Archive of Our Own

Lately, Scaramouche has felt as if he’s going to split in two. Between the headaches and the urges to rip each individual limb off of his body, he might not be too far from that. Because a staple gun pressing against his skin and sinking its metal fangs permanently into his flesh would be all he’s ever dreamed of, and he has to ground himself to reality with the wonderful sensation of scalding hot metal against his bare skin.

He doesn’t think he’s masochistic for all this, of course. It’s just intrusive thoughts telling him it’d be neat if he stained the walls of his well-lived childhood home with the beautiful paint of his family’s guts.

Scaramouche finds that lately, he has struggles dealing with his emotions. The only thing he ever knows how to do is let his blood boil when his boundaries are overstepped one too many times, when nobody has ever heard of the word silence, and nobody has looked up the word “no” in the English dictionary.

Despite all these urges, he luckily finds himself situated away from staplers and people that talk, talk, talk. Scaramouche rests his mind as he takes in the dim light of his phone as he scrolls along piles of pages of digital words that can make him forget he exists. While hanging to reality only by a thread that is the feeling of blankets against skin, the light pushed far too close to his face changes colors and begins dancing in his hands and telling him he’s loved. A call from his boyfriend pulls him out of his trance, the vibration of machine against hand jolting him out of his sleepless yet drowsy state. He hastily accepts. Anything you want, my dear.

“Hey, Mouchie? Are you doing okay?”

The voice calling his name from his phone instantly soothes his mind. Ah, he could really fall asleep like this. He loves that nickname, despite how he pretends to hate it. Scaramouche giggles, voice heavy with signs his mind is failing him.

“Yeah, I’m great now that I’m hearing you. Why are you calling?”

It was all slurred and mumbled, and Childe was barely able to make out his jumble of words.

“Hey, you’ve been sending me silly little images all night, but it’s seven in the morning and you haven’t slept yet. I love hearing from you, Baby, but you’re worrying me, okay? Are you resting properly?”

Scaramouche hums. Then he lets out groggy grumbles and sighs.

“It’s all fine, Baby. Another night can’t hurt me, I’m literally unstoppable.”

The audio passing through their devices now felt silent, despite Scaramouche’s muzzy giggles filling every second spent without noise.

“Scara, no that’s not fine. Another night?”

The obliviously exhausted man lets out an exasperated sigh.

“Tar… tag… li… aaaaaa……” He groans.

“Don’t whine at me like that. You know this isn’t good for you. Please, go to sleep.”

Scaramouche pouts. That’s not fair, isn’t it? Childe apparently loves hearing from him, but he won’t be hearing from him if he’s asleep. Obviously, there’s a lie in there.

“I’m not going to sleep. I’ll miss you too much.”

This time, it was Childe’s turn to pout because Scaramouche isn’t being fair.

“Then can you dream of me?”

“You’re dreamy enough that I don’t need to fall asleep to do that.”

Childe rolls over and groans into his pillow.

“I’m going to go over to your house and pin your eyelids shut, Mouchie.”

Scaramouche snorts.

“I’d like to see you try, Ajax .”



Childe really could’ve left it as an empty threat, but he’s worried. His boyfriend is having troubles with at least sleep, so he desperately wants to help. He knows it’s probably caused by much more than that, but Childe is willing to help with all that he can. So he packs a bag with snacks, water, and melatonin to take to his boyfriend. Childe decides it’s fine to visit in pajamas since his main objective is to force his Mouchie to go to sleep. Knowing him, he probably hasn’t slept in at least thirty-six hours.

Childe throws his bag over his shoulder and slides on his flip flops despite the weather. It may be chilly, but Scaramouche’s house is only a short walk away. He can suffer for a few minutes instead of going through the trouble of tying shoes. When he swings the front door open to go outside, the dark clouds feel as though they’re glaring at him.

His flimsy foam slabs slap against his feet as he speedwalks along the rocky and uneven road. He lives in a nowhere-town, so nobody has ever bothered to get the roads fixed. Luckily, his boyfriend lives only a few houses away, so he doesn’t have to suffer the uncomfortably shaky car ride. Although he’s certain he’ll be shivering his timbers soon, Childe can temporarily appreciate the calm and still place he’s in, undisturbed and underpopulated. He may be a people person, but silence always has a certain feeling that feels fresh to him.

As Childe begins to walk at a faster pace, he feels his bag bounce against his back with each step to push himself out of the cold. Childe packed water for himself to take over there, because he’s recently realized he doesn’t drink enough water. He could pour himself a glass at Scaramouche’s house, but water doesn’t quite taste the same there. But more importantly, he has packed melatonin gummies as a last resort. He’s hoping he can simply cuddle his boyfriend into sleep, but if he’s having genuine struggles with insomnia or something, he wants to help. Lastly, snacks. Scaramouche denies it, but Childe has noticed he hasn’t been eating right lately. He doesn’t know the exact cause, but he wants to try to help. Honestly, his Mouchie has a lot more issues than mommy issues, and he just wants to see him happy despite everything.

Quicker than he had expected but still too slow for Childe’s liking, he reaches Scaramouche’s house. It looks normal, happy. Its walls are painted a light yellow, and it has a display of many brightly colored flowers, either lining the wooden deck or hanging from the roof’s overhang. Despite all the joy that should be emanating from the building, all he can feel are unexplainable chills running along his skin.

The wooden steps groan underneath him as he makes his way towards the door and pushes it open. He steps inside and lazily slides his exposing shoes off of his feet and kicks them next to the shoes of the other residents of the house. Although the house is warmer than the outside, ready to rain, it still feels cold enough to have Childe wishing he had put on a pair of socks. 

He quietly pitters to the room in the house he spends the most time in, Scaramouche’s, to avoid being noticed by the house’s owners, bickering as they usually do and making Childe flinch. He gives Scaramouche’s door a light knock, and after a few seconds and the sound of a lock clicking, it harshly creaks open. Not that it was opened aggressively, it’s just really loud like that. 

From behind the cracked door, tired purple eyes gaze up at him.

“Looks like you weren’t kidding.”

Childe glances over him. His eyelids are drooping, being fought to stay open. His clothes sag messily over his body, the furthest from neat but the closest to comfortable. The way he holds himself is heavy, as if merely standing there and looking at him was a struggle to his boyfriend.

“Gosh, you’re gorgeous, trust me Scara, but you look like shit .”

“Gee, thanks. You don’t look much fancier than me, prince.”

Scaramouche pulls Childe into his room by the hand, escaping the distant but loud voices of his parents. His room is tidy and warm, and the heater is still blasting. Maybe Scaramouche was up all night cleaning his room, but Childe doubts he’d willingly be that productive. The bed is a mess of bunched up stacks of blankets, and the desk in the corner is littered with folders, papers, and books.

“Geez, it’s already toasty enough, shouldn’t you turn the heater off?”

He walks towards it, but his hand is stopped under Scaramouche’s violent glare before reaching the buttons. 

“Ugh, no way. Maybe you’re warm, but I'm still cold.”

Childe shrugs, then tugs Scaramouche onto the bed. They sit on the edge, both swinging their feet off the side. Despite the blankets being so ruffled, it was still comfortable to sit on. In fact, maybe it was more comfortable than usual, so perhaps there was a reason behind the disorder of Scaramouche’s bed. Childe slides his hand into his boyfriend’s and sighs, turning to face him.

“So, mind telling me what’s been keeping you up at night?”

Scaramouche groaned, rolling his eyes and turning his head away from Childe. Despite the action portraying avoidance, their eyes end up meeting in the mirror across the room.

“I’m fine. Just didn’t feel like sleeping.”

Childe’s grip tightened. Of course he’s upset that his boyfriend won’t tell him anything when he’s trying to help, but it should’ve been expected, and he doesn’t want to pry.

“Maybe you’ll feel like sleeping once I tape your eyelids together, hm?

Scaramouche looks him dead in the eye.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Childe’s face breaks into a wide smile as he untangles their hands and uses both of his to push Scaramouche down onto his back on the bed. He squirmed and thrashed futilely under his boyfriend’s stubborn weight, being pinned down against the bed.

“Hostage, mind telling me where the tape is?” Childe smirks.

“I do mind, so I won’t be telling you.”

Childe sighs jokingly.

“Awww, man. Maybe I could’ve made you sleep that way. Or maybe, I could torture you into sleeping by using the tape to tear off your eyelashes.”

“Wow. Scary.”

“I know, right? So why don’t you tell me what’s wrong before I force the answer out of you.”

Childe’s joking tone didn’t do much to cheer up the mood. Scaramouche’s face still soured at another attempt for him to let Childe put him to sleep. 

“You’re causing a lot more issues than you’re solving right now. There’s fucking nothing wrong, but you’ll change that if you keep pissing me off.”

Childe sighs, wrapping his arms around his boyfriend.

“Okay, I’ll stop. I just get worried, y’know?”

Scaramouche huffs and nods. He returns the hug he’s been trapped in, sliding his cold arms under Childe’s shirt while doing so. It was partially just to cuddle, but also to warm himself up.

“You don’t have to worry. It makes me happy.”

“I’m still going to worry, but I’ll shut up about it. Just for you.”

Childe lifts his head to gaze into Scaramouche’s eyes, lifting his arms to start threading them through his hair. Scaramouche watches as his boyfriend runs his hands through his hair with eyes full of pure admiration, deciding not to mind how messed up his hair is becoming. Childe rakes his hair with his fingers, and Scaramouche relaxes under the touch. 

“I mostly do it out of avoidance.”

“What?”

Scaramouche sighs and looks off to the side, this time without meaningless anger. Instead, it’s out of some sort of shame. Childe, however, continues to gently stare down at him while tousling his hair.

“I mainly stayed up late and slept during the day so I could avoid hearing my parents fighting. But it kind of just became a habit.”

Childe groans, rolling his eyes.

“Geez, they’re so nasty!”

Scaramouche laughs dryly. “No kidding.”

He looks back into Childe’s eyes again, raising his hand and placing it on Childe’s head, mirroring the other. 

“If you wanna avoid them, would it help if I slept with you?” 

Scaramouche snickers. “Sex as a distraction, how devious!”

“No, you know what I mean! Sleep sleep!”

Scaramouche pats the back of his head playfully.

“Yeah, yeah, I get you. I’ll consider it. Maybe.”

Scaramouche moves to sit up, and Childe rolls off of him with a grunt. 

“Wanna go on a walk with me, Ajax?”

Childe whines. The thought of going out into the cold again does not appeal to him. “Do we have to? Just the walk over here had me losing limbs to frostbite.”

“Oh, no. Bad boy. You’re supposed to like walks.”

Childe sighs. The dreaded dog treatment. “Fine, but only if I can borrow a pair of socks.”

Scaramouche walks to his closet, throwing a fuzzy pair of thigh-highs at Childe before rummaging around for a few jackets to layer up with. Childe puts them on, because it’s better than nothing, and Scaramouche looks back to laugh at him before he can roll his fuzzy pink pajama pants back down. 

“You really scream masculine right now, Childe.” Scaramouche taunts, wiggling his way into a thin turtleneck jacket.

“Just wait til you see me in socks with sandals, I’m sure you’ll go crazy.” 

By the time Scaramouche finishes putting on his third jacket, his hair is even more messy than Childe had left it. He walks out of his room, Childe following closely behind, both of them putting in effort to quiet their footsteps. Once they were in front of the door, Childe began struggling to get his flip flops on while wearing socks, and his boyfriend zipped up some (sick as hell) black boots. Just as Childe reached for the doorknob, he froze in his place. In the corner of his vision, he could see a blob of pink. He turned to face the blur, and was met with one of the nasty inhabitants of the house.

“Where are you going? Surely you aren’t trying to sneak away?”

“We’re going on a walk, but I would love to sneak away from you, Yae.” Scaramouche turned and glared at her, done with zipping his shoes. “Let’s go, Childe.”

“What, are you trying to hide dear Ajax from me? It’s not like I’d ever hurt him, Mouchie.”

Scaramouche hid his boiling rage behind a neutral expression. “Let’s go.”

Childe opens the door, and Scaramouche pushes against his back to rush him into the cold outside, then quickly slams the door behind them. He snatches his boyfriend’s hand, gripping it tightly as he began their walk with him harshly tugging Childe with him as he angrily sped along the road. Childe stumbled behind him, socks and flip flops fighting each other and slowing him down. Scaramouche eventually slows his pace, allowing his boyfriend to walk beside him until he comes to a full halt. He sighs, then sits down in the middle of the rough and currently abandoned road. 

“Why the hell does she know your name? She has no right to call you that, let alone talk to you. And I bet she creeped in on one of our conversations to learn that, gosh I hate her. If she wants me so badly to be her son, then why does she do anything just to get in my nerves?” 

Childe sits down next to him and hugs him tightly, leaning his head onto Scaramouche’s and gripping his hand to calm him. 

 “She sucks, Mouchie. It’s okay, don’t let her get to you.”

Scaramouche groans. “I know. Gosh, just… yeah, she sucks.” He leans onto Childe’s shoulder, calming down from his irritation. “I only want you to be calling me Mouchie. I still hate it, though.”

Childe hums happily. “My Mouchie.” He wraps his arm around Scaramouche’s shoulders.

It’s hard to stay mad when everything is so peaceful. A nearby stream runs rapidly with a flow boosted by the recent rainfall, and the wind shakes the trees, causing their leaves to make noise as they crash together. The aggressive breeze pounds against their hair, causing strands to wildly flail in the wind, annoyingly sending the hair into their faces. Alright, maybe it’s not that peaceful. Childe and Scaramouche are already shaking as their bodies begin to cool from remaining stationary.

“Ugh, alright. Up, boy, let’s walk.” Scaramouche pushes himself up from the ground, grabbing the hand on his shoulder and holding it loosely at his side.

“Woof.”

After Childe got up, they leisurely walked down the road in silence, occasionally kicking rocks and immediately losing them among the many other bits of gravel on the path. Eventually, the sound of rocks clattering against each other as they were bullied was accompanied by the sound of light rainfall pittering against the stone. Scaramouche looked up to Childe, still focused on observing the very familiar scenery. His eyes wandered, taking in the view of every passing plant. And his eyes flinched shut whenever rain came a bit too close to his face. Eventually, he ended up shaking a handful of raindrops off of his hair and finally looking down to his boyfriend. Yep, definitely a dog.

“Hey, wanna just go to my house? It’s a faster walk than going back to your house, and I kinda wanna get out of this rain.”

“Well jeez, I thought you were a dog, not a cat. But my answer is yes. I think I’d want to even if we weren’t rushing out of the rain.”

Scaramouche smiled before speeding ahead of Childe again, rushing through the rain. Childe laughed before quickly matching his pace. 

They had quickly found themselves huddling under the roof of Childe’s house as he shakily fumbled to unlock the door. Once it was open, his boyfriend rushed past him into the warm shelter and sighed in relief, allowing himself to fall onto the couch.

“Ugh, don’t get the couch wet, Scara.”

Scaramouche rolled his eyes and groaned. “You don’t really care though, right?”

“Only because it’s you.”

Childe wildly flung his flip flops off before tugging the soaked, mushy thigh-highs off of his legs. He then dropped himself next to his Mouchie, who had already removed his (sick as hell) boots and was very contently spread on the couch. 

He lets himself fall sideways and lay on Scaramouche’s lap.

“Where’s your family at? Not that I’m complaining, I’m enjoying not being called gross by little menacing nose pickers.”

Childe glares at him. “Don’t call them nose pickers, you know you love them. My family’s staying with relatives for winter break, but I stayed behind to take care of you.”

“Aww, how sweet. If I had known, I’d have stayed at your house for the last few days. But I’d like to let you know I’m perfectly capable of caring for myself.”

Childe stares at him like he just told a really unfunny joke. “Your parents don’t do anything for you, and you aren’t even putting yourself to sleep. I should’ve brought you over earlier.”

“Well why don’t you take care of me, hm? Let’s drink some hot coffee to warm up.”

“No way. Hot cocoa instead, I’m not giving you coffee so you can stay awake even longer.”

Scaramouche sighs and lifts his boyfriend off his thighs before standing up. “Very well, Mother.”

Childe gasps, pretending to be insulted. “That’s an offensive comparison, Mouchie.”

“You deserve it.” He responds lightheartedly.

Childe rises from the couch, walking quickly on his long legs and now leaving Scaramouche to struggle behind him on the short distance between the couch and kitchen. Scaramouche snatches his hand when he gets to the kitchen, and Childe looks down at him, sighing with disapproval.

“Mouchie, I can’t do jack shit in the kitchen with only one hand.”

His boyfriend only shrugs slyly in response.

Childe is left to flounder about the kitchen, struggling to make cocoa with only one hand. He turns on the electric kettle, already half-full, and selects two of his most colorful mugs that exhaust the eye from all the busy patterns and coloring. 

“Really?” Scaramouche says with disgust. Childe only beams back at him, his smile possibly more blinding than the horrid mugs. Scaramouche stares uselessly as Childe fills the mugs with cocoa powder as the water in the kettle comes close to boiling. 

“Hey, Ajax, where’s the cinnamon?”

Childe quickly pulls a plastic container of spice out of a cabinet above them and hands it to his boyfriend, who opens the lid and dumps concerning amounts of cinnamon into one of the mugs. By the time he’s finished, there’s more cinnamon in the mug than cocoa powder, and his boyfriend is left stunned in silence. Scaramouche is either stupid or psychotic to decide to put that much cinnamon in his mug.

“Um… are you sure you want that much cinnamon?” Ajax asks, face painted in concern while the water begins to bubble.

“Trust me, it’s good.”

Scaramouche lifts the kettle, pouring boiling water into both of the mugs. The cocoa mix mostly dissolves, but brown specks of cinnamon float to the top of Scaramouche’s mug. He carelessly picks it up by the handle and takes a sip of the piping hot drink without a reaction.

“Oh my gosh, what the heck Mouchie. Isn’t that hot?”

Scaramouche looks up as if he needs to take a second to think about it. “Nope. I think my tongue was already burnt. Wanna try some?”

Childe grimaces at the thought, but still ends up taking the mug from his boyfriend’s hands. He brings the mug to his lips and takes a careful sip, immediately recoiling.

“Oh my gosh, Scara, ew. It’s so grainy.”

Scaramouche laughs at him, taking the mug back into his own hands. “You’re pathetic. And rather than complaining, why don’t you enjoy that indirect kiss, hm?”

Childe rolls his eyes. “I’d rather a direct one.”

“Too bad for you, a direct kiss would be grainy too. My mouth is full of cinnamon.”

Scaramouche takes another long sip of his “cocoa”. 

“Fine by me.”

His boyfriend looks up at him like he’s dumb.

“Statement, not an offer. No kisses for dumb boyfriends who slander cinnamon.”

Scaramouche lazily prances away into Childe’s room, and Childe snatches his neon pink mug off the counter before walking after him. 

Childe’s room is far worse than Scaramouche’s. Possibly a month’s worth of dirty laundry is sprawled over his crumb-coated floor, and half of his bed’s blankets have been thrown on the floor. His walls are covered by colorful sticky notes that must’ve lost their stick and been taped back on the wall dozens of times. Despite the mess, Scaramouche and Childe expertly navigate their way across the floor to Childe’s bed. Once seated, Scaramouche chugs his scalding hot “cocoa” in mere seconds, even swallowing the nasty cinnamon remains at the bottom. Childe stares at him in awe while taking a sip of his normal, textureless cocoa. Scaramouche drops his mug on Childe’s wrapper-littered nightstand with a cringy crinkle noise, and wraps his now unoccupied arms around his boyfriend’s waist. He smushes his face against Childe’s side, and nuzzles into the soft pajama shirt. 

“Thanks for taking me away from that hellhole. Can I stay?”

Childe hums. “Maybe. I thought you told the old witch that you weren’t trying to sneak away?”

Scaramouche laughs. “Maybe. But you’re so cute that you made me reconsider.”

Childe’s face flushes. He places his hand on Scaramouche’s hair, rubbing his head gently as he watches the smaller man. 

“You can stay.”

Scaramouche only mumbles back, barely audible through the fabric against his face. Childe leans back on the bed, and Scaramouche leans back with him. When Mouchie looks up at Childe their eyes meet, and Scaramouche returns Childe’s affectionate stare. His boyfriend slides his hands through Scaramouche’s hair, pushing the strands away from his face, and Scaramouche grumbles and shakes his head to let his hair fall back to its natural position.

“Mouchie.”

“Hm?”

“Can the statement become an offer?”

Scaramouche sighs. “I’m too tired for your bullshit riddles. What statement?”

Childe squirms shyly on the bed. “About uh… kissing.” He speaks as if the word will shame him after coming out of his mouth, but Scaramouche only laughs comfortingly.

“What, you wanna kiss?”

Childe looks away and nods, and Scaramouche crawls forward on the bed and hovers his face over his boyfriend’s.

“I dunno if you’ve earned it, though.. And my mouth still tastes like cinnamon. You’d hate that, wouldn’t you?” Scaramouche taunts.

“I wouldn’t mind.” Childe whispers, once again locking eyes with Scaramouche, who scoffs lightheartedly before leaning down and placing his lips onto his boyfriend’s. Due to the proximity, Scaramouche’s hair brushes against Childe’s forehead, but Childe uses his hand to sweep the hair back and leaves his hand on the back of Scaramouche’s head, tangled and wrapped in purple. Scaramouche closes his eyes and sighs against Childe’s lips, relaxing into their kiss. Lips part for tongue, and Childe’s tongue sweeps into Scaramouche’s mouth, hot from the cocoa, and he decides he doesn’t mind the taste of cinnamon after all. Scaramouche gently pulls away from the kiss, and Childe’s eyes flutter open. 

Scaramouche could say a number of things right now, but he can save it for later. Right now, his mind is distracted fully by Childe. The way he holds his head in his hand, the way he stares at him like he could want nothing more in this world, it all makes Scaramouche feel wanted. The way his boyfriend kisses him reminds him that he’s needed by someone. 

Scaramouche exhales, relaxing his arms and laying against Childe, chests pressing against each other so closely that he can feel the other’s heart beating.

“I think I’m ready to conk out now, Ajax.” 

Childe hums, combing his hand through his Mouchie’s hair. “Mkay. Make sure you dream about me, alright?”

“I don’t need to dream about you if you’re right here, dumbass.” Scaramouche grumbles groggily, wrapping his arms around Childe.

Childe’s cocoa was abandoned half-full on his nightstand, but he doesn’t mind. It doesn’t have enough cinnamon for his taste.