Archive of Our Own

“You might not be a director, but you are a balladeer, are you not?” You inquire, fluttering your eyelashes in faux innocence as he creases his eyebrows together, irritation mounting. “That title of yours might just come in handy here.” 

At this, you drop your attention to the flowerpot in your hand, the reason for your tardiness. Scaramouche follows your eyes to land where yours have. His face, once twisting with displeasure, returns to feigned neutrality. Tempting as it is to tease him more for covering up his clear interest, you decide against it. You technically are the one in the wrong here since you were late. 

Scaramouche was strict on punctuality. It used to not make sense to you until you peered behind the curtains of his mind, considering the inner workings he tried to keep concealed. His chastising you for being late was his (questionable) way of showing he treasured his time with you. 

Heh, such a softie, you think. 

“I don’t like that look in your eye,” he grumbles. Just as you knew him well, he too was familiar with your mannerisms, for better or for worse. You dismiss his concern with a wave. After the long trek, taking refuge in the sakura tree’s expansive shade have you savoring the moment. The flowerpot in your hands is sat down on the ground so you can stretch your arms over your head. Scaramouche watches you in notable silence, though you feel him watching your every movement. 

You redirect your attention to him after getting yourself situated. His glowering from before has shifted into something gentler, sulkier more than anything, not that you were going to tell him that. He’s trying not to stare at you expectantly, but his body language betrays him. He holds his lips in a thin line and keeps his jaw tight. You almost snicker when you notice his nose is scrunched up in displeasure too. It’s not that you don’t know what he’s silently waiting for — you just wonder how long you can deprive him until he’d voice his dissent. 

“What?” He snaps, his voice lacking its usual edge. 

“Nothing,” you shake your head. 

His eye twitches. Scaramouche isn’t able to wallow in his grumpiness for long, as you lean forward, brushing your lips against his cheek in a chaste kiss. His skin blooms to warmth beneath you. A strained noise leaves his throat when you pull back, a triumph grin settling on your face. This is how you’ve always greeted him in private. At first, he’d try to swat you away, mumbling something about how childish the gesture was. You could tell by how weak his attempts to keep you at bay were — at least enough to surmise he enjoyed little displays of affection. 

Beneath that prickly exterior was someone desperate for your attention and touch. 

Now when you don’t greet him in the manner he claims to find annoying, he dons an expression much like that of a kicked puppy. 

Scaramouche coughs into his hand, then redirects the conversation. “Don’t tell me that you were late to see me because of a plant.” 

“Yep!” You exclaim, sitting down and patting for him to take the spot next to you. He does as bid without complaint, his thighs brushing against yours, and hair tickling your cheek from how close he is. “A merchant from Liyue was rolling out of town with these and stopped me. He said something about how I was in luck. Apparently, these are glaze lilies, a rare and prized flower. They normally go for a lot, but he gave me a discount!” 

“A glaze lily, huh…” Scaramouche trails off, a hand to his chin. Ah, that’s right, he’s likely to have knowledge of things from faraway countries. His position as a Harbinger had him traveling all around the world to places you’d only read about in books. He once promised to bring you to ‘the most tolerable’ spots after he finished accomplishing something. Whatever that something is, you haven’t the slightest clue, but it must be important. 

“And get this,” you continue, twinkles shining in your eyes, “It’s supposed to open up like those fancy tea balls if you sing. Romantic, right? Do you feel your heart pounding away at the thought?” 

“The only pounding I have is that in my head from your foolishness.” 

“Less insulting, more singing! C’mon now, don’t you remember what I said earlier? You must be the Balladeer for a reason.” 

Honestly, it’s a miracle that Scaramouche is so taken with you, or you’re certain a flash of lightning would’ve struck you down by now. You’re half convinced that his underlings share a similar sentiment. You recall how you once jokingly asked him if he could indeed call down lightning on a sunny day to strike a nearby tree. Much to your disbelief, he gave into your whims, doing just that while you gaped at the charred branches. The smug aura that radiated around him at your shock explained why he actually listened. (What a showoff). 

Scaramouche rests his head on your shoulder. “You’re in for a world of disappointment if you expected me to sing.” 

Well, it was worth a shot. 

You hum a starting pitch in an attempt to refamiliarize yourself with a song from your childhood. When you settle on what sounds best, your lips part, the sound soft as the passing breeze at first. Lyrics flood back to your mind and song fills the air. Dulcet tones weave stories of intrigue, as the song is a cautionary tale about a forgotten island surrounded in thick fog. While you remain focused on the light blue plant curled into itself, Scaramouche fixates himself on the side of your face. From your soft lips to the satisfaction in your eyes — everything other than you fades away into meaningless blurs. 

In a fleeting thought, he considers his creator, so obsessed with the pursuit of eternity. And he wonders to himself if moments like these might be why. 

By the end of your song, you tilt your head, noticing that the flower hasn’t changed in the slightest. Were you supposed to sing in a certain key? Or was it a particular song? The merchant didn’t mention any details like that. Deflated in disappointment, you puff your cheeks out, waiting for the glaze lilies to do as promised. 

“This is false advertising,” you huff. 

Scaramouche, with some hesitance, detaches himself from your side. He takes a petal in between his thumb and pointer finger then rubs. You blink, taken aback by the action. It’s not until a few moments later that you understand what he’s getting at. He retracts his fingers, which are now covered in blue pigment, then brings them up to your eye level to see closer. 

“Ah,” you deadpan. “I’ve been scammed.” 

“Seems that way.” 

He pulls out a handkerchief to clean his fingers off. “Where is this snake oil merchant? I’ll have a word with him myself. Anyone brazen enough to scam the partner of a Harbinger should be punished accordingly.” 

“Uh, I don’t think death by lightning is an appropriate consequence for selling a fake flower,” you throw your hands up in defense of the otherwise damned soul. “If I’m being honest… picturing someone painting a flower is funny enough to make me forgive him. It wasn’t that expensive, anyway.” 

Scaramouche doesn’t look convinced. 

“It’s fine, really! I like my fake glaze lily. It’s special.” 

He pinches his nose and sighs. “You’re unbelievable… whatever, have it your way, pacifist. I’ll have him reprimanded through official channels instead.” 

“That’s my favorite law-abiding citizen,” you give him a pat on the head, much to his clear displeasure. Then you glance at the criminal flower of the hour. Does that mean the rest of the paint or dye would come off when you water it? You’re curious to find out what’s in store for your cryptid flora friend. You’ll still tell your friends that it’s a glaze lily to mess with them. 

At this idea, Scaramouche’s words from before come flooding back. 

“A glaze lily, huh…”

You put on your metaphorical detective hat and stare him down, narrowing your eyes. “Kunikuzushi.” 

“[First],” he returns your dry timbre with a somehow drier one. 

“You knew this wasn’t a glaze lily from the start, didn’t you.” 

The corner of his lip twitches and you can tell he’s fighting back a smile. “Who’s to say for certain?” 

“You bastard! You set me up for failure! The one time I was in dire need of botany expertise, I ended up abandoned like this.”

“No need to whine about it. You’ll ruin the ‘romantic’ atmosphere you worked so hard to establish. Just when I was starting to feel it too…” 

He trails off, regarding you with an over the top forlorn expression, which further adds to your indignation. Tonight will be a night on the couch for him, you decide.

“And I’ll continue to do so willingly until you repent for your wrongdoings.” 

“How petty.” 

You roll your eyes, though the smile on your face gives you away easily. “Like you’ve got room to talk.”