Work Text:
There was truly nothing else quite like the quiet of 3am.
Scaramouche could hear the tap in the next room being turned on as he continued to lie on the bed, taking the moment to just breathe - something he hadn’t gotten to do since before the pair of them had left the club.
He dragged his hand over his face and stayed like that for a moment, flinching only slightly when he felt something wet between his thighs. He definitely hadn’t been almost drifting off already.
Removing his hand from his face so he could see, he spread his legs wider as he noted that Childe had come back and was now using a wet towel to clean him down. While he appreciated that it saved him the trouble of doing it later, he wasn’t too sure if he should say something as this wasn’t something the two normally did.
Though normally he would have left by now, he mused to himself.
As if sensing where his thoughts were, the ginger looked up at him and shrugged, “You seemed tired tonight, I thought I might as well make myself useful for once.”
Scaramouche nodded and muttered a dull ‘thanks’ as Childe moved away again towards the other room. The older man stretched slightly and stood up from the bed with more effort than it really should have taken.
He knew how these nights went, when the two of them just couldn’t keep their hands to themselves, when they forgot that they were meant to be rivals, to hate each other.
Well.
They did always get told that there were healthier ways than fighting to get along, even if those were just empty words from people that thought they knew what was really happening between the two.
Briefly catching his own reflection in the mirror, he winced slightly at the bite marks and scratches that littered his body, but especially his neck. He really needed to talk about Childe with that next time, but when he caught sight of the other man from the corner of his eye he supposed that the ginger didn’t look much better off.
Leaning down to reach for his top amongst everything else that was haphazardly thrown on the ground (and already there , it was Childe’s room after all), Scaramouche reminded himself, like every other time, that this wasn’t going to happen again - no matter how much he wanted otherwise.
Frowning at his internal monologue, he wished that he could just turn it off. He was looking for his pants on the ground and was about to groan when he saw a pair of Childe’s old sweatpants.
They never really fit him, bunching too much at his waist and being too baggy in his legs, but they were comfortable either way. He never missed the glimmer of something in Childe’s eyes when he saw Scaramouche wearing his clothes either.
He didn’t know why he was getting so caught in his feelings tonight, he had never managed them well and truthfully preferred to just block everything out and live as an emotionless machine, but Childe had always been good at sneaking his way past every single attempt to shut him out that Scaramouche had tried.
So eventually he had stopped trying.
A hand caught his waist and he broke out of his internal monologue, pausing his movements, though he wasn’t really sure why. The grip was loose enough like the other man hadn’t really meant to stop him, like he hadn’t really fully thought out what he was doing.
Looking up under his bangs, he managed to catch the way Childe took an almost shivering breath, mouth turning into a slight frown as his eyes seemed to be begging Scaramouche to listen, “Stay.”
Everything else up to this point had been routine. For the most part, anyway.
They had gotten drunk, they had found each other in the mess of bodies at the club and though Scaramouche had only earlier been bemoaning over how little selection there was for him that night (and every other time) he had never really been looking. It was all more of a little pregame where he knew he’d end up with surprisingly strong arms around his waist guiding him home with little nudges and lots of kisses just about everywhere on the way home until he was absolutely devoured when they finally got into either one of their rooms.
“Please. Stay. Just this once.”
The words sounded like a prayer coming from the other man's lips and Scaramouche was suddenly struck by just how much he wanted to live in that moment forever, shocked by how wanted he felt in that moment. If he thought harder for a moment, he thought he could pretend that maybe Childe meant forever, that maybe it could truly work out.
But dreams never really lasted, did they? Scaramouche thought he himself should know best as he mentally shook himself back to reality.
The grip on his waist twitched after a moment when he still hadn’t responded, and Scaramouche hated how he seemed to be noticing what little life was left in Childe’s eyes wilting away.
He thought of how all that was awaiting him in his own bed was coldness and the feeling that something was missing.
It wasn’t quite like him to deny himself some selfishness every once in a while, so when Childe’s hand started retreating from his body, he took the plunge and stepped closer so that they were chest to chest, a breathy confirmation leaving his lips before he reached up to pull the taller man in for a kiss.
So sure, there may be nothing quite like the quiet of 3am, but as the two moved back to the bed and tangled together seamlessly like they’d done it a million times before, Scaramouche thought he might quite like the peacefulness of 4am when he was securely wrapped up in a way he never thought he’d deserved in the past.
Maybe this dream could last a little while longer.