Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Hello ;)

The five letters peak at him tantalizingly, the cuff of his shirt not long enough to hide them from his sight. It’s only five letters and a stupid smiley face, yet Scaramouche can’t help but be distracted every time his eyes catch a glimpse of them. It might only be a word written on the back of his hand, the handwriting kind of crude and childish, but it’s been driving him insane all morning. 

He knew what it all meant when he’d seen it earlier in the morning, waking up at ungodly hours of the day to get ready for work. He knew their meaning when the letters wouldn’t disappear from his hand no matter how hard he scrubbed. He knew. He really did.

But Scaramouche has never been particularly fond of the idea of having a soulmate, and now that the cursed letters had decided to finally appear on his skin, he isn’t about to change his mind.

He had become disillusioned with it long ago, when he learned love wasn’t enough if his words didn’t materialize on the other person’s skin. He didn’t believe in destiny, and even if it did exist, the gods of fate had never favoured him. What makes him believe they will now?

His eyes trail unintentionally back to his hand, where the words he has tried to smite all morning look back at him almost mockingly. He glowers at the blotch of ink and stands up with a huff to look for the med kit he keeps inside one of his drawers. He thought it idiotic to keep a small med kit in an office where people are just sitting down all day, but when he fishes out a band aid big enough to cover the offending words, he’s thankful for health and safety.

There, out of sight, out of mind.

Feeling a little bit more like himself, he makes his way back to his desk, sitting harshly on the chair and focusing on the monitor in front of him. He has work to do, lots actually, and no time to worry about unimportant topics.

Being the IT director of a prestigious toy company isn’t easy after all, and it’s increasingly more difficult when his coworkers are all lunatics with ludicrous demands and no sense for budgeting at all. His eyes hover over the third email Dottore has sent him today, and he clicks on the delete button without even bothering to open it. Scaramouche sighs, closing his eyes and massaging his temple with the pads of his fingers to try to ease his incoming headache.

But as always, there is no rest for the wicked and his computer dings once more, signifying another email on his already filled inbox. It’s from Dottore again, and it’s empty except for the subject that reads: Read my emails or I’ll skin you alive honey~ .

Perhaps it is finally time for him to make the trip to HR and fill a report for harassment against him. 

When he’d moved to Snezhnaya and had managed to snatch a cozy position at Fatui and Co as an IT analyst, he had not expected his days to turn like this. But after working himself to the ground for a few years, he’d managed to climb the company ladder rather efficiently, and had ended up becoming the director of that same department. He was the youngest but most capable among his colleagues; and everyone, especially him, knew about it.

Because arrogance had always looked good on Scaramouche and he was acutely aware of it.

So no, he did not need a soul mate. Scaramouche had himself and that was more than enough. So why is it that despite his incredible self reassurance, his nails scratch incessantly at the band aid? It might be because it bothers him, the prospect of change. The prospect of yet another annoyance in his already busy life, as if his plate wasn’t already full enough. 

He doesn’t have many choices, he can either disregard the message and pretend he’s never seen it, or write back to tell the person to piss off. He settles on the best course of action: ignorance. The less this person knows, the better. Eventually, they'll get bored of waiting for a response that will never come and move on. All without him having to lift a single finger. 

But his seemingly flawless plan, had in fact, a substantial flaw: his lack of patience. 

It’s not until he gets home, ready to destress and forget about work for the day, that he finds his otherwise pristine skin sullied by horrible blotches of ink. If anything he had expected to find delicate poems of passion, profound confessions of love, or odes to their jointed fate. Instead, he sees nothing but small messages scattered throughout his body, all nonsense with no real thought put behind them. 

‘Hello’ is repeated ad nauseam on both his arms, looking closer to blemishes than words. ‘ Are you there?’ he sees written twice across his chest. There’s even a couple smiley faces spread around his body, leaving their mark everywhere his eyes can see. Definitely the work of someone who had nothing better to do but waste their time on stupidities. 

A child. His soulmate is a child. An immature, bothersome and persistent child. Scaramouche already knew the gods weren’t particularly fond of him, but this has to be the nail in the coffin. They are laughing at him, scratching their bellies as they send yet another curse his way. He clenches his fists, closes his eyes, and swallows down the scream that threatens to escape from his throat. 

At this rate, he’ll really end up committing murder. 

Scaramouche takes a deep, grounding breath. He reminds himself this is all to be expected. His soulmate has probably just reached the age where your writing is supposed to show on your partner’s skin. He’s probably full of enthusiasm, starry eyed as he writes down his first messages. It’s all to be expected, and all he has to do is wait a little longer. Hold on a little tighter. 

His eyes catch the words written cleanly across his stomach once again as he pulls his shirt back down.

Are you even there?

“No,” Scaramouche scoffs at the mirror, grumbling as he adjusts the hem of his plain black shirt. 

Now that his foul mood is beyond repair, he might as well get some extra work done. Grabbing his work laptop, he moves to the small office of his home and opens his email. Thankfully, there’s no major development that requires his immediate attention, and he can focus on finishing the preparations for tomorrow’s meeting. He is not particularly elated to be trapped in a small conference room with his fellow company directors for an hour, but unfortunately, he doesn’t have much of a choice when it comes to not attending. 

New product development, especially when Dottore and Sandrone are involved, requires all the help his software development team can get. Plus, the last time he tried sending one of his managers to fill in for him, Dottore never let him hear the end of it.

Despite all of his complaints, work helps in keeping his mind preoccupied, the small disturbance chucked and forgotten in the dark corners of his mind. He calls it a day once his stomach starts complaining about the lack of food; and he stretches his arms overhead, ready to get dinner, a calming bath and hopefully a few hours of sleep.

He scarfs down the previous night’s leftovers while he waits for his bath to fill up. He has calmed down, no longer bothered by all the inconveniences that plague him, but he hopes the hot bath he’s about to take will ease the tension of his shoulders. 

And that’s when it happens.

Scribbling all over his arms and chest didn’t seem like enough. His soulmate had decided to put his artistic capabilities to the test, picking his own body as his canvas— and consequently Scaramouche’s —to draw a giant sad face. Using his nipples for eyes. Scaramouche’s nipples for eyes. 

Will you write back?, is written right below. 

And Scaramouche likes to think he is fairly resilient, if he so desires, he can ignore most things until they go away. Today, however, is not that day. The annoyances of his shitty day pile up until it all collapses and explodes in his face. His perseverance breaks into a million pieces until it all disappears, swallowed greedily by the floor. 

Anger is all he knows. His vision turns almost red as he storms out of the bathroom ready to find a marker, a pen, anything he can to write back. His cabinets are left wide open as he scurries to find something to write with, annoyed at himself for not keeping a single pen in plain sight. 

He finds his victim hidden in a kitchen drawer full of recipe books, and he flings the cap. It makes a perfect arc until it falls somewhere in the floor, something he’ll regret later when he tries putting the cap back on and finds it gone underneath his furnishings. Scaramouche has no time to think about that, however; as he supports his arm on the counter to write on the only empty spot of his arm. 

WHAT THE FUCK TO DO YOU WANT

It’s not one of his best moments, huffing and breathing heavily while he patiently waits for an answer that doesn’t seem to come. He hears the ticks of his mounted clock, the seconds soon turning to minutes, but there’s no answer. No matter how hard Scaramouche tries to look for one, he can’t find it. 

“Oh and now you want to leave me alone,” he says to himself groaning as he slams the pen down with more force than necessary. 

He goes back to the bathroom, practically stomping all the way, and discards the last pieces of garments he has on to finally settle on the bath. It does nothing for the horrid pain of his back, his muscles are locked in place and the tension never once leaves his side. It pisses him off even more, so much so he cuts his bath short, shooting upright to pat himself dry. 

He pauses when he notices the lack of words on his skin. They’re gone. Disappeared like a magic trick. He can only see the message on his arm, left there by him on purpose. The illusion becomes rather short-lived, however, when right below his message, appearing one by one, he finds new letters form as a response. 

Oh.

I knew my soulmate was receiving my messages!

Scaramouche blinks once, twice at the words in stupor. It’s as if his message had gone through one ear— or rather eye —and out through the other. He puts on his pajamas as quickly as humanly possible, rushing to his kitchen to grab the pen that nearly goes barreling down towards the floor. 

He ponders briefly on what to respond. He doesn’t want to prolong the conversation more than necessary, lest the stranger think he is actually interested, but he wants to fully clarify his stance. He needs to be concise and cut throat, straight to the point. 

Don’t write to me again. Ever again.

Ah, perfection. 

What? Why? We are soulmates, why should I stop writing to you?

But this stranger seems to be unable to follow instructions.

This is your last warning.

Feeling less annoyed now that he has delivered his ultimatum, he heads to clear the ink from his skin. He pays no attention when he sees new words take up the empty space of his arm. Ignoring the stranger is now the best thing he can do, and this time, he’ll follow through. He doesn’t need someone as childish as him for a soulmate, and he’ll force him to disappear from his life.

Scaramouche settles for the night, pulling the blankets of his bed to cover his body. He has a long day ahead of him tomorrow, and sleep is what he most desperately needs. Before turning his bedside lamp off, however, his eyes catch a glimpse of the last message.

Are you ignoring me again?

“Now that we have all gathered here, shall we start?”

It’s awfully early in the morning for Scaramouche to have to put up with Dottore’s voice. He hasn’t even managed to finish his second cup of coffee to effectively fight the drowsiness of a restless night, much less help him focus on this forsaken meeting. The pounding of his head hammers incessantly at his temple, and today more than ever, he feels particularly capable of murder. 

Hey

And there, as the cherry on top, he sees the endless buzzing of his soulmate. 

Scaramouche groans in defeat and it takes all of his willpower to not smack his head against the table. Something that does not go unnoticed by Dottore, since he stops in the middle of his starting speech, his eyes drawn to Scaramouche’s whining. 

“Any problem Mouchie?” The smirk playing in the corner of his lips tells everyone in the room that he couldn’t care less about Scaramouche’s wellbeing. He’s just asking to prolong his torture. 

“Call me Mouchie one more time and I’ll break all the bones of your fingers.” 

But before Dottore can even try to come up with a response, Signora interrupts. “Well, well, it seems like someone did not get their beauty sleep.” 

“I, for one,” interjects Sandrone from the other side of the table, not even trying to hide her discontent, “am rather preoccupied with other matters. It’ll be preferred if we stay on the topic at hand.” She finishes in all of her hubris.

Arlecchino, sitting right across Sandrone, scoffs and rolls her eyes before speaking for the first time. “No time for pleasantries, right?”

Dottore pushes his dark sunglasses up the bridge of his nose, clearing his throat to draw the attention back at him. He sighs as he changes the slide of his presentation, and Scaramouche would have laughed at him had he not been stuck in the same situation.

Truth be told, Scaramouche doesn’t care about the particularities of this new project, he’d much rather be told what needs to be done instead of having to sit down for an hour long lecture on things that don’t concern him. Especially when Dottore goes on and on about all the finer details and intricacies of the new toy’s internal system. By the looks of, and by the amount of coding his team will have to do to cater to this man-child, it’s going to be way over Scaramouche’s set budget.

He already doesn’t like the prospects of this meeting, seeing as he will have to ruin robot lunatic number 1—Dottore—expectations, and he’s sure at some point in the discussion, robot lunatic number 2—Sandrone—will have something to say about it. By the frown present on Signora’s face and the scowl on Arlecchino’s expression, he can tell they have the same opinion as him. At least he knows he won’t be alone in this futile battle.

Scaramouche suppresses a sigh as he makes changes to the Excel sheet of his laptop, trying to the best of his capabilities to fit the demands he considers important and eliminate the ones he does not. 

You can’t ignore me forever.

Is written in the back of his hand, interrupting his train of thought rather rudely as he types away on the keyword. He swallows down his growing irritation and briefly closes his eyes. Work. He’s here to do work.

“You do understand you’re being ridiculous right?” Signora starts, glaring directly at Dottore as she crosses her arms defensively. “What supplier do you think will sell us all this unnecessary material for a decent price?”

“Rosalyne, dear,” and the Doctor’s smirk never fails to make Scaramouche’s stomach churn. “That is precisely what your job is.”

“Gold wiring? Don’t be absurd. You know we have a set budget, dear, ” the words spill out of her mouth like poison.

“If need be, trading HPDE for PVC is always a viable option,” says Sandrone, scribbling on her notepad and not bothering to make eye contact.

From the other side of the conference table, Arlecchino scoffs again. A habit she has whenever she hears Sandrone speak. “Do you not know why we don’t use PVC anymore?”

Sandrone looks up from her notes, blinking twice at Arlecchino in insincere bewilderment. “It seems I, in fact, do not. Please enlighten me.”

Scaramouche fixes his attention back on his work, setting the final touches to the Excel sheet. He’s heard similar arguments perhaps a dozen times before, so tuning out their voices comes easy for him as he focuses on the task at hand. He even has a couple of emails to respond to, lucky him, but he’d rather be busy doing that than having to listen to the conversation happening in front of him. 

“Scaramouche…” he hears Signora say. It’s his cue to add his opinion to the pointless discussion. 

“This is a stupid plan,” he declares, fingers still typing furiously. “I’ll send the Excel sheet with all the revisions later today, but I don’t particularly care about your opinions. It’s the best I can do so you either take it or leave it.”

His words are met in complete silence. An almost comforting silence that accompanies him all the way until he sends his email. In any other situation, he’d be ecstatic, but these are his coworkers he’s with, and silence can only mean woe. He slowly shifts his gaze forward, settling his gaze on Dottore. Scaramouche can see the way the corner of his lips twitch in unshed laughter. The prospect of Dottore laughing terrifies him.

He’s almost too afraid to ask, but he does anyway.

“…What?” He asks carefully, his words barely audible.

Sandrone makes the first move, raising her hand to point at her own face. Her expression is unreadable as Scaramouche imitates her movement, bringing his fingers to graze his cheek. Signora, almost shaking with excitement, jumps to grab her purse to hand him a small mirror. She looks expectantly at his expression, the smile plastered on her face borderline nightmarish. 

And that’s when the spell that had settled in the room breaks. As soon as his eyes set on his reflection Dottore doubles over, his laughter resounding loudly in the conference room as he heaves for air. Signora joins him shortly after, slamming a hand on the table while her screeching voice hurts his ears even more. He can even hear Arlecchino chuckling softly at his side, something he’s never seen her do before. Sandrone doesn’t say anything, she’s only looking at him and somehow, it makes Scaramouche feel even worse. 

Because plastered directly on his left cheek, there’s an exceptionally detailed drawing of a dick. Balls and all.

Told you so ;)

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out the perpetrator and Scaramouche is sure he’ll see winky faces chasing him in his worst of nightmares. He stands up, sending the chair he was sitting on backwards to fall with a loud clang on the floor. Had he not been livid, he’d be petrified with mortification. Instead, he rushes towards the door, left hand covering his cheek as he practically runs to the bathroom.

He can’t risk going to his office and stumbling with any of his subordinates in this state. Over his dead body. So hiding in the bathroom seems like the best next option. He avoids eye contact with the people who look at him curiously in the hallway until he reaches his destination and bursts the door open. There’s an intern in the urinal, his eyes shooting up in horror when he catches a glance of Scaramouche’s partially covered face.

“S-Scaramouche, s-sir, wha-”

“Out.” Perhaps it’s the tone of his voice, or the way his eyes scream murder, but the intern quickly zips his pants back up and stumbles out through the door in an instant.

Once he makes sure he’s finally all alone in the bathroom—he checked every stall after all—Scaramouche locks the door. If someone wants to use it, they’ll have to wait, or pee their pants for all he cares. Still seething, he approaches the mirror, and surely enough, the drawing of a penis is still present on his face.

‘Told you so’ his fucking ass. Scaramouche is going to make sure he finds this kid and feeds his corpse to the wolves. 

He grabs his pen, rolls the cuffs of his shirt, and sets on writing. 

Erase this shit off my face. RIGHT. NOW.

And for a fraction of a second, Scaramouche is relieved to see new words appear on his arm so quickly. At least this time, he won’t have to wait so long for a response. 

Oh? I thought you said you’d never talk to me again?

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He needs to calm down, count from 1 to 10, clear his head. Seeing as he is clearly the more mature of the two, it’s up to him to try to keep things civil. Besides, it’s not like he can smash the mirror into pieces without getting in trouble for it again. He’d rather not have to explain the mess to Pierro, or even worse, the Tsaritsa. 

If you had any reading comprehension, you’d know I never said that. Now take this shit off. 

Aw, you don’t like my masterpiece?

Scaramouche grits his teeth almost painfully. He calls that a masterpiece? Even as a joke, he doesn’t find it funny. 

No, take it off. NOW.

And if I don’t want to?

Screw being the bigger person. Scaramouche has no time nor patience to be dealing with this bullshit. His soulmate thinks he’s funny? Oh Scaramouche will show him funny.

Listen here you little piece of shit. Either you wipe your drawing off my face or I swear I’ll find you and your entire family and make sure you all never see the light of day. 

The next message takes some time to appear, and for the first time ever he’s fearful about scaring him off without getting him to erase his little drawing off his face. Once he sees the letters form out of nowhere one by one, Scaramouche exhales the breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

Jeez, no need to be so aggressive. You don’t play with family, man. I’ll wipe it off with one condition.

You’re not in a place to make conditions.

Says the guy with a dick on his face he can’t remove.

Scaramouche groans, clenching his jaw with more force than necessary. His soulmate has a point and he hates it.

What do you want?

It’s simply, just answer my messages when I write to you.

He pauses his frantic writing, looking at his arm in confusion. Out of everything his soulmate could’ve asked, he didn’t think it was going to be this. It’s strange, even for a weirdo like him, and Scaramouche can’t shake the feeling he would be committing a mistake if he were to agree. 

Why should I do that? Just not message me ever again.

Hmm, nah. I like my idea better. We’re stuck together, might as well try to get along.

He sighs, rubbing his face with the palm of his hand. All this stress can’t be good for his health. He can just agree and get it all over with, but he doesn’t like the idea of yielding so fast. He doesn’t want to get along, he doesn’t even want to try. No matter what his soulmate can say, it’s already been set in stone: they simply cannot get along. 

Yet, he can’t see any other way to get out of the crossfire. 

Scaramouche drops his head and exhales in defeat. He’ll have to suck it up, but at least he can try to make his soulmate’s life a living hell in the process. 

Fine, but I want to set a few rules

If he is doing this, he might as well make it as easy as possible. 

I am all ears. Or eyes I guess. 

Somehow, out of everything he’s said already, that makes Scaramouche want to smash his head against the wall. 

1. No writing in visible places, including hands. I don’t care how small it might be, I don’t want to see it.
2. No obscenities

He really shouldn’t have to be saying this, but knowing his soulmate’s track record, he considers it absolutely necessary. 

Sounds reasonable enough. I’m ok with it, and you can trust me. I am a man of my word.

Scaramouche squints menacingly at his arm. With the way it’s worded, he can’t help but feel skeptical. He has no time to demand a written contract, however, he’s already wasted too much time on a stupid conversation. 

Now wash it off, I have work to do.

And Scaramouche sighs with relief as soon as he sees the ink on his face start to fade. 

You work?

Yes, unlike you it seems. I’m busy from 9 to 5 so I won’t answer you in those times. Don’t get any weird ideas.

He waits a few seconds before turning the faucet on to clean his arm and erase his side of the conversation. He laments his luck, but at least he doesn’t have horrendous scribbling all over his face anymore. In hindsight, it could all have ended way, way worse. 

Noted, and I’m still a university student. I’m not wasting away! 

“I don’t care,” he mutters, rolling the cuff of his shirt to hide his arm once again. He’s fully aware his soulmate will not hear him, but he doesn’t have it in him to care, to even bother to write back. 

Finally unlocking the bathroom door, he makes a beeline for his office. The meeting for today should have been over by now, and in all honesty, Scaramouche can’t bring himself to face any of his coworkers at the moment. Just the thought of it sends a shiver down his spine. 

First, he has some loose ends he needs to tie up. 

From: Scaramouche

To: Dottore, Sandrone, Signora, Arlecchino

Today’s meeting

If I hear any of you say anything about what happened today, I will personally make a report of your internet history and upload it to the main page. I can assure you, none of you want to have a summary detailing the shit you Google on company time.

Attached is the Excel sheet.

📎 Revision of Dottore’s idiotic project(12)

I never got your name

At this point, Scaramouche is more than willing to kill to get any sort of respite.  If he’s not being hounded by his colleagues at work, he is hounded by a certain someone with copious amounts of ink and free time at home. He sighs as he drops his keys on the kitchen counter, rolling his sleeves as he fishes a pen from his office and drops on the living room sofa.

You don’t need to know my name,

He’d rather not give away personal information. He doesn’t know this person after all— not like he really wants to either —so the less he can give away the better. Keeping a wall, a veil of anonymity between them, is the best course of action anyway. Names can be used to form attachments, and that’s the last thing he wants to do. 

Oh come on, you can at least give me a nickname.

He’s not particularly fond of that idea either, but at a lack of anything else and the chagrin of the possible consequences, he assumes he can allow it. It’s not like he can call his soulmate asshole for the rest of eternity. Although, on second thought, he doesn’t really hate that idea. 

Balladeer. You can call me Balladeer.

He gives one anyway. 

Alright deer~

Not taking into account the horrible pun, Scaramouche scowls at the poorly drawn antlers right above “deer”. They are crooked and not symmetrical and barely resemble deer antlers at all.

You can call me Childe!

Childe. It fits him, seeing as he seems to have the maturity of a 12 year old. But the irony doesn’t escape Scaramouche, and he almost laughs. Almost.

I didn’t ask, and stop making horrendous doodles, your handwriting is enough of a grievance. Also don’t call me “deer” ever again. It’s disgusting.

You’re quite the complainer, huh?

“Not my fault you’re annoying,” Scaramouche says as he spells the sentence on his arm. He’s never had much patience, but Childe just happens to be an expert at pushing all of his buttons.

Why the gods believe they are destined for each other is beyond him. He can’t possibly see himself happy with a guy like him, in fact, he is everything Scaramouche hates on people. Stubborn, idiotic, persistent. Childe doesn’t even present himself for interesting conversation.

Scaramouche hates everything Childe represents. 

He hates his soulmate. Plain and simple. 

Ouch, you wound me. You’re just way too serious. Relax! Take that frown off your face

But Scaramouche’s frown deepens instead. He is not too serious, he knows when to have fun. He just doesn’t have fun with this guy, hence his lack of amusement. However, he doesn’t get to act offended. Childe is writing furiously on his arms, and the words cascade in quick succession, almost tripping over themselves.

Anyway, I gotta go, have classes I can’t skip :( Wish me luck!

Hope you fail.

Scaramouche writes back as he sees Childe’s letters disappear, washed away by the current. When he looks at his arm, empty with no responses to his own words, it nearly feels like a bad dream. It reignites memories he wishes he could forget, times he wishes he could erase. He scratches roughly at his arm, the patch of skin turning red from the abuse, and he scurries to the kitchen sink.

He lathers more soap than necessary on his arm, but if he can wash it all away, he can pretend it all never existed in the first place. A nightmare. A ghastly trick of the mind.

But as the bubbles clear off, he sees a new message, printed directly in the middle of his forearm.

Ha! Who knew you could be funny.

And if Scaramouche chuckles lightly, that’s between him and the solitude of his home.

They set a routine without him even noticing. It creeps up to him, the familiarity of it all, unperceived and unperturbed.

Good morning!

He sees for the first time the very next day. And then the next. And the next after that one. It’s what his eyes find every morning, without fail, written at the base of his wrist. Even if he has yet to answer back in kind, it’s always there, waiting for him to finally open his eyes.

Good morning!

But there’s nothing good about the morning, no matter how hard Childe tries to convince him otherwise. A new day means Scaramouche has got to work, it means he has to be a productive member of society, it means he needs to see people he’d rather keep 6 feet under.

Nevertheless, Childe is persistent, so he keeps writing his goods and his mornings, and Scaramouche keeps on spotting them. Over and over again.

Their conversations are rather dull and void of any entertainment. He doesn’t write anything while at work, and Childe has a busy schedule as is, hence their boringly small talk. Not like it would matter otherwise, there’s so many topics Childe can come up with someone who is unwilling to share. It doesn’t bother Scaramouche anyway, he’s told himself it’s better that way.

It doesn’t come as a surprise, then, that Scaramouche knows more about Childe than the other way round. He knows he has a big family, two older siblings and three younger ones. He knows he’s close to finishing his masters and finally graduating from university. He knows his favourite fishing spot. And he knows the number of freckles on his left toe.

All information Scaramouche didn’t ask and didn’t want to learn, but Childe seems fond of oversharing and Scaramouche doesn’t have a tactic to make him shut up just yet. But Scaramouche has been cursed with photographic memory, so no matter how hard he tries to pretend he doesn’t care, he can recall every detail with surprising ease. 

And time keeps on moving, and they keep on writing. The sun sets in the west as Scaramouche reads the dumb question of the day, and it feels all too mundane. Too ordinary. Childe has become, at some point, part of his everyday routine. He can’t understand, in fact, he doesn’t want to understand why he has indulged him for so long.

Yet he answers anyway.

Cereal is cereal, don’t be stupid.

But think about it, you have liquid (milk) and chunky pieces floating on it. That’s just what soup is.

Scaramouche rubs his eyes to fight the sleepiness brought down by the warmth of the sun, and he looks down at Childe’s argument again. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It’s all awfully ridiculous for his tired self.

The liquid has to be savoury. No one eats cereal with vegetable stock now, do they?

Not if you’re a coward.

He has to fight the bubble of laughter forming on his chest from escaping. It’s the most Childe-like answer he’s gotten all week and his lips twitch with the effort of keeping his smirk down.

Archons, I hope you die of indigestion.

His eyes glance up to the clock mounted on his wall, marking the end of their conversation. It’s time for Childe to go to his afternoon classes, so the rest of their conversation will have to wait until the next day. Scaramouche stretches as he turns around to lay on his stomach, catching the last embers of the sun disappearing under the cold Snezhnayan waters.

Despite all his complaining, on lazy moments like these, he feels comfortable. Pleased even. So much so, he allows himself to disregard the part of his brain that fears for him, of the new developments of his life.

You’re joking, right? Deer?

Maybe he is, maybe he is not, but that’s not for Childe to know. Scaramouche stands up from his bed as he starts his night routine, deciding to call it a day earlier than usual.

He is tired from a long work week and as he cozies up in bed, he wishes for a quiet Friday.

But wish is all he can do, and for once he almost believed they might come true. That is, until the door to his office swings open. It’s almost the end of his shift when his eyes catch a glimpse of black rooster feathers nestling in a large top hat, followed by bright yellow eyes behind clear glasses. Pulcinella peaks at him from the open door, knocking a few times with the back of his hand. 

“Can I come in?” He asks as he moves inside the office, leaving Scaramouche no room for an answer. He sits down on the chair in front of Scaramouche’s desk, resting his hands on his cane for unnecessary support. 

“What do you need?” A visit from the HR director himself can never mean good news, seeing as he only knows how to carry complaints no matter where he goes.

“Oh there’s nothing to worry about Scaramouche,” he smiles pleasantly at him, twisting the corner of his moustache between his fingers. “I was just wondering about your condition.”

“I’m fine,” he says as he closes his laptop and disconnects it from the other monitors. “Why do you ask?”

Pulcinella shifts his position in the chair as he leans forward. His yellow eyes gleam and he motions with a gloved finger for Scaramouche to get closer.

“Well you see,” he whispers conspiringly, covering his face with a hand and looking around the empty office for inexistent intruders in showbiz. “We’ve had a few unusual complaints. 

“You’ve been…” he shifts even closer. “Too happy lately. It seems to have scared a few of our employees.”

He leans back in the chair, sitting straight and eyeing Scaramouche with big patient eyes. He waits for him to come with a response, blinking a few times when he sees Scaramouche’s unimpressed face. Pulcinella fixes his hat back in place and opens his mouth to elaborate. 

“I initially wasn’t going to do anything about it, it’s ridiculous after all,” he chuckles lightly in between words, gesturing dismissively as if to further prove his point. “But then I noticed you haven’t fired anyone this month, and I couldn’t help but get a little worried.”

Scaramouche slumps over his chair and crosses his arms defensively. He squints trying to recall the past few weeks, his memory hazy as he tries to remember anything but the late conversations with Childe after work hours. Has he really not fired anyone this month? Granted, he hasn’t found any major issue with his team thus far, but that has never stopped him from terminating someone before. 

“I-” he pauses, shaking his head before setting his gaze on Pulcinella. “Have I not really?”

“I’m afraid not.” He flicks the bottom of his hat with his middle finger to open his face. There’s humour in his expression, noticeable in the fine lines of his eyes. He’s noted something Scaramouche has not, like a hound finally getting close to its prey.

Pulcinella, despite his seemingly caring nature, is nothing of the sort. Underneath all the pompous attire lies a calculating man, ready to pounce at anything that he may see of use. He is manipulative, luring his victims in with words of empty reassurance and feign comfort. Scaramouche has lost count of the amount of times Pulcinella has managed to convince employees to stay after one of Dottore’s fits, or the way he has quietly settled distressed secretaries unfortunate enough to meet Pantalone’s rage. 

If anything, his small stature might work in his favour. After all, who would suspect the small, sweet old man?

But Scaramouche has worked here long enough to recognize a threat when it’s presented straight to his face, and he is not about to become Pulcinella’s plaything.

So he sits back up, schooling his expression back to neutral and folding his hands in front of him. He’s given away more than he ever desired, but it doesn’t necessarily mean the situation is unsalvageable.

“I guess I just didn’t have to,” he sneers at him, lifting his chin to look down on the old man. “Is there an issue with that?”

And for a split second, Pulcinella’s expression drops. His left eye twitches ever so lightly, and his smile becomes tighter, more forced. It’s gone before Scaramouche can blink, and for the untrained eye it would’ve gone fully unnoticed. Pulcinella laughs whole-heartedly, placing a hand over his stomach to place emphasis, and wipes away fake tears from his eyes.

He leans forward again, less inviting and still chuckling, and peers at Scaramouche from over his glasses. “It’s just very unlike you.”

Scaramouche doesn’t dignify that with a response. He stands up and swiftly moves to open the door of his office, his hand gesturing towards the hall.

“If there isn’t anything else you want to tell me, then you can leave.”

There’s a tense silence in the room, suspended on nothing but a breath neither of them dare to take. The yellow of Pulcinella’s eyes bore into the purple of his, and he sighs, supporting his weight on his cane as he stands up. He fixes his hat again as he exits back to the hallway, only turning around when he hears the click of the door closing, and sees Scaramouche locking it with his keys.

“Eager to go home?” His eyebrow lifts in curiosity, and whether he finds it suspicious or not, Scaramouche can not tell.

“More like eager to get out of this place.”

Which he manages to do with little to no interruption, arriving home sooner than expected. His peaceful weekend is all but forgotten as he paces incessantly the small path from the kitchen to the living room. His conversation with Pulcinella is still fresh on his mind, weighing heavy on all the implications left unsaid. It is unlike him to go so long without firing someone. It is strange for him to not be so… ostracizing.

His work days blur all together and suddenly he can’t tell what has happened in that office of his. He is unfocused, uncoordinated. He is distracted . By something or someone but he can’t put his finger exactly on what it is. It’s affecting his work and he doesn’t even know what it is.

He pauses his frantic steps and the worrying of his thumb’s nail when he sees letters appear on the back of his hand.

Earth to Balladeer?

And like a lightbulb that’s been switched on, the reality of it all dawns on him. It’s Childe whose conversation he’s indulged too much. Childe whose nonsense he’s put up with for far too long. Childe who he has spent the past month and a half talking over and over again. It’s Childe, the source of his current issue.

Because he is distracting and demanding and taking Scaramouche’s precious time and mental capacity away. It’s almost exasperating how much time he’s been wasting on him.

What do you want?

I’m graduating next week! :D

As Scaramouche sees the sentence spells out on his arm, he can’t feel anything but the overlying anger of his foolishness. Without his knowledge, he’s allowed himself to hope again, and it hindered the other aspects of his life. But enough is enough. He can’t pretend to play in this farce anymore.

No Childe, what do you really want? What is it that you want from me?

His anger melts away to leave only the exhaustion in its wake. He’s tired of pretending he can get what he desires. No matter what, he’s never going to open up, and no matter what, he’s never going to give in. He’s learned nothing really goes his way, and in regards to soulmates, he’s learned it the hard way.

Wow, what’s up with the sudden serious talk? Did something happen?

Let’s stop writing to each other. It’s all meaningless anyway.

Scaramouche curls up on his bed, looking past his window to the beautiful view of the city, but there are no stars in the sky that night. It’s all blank and empty, and in focusing on it he can ignore the myriad of messages plastered on his skin.

Are you mad at me? Did I do something wrong?

He finds the next day instead of his usual good morning, and somehow, he hates that more.

Two weeks pass by in a blur, and if their conversations were already short lived, they are barely there anymore. It’s all passing greetings and questions that get answered with a simple yes and no. Scaramouche’s mood plummets and he fires three people in the span of a week, but he’s more focused now. More committed.

He throws himself in his work, following Dottore’s new project closer than ever. He moves from meeting to meeting, from answering emails to signing approvals. It’s all he does to try to take things out of his mind.

As he arrives at work that day, he looks down at the good morning that is for some reason still there, written on his wrist, and he clenches his fist. It’s better that way, he’s said so himself.

Scaramouche slams closed the door of his car and heads towards the building’s main door. Fatui and Co is written in big bold letters that for a toy company look less than inviting. He goes through the revolving door and finds the first annoyance of the day.

Blocking the entrance to the elevator there’s a tall, broad, with a puff of orange hair atop his head, man. He’s murmuring something Scaramouche can’t understand but by the looks of it, he can’t open the small gate with his keycard. He seems seated to give it a try, however, seeing as he taps his card over and over again hoping that it may work once. His shoulders slump in defeat and he turns around as soon as he hears Scaramouche clear his throat.

His frown immediately makes way for a charming smile, full of perfect white teeth in between rosy lips. His blue eyes look at Scaramouche, and he has to tilt his head downwards ever so slightly due to the height difference. His orange hair contrasts the paleness of his skin, and even from far away Scaramouche can see the freckles of his nose well enough to be able to count them.

“Ah, sorry. I didn’t know you were there,” he sheepishly rubs the back of his head with his hand and has the modesty to look apologetic. “It’s just, I can’t open the gate…”

Scaramouche sighs, any other day he would’ve just moved on and not make it his problem, but there’s something about this stranger. Something that makes him stretch out a hand to offer his help. The stranger looks at him with a tilt of his head, confused, and Scaramouche has to suppress another sigh from coming out of his lips.

“Your keycard.”

“Oh.”

The stranger moves to give him the card, Tartaglia is written right below his smiling picture, and Scaramouche motions for him to follow. He guides him to the receptionist table, where he slams the keycard with more force than necessary to jolt awake the sleeping security guard.

“Nikolai.”

“Y-yes, Mr. S-Scaramouche,” poor Nikolai stumbles over his words, after being caught slacking off by none other than Scaramouche. His eyes open wide as saucers and his lips tremble with slight fear.

“This employee’s card isn’t working. Fix it,” he squints his eyes menacingly, sliding the keycard in his direction.

“I-immediately sir.” Nikolai grabs the card and sets on working, typing furiously on his keyboard.

Scaramouche crosses his arms as he watches him work, and the silence stretches uncomfortably tense on all of them. He can see Nikolai sweating as he finishes scanning the keycard to make sure there are no other errors.

“It should w-work now Mr. Scaramouche” he stands up to give the card back to him with a tremble on his hands.

“It better be,” Scaramouche says as he sneers at him and whips around, going back to the gate.

Tartaglia is a few steps behind him, jogging to keep up with Scaramouche’s quick pace. He grabs the keycard when Scaramouche holds it out to him and taps it on the sensor to open the gate. It opens without issues and Tartaglia smiles back at him.

“Thank you,” and the smile gets close enough to override the dullness of his blue eyes, but not enough for Scaramouche to see them sparkle.

He doesn’t say anything, moving instead to press the elevator’s button. The wait for the elevator extends uncomfortably as they are stuck together in a dead conversation. Tartaglia bounces awkwardly on the heels of his feet, his boyish features tensing until he can’t take the silence anymore and opens his mouth.

“I’m new here,” he says leaning against the elevator frame to enter Scaramouche’s field of vision.

“I know,” he responds simply.

“You do?” And there’s a smile back in his face, looking closer like a smirk, cockier in his eyes.

“Not hard to figure out when you were embarrassing yourself in front of the gate,” Scaramouche quirks an unimpressed eyebrow in his direction.

Tartaglia’s smirk falls off his face in an instant. His response gets interrupted by the ding of the elevator, but he doesn’t seem to want to keep his dignity intact as he follows Scaramouche inside.

“I was told this would give me access to the building,” his pout is almost cute. Almost. Especially when it’s aggravated by Scaramouche’s small chuckle.

“Then they lied to you,” the elevator door closes as it moves to the upper floors of the building. Tartaglia’s hand hovers over the buttons, hesitating briefly until he seems to remember the correct floor number. He looks over at Scaramouche, silently asking for a number to press. A thing Scaramouche pointedly ignores, pressing the tenth button floor on his own. 

He stands close to Scaramouche, way too close for comfort on a spacious elevator such as this. They are the only people on it, but Tartaglia seems set on trying to capture his attention. 

“Which department do you work for?” Scaramouche can tell he is looking at him out of the corner of his eye, even if he tries to make a point of looking forward.

He considers his answer. Tartaglia doesn’t seem like the type of person to be content with a dismissive answer, so to save him some grievance, he responds with the truth. “IT.”

“I’m the new hire in finance,” he provides, even if Scaramouche didn’t ask. 

The elevator dings once more, signifying their arrival to Tartaglia’s floor. He hesitates slightly before hoping off and turning around to look at Scaramouche again. Smiling seems to come easy to him, even if it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Thanks again, Scaramouche.”

Scaramouche pushes the button to close the doors faster a few times, and when they are almost adjacent he calls back. “That’s Mr. Scaramouche for you.”

What he considered to be their first and last conversation, proves to be wrong a few hours later as Pantalone bursts through the door of his office with Tartaglia in tow. He really ought to lock it more often, seeing as no one in this building seems to have decent enough manners to knock.

Tartaglia’s eyes seem to widen slightly as he recognizes Scaramouche, and he shifts uncomfortably as he enters the office. He fidgets the earring on his left ear, and focuses his gaze downwards. 

“Scaramouche,” Pantalone plops down on the chair across his desk, crossing his legs as he gets comfortable. “I need you to do something for me.”

Pantalone signals Tartaglia to get closer, grabbing the laptop he hands him and pushing it towards Scaramouche's direction. He can only shoot him an unimpressed look as the motion topples over all of his other paperwork.

“I’m busy,” he seethes. Out of everyone to deal with so early in the morning Pantalone is the last of his choices.

“It shouldn’t take you that long,” he dismisses and it only makes Scaramouche’s desire to snap his neck in two all the more extreme. “I just need you to give him access to all the programs he needs. He’s going to be my new assistant.”

That explains why Scaramouche hasn’t been hounded by Pantalone’s assistant lately. The girl— whatever her name was —must have finally called it quits. A shame Tartaglia has to become that crazy bastard’s new victim.

“You’re aware you can ask literally anyone else, right?” He tries to sound noncombatant but the grit of his teeth makes it hard to accomplish.

“They are all incompetent,” Pantalone deadpans, rolling his eyes to further insult Scaramouche. “I need this done by today.”

And Scaramouche would’ve complained more had Pantalone not been right. He really needs to go through applications more thoroughly. The lack of employees who meet his standards seems to be dwindling with each passing day.

Regardless, the intensity of his glare is enough to make Tartaglia look away in discomfort, but for someone as egotistical as Pantalone it has no effect. He knows there is no way to get Pantalone off his back unless he gets done what he wants, so in light of this development he might as well try to get something out of it. 

“Increase my budget.”

“You don’t need an increase,” he crosses his arms and leans back in the chair, bouncing his leg in annoyance. When it comes to money, Pantalone is nothing short of ruthless.

“Then fuck off,” but Scaramouche has the advantage here. If he so wishes, he can make Pantalone’s life more difficult than necessary, and they both know it.

“How much are we talking about?” He asks tentatively, clearly annoyed but without any other options at his disposal.

“Ten percent,” Scaramouche says plainly, ignoring the way Pantalone huffs a laugh.

“Eight,” his eyes turn to slits, his face twitches.

“Fifteen.”

There’s a silence that follows as Pantalone calculates this whim of his. Were he capable of going back on his word, he wouldn’t have to be twisting his arm so much. Not that it matters to Scaramouche anyways. It all works in his favour at the end of the day.

“Fine, ten it is, get it done quickly now,” his face stays sour all the time Scaramouche spends adding programs and allowing access to different documents in Tartaglia’s computer.

He can’t really complain. He’s won more than he is giving and watching Pantalone fume has always been one of his favourite pastimes. Tartaglia stays unusually quiet all the time, only nodding along at Scaramouche explanations and setting his passwords when he asks him to.

And what he thought would be a two and deal meeting becomes close to a daily occurrence. Tartaglia probably spends more time in his office than anywhere else, all courtesy of Pantalone of course. He comes into his office daily to ask about budget adjustments, to correct excel sheets, to inquire about the most irrelevant things that could be solved with an email. Suddenly, Scaramouche doesn’t think the ten percent was worth all the grief.

Despite the constant interruptions, Tartaglia is at least not hard to deal with. He has a pretty straightforward way of approaching things, he’s easy to read, and eager to learn, but Scaramouche can’t decide if the man is smart or an irreparable idiot. He’s not particularly fond of his chatty nature either, but he’d rather listen to his voice than have to deal with Pantalone himself.

Something about the way the words flow out of his mouth reminds him of someone still present on his skin. Childe hasn’t said anything new all week, and he can’t help but resent the part of his brain that complains. He hates the way he misses their silly conversations. The way he’s picked up a pen several times this week with the intention of writing sentences that never reach his skin. It’s ludicrous how he’s grown attached to someone he barely— no, doesn’t even know. It’s even more frustrating that he doesn’t know what to do with the situation he’s ruined himself. 

He sighs heavily, resting his head against the wood of his desk. The cuff of his shirt rolls enough for him to see the words peaking back at him. They never leave that spot on his wrist and he doesn’t know if Childe writes them everyday or if he just never washes them out. Either way, they are permanently etched into his skin, tattooed as a reminder.

Good morning.

And he still can’t find what is so good about the mornings, but he has learned what it means to always see them.

“Ah, sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Scaramouche sits up in alarm, frantically adjusting the cuff of his shirt to cover the words. Tartaglia looks at him with interest, curiosity shining clearly on his eyes, and Scaramouche has to will his cheeks from turning red with embarrassment. He’s been caught moping. About his soulmate of all things.

He clears his throat, motioning for Tartaglia to sit on his office’s chair so that they can get back to work. Maybe if he ignores it Tartaglia will be kind enough to do the same.

“I can come back later if you want,” but the humour of his voice tells Scaramouche he won’t save him the shame. He hates how smart he is about the dumbest of things.

“You weren’t interrupting anything,” and the words taste like lies even to him. Tartaglia only laughs with good intention, seeing squarely through him.

“Are you having issues with your soulmate?” His grin becomes more present, showing the dimples of his cheeks. “I’m somewhat of a love guru, I could help you out.”

Somehow, Scaramouche doubts that.

“It’s none of your business,” he says through gritted teeth. He makes a point of opening his own laptop and typing his password with a loud clack of the keyword to signify the end of the conversation.

“Wow, wow,” he laughs heartily. “I was just trying to help. It’s bothering you a lot isn’t it?”

“I said-” and he hopes the aggravation in his voice is enough to shut Tartaglia up. “It’s none of your business.”

Whether he decided to give him mercy or felt intimidated enough to drop the topic, Scaramouche doesn’t know and doesn’t care. They get back to work on adjusting budget prices to hopefully make Pantalone any less insufferable, and the conversation stirs into something more casual.

Even though Tartaglia is still learning how all the processes work-- having been thrown to the wolves by Pantalone with no training whatsoever --he is somewhat of a fast learner. They wrap it rather quickly this time, much to Scaramouche’s satisfaction, and Tartaglia grabs his materials as he stands back up.

“Where are you going now?” Scaramouche asks only for pleasant curiosity. 

Tartaglia opens his notepad to check his schedule, cringing when he sees the name written down. “To Signora’s office.” 

Scaramouche feels for him, he really does. If there’s anything else Signora hates with a passion apart from churches, it is the finance department. He’d wish him good luck, but not even luck will be able to save him this time. 

Tartaglia sighs, and he hesitates briefly before exiting through the door, turning around to look at him one more time.

“I don’t know what you’re going through,” he signals towards Scaramouche’s hands with a jerk of his head. “But it’s better to say it instead of bottling it all up.”

He smiles at him once more before scurrying out the door, laughing when he hears Scaramouche curse at him.

The next morning, when Scaramouche writes good morning back, he tells himself it is all out of his own volition. He makes a point to not think about Tartaglia’s words from the previous day. 

His days shine brighter as the brief summer of Snezhnaya arrives. It is warm and horrendously humid for a country that is known for it’s almost perpetual winter, so Scaramouches ditches his long sleeve shirts for short sleeve ones, and he forces Childe to find some other place but his arms to write on.

They go back to their regular chats, the three weeks of radio silence all but forgotten as soon as Scaramouche took the first step. They don’t talk about it, about what happened to make him spiral, and he’s thankful for Childe’s willingness to respect his privacy. 

He is even more inclined to share things more personal to him, confessing that he moved to Snezhnaya on his own after finishing university, that he’s never been close to his mother, and even trading his favourite recipes for fishing tips. It’s nice.

He feels nice.

And while it’s far from the picture perfect, butterfly inducing daydreams his younger self used to have, it’s good enough for him. 

Nowadays, they mostly talk about Childe’s new job, which he managed to get an offer from soon after graduating. It’s almost endearing the way he talks about it with enthusiasm, innocent in the way all new graduates eager to work are. Yet when he rambles about the first gift he bought his younger brother with his first pay-check, Scaramouche doesn’t have it in him to burst his bubble. 

They talk and talk until either one of them falls asleep, repeating it all over again the next day. He’s gotten soft, Scaramouche can admit that much, but he still refuses on letting his veil of secrecy go, so the nicknames stick and they never say enough to figure out their whereabouts. Perhaps, with the passage of time, he’ll feel comfortable enough to lay himself bare, but that day isn’t today nor is it tomorrow. 

He gets to work earlier than usual that day, and he drinks in the quietness of an empty office. As much as he can wish for a similarly quiet day, he knows it won’t be the case. They are very close, after countless meetings and correspondence that seemed to fall on deaf ears, to launch the new product from Dottore’s project. Today marks the last meeting he has to attend, while the rest of it falls into Columbina’s and Arlecchino’s hands. He’s really just going because Dottore insisted he attend the prototype presentation, but Scaramouche is sure he’ll mostly just sit there and waste his time.

He is not surprised to find the conference room empty, as he is twenty minutes earlier than the scheduled time, but he is surprised to see Tartaglia enter the room five minutes later. He stops momentarily in his tracks when he sees Scaramouche sitting in the corner and awkwardly nods his head in salutation.

“I didn’t know you were part of the meeting,” Scaramouche says for nothing more than to start a conversation.

“Pantalone asked me to attend,” he shrugs one shoulder. Despite being nothing more than Pantalone’s assistant, Tartaglia doesn’t seem nervous to be trapped in a room with most of the company’s directors for the better part of an hour.

Scaramouche doesn’t get to ask why as Dottore opens the doors without any decorum. He brings in hand what Scaramouche can only assume is the prototype, a robot with a four pointed star for an eye, and two protruding screws— one on each shoulder —as a stylistic choice.

“Mouchie, dear, how unlike you to be here so early,” his smile is sickeningly enthusiastic as he sets the prototype on the table. His eyes are covered by his dark sunglasses, but Scaramouche can feel them boring into him all the same.

“And how like you to be so insufferable so early in the morning,” maybe he should’ve just skipped the meeting all together.

“Good morning,” Tartaglia says, drawing Dottore’s attention from Scaramouche to him.

“And you are?” The disdain in Dottore’s face takes precedence and his smile falls from his face as he critically eyes Tartaglia.

“Tartaglia, sir. I work with Mr. Pantalone.”

“Ah yes,” his expression turns into full scorn. “Pantalone’s new lap dog.”

Tartaglia doesn’t take offence, quite the contrary, his placid smile turns more wolfish and there’s a spark in his eyes Scaramouche has never seen before. Dottore notices it too, and he stalks over to Tartaglia, his step slow and intimidating.

“What do you even specialize in?” It’s a question asked to undermine his intellect. Dottore has no respect for anyone he doesn’t consider useful or smart enough to meet his standards after all.

“In making your mom scream at night,” Tartaglia responds without missing a beat, and all of Scaramouche’s misery for having to put up with Dottore’s antics seems worth it the moment his expression falls and turns into disgust.

He laughs, really laughs, for what feels like the first time in months. While Tartaglia’s response is nothing short of immature, the look it puts on Dottore's face is enough for Scaramouche to not care about his dignity for laughing at such a joke. He can see through tear filled eyes the way Tartaglia looks way too proud of himself as Dottore simply seethes at him.

Before any of them can say anything else, Sandrone and Arlecchino come into the room, too engrossed in their own discussion to notice Scaramouche clutching his stomach as he hiccups for air. Columbina enters after them, pausing only to look briefly in their direction before sitting down in between Arlecchino and Sandrone who keep fighting over something Scaramouche can’t be bothered to pay attention to.

She motions a single finger over her lip, effectively making everyone in the room shut their mouth close, and looks over at Dottore who is still fuming over Tartaglia.

“Capitano won’t be able to make it,” her voice is delicate and close to fragile on its timbre, but it cuts through the silence like a knife. It makes the room suddenly feel a few degrees colder.

Dottore acknowledges her with a nod, moving back towards the prototype and turning the monitor on to present his slide. “I suppose we can start then.”

Scaramouche zones out in the middle of the meeting when Sandrone goes on and on about the internal mechanism that allows the robot to move. He barely even pays attention when Dottore demonstrates the small rockets— allegedly not harmful for kids —that shoot from a back compartment. Most of his coding budget went into making the sensor work accordingly with the rocket's trajectory, a nightmare Scaramouche would rather never have to think about again.

“Have you thought of a name?” Columbina asks, making some notes in a small pink notepad.

Dottore smiles, the sort of grin that shows all of his unusual sharp teeth, and says, “Ruin Guard.”

“Are they always like that?” Asks Tartaglia as they exit the conference room after an hour of torture.

“Yes,” he grits.

With the meeting finally over, Scaramouche can finally return to the solace of his office and continue the work he desperately needs to get done. Just as he assumed, it was all a total waste of his time, but he is content with paying the price just to have been given the opportunity to see Dottore be put in his place by a newcomer of all people. Thinking about it still makes him snicker.

Tartaglia drops him off at his office door, bouncing on his heels as he tries to ask the question on the tip of his tongue. “Are you going to the company dinner?”

“And spend more time with those assholes? Fuck no,” Scaramouche scoffs, unlocking his office door. “I have work to do anyway. Are you?”

Tartaglia shakes his head negatively, “I have to stay to oversee some issues with the sales department.”

“Lucky you,” is the last thing he says as he closes the door and goes back to his desk.

He ends up being absorbed in his work, totally missing the clock and feeling startled when he sees it hit eight pm. There’s almost no one left in the office, and Scaramouche goes down to the cafeteria to make himself a cup of coffee before heading home. It feels like a dead town, and some days Scaramouche wishes it would stay that way.

He places a paper cup in the compartment of the coffee machine and waits for the delicious dark roast to fill the cup. He takes the few seconds he has to stretch his arm overhead, wincing as he feels his locked muscles loosen up slowly. He really needs to stop hunching over his desk so much.

His impromptu stretching session is interrupted when he hears the clang of a pen hit the floor. Tartaglia is standing a few meters away from him, his eyes wide and his mouth agape. His eyes are fixated somewhere in Scaramouche’s midriff, and when their eyes connect, all the blood seems to leave his face. His mouth opens and closes in quick succession, as if whatever he saw is ghastly enough to cut any coherent thought short. His pale complexion turns even whiter, creating a bigger contrast with his ginger hair and Scaramouche fears for a second he might pass out right there and then. 

“Is anything wrong?” He tries asking carefully.

“I- You-,” he stutters, shaking his head in disbelief. “I’m sorry- I just-”

He leaves the cafeteria in a rush, not even bothering to pick up the pen on the floor. It leaves Scaramouche blinking in confusion. Confusion he shrugs off in order to pick up the pen that had rolled all the way to his feet and to retrieve his steaming cup of coffee. He’s always been a weird one, Tartaglia that is, so whatever it is that’s put him in that mood doesn’t concern Scaramouche. Although, he supposed he could give him the pen back anyway.

And as he sips on his coffee, he doesn’t bother to adjust the tousled hem of his shirt.

Childe? Are you there?

Scaramouche writes when he notices the lack of messages on his skin. 

He doesn’t get an answer.