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The ring lights are bright, nearly blinding when they shine down on him. Sweat, or blood maybe, drips down his face into his eyes while exhaustion drags at his muscles. There’s a dull ache in his side from a kick, a rib probably cracked. Maybe two, considering how he’d been thrown into the wire fencing.
Childe laughs.
Adrenaline runs through his veins at the roar of the crowd surrounding him as his opponent stands up. The guy’s got some colourful paint all over him, half naked and wielding a weapon that looks twice as flashy as it is dangerous. There’s a dozen sharp edges and yet none have hit him yet, so how good could it really be?
But his opponent is standing up even after Childe had taken him down at least three times over, so he commends him for that. They’re here to put on a show, after all.
The man, some Sumerian, is better than most, so Childe figures it’s time to get serious. He has a reputation, after all. He draws a pair of steel grey blades from his pants and flicks them through the air to hear the crowd go ballistic, rattling the cage that surrounds him, shouting their pleasure. A cocky grin finds its way onto his face. He lives for the applause, for the way they cheer for him. the prized fighter. He’s the biggest draw and the biggest earner for a reason.
He revels in the way his arm protests when he swings, in the moments where he pushes past his limits.
His opponents? Not so much.
“You’re welcome for the haircut,” Childe taunts as he slices just over the man’s head.
His reply is a hurried slash, but it’s a complicated movement Childe has let himself study through the course of this fight at the cost of his ribs. All that flash, all that style.
And Childe unravels all the substance.
His blade slips past the whirling edges, tangling them up and halting their movement. The force disarms him in the process, but that’s two weapons rendered useless, and Childe’s still got one more. He laughs again, ducking under a right hook and carving a line up his opponent’s side. They part, Childe flicking blood off the tip of his blade.
Meeting the challenge in the Sumerian’s eyes, Childe tilts his head. “Let’s play fair, shall we?”
He hurls his last blade through the air, and it cuts a line through his opponent’s cheek before slamming into the cage. It barely has time to hit the ground before Childe throws himself after it, all fists and fury.
A flurry of blows are traded back and forth. Childe thinks he’s laughing even as a well aimed punch hits his ribs again, knocking the wind out of him. This is what he lives for. For each blow he takes, he hits back harder. A left hook to the cheek. A knee to the solar plexus. And when the Sumerian buckles over, an elbow careening down into his back.
He crumples, and the arena explodes with cheers. Childe spits the blood in his mouth off to the side and raises his arm, grinning wildly. He looks up to where the Tsaritsa usually sits. There’s no sign of her, like always, but word of the amount of Mora at the till tonight will get to her. Carefully, he untangles his blade from the Sumerian’s, taking a moment to study it. It’s fine work, but a simple blade could work just as well.
Childe waves to the crowd as one of the staff unlocks the cage for him to leave. A medic rushes in to take care of his fallen opponent, and Childe hopes that he didn’t hurt him too badly. He can tell the man will be popular around here with such a flashy style and good showing. The Tsaritsa would disapprove if he broke one of her new fighters so soon. He works his way through the spectators as they reach out for him. He high fives one, fist bumps another, and soon, he’s slipping through the back halls upon a path he’s walked countless times before.
Childe comes upon a familiar door, swinging it open without fanfare. “Knock knock.”
Scaramouche barely looks up from whatever he’s working on. “If you’re not actively dying, leave.”
“You wound me.”
He’s given a critical stare. “Looks like someone else beat me to it.”
“You know how it is,” Childe says. “I’ve gotta make it look close. You wouldn’t believe how much people will bet.”
“Every dollar you make is spent on the medical supplies you’re costing me,” Scaramouche mutters, but finally puts down whatever he was fiddling with and beckons him over.
“I’ve got loads of cuts; the guy had some sort of foreign weapon with more blades than I can count. Probably some cracked ribs, too.” Childe replays the fight in his head, reliving the moments that had his heart pumping. “He got me in the head a few times, but it doesn’t feel like a concussion.”
“For the last time, Childe, you can’t build immunity to concussions by getting them over and over.” The counter is littered with gauze and bandages, but Scaramouche digs around to find an ice pack, tossing it at him. “For your ribs.”
Scaramouche pulls out an antiseptic bottle and a cotton ball. Childe grimaces. “Who says?”
He dabs it on the cut on Childe’s forehead. “Modern medicine.” When Childe bites back a hiss of pain, he stops short. “You literally work as a pit fighter. How are you this weak to cleaning your injuries?”
“The adrenaline really numbs a lot of the pain,” Childe says through clenched teeth. Scaramouche rolls his eyes and places a bandage on it.
“You’re such a baby. Arms out.”
He obeys, putting the ice pack down, and Scaramouche does a once over of his hands.
“How many times do I have to remind you to wrap your knuckles before a match? Especially if you plan on fighting unarmed.”
“It gets in the way.”
“That’s because you suck at it. C’mere.”
Childe holds out his arm, scooting closer so Scaramouche has better vantage. Violet hair falls over his eyes as he leans in. deftly flipping the wrap around his knuckles, weaving it in and out before finishing it off. There’s a razor precision to his work, the focus on his face mesmerising. His touch is feather light, barely there, but each contact feels like it burns his skin.
“…like so. Get it?”
Lies never really work on Scaramouche, so Childe says, “I retained none of that.”
Scaramouche rolls his eyes. “Fine, break your hands again, see if I care. You’re not getting any treatment if you come back in here without wrapping your hands for the next fight.”
Childe gasps. “You wouldn’t.”
“All I have to do is tell the Tsaritsa how much we waste on your injuries, and I’ll probably get orders to let you suffer.”
“How cruel.”
“Aw, you noticed,” Scaramouche deadpans. “You’re free to go.”
“What about these?” Childe gestures to the gashes that litter his body. Most aren’t deep enough to scar, and only a few even bleed anymore. They don’t really even hurt, but Childe doesn’t want to leave. There’s a quiet peace in here that he can’t find anywhere else.
Scaramouche hurls a roll of bandages at him. “Time to learn.”
“Rude.” Childe catches it and tosses it from hand to hand, still stalling.
“Go cry about it.”
“I’ll be back,” he eventually says, hand on the door frame. Glancing over his shoulder, he sees Scaramouche back at his desk, notebook in hand.
He doesn’t look up. “Of course you will.”
The halls are dark when he leaves, but Childe knows the way back by heart.
It’s not until Childe’s next fight that he can muster up a reason to return, although this time he’s partially there for his injuries alone. His opponent’s brass knuckles were formidable, to say the least, and there’s still the tang of iron in his mouth. He tries not to limp as he walks back to the familiar door, but halts when he hears voices.
One familiar, one unknown. Angry.
It’s loud enough that Childe can hear it from all the way down the hall. He walks a little slower, careful not to make any noise, even as his leg protests the stiffer motion.
Scaramouche speaks first, his voice lined with barbs. “No. That’s final.”
“That wasn’t a request.” It’s a gruff voice, and Childe tenses. The people that frequent the Fatui fighting rings aren’t above using force to get their way, and they have plenty of muscle to back them up.
“You don’t look nearly pretty enough to be the Tsaritsa, so if you think I’ll take orders from some goon with an undeserved ego, think again. Leave.” There’s a note of finality as Scaramouche speaks, completely undaunted in the face of threats.
“If this is how you want things to go, fine. Have it your way.”
A clatter echoes down the hall. When he hears it, Childe begins to spend up, leg be damned. It had taken a bad twist during the fight, when he was far more concerned with his victory than his own body, and it aches with protest at the hurried movement.
But there’s a grunt of pain, too low to be Scaramouche’s, and something flies out of the doorway and into the hall. It slams into the wall, staying there. A knife?
The goon soon follows, back hitting the wall as Scaramouche finally appears, leg outstretched. He slams into the man with more force than Childe thought possible in his small body, eliciting a shout of pain. For good measure, Scaramouche moves with vicious precision, knee finding nose, and the man slumps to the ground, unconscious.
Scaramouche stands there for a moment, staring down at the still body. He’s breathing hard, blood on his hands. Childe only stares at the way the light from his room wreaths him in gold. Eventually though, Scaramouche lifts his head, raising an eyebrow.
“Are you going to just stand there?”
“Bit injured, sorry about that.” He gestures at the slowly swelling bruise on his cheek. “That was cool, by the way.”
He rolls his eyes. “Of course, the adrenaline junkie is the one to fall in love because I kneed a guy in the face.”
“Love is a big word.”
“And crush is a word for babies. Come help me move this lump of useless muscle.” Scaramouche gives his arm a bored kick, making a face. “None of this is actually useful in a fight.”
Childe hobbles over, more than tolerant enough to deal with the ache in his leg. “I’m sure they thought intimidation is all they needed.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Scaramouche levels a glare at him that could burn through steel and Childe shuts up, sensing he’s made a mistake and offers a serene smile instead that seems to appease the monster he’s awoken. Together, they drag the henchman out of the way, leaving him in the alley outside. Scaramouche grabs his phone once they’re done, tapping out a message to the Tsaritsa. There’s scrapes on his hand, red and angry. With his phone back in his pocket, Scaramouche runs a hand through his hair, the other on his hip.
“We can deal with your injuries now, I guess.”
Childe hums. “What about your hands?”
He gives them a cursory glance, shrugging. “I’ll get to them later.”
“No can do,” Childe says. “I only want the best doctors to work on the Fatui’s prized pit fighter.”
It gets him a tired sigh and a twist of his lips. “Are you always this egoistic or is it just flirting?”
“You tell me,” Childe sing-songs, hooking an arm through Scaramouche’s.
There’s surprisingly little resistance as he tugs him back into that hallway, just a halfhearted roll of his eyes and scoff. They get settled back in Scaramouche’s office, seated next to each other on a pair of stools. Their knees brush together, then apart when Scaramouche leans to reach out for supplies.
“You first,” Childe says. His knee bumps Scaramouche again when he takes the antiseptic from him.
“Seriously?”
“When am I not?”
“When are you?” But he holds out his hand anyway, palm face down. Childe takes it with a smile, carefully disinfecting the wounds, then reaching out for the medical tape to begin wrapping them.
“Be careful,” Scaramouche mutters, wincing.
“And you say I complain too much when you clean my injuries.”
“You get punched in the face for a living. Wrap it a little tighter, it’s not going to—“
“Relax, I’ve watched you do this to me over and over.”
He scoffs. “Considering the state of your hands, I really doubt you retained anything.”
“And if I tell you I just like watching you work?”
“Then you'd be a creep.”
Childe frowns. “Come on, take me seriously.”
With a sigh, Scaramouche takes his bandaged hand back, rubbing it gingerly. “Will you stop talking in circles? Say it clearly or I won’t.”
“There’s other medics,” Childe starts, earning himself a stink eye that says, But I’m the best one . He smiles, despite himself. “But I always go to you. There’s a reason for that.”
“Surely not for my bedside manner,” Scaramouche drawls, getting up to grab a new set of medical supplies for Childe.
“You really have to work on that— and yeah. I’m here for you. You’re witty and snarky and unfairly pretty, do you know that?” Scaramouche is turned away, digging around his drawers a little bit too intentionally. “You don’t look like you belong down here, in these dirty fighting pits among all the grime and sweat. I… sometimes you tilt your head when you’re cleaning out a cut and your bangs fall to the side and the light hits you just right— it’s amazing how you make the shitty lights here seem like they’re for a photoshoot.”
He’s rambling now. He’s rambling and Scaramouche still isn’t looking at him, and he feels like he’s gone and messed it all up.
“Maybe it is your manners. I like that you’re not afraid to say things and that you’re willing to put up with me for all this time. I— I guess I just like you.”
A long moment of silence.
“Did I screw this up?” Childe dares to ask in the silence.
“Idiot,” Scaramouche says, and he wilts. “ Idiot . Do you think I would have let you go on so long if you screwed it up? Do you think I would have put up with you so long if you weren’t worth my time? One word and I could get you away from me permanently.” He rounds on Childe, a pair of scissors glittering menacingly in his hand. “I keep you around for a reason, despite how you have zero sense of self-preservation and waste all my medical supplies and there’s clearly something wrong with you up top.”
Childe laughs, a little bit overwhelmed and entirely helpless. There’s a hint of red on Scaramouche’s cheeks and he thinks he’s won at life. It will never get better than this. “And you said I wasn’t speaking clearly.”
“You’re in my office, I can speak however I want.”
“Whatever you say,” he replies, hands up in surrender. For all his bravado and strength out in the ring, Childe thinks Scaramouche could do anything to him and he wouldn’t— couldn’t resist.
Scaramouche gives him a critical once over, then beckons him closer. “That gash on your face is back to bleeding.”
Childe didn’t even notice, but he scoots his stool a little bit closer, leaning in as Scaramouche takes his face in his hands. The touch is gentle, careful, and Childe melts into it, just the slightest.
“This’ll need stitches,” Scaramouche murmurs, eyes on the cut. A fingertip nudges his bangs out of the way as he rubs in a numbing gel before getting antiseptic to dab on the cut. “This time you can’t complain.”
“You’re too good to me,” Childe replies sweetly, earning himself a disgusted look.
Scaramouche digs around for a fresh needle, threading it swiftly. “Should have done it without the numbing. God knows you’re a glutton for pain.”
“It’s mostly the adrenaline, really.”
“Yeah, yeah. Stay still.”
Scaramouche really didn’t even need to say that, because the moment he leans in, eyes focused on the gash on Childe’s forehead, he forgets how to do much of anything, let alone move. The proximity, the soft touch, the way he rests the side of his hand on Childe’s temple— he can barely even breathe. His normally sharp expression softens with focus, going blank and open. Childe can’t feel the needle stitching him together, but he can see the deft movements of Scaramouche’s hand and he doesn’t think he’ll ever recover from this.
It’s over as quickly as it started, and Scaramouche ties off the thread, clipping it short. “There.” When he leans back, though, Childe chases him, hands going out to grab the front of Scaramouche’s shirt and pull him back in close.
They make eye contact and Childe thinks he might light on fire. Then he’s leaning forward, pressing their lips together in a searing kiss, one he’s dreamed about. There are hands in his hair, pulling on soft strands, demanding. And, of course, Childe listens, deepening the kiss as if he would never get this chance ever again.
Eventually they pull apart, but only just. Childe rests his forehead against Scaramouche’s.
“Someone’s a little love struck,” Scaramouche teases, but there’s a satisfied glimmer in his eye anyway. His hands slip down to Childe’s shoulders, staying there loosely as Childe cups his waist.
“Do you have to be mean right now?”
“You like it.”
“No comment.”
It draws a smile from Scaramouche, who tilts his head to examine the stitches on Childe’s face. “Sit back down. You still have more injuries.”
“Irresponsible,” Childe wags a finger accusingly, “my doctor taking advantage of my vulnerable state.”
“Shut up, or I’ll make you.” The look on Scaramouche’s face almost makes Childe want to see how exactly he intends on going about it. Almost. So he sits down and shuts up, placidly offering his leg out for inspection when Scaramouche beckons him. His confusion about how Scaramouche had known it was hurt doesn’t go unnoticed, because he simply says, “You were favouring your left earlier.”
“You noticed?”
“Do I really need to go over how I do pay attention to you on occasion again?”
Childe grins. “Only on occasion?”
“You heard me.”
They fall into another comfortable silence as Scaramouche quickly works through the rest of his injuries, cleaning out the worst and giving him ice for some of the nastiest bruises. Suddenly, something occurs to Childe.
“What was that guy here for anyway? I only heard the last parts of the conversation.”
Scaramouche shrugs. “He wanted me to purposefully leave you injured or poison you to rig the next match. Offered money first, then moved onto threats. His bosses aren’t the most creative people. I don’t care is about their bets and I think it’s pathetic to try and rig it.”
“Also because you didn’t want to hurt me, right?” The silence stretches on. “Right?”
“Sure.”
“You suck.” Childe shudders. “I don’t want to know what the Tsaritsa will do to find his bosses. Or what she’ll do to them.”
“Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.” Scaramouche gives Childe’s ribs a poke. At the wince it draws out, he hums. “One of these days someone is going to pulverize your ribs and I won’t be able to save you.”
Childe shrugs, cocky and sure. The ache of his sides is a near constant feeling now, and it’s sure as hell not going to stop him. “Please. I’d never lose.”
“I know. That’s why they were so dumb to try and sabotage you, really. Nothing I can do could prevent you from beating the life out of the next poor sap who thinks he can take you on.” Scaramouche puts a little bandage emblazoned fiercely with a pretty little unicorn on Childe’s shoulder to cover up the last of his wounds. “I’m actually running out of supplies because of you.”
Childe ignores the last part in favour of saying, “One word is all it would take, really.” He runs a finger gingerly over the fresh bandage.
Scaramouche raises an eyebrow and swats his hand away. “You can’t be serious.”
“If you asked, I’d oblige.”
“Chivalry isn’t dead after all.” He gives Childe a pat on the hand. “Don’t even think about it. I’ll keep you around because you’re interesting, because you’re winning. I have no time for losers. Also, the Tsaritsa will skin you for throwing a match.”
Childe laughs then, grabbing Scaramouche’s wrist to tug him back down for a chaste kiss. “I promise I’ll keep making you proud.” The slight flush on Scaramouche’s face is more than enough reward.
“You better.”
From where Childe stands in the center of the ring, the crowd is barely visible. That telltale drag of exhaustion is coming for him again. He gives his entire body a quick shake as he stares down his opponent, an Snezhnayan man with the temperament of a bull. He’s carrying a massive hammer, which seems inelegant and more work than it’s worth, but Childe doesn’t judge. His stance is familiar, though, and he figures he’s one of the regular fighters around here, looking to claw his way up by beating the best. Childe pities him.
He glances around the crowd, spotting a violet gaze in the corner, dark as the night sky, and flashes a grin at it. A corner of Scaramouche’s lips raises in a scoff, but he waves anyway. Even from here, he can see him mouthing something.
If it were anyone else, it might be good luck or I love you , but Childe doesn’t need luck and Scaramouche isn’t that sappy.
What he mouths, instead, is beat his ass.
His wish is Childe’s command, and he’s more than happy to oblige.
“Two piddly knives against my hammer?” The man— Vanguard, Childe suddenly remembers— says with a sneer. “It’s almost too easy.”
“You’re right. These would make it easy.” Childe smiles, wicked sharp. “I’ll make it a little more fair for us, okay?” His knives clatter to the floor, and he can already see the way Scaramouche rolls his eyes at his theatrics in his mind. “Now we’re on even footing.”
The crowd cheers for that and Childe feels his heart racing and blood pumping. Just the way he likes it.
Vanguard frowns at him, annoyed, but retorts anyway. “You’ll regret that.”
“Make me.”
A hammer, crackling with violet electricity. comes crashing down on him— or rather, where he used to be. Childe is more than agile enough to dodge, a laugh already bubbling in his throat as he spins to slam a kick directly into his opponent’s back.
“What’s wrong?” he taunts shamelessly as the man stumbles. All the while, he’s aware of the eyes boring into his back, watching him fight. This is a show for one person and one person alone.
It earns him an annoyed growl and another charge. Three swings of the hammer and three misses, Childe getting in blows all the while. To his credit, he can take a hit. It’s just a shame that these are Childe’s hits.
Once the crowd gets bored of his dodging, Childe goes on the offensive, moving in a flurry of agile strikes that his opponent can’t keep up with, all heavy built muscle. Slow.
Eventually, he nails him in the side, a blow to his solar plexus that has him wheezing, then a high kick to his head, and the man drops.
The referee begins counting. Childe waves to the crowd.
The match ends, just like that. Maybe this new recruit had some potential, but he was a boring showman and not worth much in the ring. Childe hums to himself, knowing the Tsaritsa will want his input on the Vanguard. There’s a reason someone as high profile as him was sent up against some new guy around the block.
He exits the ring, waving to his fans, blowing a few kisses here and there as he heads backstage, where he bumps into a familiar figure.
“Hey there, Doc.”
Scaramouche scowls at him. “Don’t call me that.”
Childe grins. “See, I am in need of a doctor, though. Beating up that guy did a number on my knuckles. Maybe you could kiss it better?”
His laughter echoes off the walls as Scaramouche flushes a pretty pink and grabs his wrist, dragging him back to his office. It’s a path they both know by heart and one Childe intends on walking all the time. Having someone accompany him back, though… he could get used to this.