Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There's the lights. The flashes. The voices. 

Purples and blues dance across sun-bleached stone and the crimson carpet strung over it; a low hum of bass.

Cameras go off in clatters, a discordant mix-and-match of sounds—that's the voice, the melody. Something high-pitched and uncomfortable. 

The surrounding crowd bursts into cheers at each movement. Questions are thrown around, then compliments, then pleads. Look at me , their eyes say. Acknowledge me. All of those people at once, they're the strings. Dissonant, but all following the same link, the same pattern, the same train of thought. Look at me. Acknowledge me. 

The lights, the flashes, the voices—they form one simple track. Its tempo pulses at the beat of feet stomping down the carpet. It's archaic, really. Effortless.

It's a chant.

A refrain.

And it says, with each slam of foot, chattering teeth, photograph taken, practiced smile, delighted cry: fame, fame, fame.

"Do you have anything else you'd like to add?" they ask him.

It's the same question every time. Every single fucking time. They're worse at taking no for an answer than straight guys with a boner. There's hunger in their eyes. They want him to break, to hammer on the point, to get angry. They want him to yell, I'm never setting a fucking foot inside that fucking building ever again, for fuck's sake. 

He wants to. His hands twitch and his jaw sets, and he really, really wants to.

Papers flutter in the interviewer's hands. They press a pen to the page. 

"No," he says. "There's nothing."

Scaramouche has been looked at by many pairs of eyes before, and none were ever quite as unnerving as Barbatos Venti's, music prodigy and renowned agent-turned-manager. Ideas haven't even shaped themselves into words that he's answering the question. And Scaramouche hadn't even known he was about to ask a question.

"I will not be taking you as a soloist," he says, as Scaramouche's hopes wither and die like a plucked flower left out in the sun for too long. "Some battles are worth fighting for. This one isn't."

"I still have a fanbase," Scaramouche tries to argue, "And drama like that can be milked for some pretty pennies. Have me sing a song about heartbreak and betrayal and everything's gonna be peachy for the both of us."

Barbatos' face doesn't change. It's another freakish thing about him. His eyes might sparkle and his mouth might smile but the face itself, the expression, the muscles, they don't move. It's pure uncanny valley. Scaramouche can't look at him for too long before he starts getting a headache. 

"Scaramouche, far from me the idea to offend you, but emo-looking twink soloists with God complexes are as many as there are fangirls to support them. There is nothing inherently special about you."

Before Scaramouche can open his mouth, Barbatos raises a hand. It's slender, pale: a pianist's hand. 

"You had a career before. We are both very aware of how it succeeded the way it did; my intention isn't to diminish that. But do you truly believe you could've risen up the charts without the rest of—"

He feels like biting. "Fuck off."

Barbatos's smile is just shy of smug. "You know I'm right."

"You're full of shit," he says, "Lyney worked out fine."

"Yes, for a singular year. Do you intend on retiring young?"

Scaramouche rakes his brain for names, pseudonyms, titles. Any ammunition he might have against this monster of a manager that knows he's got him wrapped around his finger. "Dvalin's still on the scene."

"You sadden me," says Barbatos, in a way that lets Scaramouche know it really doesn't. "Are you not up to date with the prodigies of Anemo Aria Records? Dvalin has not been releasing since you were out of diapers."

Scaramouche does not want to participate in another fiasco, but Scaramouche, more than anything, needs money. Like, badly. 

"Fine," he growls, "Whatever. So pop bands are all the rage. I'll bite. Which one of your pet projects were you planning on shoving me into?"

Barbatos leans over his wooden desk. His silky blue braids slip from behind his shoulders to dangle in the air like diamond threads. There's a pause, a moment of silence, during which Scaramouche thinks maybe he broke him.

Then Barbatos grins.

"I'm sure you haven't heard of it before," he says, all coy, "It's very niche. I suppose you could say this is me rooting for the underdog."

A sheet of paper is slid across the desk.

Scaramouche skims over it, then feels his heart take a vacation trip down a well. He thinks maybe he's stopped breathing. Maybe he died. Bam. He thinks about what the memorial masons would write on his stone. Twenty-two years old Scaramouche Kunikuzushi, outlived by crazy older sisters and one rabid-infested cat. He was a fucking mess. Rest in (relative) peace.

He breathes out, "shit."

"Are we in agreement?" asks Barbatos.

Scaramouche doesn't even have to think about it. 

"Hell no."

"You know, it could be worse," remarks Lumine.

She's been rubbing his back for half an hour, first soothingly, and now in a frantic back-and-forth like it's an attempt at DIY exorcism. 

Scaramouche groans into his pillow. He thanks the gods he's always insisted on keeping his apartment shock-full of the softest (and most soundproof) stuff ever made, because otherwise he'd already be sporting a rash.

"It's 4NEMO . Give me a singular example of how much worse it could possibly get."

"You could be jobless," she says.

"Ugh. Don't remind me."

Lumine keeps going at it with his back. What is he, a cat scratching post?

"And you said yes."

He twists his neck almost 90 degrees back to give her the side eye. "Of course, I said yes. Who do you think I am?"

"A masochist," she says, which—fair enough. "Also you have a tendency to self-sabotage, and while getting shitfaced at the club to make out with straight men is salvageable tabloid-feeder, if you lose this apartment, we are doomed."

"I'm not gonna lose the apartment," he says.

"Do I have to bring up last au—"

"You do not have to bring up last autumn."

Scaramouche's apartment, the 15th on Peregrinus Boulevard, is set in one of the nicer areas of Inazuma. He long debated whether settling in this Nation in particular was the result of some deeply unresolved PTSD (cause: either Makoto or Ei, take your pick) or plain appreciation for the vertiginous landscapes, but now at least he knows for certain it wasn't about the cost. It's downright hilarious. Inflation is one thing; it's another to have to work yourself to the bone for the opportunity to own a separate room to put a bed in.

He'd met Lumine when he turned nineteen and had just released his second album—the first and last platinum of his career. She'd bullied him in middle school for his hair, so of course, they quickly became inseparable. They were two birds of a feather, bonding over their mutual hatred of bowl cuts.

Six months into a codependent friendship, Scaramouche invited her to move in. She'd laughed in his face. Now, three years later, he finds blonde hair stuck in the shower drain and dirty stocks scattered under his couch. Lumine calls him his platonic sugar daddy because Lumine is broke and Lumine cannot pay more than a bag of groceries every two weeks, much less the $6,000 MORA of rent.

At least she can give good back massages.

"I'm gonna be working with your brother," he says to the pillow. "Your brother."

Lumine shudders. "Don't remind me. He's probably going to try hitting on you."

"Ew."

"Hey," she protests, because it's still her brother and she's, despite all her edginess, a softie.

"He's blonde," Scaramouche says, "almost as bad as a ginger."

"Maybe he dyed his hair."

"Still bad. No amount of drugstore burgundy hair dye is going to change the blondeness simmering under his scalp."

"Ooh," she says, raising a hand to her mouth, "projecting much?"

"This is all natural, thank you very much."

Scaramouche twists around the blanket-stuffed couch to gesture at his hair. He definitely needs a trim. The bangs get into his eyes and he constantly needs to tuck them away to see even a little bit.

Which reminds him, "I need to get a new pair of glasses."

Lumine cocks her head. She's all pretty blonde locks and a smooth, heart-shaped face, the kind you see on TV but never in real life. It's criminal to have pores so tiny.

"Again? What happened to the old ones?"

"Stepped on them."

"And Princess Diana's death was an accident," Lumine says. "Did you get lost in a stampede or something?"

He rolls his eyes. "Am I Simba or the FBI in this scenario?"

"The Queen herself, stupid. Didn't they teach you anything in school?"

"Forgive me," Scaramouche snorts, "Conspiracy theories weren't exactly my top priority in eighth grade."

"Too busy skipping class and smoking crack with the boys, huh." She wiggles her eyebrows. 

"Ugh," he says, and reaches over to smack the top of her head. "Stop doing that with your face. No wonder the model agency gave up on you."

Lumine throws a foot in his direction. "Thanks, asshole."

Scaramouche catches the offensive limb, but then receives another straight to the chest. He decides there is only one way he can solve this conflict: establishing dominance. So he elbows her in the ribs. And she tugs at his mullet. He cries out—first at the realisation he has a mullet, then because of the pain—and knees her thigh.

They brawl it out, as normal, regulated people do.

Fifteen minutes later they're sprawled over the fluffy purple carpet, out of breath and hair askew. Lumine's leg is thrown over his chest horizontal style. He watches the ceiling fan spin into an ashy-brown blur.

"I got punched," he says.

Lumine hums. "By who?"

"I kissed some dude. Don't remember. His girlfriend got pissed."

"What a queen."

"She was, like, two entire feet taller than me."

"Queen," Lumine repeats. "Was she taller than the boyfriend?"

"Yeah," he says, and can't help but snort at the memory, as fuzzy and distant as it is. He thinks the guy might've been a brunette. But with four tequila shots down the drain and the blinding, relentless nightclub lights, it was hard to tell. "I don't even know why I was wearing my glasses there."

"Or why you were kissing dudes with the glasses?"

That makes him laugh. "Fuck. I was stoned."

"Smoking crack with the boys," guesses Lumine sagely.

"Smoking crack with the boys," he agrees.

HARBINGING  @higgyena 

YOUVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME PLS THIS HAS TO BE A DREAM

Comments 4  Retweets 13  Likes 15O

plswhat @harbinpierro 

they hit the fucking pentagon #harbingers

Comments 519 Retweets 871 Likes 1.4k 

OTP JUST GOT NUKED @stanningisahobby 

does this mean i can't ship balladeer x marionette anymore

Comments 10  Retweets 4  Likes 38

    fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck @damselcore 

    never let bro ship again

    Comments 2  Retweets 250  Likes 1.2k

ballalaladeer @sethoswrites 

pov u come home from a 8 hour shift (no breaks) to see that the number 1 rock band in the world just disbanded. bcs why not. #harbingers

Comments 28.2K  Retweets 36.6K  Likes 40K

    sunny (jester's version) @electrouser101 

    im like this close to ending it

    Comments 4  Retweets 42  Likes 50

        THECURERULES @barbaramondstadt 

        No official statement from any of the #Harbingers either..... Chances this is all just some bad PR stunt?

        Comments 1  Retweets 0  Likes 4

            mrbrightside @regratorslefttoe

            look at their spotify account… their bio has already been updated (ㅠ﹏ㅠ)

            Comments 0  Retweets 6  Likes 10

has-binger  @thomassandersfan45 

fuck. fuck. fuck. #harbingers

Comments 1  Retweets 10  Likes 34

the lady on TOP @signoraswifey 

the end of an era… waiting for an official statement from @The Balladeer ✔ before i make any assumptions about why this happened and go absolutely bonkers

Comments 3.2k  Retweets 5k  Likes 7.1k

Alhaitham ✔ @dendroscribe

I am in no way affiliated with the company Tsaritsa Home Records. Any questions & concerns you may have regarding the latest news from STEAMBIRD should not be forwarded to me, my partner @Kaveh ✔, or my legal team. Thank you in advance.

Comments 100.2K  Retweets 173.3K  Likes 250.1K

nononononononNO @harbingersbbgs

yk it's bad when the community tries to get answers out of the most random guy ever,,, haitham prolly never even heard about the harbingers before this

Comments 980  Retweets 624 Likes 758

    hauntedpoetsdepartment @holdmyfryingpan 

    bffr. the harbingers? no 1 top of the charts for 3 consecutive yrs harbingers? 4 grammy awards winning harbingers? theyre not exactly underground

    Comments 10  Retweets 55  Likes 70

His phone started buzzing six hours ago and hasn't stopped yet. Scaramouche could turn it off, but it'd feel too much like fleeing. Instead he watches it vibrate like a driller on max power, spinning its little heart out on the coffee table. He imagines it hopping off the edge and shatter into a million ugly glass pieces on the floor.

Scaramouche debates the pros and cons: a silent apartment or a clean parquet. Tranquility or order. Taking a break or taking care of a break.

He sinks off the couch, reaches for the phone. It's burning hot to the touch. 

Notifications—hundreds of them. Scaramouche audibly groans. Thank the gods he disabled his public pings, because otherwise, he'd actually have to invest in another device. Scaramouche scrolls through the influx of pings for a second, looking for anything worthwhile. Instead he finds question marks. Exclamation points. Insults. Question marks. Badly photoshopped articles. WHY TF DID U TELL ME NOTHING!!!11!! s. Question marks again.

Scaramouche flops back down to the ground, half-buried in the thick layer of carpet. It smells like crackers and badly scrubbed-out wine stains. 

The sound of Lumine's footsteps snap him out of his misery-fueled contemplations. She shuffles across the room in booty shorts and an oversized shirt, which he recognises, because it's his ex-boyfriend's shirt. He groans again.

"Take that shit off."

"No way. I don't have anything else to wear," Lumine says, padding over to their kitchen. She pulls out a box of cereal from a broken cupboard and shoves a handful of it into her mouth. 

"Ew," he says, then, "Where the hell did our clothes go?"

Lumine glances down at him laid in starfish position in front of their coffee table. "I don't know, Scara. Where did you last see our clothes?"

He tries to think. He got shitfaced yesterday after seeing his own face on national TV and all of his memories are covered by a blue-grey hazy filter. "Don't tell me they're still down at the laundromat."

"It's your turn to pick them up this week."

"Fuck."

They're probably the last people on Teyvat (or on Earth) to still use laundromats. Aside from the cute old grannys and the occasional homeless dude, Scaramouche never sees anyone in there. But, well, he and Lumine are lazy twenty-year-olds, and it's right across the street, so they take turns.

"I might get recognised," he says.

Lumine snickers around her cereals. He sees the entirety of the wheat-massacre going on. It's disgusting. "For a five minute trip downstairs? Don't make me laugh."

Scaramouche rolls over. "I hate you."

But he still gets up and heads inside his bedroom. Lofi-ed RPG music starts playing from the living room—Lumine's favourite music genre, because she's an unassumed nerd—as Scaramouche tugs on a jacket and pants. It's not his best outfit. The jacket is nauseatingly bland, and the pants are ripped and low-waisted. He checks himself out in the full-length mirror by his bed, and scowls at his own reflection, the bed hair and the slutty pants and the wrinkled jacket.

It's a five minute trip. It's just a five minute trip.

Scaramouche brushes past Lumine on his way out and narrowly escapes a bye-bye kiss. Fucking sap. He snatches an ascot cap and plops it down on his head, then closes the door in a jingle of keys. The corridor is a long stretch of wooden flooring and rows of moody grey doors. Scaramouche doesn't even try to use the elevator once he reaches it; it's been broken-down for longer than he's owned the apartment. He rushes downstairs and steps into the busy street.

The weather is fucking foul. Scaramouche is instantly drenched. His jacket has no hood—because on top of being ugly, it's also useless—so he tugs it off and shields himself from the downpour. Tries, anyway. By the time he's hurrying over the crosswalk, rain is dripping in his eyes and slipping down his neck. It's miserable. 

SHENHE'S LAUNDRY EMPORIUM is written in chunky white letters on the laundromat's door. Scaramouche pulls it open like hell on heels. It's not any warmer inside, but at least there are no water leaks.

The drying process finished up an hour ago, but just as he expected, the clothes are still right where he'd left them. Scaramouche gets to work and unloads everything into a plastic bag. There's no real need to distinguish between his and Lumine's clothes since they share everything they own. Well, except the push-up bras, but not from a lack of trying on her part. 

Chimes ring as the door is opened again. Scaramouche turns a curious eye towards it. And then he freezes.

A mess of ginger curls. A sharp jawline. Deep blue eyes. Tanned skin. 

Fucking Childe .

Scaramouche spins around and wishes for death. Maybe if he stays still enough he'll fade into the background.

There's the sound of fabric rustling, then the clack, clack, clack of feet over tiling. Scaramouche gulps and turns his head. He can't let himself be seen here. Not with him. Not by him. 

Fucking fuck. Of all people. Childe.

A washing machine is popped open. The sound travels across Scaramouche's spine and makes him shudder. He feels vaguely ill. 

Focus, you moron , he tells himself. Now's not the time to act like a pussy. That asshole didn't even notice. Too busy licking his own balls. 

Stiff as a rod, Scaramouche folds the rest of his clothes into the plastic bag. Once there's nothing left inside, he slams the lid shut, and maneuvers around with his back still facing Childe. The exit is right there, past the dryers and the washers. If he can just slip past unnoticed…

"Oh, hey, sorry," says Childe, walking after him for whatever fucking reason.

Scaramouche closes his eyes and inhales. He doesn't move an inch. 

Childe continues, oblivious to any murderous intent. "I don't have any coins, do you think you could—"

"There's an ATM machine," Scaramouche snaps. He points to the left, where he thinks the ATM machine might be. Hopes. Otherwise it's gonna get real awkward real quick. 

"Oh," says Childe again, sounding like he might be smiling. Why would he be smiling? "Thanks. I didn't even notice. Maybe all that rain got into my eyes."

Or into your brain, thinks Scaramouche. But all he does is nod and try not to break into a sprint. He pulls the door open and is about to slip outside when Childe calls to him again.

"Nice hair, by the way."

Scaramouche wants to strangle him. "Okay."

He flees into the rain.

"Scaramouche and I have had many discussions about this," says Dottore. He's leaning back into the posh polka-dot chair, as easy and practiced as it is intimidating. Their interviewer drinks up his every word. "A decision so drastic could not be taken without long consideration. Not only for the contracts signed and the team behind the Harbingers," he adds, "but for us, as a family."

Scaramouche digs his fingers into his own seat. It's stripped golden and pink and makes him want to fucking hurl. 

"We understand every single member of the Harbingers was affected by Balladeer's withdrawal," says the interviewer, false compassion dripping from their voice. "But no official statement was released from either one of them. Could you explain this controversial choice?"

Dottore takes the question in stride. "The Harbingers were blessed by a passionate fan base; we know of their expectations and intent to reach them. Lady, Damselette, Jester, Marionette, and Regrator are all working on their pronouncements as we speak. Our intent, however, is not to stir the pot of nostalgia we know has been simmering since last week. Tsaritsa Home Records has bid Scaramouche farewell, and we would rather not give anyone false hopes of a reunion. These statements will be final."

Dottore tilts his head towards Scaramouche then, smiling. It's the kind of smile that'd set a dog off—too much teeth, not enough give. 

"And then," he continues smoothly, "we shall bid Scaramouche farewell."

His cheek is squished against Lumine's hip. She cards her fingers through the nightmare that is his hair, mutters something about having to drag him to the hairdresser soon. 

"I'm officially meeting your brother tomorrow," says Scaramouche.

Lumine's hand stills for a second. He tightens his hold on her thigh so she doesn't think about escaping. "Is this you asking me to come with?"

"So I can watch you two bicker endlessly?" he snorts. "Yeah, no. Be a good little geek and do your streaming marathon or whatever."

"Yeah, yeah, keep being a condescending jackass. We'll see who laughs last when I get crazy rich from queerbaiting 14 year-old kids on Minecraft."

Scaramouche laughs against her skin. "It wouldn't be bait in your case. Fucking rainbow."

"Says you. You're going to have a panic attack meeting 4NEMO tomorrow."

"Ah, yes. My new harem."

"Die," says Lumine pleasantly. "And keep your paws off of my brother."

He can't help but smirk. "Carpe diem. Whatever happens, happens."

"I thought you hated blondes."

"Not if they're shorter than me."

Lumine sighs.

Scaramouche isn't a traveller, not exactly, but this isn't his first rodeo. He takes the bus first thing in the morning and tries not to get angry when he arrives an entire hour too late.

Tucked away behind a cluster of willows and cherry trees, Anemo Aria Records is set in the centre of Mondstadt's busiest district, where there's no escaping the heaps of sunscreen-painted tourists or the congested roads that Scaramouche has tried so hard to avoid back in Inazuma. At least it's pretty. Flowers are in full bloom on the sidewalks, fountains alight with pinks and greens. Even the sightseers are adorned in spring's charms, Calla Lillies tucked into braids and Windwheel Asters tied around wrists like jewellery. 

It's early in the afternoon when Scaramouche gets off the bus and crosses the dewy stretch of grass that separates the street from the studio. The weather is nothing like in Inazuma, and Scaramouche hides under his cap like it'll protect him from the sun. It won't. He's still sporting burns from the last time he visited Barbatos.

Scaramouche stills in front of the building. It stands on a foundation made of dark bricks and planks of woods as pale as the trees' bark nearby. The glass panes reflect everything as clearly as mirrors; Scaramouche sees himself and tries not to frown. 

The sliding doors are lined with silver, and sunlight glints off of it when they part to let him inside. It's a breath of fresh air. Literally. Thank the fucking gods for A/C. 

Anemo Aria Records is pristine inside; it's all white and baby blue, like the world's biggest (and longest) baby shower. Anemo symbols spin inside display cases. The ceiling lights, star-shaped, hang low, casting the gentlest artificial light Scaramouche has ever seen.

People in tailored suits cross the floor holding notebooks to their chests, or hushering around those in sparkly costumes and vividly-coloured wigs. Scaramouche thinks he recognises one or two artists, but they're not exactly in his league. They get all bright-eyed when they see him. It's flattering—and extremely cringe.

A cute mint-haired girl approaches him, all puffy skirts and large round glasses. Her nose is upturned and gives her the air of a pet bunny.

"Y—Y—Your name is Scaramouche, correct?" 

He gives a short nod. "Yeah. I'm here to see Barbatos."

"Yup," the girl says, tapping her pen against a little notepad, "I h—have you written down r—r—right there. I'll lead you to the meeting room. Oh, and m—m—my name is S—Sucrose. It's nice meeting y–you."

Scaramouche thinks, she has a stutter. Then, she's got guts, working a job like this one. It's enough to earn his respect. 

He nods again, and Sucrose leads him up a marble staircase. People rush past them, screaming instructions and freaking out about makeup artists. Seems like Barbatos' distaste of punctuality rubs off on everyone who works under him.

One of the doors was left semi-opened. A bundle of voices emanate from it. It gets Scaramouche's teeth gritting. He's never enjoyed big crowds of unfamiliar people. Sucrose heads directly to it, and pushes the door aside to let him in. She disappears immediately afterwards.

Five guys are sitting—or standing, in Barbatos' case—around an oval glass table. They seemed caught in a heated debate, but as soon as Scaramouche steps inside the room, their heads snap to the side. He feels pinned down by the weight of too many inquisitive eyes.

Barbatos, dressed in a semi-transparent blouse and lavish corseted shorts, hops atop the table. He waves like he's some teenage girl in a sitcom. 

"Fancy of you to join us," coos Barbatos.

Scaramouche scowls. "Hi. Fuck you looking at me like that for?"

One of the boys at the table, the blonde one, with the braid and the warm amber eyes, chuckles. The others don't look half as amused.

"Seeing you just now made me think of costume ideas," says Barbatos idly. " Matching costume ideas. For the five of you."

The dark green-haired member of 4NEMO clears his throat. His brows are furrowed. "We have more important matters to discuss."

Scaramouche agrees, but the blonde guy waves his comment away. "Don't be a killjoy, Xiao," he says, "it's good that Barbatos is excited for our debut."

"Well, not quite debut," corrects the one with the light burgundy hair. He looks like a smartass. "But yes, I suppose I'd rather that than the opposite."

"Nonetheless," says Barbatos, "I'm very pleased you took the time to come to our meeting, Scaramouche. 4NEMO cannot—and will not—stay the same now that you are part of it. Your involvement is essential."

Scaramouche lets out a sigh. "Yeah, yeah."

He is beckoned forward, so he pulls the chair next to Xiao's and slumps onto it. The guy sitting in front of him is pale, both in skin tone and hair, so the red of his eyes is startling. He regards Scaramouche with the slightest hint of a smile. Weirdo.

"First order of business!" Barbatos joins his hands in a loud clap. "4NEMO, as a band name, is no longer viable. Let me hear you brainstorm."

"We have to keep the number format," shoots back Smartass, like he'd been anticipating the question. "But 5NEMO doesn't look quite as good."

Blonde Guy—Aether, by all accounts—purses his lips. "It also makes zero sense. 4NEMO works because the 4 stands for an A."

Xiao cocks his head. "What does 5 stand for, then?"

"I believe that'd be an S," says Red Eyes. His voice is low and smooth; Scaramouche has heard it before on the radio.

"Words that start with S," concludes Barbatos. "Go ahead."

Scaramouche raises an eyebrow. He's definitely a pushover of a manager, but one command out of his mouth and everyone heeds like well-trained mutts. It's kind of magnetic, the pull he has on people. Scaramouche would be lying if he said he was indifferent to it.

"Source," says Smartass.

"Spirit," responds Xiao.

"Scenery?" is Aether's tentative proposal. Scaramouche works really hard not to laugh in his face. He figures it wouldn't go over well with his new bandmates.

Red Eyes looks apologetic. "No… Definitely not that. How about spring?"

"I like spring," agrees Smartass.

"Or shore, sea, sand, et caetera." 

"That sounds like Hydro business," says Xiao. "Spring is a good idea."

Barbatos hums. His fingers, which are always restless, always moving, drum on the glass table. His fingernails are painted cyan, but not quite like his braids. It's more green. Scaramouche's eyes flick to the side. Green, indeed.

"Spring sounds great, yeah," says Aether. "It's like… all natural and stuff."

The Viatris twins and their way with words. Crowds could swoon.

"How about you, Scaramouche?" Barbatos turns his gaze to him. "Do you have anything to add?" 

"I think 5PRING sounds shitty," is what blurts out of Scaramouche's mouth. He immediately regrets it. What kind of first impression is he making on these people? But it's too late to backpedal now. He has to keep going. "Just picture it. PRING? Like fucking Pringles? Is that the vibe we're going for?"

To their credit, Scaramouche's new coworkers don't even flinch. They take it in stride. Even Red Eyes looks amused—and it was his proposition Scaramouche cussed out.

"What do you propose?"

"We have to stick to the wind theme," says Scaramouche. He's never been listened to so intently by a group before, least of all complete strangers. It feels like learning how to speak again. It feels like a discovery. "Fuck—I got it."

Aether's eyes widen. He's hanging off his every word. "What is it?"

Scaramouche's mouth twists and curls and he's smirking, emboldened, like he's never had any doubts. "Just remembered some trivia. Fuck, it's good trivia, though. Anemo Aria Record started off as an amplificator manufacturing company. Back then it wasn't called that, its name was—"

"Swirling Sounds." Barbatos rests his chin on the back of his palm, eyes half-lidded. 

"SWIRL," Scaramouche confirms. And he feels it, the way the syllable rests on his tongue, like a good vodka shot or a satisfying rhyme. "That's what our new name's gotta be."

Barbatos pulls out a sheet of paper from God-knows-where. In bright blue pencil, he writes down 5WIRL and pushes it to the center of the table.

"I do love myself some productive meetings," he hums. 

gayasscookies  @calliespect 

38 hours since we last heard from the #harbingers, experiencing severe drawbacks

Comments 50  Retweets 103  Likes 156

mary (klance's ver)  @marycooper 

I just hope @The Balladeer ✔ isn't going to quit-quit… Soloist era?

Comments 31 Retweets 99 Likes 113

    coraline  @whatthefoxsay 

    girl no its balladover.......

    Comments 150  Retweets 201  Likes 288

aoba's right pinky  @yaoijesus 

that feeling when ur gay awakening dips and disappears off the surface of teyvat hahhahahahahahahahhaha

Comments 105.7K  Retweets 189.3K  Likes 240.0K

    aoba's right pinky  @yaoijesus 

    WATTHEFUUCK WHY IS THS 1 TWEET OF MINE THAT GOES VIRAL

    Comments 505  Retweets 1k  Likes 1.5k

        2fast2furious  @itendswithyou

        Because it's your most relatable tweet yet, oomfie. Balladeer is everyone's gay awakening. His waist to hips ratio is just that good.

        Comments 60.6K  Retweets 83K  Likes 99.2K

"Think of it this way," says Lumine as she rubs his back, "at least you didn't vomit inside the house. That's a fourteen day streak."

"Huzzah," he deadpans.

"It could've been worse!"

He twists around so he can glare at her. "Yeah? How, exactly? By vomiting on both legs instead of just one?"

Lumine winces like she didn't see it happen with her own two eyes. "You could've… broken his nose."

Scaramouche considers that. "I almost did."

"I know."

"When he said that shit about being my successor ? I was this close to punching him into tomorrow. This close."

"He has a punchable face," Lumine offers.

"Oh, yeah," Scaramouche sighs then, dropping face-down into the plush belly of their couch. "He really, really fucking does."

Lead Singer BALLADEER Scaramouche Kunikuzushi DEPARTS From PLATINUM Rock Band The HARBINGERS—What Do We KNOW?

Article written by Charlotte Verity

11th March 20XX. 

STEAMBIRD MAGAZINE

It's now common knowledge that Top 1 charting alternative-rock band the Harbingers has gone through career-altering changes. 

Four days ago, Dottore Zandik, manager and agent of our six favourite rockers, came out with a statement regarding the departure of lead singer Balladeer from the band. To many, this was entirely out of the blue. We were told some months ago that the release of the Harbinger's latest album, titled Delusions , would be delayed due to creative dichotomy, but none of us could have expected that it would lead us to where we are now.

So—what do we know?

Well, less than we'd like. Dottore has remained fairly private about the direction the Harbingers are going to take now that their lead singer is gone. 

Adding to this, we have very little information about the status of Balladeer's career now that he is no longer under Tsaritsa Home Records contract. Should we expect an unexpected solo run, or a complete departure from the spotlight? 

Both Balladeer and the Harbingers' official social media accounts have stayed radio silent ever since Dottore's official statement dropped, but fear not, dear reader, for the STEAMBIRD will always obtain exclusive information on all of your favourite scoops!

As it turns out, Dottore and former prodigal singer Balladeer have agreed to meet with Jean Banlaire on the Vision Mag plateau for a special interview. It will air on live TV on the 16th of March from 7 to 8 p.m., so get to your calendars, and mark the date! Of course, STEAMBIRD will publish an official retranscription in partnership with Vision Mag, available under subscription on our website for the low cost of $10.99 MORA per month!

There you will have access to tons of exciting news about your favourite stars and every bout of drama we can get our greedy little hands on. STEAMBIRD is made of a team of dedicated, headstrong, and gossipy fiends ready to brave storms and deserts to get you your daily dose of celebrity scandal.

Because we know what you want—and we want it too!

"So, what did you think of him?"

Lumine's head is tucked under his armpit. He sighs and tries to remember—the guy barely made an impression on him. He's like a bland, goofier version of her. Also, his braid looks like a rattail, and there is nothing Scaramouche detests more than rattails.

It's why he spat at Morax Zhongli's feet the first time they met. Straight-up spat on them. Caused one hell of a commotion. Though, looking back on it, it was one-hundred percent Dottore's fault. Who brings a five year-old kid to a day-long executive meeting? 

"He was fine," Scaramouche says, and doesn't bother to adjust his tone, even if it's as dry as his throat when he wakes up in the middle of the night. Lumine knows him like the back of her hand anyway. 

"Fine-fine or fine -fine? 

Scaramouche lets out a long-suffering grunt. "I thought you absolutely detested the idea of your brother hitting on me, and vice versa?"

"Well," says Lumine, "I realised if you two actually hit it off it might mean I get to be your sister-in-law. And then you could never get rid of me. Not even if you tried."

He rolls his eyes. "I don't plan on getting rid of you."

"You know, you almost sound sincere."

"Fuck off."

"No, really! If I squint and tilt my head, I'd think you were almost on the verge of tears."

"Ew."

"Tearfully announcing your undying love and adoration for me," Lumine insists, squeezing him in her arms like he's a teddy bear. "Saying, oh, Lulu, my best friend in the whole wide world!"

"I'd never call you Lulu," he says, "It's a biscuit brand in Fontaine."

She nods solemnly. "Best friend in the whole wide world."

Because Scaramouche is a good bandmate and a good employee, he manages to memorise the names of the people he's about to spend three quarters of his life with. 

There's Aether, of course, who never wears shirts long enough to cover his midriff and who sings like if a congested rooster bred with a hyena on steroids. He's the quote-unquote leader of the band, so of course he has the ego of someone who could already play Beethoven's Fifth Symphony in seventh grade. 

Kazuha has eyes that make Scaramouche want to swallow his own tongue and collapse in the middle of the studio floor. He's never had a coworker-crush before, so it takes some adjusting to. Scaramouche still gets flustered if Kazuha looks at him for too long. That's all it is, though: a crush. The blabbering, awkward kind. Kazuha is too gentle and calm to be anything more than just a friend. Scaramouche isn't too into emotional stability. He gets insecure if whoever he's hooking up with is less of a mess than he is.

Smartass turns out to be just that, but all in all, he's amusing enough to let it pass. He smokes Cuban cigars when he thinks it's going to make him look cool (it doesn't) and tries to fumble his way around his crush on Kazuka as well as he can. Scaramouche still dislikes the guy on principle; people whose favourite character in all of literature is Sherlock Holmes cannot be trusted. 

And then there's Xiao, the only one susceptible of stealing his place as Most Brooding and Edgy Male in Teyvat. He doesn't speak much, mostly nods or frowns, but he's reasonable in a way that Scaramouche likes. Between Kazuka's constant influx of poetry and Heizou's ridiculous detective pipe, it's kind of a relief when Scaramouche enters the studio room to nothing but Xiao's contemplative silence. So, yeah: they get along fine.

Their second meeting as a group happens a lot faster than Scaramouche had anticipated. Harbingers' own meetings were far and few between, so when he receives a call from Barbatos a single week after the first, he tries not to freak out. He thinks, shit went down. I'm cancelled. Twitter found the old Tumblr posts of me calling Robert Sean Leonard a daddy. I didn't make the cut. 5WIRL sucks a band name after all.

But then Barbatos hits him with a cheery, "When can we expect to see you again this week?" And Scaramouche realises he's doing this.

He's really doing this. 

"I can come today," he blurts out, because apparently he's the most impulsive motherfucker he knows. 

 "As much as I appreciate your enthusiasm, dear, it'll take you an hour to get ready and three more to make your way here. Let's schedule a 5WIRL meeting for tomorrow instead." 

The worst part is, Barbatos really does sound delighted. Scaramouche ducks his head even though there's no one to see his blush. "Yeah. Okay."

"Perfect," says Barbatos. "We'll start discussing what we intend to bring to the public as your debut album. I have many ideas and I'm sure you do too."

A bit of an understatement. Scaramouche glances down at the sea of crumpled-up papers on his bedroom floor. The more embarrassing ones he actually bothered to dump inside a bin. "Yeah."

"Have you already thought of a name for it?"

"We haven't even discussed a theme or a genre yet," he protests. 

There's a long pause. 

Scaramouche flops down onto his bed. "I have," he admits. There's an edge to his voice he hadn't been meaning to add. He clears his throat. "Aeons Adrift. That's my idea."

"Exotic," Barbatos comments. "I think you should mention it to the others. They'd like it."

"Yeah." Scaramouche snickers thinking about the melodramatic nature of every single of his bandmates. Adrift. They were wanderers too, in a way. 

"Good. Well, this is all I came to say. Sorry if I interrupted anything!"

He eyes the tiny plastic bag laying pitifully next to him. "No, not really. It's fine."

"I'll see you tomorrow at ten, then. How about that?"

"Sounds good." Scaramouche wonders when Dottore stopped asking him his opinion about meeting hours. "Bye-bye."

Barbatos hums. "Have a nice rest of your evening. Smoke responsibly."

"How—"

The line goes quiet. 

Scaramouche stares at his phone, then down at the weed sitting on his bed. 

An hour and a half later, he's stoned out of his mind and it's also his turn to pick up the clothes from the laundromat downstairs. Lumine makes an argument against it (you're definitely gonna get run over by some car) but Scaramouche fights back (it's gonna be funny as fuck) valiantly. After some complex bout of bribery (you can film me wobble my way over in the streets) (deal, bitch) they agree she'll stay back to watch over him, but won't intervene unless he gets lost on the way or something.

That definitely counts as smoking responsibly. 

He throws on his ascot cap because he can't bear to stare at the way his hair lies flat on his skull. Lumine tells him he looks like a dork. He trips her up on the way to the door.

Her outfit is even worse than his for the shitty Inazumian weather; the miniskirt is ripped, the top is slipping off her chest because she's got no curves for the life of her, and she's wearing combat boots twice the size of his torso. At least he had the decency to wear pants. And nevermind that he's not wearing a belt and that the jeans sag down his hips like he's trying to steal Shakira's spotlight in the Hips Don't Lie 2005 music video. 

They make their way down the stairs, Scaramouche stumbling over the laces of his sneakers, and get hit by an assault of rain so cold it makes climate change seem like a pussy. He opens his mouth to the downpour but Lumine shoves him into the streets before it actually reaches his tongue. Rain's funny because it hits every single inch of his skin but his fucking mouth. It's not like he's asking for much.

Scaramouche is dripping by the time he enters the laundromat, and what the fuck, there's Childe again, whistling a happy little tune as he takes coins out of the ATM machine.

"Why are you here?" he says.

Lumine slams her hand over his mouth, but the damage is already done. Childe turns around, eyebrows raised all the way up to his hairline, and takes them in. 

He hesitates. "Is that—"

"No," Lumine says. She doesn't even react when Scaramouche licks her palm to free himself. 

"…No?"

Lumine smiles good-naturedly. "No. And he didn't say anything, for the record. You just imagined it."

"Good to know," says Childe, and Scaramouche squints because he actually doesn't look like Ed Sheeran in this particular angle. "You're the guy I saw last time. I recognise you now."

Scaramouche can't stop giggling. His own weight feels too heavy and Lumine is half-carrying him and he kind of wants to take a nap. "I'm not," he says, "faggot."

Lumine inhales. "I am never letting you out of the house stoned ever again."

"That's probably not something you should say to your successor," Childe tells him, and has the audacity to sound amused saying it. Red-hot anger blares through every single one of Scaramouche's senses. 

He shoulders out of Lumine's grasp and stomps over to Childe. Scaramouche is light-headed as fuck, but he still manages to snatch his collar and pull him down. He bares his teeth because he knows it's unsettling. No matter how humanised smiles have become, there's still something terrifying about another creature showing its fangs two inches away from the soft skin of your throat. 

It's primal, or whatever. But Childe just gets cross-eyed trying to hold his gaze.

"You're not my successor," Scaramouche hisses out. He's pissed. He's not even sure why. Something is bubbling up his throat. Childe is too laid back, too amused. They're nothing alike and it makes him want to break someone's neck. "You're some cheap replacement at best. What have you ever done with your fucking life?"

"Nothing yet," Childe replies, like it's the easiest thing in the world. "That's why I'm excited to play with the Harbingers. I think that's what I'm meant to be doing with my life."

"You make me want to hurl," Scaramouche tells him honestly.

And then he does.

Worst part is, Scaramouche has quit officially for less than twenty-four hours.

And they already found the poor dude that's gonna have to take his place. And Scaramouche doesn't mean to brag, but fuck, that's almost mean. No one can fit in the hole he left behind. No one can slip on the shoes he's stretched out for himself. No one could possibly replace him.

So why is this guy already there?

And why, Scaramouche thinks, as the world around him grows fuzzy and distant, and his chest constricts with pain he can't name, why are they all smiling along? 

Search results for: balladeer

NEW! Rockstar Balladeer QUITS Tsaritsa Recs! 

https://www.rockstaringallover.com > music > harbingers

— 13th March 20XX.

5 times the Balladeer SHOCKED US with his MUSIC + FORESHADING??? 

https://www.realqueericonsnofake.com > artists > music > balladeer

— 14th March 20XX.

SCANDAL in the MUSIC INDUSTRY: the HARBINGERS Disband? 

https://www.generictabloidsite.com > music > balladeer > scandals

— 13th March 20XX.

BALLADEER's exit, CAUSE or SYMPTOM? Let's Talk About It 

https://www.letstalkaboutit.com > harbingers

— 12th of March 20XX.

Shocking Revelations! Check Out Balladeer's OLD TUMBLR ACCOUNT 

https://www.cancelcultureyippie.com > bigcringe > tumblr > balladeer

— 14th March 20XX.

Scaramouche arrives at Anemo Aria Records just shy of ten a.m. For the first time in his life, he feels in actual symbiosis with the world around him. The buses weren't late. The passengers didn't piss on the floor. There were no drunken old men screaming at God or the piss on the floor. The roads weren't packed to the brim with cars, and traffic moved along smoothly. 

It's a goddamn Christmas miracle.

Sucrose is there again to greet him at the door. Scaramouche stares at the back of her head as they walk. He thinks they could probably never be friends. He's hot and would rather befriend hot people, and she's one of the cutest girls he's ever seen, but in a tooth-rotting sugary sweet way he'd rather keep at arm's reach. It's like trying to maintain a pile of cotton candy inside your social circle. You get sassy one second and the next all that there's left of the cotton candy is the vague afterimage stuck between your teeth.

The air inside Anemo Aria Records' 16th studio smells like expensive lavender scrub. When Scaramouche slips inside the room, the crystal table in the centre is empty. But he's not alone, exactly. There's another door there, half-concealed behind a potted plant that looks two days away from a shriver-up-and-die situation. A repeated bum bum bum echoes from under the door. By experience, he knows the sounds he's hearing are the muffled version of drum beats. 

It's then that it occurs to him that Scaramouche has no idea who in 5WIRL plays the drums. 

He enters the room. It's cluttered, a tapestry of rugs strung across the wooden flooring, pastel beanbags scattered about and vinyls plastered to the walls. Himalayan salt lamps sit on top of magazine pills. It's almost cozy. 4NEMO definitely had a vision when it comes to decorating their studio; besides the vinyl and the band posters, they managed to snatch traffic signs and stick them in the corners like hatstands.

Heizou's the one jamming it out, on a set of neon pink drums no less. Figures. He was Scaramouche's second bet after Xiao—obnoxious enough to enjoy destroying his tympan and not as cool as to do it on, like, an electric guitar or something.

When he sees him enter, Heizou lowers the headphones off his ears. "Oh, hey. Didn't see you there."

Scaramouche squints. "Are you aware your drum set is unplugged?"

Heizou glances towards the cable dangling aimlessly off his headphones. He groans out loud. "Awh, shit. You could've warned me, guys."

Aether, kneeling on the floor with a guitar module on his lap, snickers. "It's no fun if you don't figure it out yourself."

"I can't even tell which one of us is the masochist in this situation. Me, for going along with all the noise, or you, for voluntarily putting yourself through it."

"Make that all of us. Didn't hear Xiao or Kazoo complain either."

"Nevermind that—it's nice seeing you, Scaramouche," cuts in Kazuha, from where he's sitting on a panda-shaped beanbag. He smiles, and it's like Scaramouche's heart skips the fluttering part and goes straight into tachycardia.

Scaramouche tries not to flounder and ends up sounding all the angrier for it. "Whatever," he says. "Barbatos invited me."

Aether cocks his head. "You still call him that?"

"It's his name, isn't it?"

"It would be unprofessional not to," adds Xiao, hands around a dark green bass covered in Anemo-shaped stickers. 

Heizou snorts at him. "Yeah, cause you and Venti care real hard about keeping it professional. "

Xiao turns a violent shade of red and does not respond, suddenly enthralled by his instrument's tuning process.

Scaramouche decides not to read into it. 

He steps further into the studio, gaze flickering from decoration to another. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't into it. Little music notes dangle from an artificial vine-covered cornice. To this he has to say: cute. Lumine has the same kind of fake-natural vibe going on in her bedroom. The plethora of band posters aren't so bad, either, though it's all a lot more rock than he expected.

A splash of green catches his attention. Scaramouche's little stroll comes to a sudden halt when he realises what it is: a printed photo of Kermit the Frog hurling into a toilet.

Scaramouche turns towards Aether. "Seriously?"

The guy has the nerve to look offended. "Hey, why are you accusing me?" 

"Because I've been living with your sister for three years and she has the same non-humour. Why would you print this out?"

"Well," Aether starts, then blushes, then fiddles with his braid. "It's funny."

"I beg to differ , " mutters Heizou. 

Aether sends out a glare. "Bitch, don't play. You're the one who insisted on getting the House M.D. poster-flag for the ceiling."

Scaramouche feels an immense sense of dread overcome him. He glances up. 

Yeah. That sure is Doctor House. Pretty sure he could've gone five more years without having to see the details of that guy's tongue.

"Nevermind," he says, "Where's Barbatos? We have to get this meeting started."

Kazuha taps his chin with a finger. "Hmm… I actually am not sure about this. Usually, if he knows he will be needed in the studio, he's there by sunrise. Xiao, do you have any idea?'

Everyone turns towards him. Xiao turns a worrying maroon colour. He chokes out, "He got out of bed late this morning."

"There you have it," concludes Kazuha. 

"We can start without him."

Scaramouche raises an eyebrow towards Aether. "You think you're functional without your boss to keep you in check?"

Aether shrugs with a grin. "Only one way to check. Let's talk debut albums."

"Were you ever going to tell me Tsaritsa Recs dumped your ass?"

"They didn't."

"Right. It just so happens the Harbingers lost a member and you're suddenly unemployed. Talk about happy coincidences."

"They're not the ones who let me off," he says, and hears his sister's breath pause through the phone. "It's—it was me. I'm the one who quit."

Makoto lets out a shuddery laugh. She sounds extinguished. "You won't make me believe that."

"It's the truth."

"You—you quit the Harbingers? Are you serious?"

"I know," he tries. 

"So it was all for nothing." Makoto says it like a revelation. "You ran away from home for nothing. You gave up your entire life for nothing ."

Scaramouche tightens his grip on his phone. He doesn't feel entirely real. "It wasn't for nothing. It wasn't."

"But you quit."

"Yeah."

There's a long pause. "Were you ever going to tell me?"

"No." He hasn't slept since his last talk with Dottore, over two days ago. Exhaustion stings at his eyes. Scaramouche rubs a hand over them. "Not in a million fucking years."

← Search YouTube: balladeer

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"4NEMO, as a band, focused on EDM and pop," says Aether, scribbling down the words on a whiteboard. "But we're not that anymore. Becoming 5WIRL is more than just welcoming Scaramouche into our group. It's a whole rebrand." He spins around. "So we need to think bigger. Scara, you weren't too into pop music when you worked with the Harbingers, right?"

"Not really, no," he says. He and his four other bandmates are all sitting around the glass table in the first room. Aether pulled out the whiteboard after they'd announced the start of their official first meeting as a band. 

"What kind of music would you say you produced the most?"

Scaramouche thought about it. "Nu metal, I guess. Alternative rock. During the making of our last album, the word emo was kind of our guiding light."

Aether writes down the genres next to the first two. He clicks his pen against the board, then points to Kazuha, who's sitting all politely next to Scaramouche. "You said you wanted to shake things up a little.'

"Some," agrees Kazuha, "but the last thing we want is to alienate our pre-existing audience. I think this new album should be a statement piece, to mark a new era of our band—but let's ease into any permanent changes if we plan on making them."

Heizou nods. "Agreed. I mean, to be fair, I like the music we've been making up until now. I could keep doing just that till the end. But I'm not against shaking it up a bit."

"I've always enjoyed the idea of leaning more into the rock aspect of things," says Xiao, which doesn't surprise Scaramouche one bit. No one with that many tattoos and piercings can dislike metal. It's like a requirement or something. 

Aether nods. "We're all in agreement then. Scaramouche?"

"What, you're asking me if I'm okay playing the kind of shit I like?" He smirks. "Yeah. I can guide your sparkly J-pop asses into the dark world of alternative music."

"How could we ever manage without you?" says Aether, snorting. "Punk-pop it is. I'm thinking Paramore meets Green Day. Throw in some Avril Lavigne camp in there to spice things up. Hell, we could go straight to the early 2000s Fall Out Boy."

Aether sure damn knows how to talk his way into a man's heart. Scaramouche's musical panties are dropping like fucking flies. 

Xiao, who pulled out his phone the moment Aether started rattling off band names, frowns at his screen. "Are we talking American Beauty/American Psycho or Infinity On High?"

"Early 2000s. We're talking From Under The Cork Tree material here."

Kazuha hums. "Edgy. I appreciate the commitment."

"Thank you very much—I try. Any other ideas?"

"Hot Fuss by The Killers," Heizou replies.

"Dammit!"Aether sounds delighted. "Why didn't I think of that?"

At the sight of Xiao's lost expression, Kazuha leans in and says, "Mr. Brightside."

Xiao turns very solemn. "I second this opinion."

Obviously , Scaramouche thinks— it's fucking Mr. Brightside. Only sociopaths don't see that song for the gnarly masterpiece that it is. 

He's not biased. It's not his fault Hot Fuss was the only album he had access to on Dottore's ratty old MP3 player back in fifth grade. Well, that and A Fever You Can't Sweat Out, but Scaramouche gets hives at the mere mention of Panic!At The Disco, so it's not even worth mentioning.

Aether draws circles around all the names he's written on his whiteboard. "I think that'll be enough for now. We narrowed it down pretty well."

"Do we know how long we want this album to be?" asks Heizou.

"Twelve is a pretty good base number, but it depends on exactly how much we have to say. We haven't decided on songwriters yet either."

Scaramouche tries not to look too interested. "How do you guys usually proceed?"

"We can write down ideas either together or alone," responds Kazuha in his stead—who the fuck has eyes like that, seriously—"But we debrief every Sunday to pick out what we like and what we'd rather leave out. Sometimes we do votes. Viva la democracy and all."

Aether nods along. "But that's all after we decide on a theme or a common idea for the album. Which, for the record, I have none to speak of."

"What about the lyrics?"

"Usually Kazuha and Xiao's jobs," says Aether, "but you're welcome to join them."

Scaramouche glances towards Kazuha, who smiles warmly. "It'd be a pleasure to exchange poetry with you."

"I'm not sure about poetry," he says, "but thanks anyway." His gaze flicks to Xiao. The guy is as blank as a sheet of paper. "You cool with that too?"

Xiao blinks. "Of course."

"Then it's settled." Aether bumps the butt of his pen against the board. "Now: we need a theme to go off of. It's a debut album, and we already made one of those before. Repeating the process shouldn't be too complicated."

Before anyone can speak their minds, Scaramouche stands up. He walks around Kazuha and snatches the pen out of a bemused Aether's hand. 

"I already have an album idea," he says. 

Aether scratches the back of his neck. "Sure, uh. Do your thing."

Scaramouche jolts down the words that invaded his mind a couple years ago and refused to leave since. For some fuckass reason, he starts getting anxious halfway through writing. It's not like he's exhibiting himself or anything. It's just words . But a part of him still shakes, and that sucks.

"Aeons Adrift," recites Kazuha. "Could you tell us more about that? 

"It's about wandering, and trying to belong, and finding solace in the fact you never will. And, I guess, in a way—it's also about me."

Once, Scaramouche tried calling Dottore Dad. 

He must've been, like, seven. It didn't go over well. 

There were lots of crying and screaming and throwing plates around the house. Scaramouche earned a scar on his right shoulder blade from that night, and Dottore nearly lost an eye.

Looking back on it—Dottore was a one hell of a drama queen for reacting the way he did.

There are far less over-the-top ways to reject a kid's affection. Saying stop would've worked. Even a non-reaction could have been enough. He was seven , not an idiot. He knew what being ignored looked like.

Dottore's blatant horror, his confusion—the way he said what he said—it told Scaramouche one thing.

Dottore did care.

Not for the right reasons. Not even for him, as a person. But he cared about something .

Orphaned, shell-shocked, night terrors-riddled seven year-old Scaramouche Kunikuzushi—he did what any kid would do in that kind of situation.

He clung on.

Papers flutter in the interviewer's hands. He presses a pen to the page, already anticipating the rant they believe is about to be unleashed. After all, Scaramouche is known for one thing, and it isn't his spotless media training.

There's a moment during which time kind of stops. Down below the stage, the audience hangs off every breath. Every fluttering lash. Every minute movement. They're hungry for it—his hesitation. Whatever comes out of his mouth next will be going straight into the tabloids.

Scaramouche can't fuck this up.

So he exhales and says, "No. There's nothing."

The interviewer glances towards management. Everyone's comically shocked, and they're not even trying to hide it. The people behind the cameras look at each other. The woman that's holding Scaramouche's ring light starts laughing into her sleeve.

"I guess we'll move right on, then," says the interviewer, trying to smile it off. It's no use. He's rattled and it shows. "Just a couple more questions. Are you up to it?"

Scaramouche half-shrugs. "Don't have much of a choice, do I?"

It makes the audience laugh, and probably the televiewers too, from where they're watching back home. He's got multiple million pairs of eyes on him and not a single one can catch his insincerity. 

That's the whole reason why fame drives celebrities insane. They think Scaramouche is joking because they want him to be. It's forced hypocrisy; shoving someone into a mold and cutting off the edges if they don't fit, breaking a bone or two if it comes to it, then taking them out after years spent in the freezer and serving them to the public, once they're finally the right shape, finally digestible.

"It's like we're forcing him to be there," the interviewer tells his viewers. 

Scaramouche sighs. "Hit me."

"Got him!" The interviewer leans in like he's about to share a secret. "To be honest with you, Scaramouche, I think it's time we tackle a subject the lovely ladies in our audience have been eagerly waiting for…"

 Fuck me gently with a chainsaw, why don't you.

"...And maybe some of our gentlemen, too. Hey, I don't judge!" The public roars with laughter. "Word says you're still in collocation with 1-million-followers-Twitch-streamer, Lumine Viatris. Is that correct?"

Scaramouche tilts his head. "Hasn't changed since the last five times you've asked me, Grant."

Queue in another round of chortling.

"My bad, my bad—you know I'm too curious for my own good," the interviewer says. Scaramouche doesn't doubt that for a second. An empty wallet will do that to a guy. "But I guess the real question is… Level with me here a second. From one man to another—is there anything more than just a collocation going on between you and Lumine Viatris?"

"Last time I checked, Lumine is still openly lesbian," Scaramouche says. "Did the giant rainbow flag on her Twitch account not tip you off?"

The interviewer scratches his neck as the crowd below gets going again—seriously, were they bribed? "Well, you know, I don't know much about this generation's trends. She could've been a very good ally!"

"Right."

"So… definitely no romance."

"Right ."

"Well, I tried," the interviewer says, and spreads his arms like, what can you do? Teenage girls on the first few rows start giggling. "How about beyond the den? Got anyone special waiting outside to take you to dinner?"

This is why Scaramouche hates 'check-up' interviews. People ask him shit like this and now he has to say on live TV that he hasn't been getting any game.

"I don't have any time for relationships," he says dryly, "and probably won't for a while still. My career is my number one focus."

"Ah, but you're not denying!" exclaims the interviewer, like a fucking moron. "It's natural for a human being to seek companionship, you know. Might even help you with your songwriting! I'd pay real money from my pocket to see you sing a slow romantic ballad… and I bet many from our loyal audience would too. Once things settle down, how about opening your heart up to love?"

Scaramouche opened his heart up to love once before, and it ended seventeen years ago on the school playground. Big messy business. Flowers were crushed. Fingers were broken. Tears were shed. He doesn't need any more reason to be an antisocial asshole.

"Carpe diem," Scaramouche retorts. "Whatever happens, happens."

Chapter Text

The sixteenth of March at nine p.m., the Harbingers go on live TV and declare they haven't given a single shit about him since the start of their band, over three years ago.

Scaramouche isn't paraphrasing. That's what they say, even though it's cloyingly sweet and covered in roses and sparkles, and no one else hears it like he does.

"Balladeer has always been an independent soul," purrs Columbina into her velvet cake-coloured microphone. "We have always known he would take off eventually. It's in his nature to chase after greener and greener pastures."

Scaramouche is gritting his teeth so hard it's a wonder they haven't shattered yet. "I'm going to kill her."

Lumine squeezes his hand. "No, you're not."

"It's not that he couldn't have found success with us," continues Columbina. Her smooth tone fools everyone but him. She's hurt. No, not hurt—she's furious. "But some things are just not meant to be. Ideas diverge, relationships dissolve, bands split up. That's how it is. We wish the best for Balladeer and hope he finds happiness wherever he ends up."

The Harbingers are all sitting together on a long leather couch. If there are any props to give, they should go straight to the camera and lights department. They did an excellent job. The shot is a close-up, and it gives off intimacy, sincerity. The background is a neutral black. Signora's deep crimson dress looks almost grey—desaturated to make her seem less threatening. 

Pierro inclines his head. "As affected as we were by Balladeer's decision, we, too, must move on. Life runs its course. And this shall not be the end of The Harbingers."

The transition between Columbia and him was too smooth: their speech is scripted and was probably rehearsed half a million times. Knowing them, it's probably why they took so long to release their statement to the public.

"With our lead singer gone, we had many discussions regarding the future of the band. None of us are trained vocally like Balladeer was, and, really, we'd tear our vocal cords apart trying to replicate the kind of performances he gave." Pantalone smirks like a taunt. 

"Always thought he had one long fucking nose," says Scaramouche.

"It's not that bad…"

He turns to Lumine, incredulous. "Not the point I was trying to make."

"Therefore, we decided it was only natural to bring someone qualified as successor to our Balladeer," murmurs Sandrone. On the flat screen of their TV, she looks even smaller than usual, swallowed by the dark background and the intricate outfits of her bandmates. All she's wearing is a modest pastel dress, like she's some timid little lady and not a guitar-shredding monster on the weekends. 

"As successor to our Balladeer," repeats Lumine, "dude, are you hearing this?"

Only then do the words really sink in. His mouth goes dry. "They can't be serious."

It's only been a week.

A single week. 

No one—not even the Harbingers—could have found a lead singer for the band in such a short period of time. It's the single most important position to take. Replacing your lead singer, the voice of the band, is a process that should take weeks, if not months. 

Unless it was never a debate to begin with. 

Unless they had already picked out a new singer long ago.

Lumine chokes audibly as the camera shot pans out and reveals someone else, sitting in a chair next to the Harbingers. It's a man. Tall, with nice enough features—ugly but in a pleasant way. His skin is tanned like a surfer's, and his hair a bird's nest of ginger curls. The splatter of freckles on his cheeks is unnoticeable when the colours on the screen are so muted, but Scaramouche knows they are there. 

The man grins. "It's nice to meet you all. My name is Childe. It's an honour, an honest-to-god honor, to become part of the band I've been a fan of for such a long time. Anyone who knows me knows this is like a dream coming true." At these words, Lumine sinks in a sharp breath. She practically radiates discomfort. Childe goes on, "singing has been my passion since I was in diapers. And I tried—I really did—to listen to all of the people who told me to focus on my studies, to do something really productive , to get into medicine or law or physics, but I couldn't. Something in my heart just kept shoving me off track. And now I think I know why."

By all accounts, it should've taken months.

Unless they'd been waiting to get rid of him all along.

Scaramouche stares at the screen without really seeing it. "Dottore was going to fire me."

Lumine reaches for his hand and squeezes it gently, a distant touch he can't quite compute. 

"From now on, you guys will know me as Tartaglia. I promise to put my all in making you proud, as the Harbingers' new lead singer. I won't let you down. But, more importantly: thank you. Wherever you are right now, listening to this, know that I see you. I hear you. And I just can't wait to sing for you."

Search results for: tartaglia

WHO is the MYSTERIOUS new HARBINGER SINGER????

https://www.generictabloidsite.com > music > harbingers > tartaglia

— 16th March 20XX.

TARTAGLIA: NEPO HIRE or TRUE TALENT? Let's Talk About It

https://www.letstalkaboutit.com > harbingers

— 16th of March 20XX.

The Origins of Tartaglia in the Music Industry

https://brideofdiscord.com > music industry > new entries > tartaglia

— 16th March 20XX.

TARTAGLIA CHILDE might have just SAVED the HARBINGERS from SCANDAL

https://www.rockstaringallover.com > music > harbingers

— 16th March 20XX.

Breaking News: Harbingers Rock Band Introduces New Singer Replacement

https://www.thnksfrthmmrs.com > harbingers > tartaglia

— 16th of March 20XX.

Who is Tartaglia Childe ; Why was he Chosen ; and Why it Matters

https://www.heatwaves.com > music > harbingers

— 16th March 20XX.

"I think Aeons Adrift is a wonderful idea for our debut album," Kazuha tells him out of nowhere. He doesn't stop writing whatever it is he's been scribbling down for an hour now, doesn't even look up. "But I fear we may have a problem."

"A problem?"

"We've agreed on twelve four-minute tracks, which would be alright usually. But your proposition did something to my brain. I'm overflowing with ideas. I can barely keep myself contained—it's like it's threatening to burst through my mouth and rattle chords off 'till my throat dries up."

Scaramouche raises an eyebrow. "That's your issue? You're feeling… creative?"

Kazuha lifts his head up and smiles. It goes straight to Scaramouche's chest and he nearly has an aneurysm. "Precisely. The debilitating kind of creative."

"I mean," he starts, then gives up. "Sure. Uh. Well: we always have space to add deluxe tracks, you know, if the album works."

"Oh, it will."

"You sound awfully sure of yourself."

"That's because I am," Kazuha says, and laughs softly. "I know it will work—and don't look at me like that. Have faith in your ideas, Scaramouche. Have faith in us."

When Scaramouche steps inside his apartment that evening, Lumine practically jumps him. Her hair is wild and tangled and her cat-ears gamer headphones (cringe) sit loosely on her shoulders, like she's just taken them off. She stopped streaming recently. Actually, scratch that. She probably stopped streaming right the second she heard the keys twist in the door. 

She shakes him by the shoulders and breathes loudly in his face. "What did they say? What did they say?"

"They said yes," he says, "now get off me."

"Oh, Celestia, fuck me, I knew they'd think it's a good idea. I knew it, I told you. That's fantastic, Scaramouche. I'm so proud of you."

He quickly moves past her so she doesn't see him blush. The apartment has been deep-cleaned. Lumine probably figured if he came home in a foul mood, at least he wouldn't start complaining about any messes. He's grateful for it. Despite the good news, he doesn't think he could get to tidying up anything at the moment.

His hands are itching to get themselves on paper.

Lumine follows after him, fussing. "I knew your idea was amazing! They must've been so impressed. So, how many tracks? Are you writing the lyrics?"

"Twelve," he says, as he pulls out a box of crackers from the cupboard. "And, yeah, some. Xiao and Kazuha will, too."

"Huh," says Lumine, "are you worried about that? I don't think it's too common for so many people to work together on an album's lyrics."

Scaramouche shrugs and shovels crackers down his throat. "I mean, the Harbingers left everything up to me and Dottore, but I'm clueless on how it works for other people. It's not like I went to musical school. And no, I'm not worried. We can discuss shit like mature adults do, or whatever."

"Communication? I'd like to see you try." Hopping onto the cabinet, Lumine eyes him over again. She starts squinting. "There's something else on your mind."

Scaramouche stares back. "Yeah. Food. I'm starved."

"You know you can—"

"Always talk to you, yada yada, I know. Can I go now? I have some lyrics to write. You know. For my album, which just so happens to be the only thing on my mind at the moment."

Lumine sighs. "Pasta carbonara. Yes?"

"Yes. Thanks. Bye."

He kisses her cheek, then flees into the dark comfort of his bedroom. His eyes zero on the bed. The sheets were changed: they look brand new, silken and deep purple and obscenely comfortable. Sometimes Lumine calls him a twinky bitch and sometimes she pampers him like he's some newborn orphan puppy dog. Life is all about balance, or something. 

A sigh escapes him as he sinks into the mattress. He could stay here for all eternity for all he cares. His feet are sore after hours of usage (if the buses behaved in the morning, they were packed to the brim when he left) and his muscles scream for the gentle caress of sleep. But unfortunately, he can't rest just yet. He's got work to do.

Scaramouche slips his hand under the bed and grabs blindly at the dusty floor. He manages to get his hand on his notepad and pens after some floundering. Grunting as he dumps everything onto the bed, Scaramouche uncaps a purple glitter pen and gets to thinking. It's vital to nail it, the leading track of an album. Some might say it's the most important song of all. It's like how the opening phrase of a novel lets you know whether you're about to read a piece of utter crap or the next Les Misérables. 

On impulse, he writes down the basics of what he wants the song to be about, and ends up with this:

You got violet eyes but you ain't no lavender

Couldn't sleep, yeah you knew I was too busy praying

You made me beg for shit I knew was never coming 

In the end, Scaramouche scribbles his evening away and doesn't let go of his notepad even for bathroom breaks. The ideas flow like ink from a pen, and he thinks he understands Kazuha's disarray. There are so many good things to say and so little space in one single four-minute song. Even his fingers start cramping, but he doesn't relent. 

He writes and writes and writes.

You hated each and every one of my songs,

I hated each and every one of your sighs

Reached the apex of a climb with no peak,

And now I'm wanderin' adrift.

To wander adrift is, in part, to get lost in your own mind's meanderings, and true to his lyrics, Scaramouche finishes the leading track of Aeons Adrift before the night is even over.

Lumine calls him to dinner, and he strolls over to the kitchen as proud as a lion. She regards him with no small amount of affection.

"Productive day?"

"You could say that."

They sit together on the couch in front of the TV because at the end of the day, they're twenty-two years old heathens with no sense of manners. Dinner smells heavenly. By the time Scaramouche has a full plate on his lap, he is physically salivating. 

He still has half a mind to thank Lumine for her efforts. "Tomorrow's on me."

"You bet your ass it is. But, for what it's worth, no problem. I think I'd actually love cooking if I didn't have to do it at"—she checks the clock hung over the wall—"eleven thirty-seven every day."

"An alternate version of you is a professional chef," he tells her very seriously.

"And an alternate version of you is homeless."

They put on the TV. 

Of course, because Celestia hates him, it switches on to a rediffusion of the Harbingers' dramatic official statement from before. The excitement it was meant to procure has faded away Alan Walker-style. Why even bother putting it on TV multiple days in a row? No one cares that much about some stupid rock band. 

His ex-bandmates start babbling away their scripted lines. And Scaramouche knows exactly what they will say, but at the sound of their voices, his stomach twists all the same.

The camera pans away from Sandrone to close-up on Tartaglia's face. They really did him dirty with the lighting, Scaramouche thinks distractedly. Or was it the smoothing filter? Tartaglia is one of those people who rely on their ugliness to make them charming. His freckles and moles and discolorations gone, he just looks uncanny, and Scaramouche feels vaguely ill at the sight.

"The people who keep showing this on national TV are worse than clingy exes," he says. "It's been two weeks, assholes, everybody moved on. Nobody cares about that old announcement anymore. Television people whine about not getting enough watchtime since streaming went global, but then they won't even get with the program. It's ridiculous."

For some unfathomable reason, the camera shifts lower to show off the curve of Childe's throat and the cut of his jaw. Scaramouche is so outraged he sputters in his seat.

"Why the fuck would anyone want to watch this?"

Lumine snorts. "For the same reason you haven't switched channels yet."

He throws the remote at her face. 

i too am in this chapter  @reminlupus 

idk about you guys but im still iffy about the whole tartaglia thing. its only been a week since balladeer quit like....... give us time to grieve

Comments 15.3K  Retweets 22.9K  Likes 40K

    ricky  @honeyhegay 

    Agreed! Starting to wonder if this whole thing really was just a PR stunt after all

    Comments 519 Retweets 871 Likes 1.4K 

        OTP STILL NUKED @stanningisahobby 

        i mean did u guys see tartaglia's smug mf smirk??? this guy's a villain and i bet he's an even bigger nepo baby than gracie abrams

        Comments 10.4K  Retweets 17K  Likes 24.5K

sige <3  @nereidesss

#harbingerstwt is so mean :( I think it's a good thing they found a new lead singer so fast. And from what I've seen on YouTube he has some amazing vocals!

Comments 50.5K  Retweets 55K  Likes 63.8K

inaccurate username  @harbingers4ever 

personally im still waiting for tsaritsa recs to announce it was a hoax 💔💔

Comments 50  Retweets 77  Likes 183

Ebony Dark'Ness  @RavenWay 

Don't burn me at the stake for this, but… Tartaglia > Balladeer? 

Comments 50.9k  Retweets 77.2K  Likes 35K

trial by fire  @bennett_2902 

Just to spite all of you, I hope @The Balladeer ✔ and @Tartaglia_Childe are kissing behind the scenes as we speak

Comments 100K  Retweets 284.5K  Likes 344.1K

    OH NO HE'S HOTTT  @m1m1kyu

    This is the correct opinion

    Comments 11.8K  Retweets 17K  Likes 23.3Kh

    heather (yaelokre's ver)  @misplacedguilt

    #Tartalladeer ! 

    Comments 1M  Retweets 1.4M  Likes 1.5M

        ❀ Yae Publishing House ✔  @Yae_Publishing

        #Tartalladeer

        Comments 500.3K  Retweets 528.5K  Likes 544.9K 

The Balladeer ✔  @TheBalladeer

If you're going to ship me, at least pick a dude I wouldn't have called Carrot Hair in primary school.

Comments 1.5M  Retweets 2M  Likes 2M

Tartaglia_Childe  @marinewildlifestan

What does ship mean

Comments 900.5K  Retweets 963.1K  Likes 1M

    kIhRuAh (he/him)  @crossreferencekillua

    Oh I know a media training team out there is going to have a FIELD DAY with you

    Comments 155K  Retweets 179.3K  Likes 199.9K 

Scaramouche spends the following day writing, and then another after that. He can count on one hand the number of times he's felt so motivated by an album prospect. His pen glides on the paper sheets like a knife sinks through butter; by the end of the second day, he's written three songs and is well on his way to finish a fourth. Post-its litter his walls. Some contain chord continuations, others bouts of lyrics he isn't sure where to fit. Some just read: DONT BURN YOURSELF OUT, ASSHOLE.

Self-awareness is all the rage these days. Scaramouche doesn't need a therapist to tell him the crash is imminent. He can already feel the lethargy seeping in his bones. Soon he won't be able to get out a single verse before yearning for the sweet relief of death—or unemployment. 

All of that inner conflict leads to Scaramouche being plagued by constant rumbling stomachs. By dinnertime he knows he won't find the strength to try his hand at cooking. So he orders takeout. He feels justified in his decision as at least Lumine would be avoiding food poisoning by his hand—and what she doesn't know won't hurt her, anyway. She's locked herself in her bedroom at twelve-ish and the only signs of life she'd emitted since are two Instagram texts that read: 

> they want me to play bedwars with kinich

> kill me rn UGH

He scrolls through the takeout list, wondering what he'd get shanked for ordering and what looks relatively safe. Anything too greasy is out. Is curry greasy? He Googles it. The answer is yes and also no, but kind of yes, but mostly no. Scaramouche thinks: good enough. In five seconds he receives confirmation from Uber-Eats that his food is on its way.

Scaramouche has time to kill so he does nothing and scrolls through social media. Half an hour later, their doorbell rings. Scaramouche peels himself off his bed and moves through the living room. Brushing past the kitchen table, he makes sure to grab a couple of bucks, then jerks the heavy door open in a rattle of keys. 

He blinks. The delivery man, standing stiffly with a hand outstretched, blinks back.

Scaramouche pinches his nose bridge. "Why are you here?"

Childe—Tartaglia—lowers the cardboard bag. "We really have to stop meeting like that. In my defense, I didn't know this was your order. You went by a fake name."

"Wanderer isn't a name."

"You know what I mean."

Scaramouche leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. He knows acting like a superior asshole might make Childe uncomfortable and he wants to milk that contingency dry. "You work for Uber Eats. Seriously?"

"I have to make ends meet somehow," Childe says, then wiggles the cardboard bag in his direction. "Are you going to take this?"

"Right."

Scaramouche takes the bag. Their fingers do not brush. 

"You've never worked a part-time job before?"

Before his sixteenth birthday, he lived under Makoto's roof. Once he joined the Harbingers, took off, and started touring around the world, the money made itself. Now his bank account is the lowest it's ever been, but Scaramouche has more than enough for rent and groceries to wait out Aeons Adrift 's release. Part-time jobs always seemed more trouble than they were worth.

He shrugs. "I was employed at a Starbucks two years ago." And lasted a singular month, but Childe doesn't need to know that.

For whatever reason, his words make Childe smile. "Yeah, you look like you'd do coffee shop stuff. How did you get fired?"

"I didn't get fired. I quit."

"Who pulled on your pigtails?"

Scaramouche starts to wonder how Childe can act so casually, striking a conversation like they're old friends. He stops himself: Childe is a maniac. No one wonders why maniacs do manic shit. They just work around it.

He shrugs again. "Some old lady tried to sue me for poisoning her."

"Shit." Childe sounds almost impressed. "What'd you do?"

"She asked for almond milk. I gave her almond milk."

"And that… poisoned her?"

Scaramouche scoffs. "Whatever happened to her happened outside of the shop. She had a bad reaction to the almonds, I guess. Walked back inside and threatened to take me to a lawyer. So I quit."

Childe whistles low in his throat. "That's some gnarly luck.

"Yeah," Scaramouche says. He stares at a black tendril tattoo peeking out of Childe's collar, and his blood runs cold. It's a stark reminder of just who he's been talking to. Childe might not care who he chats up, but Scaramouche has to hold himself up to higher standards. Every second he spends talking to this guy is a direct blow to his intellect. Childe's brows furrow as the receipt is snatched out of his hands. "Thanks. Bye."

"Did I say—"

"Bye."

Scaramouche slams the door shut. 

The cardboard bag is heavy and warm in his grasp. It also is not the only thing he's holding. On his open palm lie the MORA bills he was supposed to pay the delivery with.

Shit. 

Scaramouche decides to blame his negligence on Childe's contagious lack of brain cells. Though that raises another issue. Are Uber-Eats delivery people paid well? No shot. And Childe did say he was working to pay his bills. Scaramouche isn't a saint by any stretch of the imagination, but he'd feel shitty robbing Childe of what he's due. 

Still. He can't just open the door. He'd have to do it fully knowing how lame he looks and face Childe's dumb fucking grin again. Worse—Childe might not even laugh, but try very diligently not to react, just so he doesn't spook him, because he's considerate like that. He'd tell Scaramouche to have a nice evening. His eyes would be glassy with humour and Scaramouche wouldn't be able to say anything about it without sounding like a dunce. A paranoiac dunce.

No, there's only one thing he can do.

He kneels down. And he slips the MORA under the door.

There's a beat of silence.

Then, from the other side, he hears, "Thanks. Guess I won't get fired this time."

Scaramouche swallows. "Switch jobs. You're a rockstar. Have some self-respect."

"Not a rockstar yet," says Childe. His voice is muffled but Scaramouche hears him chuckle like it's right into his ear. "I'll keep your council in mind. See ya, Wanderer."

"Go away."

Scaramouche stays there by the door for a truly shameful amount of time. He can't bring himself to move. Eventually there's some shuffling coming from the living room, and Lumine appears from behind the kitchen wall. She flattens her lips at the sight of him.

"Can I ask why you're curled up on the floor of our living room?"

"I forgot to pay the Uber," he says without thinking.

"Dinner's on you, huh."

"Well, I'm the one who paid."

"Right." Lumine sighs. "Well, I hope you at least picked something that isn't ten thousand calories per bite. Your metabolism may be able to shrug it off like it's nothing but I—"

"Cool your tits," he says, then goes to unload the bag on the kitchen table. "It's Japanese curry. There's some vegetables in that, aren't there?"

Lumine looks pleasantly surprised. "Why, look at you, finally learning your lesson. It's almost like it didn't take three years and two weeks' worth of hunger strikes."

"Shut up and eat your rice."

They unload the cardboard bag onto the table and dig into their meals. Lumine throws herself into a rant about how expensive the new Sims 4 expansion pack is. Scaramouche pretends to listen until she hits him over the head with a pillow and they end up wrestling on the couch. Once they're spent—because they're two couch potatoes and this is their only way to dispense energy—they lay together and talk about nothing at all.

It's another one of those really nice nights. Lumine disses her coworkers and rambles about recent Twitter drama. Scaramouche asks her what she thinks of some Aeons Adrift lyrics he's come up with. Scaramouche forgets to mention Childe.

But once he does, half-buried in a nest of blankets and pillows, drowsy with his full stomach, he thinks, maybe she doesn't need to know. It's not like it'll happen again.

It happens again.

Some days later, it's the sixth of April, and Scaramouche has been dealing with the forbidden knowledge for far too long not to do anything about it. He's jittery just thinking of what he could do, what he should not do, but that's the thing—that kind of thrill, it's what he's sought after his whole life. It's when Lumine announces that she's going out for a lunch date with her friends that the forbidden knowledge manifests itself into an absolution.

Scaramouche spends his whole entire morning trying to convince himself he won't do it. He's not a toddler, so Lumine not being around shouldn't be an incentive to throw himself at bad decisions like he is one. Still. When lunchtime comes around, there's a weight in his stomach, and he feels vaguely light-headed.

It's the thrill of it, that's the problem. The fact he shouldn't even be thinking about it makes it all the more appealing.

He rolls over on the couch, kicking off another pillow in the process. They're all scattered over the floor like some terrible art piece about the Great Depression or the state of his bedroom during his preteen years. 

Even doomscrolling is dangerous. Scaramouche feels like everything is pointing him towards that one singular forbidden action. Half of the TikToks he sees are about eating out. When he closes the app, the first thing he sees is Uber Eats, and it's staring back.

Scaramouche really needs to work on his impulse control.

He ends up ordering another Japanese curry. 

To smother his buzzing mind, he turns on Netflix. It's just to pass the time, so whatever he ends up watching doesn't matter. Then it's half a blessing and half a curse, because Scaramouche goes from being too nervous to move to bouncing his life away to a Mamma Mia song.

The doorbell rings. He fights the TV remote to get it to turn off the movie. He'll die before he's caught watching a musical by Tartaglia Childe by all people. Then he rushes over to the kitchen, trips on a pillow, nearly breaks his neck on the parquet, and somehow manages to get to the door unscathed. Something he can't name is raising all the hairs on his nape. 

He jolts the door open and Childe is standing on the other side.

Scaramouche's breath catches in his throat. He's surprised, is all. Childe's hair is ruffled and his cheeks all flushed. A shiny black helmet is tucked under his arm. He's wearing a leather jacket. 

Scaramouche leans on the doorframe. "Delivery scooter?"

"My own baby. BMW K 1600 GTL," Childe recites. "Wanna see?"

He shouldn't. "Yeah."

They leave the delivery bag halfway out the door and head down the building stairs together. It's a surreal experience. Childe's eyes don't leave him for a second. Whether he's checking him out or judging him—and Scaramouche can't tell since he refuses to look back—doesn't matter. It's the fact that he's looking at all that does. 

Down the staircase, Childe jogs ahead and holds out the door. Scaramouche slips past him without a comment. The ten-degree celsius wind hits him like a freight train. It's almost summer and it feels nothing like it. The only silver lining in this environmental shitshow is the momentary lack of rain.

The parking lot is mostly empty. Lumine's pastel yellow car is gone, and the next-door-neighbors' farmer truck nowhere to be seen. But there is a motorcycle: sleek, navy, and fucking huge.

Scaramouche whispers a curse under his breath.

He scampers over to the metal beast and runs his hands along the sides, feeling, testing. Cold seeps from the metal and freezes his fingers to the bones. The seats are leather. Plush. Probably expensive. He could fuck on that motorcycle. Someone probably already did.

Right now, the motorcycle's turned off, but Scaramouche can picture it roaring to life under Childe's palm, the smoke, the molten heat, the purr of the motors. 

When he turns around, Childe is staring at him expectantly. Scaramouche wants to claw that smug look off his face and never have to see any of his stupid freckles ever again.

"She's pretty," he says, casually.

"Just pretty?"

That pisses him off. Who does Childe think he is, teasing him like he's some chick to be picked up? "You want me to tell you it's a fuckable bike? You already know that it's a fuckable bike. Keep your ego in check."

Childe ducks his head as he laughs, boyishly flustered. Scaramouche looks away. He wraps his arms around himself. 

"You cold?" asks Childe.

What else could I be, you imbecile fucking moron? Is the only part of you capable of making deductions your fucking dick or were you dropped as a child?

 "I'm fine," he says.

"Sorry—didn't consider what the temperature'd be down there. Nice pajamas, by the way."

Scaramouche's eyes flick downwards. He's wearing the Hello Kitty set Lumine shoplifted last winter. His feet are covered but the socks are lacy and pink. Admittedly, it's not Scaramouche's proudest moment, but he refuses to act embarrassed about it. Shame only exists if you let it.

He shoots back, "What, you want the matching pair?" 

Childe smiles lopsidedly and shrugs off his jacket. He didn't say no. He's wearing a dark red shirt under it, with the first two buttons unfastened and the sleeves pushed up to the elbows. Why does that matter? Scaramouche looks away again. 

Unfortunately, Childe just steps back into his field of vision and drapes the jacket over Scaramouche's shoulders. 

"Are you incapable of distinguishing me from your latest hookup?" Scaramouche tries to take the jacket off, but Childe's palm plants itself firmly between his shoulder blades. That is certainly a palm of a certain size, Scaramouche thinks, and then decides not to think any further of anything, ever. He's so flustered he feels like lashing out. "The door's whatever—but the jacket too? What, you don't wanna harm your gentleman reputation in case someone's filming? Aiming for the tabloids?"

"Easy there, tiger. I just don't want you dying of hypothermia on me. I still need to walk you back to your door."

Scaramouche grits his teeth. "Cute of you to assume that. You didn't ask me shit."

"This is me asking," says Childe.

"And this is me saying no."

"It'll take less than a minute."

"Did you skip sex ED in middle school or something? No means no, dumbass—"

"Sorry, can't hear you. You're breaking up. Man, must be the wind—keeps messing with the cables."

A laugh breaks past Scaramouche's lips. His disbelief makes him sound softer than he ought to. "You are an asshole."

"Let me walk you back to your door," Childe says again.

Anymore and he'd be begging. The thought flushes Scaramouche's cheeks and he's suddenly glad for the cold. 

"You're embarrassing yourself," he tells Childe. Then, because he's even poorer impulse control than he thought, he says, "whatever. Fine. And stop making such a big deal out of it."

True to his words, Childe accompanies him back into the apartment complex and up the stairs. He keeps his hands to himself like a good Christian boy. But despite that and the fact they don't even look at each other until they reach Scaramouche's door, it's tense between them. It'd be cringe to call it charged—they're not wizards. But still. Scaramouche feels like he could bolt at any second. Or box Childe into a pulp. Or pull him down by the collar and drag him inside: either or.

Childe's eyes fall on the discarded cardboard bag. "I hope you don't mind eating cold," he says.

Scaramouche bends his knees and snatches it from the ground. "I do. You're getting a one-star review on Uber."

"Are you open to bargains?" 

"Depends." He pauses with the door half-shut in his hand. "What are you offering?"

Childe grins like a cat who got the cream. "Motorcycle ride. Friday. Ten p.m."

Scaramouche will not deign that with a response. He goes to close the door.

Childe's sing-song voice reaches him like the world's most annoying buzzing bee. "You want toooooo."

"Go away."

"I'm not hearing you say no."

"I'm saying go away," Scaramouche retorts, fighting the smile off of his face. Childe's scrunched up blue eyes is the last thing he sees before the door is shut.

And Scaramouche wants to leave it at that. He slips MORA under the door, an olive branch for their relationship to remain weird and charged but ultimately, forever unoffensive, but then Childe laughs again, and it's open and warm and self-satisfied, like he knows Scaramouche will give in, and ironically, that's what drives him over the edge.

"Friday, ten p.m.," Scaramouche decides. "Do yourself a favour and don't be late."

He hears another chuckle, and then Childe's footsteps tread down the hall. Scaramouche is alone again. The sudden loss of adrenaline hits him like an icy water bucket. An icy bucket of water the size of a monster truck. Worst of all, he's still got Childe's jacket hanging off his shoulders—and that was on purpose, wasn't it? Childe 'forgot' his jacket so Scaramouche wouldn't be able to ghost his way out of this. 

Dropping the cardboard bag, he lets himself slip down the doorframe and to the floor. His pulse is rushing in his throat. Despite the awful weather, he's warm all over.

Scaramouche thinks: I'm so fucked.

And then: I think Lumine's ex-boyfriend just asked me out on a date.

Ex-Harbinger BALLADEER and New Lead Singer TARTAGLIA SPOTTED TOGETHER on Parking Lot—Birth of Intense RIVALRY?

Article written by Charlotte Verity

Image transcripts by Charlotte Verity

7th April 20XX. 

STEAMBIRD MAGAZINE

After the release of the Harbinger's official statement about the departure of their ex-coworker, Scaramouche Kunikuzushi, we've all been anxiously awaiting for more information about the follow-up. The media is rattled, the press in shambles, interviewers stretching themselves thin for any opportunity to converse with one of the players of this real-life-sized game of musical chess.

Tartaglia has taken the role left vacant by Balladeer, so all that he has left to do is show that he's got what it takes to lead the band. However, the images captured yesterday 6th of April show that there might be more to his relationship to the ex-lead singer of the Harbinger that meets the eye.

[Two pictures are attached side by side. The first shows a close-up of Scaramouche leaning over a metallic blue bike, model BMW K 1600 GTL, Childe smiling proudly behind him. The second is a wide-panned shot of the two of them standing in front of each other, apparently bickering. There is a soft flush to Childe's face, as though he has been running, or is embarrassed by something Scaramouch has said.] 

These exclusive shots, taken by our loyal photographers, displays a dynamic the public was yet to be informed of. Indeed, it seems Scaramouche Kunikuzushi and Tartaglia Childe may have known each other for longer than we have known the latter.

Of course, you know us—we did our research. 

And the results are staggering.

Ladies and Gents, hold onto your matcha lattes, because these news will change your entire perception of the events that have followed Balladeer's departure. 

Old Instagram posts from Lumine Viatris—Scaramouche's roommate and best friend of three years—show her in the company of a ginger-haired man we now know and love. Yes, you read this correctly. Lumine Viatris and Tartaglia Childe shared a passionate romance for ten months during the year of 20XX, which coincidentally, lines up with how long she and Scaramouche have known each other. 

[The picture below is a capture of a three-year-old Instagram post. Lumine is standing in a beautiful silky black dress, flowers in her hair, her waist covered by a freckled hand which belongs to none other than Tartaglia. He is sporting a deep red shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, and a wide smile. His freckles are very prominent, as if darkened by exposure to sunlight. The two appear utterly enamoured by each other.]

The 6th April photos we have collected now make perfect sense. We believe Scaramouche and Tartaglia have known one another for far longer than they led us to believe, and share a deep and rocky history of jealousy and rivalry. 

We all know Scaramouche and Lumine are close—but never just how close. In interviews the both of them insist their relationship to be strictly platonic, but such a statement can be explained as desire to keep invasive media out of their lives. 

Here at STEAMBIRD, we think Tartaglia has decided to become lead singer of the Harbingers not only as a fantastic work opportunity, but also to regain the attention of his beloved, Lumine Viatris, whose heart was stolen by famous rockstar Balladeer.

[The final photo is one of Scaramouche at his last concert in Liyue, wearing a sleeveless black turtleneck and dark, ripped jeans. The lighting is dim. Purple shadows line his face. He's clinging to his microphone, droplets of sweat running down his temples, cheeks red with exertion. A smirk is curling his lips. He's clearly having the time of his life on the scene.]

All of this brings us to this one fact: Balladeer and Tartaglia are bound to collide eventually, as shattering comets or merciful shooting stars. Though we are still in the dark as to what Balladeer is up to, we know Tartaglia is moving fast, wasting no time to steal his spotlight in the hearts of their fans.

But you, dear readers—what do you think? Will these two incredibly talented men compete for the right to be called leading singer of the Harbingers? And, more importantly, are you team #BallaMine or #TartaLu?

Tons of rainbow paper sheets are sprawled over the table. Scaramouche can tell which belongs to whom since they're all colour coded; red for Kazuha, green for Xiao, yellow for Aether, and pink for Heizou. Some are pinned to a white board behind them: a patchwork of pastels and lyrics, chord progressions and weird ideas. It's a beautiful mess. They sort through it over coffee.

"I still think 'genesis ain't too far now' is a really far-fetched line," comments Aether, pointing to the first song Scaramouche completed during his creative marathon. 

Kazuha smiles an indulgent kind of smile. "Well, it is a really far-fetched song."

"Which is totally okay!" insists Heizou, eyeing Scaramouche like one might an angry barking dog. "We love far-fetchedness here. It's like our debut album's middle name."

Scaramouche raises an eyebrow towards Aether. "Then you'll cope with the lines, won't you?"

"I never said it was bad! Honestly, dude. I like this song. What were you thinking of naming it?"

"Well. Do you like it enough to make it the titular track?"

Aether gestures to the rest of his bandmates. "Don't just ask me. We're a democracy here."

Xiao straightens in his chair. He raises a hand. "All in favour?"

"Geez, you sound like a bad politician." But despite his words, Heizou's hand shoots up as well.

In just a few seconds, Scaramouche is surrounded by agreeing votes. He preens as Aether takes his paper and sticks it to the board behind with an Anemo-shaped magnet.

"So, we have one leading track," says Aether, "What else?"

Kazuha gestures to a wrinkled sheet of paper—it's as red as the streak in his hair. "I thought we could take a look at this one. I'm quite content with it."

Scaramouche leans over, eyes skimming over pretty arched letters and star-dotted 'i 's. It's more of a poem than a song, really, all preppy language and convoluted metaphors, but it's got charm. He heard similar stuff on the radio when 4NEMO's second album came out and shot to the top of the charts. It's not really his speed, but he's not with the Harbingers anymore—he's got to make compromises.

"Birdsong Liberty," Scaramouche reads out loud, "that's the name of the song?"

 "It fits," declares Heizou. "It's a song about freedom and belonging and… vague romantic experiences. I like it. We should consider putting it on the album."

Aether snatches the paper and sticks it on the board next to Scaramouche's. "We'll have to mess around with the instruments later, but in the meantime, I also think it might be a good fit. The piano lead is an interesting touch. Xiao? Scaramouche?"

Xiao tilted his head, thoughtful. "The first verse is my favourite. I like the repeated use of body parts to emphasise the carnal side of the issue."

Scaramouche definitely hadn't thought of it like that. He looks back to the crimson paper and tries to read more carefully.

People turn on you like wind in your hair:

Lemon-like sour in your eyes

Tar-bitter fever in your teeth

People turn on you like foam on the shore,

The tides swept away your heart

Forgot those songs you so adored

"I like it," he announces.

Kazuha accepts this with a chuckle and a nod. "Thank you, Scaramouche."

Thank you? Who even says thank you anymore in this day and age? Most people Scaramouche knows would scoff and say obviously, pleb. And Kazuha is no amateur writer. He's got twice as many years of songwriting experience than Scaramouche has.

So he scowls. "Why are you thanking me?"

"Because you seem like someone with high standards," Kazuha responds, simply, "and you just approved my very sleep-deprived caffeine-fueled attempt."

Scaramouche groans and, arms crossed on the table, lets his forehead hit his forearm. Kazuha wrote an entire song sleep deprived and on coffee. "Of course you're a freaky genius."

"Not a genius," protests Kazuha. His cheeks are tinged pink. "I was just—inspired."

"Right." Aether rolls his eyes. "And don't even mention that time you single-handedly wrote half an album." 

"Half?"

"Half," confirms Xiao.

"Moving on from Kazuha's musical prowess," says Heizou, "how about this one?" A burgundy-painted finger taps the paper pile. Scaramouche squints his eyes at it.

"I'm Lost in Paradise with Satan Himself PLS Send Help," he reads out loud. "Please tell me this is a work-in-progress title."

Heizou pouts. "What, you think it's not camp enough?"

"Considering this album is not Texan midwest emo," Scaramouche retorts, "it's too camp."

Aether leans over the table and hums the melody scribbled down by Heizou's hand. "Do doo doo do, doo… Do doooo. Okay. Okay. I see what you did there. Cause if praying to God's like a blackout / So is talking to you and I'm devout. Heizou—is this about your ex?"

Scaramouche nearly chokes. "You have an ex?" 

Heizou's entire face turns red. "Why'd you have to say it like it's unbelievable?"

"No, no, nevermind me. I just didn't know so many people were into the whole Sherlock Holmes rip off aesthetic."

Aether snorts and says, "they met at a book club."

"That answers that."

"Can we please not talk about Ko—her right now? I'd rather not throw up my lunch all over the table." Heizou sighs. "And no, it's not about any ex."

Scaramouche still has his doubts, though he keeps them to his own discretion: Heizou's lyrics are fueled by yearning, that much is certain, and yearning doesn't come from nowhere. There's something that pushed him to write a song about wilted love. Something… or someone. 

I was overeager, addicted to the sound of your laughter

But you let me down—low and low and then lower

The older I get the worse my willpower

'Cause I should run but when I do my lungs wither

Scaramouche feels like an all-knowing piece of shit. He straightens a bit, leaning his chin over his hand. "So it's about a boy."

Heizou sputters and gestures dramatically. "It's not about anyone! Why weren't you questioned when you gave us your edgy love song? What's so different about mine?"

"I'm a virgin maiden," he deadpans, "and no one here wants to risk driving me away with intrusive questions."

"The newbie gets the newbie perks," agrees Aether. 

Reading off Heizou's paper, Xiao recites, "There's no church here so don't say no prayer. I'm not sure I follow."'

"The actual name of the song is Lost in a Hamlet—and then in parentheses—of Your Heart," says Heizou. "A hamlet's like, a tiny churchless British town."

"British," repeats Scaramouche. There's a pause as four pairs of eyes turn to him. He smirks. "Because of Sherlock?"

In the midst of laughter, he catches Heizou's exasperation. He wonders if he's the kind of guy to get angry, seriously angry, at those kinds of jokes. But Heizou melts into a grin, and he laughs too, and Scaramouche wonders if the difference lies in 4NEMO's maturity or the Harbingers' lack of any emotional restraint. He can't remember a time any one of them would've let him get away with this.

He feels bad, a little.

He thinks maybe he'll give Mondstadt's library a visit on the way home today.

"STEAMBIRD's trying to get your fanbase to ship us again," announces Lumine over dinner.

Scaramouche lowers his phone. "Is it working?"

"The hashtag BellaMine has been trending for fourteen hours."

"Well." He watches as a noodle disappears under the broth and drowns. His ramen's gonna grow cold if he leaves it untouched but he's too upset to eat. "Am I beating Childe?"

Lumine lets out a long sigh. "No. He's got ten thousand on you."

"Damnit."

"Scara, you're going to have to make a statement, or the tabloids are gonna take your silence as acceptance and they'll run with it. Next thing you know, we get invited on reality shows to try and make us 'cheat' on each other. We get sent wedding cards. A—A puppy dog!"

"I did an interview just a month ago. They know you're gay."

"But they don't know you are."

He scoffs. "That's your big plan? Make me come out to a bunch of bigoted industries and just hope it won't harm the release of 5WIRL's debut album?"

"Everyone knows you're a fag, dude, you're not exactly hetero-looking!" Lumine stabs her steak angrily and shoves a piece into her mouth.

"The fantasy sells. The facts don't."

"And you don't care that people think we're together?"

"Why do you?"

"Because it's our lives!" gasps out Lumine. "And they're robbing us of all of our autonomy. All of it! I can't even have friends anymore, or be on good terms with my ex, because every single interaction—IRL or not—goes straight to their brains as proof that we're somehow sleeping together."

Scaramouche gives in to the hunger lurking beneath his frustration. He swirls chopsticks inside the soup and helps himself to a mouthful. It's good, if a little lukewarm. On the spicy side. It stings, burns at his sinuses.

"Why do you still give a shit about what people say? People think we're sleeping with each other? Big fucking deal: we're not. We chose fame, Lumine. It didn't spring up on us. You knew the risks when you moved in with me."

Lumine inclines her head, hair shifting forward and hiding her away. "Don't treat me like I'm five. You're right: I knew what I was getting into. But don't you think we deserve some dignity? A little respect? A smidge of human decency?"

He chews. He swallows. He says, "Childe asked me out on a date."

Lumine's face snaps back up. "What?"

"I know I didn't tell you—"

"When did that happen?"

"Yesterday." No. "Two days ago."

He can't tell whether Lumine looks more horrified or furious. Either option is a terrible outcome. A mortified Lumine is a Lumine that yells; an angry Lumine is a Lumine that gives him the silent treatment until he grovels at her feet.

"And you did not think to mention this… why?" Her volume rises—mortified it is.

"I didn't think much of it," he tries to say. "I blocked out the entire interaction until you brought him up." It's not even a lie. The second the door closed on Childe, all recollection of him was swept under the rug of Scaramouche's dusty attic-mind. Something about traumatic experiences and the like.

Lumine presses her face into her hands. "My ex hit on you."

"He—yeah." Scaramouche shrugs. "I think. He asked me on a ride."

Lumine slowly looks up. 

He backpedals, "not like that ! He showed up on his stupid motorcycle. You saw it in the article."

"Some deep history of jealousy and rivalry you have," she laments, "what was he even doing here in the first place? Originally I thought it was just a coincidence, since the laundromat's right down the street and there aren't that many parking spaces out there, but…"

"Uber Eats," Scaramouche replies, "he was my delivery man twice."

"Twice?!" A murderous air to her, Lumine leans back in her chair.

"For the—" he sighs "—the curry I ordered."

"You didn't tell me then either!"

"Because nothing happened then!" Scaramouche protests, "we talked about part time jobs of all things. Didn't even mention you."

Lumine is pressing her palms to her eyelids—clearly he hadn't been very reassuring. "Don't you think maybe this is his way of getting back at me?"

Scaramouche barks out a laugh. "Yeah. The guy who barely blinks in your direction on a good day. I don't think he cares whether we live together or not."

"But then—why you? Why now?" 

And she's got a point. A point Scaramouche has been beating to death in his mind like it's a dead horse and the last drops of its blood might give him a satisfactory answer. Spoiler alert: it won't. All that his worrying and theory-crafting did was make him even angrier. He fears the next time he sees Childe, he really might punch him in the face.

"There's only one reason," he says, "only one thing has changed since your breakup."

Lumine emits a sad, wet noise. "You said it yourself. He doesn't care about us. That includes you. I don't think he cares whether you were the Harbingers' previous singer or not."

"But I think he cares what the public thinks," Scaramouche hisses out, "and right now, the public wants a heated rivalry between us. Any moment we spend together will be used as material to feed that theory."

"Because a romantic ride on a motorbike is real testosterone-fueled rivalrous behaviour." She shakes her head. "No, it's gotta be something else."

"Well," he murmurs, "there is one thing."

Lumine finally meets his eyes again. "What?"

"He knows what it'll look like to the public. And that's exactly what he wants."

"You mean… No. You don't think..?"

"Yeah." Scaramouche swallows around the lump in his throat. He doesn't even know why he's getting so worked up. "Guess Loverboy dislikes being shipped with you enough he'd rather it be me."

Lumine sighs like she's being drained dry of all of her willpower. "He's trying to date you so the media leaves him alone."

"It's a terrible plan. For one, the media wouldn't leave him alone even if he was dating Noah Kahan. They'd make up cheating scandals because you haven't unliked his 2013 Digimon Instagram post. Or because he's still following your 8th spam Twitter account of which you lost the password to."

"He is?" Lumine gapes.

"He's not. The point is—it's a terrible plan. I only said yes to the bike ride because I thought it was an insane thing to ask—and I respect the size of the balls it takes to pull that kind of shit. But one date isn't going to get his name out of magazine headlines."

"I don't know what this idiot is thinking. I'd be less surprised if he released an actually tolerable song for once in his life."

"Maybe he should stick to covers," he muses, "remember that one time he played you Wonderwall on his acoustic guitar?" 

Lumine groans. "I can't listen to that song anymore. Triggers my fight-or-flight response like I'm about to get physical with a bear."

"Not quite. A bear'd be easier to deal with."

"You say that but you're the one who agreed to go sit on his bike. When's your date, already?"

Scaramouche thinks back. "Friday."

"So… tomorrow."

"Already?" Shit. He thought he'd have more time to procrastinate. "I'm fucked. I have nothing to wear."

"Now that's one bold-faced lie."

"Shut up. You know what I mean."

"I know that you have two entire closets full of clothes, formal or otherwise? Hm, yes, you're correct." Lumine stares him down. Scaramouche didn't think he looked particularly guilty, but she says, "it's worse than I thought. You're not just curious. You're excited."

Obviously, he gets defensive. "I'm not." And then he gets defensive about being defensive. "I'm not. God forbid a guy wants to look good for the cameras."

Lumine sighs. "Is he taking you to dinner afterwards?"

"Hell if I know."

"Well, just ask him."

Scaramouche blinks. "You want me to send him a Twitter DM? Do I look like a loser to you?"

"Yes," she says without missing a beat. Then, "he didn't give you his number?"

"Just his jacket."

Lumine's eye twitches. She looks close to an aneurysm. Scaramouche makes the informed decision not to follow up on any details. 

"You know," he starts, "I brought Childe up because—"

"Because I'm your best friend and should be informed of every ex that shows up at our doorstep to ask you out on dates? Yes, you are indeed correct."

"Fuck off."

"Proceed with your point."

"It might help." Scaramouche leans back into his chair, arms crossed. "You. It might help you."

Lumine blinks. Her mouth curls into a puzzled smile. "My ex dating my best friend might help me?"

"Not your ethical dilemmas, dumbass. That's your problem to deal with. I meant that it might help with the media. If Childe and I garner enough attention and shift the spotlight away from your feminine wiles…"

Her brows furrow in contemplation. "It might work; it might just make them even more obsessed. I don't know."

"We might as well try." Scaramouche sneaks his hand over to Lumine's, still curled around her knife. He intertwines their fingers. Lumine's smile softens. He squeezes her hand and says, "if Childe's going to try screwing me over for his own benefits—then I might as well do the same."

A long moment passes. 

"And maybe screw him in the process, huh."

"Don't talk back to the guy who pays your bills."

did u rlly think i needed all @theguardsatthehexgate 

can we PLEASE talk about tartaglia's costume??? the belly window???? the ABS?????

Comments 17.9K  Retweets 18K  Likes 24.4K

    sans undertale @sansundertxxale 

    Whoever dressed him up needs a raise we were FED

    Comments 7K Retweets 8.5K Likes 10.3K

        kai | they/them | bsdtwt @kai_lifewindow 

        thank you for spreading the gospel sans undertale

        Comments 3K  Retweets 5.1K  Likes 7.8K

marilyn  @maybeblueberry

I NEED #TARTALU TO HAPPEN SOOOOOOO BAD

Comments 10.2K  Retweets 12K  Likes 15.7K

    ventilated plot hole  @clearlyplothole 

    im gonna quickly unfollow… tartaglia and lumine have a 3 year age gap. ur a major creep for this

    Comments 23  Retweets 2  Likes 15

        sunny (jester's version) @electrouser101  

        will this affect the lore

        Comments 931  Retweets 1K  Likes 1.9K

        Smidge's Rocket @Smidge_Rocket_Blues

        ballamine shippers are just as bad.

        Comments 19  Retweets 5  Likes 12

            the lady on TOP @signoraswifey 

            ???? nobody even mentioned balladeer

            Comments 1  Retweets 9  Likes 22

Lumine Viatris ✔ @LumineViatris

That Feeling™ when you're gay. lesbian. homosexual. QUEER. 

Comments 73.K  Retweets 90K  Likes 109.8K

    blacksorrow  @pandaboyxx 

    love your energy bbg but i think you're one month early!

    Comments 900  Retweets 8K  Likes 10.2K

        Lumine Viatris ✔ @LumineViatris

        Pride Month is every month if you strut hard enough

        Comments 20.4K  Retweets 43.1K  Likes 59.3K

forkfoundinkitchen  @ts_so_tuff

BALLADEER PLS SEND US A SIGN IF YOU'RE ALIVE

Comments 1.1K  Retweets 8.4K  Likes 20.5K

    The Balladeer ✔  @TheBalladeer

    Hello

    Comments 50K  Retweets 109.9k Likes 140.2K

        forkfoundinkitchen  @ts_so_tuff

        HOLYFUCK

        Comments 3.4K  Retweets 19.6K  Likes 33.8K

Navia Caspar ✔  @SpinaDiRosula

That @STEAMBIRD article made me laugh so hard because this is clearly the face of someone in love I'm sorry

Comments 41.5K  Retweets 66K  Likes 80.9K

Mualani 💧  @Splishsplash_

I'm not saying there isn't any rivalry between these two boys… but I also think that's a lot of blushing for not a lot of action 🙃🙃🙃

Comments 50K  Retweets 38K  Likes 45.5K

    mcdonalds in the pentagon  @lotusclear

    THEY HATED JESUS BECAUSE HE TOLD THE TRUTH. DON'T LET THEM SILENCE YOU QUEEN

    Comments 1K  Retweets 3.7K  Likes 5K

As she's busying herself with the dishes, Lumine looks over her shoulder and says, "I'm streaming on the SMP with Gaming and Freminet. Wanna join?"

Scaramouche pauses. Either that is a skinwalker leaning over his kitchen sink or Lumine hit her head and is suffering from short-term amnesia. "You're asking me to join you on a Twitch stream. With your hundreds of thousands of followers. Live."

"Yes," she says, "congratulations: you are able to pick up on context clues. Maybe you'll graduate high school after all."

He rolls his eyes. "I thought you wanted your fanbase to stop shipping us."

"I still do."

"Giving them more 5-minute compilations of 'Best BallaMine Moments' material is not going to help. You're aware of that, right?"

Lumine sounds like she might be pouting. "I'm not stupid, you know. It's just—we haven't hung out properly in a while."

Scaramouche blinks slowly. Maybe short-term amnesia is still on the table. "We hang out every day. Do you feel okay? Ugh, I knew I should've let your steak cook for a bit longer."

"We cohabitate," retorts Lumine, not unkindly, "we don't hang out. We're best friends. We should do best friend stuff."

Scaramouche leans back into his chair, considering. He scoffs. "You think if we're seen hanging out platonically like platonic people do, it's gonna make your fans back off."

"It'll help demystify our relationship!" 

"Didn't we just have a conversation about this? It's not gonna work."

"How would you know?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Why'd you think Gaming and Freminet ask you to stream with them so often?"

Lumine sputters in outrage. "We're friends! Friends stream together when it's what they do for a living!"

"And also because of this neat little thing called hashtag Lionfish."

"It's mutually beneficial," she concedes, "but you forget something. They're gay."

"And the sky's blue. What about it?"

"Straight ships aren't nearly as fun."

"We all know this. They fade into obscurity because the rainbow people are just that much more obnoxious." He pauses. "So what you're saying is that you want to play into the patriarchy."

"Put it whatever way you want, smartass, as long as you stay my reverse-beard. Take out your phone." Scaramouche does and is half-surprised she doesn't snatch it out of his hands immediately. "You're going to text my stupid ex and you're going to get yourself an actual date."

"I have a date."

"You're going to make it explicit. We need it to be explicit. I'm talking Blue is the Warmest Colour levels of explicit."

"I think you're forgetting he is a straight man. Was a straight man? Fuck if I know. No one's going to believe I'm his awakening, of all people."

Lumine dismisses that with a roll of the eyes. "For as long as teenage girls continue to exist, straight men will be shipped with other straight men. That's just a fact of life. So: official?"

Scaramouche's entire body sags onto his chair like a sack of apples. "Fine. I'll DM him on Twitter."

"Dork behaviour."

"He's the one who didn't think to give me his number. I'm the shy uke in this not-relationship."

A moment passes. Scaramouche is ashamed to say he loses the eye-staring contest. And Lumine must be feeling especially high-and-mighty, because she adds, "you'll come on stream with me after lunch."

He could complain some more, but at the end of the day, isn't the only one who's missing her best friend. Scaramouche relents with a sigh. "Fine."

Lumine beams. "Good!" She turns away to finish up the dishes. Then she adds, "because I already told my viewers you would and you're trending on Twitter again."

He doesn't know why he ever expected otherwise.

🟠 Tartaglia_Childe

@marinewildlifestan

Joined December 20XX

Not followed by anyone you’re following

hello

April 9, 20XX, 1:21 AM

Scaramouche?? It's like 1 AM

April 9, 20XX, 1:21 AM

no way. i hadn't noticed

April 9, 20XX, 1:22 AM

Is everything okay?

April 9, 20XX, 1:22 AM

no one died. i just had a question

April 9, 20XX, 1:22 AM

Well in that case!

Ask away

April 9, 20XX, 1:23 AM

it's about tomorrow

April 9, 20XX, 1:25 AM

I gathered that much

April 9, 20XX, 1:25 AM

where r we going

its gonna be late so

April 9, 20XX, 1:27 AM

Why haha nervous? ;P 

How do you like the beach?

April 9, 20XX, 1:27 AM

from afar

April 9, 20XX, 1:27 AM

Works for me

Opinions on seafood?

April 9, 20XX, 1:27 AM

acceptable.

April 9, 20XX, 1:28 AM

The lack of enthusiasm makes me think it's less acceptable and more can't be bothered to argue  about it

April 9, 20XX, 1:28 AM

it was a test and you

half failed

April 9, 20XX, 1:29 AM

I prefer the term partially passed

No seafood. Noted

Are you intolerant?

April 9, 20XX, 1:29 AM

something like that

April 9, 20XX, 1:30 AM

Maybe just pizza then

April 9, 20XX, 1:30 AM

if you wish for my esteem for you to 

plummet to the ground and die, yes

April 9, 20XX, 1:30 AM

You

You don't like pizza?

SERIOUSLY?

April 9, 20XX, 1:31 AM

its tolerable.

though not much of a date food, is it

April 9, 20XX, 1:31 AM

Hah. Why, you wanna be wined and dined?

April 9, 20XX, 1:31 AM

not what i said

April 9, 20XX, 1:32 AM

But you didn't deny it

April 9, 20XX, 1:33 AM

do you want me to ride on your stupid motorcycle or not?

April 9, 20XX, 1:33 AM

You said it was pretty :( 

April 9, 20XX, 1:34 AM

stupid and pretty clearly aren't mutually exclusive terms

April 9, 20XX, 1:34 AM

Ohohooo

That felt personalllllll

What, am I like that too?

April 9, 20XX, 1:35 AM

depends. are you going to wine and dine me?

April 9, 20XX, 1:36 AM

Yeah

April 9, 20XX, 1:36 AM

then you're just suicidal.

see you at 8

April 9, 20XX, 1:36 AM · Seen

Scaramouche's head snaps away at the impact. The pain, steel-sharp, spreads from his cheek to his mouth. It stings. His bottom lip had caught on his teeth; a pearl of blood curls down and past his chin. 

"You slapped me," he says—realises. His mind spins. Short, strained puffs of breaths crackle into the air. Maybe he's hyperventilating.

"You were talking nonsense," Ei tells him, and she sounds so choked up it's like she's the one who got hit.

Scaramouche lifts a hand up to his face. The skin of his cheek is raised and searing. His lip throbs with pain his brain just can't bring itself to register. 

"You slapped me."

Ei breaks. She surges forward and cradles him close to her chest. "Oh, Kuni, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry—baby, I never meant to do that to you. I'm so sorry. I don't know what came over me."

And Scaramouche wants to break away from her, to shove her to the ground and maybe run or maybe slam his knee over her nose, but all he manages to do is lean into her embrace. Their family has always run cold; the gentleness of her palm against his bruised cheek is like a relief. 

At least it is until the adrenaline dies down: because then his nerves catch up, his brain fiber spreads the word, and soon his entire face feels like it's on fire. His lip must've doubled in size. There are tears—actual, genuine tears—clinging to his lashes.

Scaramouche hasn't cried since he was eight. To do it again feels like a monumental loss in growth.

He balls his hands into fists. Ei's body is draped around him like a protective wall, but each intake of breath sets him on edge. She won't hit him again: Scaramouche knows that. It doesn't mean he doesn't flinch when her hand reaches over to stroke the hairs at his nape.

He's not trembling. Scaramouche licks at the blood dripping down his chin.

Legally, he should be allowed to run away now. He's just been physically assaulted by his legal guardian—one of them, anyway—so if he grabbed his backpack and left and took the bus to Snezhnaya and never turned back, there'd be nothing the police could do. They'd ask Ei and Makoto why Scaramouche might have run away from home so suddenly, and they'd be too guilt-ridden to lie, and they'd get their guardianship taken away.

They'd try to find him. It'd be in vain. Scaramouche would be free. Only five months till his sixteenth birthday—and that's exactly how old he needs to be to emancipate in Snezhnaya.

His phone feels heavy in his pocket. The weight of Dottore's phone number, maybe, dragging it down. 

"You slapped me," he says again, and this time it's entirely a sob, something mournful and betrayed, because no matter what Dottore said, Scaramouche had never wanted it to be true. Not really.

Ei weeps into his hair. "I messed up, I messed up, I messed up," she babbles, chest rising and falling like she'd been running, "I'm so sorry, baby, please forgive me. I'm so sorry. You're my brother. You're my baby brother—I'm sorry. Forgive me."

Scaramouche heaves through his breaths. "I'm sorry, too," he gasps, "I'm sorry."

I wanted this, he reminds himself.

I wanted this, he repeats, as Ei's fingers card through his hair and she smooths down the strands over his back, the way she used to do when he was just a baby.

I wanted this, he decides, even as he knows he won't be waking up in his house the next morning.

I wanted this—and now I have to see it through.

After two rings, Xiao picks up. 

"A problem?"

"Yes," sighs Scaramouche, "what is considered acceptable attire for a date?"

The neat thing about Xiao Yaksha, as it happens, is that when shit hits the fan, he stands on business. "What kind of date?"

"First date. Motorcycle ride late at night. Might or might not include dinner after."

"Did you ask them, or did they ask you?"

Scaramouche coughs a bit. "He did."

"It'd be easier to help if I had direct access to your wardrobe. Can I come over?"

"Go right ahead. I'll send you the address."

"Sure." Xiao sounds like he might be amused. Or wary. Or both. "I'll be there in an hour."

Chapter Text

"No," Xiao says, even as he gestures for Scaramouche to twirl. And he does, though it probably looks more like a seizure than a graceful spin. "It hides your curves."

Scaramouche goes still, squinting his eyes. "My what?"

At the very least, Xiao has the decency to fluster. "It's important to show off your best features. Birds, during courtship, groom themselves and display their most colourful feathers as a way to charm their beloved. You should take inspiration from them."

Xiao is a weird guy, but in a charming way. Scaramouche has the urge to walk over and pet him on the head like one would a particularly exasperating child.

"He's not my beloved," Scaramouche says, slipping out of the baggy pants. "Just a guy."

"But you're going on a date with him."

Xiao throws him another pair of jeans. Scaramouche catches it and gets to work. "Yes, well," he says, wiggling into the denim, "some biceps need to be offered a chance, even if they're attached to a lame brain."

"I suppose."

He sounds carefully neutral—and immensely confused. What a cutie. Barbatos doesn't have a working-out bone in his body, so Xiao's type is probably the Malnourished Victorian Lad (in the shade Blue Hair and size Extra Transportable). Out of the entirety of 5WIRL, Xiao's the one with the most muscles. No wonder he doesn't understand the wonders of the musculus biceps brachii. 

Scaramouche himself used to be pretty well built. It was a whole thing. A healthy mind in a healthy body, Makoto used to say, and since it was one of the few things she said that didn't sound like utter bullshit, Scaramouche had taken it to heart. Leg day was everyday. Pull-ups, push-ups, squats—he did it all.

Now the most exercise he does is walk up and down the apartment stairs. The last time Scaramouche had gone into a gym, he'd thrown up all over the treadmill because he'd seen Ei's face on a viral Instagram post.

He's been too mortified to show up since.

Scaramouche finally manages to get the damn pants on and zips it up. It's low-waisted, taut on his ass and his thighs but looser near the ankles. The knees are ripped to shreds. He doesn't remember ever buying this thing, but it also does look like something he would buy while high off his mind.

"These ones are actually quite good," says Xiao, looking him over. "Congratulations. We are one-fourth of the way done."

That amuses him. "What's the other fourths?"

Xiao counts on his fingers. "TABS: top, accessories, bottom, shoes. Indarias and Bosacius taught me that on their honeymoon."

"They invited you to their honeymoon?"

"I was twelve," explains Xiao helpfully. Scaramouche blinks. As though sensing his confusion, Xiao adds, "they were my friends." You know. Helpfully.

He snorts. "Your parents were way out of the picture, huh."

"For a long time—but I had a fairly happy childhood in spite of that."

Scaramouche watches as Xiao digs around in his closet. It's chock-full of all kinds of stuff that may or may not even belong to him. He's unsure. When Lumine throws parties at their apartment, things tend to get hectic. Scaramouche might wake up with one jacket missing or two new shirts.

It's not gambling if it's not addictive. He's just… letting the chips fall where they may.

A moment passes. Xiao is still fighting demons with Scaramouche's hoard of clothes. He has the time to check his Twitter timeline—#TartaLu still trending because their fans are heathens—and reply to a few of Lumine's Instagram stories before Xiao finally pulls something out of the closet. It's a ripped, long-sleeved, dark purple shirt. Scaramouche whistles low in his throat.

"You found a relic," he says. "I was wearing this exact piece of crap in my HS graduation photo."

Xiao frowns deeply. "Okay. Not the energy we are looking for." And back into the closet he goes. The second proposition is a crop-top, black and slightly sheen. Xiao hands it over and says, "to show off your belly button piercing."

Scaramouche has nothing against a good crop-top, even if he usually only wears those to get shit-faced and that one might still vaguely smell of liquor. He puts the shirt on. It fits snugly around him, with just the right amount of pressure on his ribs and forearms to feel like he might be a real human being.

Xiao nods approvingly. "Can you spin?"

He does—without question—and it's probably the equivalent to driving a knife to his reputation's metaphorical heart. It also says absolutely nothing about him or his dynamic preferences. 

"Was the glitter intentional?" asks Xiao, startling him out of his embarrassment.

Scaramouche looks down at himself. He hadn't realised, but the crop-top is doused in a bucketful of purple glitter. It's probably the consequences of Kamisato Ayato's birthday party last fall. 

He stares back at Xiao and tries to pretend he totally washed it and the glitter just stuck. "Yes."

"Okay. Well, either way, it looks very nice. I'm sure your 'guy' will enjoy it."

Scaramouche could care less whether Tartaglia enjoys what he wears or not. Mostly because he knows he will—you don't flirt your way out of drama with someone you think is unattractive. 

Scaramouche clears his throat. "Alright, then. What's next?" 

"Shoes," says Xiao, already turning around to scowl at the ten-ish pairs Scaramouche had taken out of his drawers and laid out over the ground. He did want Xiao's opinion on the matter, but just a quick glance told him everything he needed to know.

"It's gonna have to be the combat boots," Scaramouche says. "I just can't see anything else working with this outfit. The Converses are lame, the heels are Lumine's and I'm not subjecting myself to that, and the loafers don't fit."

Xiao makes a pensive face. It's slightly less tense than his what bullshit are you spewing face, but with the frowned brows of his I am completely lost face. "Those combat boots—are they very big and heavy and painful to walk with?"

"Yeah."

"Then yes, that is what you'll wear. The best things always feel like the worst ones," says Xiao wisely. Scaramouche resonates with that statement. He should print it out and put it in a pretty frame to hang over the bathroom: the best things always feel the worst ones. So you'll do a hundred terrible things that feel good and probably somehow get knocked up even though you have no uterus. Amen.

coraline  @whatthefoxsay 

man im sserious these #harbingers teasers are INSANEEEE im gnawing at the bars of my enclosure 

Comments 2K  Retweets 8.5K  Likes 13.7K

ricky  @honeyhegay 

They don't make men like these anymore… @Tartaglia_Childe

Comments 519 Retweets 871 Likes 1.4K 

bebida de coco @Morganappp

TEASER OUT TEASER OUT TEASER OUT

Comments 1.7K  Retweets 4.8K  Likes 10K

did u rlly think i needed all @theguardsatthehexgate 

ive been re-watching #harbingers interviews and its so weird bcs back then i thought they were all friends but looking back its clear they were so uncomfy w each other :(

Comments 10K  Retweets 21.1K  Likes 28.8K

lumine's tooth @DystopiaHarmonica 

#TartaLu fanart bcs these two are ADORABLE I NEED THEM BACK TOGETHER

Comments 15.1K  Retweets 33K  Likes 50.3K

ain't it fun… @nokotav 

I thought we all agreed shipping IRL ppl together is wrong

Comments 9.3K  Retweets 14.5K  Likes 20.3K

PURE VANILLA CRISIS @crkisruiningmylife 

💔💔💔 GENUINELY like have we learned NOTHING

Comments 15.1K  Retweets 33K  Likes 50.3K

moon&back  @miisoops 

The #Harbingers are this generation's version of One Direction but some of y'all ain't ready for this conversation yet

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bUnnY At thE bEAch?  @mothermothering

those leaks are making me go insane THE THIGH SLIT ON SIGNORA'S DRESS?? SANDRONE & COLUMBINA being ALL OVER EACH OTHER?? oh my godddddddd

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They chat about the logistics of chunky shoes over well-fitted shoes for a moment, after which Scaramouche leads his bandmate to the other side of this bedroom, near the dressers and the beauty table, where all kinds of jewellery are organised in tiny clear boxes. There's the chokers, the rings, the bracelets, and the earrings. It's obvious what belongs to him and what doesn't: Lumine's skin is warm-toned so she exclusively buys plated gold stuff, while he can't be asked to get anything that isn't silver or black.

Xiao inspects everything with meticulous attention. He comments on every piece in unintelligible whispers. He even starts scratching his chin. Scaramouche is kind of starting to get why Barbatos wants to Hit That™.

Scaramouche hops onto his drawer as he waits. There's a couple back-and-forths of Xiao picking up a piece of jewelry, holding it in place on Scaramouche's skin, then putting it back with a tsk. He doesn't seem satisfied with anything, which either means Scaramouche is terrible at shopping for earrings and necklaces or Xiao is extremely selective with what he likes.

It's not a bad trait—diligence in men is rare, and that's why straight girls fawn over the smallest hint of it, even if it's just in the form of their boyfriend remembering their favourite colour or something.

At last, Xiao perks up, holding up a leather choker to Scaramouche's neck. It's just thin enough not to look too BDSM-y. 

"I like this," says Xiao. 

Scaramouche shrugs. "Works for me."

Xiao plops down the choker on Scaramouche's open palm. He wraps it around his throat and only barely struggles with the buckle. He'll probably look like a hooker tonight, but that's mostly a problem for Tartaglia and far-into-the-future-him.

They discuss piercings next. Scaramouche's ears are pretty much covered in holes, so it's just a matter of which looks the sluttiest. Eventually they agree on three upper helix piercings, a rhinestone-encrusted conch, and a daith with a little skull on top. They add a chain because chains are a necessary addition to every single one of Scaramouche's outfits. It dangles from the helix to his earlobe, all silver and shiny and eye-catching. 

"These look very good on you," says Xiao, taking a step back to admire his handiwork.

"Everything looks good on me," says Scaramouche. 

The slightest of smiles graces Xiao's face. "And you invited me here for my jaunty personality and sense of wit, I'm sure."

Scaramouche grunts a vague response and turns around to tidy up the jewellery. Not that there's much tidying to do. Xiao was ridiculously meticulous in his quest to decorate Scaramouche, and there's only two or three trinkets not quite where they belong. Still, it keeps his hands busy.

"I'll repay you," he says, "some way or another. Just let me know."

He hears Xiao shuffle around behind him. "Sure."

Making his way to the full-length mirror beside his bed, Scaramouche rakes his eyes up and down his own silhouette. He really did lose all of last year's muscles, and below the crop-top his stomach is soft and undefined, but it's not the worst of fates per se. At least the dreaded flab stayed away.

All in all: he looks like a slut. Scaramouche scowls at his own face and adds to the thought a brief, I need makeup. Some eyeliner he can smudge. Maybe a touch of mascara. The least waterproof one he can find—just in case Tartaglia decides to randomly grow balls the size of an elephant on Viagra and takes him home after their 'date'.

"How good are you with makeup?" Scaramouche asks over his shoulder.

Xiao replies, "not very good. Ask Kazuha—he is the one who took care of us, last year, for the Vayuda Turquoise music video."

Vayuda Turquoise was the leading single of 4NEMO's latest album to date, and a huge deal in the music world. It managed to stay trending on TikTok for three weeks in a row—which everyone knows is impossible to achieve nowadays. The cringey lyrics were pretty much the only reason for its insane burst in popularity, because in the end, any attention is good attention. Vayuda Turquoise was mocked by more than half the Internet. Coincidentally, it also ended up the 4th most listened to song on all streaming platforms the year of its release.

"He probably lives four hours away," says Scaramouche, "and I've got plans with Lumine this afternoon. It's fine. I can manage by myself." 

Xiao cocks his head. "If by four hours away you mean twenty minutes, then, yes."

"Wh—Seriously?"

"Yes."

"He never said he was from Inazuma," Scaramouche protests. He feels mildly betrayed. "The little fucker doesn't even have an accent!"

Xiao makes a sound not unlike a laugh. "But he is a very good imitator. Ask him to sing you in a Fontainian accent—you'll see."

Scaramouche considers it as he snatches his phone from where it's laid discarded on his bed. "You sure he'll pick up? It's lunchtime."

"He will."

"You're sure?"

"He always does."

"Well. Okay, then."

He dials the number.

She twirls before him in her dark satin dress. She's painfully beautiful. Her hair sports loose curls; abyss-blue flowers were braided onto the side of her head. She stands tall in heels that wrap around her ankles like vines. Out the window, the sun already sets, and its rays glimmer against her skin in caramel goldens and honey browns.

"What do you think?" she asks him, and she's smiling like nothing could ever bring her down. Perhaps nothing can. Her twin has been away for so long and still she never stumbles, never even flinches. 

"You're so lovely," he says. She reaches out. Their fingers intertwine. 

He clings on.

"Do you think…" she trails off.

He guesses, easily, the words she'd bitten off. 

"Yes. Of course. He'll love you."

She beams, eyes damp. Her cheeks are dusted with pink. "I love you," she says.

It makes him laugh. "I love you too."

Her hands gently squeeze his. 

He clings on.

Exactly thirty-six minutes later (ten to get ready, twenty to drive to Peregrinus Boulevard, and six to climb up the stairs and erupt inside the master bedroom) Scaramouche is with his back to the bed fame, Kazuha's thighs on either side of his legs.

It's quite the production.

Things Scaramouche does not mind: 

1. the weight of Kazuha on his lap,
2. a whisper of a caress on his eyelids, from a brush held between careful fingers,
3. the Jeff Buckley playlist playing in the background.

Things Scaramouche very much does mind:

1. Kazuha's very red eyes pinning him down into the mattress, 
2. being breathed on,
3. touch. Touch. Touch. 

Scaramouche has always been weird about physical contact with strangers, in the sense that he melts and shudders at the slightest accidental touch, but can and will freak out when said touch is prolonged for longer than a second (two on his good days). 

Whatever—he's not so much of a pussy as to whine about it out loud, nevermind the tremble of his chest and the tingling sensation in his fingertips. That shit usually only happens when he's having one of… those. The full daylight doesn't help. No shadows to hide under. Scaramouche's nervous system is on fire like oil out of a frying pan. It's hard to remind himself that he's not a herbivore being prayed on. It's like if Kazuha touches him too hard he'll start mooing out of fear.

Thankfully, before he can submit to the stress and do something irrational like shove Kazuha out of his bed, there's the click of a bottle being screwed shut. Or open. Scaramouche's eyes zero on the little vial of liquid black eyeliner Kazuha's holding.

He makes a noise of complaint. "This won't smudge right."

Kazuha raises an eyebrow at him. He smiles like they're having a moment. Scaramouchet tries in vain to remind himself that he's ass at nurturing friendships and that the closer he gets to anyone, the more evident this fact becomes. It's one thing to be antisocial and a loner from far away because you'll get called mysterious. From up close, though, you just look like a loser.

"Pencil, then," says Kazuha. He flattens his hand, palm to the ceiling. 

There's some scrambling on Scaramouche's part to find the makeup bag. Once he does, he slams the charcoal-black pencil into Kazuha's hand.

"Is that one fine?" He doesn't know shit about makeup. Lumine managed to convert him to many things but not that. Maybe if he didn't experience debilitating religious guilt whenever he saw himself wearing it, Scaramouche would have less of a hard time learning.

Kazuha doesn't make a big deal out of it. He checks the brand engraved on the side of the pencil, then nods. "Absolutely. Do you have a lighter?"

Scaramouche's mouth curls into a smirk despite all of his best efforts. "What, you gonna set my house on fire?"

"I'd rather if you didn't," announces Xiao from where he's sitting at Scaramouche's makeup dresser watching YouTube videos (currently, a tier list about fictional men one ought to cover their drinks when in presence of). 

"If you insist," says Kazuha, very generously. He pats Scaramouce's thigh like he's a horse. A very emaciated, elongated horse. "I know you must keep one around. Your bedroom carries this very distinct, exotic aroma called weed."

Scaramouche scowls even as he's already twisting himself to reach for the lighter hidden under his pillow. He plops it down on Kazuha's outstretched palm and tries not to react when Kazuha's fingers brush against his pulse point. 

Surely huge buff warrior men in Ancient Greece didn't need cuddles to fix their brain chemicals—they just stabbed their enemies and went on with their days. Scaramouche thinks evolution is a scam. Why couldn't he have gotten the muscle daddy chad gene like Ei?

Kazuha starts burning the tip of the eyeliner pencil—which is fine but also maybe Lumine, the actual owner of the thing, might have other opinions—and Scaramouche watches in silence. He's quickly assaulted by the scent of burning cedar and something vaguely creamy. Smoke swivels off into the air. 

"This might sting a little," Kazuha tells him, quietly. 

Scaramouche leans forward. "I can take it."

"I'm sure you can."

Kazuha presses the pencil to his skin.

Tartaglia_Childe  @marinewildlifestan

Watch out… 👀

Comments 29.3K  Retweets 70K  Likes 1.4M

The Harbingers ✔  @Harbingers_TSRTS

Lightless Dissonance out on the 27/07 ;; to pre-order the album, head to our site in our profile description. We thank you all for your support.

[ A picture is attached below. The six members of Harbingers are posed around a dark metallic throne. Their outfits, as well as the background, are deliberately monochrome. In contrast, the colour of their eyes is as clear as a lightning strike in the night. 

Columbina and Sandrone sit at the feet of the throne, legs entwined. Signora is leaning onto the throne with her hip cocked. Pantalone and Pierro stand on each side of the picture, arms crossed. At the centre of them, Childe is sprawled over the metal throne, resting a cheek on his fist like a king. Two piercing slits of ice-blue stare into the camera.

The name of the album is plastered below the band in scratchy white letters. Under it, the text reads: coming soon. ]

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"You have to start living in the present, Kunikuzushi," says Makoto, crouching down at his level. He scrunches up his face, and the pain flares in a burst of aching heat. Makoto's expression softens. She rubs a damp cloth over Scaramouche's nose, as gentle as a feather's touch.

Scaramouche sniffles back his tears. "He called you a Baba Yaga."

"That was two weeks ago, and you already punched him then." Makoto looks him over, sighs. There's tension between her brows. "What gives?"

"Nothing."

His eyes flicker to the floor. At nine years old, he can fool all of his teachers and friends, but with his sisters he struggles still. The violet of their eyes drag all of his secrets right out of him. He's never gotten away with a lie and doubts he ever will.

"I raised you to be better than that," Makoto scolds. "I'll ask you one last time: what happened?"

Scaramouche swallows around a big cold stone lodged inside his throat. He's not even sure what to tell his big sister—she taught him all about keeping his emotions in check and not acting on impulse and there he went and ruined it all. 

What if this school kicks him out, too? Where would he even go? Would Makoto and Ei still want to keep him around? 

He knows what happens to kids that get kicked out by too many schools. Faruzan told him about it during recess. She'd said, I had a friend like that, who got into too many fights. His mother got fed up with him. She kicked him to the curb and everything. And Scaramouche doesn't know, exactly, what it means to be kicked to the curb, but by the tone of her voice he has a feeling it can't be anything good.

Makoto is still staring at him with her huge worried eyes. Guilt sinks into his gut like an angry, bitter snake. He has to tell her the truth. He can't imagine doing otherwise.

"Dahlia called me a fruit," Scaramouche mumbles.

Makoto's face does a weird twitch, and for a second she looks like she might be trying not to laugh. But then the weird twitch disappears—and she's Scaramouche's concerned older sister again. She lowers the cloth from his nose and squeezes his shoulders.

"This is why you should always tell us things, Kunikuzushi. Did that word really hurt your feelings? 

He bobs his head. "It made me angry. That's why I punched him."

"Me and Ei—either of us—we would've understood. We could've helped you."

"You'd have gotten mad at me."

"Mad at—Kuni, when have we ever gotten mad at you?" Makoto's tone rises with exasperation. Scaramouche feels his stomach twist in very tight, painful knots. 

"Sorry," he whispers.

Makoto shakes her head. "I don't understand you, sometimes. You act like you grew up being raised by horrible people."

Scaramouche just shrugs. He doesn't know what to say and his throat hurts too much to try anyway.

"This Dahlia boy," says Makoto after a pause, "do you know why he called you that?"

"Mhm." He shuffles his weight around. "He kissed me."

Makoto freezes like a deer in headlights. "Come again?"

"The boys in my class, they were talking about fruits. But not fruits like the stuff we eat. People-fruits. I didn't know what it meant—it was so weird—so I asked them, and then Dahlia, he kissed me. And then I didn't move, and I guess that was weird, because he shoved me and told me I was one of them. The fruits."

"What kind of kiss was that?"

Scaramouche feels himself get hot in the face. He shrugs again. "Not like in the movies."

"So"—Makoto squints—"it wasn't on the mouth?"

"No, it was. Um. But it wasn't long or gross like in Dumb and Dumber."

That makes Makoto laugh, easing the pains in his belly. "That's a relief, Kuni, thank you. Do you want to know what I think about this Dahlia boy?"

"I already know he's stupid," says Scaramouche preemptively. 

"But beyond that," soothes Makoto, petting his cheek, "I think he is a very lost little boy. I think he likes you very much, and wanted to kiss you, but was too afraid to do it without turning it into a joke."

The thought of a boy—that boy—liking him is weird. Something flutters about inside his gut, scaring away the snake and the knots. Can boys kiss boys? Probably. Ei has kissed a girl before, so surely the other way around can't be that improbable. 

Scaramouche feels like squirming and running away and maybe punching more people in the nose. "The other boys were laughing too, until I acted out on Dahlia."

"I suppose they didn't know any better," replies Makoto. "They weren't raised like you were—unusualness scares them."

"I'm unusual?"

"Sure you are. Just like me, and Ei, and Miko are. And you don't think badly of us, do you?"

"I think you're the coolest people ever," he says honestly.

"Then you better learn to love your unusualness as much as we do." A beat later, Makoto is glaring at him again. "And learn to stop throwing punches at everything that moves."

"I can try."

"Or you could, simply, opt not to."

Scaramouche considers that idea and discards it just as quickly. "If I have to love my unusualness," he says, "then I have to defend it like I defend you and Ei and Miko and the cat. So if people call me fruits, even if it's boys who kiss me, I'll punch them until they cry and they bleed and they apologise."

Makoto lets out a deep, long sigh. "You really are just like our mom."

Mom was the most beautiful person in the world. Scaramouche takes great pride in being compared to her, so he smiles.

"Did mom punch people too?"

"Only bad little brothers who refused to let their older sisters put band-aids on their wounds," says Makoto. 

"Well…" Scaramouche looks over her shoulder, where the box of colourful band-aids were left sitting on the sink. "Only if you tell me the story about the Dandelion Fox again."

"And you let me put disinfectant first. Deal?"

"Deal."

The eyeliner burnt like crazy, but it left a cream, thick coat over his skin and his waterline, so in the end, maybe beauty really is pain. Scaramouche twists his face in every direction in front of the mirror, trying to find a dead angle so he can avoid it for when the cameras come out tonight. If he has to be seen out in public with Tartaglia of all people, he should at least look hot doing it.

Kazuha is a talented makeup artist. He managed to bring out Scaramouche's best features—his nose and his eyes—and enhance the worst ones—his paper-thin lips and cleft chin—so they all fit together. It's not anything too fancy, either. He's not coming out of his whole ordeal looking like a whole Nicki Minaj. 

"What do you think?" asks Kazuha with a smile. He looks pleased with his handiwork—it's pretty reassuring. 

Scaramouche nods. "I like it. Thanks. You didn't have to."

"I wanted to."

What a riveting argument.

He turns his body towards Xiao, who's migrated onto his bed after no small amount of insistence from Scaramouche's end (I don't want to intrude) (get on the damn bed). He wiggles his fingers around his face.

"What's your opinion?"

Xiao inspects him. "You're very handsome. Not that you weren't before. The smudged eyeliner matches the dark sheen of your shirt."

Scaramouche hadn't even made that connection. "Shit, yeah. Thanks again," he says to Kazuha.

"It was my pleasure. Do let me know if you ever require further assistance," says Kazuha, like some hallmark Christian saint. Scaramouche is insistently suspicious. Men aren't benevolent creatures—not unless they want to bone. But he's pretty sure the only thing Kazuha wants to bone is his own poetry.

"Sure," he says anyway. 

"Then, if I may be so bold…"

Scaramouche raises an eyebrow. "Yes?"

Kazuha flashes him a smile. "Who's the lucky person?" 

For a moment, he doesn't get it. "Huh?"

"For the—the date." Kazuha blinks. "You are going on a date, right?"

Embarrassment floods Scaramouche's body. It's not like he'd forgotten. Call it his subconscious dissociating to try and protect his livelihood from the threat named Tartaglia Childe. "Right. Yeah. I am."

Kazuha's brows rise up; his smile turns bemused, but no less sincere. He sends a glance towards Xiao. A silent question passes between them. 

"It's a man," Xiao answers simply, when Scaramouche doesn't speak up in protest. "And this is their first date. However, I'm as clueless as you on the details."

For whatever reason, the clipped reply seems to amuse Kazuha. Something knowing glints in his eyes. "Is it a secret?" he asks.

Scaramouche scrunches up his face, shrugs again. "No. Just not worth discussing."

"Forgive me for being so tactless, but, honestly, you don't look too excited. Are you sure you want to do this?"

"We can help you if you need an excuse to get out," agrees Xiao. There's an air about him that lets Scaramouche know he is not above resorting to unorthodox methods if push comes to shove. Scaramouche briefly imagines how a conversation like that might go:

Hey. Could you help me dispose of someone? You know, just some guy. He's really niche. You wouldn't have heard of him. I'm talking about Tartaglia. You know—the ginger guy. The guy who replaced me in like five days. Dottore's-new-bitch guy. The guy who asked me out for weird PR reasons. Yeah—that guy.

"I'm fine," says Scaramouche, once he remembers how to make use of his vocal cords. "I'm not being forced to go or anything."

"We're a phone call away in case you change your mind" Kazuha informs him solemnly. "Either way, I respect your secrecy. Being the lead singer of Harbingers couldn't have been easy, privacy-wise. You must have had some complicated experiences."

Scaramouche cracks up and stares at his bandmate so desperately trying to redeem him, just like all those people on social media who swear up and down he's not an arse—he's just misunderstood. It's touching, if misguided; Scaramouche has barked at guys in clubs, spilled drinks over bad Tinder dates, stolen jewelry from handsome men at Meet & Greets. He's never dated anyone since he debuted with the Harbingers. The most complicated experience he had to date was one odd homoerotic bond he used to share with his landlord's son, before he fucked off to Natlan to elope with a priest.

He hops off the bed and decides it is officially time to switch the topic away from Childe. "Lumine is cooking lunch today. Any of you hungry?"

Xiao and Kazuha exchange a glance. 

"Yes," says Kazuha.

"If it's not too much of a bother," says Xiao.

There. Hungry guests. There's no need to discuss embarrassing dates when food is on everyone's minds instead, right? 

Scaramouche herds his bandmates out his bedroom door. They trail after him like kicked puppies, shuffling timidly in their socks and—in Kazuha's case—sandals. In the living room, Lumine is sitting curled up on the couch. A book with a broken spine is spread open on her knees. Scaramouche can tell by the cover she's hate-reading A Court Of Thorns And Roses again. 

"Didn't know you'd brought that many friends with you," she says.

He shrugs and pads over to her. "Maybe if you came out of your room more often, you'd know."

Lumine pretends to be offended. He catches her foot before it can make contact with his groin (which he may or may not still need for tonight). Then, like all is well and dandy, she turns towards their guests and smiles.

"Hey. You guys staying for lunch?"

"If we're not intruding," Xiao mutters, like it's something worth being precise about. 

Lumine waves his words away. "Pshht, of course not. Any friends of my brother and/or of Scara here are friends of mine."

Scaramouche feels vaguely embarrassed. He wants to correct Lumine, to say, they're just coworkers, stupid, but he figures it wouldn't be socially acceptable. Given Lumine's shit-eating grin, she knows very well what she's forcing him to accept.

"Your brother talks a lot about you," says Kazuha, which would be nice if it was true.

Lumine tenses. It's a subtle thing. The kind of thing only Scaramouche notices. The kind of thing maybe Aether would, if he hadn't fucked off. 

"Sweet. Tell him I said hi."

"We will."

"Anyways—I'll get started on lunch. Are you two particularly picky?" She squints her eyes at Scaramouche's bandmates. They squirm, shake their heads. "Good! Pasta it is."

Lumine hops off the couch and disappears into the kitchen. 

🟣 @The Balladeer

@TheBalladeer

Joined February 20XX

Not followed by anyone you’re following

Picking you up in front of your apartment

Wear that one droopy pair of earrings

The blue ones

April 10, 20XX, 3 PM

who do you think you are to give me orders

April 10, 20XX, 3:11 PM

Sweet!

See you then xx

April 10, 20XX, 3:12 PM

you're lucky it matches my outfit.

April 10, 20XX, 3:12 PM

Chapter Text

Scaramouche has spent an overwhelming majority of his childhood thinking about love. Love in general. The word itself. Why it struck such a deep nerve within any grownup who heard of it. I love you—wasn't that the best thing anyone could ever be told? No, the people around him said, with their trembling hands and closed-off faces. No, it's not. 

Ei and Makoto loved him, maybe because he was their brother, maybe because they'd spent all of their lives raising him. One thing is sure, though: they won't love him for whoever he grows up to be. The older Scaramouche is the more stilted their relationship. Suddenly his keys don't fit right in the door lock. Suddenly his pillows won't mold around his head like they used to do, like he outgrew their shape.

He wonders if everyone his age goes through that kind of manufactured alienation. On documentaries, mother lynxes hiss and claw at her babies once they're grown. A deep man's voice says it's not that she doesn't love them anymore, but that they must learn to survive on their own. So maybe it's like that with humans too. Maybe Scaramouche has reached that age. Maybe that's why Ei hit him when she did. 

Dottore's number in his pocket feels like a cop out. If Scaramouche texts him, he admits defeat. He feels too old to seek refuge in the embrace of someone who's so evil. He feels too young not to seek refuge in anyone at all. 

He tosses and turns in bed and no one knocks at his door to tell him not to stay up late. He ambulates about in the kitchen and there's no talk of what or when to eat—there's no talk of eating at all. Makoto's eyes aren't judgemental anymore when she sees him eating cereal at five p.m. They gloss over him like he's not even here. Scaramouche can't decide if that's any better.

School's weird. He does good enough. It's not like he's ever had high hopes, academically speaking. Eventually he feels too smothered to stay the music club's guitarist, all of his ideas shut down because they're not bright and preppy enough, and so he quits. 

It's not lonely, exactly. He goes on walks and listens to the lone album on Dottore's MP3 player. It's hard not to feel claustrophobic, living in a small town like his. Everyone looks the same. His classmates are the same people he was raised alongside of, so high school only ever feels stagnant. 

One of those classmates is a weird kid he used to bully, Sethos, who disappears every other month (out travelling—but rumor says he's just sickly, or mentally ill, or his dad's in the mafia) and deals weed to those rich enough to afford it. Scaramouche isn't broke and has nothing better to spend his pocket MORA on. They become friends. Sort of. It's hard to tell, with plugs. 

One afternoon, as they're smoking behind the school, Sethos tells him he's leaving for good. Scaramouche isn't too moved. 

"You said that last time." 

"But this time, it's different." Sethos always sounds sure of himself, so it's hard to distinguish his truths from his usual bullshit. "My father's business is being transferred to Sumeru permanently. I'm not sure why, I'm not allowed the details, but he told me himself. This time, it's for good, he said."

"You can't move," Scaramouche grunts, "who's gonna deal me my weed then?"

Sethos makes a weird face, half-smiling but with glossy eyes. "You know, you've always been mean to me, but I really do think of you as my friend."

The joint between his fingers is nearly burnt all the way through. The smoke gets all in Scaramouche's face and he coughs, eyes stung. "Sure. We're friends," he manages.

"Cool." Sethos looks down at his lap. "I'm staying till the end of the month, though."

"Not that many days left." 

"Yeah. At least I'll get to attend prom."

"Prom?" Scaramouche snickers, he can't help himself. "You care about that shit?"

"Don't you?" 

"Who would I even go with?"

Sethos blinks up at him. "Right."

The conversation dwindles into companionable silence: it's what Scaramouche likes about Sethos, mostly, that he can sit in silence without feeling the need to fill it up with crap. Every quiet moment back at home feels like voluntarily running a stake through his brain. So this, Sethos' gentle breaths, the faraway sound of kids screaming and running to get to class, the heat of the blunts—it's a nice change of pace.

The joint Scaramouche's holding is dying. He presses its head to the ground and watches tiny embers spread about. There's some leftover ash on his fingers. When he looks back up, Sethos is holding up a brand new one.

"You're so sentimental. It's not like you're leaving today," says Scaramouche, bemused. This is the third joint of the afternoon, and Sethos always refuses to smoke three in a row. 

"I know." Sethos sees him reach over to his pockets and adds, "free of charge."

"That's suspicious."

"Well. You can always pay me back another way."

At first Scaramouche doesn't follow. And then he does, and bursts out laughing. 

"Hey!" Sethos says, cheeks pink. "Listen, I tried, okay?"

"That's the worst pickup line I've ever heard in my entire life," Scaramouche tells him between puffs of laughter.

"Forget it." Sethos looks away like a scolded kid. "Sorry. It was weird of me to say that."

But Scaramouche doesn't feel as stilted as he expected himself to. He doesn't feel stilted at all. "I've done weirder things."

"Yeah. Like hanging out with me."

It's a cringe thing to say, in Scaramouche's opinion, but he can't shake off that weird feeling in his chest, the one that appeared when Sethos said he was leaving for good. He hasn't had many friends in his life and this guy might be the closest he's ever had to a real one. So he doesn't chastise Sethos for what he said and what he might've not said. 

He tugs on Sethos' sleeve and Sethos turns his head. Scaramouche pretends he isn't scared shitless and kisses him. 

For a while longer, it's silent.

"Can I ask why you're listening to Phoebe Bridgers right before your date?" asks Lumine from where she's perched upside-down on the couch.

"I'm setting the mood," hisses Scaramouche. Maybe if he turns the volume all the way up Moon Song can drown out the sound of Lumine's voice. 

The nerves have gotten to him so he's unreasonably angry. Everything's frustrating. His pants are so tight they won't let him move comfortably. The smudged black lines around his eyes are itching. He hates the way his hair looks. Music's the only saving grace in this imperfect world. 

"Since when is Punisher a date album?" 

"Since I decided it," he snaps. "You played Dress on repeat for four hours when Ayaka asked you out that one time."

"And since when is Reputation not a date album?"

Scaramouche twists around, sitting criss-cross on the floor, and inspects Lumine to find a spot he could safely slap. Unfortunately, her face is the only thing he can reach. He curses under his breath. Next time, he'll get her.

"I made you an entire Spotify playlist. Why don't you play that instead?"

Scaramouche shrugs stiffly. "I don't feel like it."

"I'm starting to worry, you know," says Lumine. "You're acting like you'd rather be doing literally anything else. You don't have to go on that date. You know that, right?"

"Fuck off," he moans.

"Right. Because you and I both know you're not a pushover, but a gal's gonna worry, dude—you've been laying on the floor for two hours nonstop."

Scaramouche doesn't have the words to explain what's wrong: mostly because there is nothing wrong. What's wrong is that he shouldn't want to go on a date with Childe. What's wrong is that he doesn't find it half as repulsive as he should. What's wrong is that he has no idea how it's going to impact his career if they're caught.

"Would you be mad if I dated Ayaka?" he says.

Lumine's face twitches with confusion. "Uh, in this parallel universe in which Ayaka's your type and you're a girl, no, I wouldn't care."

"But you guys dated for a long time."

"Is four months a long time?"

"What about—" Scaramouche rakes his brain to remember who else Lumine's been involved with. Evidently, there haven't been too many. "What about Jeht?"

"You don't want to go there."

"I don't." He sighs, flattening himself against the floor. "It'd be easier if you gave two fucks about who I dated."

"I think I know what your issue is, Scaramouche."

The seriousness of her tone takes him by surprise. She moves off of the couch and kneels by his side. Her cold hand on his cheek is like a wake-up call. He sits back up. 

"I don't have an issue," he lies. Asking her to elaborate would make it seem like he's actually interested in her opinion of him. And that'd be lame.

Lumine pinches his nose. He yelps. "You want to go on that date and you probably want to kiss him on the mouth and you're ashamed of that. I can't for the life of me figure out why, because it's not like you've been into women until now, but you are. You don't want to admit that you're happy he asked you out."

"That's blasphemous," he mutters, "fucking blasphemous. I'm not ashamed. There's jack-shit to be ashamed of. I'm only doing this because he had the courage to try and that's, like, only barely attractive enough." Well, there's that, and there's other thing. The attracting-the-media's-eyes thing.

"I don't believe you." Lumine stares at him. "It's because of the band, isn't it? You're angry at Childe for taking your place."

"Eughhhh," he says.

"Childe didn't choose to do that. He's under the Tsaritsa RECS label. Dottore can put him wherever he wants. If anything, you should be mad at him."

Scaramouche flops back down. He's starting to feel like a fish. "I'm not mad at anyone. Dottore can do whatever the fuck he wants. It's his loss. The Harbingers won't make it to the Billboard by August anyway."

"You think?"

"I've heard Childe sing two times and I wanted to claw my ears off both of those times. I don't know who'd willingly listen to him enough to get his album on the charts."

 Lumine sighs. "Yeah. July, too. What a weird month to release music."

"July's awkward because it's stuck between an established academic and business period and the summer holidays. It's like wearing jorts because you can't decide between the two." It's pretty much word-for-word what Dottore taught him about the industry. Having that man's words in his mouth makes him feel dirty. He switches subjects. "Childe's taking me to dinner after all."

Satisfaction etches itself on Lumine's face. "Taught him well."

"No idea how you did it." Which reminds him, "he told me to wear a specific pair of earrings. Should I be scared?"

"He wants you two to match. Aw. That's actually kind of cute."

Match? "It's a first date!" he hisses.

"And it's Childe we're talking about." Lumine's apparently decided moping time is over: she hoists Scaramouche up to his feet by the armpits and scampers off into the kitchen. "I'll make you some tea, go put on the earrings. There's about an hour left before Prince Charming picks you up. Use it to calm the fuck down."

Scaramouche obeys, but not before grumbling and cursing and kicking a pillow like he's five. The mirror of his bedroom shows him someone with wild, shiny eyes and flushed skin. He sort of understands Lumine's concern now. 

The jewels Childe had mentioned were ones Scaramouche wore rarely. They were gifts, though from whom was a question lost to time. He'd gone through a couple of men in his adult life. Most of them hadn't been the generous kind, but there were a few whose peace offerings still lay, discarded, inside Scaramouche's drawers. 

He could just take out the earrings Xiao had picked out for him, but that doesn't feel right. Leaning over his desk and staring intently into his mirror, he fumbles with his left ear until it's bare. Half-and half. That's the kind of striking he likes. 

Childe's earring—no, Scaramouche thinks, not Childe's, why would it be Childe's?—is intricate in its design, threads beaded around a cerulean crystal. It's heavier than the jewelry Scaramouche usually wears. Somehow, that feels symbolic. 

By the time ten p.m. rolls around, Lumine's brought him tea, her heating pad, and a big smooch on the forehead. Scaramouche is frozen in place sitting at the dining table. He watches from faraway as Lumine slobbers all over her Buldak ramen. To a nervous system that's as fried as Scaramouche's, excitement and fear are two identical things, and as a result, his stomach is tied into knots and he feels like throwing up.

The doorbell rings. At the same time, Scaramouche phone—lined up methodically on the table like it might blow up at any moment—lights up. The notification reads: I'm here! with a smiling emoticon. 

Fuck him. He's probably not even nervous at all. I'll kill him dead.

Lumine perks up, brows raised up to the ceiling. She presses her hand against his. "Deep breaths."

"I'm breathing perfectly fine," he chokes out. 

"You're green."

"I'm not."

"You're not. You look perfect. Go ahead."

Scaramouche is frozen in place. "I can't."

"I'll drag you there myself."

"You won't."

"I'll open the door and play Kiss the Girl from The Little Mermaid 'till you either get fed up or he mans up and carries you out."

She'd do it. She's done worse. 

Scaramouche slides the heating pad off his lap. He gets up.

It's like time has slowed when he reaches out and swings the door open. Childe is standing on the other side. Even the terrible artificial lights of the apartment block can't dampen that kind of handsomeness. Scaramouche stays there without saying shit, staring. Childe stares back. 

"Hey," he says eventually, casual like nobody's business.

Scaramouche greets him back with equal amounts of casualness. "Hi."

"I'm on time. Ten on the dot, like you said."

"What, you want a medal?" 

"A little star sticker should be enough." 

"Didn't think you'd know what that was. You know, with you being a dropout and all."

Childe's eyes widen and then he's grinning. "I don't remember ever telling you that."

Oh. Shit. Scaramouche forces his expression into careful neutrality. "Must've heard about it somewhere." And definitely not from scrolling through 5 years old Buzzfeed articles all night long.

He shifts away from the door to grab his jacket. Lumine wiggles her brows at him, so he ignores her. She's not getting a goodnight either because he'll be back before she ever goes to bed. 

Now a tad warmer, Scaramouche walks out the door. Childe takes a step back and waits for the door to be locked before speaking up again.

"How's she?"

Scaramouche scrunches up his nose. "Fine." He can't say he appreciates Childe asking about his ex while on a date. On the other hand, he's a hypocrite, because if Childe hadn't asked at all, he'd still be offended. 

Childe tilts his head to the side like a curious puppy. "She's a streamer now, right?"

"Minecraft. It's all the rage with kids these days."

"You don't sound like a huge fan."

"I'm not a huge fan of video games in general," he says, getting impatient. "Are you taking me to your motorcycle or not?"

Childe's eyes shine with amusement. "You're more into the bike than me."

"Hah. You're bold to assume I'm into you at all."

"Am I?" Childe shifts nearer. Scaramouche isn't too impressed by the husky tone he starts using. "You're here, aren't you?"

"The bike, Childe," he says, moving away. "The bike."

At least it doesn't take him too long to focus. Childe blinks. "Alright. Your wish is my command."

Together they make their way down the apartment staircase. Scaramouche catches a glimpse of himself in a window pane. He's not blushing, is he? He better not be. He wouldn't be caught dead blushing in public at anything Childe does. Or says. Or implies. Whatever.

Of course, Childe holds the door open, waits for Scaramouche to slip past him, then pushes it close, all careful and diligent. Scaramouche knows a lot of people who do too much to impress him, but Childe's so sincere in his attempt that it feels charming rather than tacky. 

Everything about him speaks of some kind of extra effort Scaramouche can't help but appreciate. Childe's wearing a dark shirt half-concealed beneath a huge, thick crimson scarf. Black fur lines the oversized coat that hangs off his shoulders. It's the kind of look that makes him seem bigger than he is, strict with all of the harsh lines, but not unappealing. Even his hair looks softer than usual. Some untamed strands curl at his ears.

Scaramouche will deepthroat a foot-long artichoke before he admits out loud how nice he thinks Childe looks. That doesn't mean he won't stare.

Basking in the sharp night air, Scaramouche makes his way across the parking lots and over to the motorcycle. Its metallic sheen is striking against the harsh shadows. Lamplight reflects off its flank. Scaramouche presses his palm against it and shivers.

"Tell me you didn't forget to bring an extra helmet," he says.

Childe winks. "Chill. It's your lucky day." 

With some pushing of buttons he opens up a compartment beneath the seat of the bike. It's surprisingly deep inside: he pulls out two helmets out of it. One is black like the one he'd worn two days ago, the other silver like the motorcycle's pipes.

Childe hands him the second helmet. Their fingers brush. The helmet's heavy, more so than Scaramouche expected. He also has no idea how to put it on.

"Here," Childe says, perhaps sensing his hesitation, "I'll help you with it."

There is a fine line between manhandling and condescension, but Childe doesn't sound patronising. When he slides the helmet down Scaramouche's head, it's gentle. His hands work near his throat for a moment. Scaramouche's throat bobs. His skin feels like it's been set alight. Then a click, an additional bout of rustling, and Childe steps away from him. 

"All set."

Scaramouche is a bit dazed. "Thanks."

Surprise dances in Childe's eyes, then warmth. His fingers zip up his coat without him looking away. "Don't worry about it."

He sets a palm on the motorcycle before throwing his leg over it. His foot flicks away a black rod sticking out near the hind tires. The motorcycle bobs, then sways, Childe's foot on gravel the only thing keeping it from tumbling over. It's an entirely inconspicuous show of strength that Scaramouche had not predicted being that into. 

Childe looks back and gestures for him to hop on. How the fuck, Scaramouche wants to say, but he's already been manhandled once and that's once too many. He's not impotent. He can figure it out. Padding over, his hands find the black leather seat, which he uses to hoist himself up. Then for an awkward second he's stuck there, hovering precariously in the air.

Amused, Childe says, "there's a pedal."

Scaramouche snaps, "I knew that!" 

The tip of his shoe catches on said pedal. He hops his way onto the motorcycle much like one would a horse. Only his troubles aren't over yet. Scaramouche eyes the space between Childe's back and his own chest and realises that gravity's pushing him forward. The seats are angled weird. Scaramouche's bound to end up with a mouthful of fur and/or Childe-favored neck. 

"I know I don't stink, I showered this morning," says Childe, "so scoot over, will you?"

"Whether you showered or not is irrelevant. I don't want to sniff you." His voice is muffled behind the helmet, but if Childe's struggling to hear him, he doesn't let it show. What he does show is a huge toothy grin.

"What, too shy to touch me?"

"I'm perfectly capable of touching you," says Scaramouche murderously. 

He's risen to the bait. Any more hesitation and he'd look like some twitchy tsundere. Scaramouche shuffles closer, flinches when his knees hit the back of Childe's thighs. The lizard part of his brain deludes itself into believing if he presses hard enough, he could feel the heat of skin under denim. As a result, Scaramouche keeps his legs flexed (torture) and a safe inch away from any possible, theoretical heat (agony). 

"Sweet. Next step: your arms."

"What's wrong with my arms?"

"Nothing," says Childe very seriously, "but you should probably hang onto me or you'll fall."

Scaramouche looks away from the ginger hair and towards the back of the motorcycle. On each side of his hips are handles like two slender metal arms. 

"I'm gonna hang onto this instead."

Childe twists his neck to huff at him. "I mean it—you'll fall. This is your first time riding. Just put your arms around me and stop acting like it's gonna kill you."

"It might," grumbles Scaramouche, but at this point even he can tell he's being unreasonable. Gingerly, he slips two hands under Childe's puffy sleeves and clasps them against his stomach. "What if you're contagious?"

Childe laughs through his nose. "Depends. What illness are we talking about?"

Scaramouche has multiple answers ready: homosexuality (high chance of being told pot calls kettle black) ; idiocy (Childe's voice mocks him, but you still chose to go out with the so-called idiot) ; ginger (you keep staring at my hair, Scaramouche) ; et caetera. Each of his ideas are shut down immediately. By himself. Scaramouche doesn't know when he became so hackneyed.

Drily, he says, "are you not going to put on a helmet?"

"Nope. Maybe then if you get us into a car crash they'll blame my untimely death on you."

"If I get us into a car crash? You're the one driving, stupid."

Childe's dumb blue eyes are twinkling before he turns away. "Oh, I don't know," he drawls, "I think you'd find a way." 

Scaramouche watches him put on the sleek black helmet. It engulfs his head and soon there's not an inch of tan skin left to be seen. One must admit Childe suits the whole biker thing remarkably well. He flips down the visor with a gloved hand, sleeve slipping, revealing the patchwork of freckles that stain his wrist. Scaramouche thinks he's never seen them there before. Hidden with makeup, maybe. Is Childe the type of guy to get insecure?

Must be. Everyone gets insecure about something. But it's hard to imagine what, in Childe's case. He's got the height and the build and a rabid fanbase that'd eat up anything if it came from him.

The motorcycle roars to life under Childe's fingers, softening to a deep purr that has Scaramouche vibrating in his seat. It's almost as intimidating as riding a horse—only without any of the determining clues to whether you'd hit the ground willingly or not by the end of the hour. Childe revs up the motor once, pats Scaramouche's hands as though to make sure they're still there, and then they're off. 

It starts off slow. It does not stay slow for long.

"Holyfuckfuckshit," says Scaramouche into his helmet. He might have crushed his entire body against Childe's brick wall of a back. He wouldn't know. His eyes are glued shut because if he opens them he's sure he's gonna puke.

Childe laughs, or at least Scaramouche's pretty sure he does. His shoulders shake somewhere vaguely above Scaramouche's nose. He does something to the bike that makes it howl twice. Any and all of Scaramouche's earlier reluctance evaporated with the wind. He squeezes himself against Childe and hangs on for dear life.

Cold, sharp air rushes past them. It's a feeling Scaramouche couldn't explain if he tried. Like flying, running, and swimming all at once. Like being drop-kicked off a mountain peak and guided to safety by a bunch of roaring, metallic clouds. Like all of the oxygen in the world sprinting to your lungs; it's a little like choking, a little like breathing for the first time.

Eventually Scaramouche manages to fight off the fear and opens his eyes. He squints so the wind doesn't literally rip his cornea off. He could flip down his visor like he saw Childe do earlier, but now that they're on the road, Scaramouche can't imagine detaching his hands from where they're clutching Childe's coat. He's certain if he relaxes even a muscle he'll go flying off the bike, backrest or not. Childe was so, so right about not relying on those flimsy motorcycle handles.

The world passes them like a sped up film. All Scaramouche sees are blurs of colour and city street lights. Betraying all of the rules he thought he knew about driving, Childe drives ahead of every car, skips lines, overtakes any vehicle on his way. Scaramouche knows they are exceeding the speed limit. They must be. There's no way this—the rush, the wind wild around them, the adrenaline that simmers in his blood—is legal. 

In the end, a red light's the only rule Childe seems willing to listen to. The motorcycle slows like it's begrudging. A breath shoots out of Scaramouche's mouth. He's so relieved he might die. Welcoming the regular, slow, impalpable air, he slowly untangles his fingers. His body aches like it's been cramping. 

"Havin' fun?" calls Childe, nearly shouting just to be heard. For whatever fucking reason, he sounds like he's smirking. 

If they weren't on the most precarious vehicle ever invented by mankind, Scaramouche would beat him with a stick. 

"We are never doing this again," he yells back. 

"So you're into this baby just for her appearance? Fuck, Scaramouche, you're hurting her feelings. I didn't peg you for such a superficial guy."

Scaramouche might beat him with a stick right now. "I'm gonna superficially rip your mouth right off you."

"Yeah?" A hidden laugh again, shoulders that shake, flexing muscles Scaramouche can barely feel. "With your teeth?"

"You wish." 

Green light, and they're speeding off onto the highway again.

Addressing elephants isn't something Scaramouche struggles with. If anything, it's the containing them in a small room that's the problem. 

He's always been confrontational. Maybe it's genetic, maybe it's a result of being raised by one egotistical narcissist and two neurotic fifteen year-olds. His sisters have never let him get away with anything—the slightest hint of emotion was poked and prodded at until it unraveled and Scaramouche couldn't breathe without hiccuping a cry. It's made it so now he's about as tender as a rock. There's not much space to get damp-eyed when you shed all of your tears before age ten.

Music helps put words on those feelings he's repressed for so long. It's never explicit, obviously, because who does that anyway, say things explicitly, that's business for those holier-than-thou motherfuckers he hates. Scaramouche would rather drawl I'll see the shape of you in cars passing by into microphones than call up Ei and tell her he misses her. The meaning isn't lost; the shame is. 

Scaramouche liked singing but was batshit awful at it. He'd miss high notes by two whole octaves and squeaked like a kicked puppy whenever he had to sing something more complex than Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. Only Celestia knows what Dottore saw in him. Pointed his finger to his forehead I chose you, Pikachu! style and everything. Two years later Scaramouche had a label contract and 50 000 monthly listeners on Deezer. At eighteen he was touring the world. At nineteen he went platinum. 

So, yeah, over the span of five albums, Scaramouche had beat the shit out of those dead horses that littered his graveyard-mind. Not a singular issue went untouched. Even that annoying neighbour who moved out last spring got his own dedicated track—titled To Whoever Might Hear, in honour of the fuckton of noise he produced just existing. 

Dottore, though, that's the exception to the rule. Scaramouche has tried and failed countless times to come up with adequate lyrics but nothing sticks. To say he's angry would be an understatement. To say he's sad would feel about as tacky as those my blood was boiling with anger or there were butterflies in my stomach idioms. Like, yeah, sure. What else? What's new to say? 

After writing the first track of Aeons Adrift, Scaramouche spent an overwhelming majority of his time thinking about how to write about Dottore. 

Some of his attempts were less successful than others—

(I loved you,

You didn't love me

I thought you were my dad,

But you weren't my dad

You just liked the ego boost

That came with signing school paper slips

Man, fuck you.)

—but in the end, it all came down to this: to write about something, to put it down into words, to process it through language—that's the first step towards getting over it.

Scaramouche has gotten really good at getting over shit. 

But not Dottore. 

He's never getting over Dottore.

mirko  @LownndBehold

Lowk getting tired of this constant silence like after the Hrbgs we got nothing else from neither Tsaritsa R or Balladeer himself

Comments 5  Retweets 14  Likes 50

    Supreme Week @eatstudygoon

    IKR ! Like ok Tartaglia's there ig and they're dropping another album but who stans a band for the musicians bruh

    Comments 10  Retweets 8  Likes 14

    twilly d'hermes @capu_rina

    The Harbingers is a BAND. They never were a solo artist. Why are you expecting Tsaritsa Recs to say ANYTHING abt Balladeer when HE's the one who deserted?

    Comments 2  Retweets 20  Likes 51

SAW BALLADEER AT COMICCON @BalLaDeer

Day 830. Experiencing intense withdrawal symptoms. If Balladeer doesn't give us a status update in the next 2 hours I fear I might collapse.

Comments 9  Retweets 111  Likes 203

plswhat @harbinpierro 

why is nobody talking about that article anymore

Comments 300 Retweets 195 Likes 1K

    HARBINGING  @higgyena 

    You mean that one Steambird article?? IVE BEEN ASKING BRO

    Comments 0  Retweets 1  Likes 4

coraline  @whatthefoxsay 

Do you guys think maybe Tartaglia intimidated Balladeer into quitting music? He has no track record of doing that sort of thing but also he has no track record at all. Never been that famous so it's hard to tell :/ 

Comments 1.9K  Retweets 806  Likes 12.3K

    Supreme Week @eatstudygoon

    iii think you people are way too quick to point blame to some guy we barely know

    Comments 90  Retweets 116  Likes 505

        lumine's tooth @DystopiaHarmonica 

        This! They're grown men, not babies. Honestly this whole conversation reeks of fetishisation

        Comments 9  Retweets 19  Likes 60

Skiddadling :D @egodeathgoesharrr

and this is why I stan drama-free, openly queer, ethical business-ran 4NEMO !! #stan4nemo everybody !!

Comments 0  Retweets 47  Likes 103

Scaramouche gets used to the motorcycle about twenty minutes in. The constant push-and-pull of the wind becomes expected, then welcomed. He feels like he's floating. The bike makes the smoothest turns he's ever experienced, and though it's at Childe's hand, and Scaramouche has no guarantee that's any safer than riding with a stranger, he feels safe. 

He figures out after a little while that if he keeps his head ducked behind Childe's back, it won't be pushed backwards with the force of Katrina the ouragan. It's an actual issue because it hurts like shit to fight back against that sort of pressure. So Scaramouche sheds his pride and presses his cheek against Childe's shoulder blades. From there he can stare at the landscape that appears and dissolves around them.

Childe drives off the national highway and into the city centre, where life's brighter and louder than Scaramouche knows it back on Peregrinus Boulevard. Little lanterns hang off banners that have been strewn across buildings. There's some mellow chatter around the cafés and bars still open at that hour; which is to say, most of them. The terraces are shock-full of people. How Childe manages to manoeuvre around on motorcycle, Scaramouche has no idea.

They pass the livelier areas to press on directly towards the port. City lights are only moderately fewer there. Heaps of people in big groups stroll around next to the sea, where the main road's made of flat, mismatched stones. As Childe eases them into a nearby parking lot, Scaramouche tastes salt and algae.

He wishes he could call up Lumine. He's taking me on a midnight walk date, he'd say, flatly. If you hated that you would leave, Lumine would say, knowingly. He'd hang up. At least then Scaramouche could say he has an excuse to go through with such a corny idea. 

But Childe parks them, smooth like he's showing off, gets off the bike, says Scaramouche can lean on him for help, and Scaramouche is stuck with Childe's hands on his waist and no spite to conceal his willingness.

Ever the gentleman, Childe doesn't linger. Once Scaramouche's feet hit the ground, he makes quick work of the helmet squishing his head. Scaramouche's heart is still racing from the ride he's just been subject to. Childe's fingers graze his pulse point. He pauses there.

"So," the word hangs in the air with unsettling potence, "what'd you think?"

"Haven't made up my mind yet."

"Right." Childe blinks down at him. His eyes are hidden behind a visor but somehow their blue is still striking. "Second time's the charm?"

Scaramouche shrugs deliberately. A moment of silence tells him Childe's waiting for a better answer, but he has none to give. 

Childe finishes taking the helmet off his head before moving on to his own. While he does whatever magic it is he needs to do, Scaramouche runs a hand through his hair and hopes to all of Celestia's gods it's still flat. Too much wind and too much speed can make just about anyone look like that one 1951 Albert Einstein photo. But hopefully the helmet spared him that fate. 

"I'm going to ask you why you brought me here and you're not going to tell me it's to take a romantic walk under the stars." Scaramouche would lean against the bike but he's too worried it'll topple over. He crosses his arms instead. "Why did you bring me here?"

He's given a look that's half-bored half-something else. Childe puts the helmets back into the motorcycle and pockets the key. 

"To feed you to the fishes, obviously." His eyes dip to Scaramouche's back, like he's thinking about putting his hand there, before he steps away again and gestures for him to follow. "C'mon, or we're gonna miss it."

"Miss it?"

"It's a surprise."

Scaramouche considers this as he follows after Childe. "If you actually push me into the ocean I will make you regret ever being born."

"My plans, crushed," he sighs. 

Feeling as though that sentence is undeserving of an answer, Scaramouche merely keeps on walking. It's a bit tedious. Childe isn't the tallest man on Teyvat but he's got a good twenty centimetres on him; a step for him is two for Scaramouche. 

The road is thick to accommodate crowds and the occasional car. They manage to keep away from anybody else's business by sticking to the edge, where below, water ripples and shines purple-blue. The sun has long sunk past the horizon. Under street lamps, it's bright enough not to feel like you're going blind, but details are lost to shadows, colours faded into monochromes. 

Scaramouche glances away from the sea to catch Childe staring at him. He raises an eyebrow.

"I don't know how you do it. You always manage to match with the scenery wherever you go."

Scaramouche would beg to fucking differ—he seriously needs to stop going to the laundromat dressed like a stripper—but he's never argued against a compliment before and won't be starting now. 

"Maybe I'm omnipotent. You'd never know."

"Fuck," laughs Childe, "that'd be awful. You're already a handful as you are."

"I'm at least two handfuls, thank you very much."

"Don't know about that. You're so tiny."

Tiny? Fucking tiny? He's heard short, he's heard vertically-challenged, but tiny? 

Scaramouche smacks Childe on the arm. He's been all over the guy's back, he can handle a light slapping. Nevermind that Childe acts all whiny about it and clutches his arm like it's been broken.

"Next time I'm aiming for your dick," he says, and means it.

Childe mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like feisty under his breath. "You'd think you'd treat the dude who's driving you back home with a little more care."

"Care?" Scaramouche repeats. "Aw, poor wittle baby you are. Need me to kiss it better?"

"You wouldn't," Childe says.

"I'm not gonna be goaded into doing it, no."

Childe snickers to himself but doesn't respond. There's a low heat simmering in Scaramouche's belly he doesn't want to acknowledge. It's either there because of Childe's comment on his size or his mere presence and both options are horrifying and embarrassing. 

A little bit further down the road, a group of people is amassed by the water, faces turned to the sky. Childe pokes him in the arm to get his attention.

"Let's wait there."

Scaramouche has an idea where this is going, but he nods. 

They sit by the water together. Childe leans back, legs dangling off the edge, water lapping at the soles of his shoes. A little less willing to get sprayed, Scaramouche sits criss-cross next to him. He pulls down his sleeves to preserve the little warmth that's left in his palms. The night isn't freezing like that other time they hung out—if you can even call it that—but being by the sea makes everything more sharp and more humid.

Childe notices his squirming and shrugs off his coat. Of course he does. Scaramouche glares as he passes him the heavy thing, but doesn't protest. It smells like warmth and cologne. He slips it on. It's big on Childe's, so it's huge on him. If he were to stand up, he's sure it'd go past his thighs.

That's not an idea that's supposed to be hot. He's not that kind of guy. 

You're so tiny, repeats Childe in his brain, like a punishment for every time he's ever made fun of people and their weird kinks. 

Scaramouche inhales deeply.

"You good?" 

He glances at Childe—a mistake—and tries not to look too, like, horny or something. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Childe cocks his head. "You had that look on your face like you're thinking really hard about something."

"How the genuine hell would you know?" Scaramouche says.

"Dude," says Childe, "it's not like we don't know each other. I've seen you."

"I'm aware," he says dryly, "it's hard to miss me."

"You stand out," Childe agrees. 

"That's kind of my whole thing."

"You're a rockstar through and through."

"Yeah," Scaramouche says.

"Remember Lumine's 19th?"

He does. 

"We met in the kitchen 'cause you'd just licked Harissa sauce off someone's shot glass. You needed milk and I was drinking the entire thing down. You told me to give you the carton but the music was too loud, so I couldn't hear you. You were so mad. Your face was all red."

"Why are we taking a trip down memory lane, exactly?"

"You don't feel nostalgic?"

Scaramouche scoffs. "Nothing that significant's changed since then."

Childe stays quiet, then smiles. "Now that's one good lie."

Above them, the sky erupts into sound. Scaramouche startles so hard his teeth clack together. When he recovers, he looks up, and sees lights.

"That's the surprise?"

The fireworks are blinding. Reds and golds and pinks intertwine across the sky like paints thrown at a canvas. They're less distinct shapes and more impressions—a star here, a heart there. Willows of sparks rain down into the sea.

"You don't like surprises?" says Childe, voice half drowned out by the crackle.

Scaramouche watches colours dance across Childe's face. "No."

"You should…" Childe starts reaching out, then hesitates. Scaramouche glances down at the gloved hand, then back up to Childe's face, eyes shining like the ocean surface below them. 

"You can touch me," he murmurs. 

It's so quiet he thinks maybe Childe won't hear. It takes him a long time to move again. When he does, it's to slip two careful fingers under Scaramouche's chin and tilt it up. Scaramouche lets it happen. 

Disarmed, he watches fireworks split open the sky. 

⚪ 822 - 993 - 167

Sunday 7 Sept ● 23:04

i'm so tired dude

i think we should call it off 

Omw

Monday 15 Oct ● 01:55

I think I like him

i know

09:34 ● seen

Chapter Text

After the concert, Signora finds him haunched over a toilet, heaving through vomit-flavoured breaths. Fallen Angel by Three Days Grace is on max volume. He thought maybe listening to music would take the nausea away, but clearly all it did was make him throw his guts out in rhythm with a shitty bass line.

"Are you done?" she asks him. What she means is: you better be. 

Scaramouche wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve. "Yeah." 

"Pantalone can't sleep because of you," adds Signora. 

That's kind of like saying the cat goes meow.

"Good thing he invested in ear plugs two whole years ago."

"Clearly they're not enough to cover up the horror sounds of you christening our toilets."

He sighs through his nose. "Why are you still talking to me?"

"None of us can sleep because of you."

"Tell Pantalone he can screw right the fuck off. And so can you."

"Not very many places to go when you're stuck in 35 feet of enclosed space."

He snorts and it tastes like bile and his dinner's leftovers. "Then that's a you issue, isn't it? Leave me be."

Signora does not leave him be. She leans on the wall, foot up against it. That'll piss Dottore off, he thinks, though it's not like he cares enough to tell her off. The tall blonde bitch starts inspecting her nails, falsely tranquil.

"This is the first stop on our tour. Are you gonna keep being a pussy throughout the entire thing?"

"I'm the pussy? You ran away the second the pigs showed up."

"That's not why I left," Signora says, scrunching up her nose. "I don't sell my body out to losers who call themselves my fans, unlike you. When the show's over, I leave."

"Right," he says, fighting off another wave of puke. Pain radiates dully under his shirt. "Cause Rostam never happened."

Signora freezes. "Get his name out of your filthy fuckin' mouth, Kunikuzushi."

"Get my name outta yours." 

She holds his stare for a moment longer, then huffs. The anger doesn't dissipate even when she takes her eyes off of him. It just stays there, on pause, lost in limbo. They'll get back to this another night. They always do.

Eventually, Signora speaks again. "Either lower the volume or I'll kick your phone into pieces."

Just to piss her off, Scaramouche starts singing. He doesn't put any effort into it since he's supposed to be resting his voice. Concert shit and all. Apparently it's bad enough that she starts groaning, slamming manicured hands over her ears. 

"I was right beside you when you went to hell and back again…"

"Stop it."

He clutches the toilet seat like Rose after falling off the Titanic. "I was right beside you when you went to hell and back agaiiin."

"Jesus Christ."

"And I, I couldn't saaave—"

"Scaramouche, shut up."

"—a fallen angeeeel…"

The chorus picks back up. Something rises in Scaramouche's stomach and in a second, he's face-deep in the toilet again. Signora makes a disgusted sound. 

"Gross. I'm leaving."

Breathing hard, he giggles, "fucking finally."

The sound of her heels clicking away is the only thing he computes before everything goes black.

When they first met, it was at a party, and Lumine would not shut up about her boyfriend. Scaramouche thought it was cute at first; then one hour of conversation later he knew everything about that Tartaglia Childe loser, down to what kind of paper he used to wipe his asscheeks, so he changed his mind.

"If I wanted to meet this guy," Scaramouche told her, "I wouldn't have approached you."

She'd looked like she'd never heard that before. "Most people who approach me don't do it for… well, for me."

Scaramouche had shrugged. "I'm not most people."

"You're not a fan of his?"

"The way I don't care for him is so astronomical I don't think I could quantify it even if I tried."

Lumine's smile, then, the first Scaramouche had ever received from her, was like a stream of pure sunlight to the heart. About marriage, people say when you know, you know. 

In that instant, Scaramouche knew.

Lumine had tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Then she offered him that same hand. "You wanna go dance to Come On Eileen and drink 'till we pass out?"

Scaramouche didn't hesitate. "Thought you'd never ask."

Lightless Dissonance

The Harbingers ● 13 songs, 55 min 43 sec

1.   Residue On Our Doorsteps

2.   [E] To Fall

3.   Witness 

4.   Call From Cambridge (The City)

5.   The Blessed Always Get Their Way

6.   [E] Sixty-Nine

7.   Off The Rocker (Mine, Yours)

8.   Pouting 

9.   Tithe & Justify

10.   Violet Tea

11.   Subscription Based

12.   Loopholes

13.   [E] Three Minutes Straight

scoundrel  @trustinintuitions

None of you will ever understand the pain I'm in rn. Tartaglia was MY niche and now he's going viral and I can't gatekeep him anymore. AEUGH.

Comments 89  Retweets 401  Likes 994

    olddirections (stereo's ver)  @DIRECTsmash

    saw someone be like "nobody's ever heard of tartaglia before anyway" but we've been here!! we've been here!!!

    Comments 17  Retweets 72  Likes 300

Executioner Style  @IsRobUrWitness

What do we call Tartaglia fans? Tartares? Tarties? Glees?

Comments 2.6K  Retweets 4.4K  Likes 9K

    rex :3  @rerierarw

    Tortured poets !!

    Comments 17  Retweets 72  Likes 300

        Mary Lee  @mamalele

        holy shit its almost as bad as Balladeer's Wanderers

        Comments 51  Retweets 20  Likes 15

            rex :3  @rerierarw

            the concept of tortured wanderers being our fandoms ship name…

            Comments 2  Retweets 1  Likes 6

                Mary Lee  @mamalele

                the concept of fandoms being shipped together???

                Comments 1.3K  Retweets 1.7K  Likes 7K

Ultimately, the fireworks don't last. Silver sparks detonate one final time, high in the sky, and then it's over. A frankly overkill amount of whistling and clapping surges from the group of tourists near the port. A kid is hoisted up on someone's shoulders. Celebrating a birthday, maybe. Scaramouche looks away from them. The sea is roaring below his feet.

"Looks like they woke her up," he tells Childe. 

Childe doesn't ask him to clarify. "Can't say I'd appreciate getting loads of ash dumped into me either."

"All that just for our futile human entertainment." 

"We're horrible", he agrees, humour dancing in his eyes. Scaramouche bites the inside of his mouth so he doesn't blurt out something embarrassing. He usually doesn't need to go that far. Apparently Childe has a knack for bringing out the worst of him.

Scaramouche shifts to dangle his legs in the air. The gap between them and the water is vast, but not vast enough to keep his boots from getting soaked. He can't bring himself to mind. It's the kind of humidity that feels like waking up—Celestina knows he needs it. Droplet by droplet, the otiose racing of his heart slows.

Childe nudges him with an elbow. He's gentle where the ocean waves aren't. "So," he says, and again the word makes hairs rise on Scaramouche's skin, "how was that, for a surprise?"

He sends a brief glance Childe's way. "Could've been worse."

"But could've been better." Disappointment strains his voice.

Bemused, Scaramouche fully turns his head. "Does it matter?"

Now it's Childe's turn to look confused. "Why wouldn't it?"

"Because—" Scaramouche swallows. "I didn't think it'd be that important for you."

"I feel like I'm repeating myself here, but why would you think that?"

"I don't know!" Frustration makes him squirm. None of the words that leave his mouth sound right. He's a singer, for fuck's sake, he writes his own lyrics. Why is he so incapable of maintaining normal conversations? "I don't know what you do with the people you go out with."

"That's—" Childe starts, then sighs, "do you think I'm some kind of womanizer? Is that it?"

"Clearly not just a womanizer, huh."

It's dark out, but Scaramouche imagines the reddening of Childe's cheeks, the one he saw so clearly that other day. Childe scratches at his neck. He won't meet Scaramouche's gaze anymore.

"Yeah, yeah, funny. It's a, uh, recent development."

Scaramouche didn't mean to be a dick about that. It's not because he's always known about his sexuality that everyone should, too. "Forget about it. You're allowed to… er. Whatever it is you're doing. You can do that."

"Thanks, I guess." Childe pauses. "I'm still, you know, conflicted about what you said. Why did you think this date wouldn't matter to me?"

"This date," Scaramouche repeats. "So it's not about the surprise. It's about the date."

"I thought that was implied."

"Yeah."

Childe doesn't say anything else. He watches him. There's nothing Scaramouche can hear but the ocean rumbling under them. For half a second he considers jumping down just to avoid continuing this discussion. He'd flail around and pretend he slipped, or something. 

Since when did I become such a coward?

Makoto certainly wouldn't be proud.

"I guess," he says, slowly, and it pains him, sort of, to say something that's so vulnerable, even if it's not directly vulnerable, not really too telling, not if Childe doesn't think too hard about it, "I didn't think you were taking this seriously."

It wasn't supposed to come off so sincere, but that's how it rings. The air between them thickens. Something like that. Scaramouche's breath is stuck in his lungs. He feels like he could shrink under the weight of Childe's gaze. 

After one, two, three beats of silence—relative silence—he is seriously considering taking an emergency dive. 

Then Childe says, "I do."

He's pulled right out of his mind. "Huh?"

"I do take this seriously." 

Scaramouche blinks. 

Childe blinks back.

"I'm hungry," he chokes out.

"I—right." Childe is definitely blushing. Isn't he? That's not a trick of lights. Can't be. He's blushing as he scrambles off the ground and offers Scaramouche a helping hand. He's blushing as he helps him to his feet. He's blushing as he moves away and says, "I've got us a reservation. It's not too far. We can walk there. Is that alright with you?"

"Do I look like I can't walk five minutes?"

"I mean. Five minutes for me's probably ten for you."

Scaramouche smacks his arm and starts walking. 

Childe calls after him, "it's in the other direction."

He swivels around and marches on. The sound of Childe's laughter trails after him. Eventually they end up side by side again, and it's only awkward for a few seconds, when Childe's gloved hand brushes against his. It's not like they haven't touched before, but Scaramouche's instincts are still stuck on fight or flight mode. 

Mostly fight.

But from what Lumine's told him, maybe that's just a side effect of being in Tartaglia Childe's vicinity. He has that kind of slappable face. Biteable, maybe, and wow, that's certainly a thought, too bad Scaramouche won't ever think it again. 

They walk along the port for maybe half a dozen more minutes. Scaramouche stares at the boats that bob along to the waves, briefly wondering if that kind of commotion's more likely to rock someone to sleep or make them seasick. The answer doesn't matter much anyway. He wouldn't spend enough time on a boat to find out. If he likes water, it's from far away, stuck behind a glass pane from where he can look at pretty fishes.

"You look like someone who'd enjoy living at the beach," he tells Childe.

Childe smiles. "Really? That's kinda funny. I mean, you're right, but I grew up in Snezhnaya, and that's the most un-beach-like place in existence. 

"So I've heard." Dottore was born and raised in Snezhnaya. Often Scaramouche wonders if that played a role in making him who he is. "Did you move recently?"

"Around four years ago."

That surprises him. "I thought the distance was part of the reason why you and Lumine broke up."

"I… yeah." Childe sounds awkward. "Until six months ago I was constantly travelling. I'm not very good at staying stationary. I'm good at getting bored, though, and Lumine's the opposite. She likes stability—needs it to grow. Kind of like a clematis, you know?"

"I know."

"And while we were dating, I was always away, off to Liyue or Mondstadt or—Fontaine, a couple times. Working on songs. Trying new foods. Going on hikes." After a while, he adds, "it's not that I didn't love her."

"You don't have to justify yourself to me."

"Mostly, I just want you to know I'm not that kind of guy."

Scaramouche smirks, just a little bit. "What? The avoidant attachment style kind of guy?"

"Hah. Maybe."

"I'm not judging you."

"We both know that's not true."

"You shouldn't care whether or not I'm judging you."

"I've always cared," Childe says, peevish, "you were my girlfriend's best friend. Do you know how stressful it is to impress your girlfriend's best friend?"

"Given how I've never had a girlfriend," retorts Scaramouche, "no, not really."

"It's like trying to man up to your dad all over again. Genuinely appalling. Every time I saw you at parties I felt like I was gonna shit myself."

It's so unexpected, Scaramouche starts laughing, and it's something keen and warm and careless that starts in the pit of his stomach and burrows out of his throat. He's not an emotional person—it doesn't happen to him often. It certainly doesn't happen to him in front of guys he barely knows.

"I—woah," says Childe. He sounds off.

Scaramouche squints at him. "What?"

"I don't think I've ever heard you do that."

"And you won't ever again, thanks," he says. 

"Hey!" Childe bumps into him. The guy doesn't pout, thank Celestia, but it's a near thing. "That means I'm funny, right? You think I'm funnyyy."

"I think you're annoying."

"Right, right. You laugh a lot at guys you think are annoying?"

"Apparently," says Scaramouche. "Get back on track. You said you worried about me when you were dating Lumine. Fine. But you're not dating her anymore."

"For a while now," agrees Childe, distractedly. His eyes turn to one of the open-terrace cafés that line the port and brushes fingers against the small of Scaramouche's back. "Over there."

Scaramouche looks at a deep red facade, cursive lettering that reads Le Restaurant du Port printed on a navy awning sign, a glass windscreen that wraps around the building's front. There's maybe a dozen people sitting outside. The eatery doesn't seem too extravagant. There are no black apron-wearing waiters waiting outside or anything. But that's a moot point in Scaramouche's book—his main concern was Childe bringing him to some family diner or, gods forbid, a pizza place.

"A Fontanian restaurant?"

"I thought it'd suit your sensibilities."

Scaramouche is piqued. "Are you calling me spoiled?"

"That's like, entirely not what I said," says Childe.

"But it's what you meant." 

"What I meant was that I thought you'd like something kind of fancy."

"Fancy," he repeats.

Mirth dances in Childe's eyes. "Scaramouche," he says, "I'm not trying to trick you. If you don't like this place, we'll go somewhere else."

Scaramouche huffs. "It's whatever. Let's just go inside."

"You sound like you'd rather lick a public toilet seat."

"Ew, fuck you for putting that image in my mind." He bites the inside of his cheek. Begrudgingly, he says, "I like it. I like Fontainian food."

"Yeah?" Childe tilts his head. "You know, sometimes I wonder if you antagonize everything because you're into that sort of thing."

Scaramouche is mortified. Sort of. Mostly. "I don't do that."

"Agree to disagree?"

"I do not do that. Childe."

"Okay, Scaramouche," Childe says very pleasantly, "whatever you say. I believe you. Let's go inside?"

Scaramouche swallows around the warm heavy thing in his throat. There's no reason for Childe to be looking at him like that. "Yes," he says. 

And so they do.

"I don't feel so good," Lumine says. She sounds so small. 

Scaramouche rakes his hand through the long, blonde hair. White clumps of mousse stick to his fingers. They trail down Lumine's naked back to the steaming bath water. There it'll float and swirl and ripple until they unplug the drain and everything disappears altogether. 

"Do you need to throw up again?" he murmurs.

"No. I just, I just don't feel so good." 

Lumine's trembling despite the heat. Scaramouche presses his cheek to her shoulder. He doesn't care for the water that trails from her hair to his, the droplets that run down his temple. 

"Keep taking deep breaths."

"Okay," Lumine mumbles. "Okay. Can I—can you do it first?"

"You wanna copy me?" A nod, kind of weak. "Alright. Look."

She turns her face that's two shades too pale, eyes misty and red. Her hands that clutch the edge of the tub come to find his. They're pruny with humidity. He squeezes. 

"First one." Scaramouche makes a big deal of inhaling, holding for four seconds, then exhaling. Lumine imitates him diligently. "That's it, Lumine. Keep going."

She makes a sound not unlike a sob, and his heart rips in two. Her hands clutch at his like a lifeline. He wants to tell her he's sorry. He wants to tell her he cares for her, that she'll never have to stay alone. That he won't let her overdose again. That it's going to be okay. He wants to. The words are right there. They roll around like marbles in his mind, too swift and too tiny to catch. 

"Another," he whispers to her. Another breath. And another and another and another. Never stop breathing, never again. He brushes away shampoo from her eyes. "Another."

Between breaths, Lumine presses her slick face to his chest. He doesn't care for the water that spreads to his shirt. He's as gentle as he's ever been towards anyone when he embraces her, and she crumbles against him, limp, smelling like coconut and bath oils. 

Lumine sniffles, "I'm scared."

Something in him rises and it tastes like anger and fear both. "Don't be," he says, fervently, holding her tighter. I'll keep you safe. "Don't be scared. I'm here, Lumine, you get that? I'm here." You don't ever have to be scared when I'm around. "You can't be scared." 

There's a moment of silence only broken by Lumine's trembling, hiccuping breaths. Scaramouche does not loosen his hold of her. The water can go fuck itself for all he cares. 

A tiny little voice says, "I love you."

If he were someone else, he could comfort her better. If he were someone else, he could kiss her forehead and tell her he'd do terrible things for her sake. If he were anyone else, he'd be a good friend, a better friend, a friend who could say I love you, too. 

Scaramouche is Scaramouche. Quietly, desperately, he clings on.

Does the wind matter any if your wings are clipped,

Or is it about looking like you can still fly?

There is no charade to keep up

You've got no feathers to speak of

No way to feel normal again,

You've never felt normal at all.

The heaters are on, thank the fucking gods, when they walk into the restaurant. Childe talks to the waiter about his reservation and they're placed by the window-wall. A tiny candle is set alight at the centre of the table. It flickers like it's shying away from them, casting smallish shadows across Childe's face.

They make small talk—as small as talk can be when Scaramouche's involved—before ordering. Childe had insisted on Scaramouche getting one of those embarrassing Sugar Baby menu cards, with the prices omitted, so Scaramouche was flying entirely on a guessing game. Chicken couldn't be that expensive, right? 

"You know a lot about my past dating life," says Childe all of the sudden, once the waiter's off with their orders, "but I don't know anything about yours."

"Not all dating lives are created equal."

"Are you being quippy or is there a metaphor here I'm not catching?"

"Both." Scaramouche glances around. The lights are dimmed, warm, and there's a smell of cooked meat coming from the half-closed kitchen doors. Not that many people decided to dine inside. For some fucking reason. It's not like it's particularly hot out at almost 10 p.m. "I've never dated anyone."

He says it casually so maybe Childe will just gloss over it, but no can do. Childe stares at him like he's waiting for the punchline to a very bad joke. 

There are no punchlines. Scaramouche is the punchline.

"You're kidding," Childe says.

"Yeah. Your mom was a great girlfriend. I dream of her someti—"

"Ha, ha, fuck off. Wait." Childe looks away, then back at him. His mouth opens and closes soundlessly. "Seriously? Have you—have you ever been on a date?"

Scaramouche knows he's blushing because his ears feel like they're on fire. "I bet you'd like that so bad," he hisses, "taking my dating life's virginity or whatever. Wouldn't you feel so fucking manly?"

"Hey, that's—" Childe huffs through his nose —"that's not what I said. So you have?"

"A couple."

"Am I allowed to ask for details or are you going to bite my head off?"

"I'll bite your head off even if you don't." A sigh escapes him. "You're lucky you're paying. Whatever. Ask away."

"Actually?"

"Sure. You get ten free questions, free of charge."

"So generous," Childe drawls, voice flippant though excitement sparks in his eyes. "What happens if I ask you more than ten questions?"

"I kick you into the sea and steal your motorcycle."

"Steal it how?"

"You put your keys in your back pocket."

"Okay. How will you drive it?"

"Force of will." 

"Right." Childe pretends to ponder for a bit, then sighs, shrugging helplessly. "You drive a hard bargain. I'm forced to accept."

"Excellent."

"I have my first question ready."

Scaramouche sighs, "of course you do."

Childe grins boyishly. By the candlelight, his hair looks threaded with gold. "How many dates?"

"Four." It's the truth, but unimportant enough that it isn't a struggle to get out. 

"Did you go on any seconds?"

That stings a little bit more. "No," he says. It's self explanatory, isn't it? Four people, none enough, or maybe the other way around—four people, each too smothering, too encompassing.  

Childe isn't a shy person by any stretch of the imagination, but right then, right now, he has that air about him, like he wants to say something but can't bring himself to. Like Scaramouche intimidates him. And isn't that one sobering thought. 

He imagines Childe might be thinking about asking him on a second date. Being the first one to break the losing streak—that'd probably stroke his ego real good. He imagines Childe saying, there's a first time for everything in a low voice, and Scaramouche would stare, and not be able to say no.

They haven't been recognised yet, but two public outings would be pushing it. It'd be the point of no return. No worries, all ninety-five million people who listen to him every month on Spotify, it'd say, Scaramouche isn't eternally single. He's actually gay and dating his replacement in the band he led for all of six years. Dating the replacement who also dated his best friend. The replacement who coincidentally only started giving two fucks about him when Scaramouche fucked off the band. See, all ninety-five million people who listen to him every month on Spotify? His self-respect is that low!

But Childe doesn't ask him on a second date, and a waiter swoops in to the rescue, carrying their drinks. A good bottle of Merlot, namely, that Scaramouche didn't ask for because he's not that much of an asshole, but Childe apparently ordered anyway. A foamy cyan cocktail is plopped down in front of him. Scaramouche pounces on it like a man parched—all that flirting and staring and stressing dried him out. 

"Shit's good," he breathes. 

Childe watches him drain the glass like it's water. "Tell me you ordered the virgin version of that."

"Hah! In your dreams."

"Go ahead and say I'm boring you," Childe says, teasing.

Scaramouche looks at him over the rim of his glass, "you're boring me."

"What's boring about me?"

"You talk too much."

Much too lightly, Childe says, "you could shut me up."

Scaramouche pauses. Aimless heat curls in his stomach. "Putting out on the first date? That's not very proper of you."

Childe tilts his head. He's still grinning. Why does he never stop grinning? "First I'm a gentleman, then I'm a womanizer, and now I'm a gentleman again. Either you can't make up your mind or you know you're full of shit."

"Maybe I'm trying to size you up," says Scaramouche, deciding to blame the fuzziness in his belly on alcohol. 

"I think you've sized me up a while ago. Remember how you looked at me when Lumine introduced us?"

"I barely glanced at you." That much, Scaramouche remembers. The reason why had always felt too sacrilegious to linger on.

"Yeah," says Childe, "you did. You thought I was a douchebag."

Scaramouche snickers quietly. "You looked like a surfer from Natlan. No one in Inazuma's that tan. That's what I thought."

"A douchebag from Natlan—however it goes. You wouldn't look me in the eyes."

"Had better shit to do," he mutters into his glass. 

"Maybe." Childe stares at him. "Or maybe, already then, you—"

A new waiter valses to their table, four black trays lining her arms. She apologises for the intrusion as she sets their plates down, then just as Scaramouche's about to thank her, she makes an expression that he knows all too well. 

"No way—Balladeer?" her mouth falls open.

"Uh," he says. In six whole years he hasn't gotten any better at interacting with fans. "Hey?"

"I'm so sorry, I know you're very busy, but I'm such a big fan, and, um, um," the waiter/fan is definitely freaking out. Her face is all red. Scaramouche stares at her wordlessly. "Um, would it be okay if, once you're all done, would it be okay to take a photo together?"

Once he's all done. That's kind of cute. Scaramouche nods. "Yeah."

"I can't believe this is real," the fan whispers, eyes all wide like he hangs the moon, then retreats. "Ah—please let me know if you need anything. I hope you enjoy your food!"

Either she doesn't know who Childe is or she doesn't care as much. The fan—looks young, maybe just past her tweens—scampers off with trembling hands. Childe watches her leave, an eyebrow raised. 

"I give it an hour."

"You're crazy. Fifteen minutes."

"Twitter?"

"TikTok."

"Maybe it'll get flagged as AI," sighs Childe. He doesn't sound like he believes it himself.

Gingerly, Scaramouche pats the gloved hand that's laid over the table. "There, there. You'll survive. There are worse ways to come out to the whole wide world."

"I'm more worried about what STEAMBIRD's going to be saying. That's the stuff my parents might stumble on. Last time, my mother had to call me in a panic because she thought you and I were going to brawl it out in the streets."

Scaramouche smirks, "we wouldn't want her poor little baby boy to get hurt."

Childe says, "actually, she told me to be nice to you because you're so much smaller than me. Said you must be angry at me because you're insecure about your stunted growth." And then Childe says nothing at all because Scaramouche kicks him under the table hard enough to bruise.

"I'll stunt your fucking growth," says Scaramouche, very sweetly. 

"Woah, there, cowboy. Leave my dick alone. Thanks."

"I hope some STEAMBIRD person's spying on us right now so they can record what you just said and plaster you all over social media."

Childe says, "I'll blame it on AI. Can we eat now, or do you have some more kicks to throw at me?"

"I'm satisfied for now," Scaramouche tells him. He looks down to the chicken and fries he was just served. It's the juiciest and hugest chicken breast he's possibly ever seen. Will possibly ever see. Compared to the soggy noodles he usually ends up settling for, this is heaven on a plate. His mouth actually, genuinely starts watering.

"Bone ape-tit," announces Childe, ruining everything.

Scaramouche sighs. "It's bon appétit."

"Same thing."

He has no energy to argue further. They dig in.

"Have you decided who's coming?"

Scaramouche looks down at his feet. "Yeah."

"Alright," says Makoto, lowering her pen to a little blocknote, "I'm ready."

"There's no one."

"Huh?"

"No one's coming."

Makoto blinks down at him. "Kunikuzushi, it's your birthday. You're allowed to invite your friends over for once. I promise it's fine."

"It's not that," he says, to his socks. "It's just, there's no one." Something wants to bubble out of his throat. He doesn't let it. He hasn't cried since he was nine. "There's no one at all."

chuu-chuu!!  @wannawannakissakitty

OHMYGODYALL I CANT BELIEVE THIS IS HAPPENING BALLADER IS VISITING THE RESTAURANT I WORK AT OH MY GOD

Comments 10K  Retweets 13.3K  Likes 37K

    2fast2furious  @itendswithyou

    YOU'RE LYING

    Comments 4  Retweets 1  Likes 15 

        chuu-chuu!!  @wannawannakissakitty

        DONT quote me on this but I think he may be??? on a date???? AT LEAST HE'S NOT ALONE. AAAAAA PLS. I ASKED HIM TO TAKE A PHOTO AFTER AND HE SAID         YES HE'S SO NICE 

        Comments 12  Retweets 5  Likes 44

            ain't it fun… @nokotav 

            who is he on a date with??????????

            Comments 1  Retweets 0  Likes 6

                chuu-chuu!!  @wannawannakissakitty

                SOME GINGER GUY?????

                Comments 50.4K  Retweets 29K  Likes 1M

Scaramouche slides off the motorcycle with his heart still racing. How unphased Childe appears is incomprehensible to him. He's sure no matter how many times he'd go on the motorcycle he could never get over the feeling of it. Unfiltered freedom just isn't the sort of thing people get over.

Since he's a grown man, he tries to unclasp the helmet himself. And Scaramouche almost figures it out before Childe steps in, trying to be helpful. In any other situation, Scaramouche would pop a fuse. As it is, he sighs but lets it happen. The ride back home took all the fight out of him. 

Childe notices, raises an eyebrow. "Tired?"

"Yeah," he admits. 

Something warm passes in Childe's very blue eyes. "Let's get you sorted, then."

They cross the parking lot together. Childe opens the door to the apartment—it's almost midnight, how the fuck is it still open—so Scaramouche steps into a world of warmth and soothing sandalwood scent. He's so sleepy he thinks he could fall asleep standing right there.

Childe shepherds him up the stairs, Scaramouche half-gone on exhaustion and good wine. The sight of his apartment door is like another layer of soporific comfort: the knowledge that just beyond it lies his bed, the fluffy blankets, Lumine. The 1 meter-tall teddy bear he keeps hidden under his mattress because it only exists when he gets tipsy and in a cuddling mood. 

"Hey," Childe whispers to the side of his head, "stay with me. We're almost there."

"Y'can carry me." Scaramouche rubs at his eyes. "You're tall enough."

"You'll kill me if I do."

Now that sounds improbable. "I won't," he argues.

"Well-rested, sober you will kill me," Childe concedes. 

Scaramouche frowns, "he sounds like an asshole."

"A bit," Childe says, smiling all soft and sappy, "but I like him like that."

"Ew. Weirdo."

Childe speaks against his hair like he's kissing it. "C'mon, just keep walking."

Scaramouche keeps walking.

They reach the door within a respectable timeframe. Childe knocks, and they wait together in silence, but there's no response. Puzzled, Childe asks him if Lumine might be asleep. Scaramouche is buzzed, but not buzzed enough to forget that Lumine's an insomniac procrastinator. 

"She's headphones on," he slurs, "call her on my phone."

Childe takes the phone he hands him. He stares at the screen like a lost puppy. "I need a password."

Scaramouche is, in fact, too buzzed to remember what the hell his password's supposed to be. "Try my birthday."

Childe taps on the screen. A second later, his face lightens up. "It worked! Alright, what's her contact name?"

"Ughhhhhh," he says, pressing against Childe's side. 

"That doesn't sound right."

"No shit."

Childe lowers his mouth to the crown of his head again. "Focus, baby, please." 

It's spoken as an afterthought. Scaramouche is not buzzed enough not to go a little bit insane.

"It's—" focus. "Try Better Twin. Or Illegally Blonde. Don't remember."

A beat or two passes before Childe says, "it's Illegally Blonde. Hey, that's funny."

"Hu uh," Scaramouche says. 

"I'm calling her."

You called me baby, he wants to say, but when he looks up to Childe he sees a very freckled face and two very blue eyes and his throat goes all dry. He isn't into petnames but he is into this guy. And maybe into this guy, specifically, calling him petnames.

Scaramouche thinks about his sober self—the one Childe likes—and wishes him good-fucking-luck unpacking all of that. 

The phone makes a little noise. Childe sighs in relief, "I was starting to think you'd never pick—woah, woah, woah, chill. He's right there. We're outside. Can you stop screaming at me?"

Scaramouche snickers softly. "She's always way too worried 'bout me."

"You don't say," huffs Childe. Then, to the phone, "yep, brought him all in one piece."

Without warning, the door slams open like a weapon swung. A pretty dishevelled Lumine steps into view. She's in pajamas, long blonde hair tangled down her shoulders. Her eyes zero on Scaramouche and then she softens all at once. 

"He's tipsy," she tells Childe like a reproach. 

"He's an adult," Childe retorts. "I'm not going to tell him what he should or shouldn't do."

"That's—" Lumine sighs. "That's true. Sorry. I'm a little bit stressed out."

Childe gently pushes Scaramouche forward: he goes willingly and falls into Lumine's sweet embrace. Her shape and perfume is familiar like the back of his own mind. If he wasn't so emotionally constipated, he'd hug her like this way more often. 

"What's going on?" 

Lumine blinks. "You should check Twitter."

"Shit," says Childe. Scaramouche's face is squished against his best friend's collarbone, so he can't see his expression, but his tone comes off embarrassed. "How bad is it?"

"Better than I expected, actually," replies Lumine, petting the hair frizzed up under her chin, "mostly just wondering whether it was a business meeting or… you know."

"We could play it off," Childe says, quietly, "if that's what he'd like."

Lumine tilts her head. Scaramouche knows because he can feel her shift against him. "He knew what he was getting into. The attention isn't the issue. I think the real question is whether you need to play it off or not. People are going to talk either way, but people have been talking about Scaramouche for a while. You're not a quarter as famous as him; he's got his reputation locked in stone, but how you handle this will change how the public sees you forever."

Childe exhales. "Dottore's going to kill me."

"Yes," says Lumine, "yes he will."