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The halls of the Fatui headquarters ran high. The ceiling reached far above, carving way into the sky. Hallways quiet as the night waned on. Not a single sound was heard as the late night shifted into the early, early morning. The bustling of day to day activities finally had ceased.
Scaramouche carefully tip toes out of his sleeping quarters. He shut his door lightly behind him so as to not make any noise.
Snezhnayan nights had nearly frozen the puppet’s limbs off. Snow raged on outside the windows of the giant headquarters around him.
With a weighted blanket draped around the sixth’s shoulders like a cape, he made his way through the halls. He could deal with most colds, but even the freezing temperatures of Snezhnaya put his body to the test.
Once Scaramouche reached his destination, a tall wooden door at the end of the hall, one which loomed over him significantly, he gave into a tentative knock. He waited anxiously for the door to open, quietly hopping from each ball of his feet. He tugged the blanket around him tighter as his patience was tested by each second passing.
Soon, the door had been opened. A familiar fluff of orange hair poked out, followed by a sleepy face looking around in confusion. Soon, the figure looked down to spot Scaramouche, who had been standing there expectantly. A yawn escaped the door’s opener as he had asked, “Scara? What are you doing here? It’s almost three…”
“Cold,” Scaramouche said matter of factly, ignoring the nickname. He scooched himself past Childe’s figure, forcing himself into the other’s room.
“No boundaries at all,” Childe tutted. Despite the complaint, he simply followed Scaramouche back into his room making no efforts to kick out the sixth. A sleepy smile formed on his face as he hummed, “Must’ve been really cold. You never want to share a bed.”
“I don’t know how you never wear a shirt to bed, it’s freezing,” Scaramouche scoffed. He pounced onto the hydro user’s bed with ease, the extra blanket draping behind him. He sat cross legged on the mattress as he awkwardly tried to fan out his heavy blanket in order to cover the bed’s expanse.
“Mm Dottore went to all that work on my surgery, I might as well enjoy the results,” Childe mumbled, his hand absentmindedly scratching at the scars underneath his pecs. He walked over to the bed and snatched the weighted blanket from Scaramouche, spreading it out himself. He let out a satisfied hum.
“Move over, will you?” Childe asked, quietly poking at Scaramouche’s side in an attempt to get the other to move. It worked since a creak of the bed was heard and a shuffle of blankets resounded against the bedroom’s walls.
Tartaglia crawled into bed next to Scaramouche and smiled at him.
Scaramouche didn’t smile back, he gave a small scowl in response to which Childe had just laughed.
“You hate cuddling, what gives?” Childe asked. He gave the Balladeer a curious once over while turning over to face the other.
Scaramouche and Childe were quite different. Scaramouche hated eye contact while Childe would make an uncomfortable amount. Scaramouche hated being touched for the most part whereas the other was so touchy feely that it had annoyed others. Scaramouche hated huge sensory experiences when Childe seemed to actively seek them out. Scaramouche was rather unempathetic while the eleventh seemed almost too empathetic at times.
The two were very different, but still had their commonalities. They both were horrible with other people. Both seemed to lack an understanding of proper boundaries, often breaking them by accident. Neither of them seemed to have a place where they really fit. For the moment, Childe’s bedroom seemed to be the only place they were meant to be in. It was the only place where they wouldn’t be othered or put aside or looked at with wary eyes and it was quite comforting.
“I was cold,” Scaramouche said plainly.
“Aw, there’s got to be more than that,” the hydro user whined. His eyes still desperately seeked awkward contact as the sixth’s own eyes shifted away from the gaze.
“If there was more I’d say so.”
“Fine, fine,” Childe sighed. He stuck out his tongue lightly at the other.
Scaramouche turned around in the bed, back facing Childe. The other quickly took to spooning the other, body pressed up against the puppet to which he cringed a bit. A chin rested upon his shoulder for a few minutes.
Awkwardly cuddling, Scaramouche was as stiff as a board. The warmth of the body against his back made spine tingle uncomfortably. The chin resting on his chin only led to his body becoming more overstimulated as he was reminded why he never came into Childe’s bedroom to begin with, but soon he heard Tartaglia let out a mumble.
“Scara, do you mind if I be the little spoon…?”
The Inazuman immediately turned around in pure relief. His eyes were wide and he looked at Childe with curiosity.
“W-we don’t to, I mean, if you don’t want to that’s fine of course,” the ginger stammered. Blush dusted his cheeks as he bit his lip nervously.
“That’s fine, I’d prefer it really,” Scaramouche replied.
“Really?”
“Yes, I hate being the little spoon.”
“Oh good!” Tartaglia said excitedly. Scaramouche could feel him excitedly tapping his feet underneath the covers, almost like a dog wagging its tail. The foot in question accidentally hit him as its shaking became more aggressive in excitement. “Sorry, sorry!”
“You’re excited,” the Balladeer lightly pointed out.
“Ahhh, I’ve just… God, I always wanted to do this.”
“It’s just cuddling.”
“I know, but still,” the eleventh said with a pout. Immediately, he had ducked down, his head further down the bed, shoving his face into Scaramouche’s chest. It wasn’t in a weird way, or so the sixth had thought at least, the other seemed to just be clingy in the moment.
“Is it comfortable?” Scaramouche asked. He looked down at the swath of ginger hair now below his chin. The other man was smothering himself into his chest excitedly cuddling him.
“Yes, yes,” Scaramouche heard Childe squeak from his spot. The eleventh kept burrowing himself closer to the sixth, squirming about excitedly. It was a bit cute. Just a bit. “Oh archons, this is great. I can’t believe you hate this.”
“I don’t like feeling stuff press against my back,” Scaramouche explained curtly. He absentmindedly brought a hand to Childe’s head and played with the orange locks. He frowned slightly as he continued, “I don’t like feeling small and helpless. It just… It makes me feel irrationally angry, as if somehow, someone is looking down on me. I don’t know who, I know it’s not you, it just feels that way.”
“I love feeling small,” Tartaglia pipped. He kept snuggling with vigor, his foot still tapping away. Scaramouche could feel a smile being pressed against his chest as Childe said, “I always have so much to do. I don’t get the chance to let go and unwind. This is nice…”
Scaramouche just made a noise of agreement as he continued to lightly massage the other’s scalp.
With his face effectively buried, Childe let out a small mumble, “Thank you, Kuni. I love you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Scaramouche never needed to say it back. They both knew that he loved Childe. He just didn’t feel the need to express it constantly. He preferred keeping the statement to himself, but Childe always knew. The two just let the silence after the words sink in comfortably as the night slowly began to continue on.
Soon, the excited taps of Tartaglia’s foot had begun to slow down. Sleep had begun to wash over the pair once again. Surprisingly, Childe had not suffocated himself while burying his face into Scaramouche’s chest. The two just drifted to sleep, with Childe being held lightly in Scaramouche’s arms.