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The first time Venti collapses, Scaramouche isn’t aware that he occasionally goes into slumber.
They were talking like any normal day. Venti would usually explain to him things that he thought of asking, sing a funny song or two just to annoy him (he secretly liked it though), and send a gentle breeze to calm him because someone or something had irritated him.
It looked like a normal day. Yet, Scaramouche still sensed something different about it.
Maybe he had noticed how slow Venti walked—which is why he kept telling him to catch up. Maybe he had noticed the lack of songs from the bard’s mouth—why aren’t you singing? Maybe he had noticed the fragility in Venti’s expression when he turned to look at him. The way his eyes glazed over and the slight sway of his body as he parted his lips—
Venti never got the chance to say anything. He leans forward, and Scaramouche barely has enough time to register what was going on before he catches him in his arms. At first, he doesn’t know what to feel or do. He thinks that this is merely one of the bard’s weird ways of hugging. But then he feels the weight being pressed against him, and he knows something’s just wrong.
“Venti?” he calls. There’s no response. He decides to carefully move into a sitting position, bringing Venti’s body to lay it on the ground. Venti still has his eyes closed, and the image of that kid suddenly flashes in his mind and—
He shakes his head.
Venti is not like that child. Venti is an immortal who has lived for centuries. He is an archon who does not simply die out of illnesses. There is no way this is the same thing.
He stares at Venti’s sleeping—unconscious?—face. The skin is slightly paler than usual. It’s okay, he tells himself. The bard will wake up any time now. Maybe he’s just a little exhausted from all the walking.
A minute has passed.
One minute turns to ten.
It has been a few hours. Shouldn’t this be enough for a nap already?
“Venti,” he calls again. This time, he shakes the bard’s shoulder.
Venti’s chest continues to rise and fall in a steady rhythm. He does not move.
“Wake up,” Scaramouche eventually demands. His shakes become more vigorous. Venti doesn’t stir—doesn’t make any movement at all, and he ends up clenching his jaw in annoyance. “What is wrong with you?”
Once again, he receives no answer.
“This isn’t funny, bard.” He hates how his voice falters. He tries to push down the rising feeling of betrayal—Venti had promised he wouldn’t feel the definition of betrayed ever again—but it’s hard not to feel it when he sees the image of that kid again, lying on the floor, unmoving—
Venti’s eyes flew open, and his movements were instant when he shifted into a sitting position—hitting Scaramouche’s head in the process since the two of them were sitting too close.
Scaramouche groans, using one hand to rub his head. “Ow, what the fuck?”
“Sorry,” Venti winces, letting out an awkward chuckle as he slowly rubs his own head. He looks around, and he notices how he’s currently sitting on the soft earth. “Oh. I didn’t expect to fall asleep, ehe! Say, Scaramouche, how long was I…”
His voice trails off the moment he sees his face, and his eyes immediately widen with remorse.
“I’m sorry,” Venti says quietly, lowering his head. Scaramouche expects to hear; it won’t happen again—because they have always said that whenever one of them did something that’s a little too much for the other—but the only thing he gets is, “There’s something I need to tell you.”
➳
“You have to go back to Mondstadt as an archon!” Scaramouche yells, grabbing Venti’s arm and dragging him to said nation. He feels the resistance given by the other when they barely move. He glances over his shoulder. “What are you waiting for?”
Venti gives him a look. Apologetic. He then looks down, unable to meet his gaze. “It has always been like this. I can’t rule them, Scaramouche.”
“Why not? You’re their archon, aren’t you?”
“Ruling them means taking away their freedom,” Venti explains softly, pulling away from his hold. “It goes against everything I’ve fought for.”
“So you choose to let yourself weaken for their sake—despite most of them not even believing in you?” Scaramouche snaps.
“It’s their choice whether they want to believe in me or not,” Venti says, holding Scaramouche’s hand. He’s silent for a moment, before he looks up. There’s guilt in his teal eyes, along with traces of hidden fatigue. “I’m really sorry for this, my dear Wanderer. But if this is causing you too much pain, then you’re free to leave me.”
Something about Venti’s words makes Scaramouche boil. He instantly yanks his hand away and glares at him.
“You’re despicable,” he spits.
He turns over his heel and leaves Venti all alone. He has to get out of here. He’s not exactly sure what has made him angry, but maybe it’s how easily the bard has suggested that he should leave. Shouldn’t he at least try to ask him to stay? Why was he so quick at discarding him?
(Does he not trust him enough?)
He needs to let out his anger somewhere deserted before he hurts someone—or Venti.
He doesn’t look back as he flies away. So he doesn’t see it when Venti’s body trembles, before his knees buckle.
➳
Three days later, Scaramouche returns to the spot where he left Venti. He feels better now, but he’s still confused why the latter would say such a thing. It’s been a while since he has last seen him, and he decides to search for him at his next spot—which is the last place they talked to each other.
He can see the land in the distance, and his eyes widen in horror at the sight.
Venti is sprawled on the ground, seemingly unconscious. There’s a boar standing next to his body, sniffing him. Scaramouche wastes no time attacking the thing with anemo and turns it into raw meat. He rushes to the bard, moving his body to inspect his face.
For the most part, Venti looks okay. However, his skin has turned ashen, while his eyes are dull. He must’ve fallen asleep again, but why was he lying on the ground like this? He said he had a domain to sleep in. Why didn’t he sleep in there instead?
Scaramouche clutches him tightly to his chest. He needs to find that domain. He’s still mad at him for what he said, but... he can’t leave him like this. Venti deserves a proper place to rest.
He hauls Venti over his back and adjusts the hold he has under his legs. If he remembers correctly, Venti has a domain under this big tree in Mondstadt—which is somewhere at Windrise? It’ll take some time to reach there, because he has no idea where that is from his current location.
It seems like he’ll have to do what he hates the most; talk to people for directions.
➳
Scaramouche is sure that it has taken him days before he finds Windrise. It’s currently night, with the moon shining brightly in the sky, and he finally sees the giant tree Venti has mentioned. During his journey, the bard hasn’t returned to consciousness at all. Venti has warned him that he can take up to days, weeks—or even centuries of sleep.
Scaramouche begrudgingly kicks a stone in his way. If only the idiot would rule his nation like a normal archon, maybe none of this would’ve happened.
He spends some time checking for any secret button that can summon the domain, but he finds none. After a while, he’s seriously about to lose his shit—did Venti get his own fucking domain wrong?—until he sees a tiny spirit floating in front of him, specifically heading towards Venti.
It’s a wind sprite. He thinks he’s heard about them before. They normally don’t come out to anyone, but he’s probably an exception right now since he’s carrying the Anemo Archon. He sees more wind sprites emerging from the bushes, behind the tree, and over the flowers. All of them seem to gather around Venti, not before giving him what it seems like a sceptical look.
“Oh, fuck off,” Scaramouche says defensively, hating how all of them are staring at him like he’s the issue here with their big—round, spirit-eyes.
It turns out to be a bad idea, because they fearfully scatter into thin air, disappearing from his view.
Scaramouche groans. No, he needs their help to find the domain.
“Wait—don’t fuck off,” Scaramouche says, hoisting Venti over his back when he feels like he’s slipping. “I need—” he suddenly feels ridiculous for talking to a bunch of tiny spirits, “—his domain. I’m trying to help your god sleep in his domain.”
He can see multiple eyes peeking from behind the tree, before the wind sprites slowly start to approach him again. Some of them hover around Venti, while the others seem to gather at the bark of the tree. Scaramouche tries to head over to the wind sprites at the tree, only to step on something.
A secret door suddenly opens.
There’s a platform where the door has opened, and he carefully steps on it. He can see light coming from somewhere, and he realises that the tips of Venti’s braids are starting to glow. Abruptly, the platform begins to move, and he can feel himself going lower and lower.
➳
They arrive in some kind of underground garden. The place isn’t big—there’s only a stone table over a small patch of grass with flowers—but what makes this place ethereal are the wind sprites floating around in the air, illuminating the dim space.
Scaramouche brings Venti to the table, placing him down and shifting his body so that he lays in a more comfortable position. He has to admit, he looks... peaceful like this. He’s surprised when he sees a thin white blanket being lifted up by the wind sprites, and they drop it over the bard. They try to adjust the cloth so that it covers their god nicely, but they’re failing miserably.
“Let me do it,” Scaramouche grumbles, yanking the edges of the blanket from the wind sprites—earning startled reactions—and tugging it. The cloth ends up covering everything below Venti’s chin. That’s much better.
It takes some time before Scaramouche finds himself staring at Venti in silence. If he’s being honest, he doesn’t know what else to do. It’s not like there’s much to do here anyway, with the place being so small. Should he leave and come back tomorrow to check if Venti is awake? Just staring at the bard’s still form somehow brings an ache to his artificial heart.
But if this is causing you too much pain, Venti’s voice echoes, then you’re free to leave me.
Huh. Now that Scaramouche thinks about it, maybe Venti’s words weren’t to discard him, but to give him a choice. The bard has always been like that, hasn’t he? Giving him—and everyone else—the option to choose. It fits him, as a God of Freedom, but at the same time, it’s ironic. Because the price he pays is his own lack of freedom—at least, to stay awake.
Scaramouche sighs. He moves to sit on the ground, placing his hat next to him, before he rests his forearms on the stone table. He notices how his hand is only inches away from Venti’s, and he slowly shifts it closer so that he can lock their fingers together. The skin under his palm feels alive, unlike the synthetic skin over his own body.
He has been given a choice, so he makes one; he’ll stay with Venti until he wakes from his slumber. Even if it takes centuries.
He doesn’t know when he has fallen asleep, but his cheek ends up laying over the cold stone, while his hand remains intertwined with Venti’s. The wind sprites have no other blanket to offer, but they attempt to give him warmth by perching all over him—most of them on his head, while others are on his shoulders and lap. The place is quiet, with nothing but the sound of the Anemo Archon breathing.
Scaramouche stirs to the feeling of someone squeezing his hand, followed by a kiss to his temple.