Chapter Text
Childe isn’t one to typically be bored during Fatui meetings.
He drums his gloved finger on the table, the cooling sensation of frostbite from the solid table running up his veins, fingers almost yearning for that sensation to be from the familiar sleekness of a blade’s hilt instead. He glances around, all of the other harbingers looking like they’re listening somewhat intently.
He breathes out a sharp exhale, the lingering breath a puffy reminiscence in the frigid air. He lurches back in his chair, neck cracking, silver encrusted wood adorned in gemstones creaking slightly. Slivers of silvery moonlight drips through the fading panes of stained glass, dwindling crystals of snow skittering along the glass. The balladeer sits opposite him, seeming attentive yet bored all at once. He glances at Scaramouche, the balladeer’s arms crossed and drumming his slender finger against his arm, staring at Pierro’s turned back musings with a deadpan expression. He meets Childe’s gaze for a second, eyes shifting slightly, a brief curl of his lips accompanying it.
Scaramouche inaudibly scoffs before drifting his gaze back towards Pierro.
Childe’s almost used to these kinds of meetings by now, it’s always the same stone cold song and dance, Pierro’s endless ramblings about maintaining discipline and principle. They get to freely leave wherever this time of year without being dictated by objectives, a holiday of sorts. It’s bittersweet to him, on one hand, he gets to finally see his family after working tirelessly for what seems like shortened eons — on the other, he doesn’t get to quench his insatiable thirst for battle. The warm feeling of home can make up for it. Childe taps his foot on the hard floor mildly, already itching for something to do. He can’t shake the sinking feeling that he shouldn’t be thinking about bloodlust in a time made for family, and he can’t shake the feeling of bloodlust itself.
“You are all free to go, her majesty the Tsarista expects every harbinger back in 6 weeks time sharp.” Pierro finally declares sternly, his voice ringing in his ears.
A rattling cacophony erupts as a shuffle of feet dart for the exits, smooth heels trotting echo across the cold hard floors as the anything but melodic footsteps draw to a close, crystal door slamming shut loosely. Childe averts his mind to his surroundings. It’s cold, not the unbearable cold that gnaws at your skin and encrusts your bones in ice, just the tolerable cold, the homely cold. He adjusts the fur mound hanging limply on his shoulder, fabric chafing against his neck as he pushes his mahogany chair out and attempts to stand, his feet seeming like the personification of the bitterest of snow has locked him in place. He sighs, oceanic eyes flickering from the arrays of empty chairs being cascaded by falling ribbons flowing off in dim lights to the crystalline table Scaramouche’s sylphlike fingers trill upon.
It’s just him and Childe in the hall now, the deafening silence almost creating static as it crawls up his body and jabs the poison of tension through his sides. Scaramouche gazes seemingly aimlessly down at the shading hues of blues and periwinkles on the table, dollette hand paler under the fall of the moonlight. His lightly curled indigo bangs stay slightly tucked out under the ravenous fur of the hood, contours of his face framed by stray strands, porcelain figure engulfed in the pale white silks of the cloaks.
Scaramouche finally breaks the silence.
“Are you not going to go?”
Childe almost chokes on his own spit.
He swallows the remnants of a mangled response and clears his throat.
“Aren’t you? Didn’t you hear The Jester?” Childe bounces back, playful grin finding its way onto his face. “Surely you don’t want to stay here — what are you, a fiend for the cold?”
Scaramouche just stares at him blankly before exiting his seat, slowly walking towards the door with the light flapping of the ends of his coat tearing against the atmosphere. Childe hastily appears alongside him, footsteps aligning with his like a timeless melody they’ve practiced a dozen times before.
Childe stares at his feet, polished leather glinting hazily under the lack of light, each foot carrying him streamlined, gloved hand pushing the heavy door open, slamming his whole weight on it as Scaramouche walks through, the subtle rhapsody of footsteps halting as Childe closes the door. Scaramouche stands next to him, eyeing him up and down without a word to spare.
“Do you want me to call you a gentleman for holding the door open?” Scaramouche retorts, a subtle bloom of fondness hidden under the bitter glaze.
Childe breathes out a lighthearted chuckle. Scaramouche’s lingering presence in the empty hallway has his brain racking at a speed that challenges thunder. It’s almost unlike him. He always wondered what the other harbingers got up to during this time period — he’s always associated this time with the sanctity of familial warmth, he imagines Arlecchino feels the same, but for a place that’s meant to mimic a family, none of the other harbingers seem like they share that sentiment. It’s puzzling, so, so puzzling. For someone as reserved as Scaramouche, he can’t even imagine him having a relationship with someone that doesn’t ride on ridicule, tease and torment — or at least that’s how they treat each other. It’s fascinating, endearingly fascinating.
Scara coughs out a scoff as Childe reaches upwards to tousle the ginger tresses on his head.
“Scaraaaaaaaa!” Childe chirps far too brightly, hand slinking around to rest on Scaramouche’s shoulder, faded warmth radiating off his body and indwelling itself in Childe’s grip.
Scaramouche sighs, scowl flickering with faint amusement.
“Childe— What do you want?” He mutters, hand extending upwards to tug off his hoodie, Childe taking the gesture as a sign to use Scaramouche’s head as an armrest. Scaramouche clicks his tongue slightly as Childe twiddles a strand of his locks between his fingers but doesn’t object.
“I was just wondering what you were gonna be up to with your free time, you make it sound like I’m trying to beg you for a spar.” Childe says cheerfully, jaunty words almost dipping into a singsong voice.
Scaramouche deadpans him, fabric rustling as he places a hand on his hip.
“You can’t be serious.” He mutters sharply. “That’s what you wanted to ask? What are you lingering for? Do you find enjoyment pestering me?”
Childe just flashes a toothless smile at him. Scaramouche softly flicks his hand off his head.
“I’ve always wondered what you get up to this time of year, wouldn't you be so kind as to cure my curiosity?” Childe hums far too jauntily to be standing in an empty hallway drowning in skobeloff. Scaramouche breathes out a singular laugh.
“I’d be wildly amused if my mere existence intrigues you, Tartaglia.”
“Is that so? You mortals never fail to amuse me… always plagued by such haunting curiosity.” He retorts, each syllable dripping with annunciation.
“So you’re just going to be wandering around then?” Childe piques, looming over Scaramouche’s shoulder.
“I’d assume you’re going back to see your family, no?” Scaramouche digresses.
“Sounds kind of boring.” Childe blurts out.
Childe ponders to himself, thoughts wrapping around inside his head like a conundrum about to shatter his skull and splatter out in a mangled mess of consideration. Even if they’ve been crammed into missions together for longer than he can remember, he can’t recall Scaramouche mentioning any sentiments of his at all — Childe just chalks it up to a lack of trust. The thought of inviting him to meet his family is vexing, it has a weird underlying sense of intimacy to it. Not like he’s one to care about such formalities, though.
Childe’s feet click into commotion, beginning to walk down the hall — he makes no gesture for Scaramouche to follow, but he does anyway.
They walk in silence momentarily, nothing but the faint murmurs of snowstorms and the soft crackle of footsteps filling the emptiness.
An almost wicked grin boasts on Childe’s face.
“Why don’t you come visit my family then?” Childe snarks, almost sarcastically. “I’m sure Teucer and Tonia will be thrilled to see you.”
Scaramouche cocks his head up and stares at him deep enough to permanently engrave his gaze in his brain.
“You have to be joking.” Scara chides dryly, brows furrowed, vehemently purple eyes drifting half lidded.
“Cmon Scara… Do you think I’m physically incapable of being serious?” Childe mutters with a grin laced in his words, cold gnawing at his freckled cheeks.
“You’ve repeatedly proved to me you hold such imbecilic capabilities.” Scaramouche retorts, sharply turning to him and waving an accusatory hand. Childe can’t help but notice the faintest rosy pink bloom creeping down the sides of Scaramouche’s porcelain face. He chops it up to the cold.
“I wasn’t necessarily joking though.” Childe snarks, dragging out the last few words like a drowsy musing. “You’re free to come if you want.”
Scaramouche glares at him out of the corner of his eye, not the condescending glare dripping with mockery he normally sports, a completely different one entirely. It seems almost… curious. Childe stares at him, lifeless oceanic eyes blurring into fiery embers of violet with every passing second of their tethered gaze.
It’s frankly funny to see someone so usually the epitome of reserved cockiness so stunned.
“You tell Teucer and Tonia about me?” Scaramouche asks cautiously, hands retracting to his tensed sides, stiffness practically shaking off his body in spikes.
“Well of course I like to share my struggles having to work with someone like you.” Childe slips out, resisting the urge to snicker.
Scaramouche scoffs and rolls his eyes.
“You can forget it, I doubt… I doubt I’d suit a family dynamic such as yours.” Scaramouche mutters under his breath, eyes falling to the floor like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.
Childe just smiles all too sweetly, Scara’s eyes widen at that, blaring eyes matching with a snarl.
“Surely you have more appropriate people to invite to accompany you… What do you even mean by doing this?” He says gruffly, coat fluttering in the small smothers of breeze.
“Scara…” Childe starts, dragging out the ending of the nickname. “So opposed for what? It can’t possibly be that bad.”
Scara goes completely rigid at that.
“So desperate for what? Is it that mortal instinct of you to cure some sense of loneliness or are you just so pathetic to try and convince me?” Scaramouche remarks slyly, shifting himself towards Childe, condescending glint glimmering in his eyes.
“I was never begging.” Childe seethes, crimson blood blooms suddenly surging into his face. “I just think you’d be interested in meeting my family, you look so oddly intrigued every time I mention my siblings.”
Scara goes quiet for a while, a very long while. It feels like eternity itself has gone by the speed of a snowflake trying to reunite itself with the bed of snow it was born from before he breaks the silence.
“I wouldn’t fit in such—“
“Fine. But don’t think this means anything.”