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Scaramouche woke before the sun. He wasn’t used to sleeping in, not even now, when the demands on his time were almost nothing compared to what they used to be. The ceiling of their small apartment was painted with the faintest hints of gold as dawn crept over Liyue Harbor. He watched the shifting blur of light for a while, letting himself be still. The air was quiet, the only sound the slow, measured breathing from beside him.
Childe was sprawled out on his stomach, arm thrown over a pillow that did not belong to him, face mashed against the sheets. His ginger hair tumbled over his eyes, and he looked younger in sleep, all the sharpness in his features softened. Scaramouche could have watched him for hours, but his stomach grumbled, and the spell broke.
He sat up, careful not to disturb Childe. He reached for the blanket at the foot of the bed, dragging it around his shoulders. The floor was cold, and he shuffled through the room in his wool socks, avoiding the spots he knew would creak. Their apartment was cramped, but it was warm. Two mugs sat drying on the counter.
He put the kettle on, filling it with water from the tap. The kitchen window was fogged up, and he wiped a little circle clear with his sleeve. The city outside was just waking up. Vendors were setting up their stalls in the market square, their voices carrying even this high up. Scaramouche watched a pair of children chasing a stray dog, their laughter bright and sharp in the morning air.
The kettle began to whistle. He poured two cups of tea, leaving the second on the table for Childe. Scaramouche sat on the windowsill, sipping his own tea and letting the steam curl around his face. He thought about the day ahead. There were errands to run, chores to do, nothing urgent. The ordinary rhythm of domesticity still felt strange sometimes, but it was a strangeness he welcomed.
A rustle behind him broke his reverie. Childe shuffled into the kitchen, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes bleary with sleep. He wore a shirt that was slightly too big, the fabric hanging loose in a way that made him look even more relaxed.
"Morning," Childe mumbled, reaching for the tea. He took a sip and sighed, content. "You’re up early."
"I always am," Scaramouche replied. He tried to sound annoyed, but the fondness in his voice betrayed him.
Childe grinned, sharp and bright even in the soft morning light. "You know, you could try sleeping in. Just once."
"And let you hog all the blankets? No thanks."
Childe laughed, dropping into the chair across from him. He reached for the sugar bowl, dumping two heaping spoonfuls into his tea. Scaramouche wrinkled his nose in mock disgust.
"You’re going to rot your teeth out," he said.
"Then you’ll have to take care of me," Childe replied, undeterred. He leaned forward, nudging Scaramouche’s knee with his own. "Wouldn’t you like that?"
Scaramouche looked away, hiding his smile behind his mug. The answer was yes, of course. He liked taking care of Childe, liked the way their lives had begun to fit together in small, quiet ways. He liked the domestic rituals they had built, the easy comfort of mornings like this.
Childe finished his tea and stood, stretching until his back popped. He padded over to the window, glancing out at the city below.
"It’s a nice day," he said. "We should go to the market. Maybe pick up something for dinner."
Scaramouche grunted in agreement. He liked the market, though he would never admit it out loud. Liyue has always been more to his liking since he left Inazuma and Sumeru. He liked the way Childe bartered with the vendors, always haggling for a better price even when it wasn’t necessary. He liked the way the city smelled in the morning, all fresh bread and roasting chestnuts. He liked walking beside Childe, fingers brushing, shoulders bumping.
They dressed in comfortable clothes, Childe in his favorite blue jacket, Scaramouche in a soft sweater that had once belonged to Childe but had *mysteriously* migrated to his side of the closet. They left the apartment, locking the door behind them. The stairs creaked under their weight, and Scaramouche grumbled about the need for repairs, though he secretly liked the way the old building made him feel.
The market was bustling by the time they arrived. Stalls overflowed with fresh produce, flowers, trinkets. Childe made a beeline for the baker’s stall, his eyes lighting up at the sight of sweet buns dusted with sugar. Scaramouche rolled his eyes, but his mouth watered at the smell.
The baker greeted them with a smile, pressing an extra bun into Childe’s hand. "For your friend," she said, winking at Scaramouche. "He always looks like he needs something sweet."
Childe beamed, handing the bun to Scaramouche before he could protest. "See? Everyone knows you’re the real softie."
Scaramouche pretended to be offended, but he ate the bun anyway. It was warm and the perfect amount of sweet. Childe watched him, eyes crinkling at the corners.
They wandered the market, stopping at every stall. Childe picked out vegetables for dinner, arguing with the vendor over the price of tomatoes. Scaramouche stood back, arms crossed, pretending not to care, but secretly enjoying the show.
At the flower stall, Childe bought a small bouquet of wildflowers, tucking one behind Scaramouche’s ear before he could protest. Scaramouche tried to scowl, but Childe just grinned, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.
"You look good," Childe said, voice soft. "Really good."
Scaramouche felt his cheeks warm, but he didn’t push the flower away. He liked the way it smelled, fresh and a little wild.
They walked home together, arms full of groceries, the city bright and alive around them. Scaramouche listened as Childe talked about his plans for the day, about the letter he wanted to write home, about the recipe he wanted to try for dinner. Scaramouche nodded in all the right places, adding his own opinions when Childe paused for breath.
Back in their apartment, Scaramouche unpacked the groceries while Childe arranged the flowers in a chipped glass jar. The kitchen filled with the scent of bread and fresh blooms. Scaramouche put the kettle on again, pouring them both another cup of tea.
Childe sat at the table, watching him move around the kitchen. "You know," he said, "I never thought I’d have this. A home. Someone to come back to."
Scaramouche paused, hands stilling on the teapot. He looked at Childe, really looked at him. The way his hair still stuck up at odd angles, the way his eyes softened when he smiled.
"You have it now," Scaramouche said, voice quiet. "If you want it."
Childe’s smile was slow, steady, full of something warm and deep. He reached across the table, taking Scaramouche’s hand in his. His fingers were calloused, rough from years of fighting, but the touch was gentle.
"I do," Childe said. "More than anything."
They sat together, hands entwined, letting the quiet settle around them. The world outside was loud and unpredictable, but here, in this small kitchen, everything felt right.
Later, they worked together to make dinner. Childe chopped vegetables with the confidence of someone who had learned to cook by necessity, not talent. Scaramouche stirred the pot, tasting the broth and adding more salt when Childe wasn’t looking.
They argued over the best way to cook the rice, each insisting their method was superior. The argument was familiar, comforting. Childe teased, Scaramouche retorted, both of them smiling more than they let on.
When dinner was ready, they sat at the table, plates piled high. Childe took a bite and closed his eyes in exaggerated bliss.
"This is amazing," he said. "You should cook more often."
Scaramouche huffed, but he was pleased. He liked making food for Childe, liked the way Childe always finished every bite. He liked the way dinner became an event, something to look forward to at the end of the day.
After dinner, they washed the dishes together, bumping elbows and splashing water. Childe told stories about his childhood in Morepesok, stories that made Scaramouche laugh until his sides hurt.
When the kitchen was clean, they curled up on the couch, a tangle of limbs and blankets. Childe rested his head on Scaramouche’s shoulder, arm wrapped around his waist.
Scaramouche ran his fingers through Childe’s hair, untangling the knots with gentle care. Childe sighed, body relaxing against him.
"This is nice," Childe murmured. "Really nice."
Scaramouche hummed in agreement. He closed his eyes, letting himself sink into the warmth of the moment.
For a long time, they stayed like that, listening to the sounds of the city drifting through the window. Childe’s breathing slowed, and Scaramouche felt his own eyelids grow heavy.
He thought about how far they had come, about the battles they had fought, the scars they carried, about the mornings they had shared, the quiet comfort of routine, about how, in this small apartment, with Childe by his side, he had found something he never thought he would have.
About how much he loved him.
As sleep tugged at him, Scaramouche pressed a soft kiss to Childe’s ginger hair.
"Goodnight" he whispered.
Childe squeezed his hand, half asleep.
"Goodnight," he murmured. "Love you."
Scaramouche smiled, letting the words settle in his chest.
"I love you too" he said, so quietly only his beloved could hear.
The city outside faded into silence.