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.ೃ༄ 𓆩
There's a hand curling around Scaramouche's upper arm, stopping him in his tracks. It makes him flinch, simply because he didn't expect such a touch, but as he whirls around to snap at the creep holding him up, there's a voice reaching his ears.
“I'm sorry, do I know you?”
And just like that, everything stops. The perpetual noise of Liyue harbor trickles into static fuzzing, the corners of his vision grow darker until he's only zeroing in on the man in front of him. He's still holding him, firm but gentle at the same time, and his head is cocked to the side curiously. Scaramouche spots that easy-going smile of his, the one he’s grown so, so used to and he thinks he hears something shatter inside of him. Like some part of his mechanism is stuttering and falling apart, all the screws and gears and ball-point-joints keeping him up failing him at once.
There’s a weight settling heavily on his chest, pressing down on his torso and he’s not quite sure how to breathe around it, how to inhale deep enough to get fresh oxygen into his veins and not being crushed by the weight that is Childe and then some.
Scaramouche stares at him like he’s seen a ghost. He almost expects him to break out into laughter and cock his head to the side in that teasing, cheeky manner of his, lips stretching into a shit-eating grin while he proclaims “Found you.” but it never comes.
He’s unable to blink or look away, unable to say something and so there’s endless seconds stretching out between them, ticking away in complete and utter silence as the harbor continues its noisy bustling; there’s sellers yelling about fresh fish and other goods, children running past them in a hurried frenzy, screaming in glee as they chase after each other. There’s the clanking of cutlery from a nearby restaurant and someone’s laughing not far from Scaramouche.
He takes a heaving breath, trying to work his way around the weight, push it off of him, and swallows the lump that forms in his throat. Strangely, he feels an awful lot like laughing — maybe because the entire situation is really just ridiculous and he’s so pathetic to lose his cool over a moment like this.
He just didn’t expect it. He didn’t expect any of this. He didn’t expect Childe. But he should’ve known, because Scaramouche has never expected Childe and yet the man still showed up and surprised him. He’s a storm as much as he is the fight itself, blood singing and heat crushing beneath his fingertips and that's how he has always looked at Scaramouche and touched him, too. A disaster wreaking havoc — and Scaramouche didn’t expect it, but it happened anyway.
He’s pretty sure if he had an actual heart, it’d be beating out of his chest right now. He never understood why people used that phrase — it’s not like that’s actually possible. Yet here he is, and even without a functioning heart, he gets it now.
Childe still looks the same. How could he not when it’s only been a few months since Scaramouche has last seen him? Still, he thinks he spots some slight differences; his hair is longer, the auburn strands curling around to his ears, falling into his eyes. He’s long due for a haircut and the sight evokes a pang in his chest. He seems to have grown broader, even if it’s just a little. He fills out his jacket better now, finally starting to put down the boyish features of a young adult, barely past the legal age. His eyes are still as dead as ever, void of any kind of light, but he has a slight tan now and the freckles stand out more than they ever did in Snezhnaya’s eternal winter.
The afternoon sun, low in the sky, bathes him in a bright, golden hue and Scaramouche needs another second where he simply drinks him in, before he gets a hold of himself again. He’s beautiful. Archons, he’s so beautiful, Scaramouche is in awe. How can someone so bloodthirsty be this pretty? He’s like a prince, not a Harbinger. Something gentle and soft and sweet, not brutal and ill-tempered and ready to get stains onto his clothes, wounds onto his body.
His first instinct is to reach out. Scaramouche wants to touch him so badly; he wants to cup his face, feel the warmth of his blood beneath his skin, see how it tinges pink ever so slightly, because Childe simply isn’t used to such affections, especially not from the sixth of the Fatui Harbingers. Scaramouche wants to card his fingers through that auburn hair, brush through the tiny knots and untangle them in an act of gentleness that he would never openly admit to. He wants to rest his hand at Childe’s neck, wants to pull him down, wants to kiss him with all the longing he’s felt in that artificial body of his ever since he came to in Sumeru, lacking any recollection of a past life but possessing a void in his chest that couldn’t just be the lack of a heart.
His upper arm is still enclosed by Childe’s hand, gently but firm nevertheless, holding him back. He doesn’t make any effort to let go so far, but suddenly it’s all too much. The way he regards Scaramouche, those dark, blue eyes too heavy for him to keep looking back at them. They search his face, they reach beneath the surface of his skin and Scaramouche fears for a long, terrifying and lonely moment that he might see the empty space in his ribcage and realize he’s nothing but malfunctioning. A pitied case study, a failed creation — nothing worth wasting your time on. His touch is too firm and yet too loose at the same time and his hand emits a heat that feels like it’s singeing right through his arm, leaving a mark he can’t erase.
Overwhelmed, Scaramouche recoils and rips his arm out of Childe’s hand, taking a step backwards in the process. The second the touch vanishes and Childe draws his hand back, noticing how Scaramouche distances himself, there’s cold replacing the heat, piercing through his skin and freezing his blood. He misses it almost immediately, but he wills himself to be stronger than a simple mundane desire and a bunch of feelings.
Reaching up, Scaramouche forgoes the urge to touch Childe and instead, he readjusts his hat, pulling it a bit lower than necessary in order to escape those murky blue eyes that still won’t leave him.
“No,” he responds brazenly and far too late. Not that it sounds convincing anyways, not with how Scaramouche has gaped at him. He doesn’t even believe himself and if Childe just listens a bit more intently, he’ll hear the waver in his voice, too.
Technically, he isn’t the one seeing ghosts — it’s Childe. The question is why? How is he able to do so?
It doesn’t seem to be a lot, given that his expression is puzzled when Scaramouche looks up at him another time. Upon the answer he has received, his brows are furrowed and his lips pressed into a thin line. He watches him as if he’s trying to figure out where he has seen Scaramouche before.
Still — he remembers something. If he wouldn’t, then Scaramouche had just been another strange face in the crowd, not worth more than a fleeting look, if anything at all, given that Childe is still a Harbinger and has better things to do than meddle with commoners, no matter how much he likes that.
And that’s the thing: he shouldn’t.
Why the fuck is he recognizing Scaramouche in a crowd. Why the fuck is he remembering something, anything, whatever the fuck it is that he remembers. Why?
Scaramouche knows where Irminsul succeeded and where it failed him. The Balladeer went into it with the intention to never emerge from it. He wanted to atone for sins and die. Scaramouche can’t exactly blame him for that, with what he’s seen from all the memories he got back from Buer. Those centuries he suffered through were anything but kind to him. It would never excuse what he did in retaliation, but nowadays, Scaramouche is no god and no longer attempts to be one. He’s not here to make judgements.
The thing is, though, that he didn’t die.
Irminsul successfully overwrote anything about him, that’s what happened. Erased any memory and event connected to him, yet history can’t be changed that easily. Fate isn’t swayed by a single soul, just as mundane as a human’s. That was probably the hardest pill to swallow.
Balladeer was evil as much as he was tortured. But Scaramouche finds traces of him in his new life and sees himself in his past actions, too. He didn’t die and this life isn’t exactly new or a lot different. And all of it, past and present, comes together with the man in front of him.
Of course, once intrigued, the Tsaritsa’s Eleventh isn’t one to let things go that easily. He has seen Scaramouche stare at him like a deer caught in the headlights. No one would believe him after such a telling reaction.
“I think I do, though,” Childe says, his gaze unsettling at this point. He clearly tries to figure out where his sense of remembrance is coming from, yet can’t place it — how could he, when Scaramouche doesn’t exist in this world? At least, not like that. Not in Childe’s life, not even in his company as far as the Eleventh is concerned. Never has, in this retelling, although Scaramouche has memories of waking up in a warm embrace and feather-light touches mapping out his skin in silent curiosity.
“No, you don’t.” It’s better to squash Childe’s new curiosity than feed into it. There is nothing good coming out of this. Scaramouche wouldn’t know how to explain this all and Childe would probably deem him utterly insane if he heard the full story. He’s no longer a Harbinger and Childe is busy serving his beloved Archon, laying yet another Gnosis to her feet.
There is no space for Scaramouche left in that life, one where “Lord Tartaglia” sits on the tip of his tongue rather than “Childe”, because that name was never offered to him. A life where the Tsaritsa’s Eleventh has devoted himself with everything he has to Her Majesty’s cause and can’t mingle with a nameless, drifting wanderer, unsure where the winds will take him. Childe has a path set out for him, meanwhile Scaramouche neither has a home nor a destination.
It’s for the better, really, to cut this off before it can evolve into something that might hurt Scaramouche more than this longing surging up inside of him, because he can’t stay with Childe anyways. They’re no longer colleagues, they don’t go on missions together anymore. It’s a miracle they’ve even met here in Liyue Harbor — but Childe must be here for business once more and he’ll leave as soon as that is done.
There’s no use in getting his hopes up and indulging in his stupid desires when it’ll be all gone again soon enough.
“Have you been to Liyue Harbor before?” Childe inquires, eyes alert, like he hasn’t heard Scaramouche at all. He steps closer, but he doesn’t reach out to touch him again. Despite the fact that Scaramouche set up that silent boundary and despite the fact that he keeps telling himself that this is for the better, he aches with the lack of it.
Pain ripples through his body, like a tidal wave tearing down all his walls and his eyes burn. This time, when he swallows the lump doesn’t go away. He opens his mouth, but something prevents him from cutting the conversation short with a simple, cold No. It feels like his vocal chords have been cut.
He tries to take a proper inhale, but it falls flat, short and everything inside of him flinches at the thought of letting Childe go like this. It’s for the better, but it’s not what he wants.
Scaramouche misses him.
Looking into his eyes, Childe patiently waiting for a response he probably already knows is a construct of excuses, it hits him fully for the very first time. Like a punch to the guts, leaving him reeling, Scaramouche can’t breathe for a moment and all he wants to do is shake his head and tell him not to go. Don’t leave me.
He wants Childe to stay and wants him to talk, wants to touch and be touched in response, Archons, he wants so much and he has to ball his hands into fists to stop himself from acting upon it. There’s a tremor running through him at the action and he grits his teeth in response, stopping himself just in time before he blurts out something that he couldn’t explain. Something that would sound a lot like a confession, like an admission, rather than dismissal.
He misses him so much, the warmth he emits, because he runs hot like a furnace even back in Snezhnaya’s cold. He misses the sound of his voice, warm and full of affection or teasing, the way his mouth quirks up a little higher on the left than on the right when he’s grinning full of mischief. Hell, he even misses the way he would push his buttons any given opportunity and the way he’d bristle with anger whenever Scaramouche would do the same in retaliation.
“I haven’t,” he replies eventually. His voice is flat, lacking any life. He casts his gaze down to the Harbinger’s boots, refusing to meet his eyes when he’s this close to despair. That, at least, is the truth. His next words, however, not so much and they cost him every last ounce of strength, “What would you want with a drifter anyways, Lord Harbinger? You must’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
Scaramouche expects Childe to double down. The Eleventh isn’t one to give up, so the next step for him would be to deny that and tell him that he’s pretty sure, even if he can’t pinpoint why. That’s why he’s all the more surprised, when he hears Childe hum, deep in thought.
“My apologies, then,” he says finally, and when Scaramouche’s head lifts, staring up at him perplexedly, Childe gives him a slight, soft bow. Graceful as always and polite as ever, although he wouldn’t have to do that since he’s the Harbinger and Scaramouche a nameless citizen.
Straightening up, he locks eyes with Scaramouche and gives him a kind little smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes, but he only notices that because of all the time he has spent with Childe. Anyone else would’ve taken it as absolutely genuine, not tinged with dissatisfaction. He doesn’t believe him, of course not, but there’s no reason for Childe to press on the matter and so he lets Scaramouche get away with his lies.
Something inside of him, maybe the same part as before, shatters once more when the Eleventh is the first to leave their conversation. Usually that was always Scaramouche; he’d leave Childe standing where he was, going on about his day — only to hear quick footsteps catching up with him once more and an amused laugh ringing in his ears.
Now Scaramouche finally gets to experience the other side firsthand as he watches how Childe turns on his heels and then walks down the broad cobblestone road, mixing into the crowd once more. Scaramouche takes a step forward, one hand already coming up as if he could stop the other man from going, his mouth open around the syllables of his name.
Childe sticks out like a sore thumb in the midst of all these people, with his height and hair the shade of auburn. Scaramouche doesn’t catch up with him. He stays rooted in place and watches him go until he disappears around a corner. And then he flees in the other direction.
.ೃ༄ 𓆩
To miss someone is not a foreign concept to Scaramouche but no matter how many times he's experienced it, he still doesn't know how to fight it. It comes from a place that Scaramouche hid deep underneath a lot of debris as the centuries passed on. He missed people back then already, Niwa and Katsuragi, his mother and that boy as well, because missing is a reaction more than an action itself. To miss means to love, means to yearn.
Scaramouche could hate them all he wanted, but that hatred also needed fuel and that was nothing but his pain. A pain that, ultimately, comes from love, too.
It’s easier not to miss someone when you’re so busy loathing them as much as you can. Trying to find more reasons to despise a person leaves you with little time to mourn them and so Scaramouche never truly focused on that feeling. Maybe a part of him knew back then already that he couldn’t handle such a thing. He doesn’t know what to do with it, that hollow ache in his chest that doesn’t come from missing a core mechanism and back then he didn’t bother to find a cure for it. Instead, he focused all his energy on being angry; it worked, because anger is distracting. It’s easier to hate than to miss, it doesn’t require nearly as much attention and care.
But as Scaramouche lies in bed that night, his yearning is the only thing that’s there. There’s no reason for him to be angry at Tartaglia, let alone hate him. Childe has never even attempted to actually hurt him. And here, as his anger fails him after all, after centuries of using it to shield himself from anything that might break him down, his yearning catches up with him at full speed. It hits as precise as an arrow and lodges itself deep into the crevice of his ribcage, piercing through that carefully curated facade like it’s nothing — and Scaramouche all but crumbles.
He can hear sounds coming from outside the room he booked in the inn; voices and laughter, footsteps trailing past his door. It speaks of life and company, everything that he lacks in the dark shadows of his room and he can’t help but remember the nights he spent in Childe’s presence.
He curls up into a ball, drawing his knees close to his chest and pressing his arms in between the space there and his chest aches with the memory of a warm, solid body pressed close against his. This bed is too big for one person and Scaramouche is painfully aware of it. When he reaches out a shaky, hesitating hand, it doesn’t touch warm skin, doesn’t find a heartbeat buried in someone else’s chest, steady and comforting and lulling him into sleep with its rhythm. There is no soft chuckle from another person coming from the side, no arms wrapping around his frame and pulling him closer despite all his hissing and complaining, because Childe knew.
He knew, he always knew, although he never asked and Scaramouche never said it. There were too many confessions buried in their beds to ignore it in its entirety, nestled between sheets and pillows, breathed into life simply because Scaramouche grew too attached to a touch as mundane and gentle as Childe’s and Childe couldn’t stay away.
Right now, he’s the loneliest he’s ever been — Without his hatred and his fury and with the understanding that something is amiss and that he actively lost something, although in this timeline the world has never even given him this much, Scaramouche feels terribly lonely. His limbs hurt with every move and his chest stutters around every breath he takes.
His eyes sting traitorously as his hand lingers on the empty space next to him, pressing down on nothing but a mattress and a blanket. A place he grew used to being occupied by a body bigger than his own, warmer, more alive. Now, that space is cold and untouched; the blanket that covers his body reaches all the way over there, but the fabric feels soft and unused against his palm, crinkling softly when he grabs it in a fistfull and then pulls it closer with another shaky exhale.
Scaramouche buries his face in the blanket, tries to escape the gaping emptiness that wraps around him by simply hiding away from it. He tries to grow as small as possible so he couldn’t be hugged even if there was someone there, preserving the last bit of body warmth that his system does produce. It could never match the furnace that is Childe and neither can he pretend that the blanket is someone else’s body, but it’s all he has and so he forces himself to shut his eyes.
The ghost in his bed never leaves his side throughout the night, seeping beneath the blanket and wrapping around him in the coldest embrace Scaramouche has ever felt. No matter how small he folds himself and no matter how hard he squeezes his eyes closed, it doesn’t ease.
.ೃ༄ 𓆩
Childe spots him way too easily, betraying the history Irminsul has rewritten. He spots him the second he steps out of the inn he booked to stay in for the duration of his trip, and he does so with the mannerism of someone that has looked for Scaramouche too often not to notice him now as he’s sitting cross-legged on a ledge on the other side of the street.
It wasn’t too hard to find the place, given that all Scaramouche had to do was looking for the hotel that is crawling with Fatui. When he found the inn, he realized with dread that the skirmishers are busy loading luggage and cargo onto their carts. They’re leaving and with them so does Childe. For a very long moment, he didn’t know what to do; logically speaking, it would be best to turn around and leave the place, forever remaining a mystery to Lord Tartaglia instead of letting him come closer when he’ll depart in but a few minutes. But Scaramouche can’t seem to get his feet to move, staring at the building across the street until the Eleventh comes into view.
He knows he shouldn’t give in like this, that he’s being weak and pathetic, but he can’t deny the relief that floods him when his eyes lock with Childe’s and the other man visibly perks up at the sight of him. A playful smile spreads on his lips and he turns to one of his subordinates, telling the woman something to which she nods. Then he’s crossing the street, ignoring the rest of the skirmishers that start to leave already it seems, and it’s all like a soothing balm for Scaramouche’s yearning, the hollowness in his chest closing for the moment.
He keeps eye contact, even when Tartaglia finally reaches him. He towers over him, especially now that Scaramouche is seated and he has to crane his neck to see his face and he thinks he sees some smug satisfaction about that flash over the ginger’s face.
“So I do know you.” His voice is warm now, less confused and polite than yesterday. It has this teasing, satisfied lilt to it and it sounds like pure music to Scaramouche’s ears. He can’t help the chuckle that rises in his chest and he turns his head to look out to the busy harbor below. The sun is reflecting on the water surface and the light breaking on the rippling looks like a million diamonds scattered all over it.
“Wouldn't you be the judge of that?” he replies, way too easy-going for someone that felt like he wouldn’t make it through the night in one piece simply because Childe wasn’t there.
He hears him chuckle, then, and when he focuses back on him, Childe rubs his neck in an almost embarrassed, shy manner. His eyes are cast to the side and he doesn’t seem to know what to say for a moment. Scaramouche knows his problem — how could he not when he’s the reason it’s a problem in the first place — but he decides to stay quiet. It’s nice to see him struggle a bit after all.
“It’s a little strange,” he settles on eventually, giving him a small shrug in the process.
Scaramouche raises his brows, biting down the urge to laugh at the Eleventh. “I’m sure it is,” he agrees, though his voice is dripping with sarcasm. It’s not like he feels particularly confident, but he tries to put on that mask anyways. Childe wouldn’t understand a breathy voice and shaky words. Yearning would only confuse him more.
He turns around on the narrow ledge so his back is facing Childe and his feet dangle over the edge. Like this, he looks at the harbor that stretches out down below and doesn’t have to force himself to look up into those pretty, blue eyes.
“You said you know me, didn’t you? So, what do you know?” The question comes out aloof and Scaramouche thanks himself for the countless years he spent on building up a near impenetrable facade that hides his feelings. It’s the only reason he even manages to say the words, because they mean more to him than simply the proof he asks of Childe.
They’re an actual manifestation of his longing, a begging to be heard, seen, recognized. What does he remember?
It’s quiet for a long time after Scaramouche has spoken. The seconds pass and turn into minutes, meanwhile Liyue Harbor is alive all around them. Childe stays unmoving behind him, but Scaramouche feels his gaze heavy on his body, how those eyes trail over his back and he wishes Childe would reach out and touch. Just once, just for a short, fleeting moment; the ghost of a touch, a refill for his memory for when he’ll return to that lonely bed tonight, he’ll have something he can cling to — even if it’s just the brush of fingertips against his shoulders.
At some point, he takes the silence for what it is, though. He tries not to be too disappointed about it, because this was the most logical outcome. It’s already a miracle that Childe senses some sort of déjà-vu upon looking at him. Asking him for memories is close to torture.
He lets out a sigh, shoulder’s dropping. Playing over his disappointment, Scaramouche tips his head back and looks to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of the Harbinger over his shoulders. His lips quirk up into a tiny smile, although he doesn’t feel like teasing at all.
“What?” he says, putting a mocking tone into it. He almost spits the word out, like there’s fury boiling beneath it, when there’s nothing but hollow devastation opening up under his feet, “Nothing? Not even my favorite color? And here I thought you knew me, Lord Harbinger.”
“You hate purple.”
Scaramouche freezes. His fingers dig into the concrete of the ledge he’s sitting on and his breathing comes to a stop. The words are rushed out, like it took Childe everything to keep them in this long. They’re breathless, hasty, spoken with a frenzy that doesn’t suit the Eleventh who’s always wrapping everything in charming smiles and teasing tones.
He turns his head properly now, trying to actually look up at Tartaglia and he finds him already looking. Once more, his gaze is heavy, full of something that Scaramouche doesn’t want to touch because he fears he couldn’t handle it.
“What?” he whispers, barely louder than Childe before him. The latter lets out a laugh that’s just as breathless as his response before. His eyes are wide and he’s practically unmoving as he takes Scaramouche’s face in like he only just now sees him properly.
“Which is… surprising, given that your eyes are purple,” he adds, softer this time. Scaramouche sees him swallow nervously and his gaze jumps away, past his face and directed towards the endless sea instead. And then his shoulders sag, just a little bit. “But you do.”
It’s impossible. It should be, at least, because Childe just did it. For some odd, unexplainable reason he actually remembers something. It’s just a tiny fragment, the hint of a relationship that got wiped out alongside Scaramouche’s previous life, but it’s something. And it sinks right into the empty space in Scaramouche’s chest, anchoring itself in between lungs and ribs, making sure it’ll stay there for all eternity. He feels an awful lot like crying again.
“Anything else?” he asks him as he breathes around the forming lump in his throat.
Childe seems to be encouraged by that reaction, although Scaramouche gave him no actual confirmation about the truth of his statement. He straightens up a little, lips pulling into the ghost of a smile and he offers, steadier and more confident this time, “If you allow me to take you out for some tea, I’d get your order right.”
“Yeah?”
“Bitter herbs and no honey.”
“Consider me impressed, Lord Tartaglia,” Scaramouche mumbles, finally lowering his gaze again. There’s a smile that threatens to break out on his lips, but Scaramouche tries to fight it with all his might. He shouldn’t be so happy about this, because he won’t be allowed to keep it. Showing up here, goading Tartaglia into this conversation and jog his memory like this is already too much. But Scaramouche simply can’t help himself. The ache in his limbs, the hollow gaping in his chest, it all stops with Childe this close. How could he not crave a remedy to his ailings?
“Tell me,” Childe says then. There’s a desperate pitch in his voice, his eyes sparkling with greed and he takes a step closer to him. One of his hands reaches out as if he wants to touch Scaramouche and Scaramouche inevitably leans in the second he notices, but stops himself again, leaving a short distance between each other.
He doesn’t tell Scaramouche what exactly he wishes to know, what he should tell him, but he knows what Childe means. He can read it in the azure of his eyes, the eagerness that lingers there, mixed with a familiar longing. All his thoughts about leaving it at this single, short encounter vanish into thin air at the sight of it and Scaramouche finds himself unable to put an end to this conversation.
“You used to call me Scaramouche,” he mumbles. There’s a long breath rushing out of Childe at the sound of his name, lips parting slightly. He looks like he’s been waiting for this information, like the sound of his name makes him dizzy and he immediately makes use of it.
“Scaramouche,” he repeats, soft and carefully pronounced, as if he wants to get it perfectly right at the first try. He doesn’t even have to try that hard, because the syllables roll off his tongue in a familiar manner and hearing his name wrapped up in the warmth of Childe’s voice causes a shiver to run down Scaramouche’s spine. It sounds the same as always, like he remembers him and everything that happened, as if Scaramouche was always on his mind and like he’s said that name a thousand times before already, which he has.
He’s said it in so many different ways, stuttering, in a breathless whisper, spitting it out like poison on his tongue, with that click of annoyance that makes his eyes glean dangerously. He yelled it through noise and murmured it into the crook of Scaramouche’s neck at dawn. Childe might not remember it, but it sounds just the same.
“What else?” the Harbinger wants to know, clearly eager for more information. At the sight of it, Scaramouche finds himself choked up, his vocal chords protesting, a lump forming in his throat. What is he supposed to tell him?
He could tell Childe about every last memory he has of him, every encounter, every sentence he’s ever said. He could tell him about the times they’ve sparred together until they both were exhausted, muscles screaming in pain. He could tell him about the banquets spent together, the countless firewater shots he downed with him, simply because he had nothing better to do than to humor Childe and his pathetic attempt to drink him under the table. Scaramouche could tell him about the banter and the annoyances, could tell him about the times when he’d grit his teeth and would stare Scaramouche down, trying his hardest not to hurl an insult at his higher-ranked colleague and how Scaramouche relished in the silence.
He could tell him about the many, many nights they spent together, pressed close to each other, Scaramouche always, always searching for a warmth he can’t produce himself and Childe giving it away so easily. Giving himself up so freely, so willingly whenever it came to him. He didn’t even have to ask.
Scaramouche could remind him of the times when Childe had him gasping his name and clinging to his back, begging for harder, deeper, faster, more and more and then some and maybe what he searched for was never really physical whenever he’d plead with the Eleventh. Maybe what he was looking for was hidden in more fleeting touches and even gentler eyes. Maybe it was stored away in the tiny space between their mouths, maybe they both inhaled it through the same air. Maybe Scaramouche simply never noticed.
But then again, if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t be here now, unsure what to do with himself — what to do with Childe.
He considers begging once again, whispered pleas for Childe to see him. To see him. Maybe, if he just begs hard enough, the gods might grant him such a thing. That’s what he used to think centuries ago and yet everyone that was ever dear to him slipped through his fingers one after the other. Nowadays, Scaramouche knows better than to waste his time and breath on empty hopes and fragile dreams.
He could tell Childe about promises made during snowy nights, in the midst of labyrinth hedges rising up into the sky all around them. A path Scaramouche still has memorized and footsteps tracing through deep snow — a hint to his heart. A guide to someone else’s.
But how would he explain it all? Any of it? That he has been to Snezhnaya, has lived there for years and yet he barely knows the land better than a visitor on a short business trip. That he knows Zapolyarny Palace like the back of his hand and that he could find his old chambers in a heartbeat if they ever let him back inside, that he knows all the routes the patrouilles cover.
How would he explain to Childe that he knows the way from the palace to Morepesok because Tartaglia explained it to him with scrutinizing detail and Scaramouche has not forgotten a single thing about it? How would he tell him about a boy called Ajax when Childe would never share such secrets with someone he can’t even remember?
“And why would I do that?” he breathes but the words lack his usual sting and poison. They’re shaky around the edges, his voice is frayed at the seams — Scaramouche doesn’t know how to stitch himself back together. He always had someone else do that for him. He never bothered to learn it, was fine with being broken at last. It would’ve at least explained why he simply wasn’t good enough from the very start.
It just so happens that Childe is skilled at it. So, so skilled, like he’s never done anything else his entire life. It’s astonishing, really, how hands that enact such cruelty, full of callouses and littered with a sky full of scars, are able to touch Scaramouche this gently. Like he cares. Like he wants to comfort him, make him feel safe. As though Childe is capable of love.
Problem is, he is. That’s why Scaramouche was a beggar at his feet time and time again.
Those same exact hands find his, still lying in his lap. Childe sits down next to him on the narrow ledge and reaching out, he wraps one hand around Scaramouche’s, covering it entirely with how big it is. He’s still so warm and Scaramouche feels all the more artificial with that realization.
“Please,” he mumbles and this time, there’s a tinge of despair swinging in his voice. It’s thick, heavy with an emotion Scaramouche can’t discern and he wishes he wouldn’t have to hear it. His hand retreats, like it physically pains him to touch Scaramouche longer than a few seconds. That, or the lack of reaction has made him insecure. “Let me—” Childe stops then, the rest of his sentence hangs unfinished between them and Scaramouche turns to look at him. Let him what?
See?
Watch?
Remember?
And then what? What is he going to do? Someone who’s bound to the duties of his homeland, his Archon — what would he do with the memories of another life, shards and ruins of something long lost. It’s not like it matters a lot when Childe doesn’t know him anymore and all of this doesn’t mean more to him than this moment. By the time he reaches Snezhnaya and kneels before the Tsaritsa’s throne, he’ll have forgotten all about Scaramouche again. This time in a different way than Irminsul’s erasure, one that will hurt for different reasons.
“What will you do with the knowledge?” Scaramouche asks him, softer than he ever should. There’s curiosity in his voice and Childe chuckles at the question. His expression is teasing and suddenly it doesn’t feel like he’s talking to someone that doesn’t remember him, but like nothing ever changed between them.
“What will you do with unshared memories?” he asks back. It hits him square in the chest, punches the air right out of his lungs and Scaramouche is left to gape at Childe for a second, unable to form a witty response. “What do you mean?”
Childe merely raises an eyebrow. “I see the way you look at me. The way you try not to just to utterly fail.”
For a moment, Scaramouche forgets all about the loneliness nesting in his chest and the fears clinging to his back. It all gets pushed aside for the short relief of Childe’s teasing expression, the playful pitch of his voice, something so familiar and easy that he can fall right back into it.
He shifts on the ledge and leans closer, raising his eyebrows cockily. “And how do I look at you, Lord Harbinger?” he asks him, only for Childe’s eyes to fall half-closed. He leans in as well, and then, to Scaramouche’s surprise he places a gloved hand under his chin and tilts his head up slightly.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say like you want to kiss me.” His voice is lower now and together with the gentle touch, it makes Scaramouche shiver. He swallows hard and his gaze jumps from Childe’s eyes to his lips without him even thinking about it.
Childe must notice it too, because with his thumb he brushes over his bottom lip now, leaning his head to the side slightly. He starts smiling, just a bit, but so smug Scaramouche almost wants to wipe the expression off his face. “I don’t mind if you keep your little secrets and speak to me in riddles, Scaramouche,” he mumbles, “But if you want something, you’re gonna have to fucking say it.”
It’s interesting how dynamics can change, although the people stay the same. Scaramouche is still Kabukimono and Balladeer alike, has both their innocent curiosity and their arrogant fury. Childe has never been any different from before, still the same annoying fucker Scaramouche knows from his memories and yet their roles have reversed. Suddenly it’s Scaramouche who’s at Childe’s every beck and call, coming back to see him, keep him close.
He knows he shouldn’t indulge because he won’t be able to keep Childe after all, no matter what. He should already be on his way back to Snezhnaya and then Scaramouche will be as lonely as he was before. Maybe even more, when fresh memories of affections are still at the forefront of his mind.
He knows, in a way, he’s also inconveniencing Childe like this. Telling him about these things will establish a connection that he won’t be able to rid himself of that easily. It would require another visit to Irminsul to cut it once more. Clearly there is something slumbering beneath the surface of his azure eyes that calls to Scaramouche like sirens to sailors. And it’s entirely up to Scaramouche if he leaves it to sleep there forever or if he attempts to wake it up for his own selfish desires.
But he is tired of missing something that is within his reach, even if only for a moment.
“I want to,” he mumbles, barely loud enough against the noise of the city all around them. His voice is hoarse with honesty and it almost makes him wince, admitting to something so easily. “I want to kiss you.”
The confession seems to breathe life into Childe. He laughs briefly but he leans in further nevertheless, until his breath hits Scaramouche’s face and they’re only centimeters apart from each other. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?” he mumbles, clearly riling him up further but before Scaramouche can shoot back a response, he closes the distance entirely and kisses Scaramouche.
His fingers glide along his jaw, to the back of his head, pulling Scaramouche even closer while he moves his lips against his. The noise around them fades out just like yesterday when they looked at each other for the first time and Scaramouche feels like something in his mechanism shifts back into place at the kiss, starts working again, until there’s warmth flooding his body and his head starts to spin.
Kissing Childe is just like what he remembers; the gentle lull of waves rolling ashore and the biting cold of Snezhnaya’s winter filling his lungs with every breath he takes. His touch is almost burning in contrast, and yet Scaramouche finds himself inching closer eagerly, greedily. He clutches the ledge tightly, fingertips brushing over cold stone when he leans in more, chasing Childe’s lips and his taste on his tongue. He kisses him the way Scaramouche likes best; drawing it out for as long as possible and yet putting so much fervor into it, too. His touches ghostly reminders of his humanity as fingertips brush along his skin, pulling a gasp right from behind his teeth when Childe bites his bottom lip and pulls slightly.
He still kisses him like he did before, like he never forgot how to after all.
When he pulls back, Scaramouche finds himself chasing after him, trying to get another taste. It makes Childe laugh under his breath and his hand slips from his jaw, down to his chest. He stops short of the hollow space between his lungs, like he’s anticipating what’s there — or what isn’t.
When Scaramouche looks up at him, still a little breathless, Childe looks at him for a moment, before his gaze travels lower and lower, to his hand that’s sprawled out over his shirt, warm through the fabric. So comforting and familiar.
“You don’t have a heartbeat.” It’s just a whisper and it lacks any kind of tone. Nothing curious or disgusted in the way he speaks, nothing that would be a hint of interest. He merely states it, like another fact he remembers. And then his hand dips down, to that exact place where Scaramouche has lacked a heart all his life, as if to make sure it’s true. Childe lets out a stuttering breath at the realization.
“I had one,” Scaramouche replies, reaching up to wrap his hand around Childe’s wrist. It makes the other man look back up at him. There’s a confused knit between his eyebrows, like he’s not sure what to make of that answer and so Scaramouche continues, “For a very short time. You never got to feel it, though.”
“What happened?”
There it is. That forsaken, simple question. Scaramouche remembers it all too well, although sometimes he wishes he wouldn’t have to. He takes a few seconds working up the courage to answer it. For once he doesn’t try to work around vulnerability with sneers and insults and instead, he opts to give Childe exactly what he asked for.
“I thought it could turn me into something divine and in my arrogance, it was taken from me again.”
Childe’s eyebrows knit together even more and Scaramouche feels how his fingers dig into his skin very slightly, as though he wants to push through flesh and bone and reach inside his ribcage, fill out that empty space with something of himself.
He’d let him.
Maybe he already has.
“How cruel,” Childe mumbles, more to himself than anyone else, though.
Scaramouche huffs out a gentle laugh. How ironic to hear that from the Harbinger that was tasked to track him down and take the Gnosis from him.
He turns his head back to gaze out at the ocean and the harbor below and shrugs. “It never really belonged to me anyways.”
After all, it was nothing but a heritage as well, a constant reminder of his mother. Even godhood would have had the same sour, nauseating aftertaste of purple lingering in every corner of his vision. Now, there are shades of blue and Scaramouche tends to like the softness in them better.
“So how do I know you?” Childe asks. His voice is brimming with curiosity, pitched full of fascination and when Scaramouche gives him a quick look form the side, he finds him inching closer, eager for the answer.
Lips stretching into a smile, he leans back on the ledge, holding his balance with his hands clutching at the edge of the stone. He gives Childe a deep, almost exhausted-sounding sigh and tips his head back to look up into a cloudless sky. “You haven’t figured it out yet?”
Next to him, Childe audibly gasps. It only amuses Scaramouche further and he can’t help the playful little chuckle that escapes him. He tries to hide it behind the back of his hand, but Childe probably sees the uptilt of his lips, the way his shoulders shake the slightest bit and he scoffs, incredulous. “How would I even figure that out?!” he snaps, though there’s a wave of amusement in his tone.
He’s right; there is nothing that would even hint at their origin. To Childe, the sixth seat has been vacant for centuries, never occupied by a single soul. If he were to explain this to him, he’d have to expand on so many things, put light on so many little details and nuances. The short time Childe probably managed to steal for himself as his subordinates go ahead without him would never be enough to cover it all.
For some reason though, the idea of parting from Tartaglia so soon doesn’t hurt as much as it did before. There’s a hopeful note to the yearning in his stomach now, something sweet, almost exciting in a way. It feels a lot like these butterflies that books describe to talk about affection. Scaramouche can’t hide his smile this time around as he suddenly gets to his feet and directs his attention onto Childe.
The ginger is looking up at him, curiosity still written all over his face as he watches his every move.
“You haven’t borrowed nearly enough time to cover that story,” he says, smile broadening when Childe’s eyes widen in disbelief. He goes on, barely keeping the teasing chuckle out of his voice, “Maybe I’ll tell you about that next time — if I’m feeling generous.”
“You can’t be serious,” Childe mutters, scrambling to his feet too now. He takes a step towards Scaramouche, hand reaching out to touch him, only for Scaramouche to adjust his head and pull it lower, successfully escaping those azure eyes. His lips are still curled around a smile. Next time. That sounds like a compromise he can live with.
“You better not forget about me again,” Scaramouche tells him, though his voice lacks any bite and he’s still grinning. Technically, he can’t blame Childe for that, but it’s fun seeing him sputter at the warning, throwing his hands up in exasperation.
“And where will I find you this time?” he wants to know, stepping even closer to him. This time, when he reaches out to grab Scaramouche’s hand, he lets him and weaves his fingers in between Childe’s to give him a short, gentle squeeze. His chest tugs at the sensation of Tartaglia’s palm against his, the warmth seeping into his body at the touch.
“Wherever the wind will take you.” Scaramouche relishes in the annoyed expression he receives for that vague answer. This dynamic feels a lot more familiar and it makes the distance between them bearable. Scaramouche can’t wait to spot his face in the crowd next time — that, or be found by those hands once again.
He takes a step back and his hand slips out of Childe’s grasp. The Eleventh makes no effort to grab it a second time and simply watches as Scaramouche touches his hat in a gesture of goodbye. “So long then, Lord Tartaglia.”
As he turns around to leave and let Childe catch up with his subordinates, he hears him calling after him one last time. At the sound of his name, Scaramouche looks back at him, eyebrows raised questioningly.
There’s a grin on Childe’s face, never one to step down from a challenge, no matter how vague it may be. It’s all teeth and wildness and for a moment Scaramouche feels like he’s falling even harder. “I’ll find you,” he tells him and his whole posture is dripping with confidence.
Scaramouche can’t stop himself from laughing at that. The sound is bright and untouched by any pain. Even the longing is nothing but a dull little ache in that very moment, because now he knows there’s something more awaiting at the end of those words.
“You better, Ajax,” he replies, observing how Childe’s eyes grow wide once again at the mention of that name, “You gave me a promise after all.”