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Scaramouche had taken pride in the way he had built up his walls.
Kept them up, kept them sturdy. The walls he had taken years to build brick by brick and hide behind, to keep himself safe. So safe in fact that he himself couldn’t even climb out from behind them. He had cherished it. It had kept him from torment, from sorrow, from fear.
He had simply decided that relying on others wouldn’t do any good. It never had, it never would. How could he ever truly be happy if it didn’t come directly from his own self? Relying on others for the best of your happiness would only end in disaster. Scaramouche couldn’t see a middle ground with it. He couldn’t give any part of himself for another, and in return he couldn’t take from anyone else.
The walls surrounding him, his fragile heart, could never be broken down again. He would never be weak again. He would never let another soul take advantage of it. It’s what he swore to himself.
So why..
Why was it that now, that with a mere gentle brush of fingers against his skin, those walls were more fragile than ever? The walls had been torn down, smashed to pieces, with just a touch. A word. A gaze. As he laid there on the soft sheets, the ones that now smelled like home, in a bed where the pillow cases never matched because the laundry was done lazily in their house, he wondered. He wondered how he had gotten here.
His dainty fingers reached out almost in habit, meeting bright strands of orange hair. They tangled into the head of ginger, gently, almost carefully. His nails ran across the scalp in a kneading movement, his eyes following the movement of the hair strands around his fingers. The touches were followed by a soft hum from the other man, a smile, a quiet chuckle. Scaramouche’s eyes darted down, coming across with blue eyes looking back at him.
In the beginning he could barely meet Childe’s gaze. The look in his eyes had always been so genuine and intense, the blue was drowning. It reminded him of the midwinter skies, bright in the midst of all the cold and pure white. They never sparkled, he had come to realise. Not in the way that it was always described in movies and fairytales, no. They were full of life - deep, something to easily get lost in if you weren’t careful. Though Scaramouche had been careful, he had gotten lost anyway.
His thoughts were broken by a touch. A calloused hand moved to his cheek, thumb gently rubbing along the pale skin, moving in a slow rhythm.
“What’s on your mind?” came a soft murmur from Childe. His voice was low, barely a rumble in the night. It was soothing and gentle, but Scaramouche could only answer it with a huff. He averted his gaze from the blue eyes, now trailing down to the freckles on the others cheeks, traveling across his nose, a few trailing down close to Childe’s jawline.
He didn’t want to answer, because the answer would be embarrassing. Stupid. Cheesy. Everything he hated and was sure to get mocked for. But Childe stayed quiet, waiting. His thumb was still gently moving, providing a steadying feeling for Scaramouche to hang on to. And so, Scaramouche spoke. His voice was a hush, merely a whisper, spoken like a secret to a childhood friend.
“Just.. you.”
“Just me?”
“Mhm.”
The hand on his cheek stilled before it moved lower, gently cupping his jaw. Scaramouche felt the slight tilt and his indigo eyes met blue once more. This time those blue eyes were softer, with so much feeling in them that it almost made Scaramouche’s breath hitch.
Childe never asked. He didn’t demand explanations, he didn’t try to crack the code constantly, to piece together the puzzle that was Scaramouche. He was patient, so patient that it made Scaramouche ache. He had space to speak his mind if he wanted to, be honest in the moments where it scared him and be met with no judgement. Even if he could see it in the ginger’s expression that he was dying to understand immediately, Childe never pushed it.
And so, the hand that was tangled in the strands of tangerine hair moved to the back of Childe’s head, gently grasping at the strands as warm lips met his. The kiss was tender, wanting, loving even. It was only visible in the moonlight coming through the curtains, hands moving in a way that was now second nature, touching skin, limbs tangling together in the sheets. It continued until they were out of breath, panting against each other's lips, eyes half lidded.
Scaramouche allowed himself to be moved to lay on his back as Childe climbed over him, one hand on the smaller one’s waist and the other moving to the back of Scaramouche’s neck as he leaned down for another kiss. Scaramouche let himself fall into it.
His eyes fluttered shut with a soft sigh, and as the sound left his lips he felt the other smile into the kiss. It made his stomach twist and turn and heat creep up his neck, all the way to his cheeks, covering them in a soft hue of pink.
It was these moments when they’d make love that Scaramouche wanted to get all sentimental, release a string of words of affection to the air, let it all out and laid bare for Childe to grasp easily. And sometimes, especially on nights like these, Scaramouche did.
He’d always curse out Childe afterwards if the other dared to mention it, but from the blush on the older’s cheeks and the averted eyes the other knew it was all but an act.
Afterwards, as they were done and cleaning up, Scaramouche put back on his underwear and one of Childe’s t-shirts that lay on the floor of their bedroom. It covered him down to his upper thighs, hiding some of the faded bites and bruises on the inner sides. He walked to the window, opening it to catch some fresh air and feel the light breeze on his warm cheeks and skin, calming down the heart racing in his chest. He focused on the sounds from the city below as Childe was coming back with some water, ever so caring.
A glass was set down with a soft thump and then there were soft footsteps approaching, followed by strong arms wrapping around Scarmouche’s middle from behind. The smaller one kept his gaze on the night sky but leaned into the touch. After a moment of silence, Childe spoke up, softly.
“You okay?”
Scaramouche was quiet, resting one hand over Childe’s. It was met with immediate reaction, fingers intertwining with his. He understood the slight worry in the younger’s soft tone. Scaramouche wasn’t always this.. accepting to be held and loved. But, as much as he hated to admit it to himself, with Childe it was different.
He didn’t need to rely on Childe for his happiness, but he didn’t need to keep denying it either. He didn’t need to just put everything on himself, not be loved by another, not only trust in himself to find joy in his solitude and loneliness. Letting his walls come crumbling down would make himself vulnerable to the worst feelings imaginable, feelings he would never want to go through again. But on the contrary he could be able to feel the best he ever could, live his life to the fullest, experience things he’d only ever dared to dream about.
“Yeah.” He finally answered, a faint murmur over the city’s sounds. He felt the arms around him tighten, a chin coming to rest on his shoulder. Scaramouche turned his head to the side and once again was met with blue eyes that were even more vivid in the moonlight. One of the prettiest things he’d ever laid his eyes upon.
Scaramouche moved, lips meeting in the middle in a soft kiss. He spoke out his next words with small confidence in them, even if the words were hushed and his voice barely there.
“I’m okay.”