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To everyone Childe could be described as ambitious, reckless, and a breath of fresh air with a smile so bright it could blind you. They don't understand the shadows of your silhouette in the same way I do.
But to Scaramouche, Childe was not just a that, he was so much more— he was a revelation, a epiphany, a shining beacon in the bleak, unending expanse of his life. He was everything that Scaramouche had lost in touch with in his own relentless pursuit of approval, ascension and vengeance. And in rare fleeting moments of crystalline clarity, Scaramouche knew one thing for certain— he would move heaven and earth, tearing through the fabric of the stars themselves, just to stand at Childe's side. He craved to stand on equal footing with the man he viewed as nothing short of divine. Though he would sooner swallow his own tongue than admit such a blasphemous thoughts aloud.
Because in a life woven from threads of tragedy and filled with a relentless cycles of betrayal, Childe's presence was the one thing that made it all worth a while. He was the one vibrant, unscripted melody in a world of monotonous noise, the only thing that reminded him of what it meant to be truly alive.
In Childe's presence, Scaramouche felt a dizzying kaleidoscope of emotions, each one more jagged and raw than the last. Joy, sorrow, anger, as well as hatred. And above all, a love so profound and all-consuming that it terrified Scaramouche to his very core.
They both bore scars so achingly familiar yet undeniably unique; An echo of their different paths.
The biting chill of Snezhnayan winds snapped Scaramouche out of his trance. The skeletal scenery carried whispers of an old acquaintance— a man far too kind for his own good, whose warmth was a constant, infuriating contrast to this frozen wasteland. Perhaps it was time to descend from these heights and head toward the warmth of Liyue.
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Liyue was a believable sight— a vibrant tapestry of golden lantern light, the rhythmic clatter of bustling street stalls, and the salty tang of the sea clinging to the humid air. It was too noisy for Scaramouche's liking.
The sky had bled into the inky blackness of night as Scaramouche found himself standing before the imposing facade of the Northern Bank. The door groaned open at his touch, revealing Signora leaning against the polished counter with an air of practiced nonchalance, though her eyes narrowed into razor thin slits the moment they landed on him.
"Balladeer" Signora began, her voice slicing through the heavy stillness of the bank. "To what do we owe the honor of your presence in this humble abode? I wasn't aware there was anything in this gods forsaken land capable of dragging you out of Snezhnaya."
Scaramouche offered a shallow, mocking tilt of his hat "A warm welcome to you as well, my fair lady."
Signora’s lips curled into a smirk that didn't quite reach her eyes, her gaze raking over him with predatory curiosity. "Surely you aren't here out of concern for me?" she asked, though her words dripped with a venom so potent it practically sting the air between them.
"Don't flatter yourself. You and Childe never fail to find new and inventive ways to complicate the simplest of tasks," Scaramouche countered, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly at the mention of the ginger haired Harbinger. He straightened his posture, his voice dropping into a more formal, albeit strained, register. "The Tsaritsa has grown weary of your tardiness. She sent me to collect the prize you so begrudgingly procured, before your delays become an official grievance."
"A step too late," Signora laughed, the sound sharp and mocking as she hoisted the Geo Gnosis into the light, letting it catch the dim glow of the bank. "It would have been a far simpler affair, a much cleaner acquisition, had that boy not seen fit to intervene." Her eyes flickered toward Scaramouche, a carnivorous glint dancing in her gaze as she studied his reaction. She leaned back against the counter, her posture oozing a calculated, regal nonchalance. "Care to hear the tale of how your precious warrior nearly ruined everything, Balladeer?"
"Not particularly," Scaramouche replies, his tone dismissive. "I have no interest in the sordid details of your machinations."
A slow smirk curls Signora's lips. "A shame, truly," she purrs, her eyes glinting with a sudden, wicked amusement. "That boy just suffered through a betrayal as they call it. Who knew Morax could be so cruel. Poor, naive Childe actually thought they were friends." She glances back at the shorter man "Though, I suppose you'd be quite familiar with the sting of a knife in the back, wouldn't you?"
"Heh, what a sharp tongue you have," Scaramouche replied, though the deflection did little to mask the momentary tension in his shoulders.
For a fleeting second, the icy mask of the Crimson Witch faltered, a rare flicker of vulnerability softening the stern lines of her face. "That boy has brought out a softer side in all of us, whether we care to admit it or not."
"Don't tell me the Great Crimson Witch is softening, La Signora?" he retorted, a note of calculated challenge dancing in his tone.
"Deny it all you wish, but the truth is plain as day. But I suppose you have a strange talent for twisting the truth" She turned away, her silken robes sweeping the floor as she began to retreat into the inner sanctum of the Northern bank. Before the heavy doors could swallow her whole, she tossed one final observation over her shoulder. "If you're looking for him, don't bother searching the city. You'll find him moping amidst the weeds of the Guili Plains, looking for a ghost that isn't there."
With that, she disappears into the shadows, leaving Scaramouche alone with his thoughts and a sudden, inexplicable urge to make haste to towards the Guili Plains.
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While heading toward Guili Plains, Scaramouche noticed how the moonlight washed over the landscape. Above him, the sky stretched into a vast mosaic of stars, a sight so rare and breathtaking it felt like a brief reprieve from his usual cynicism. Pale light spilled across the plains, turning the swaying grass into a rippling sea that gleamed with every passing breeze.
The moonlight washed Childe’s skin in a pale, ethereal glow that made him look almost otherworldly amidst the swaying stalks of grass. He lay motionless on his back, the silver light catching the sharp, handsome lines of his face as he stared up at the luminous crescent hanging precariously in the abyssal sky. The usual, frantic energy that defined him had ebbed away, replaced by a heavy, pensive stillness that felt uncharacteristic, almost fragile
An uneasy feeling crept up Scaramouche's spine as he approached, Childe's uncharacteristic stillness and silence putting him on high alert. Gone was the usual radiant warmth and infectious energy that seemed to emanate from the ginger-haired man, replaced by an unsettling chill that raised the hairs on the back of Scaramouche's neck.
"And you call yourself a harbinger, fearless in the face of foes? Yet here you are, so easily lost in your own thoughts." Scaramouche mocked, lowering himself into the grass beside Childe. His eyes narrowed as he studied the other man's profile, taking in the unfamiliar man he once called his sole comfort. Scaramouche wondered what trials had he faced in Scaramouche's absence that could have forged him into the unfamiliar man that sat besides the Balladeer.
"Scara, have you ever been in love?" Childe shifted his weight and pushed himself upright, the grass rustling softly beneath him. Yet even as he moved, his gaze never left the thin crescent moon suspended in the night sky, its pale curve hanging delicately among the stars. The breeze stirred his hair, carrying with it the scent of wild grass and distant water, but he seemed oblivious to it all. His blue eyes reflected the moonlight as he stared into the distance, as if he were searching for an answer hidden somewhere beyond the horizon. His expression was uncharacteristically somber, the usual boisterous light in his eyes replaced by a heavy, contemplative stillness that felt foreign to the man Scaramouche thought he knew.
Childe turned to face him, and the world seemed to still for a heartbeat. Moonlight traced the sharp planes of his face, catching in eyes as blue and luminous as deep water beneath a winter sky. Scaramouche’s breath hitched, snagging painfully in his throat. He had traversed lifetimes and witnessed the rise and fall of gods, yet none of those memories prepared him for this. There was something unbearably sorrowful in Childe's beauty tonight. The pale light softened the usual edges of his features, washing away the reckless confidence that clung to the man like armor, instead revealing something achingly mortal beneath. He looked impossibly distant, as though he belonged more to the quiet night than to the world around them. For one disorienting moment, Scaramouche thought that if he reached out, his fingers would pass straight through him like mist.
Scaramouche swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly as parched as the Sumeru sands in the height of a relentless summer. For all his centuries of existence, through every blood soaked battle and hollow trial, he had never known the sheer, suffocating weight of being utterly speechless. It was an emotion he hadn't known he was capable of harboring— a sensation as disconcerting as a sudden storm and as exhilarating as a first breath. He desperately wanted to speak, to unburden the heavy, aching words building in his chest, but they remained elusive, slipping through his grasp like starlight through trembling fingers.
He forced himself to truly look, to anchor himself in the reality of the man before him. He traced the soft curl of hair behind Childe's ear, the dusting of freckles across his nose, and the way his lips parted in a silent, breathless anticipation. In that moment, a realization struck Scaramouche with the force of a physical blow, leaving him reeling.
"No," Scaramouche finally managed, though the word was a pathetic, half hearted thing that betrayed his composure entirely. He cursed his own traitorous mouth, hating how easily it failed him when he needed it most. His heart felt dangerously tight, a bruised knot of frustration and a desperate, clawing need to deny the truth that stared him in the face. The truth of his love, his longing, his need for Childe. But still, he clung stubbornly to his pride, his fear of vulnerability.
He was in love, deeply and irrevocably. And that man, that foolish, infuriating, wonderful man was Childe. And he had no idea how to make stop loving him, no matter how hard he tried.
Childe let out a dry, hollow chuckle that didn't quite reach his eyes. “I thought so,” he murmured, before settling back into the grass, his gaze drifting upward to the vast, indifferent tapestry of stars overhead. “Tell me, Scaramouche" His gaze wandered towards the ethereal glow of the glaze lilies swaying in the moonlight. "What do you do when you find yourself smitten with someone who doesn't love you back?”
“Heh, has the almighty heartthrob of Snezhnaya fallen in unrequited love?" Scaramouche let out a sharp, mocking laugh, though the sound felt brittle, lacking its usual venomous bite."The ladies back home must be absolutely devastated. Tell me, who is the unlucky wretch?”He watches Childe intently, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs as he waits for a name any name that might either soothe his weary soul or shatter it completely. Part of him wants to mock the sentimentality of it all, but a deeper, more treacherous part of him is desperate to know if the name he's imagining is actually the one that will be spoken.
Childe’s gaze drifted toward the horizon, his jaw tightening with a sudden, sharp tension that made the air between them feel brittle. “A god who now runs around with humans,” he muttered, the words tasting bitter, like salt on a fresh wound. “A divine bastard.” He let out a hollow, self deprecating huff, refusing to meet Scaramouche's eyes as he stared into the distance. “It’s ridiculous. Go ahead you can laugh at me.”
Scaramouche felt his throat run dry, the sudden shift in Childe's temperament catching him completely off guard. The bravado was gone, replaced by a raw unshielded vulnerability that felt far more dangerous than any battlefield. Of course, someone as celestial as Childe deserves a god. His mind raced through the possibilities, searching for a name to anchor this sudden ache. Was it Morax? Was there some ancient, divine force in Liyue that had finally managed to capture the heart of the man who had captured his own?
A bitter, sharp jealousy flared in his gut, hot and unbidden. Had he really been that slow? Had he spent years dancing around the periphery of Childe's life only to be overtaken in a single week by the Geo Archon? The thought of Morax, of that ancient,stoic deity claiming the warmth of Childe’s heart felt like a personal insult. Morax was a god, a mountain of stone and tradition; he didn't deserve the chaotic, beautiful light that Childe carried within him.
Scaramouche faintly remembers the old tales of the Geo Archon the stories of a god who loved with a ferocity that rivaled the mountains themselves. Some whispered that the Guili Plains were a living monument to Guizhong and Zhongli, a testament to a love so profound it transcended even death. Even the lilies, he recalled, were said to have been planted by the hands of Rex Lapis himself, in a perennial remembrance of a fallen deity.
He could treat Childe so much better than a god who abandoned his nation.
”Love is a fickle thing—It clouds the vision and makes a fool of the wise." Scaramouche began, the words spilling from his lips with a sudden, uncharacteristic urgency before he could catch them. "It makes you blind to the truth of your own worth. But you deserve someone who meets your light with their own, not someone who leaves you waiting for some twisted desire." He turned his eyes towards Childe, his expression softening into something mortally vulnerable. "You deserve to be loved.”
Do you even know how much light you carry? Every crack and crevice of this world that your soul touches becomes warm. Even sunlight softens in your proximity. The coldest wind feel warm when you're around. The world turns warm wherever you are. Colors appear when you enter a room.
Childe lets out a hysterical laugh, the sound catching in his throat as he collapses backward into the grass. Lying there on his back, he shields his eyes with a trembling hand, though it does little to hide the way tears prickle at the corners of his gaze. "As expected from the Great Balladeer."
A sudden, violent pang lanced through Scaramouche's chest, sharp enough to steal the breath from his lungs. The ache felt almost physical, settling beneath his ribs like a wound. Looking at Childe, so heartbreakingly subdued beneath the moonlight, he found himself wondering who could have been cruel enough to put that sorrow in his eyes.
Nobody has felt so close yet so distant to me than you.
"Stay," Childe pleads, his voice thick as he fights to keep the tears from spilling over. He reaches out, his fingers lacing through Scaramouche's and clenching his hand with a desperate, bruising strength. "Just for a few minutes. Please."
Even with half of his face obscured by his hand and his expression fractured by sorrow, Childe looks breathtaking. Scaramouche finds himself wanting to burn this image into his very soul, to etch the sight of him into his memory so deeply that no distance could ever erase it. For these fleeting minutes, he allows himself the dangerous luxury of pretending, pretending that Childe is his, and his alone. He doesn't pull away from the crushing grip; instead, he turns his hand within Childe's, lacing their fingers together more firmly.
There is no color to love, and still you have dyed my soul with yours.
A biting, cold wind gusts across the plains, tossing Scaramouche's hair and chilling the air, yet he remains unmoved, anchored by the heat of Childe's grip. He holds his breath, biting back the sharp, biting retorts that usually serve as his armor, terrified that a single word might shatter the fragile stillness between them. He is petrified that if he moves, the illusion will break, and he will wake to find this moment was nothing more than a cruel, beautiful dream.
After a long, heavy silence, Childe finally shifts, sitting up with a slow, aching grace. His eyes are glassy, brimming with unshed tears that threaten to spill over. With a trembling hand, he reaches out, his fingers grazing the edge of Scaramouche’s hat as if trying to peel away the last barrier between them.
“Ajax” Scaramouche begins, his voice uncharacteristically fractured, but the words are swallowed before they can even form. Childe presses a palm firmly against Scaramouche’s lips, silencing the inevitable apologies and hollow comforts. The sudden closeness is dizzying; Childe leans in, bumping his forehead gently against Scaramouche's in a gesture so intimate it feels more profound than a kiss.
"I don't need your kindness, or your pity," Childe murmurs, his breath warm and uneven against Scaramouche's skin, his gaze searching and desperate. "As long as you stay with me... that is enough."
A bitter, hollow ache blooms in Scaramouche’s chest; he knows that in this feverish haze, Childe might be seeing a ghost, or a version of him that doesn't truly exist. Yet, the realization doesn't bring the expected sting of resentment. Instead, a quiet, devastating contentment settles over him. If Childe needs to believe in a lie just to survive, Scaramouche will become that lie, so long as he is the one allowed to stand by his side.
We all eat lies when our hearts are hungry.