So here he was, supporting the stereotype that models didn’t eat, which Pierro would kill him for.
Pierro slicked Scaramouche’s hair back and muttered, “I’m cutting the deal if he makes us wait long.”
“Scaramouche came late, but they were still preparing the backdrop.” Mona grabbed his water mid-drink and Scaramouche choked at the sudden movement. “Ayato’s photographer just ruined the entire shoot.”
Scaramouche pounded on his chest. “Fuck!”
“I know, love.” Pierro messed up Scaramouche’s hair more. Then looked at Mona. “Reschedule the rest. I know this shoot will take all day.”
Mona nodded and rushed off—a manager Scaramouche did not deserve, or a manager who worked hard for the cash. Not long after, Ayato came back with a slouching man in a white hoodie following him. “Once again, I apologize for the trouble. Right beside me is our new photographer, his name is Kaedehara Kazuha. I assure you, his work will complement your models very well.”
Pierro faked a smile. “Let’s start the shoot, shall we?”
Scaramouche frowned and turned his head to the peculiar photographer. Kazuha wore his hood up, creating a shadow over his face and blocking any noticeable feature from sight. From the little he could see, strands of platinum blonde hair stuck out. There was something in Kauzha’s quiet, aloof demeanor that pulled him in. Rectangular glasses perched on his nose, which tucked away more facial features from sight. Unfortunately, he couldn’t identify Kazuha’s build from the baggy clothes.
The photographer dressed like someone who didn’t want to be known. But the subtle confidence Kazuha walked with told Scaramouche he wasn’t shy, but someone who concealed a part of himself. Similar to how Scaramouche would disguise himself in public, and the paparazzi spotting him out, anyway. Celebrities and important figures had a certain aura. It was hard to miss.
Soon enough, Kazuha set up the cameras and Scaramouche resumed his old pose. He didn’t stare at the lens this time, but at the person behind it. Kazuha’s hands manipulated the buttons and the angle of the device with careful precision. Bandages wrapped around Kazuha’s hand peeked from under the hoodie, and Scaramouche had to control his eyes from narrowing. Was it strange for a photographer to have a hand injury?
Pierro inspected Scaramouche’s pose once more, before nodding at Kazuha. “Start.”
Kazuha did not start.
Pierro smiled sweetly and repeated with a dangerous undertone, “May we start the shoot?”
“You must stretch your pointer finger.” Kazuha’s voice was soft and low, as if not wanting to direct attention to himself, but having to be heard anyway. But with the room’s silence, he practically screamed it.
Scaramouche let his frown take over. “Excuse me?”
Kazuha left his spot. Before he could mentally and physically prepare, Kazuha held Scaramouche’s hand delicately and unrolled his pointer finger. Now, only his middle and ring finger were curled in. The skin Kazuha touched left a trail of burns. Or maybe it felt like burns from the silence the entire set had. Who fucking knew when Scaramouche had to focus on not letting the pink in his cheeks show.
“This is how he shoots webs,” Kazuha murmured, before standing up and going back to his place behind the camera as if nothing fucking happened. He bowed at the directors. “Forgive me for my impudence. I am merely a big fan of Spider-man, which is why I know.”
Big fan my ass, Scaramouche hissed in his mind. Correcting his pose in such an informal manner? Daring to touch the model? He glared at Kazuha. Making Scaramouche look like a careless fool who didn’t do research on his assigned character—even if he actually didn’t do any research. Unacceptable.
“... must be a huge fan then,” Pierro said.
Kazuha nodded. “Truly, I am.”
“All my employees certainly have quite the character.” Ayato laughed, although it sounded forced. He smiled at Kazuha, eyes demanding. “Let’s start the shoot. Now.”
Scaramouche erased the scowl off his face in impressive speed and went back to character. This time, he stared only at the camera lens and nowhere else. Especially, absolutely, not at the person behind it.
“A fucking fanatic!” Scaramouche ranted on as he grabbed an energy drink with extra and unnecessary force. He held up his phone with his other hand as he headed for the cashier. “Not only did he interrupt the entire shoot, but he just had to correct my posture, like? I’ll kick his ass next time, I swear.”
“But from what you told me,” Signora drawled from the other line, “he gave off ‘aloof, mysterious yet sincere second male lead’ vibes. Correct me if I quoted you wrong. Actually, don’t bother.”
“Shut the fuck up,” he said. Too loudly, if the dirty looks from the elders in front of him meant a dime. Scaramouche flipped them off. Fuck his PR. If someone filmed and got him canceled, he had Mona to stir up some bullshit to save him.
He knew Signora well enough to know she rolled her eyes. “I don’t know why you’re so worked up about him. Is he cute enough to be worth your time?”
Scaramouche groaned. “That’s another fucking thing. He had glasses and his hood up to hide his face and shit. Don’t know why. I don’t even recognize his name.”
“Must be a private guy.”
“Private my ass. But, like—” Scaramouche lowered his voice. “I bet he’s some fuckin’ government spy or some shit. He has a build under that hoodie. I’m telling you!”
“Or maybe you’re just gay. Just a thought!” Tartaglia’s faint voice said.
“Is he on his conspiracy theories again?” Arlecchino’s voice followed.
“Are you on fucking speaker?!”
“I’m about to go on the runway. Of course, I’m on speaker.” Signora clicked her tongue. “Literally no one cares about your crush. Continue.”
He would’ve pointed out the obvious logical gap in between the previous statements if he didn’t have an ego to protect. The fact Signora called that photographer his “crush” was the last straw. So Scaramouche grabbed his phone and held the mic against his mouth. This was to ensure they would hear his next sentence with absolute clarity and volume; to make sure Signora and whoever the fuck was on the other line eavesdropping caught on.
“Fuck no.”
“Your loss. Arlecchino wanted to background check him.”
“I hope all of you trip on stage and rot in fucking hell!”
“Well, that’s too bad—”
A car crashed into the convenience store. The momentum knocked several shelves over, food products and glassed drinks falling to the ground, while pointed shards flew everywhere. The elderly couple in front of him screamed and a stray shard pierced the arm of the girl behind the cashier. An alarm blared throughout the store and everyone else pushed each other to rush out. A shoulder shoved Scaramouche, causing him to trip over another person’s foot and land face first on the fucking ground.
“That shit,” he snarled, getting up. Scaramouche lost hold of his phone during the fall, and it sat pathetically on the floor, screen cracked. Signora would bitch on him later for ending the call. Fuck her.
He was about to evacuate like any person with decent self-preservation, and also because he didn’t have terrorism insurance, but some guy in a red coat rushed to him. Thank fuck the rescue team arrived early. He’d rather not—
Red Coat Guy grabbed Scaramouche, choked an arm around his neck, and pointed a flamethrower to his head. “STAY BACK! I HAVE A HOSTAGE.”
And to absolutely no one’s surprise, Spider-man landed in front of the trashed convenience store, his entrance too conveniently like a shoujo manga’s superhero lead. Of course, the weekly villain would crash into this specific store. And of-fucking-course, the villain just had to take Scaramouche as hostage. Right after a hard day of modeling in a body-tight Spider-man suit, persevering through disgusting sweat and heavy fake lashes for a paycheck.
Spider-man held his arms out in peace. Although at the simple action, Red Coat Guy pressed the flamethrower harder against Scaramouche’s head, fingers trembling.
“Stay back!”
“We can talk this out,” Spider-man said, voice slow and calm. As if Scaramouche wasn’t being held fucking hostage. He took one step closer, but Red Coat Guy panicked and removed the safety of the flamethrower. Spider-man froze.
“I-I said stay back!” Red Coat Guy’s arm pressed against Scaramouche’s throat, hard enough to leave a bruise for several days. He lamented how he’s going to make Mona believe he got it from a hostage situation, and not because he had a fling. Then realized he didn’t give a fuck. And he cared more about his face and his net worth.
“Ruin my face…” Scaramouche muttered when the villain’s hold loosened, voice low and venomous, filled with an ominous promise of a lawsuit and a lifetime of debt, “and you’ll regret living.”
Red Coat Guy froze. A wave of confusion at the fact that his seemingly harmless, short-heighted hostage dared to threaten him. “Wh—?”
Spider-man shot a web out of his hand, and the flamethrower flew out of Red Coat Guy’s hold. With quick thinking, Scaramouche elbowed Red Coat Guy’s stomach and the arm against his throat fell off. Spider-man tackled the villain to the ground, tying his arms and legs together, and to finish it up, covered Red Coat Guy’s mouth with a handful of webs. The police arrived.
“Aye, Spidey!” A woman with dark brown hair and a peculiar funeral parlor suit swaggered into the crime scene. “Got any deaths for me?”
“Fortunately, no deaths today.” Spider-man handed the tied villain to a pink-haired woman following behind Funeral Parlor Girl. “Good evening, Officer. His weapon’s back there, a flamethrower of some sort, but I haven’t seen him use it. He seems physically weak, although it would be best to replace my webs.”
The cops apprehended the criminal, and they set Scaramouche aside for an interrogation. They asked the usual questions. No, he didn’t know the criminal’s name. Yes, the criminal kept him hostage. Yes, he’s Raiden Kunikuzushi. Fucking fine, he wouldn’t talk about this on social media. No, he didn’t need medical attention. Yes, he would like to fucking go. The investigation went on longer than expected, and Scaramouche lost all hope of getting a decent dinner. Ordering takeout was the only appealing and least energy-draining option at the moment.
He was about to fuck off and go on his miserable way when Spider-man appeared out of an interrogation tent nearby.
A lightbulb went off in his head.
“You!” Scaramouche said like one of those spoiled brats in high school movies about to torment the main character for shits and giggles.
Spider-man turned. And for a miniscule moment, he froze. Then he recovered. They were roughly the same height, with Spider-man an inch or two taller.
“May I help you?” Spider-man’s voice was softer than the tone he’d used against the villain. The voice that could serenade you under your two-story window with the moonlight shining upon your nightly escapades. Scaramouche hated how romantic the hero sounded, fitting the picture the public placed on him: a perfect gentleman.
His brain ran at the speed of light to come up with a bullshit lie.
“You…” Scaramouche trailed off. Then his eyes lit up. “You had an interview with Kamisato Ayaka.”
Spider-man nodded. “Yes, I accepted her offer a couple of weeks ago.”
He nodded back, as if interested. A plan already formed in his mind. “You know it’s going on Kamisato Magazine, right?”
“Of course, she had made it clear before the interview,” Spider-man answered in earnest, like his golden heart felt the need to clear things up as if Scaramouche was some prying journalist. “If you wish to know the contents, they will release the magazine next month.”
“Actually, I—” Scaramouche paused. Then scowled. “I don’t wish to know its contents. I’m not a fan.”
Spider-man nodded, not taking offense. “I see.”
An awkward silence. If it stretched any further, it would put shame on Scaramouche’s personality training for interviews and handling fans. So he placed on a sweet smile, the one he knew his fans thoroughly adored, and said, voice honeyed, “I was wondering—”
“I sincerely apologize.” Spider-man placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, looking behind Scaramouche, to where the cop cars investigated the trashed convenience store. “It seems the cops wish to ask me more questions. As much as I—”
The smile fell off his face. Fuck. “Wait!”
Spider-man looked at him. “If you could make it quick, I could answer a question of yours.” A sheepish laugh. “Officer Yanfei looks ready to murder me, though.”
He glared at the hero, who looked as if he had better things to do than speak to one of the highest paid models in the Teyvat who: walked in every major fashion week, became the face of multiple international brands, had his face plastered on billboards in major cities, and, most especially, worked under the Fatui.
“Fine, since you’re so fucking busy.”
“Forgive me, I didn’t mean it like tha—”
“I have a bone to pick with someone.” Scaramouche crossed his arms and shifted his weight to one side. Absolutely no way was he going to admit he came here without planning what to say. So he stirred up another bullshit lie. He couldn’t see Spider-man’s expression behind that mask, but he could sense the eyebrow raise.
“Did someone hurt you?” Spider-man asked, genuine concern clear in his voice.
Scaramouche blossomed like a thriving con artist under the attention and smiled smugly. “Yeah.”
“Who is it? I could deal with them if the police cannot help, or would like me to inform the authorities?”
“Oh, you don’t need to beat anyone up.” He waved a dismissive hand, and Spider-man tilted his head. “Some asshole from work said he’s your fan. Annoying as hell. I need to prove him wrong.”
“From… work?” There was a tilt in the hero’s voice, a lingering question in it Scaramouche was more than happy to answer. All for the sake of embarrassing the asshole who embarrassed him.
“Yeah.” Scaramouche grabbed Spider-man’s hand, who tensed under his touch. “Can you do that motion thing you do when you shoot webs? The iconic hand shit.”
It was kind of disappointing he couldn’t see under that mask. That way, he’d have a clearer vision of Spider-man’s reaction. But after hearing the reluctant voice, Scaramouche squeezed Spider-man’s hand, leaned forward with fake sparkling eyes, and asked, “Will you do it?”
He hid his smirk. To be cajoled by an internationally known supermodel was every man’s dream. Surely, after this simple manipulation, Scaramouche would get what he wanted.
“May I ask why?” Spider-man’s hand relaxed. Scaramouche rubbed his thumb against the hero’s suit and frowned. It was loose. Now, he was absolutely sure the scorching, body tight suit Mona gave him was purely for fan service.
“I have a point to prove.” When an officer called for the hero behind them and Spider-man held up an apologetic hand, Scaramouche sighed. “Can you do it or not? I have shit to do.”
“I think it’d be fair to say I, too, have things to do.” Spider-man sent another pointed glance at the officers.
Scaramouche yanked Spider-man’s hand, and the hero stumbled forward. He hated how he knew that Spider-man, in fact, wouldn’t have stumbled if he kept his ground. Motherfucker wasn’t taking him seriously. He snapped, “So do the motion!”
Sighing in exasperation was Spider-man’s response before complying. And to Scaramouche’s utter horror, Spider-man held his palm face up, curled in his middle and ring finger, and left the pinky, pointer, and thumb stretched out. The Spider-man pose. The same pose that the photographer told him to do.
Kazuha was right. Scaramouche felt sick.
“... are you alright?” Spider-man forgot about the pose and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“No,” Scaramouche said. Then he gave one last, undeserved withering glare toward the hero before stalking off.
“What did you just say to me?”
“I said.” Tartaglia lounged on his couch, inside his penthouse, wearing his bathrobe, and his bunny slippers. “I set you up on a blind date!”
“And why… should I go on a date I didn’t consent to?” Scaramouche’s voice was low. It did not help how his clothes were leaving dust and debris on his carpet, all from being held hostage two hours ago. He had imagined going home, taking a nice hot bath, and sleeping until noon. Maybe he should’ve taken the officer’s advice and joined a therapy group. Maybe that would make beating up Tartaglia less appealing.
“Uh…”
To make matters worse, Signora appeared from the kitchen, holding two bottles of his wine. “Oh, you’re back. And—” She wrinkled her nose. “You look like shit.” Then she pointed her eyes to the bruise on his neck. “Slept with photographer boy?”
“I was held hostage.” Scaramouche had no energy to get mad anymore and kicked Tartaglia’s leg to sit on the couch. “Was buying food then some guy with a gun grabbed me.”
They were probably one of the few people who could talk about being held hostage so casually. With their high status in a world filled with villains and heroes, they were the primal target for hostile negotiation. All Tartaglia and Signora could do was silently make certain Scaramouche wasn’t injured before going back to conversation, both knowing how injuries wouldn’t bode well in the modeling industry. He would’ve killed him anyway if they made a big deal out of it.
“Siggy, give me that!” Tartaglia reached for the wine.
“You’re disgusting,” Signora said, but gave him the wine anyway. She inserted herself into their shitty couch group and Scaramouche pointed at the very empty and very comfy seat across from them.
“Why don’t you sit there?!”
“I don’t feel like it.” Signora took a swig, offering it to him afterwards. He snatched it and gulped the rest down. It burned through his throat, and he released a sigh as he leaned heavily on the couch. This was another horrible idea.
Tartaglia piped up, “Anyway, so about your blind date—”
“I’m not going on a blind date!”
“Pierro wants you to go on one,” Signora said, shoving Scaramouche to the left to have more space to sit. “Said you need more publicity before the magazine drops.”
“Yeah, so we offered to arrange it!” Tartaglia reached up to pinch his cheeks, but Scaramouche swatted his hand away in disgust.
If it was Pierro who decided, then he had no choice but to do it. It made sense anyway. If he had more attention on him prior to the release, the magazine would sell more because of his name. The problem relied on the execution.
“You don’t have to fully commit to it,” Signora drawled, propping up her feet on his glass table. Scaramouche would’ve kicked it off, but he’d rather not have a broken table. “Your fans haven’t heard from you in a while. You just need the attention back on you. That’s all there is to it.”
“Fuck.” Scaramouche buried his head in his hands.
“You see, I need you to go on this blind date,” Tartaglia said, slamming his wine down on the table. His voice was wobbly from copious amounts of drinking. “Pierro said if you don’t, then they’ll use our pictures from four years ago for publicity. It’s embarrassing for the both of us!”
“What?!” Scaramouche jerked up.
“I have it here.”
Signora showed her phone screen to them. In it was a blurry, but clear photo of Scaramouche straddling Tartaglia’s lap in a party, both shoving their tongues down each other’s throat in drunken passion. Venti, probably the party’s host, held up peace signs behind their heads.
Scaramouche tried to grab the device, but Signora moved quicker.
“Don’t bother.” Tartaglia waved a hand. “She’ll guard that photo with her life. And I’m kind of dating this guy, so do us a favor and go on that blind date.”
“Fuck!” Scaramouche said with utmost hopelessness.