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Their marriage had never been one of love.
It was a mutual agreement. It wasn’t a decision made due to a reciprocation of attraction, a formation of deep emotional attachments, or obligation—it was instead done out of convenience. For Scaramouche lacked a heart to ever love, while Dottore was akin to a monster in human skin, unable to understand what love even was. Thus, the initial announcement of their unification had come as a shock to many.
Nobody expected for them; a puppet and a monster, to ever exchange vows. But, there had been a wedding, and as further proof, filed in Snezhnaya’s registry was their marriage certificate. It was official, signed by the Tsaritsa herself.
The wedding was a simple affair.
It was a short ceremony with a small audience.
Their kiss at the end was short and dull. It was the first and only time their lips would ever meet for the rest of their centuries-long relationship. That was the only act of intimacy they committed.
They didn’t consummate that night. Though they laid in the same bed, there was a distance between them and they held no desire for passion.
“I don’t love you.” It was a factual statement.
“You don’t have to,” It was spoken in utter boredom.
Neither of them slept. Scaramouche stared numbly at the ceiling, while Dottore busied himself with the many research articles at their bedside. They didn’t speak to each other until dawn broke the following morning and they had to leave for their respective duties. Not even a momentous occasion such as marriage could excuse them from their responsibilities as Harbingers.
Their marriage didn’t affect their relationship. They still treated each other with no hints of affection: with their words cold, and their actions so withdrawn that those who witnessed them together wondered if they were truly married. The plain, silver rings they wore said yes.
It was apparent that they were in a loveless union.
There was a silver lining though. A flicker of light within the bleak emptiness. Every year, on their anniversary, they would give each other small gifts. Dottore usually gave Scaramouche mildly useful trinkets for display or new accessories for his outfits. In return, Scaramouche would consistently give him a particular mug.
‘Teyvat’s Best Husband’ was plastered on its porcelain surface in dark hues. When he first gifted it to Dottore, he was greeted with an amused huff.
“How… charming.” Dottore stifled a chuckle.
“Don’t let it get to your head. You’re a mediocre partner at best.” Scaramouche attached the new accessory he received onto his Harbinger coat. It was brooch in the shape of a mitsudomoe painted light blue.
“Allow me to remedy that then.”
Scaramouche rolled his eyes, “That’s unnecessary.”
They had no need to celebrate their anniversary. It was a day like any other, tedious and laborious. It just so happened that the date they had their nuptial also fell on that particular day. The only reason they gave each other gifts was to keep up appearances. Many already questioned the validity of their marriage. Though that wasn’t an issue to either of them, it did peeve them to an extent. Their distaste in being the subject of gossip was one of the few commonalities they shared.
Dottore displayed the mug on his office desk. It would contrast against the neat files and medical equipment with its tacky color and font. Dottore didn’t mind as long as visitors saw the text plastered on its body. It’s to get them to stop whispering behind his back, he explained to Scaramouche.
Scaramouche shrugged. He never removed the brooch from his coat for the same reason.
From that day forward, a tradition began.
The once empty shelves in their bedroom were filled to the brim with odd trinkets and mugs. Scaramouche had amassed many ornaments—from earrings to barrettes, he had more jewels than alterations of his outfit.
Their gifts were always impersonal. Dottore would just purchase the first thing he saw after he entered a shop, while Scaramouche became a repeat customer at the one stall that sold custom mugs. They didn’t mind this for their entire marriage itself lacked any warmth.
As the centuries passed by, the statements on the mug slowly devolved. It went from ‘Teyvat’s Best Husband’ to ‘Teyvat’s Most Mediocre Husband’ until its present form being ‘Teyvat’s Most Tolerable Husband’.
“Am I that bad?” Dottore asked. He didn’t seem to be offended by the regressing messages on the mugs as oddly enough, he was filled with curiosity.
“It says tolerable, doesn’t it?” Scaramouche scoffed as he crossed his arms, “You’re not illiterate.”
“I suppose that this is acceptable then.”
Not much has changed. Their dynamic remained the same—a routine of coexistence where they shared the same private chambers and shared the same bed that rarely comforted them both at once. Their interactions, though plenty, were brief and usually transactional with how Scaramouche exchanged his own discoveries in the Abyss for power. Dottore craved more knowledge, and in exchange, he modified Scaramouche’s body so that one day, he would become a true God. They used each other for their own gain.
Their relationship was mutually beneficial and that was enough for them. Dottore never caused Scaramouche any unnecessary pain. His touch was cold, yet steady, as if to say that he had no need to worry, that he was in capable hands.
It was a silent agreement. An understanding that they held since they sealed their marriage with a kiss.
Their marriage was a means to an end. Another step to reach their respective goals which crossed paths more often than most would like to believe. That was all that it would ever be, and they were content with that.
On their next anniversary, the words ‘Teyvat’s Okay-est Husband’ were on Scaramouche’s gift. Dottore nearly choked on air when he first read it.
“That’s not even a real word.”
“Do I look like I care?” Scaramouche raised a brow.
Dottore shook his head. He compared his new mug to the one he received the year prior, “Well, ‘okay-est’ is better than tolerable. What have I done to improve your opinion of me the previous year?”
Scaramouche didn’t respond. Dottore didn’t pry him for answers. He just gifted him a gold hairpin adorned by a carved crystal core at its center.
“You should cut your hair,” Dottore suggested, “It’s too long. I can no longer see your eyes.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.” Scaramouche glared.
Despite this, Dottore was amused when Scaramouche walked in his office the next day with his bangs an inch shorter than it had been the day prior. He said nothing, lest he face the fire of Scaramouche’s sheer ire.
He grinned knowingly. The hairpin’s blue jewel did well to highlight Scaramouche’s indigo eyes.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
Their shelves slowly ran out of space. They were filled to the brim with the mugs Scaramouche gave Dottore on their anniversaries. Some contained more flattering statements than others.
‘Teyvat’s Least Disappointing Husband’.
“Was that meant to be a compliment?”
“What do you think?” Scaramouche deadpanned.
Dottore deemed it as praise. It was better than the mug that sat beside it that stated, ‘Teyvat’s Most Annoying Husband’ because it had been gifted during the year he became more manic towards his research. It was during that year that he finally perfected the method to create his segments. Scaramouche was subjected to countless experiments during that time as a result.
Scaramouche wasn’t pleased at all.
“It was either that or ‘Teyvat’s Worst Husband’.”
“I prefer this then.” Dottore averted his gaze from the dark glare Scaramouche aimed at him. It was better to be deemed the most annoying, rather than the worst spouse in Scaramouche’s eyes.
‘Teyvat’s Most Competent Husband’.
Dottore grinned, “I did make it up to you the following year. Most competent, huh? It’s been decades since I was last praised by you.”
“I wonder why,” Scaramouche huffed, “Though, even I can admit that you were more bearable that year.”
“How frank.”
“I’m not one to lie.”
They went on a trip down memory lane. Different mugs caught their eye. Dottore pointed out his favorite, while Scaramouche didn’t hold back with his comments that were either impassive or critical. It was a rare instance where they spend their time together outside of their duties or their routine experiments. They were smiling, with Dottore’s smirk being manic and Scaramouche’s grin being sharp. They genuinely enjoyed each other’s company for once. It was fun.
Their marriage was bleak. It was dull on the best days and forgettable on the worst. However, every once in a while, there were moments like this.
A particular mug caught Scaramouche’s eye.
It was chipped. Its handle had been broken and glued together hastily. Faint cracks were visible all over its body. The text was near-unreadable, but Scaramouche could still recognize it.
‘Teyvat’s Best Husband’.
Huh. After all this time—after the many centuries they had been together, Dottore kept the first mug that he gave him on their first anniversary. How long ago was that? Almost four-hundred years. It had been that long and somehow, the mug had survived. Dottore was not the sentimental type so Scaramouche questioned why he kept the mug even after it had been broken.
Why did he bother to fix it? Those mugs were only ever used for decoration. It was of little to no value outside of being a trinket for display.
Scaramouche exhaled a faux breath. Who cared about that? Dottore could do whatever he wanted, and if he wanted to keep the broken mugs in his collection, then who was he to judge?
“This one is my favorite,” Dottore said as he held out a mug that had ‘Teyvat’s Smartest Husband’ written over it. He beamed at the compliment. His ego reached its peak. Scaramouche furrowed his brows and scrunched his nose at the arrogance emitted by the haughty look on Dottore’s face.
Scaramouche scowled, “I should’ve given you one that stated ‘Teyvat’s Most Obnoxious Husband’ instead.”
“But, you didn’t.” Dottore’s smirk widened.
“Tch. Whatever.”
These fleeting moments were pleasant. Scaramouche glanced at the pin Dottore had gifted him on their most recent anniversary. It was secured on his coat beside a particular brooch.
Hm. He and Dottore weren’t all that different.
They were sentimental in their own ways. Even if they believe and say otherwise.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
“He was an… adequate partner,” He said with a frown on his lips—as if admitting that his husband had been indeed a decent spouse was poison, “He never made me want for anything.”
“How does that make you feel?” A small hand rested over his own.
“I don’t know.” They never loved each other, but they also never hated each other. They were ambivalent on their worst days, and indifferent during their best.
They never hurt each other.
No. That was a lie. Long before their marriage, he had been hurt by his husband (or was it ex-husband now?), which led to him being taken over by a rage that filled his empty chest for most of his lifetime. He wanted to hate him for that. He had been manipulated and lied to by the same man who he once gave an inkling of his trust to. Yet, when he recalled the centuries they spent together, he couldn’t bring himself to hate him.
Scaramouche— No. It was Wanderer now.
Wanderer had been betrayed many times. It should’ve been obvious that his husband (they never did divorce, but they also never married in this reality) would betray him too.
He clicked his tongue, “Do you know where I can buy a custom mug?”
It was that near time of the year. There were only a few more weeks before the date of their anniversary would arrive. The looming date almost made him sick.
Does it even still count as their anniversary? He would rather not think about it.
In response, Nahida nodded at him.
She stared at him with curiosity. She didn’t ask him any questions though. She just told him where a stall that sold custom mugs was located. He decided to go visit the Grand Bazaar later that afternoon.
“Are you sure about this?” The stall owner asked with doubt and disbelief written all over his face.
“Yes.” Wanderer was certain.
The stall owner sighed, “Alright then. That will cost you a thousand mora.”
Wanderer paid for it without a fuss. He received what he ordered a week later: a mug that had the message ‘Teyvat’s Worst Husband’ embedded into its body. He carefully wrapped it then placed it inside a box along with a small trinket—a familiar brooch that managed to stay on his person even after he had erased his entire existence from history. He didn’t question how that was possible, he just wanted to let go of it now that the truth had come to light.
Out of sight, out of mind. He supposed that perhaps, if he got rid of the brooch, he would slowly forget his and Dottore’s intertwined history.
Maybe. Wanderer’s shoulders sagged.
He knew better than that. He wasn’t stupid. It wouldn’t be that easy to forget Dottore.
After he taped the box shut, he requested for it to be delivered to a particular address. It was an office that was far up north, within the confines of Snezhnaya, in a palace that housed only the most valuable members of the Fatui. It was difficult to deliver to the intended recipient, so he made sure to give a massive tip to the poor delivery person assigned to his box.
This was an attempt for some sort of closure.
He looked back at the memories he regained, from the good to the bad, and even the ugly. He recalled when he and Dottore exchanged their vows, their only kiss, and the following centuries they spent together.
His memories were now tainted. He could never forget the fact that Dottore was the reason his first family had died. His husband had caused the Tatarasuna Incident, a traumatizing event that haunted him for so long as he remembered how his fingers burnt to a crisp when he entered Mikage Furnace with nothing to protect him.
He had married the man who killed his family.
That thought made him nauseous.
He had been in a loveless marriage with the very man who helped ruin his life. He had been in a marriage of convenience with the man whose initial opinion of him had been that he would make for a fun experiment.
How could he move on from that? With all that Dottore had done against him, he should despise him, and yet, he didn’t.
Wanderer seethed. His anger, the betrayal that he felt, and his bitterness remained in his chest. They gnawed at him relentlessly. They heavily weighed over him, but so did the many memories of the time he and Dottore spent together. Of their banter—their snarky remarks and the deep understanding they had of each other.
Amidst the cacophony of pain, he recalled that he was once gifted a hairpin that was said to bring out his eyes and highlight their dim glow. He traced down his chest and remembered Dottore’s clinical, yet gentle touch as he unlocked the seals on his body.
He could never forgive Dottore.
Dottore betrayed him. Dottore lied to him. But, there had been a time where Dottore had been the only one he trusted while he was still in the Fatui, and he could never forget that.
It was complicated.
Two months later, Wanderer received a package.
“Who’s this from?” He asked. He didn’t order anything that warranted a delivery. He also didn’t have anyone outside of Sumeru, aside from the Traveler, who knew of his existence.
The one who delivered it replied, “They wish to remain anonymous.”
“I see.” He took the box with no further queries.
Wanderer closed the door. He carefully tore at the tape and opened the package now that he was alone in the privacy of his own home. Whatever object it contained had been neatly packed to ensure that if it were fragile, it wouldn’t have been broken while being delivered.
Anticipation thrummed beneath his fingertips while he removed the layers of protective papers inside the box with as much caution as he could muster. What could it be? He wondered.
A few more layers and… oh. He could feel his stomach drop when he finally saw what was inside the box.
It was a mug. His hands were shaking when he took it out of the package. When he held it out and read the message on its body, his chest tightened all the more.
‘Teyvat’s Most Unforgettable Husband’.
Wanderer froze. He almost dropped the mug when he realized that Dottore remembered him. He never gave Dottore a mug with that message, and nobody knew of this tradition of theirs to give him that mug as a taunt of sorts. Dottore remembered him. Dottore knew where he lived. It was only a matter of time before they saw each other again.
The statement on the mug made him descend into a whirlwind of madness. The bitter taste of betrayal, the memories of a marriage done not out of love, but out of convenience, the desire to move on—it all came at the forefront of his mind. The loudest thought in his mind though was one damning question.
How could Dottore remember him?
How could the man who ruined his life still remember him and their yearly tradition?
He was overwhelmed. Confusion, anger and fear made his chest tighten. Unforgettable. Dottore deemed him to be unforgettable.
Wanderer set the mug down. He then noticed that the mug wasn’t all that Dottore sent him. No. Dottore had also sent him a pendant. It was made of silver and was in the shape of a heart. Wanderer held back a curse as he harshly grabbed on the pendant and threw it a dark glare as if it was the cause of all the misfortune in his miserable life.
The irony wasn’t lost on him. What was the purpose in giving him such a gift? Was it to mock him?
His fingers curled around the pendant.
He wanted to punch the smirk off of Dottore’s face.
They could never love each other. Neither of them held out hope that one day, they would simply click and fall in love. They weren’t fools. Wanderer clenched his fist as one thought crossed his mind: when he and Dottore would inevitably meet in the future, he would finally end their relationship, or what was left of it.
He placed the pendant in one of his pockets.
Why even gift him a mug and a pendant? It had been months past their anniversary already. Dottore was Teyvat’s worst husband indeed.