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The first Scaramouche sees of him is a flash of warm orange on the training grounds. He'd barely pay any attention to the feeble attempts of combat the new recruits put on display for everyone, but the movement is fast, too fast, and then there's a cry of pain and it all happens due to reflexes.

His head whips around and he stares at the reason for such a commotion, because Fatui or not, training grounds are not to be abused to actually hurt each other beyond a few bruises or cracked ribs — and he finds but a simple man.

A boy, if you will, because he cannot be older than twenty.

His hair is what caught his attention, auburn beneath the cloudy sky. Soft snowflakes are cushioned on top of the ginger strands, moist due to the weather. Despite the freezing cold, he holds himself tall and proud, shoulders back and chest out, head held high after, most likely, just defeating his training partner. With the back of his hand he pushes a few of the ginger strands out of his forehead and Scaramouche notices a set of deep blue eyes accompanied by a feral-looking grin.

Scaramouche doesn’t know him, he’s never seen that man before, but something about him makes him stand out against the group of low-ranking soldiers. Not just the fact that he’s in the middle of the training grounds, the only one standing as his opponent is currently sitting up slowly and with fragile-looking movements. Pathetic, if you ask Scaramouche. He doesn’t understand why they waste their time with people as weak as these, but if they seem to satisfy the Tsaritsa, then he’s got no say in it.

That boy, however, does not fit in with the rest of his group. He looks too proud. A mere foot-soldier sent out to mediocre battles if needed has no reason for that expression. And yet, he looks as if the center of attention belongs to him and there’s something under the surface of his eyes, lingering and deep and dark, that makes Scaramouche’s skin crawl.

As if he felt his gaze on him, the man suddenly turns his head, grin still wide and teeth bared and then their eyes meet. They’re intense, he realizes, pinning, scrutinizing, even from this distance. Scaramouche levels him with much of the same glare, though there is certainly more arrogance in it.

The fact that a mere soldier dares so much as to look into his eyes, much less stare him down is as aggravating as it is refreshing. Her Majesty’s canon fodder knows better than this, usually. But Scaramouche can’t detect a challenge in his eyes, although his stare is unyielding even beneath his own glare, it seems.

There’s something else, that same dark thing he’s seen only seconds ago and what he doesn’t know to make of. He narrows his eyes and gives the soldier a scowl.

“Aren’t you all supposed to be training?” he snaps and just like that, the group comes to life again. There’s shouts of “Yes, Lord Balladeer” and scrambling as the soldiers take up their positions again. The training ground fills up in a matter of seconds and even the ginger’s opponent gets up on his feet again, though his posture is hunched over. Scaramouche scoffs at the sight of him; only a fool doesn’t know when a fight is lost. This soldier seems to be one.

The other one, though, the ginger, strikes him as far from it. The azure eyes are unforgiving, and yet he graces his partner with a gentle smile before his gaze shifts back to the Harbinger. It’s only for a mere second and only to indicate the beginning of a graceful bow with his head, before he focuses back on the training.

Scaramouche stays for three more seconds, barely long enough to see the training start again, the beginnings of chaotic, hasty fights that will barely withstand a real battlefield. In the midst of them is auburn hair and blue eyes, movements so unlike from the ones of his comrades. He doesn’t stay long enough to see the fights progress, because babysitting weak man-children is not falling into his scope of work.

But as he walks on, his mind strays back to the expression he just met and he realizes that the unknown thing clawing at the back of those blue eyes wasn’t a challenge nor was it anger or hatred. It was hunger.

Unbridled greed, for something he isn’t sure he knows, but it gazed right into Scaramouche’s eyes, howling for his attention, which he got without any further ado, although he might hadn’t even been aware of it.

His name is Childe, Scaramouche learns. The fact that he gets to hear about him, a soldier countless ranks beneath the Harbingers, means something for sure. But something about him catches everyone’s attention it seems, until ultimately, he hears his name whispered in the corridors as he passes. It’s nothing exactly worth mentioning, but there’s praise of his combat skills and techniques and his official seems to be very proud of counting him amongst his ranks.

Truth be told, they could be talking about anyone, but Scaramouche is far from stupid or blind, although he doesn’t necessarily concern himself with the low-ranking parts of the army Zapolyarny Palace builds every day with tedious effort. He has seen the way he moves, if only for a few moments. Has noticed that he’s different in a way he can’t really tell, because there’s more to it than just the hunger eating away at him for sure. He’s skilled. Skilled enough that his name is carried to the highest ranks of her Majesty’s army.

What he doesn’t expect is that only weeks later, that same man comes striding through the big doors that mark the palace’s meeting room of the Harbingers. But right behind the mop of warm orange-brown hair is Pierro, so the soldier can’t be wrong about showing up uninvited here and as it turns out, he’s now to be addressed as Lord Tartaglia. Eleventh of the Fatui Harbingers.

Scaramouche doesn’t know what to make of such a ridiculous decision. In front of him is a mere boy, not older than nineteen, maybe twenty. His exceptional combat skills are definitely not enough to earn him a spot amongst them, no matter if it is the lowest-ranking one or not. The Tsaritsa must either be out of her mind or completely desperate to invite a naïve, useless foot-soldier into the higher ranks. What is he good for, except maybe a fight or two?

It feels like an insult, being placed on almost the same step as someone so much more inferior to him. He was crafted by the hands of an Archon, has honed his skills for centuries and has seen horrors of this world, beneath this world, that one does not dare even speak of — and yet this… this boy, is placed only five ranks lower than him because coincidentally, he knows how to wield a sword?!

His fury is silent for as long as he needs to keep it that way, because Pierro will not allow for any discussion about the Tsaritsa’s decision, but as soon as they’re dismissed from the meeting and Scaramouche leaves the room, he makes himself heard as he slams the door closed behind him with inhumane force.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to put up with the Eleventh too much. As usual, they are all busy with their own tasks and soldiers, so most of the time, Scaramouche doesn’t have to think of him. The first time after the decision to make him a Harbinger, he encounters Childe — Tartaglia — several months later in a moment of solitude it seems.

In the light of the corridor his hair is brighter than what it was on the gloomy day on the training grounds long ago. He stands in front of one of the big, clean windows, right next to the door leading into Scaramouche’s chamber, staring outside and deep in his thoughts.

Opening his door and stepping outside, Scaramouche first suspects the other Harbinger is waiting for him. But the way his head turns and he blinks back at him in sheer surprise before his lips stretch into a sheepish grin says otherwise. “Balladeer,” he greets with a bow of his head, reminiscent of the one he did back then.

“What do you want?” Scaramouche asks, not bothering to put up any kind of formalities for the sake of respect. He might’ve accepted to have a talentless human that barely passed legal age amongst their ranks, but that doesn’t mean he can stand Tartaglia any better than the rest of his colleagues. Especially when they lure around in front of his chamber, a place no one ever ventures to without a reason since it is at the very back of the corridor, far away from kitchens or training grounds or meeting rooms.

As inconvenient as the location might sound, it brings Scaramouche peace and quiet, since there are no annoying footsteps or voices past his door at every hour of the day and instead, he is left alone at the end of the west-wing.

Tartaglia gives him another perplexed expression, before he seems to realize what his presence here might look like. “Oh, no no, I wasn’t here for you, I just–” cutting himself off, his attention shifts and he looks back outside. His breath hits the glass in front of him, fogging it up with rhythmic exhales.

“If you weren’t here for anything,” Scaramouche starts, “It’s best you leave again. I’m sure you’ve got more important matters to attend to than stare outside like the fool that you are.”

The remark makes Tartaglia laugh, deep and bashful and without any kind of hurt in his expression. He faces Scaramouche once again and when he says “Ouch,” it lacks any kind of realness, “You wound me, Scaramouche. Do you really think so low of me?”

Scoffing, he makes to move past the other man, not bothering to look back. “It’s Balladeer. And rest assured, I think lower of you than this.”

Remains of a playful laugh ring in his ears even after he is long out of earshot.

Somehow, that single, short encounter seems to be enough for Childe to prove himself even more of a useless idiot than what Scaramouche initially assumed. Whatever that conversation was, if not Scaramouche dismissing him and insulting him as mildly as possible for his standards, the Eleventh reads way too much into it.

Like, way too much, because suddenly, Scaramouche finds himself with a 185cm tall, lean and muscular, ginger lost duckling trailing after him. It reminds him of a child centuries ago, wide- and starry-eyed as it looked at everything it could spot. He hates the thought of it.

You’d think a Harbinger, no matter how low his seat, is too occupied to go bother his colleagues, but apparently, Childe is a man of many surprises. The worst part is even occupied, he can’t get rid of him. Scaramouche doesn’t know who he told what to get his way, but it’s suspicious that soon after their little encounter, he starts getting more and more tasks together with the other Harbinger.

They’re minor things, like patrouilles or handling a batch of recruits, although Scaramouche has always made it very clear that he does not want to occupy himself with such matters. Patrouilles he understands, but babysitting simply isn’t worth his time and patience and Tartaglia seemed to be doing a good enough job at it on his own, so why, Tsaritsa pray tell, does he have to accompany him to those as well?

And it's not like anyone enjoys his participation anyways. Scaramouche doesn't have the patience it needs nor does he have any forgiveness for mistakes. Her Majesty is the one with the benevolence, not him, a failed creation, golden fingertips still staining his cracked shell even after all these years. He's not one for encouragement or kind words when he's long past begging for both. So, instead, he yells.

"What are you even good for?!" he hisses, burning gaze directed at a recruit in the snow. He hates this with all his might, being here to handle these good-for-nothings. How is he supposed to teach them when they can't follow the simplest of orders?

He hardly believes even Childe appreciates him being there. He never says anything along those lines and yet Scaramouche notices it. Not directly disdain but something else. Kinder, somehow, yet still disapproving.

Scaramouche dares him to speak up every single time. He glares at him so full of fury, ready to put the Eleventh back into his place if he so much as opens his mouth and speaks against him — but Lord Tartaglia knows better than that. He never does. The most incredulous thing he allows himself is a soft huff, but mostly he lets Scaramouche handle the recruits as he sees fit.

Usually, they split them up in two groups, one for Childe and one for him. Needless to say, the recruits he’s supposed to handle for the time being all wish they could be with Childe, too. But alas, what they receive is brutal honesty and criticism. Scaramouche doesn’t have the patience to coddle anyone and he surely is not going to learn it now for a bunch of worthless fools, no matter if the Tsaritsa deemed it a wonderful idea to have him and the Eleventh spend more time together — or whoever is behind that train of thought.

Childe, on the other hand, excels on the training grounds as a soldier and Harbinger alike. Scaramouche can’t help but notice it every time they find themselves on the snowy field in the cold, barking orders at the new recruits. Well, Scaramouche’s the one to do that — Childe shows a lot more patience, which is surprising, since he’s initially the one who worked his way up, past all these ranks, to get to the seat he was eventually appointed to.

Scaramouche thinks that he should be stricter, more cruel, since the ginger knows exactly what it takes to get that far. He had to fight tooth and nail to make it from the foot-soldier to the Harbinger, meanwhile Scaramouche simply was at the right time at the right place. So to see Childe, out of all people, to have sheer endless patience despite unwavering strictness in his tone and supervision, is… intriguing, to say the least.

He does not allow for laziness or beginner mistakes, that much becomes clear as Scaramouche watches him with barely-contained curiosity. Lord Tartaglia knows exactly what his recruits are capable of, it seems, and he pushes them beyond their limits every time, yet he does it without any trace of Scaramouche’s harshness. Instead, he walks through the rows of recruits on the field, watching their every move up-close, where Scaramouche can’t be bothered to even move one foot from his spot right outside the training ground.

Lord Tartaglia does not allow slacking-off or for corrected mistakes to be made again, as those are the only times his voice grows cold and his words become vitriol on his tongue. Apart from that, his tone is firm as he teaches, but there’s a smile gracing his features, giving the impression that he loves this humble, pathetic task as much as a bigger job somewhere outside of Snezhnaya.

It reminds Scaramouche of that very first time he’s seen him, nothing but another soldier on those training grounds, but his skill unmatched compared to anyone around him. He wore a grin of the same caliber that day, although the ones nowadays are calmer, less feral, less wild — as if he’s not truly alive unless he gets to display his skill and strength together with the rest of them.

Whenever they are out here, he realizes that this is what Childe is doing best, ultimately. He speaks about battle with a wisdom that would give him the impression that he is much older than Scaramouche himself. Makes him wonder, where he picked it up, those tips, that sheer endless knowledge — has him ponder what instilled this insatiable greed in that deep azure.

He supposes it is ultimately the same thing that took away any kind of brightness in them, because Scaramouche has seen a darkness similar to that before and he knows, there is always a price to pay for power, no matter how small or feeble it might be.

They never speak of it, but sometimes, the Eleventh catches his gaze after correcting a recruit’s posture or showing first-hand how to use a sword with such skill, even Scaramouche isn’t sure he could keep up, although he’d never say such things out loud and will continue to deny any kind of inferiority when it comes to that foolish human in front of him.

But when their eyes meet, it seems they understand each other a little better, if only for a few measly seconds. The darkness in Tartaglia’s eyes tries to guess where those golden fingertips left stains and where the same pair of hands crushed his skin beyond repair. And Scaramouche feels as though with only a little bit more time, he can pinpoint once and for all, where the Eleventh acquired those skills together with that void in his eyes.

Still, the way he teaches, strikes Scaramouche as too soft, too patient. There’s an unfamiliarity in it that makes him shiver although Snezhnaya’s cold doesn’t affect him in particular. It reminds him of a wish he had and, ultimately, leads him back to his own harsh ways although he doesn’t admit it.

After all, relentless perfection is the only way to acknowledgement and that he knows better than anyone. And Tartaglia will learn with time.

It takes a few more months and Scaramouche understands why Tartaglia was granted the honor of the eleventh seat.

It’s a mere coincidence that he happens to be present as Tartaglia stands in the corridor, towering over two soldiers. At first, he doesn’t give it much thought, since the last Harbinger is as often on the training ground as possible. He is bound to have a close bond with the lower-ranking soldiers, if not already because he was one as well not too long ago. He’s already about to pass the place and move on towards Pierro who called him for a new task if it weren’t for the gravely voice spitting an insult and sounding way too similar to Tartaglia’s. Who has never insulted someone outside of a joke, that is.

Stopping in his tracks, he casts a glance over to the end of the other corridor and there he stands, ginger hair bright in the lights of the palace, shoulders wide and posture upright.

“How dare you speak of Her Majesty like that,” he spits, “She has shown you nothing but kindness and you dare trample on her benevolence like this?!”

The subordinates stammer something along the lines of an apology but Tartaglia pays it no mind. “Count yourselves lucky I won’t tell her about this, but if I ever hear about something like this again, I’ll make sure you won’t be able to speak ever again.”

And isn’t that a threat. It almost makes Scaramouche smile, the frozen fury audible in the man’s voice, the deep timbre he portrays it with. He means every word of what he says and Scaramouche thinks that maybe, the Eleventh will finally understand his disdain for all these low-ranking idiots, but his anger only lasts until the two soldiers disappear around the corner.

He seems to notice Scaramouche’s staring, just as he always does for some reason, and he turns around to face him. Just like that, the scowl disappears and instead, he flashes him a sunny smile as if nothing happened mere seconds ago.

“Scaramouche,” he greets, “Missed me already?”

And he’s as insufferable as ever, apparently.

“Missed you?” He looks the ginger up and down before he scoffs. “I’m not the one acting like a dog, trailing after my colleague and wagging my tail the second we make eye contact.”

“Yet here you are,” he sighs, his smirk only stretching further when Scaramouche’s eyes narrow in annoyance.

“I was just curious what agitated you out of all people.”

Scaramouche is good at watching people. Centuries of walking amongst them gave him enough time to observe them, read them, down to the tiniest twitch of their brows or the flicker of a gaze as it shifts attention to hide away. It’s what he’s best at; reading people and manipulating them accordingly.

It’s where Tartaglia and him differ the most, their origins set aside for once. He figures, with all that combat skill and his love for training, Tartaglia is the brute force. Whatever doesn’t go his way, he’ll force to bend and surrender for him. He’s young and that makes him impatient, desperate to prove himself. He’s seen it a few times so far, has heard it given the failure in Liyue that he will not let Tartaglia live down.

In all seriousness, who plans to drown an entire city, awakening an ancient beast — and still fails to obtain a chess piece the size of a finger?

When Tartaglia returned to Zapolyarny Palace, Scaramouche definitely wasn’t above telling him he’s a disappointment to the Harbingers to his face. To his surprise, the ginger took it with fire in those stormy blue eyes and had the audacity to deny that accusation, since, ultimately, they got their hands on the Geo Archon’s Gnosis — although it wasn’t thanks to Lord Tartaglia.

He will always look for a fight wherever he can find one, preferably against an opponent that is stronger than himself. Scaramouche sees it as a foolish, suicidal ideation, far from those elegant moves he showcases on the training grounds but befitting the hunger in his eyes that shows itself when he’s allowed to hone his skills past the impressive level they’re already at.

Meanwhile Scaramouche will rather sit tight and observe until he knows enough to pull the strings in the shadows. Planting ideas into people’s heads, working around them, interfering with their own missions and plans in the subtlest of ways — he’s good at talking when he needs to be and even better at execution in silence.

He’s been reading the Eleventh for months now. He’s better at hiding than one would think. Better than most other people, if Scaramouche is very honest. Makes him wonder, once again, just what secret he guards so tediously that not even around someone he seems to have taken a liking to (unfortunately, because Scaramouche refuses to call them anything else but colleagues) he is ready to let his walls down even a tiny bit.

But surprisingly, it’s here, in a nameless corridor of Zapolyarny Palace, in a teasing, mindless conversation, that Scaramouche finally gets to lay a finger upon it, even if it’s just for a second.

Tartaglia’s expression grows dark and his mouth twists into a grimace, similar to what he must’ve worn with those recruits before. There’s something dark and twisted in his eyes that isn’t hunger, but close to it, and all he says is, “They were speaking ill of Her Majesty.”

And well, a lot of people do that. Scaramouche can’t be bothered to care about it, as most of the Harbingers. They are working for her, because they will profit from it, too. That’s why he took up the position as well, back then. Despite the cruel expeditions into the abyss or the taxing experiments conducted on him, the tiring tasks he received to execute with nothing but perfection, he profited in the end. It gave him power, a reputation and more than that, it unsealed the power his mother had kept locked up for so many years.

Power worthy of a god if only he had her Gnosis sitting in his ribcage. But for now, even the fraction of it he possesses will do.

To see Childe so worked up over something so miniscule is puzzling if anything. It takes about another two seconds of looking into those dull, azure eyes until it clicks.

Loyalty.

That’s what it is, that fire in his eyes. Unwavering loyalty. Not exactly surprising, since all the Tsaritsa’s Harbingers need to show her some loyalty to be granted with the trust of such a position after all — but this exceeds the loyalty someone has for their boss.

Scaramouche has long since abandoned the gods and their grace. Although he carries his mother with him with every breath he takes and sees her every time he glances in a mirror, he stopped paying her any attention ever since he realized she’d rather retreat into an idle state of mind, far away from the world, uncaring of what happens to her people and her creation alike.

Still, he remembers what it felt like, believing. And he assumes, this is what it looks like. Loyalty that is nothing short of utmost trust and belief. Tartaglia is skilled in combat, but more than that, he’s a faithful follower. A loyal devotee worshiping at his Archon’s throne, built of ice and that ever-mentioned benevolence.

That’s why he received his seat. His combat skill is what caught Her Majesty’s attention, but it must’ve been the undying love in his eyes that secured him the position of a Harbinger, because with such devotion, what would Tartaglia not do to receive her praise and acclamation?

It’s laughably obvious the second he unravels the mystery of appointing such a young human as the Eleventh, yet it makes a lot of sense. Out of all of them, Tartaglia is the Tsaritsa’s perfect little soldier. Living for the thrill of battle and the urge to make his Archon proud make him an irreplaceable weapon in any war.

Maybe the greed in his eyes when he saw him for the first time was exactly that. A hunger for blood as much as to be seen, to prove himself before the only person that Tartaglia would ever deem important enough.

In silence, he wonders just how far you can push such devotion — what crimes you can ask of it and receive nothing but satisfaction in return for being chosen to commit them.

(Wonders, if only he had been chosen, he would have someone like that, too, kneeling before his own throne. Had it even been built instead of him being cast out for being so similar to the ones that Archons draw their powers from.)

He doesn’t let on about the thoughts running through his head and instead, he scoffs and turns away. “You know this is pointless, right? Why not focus your time and attention on more fruitful matters?”

“Like fixing your reputation?” The question comes without a second of hesitation, a wave of amusement swinging in Tartaglia’s voice as he speaks and when Scaramouche faces him once more, there’s a broad, shit-eating grin sitting on his face.

When he doesn’t react, the Eleventh steps a little closer, smirk growing impossibly wider. He looks as if he’s soon gonna reach out and place one arm around Scaramouche’s shoulders — or worse, place it onto one of them as support. Scaramouche wouldn’t advise him to do that, but he believes that man is capable of anything.

“You know, the people talk far worse about you than Her Majesty,” Tartaglia continues, a soft chuckle following right afterwards. It’s deep, warm and yet it aggravates Scaramouche even more.

“Not worse enough, given that you’re still bothering me,” he huffs and starts walking away, deeming the conversation over with that. But Childe is anything but done.

With ease he catches up to Scaramouche with a few big strides (his long legs be damned) before he falls into step with him. “And here I thought we’re finally getting along,” he chirps, too cheerful for Scaramouche’s liking. But alas, he never seems to dull in his presence, no matter what insults he spats.

“I tolerate you at best,” Scaramouche drawls, fighting to keep the twitch of the corner of his mouth at bay and not show any kind of hint that this particular interaction isn’t exactly tearing at his small amount of patience or is ruining his mood. Childe takes over for him, giving him another, amused laugh and something about his presence seems so easy. So unlike what he’s just encountered with the two soldiers, far more laid-back and good-willed.

Like this, he looks every part the young man he is and nothing like the Tsaritsa’s Eleventh. “You like me,” the ginger taunts, clearly moving onto thin ice and definitely stretching Scaramouche’s tolerance by a few, big inches. He gives Tartaglia a disbelieving side-eye.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Tartaglia,” he warns, but Childe has never really cared about any kind of threats coming from Scaramouche.

Instead of taking him seriously, he merely eyes him with boyish glee, ready to be a nuisance once more. “I’m not,” he grins without falling back when Scaramouche abruptly rounds the next corner, “Why else would you tolerate me more than anyone else?”

They reach Pierro’s office door and come to a stop. Scaramouche cranes his neck to look up at Tartaglia since the other man is so close to him and, with his ridiculous height, easily towers over him. Another point on the list of things he hates about the Eleventh.

“Because you’re the one trailing after me like some stray puppy and not even my wits and charm could soothe the Tsaritsa’s wrath if I were to eliminate her precious little war toy.” He delivers that with a sweet smile, not giving Tartaglia time to answer as he turns around and pushes the door open, leaving the Eleventh behind on the doorstep. Despite that, Scaramouche still hears his chuckle slipping through the narrow gap as he is about to close the door in his face.

Funnily enough, their encounters suddenly stop after that. Scaramouche notices it immediately.

As soon as it becomes obvious, at least. Which is when he’s got two full days of peace and quiet, no messy mop of warm auburn hair and dark, shadowy azure eyes to be found anywhere. Now, Zapolyarny Palace is huge. It is a palace after all, a home befitting for an Archon. Scaramouche has spent little time in Tenshukaku, but he knows Teyvat’s deities love impressionable homes with more chambers than they could ever fill with people — If you’re not the Anemo Archon who’d rather stray around wherever he damn pleases. — so not to see each other for a day or two isn’t that unsettling. Sometimes weeks pass until he spots one of the other Harbingers again.

However, they’re talking about Tartaglia here. That insufferable lost duckling that has started to see Scaramouche as his mother or something. Childe, who had an absolute streak going on with bothering Scaramouche on a daily basis, even if it was just during tasks they were paired to do together. He would always find a time throughout the day to annoy the everloving shit out of him.

Scaramouche doesn’t want to say it’s unsettling that he hasn’t heard or seen of him yet, nor does he want to say it’s unwelcome. But it’s weird. The thought doesn’t leave him for the next few hours, but he stays put. He wasn’t lying when he said he’s tolerating the other Harbinger at best, although maybe a little more than the rest of them, so he’s going to enjoy that new-found solitude. Maybe Tartaglia has found a new victim to bother.

He gives it another day. By the evening of the third one, he decides that he can’t ignore it any longer, so he sets aside his paperwork and starts looking for Tartaglia. Tries to spot his screaming hair color or hear the soft timbre of his voice in one of the many corridors. If he takes a detour to get to certain places with more corridors than necessary simply to see if he’ll find the annoying ginger on his way, then that’s for no one to ever find out.

And surprisingly, he still can’t find him anywhere.

Weird.

Usually he doesn’t have to do this. Usually, he doesn’t even have to look out for Tartaglia, because Tartaglia is the one coming up to him. So where has he been for the past three days? Most days, Scaramouche can’t be silent enough trying to get to his destinations, because Childe is like a bloodhound, smelling him the second he opens his fucking door.

Now he doesn’t even show up at the broad window next to Scaramouche’s chambers, gazing outside into the distance, looking at Archons know what.

It’s not unsettling. But it is very out of character and that is always something that Scaramouche has to investigate. Reading people, getting to know them, that’s his forte after all. He has to know what is going on with them, especially feeble human minds. He’s not missing Childe’s annoying presence and his endless chattering that makes his ears bleed the longer it goes on. He just has to find out what is going on with him.

He trails down the empty corridors of Zapolyarny Palace, the place comfortably warm despite the icy winds howling outside, but to no avail. The paperwork on his desk slips further and further away as the urge to find that mess of a man becomes stronger and stronger, because how come he can’t find that menace once when he’s usually never able to leave him alone?

Scouring his mind, he tries to remember if the Eleventh mentioned a mission he’d have to attend soon, causing him to be out of the Palace for the time being, but Scaramouche can’t remember any mention like that for the life of him, and he’s a puppet. His mind works perfectly fine. He doesn’t forget.

He could ask someone, of course. The servants or guards surely have seen Lord Tartaglia around, but Scaramouche is not that desperate to find him after all. He’s ready to give up, already on his way back to his quarters, when his gaze wanders outside of the big, spotless windows. Unlike the ones on the west wing, these show the training grounds outside.

Through the blizzard, Scaramouche can barely see anything as he looks outside, but then he spots the flash of something dark down there, in the midst of the big snowflakes whirling through the air. Stopping in his tracks, he focuses all of his attention on it. Orders were to move all training indoors for the time being due to the heavy blizzards the weather brought today. Zapolyarny Palace’s training is harsh, but keeping fresh recruits outside at times like these would be straight up abuse, so the outdoor training grounds should be deserted. No sane person would find themselves training there.

They should be deserted, but then he sees that same dark flash again through the chaos of the falling snow and he realizes that the man he’s currently searching for is anything but sane.

With a curse he starts making his way out there. It’s a matter of mere minutes and when he pushes the heavy doors open, he’s greeted with a harsh gust of wind, snowflakes hitting his face. Lamenting that he left his hat back in his chambers, he curses again. The gale tears at his clothes, which are entirely unfitting for Snezhnaya’s weather altogether, but it’s not like he really feels the cold anyways. It’s more the sensation of wet ice crystals hitting his skin, melting and leaving wet droplets, that is uncomfortable, but even now, standing there in his deep red and black attire, Tartaglia doesn’t take notice of him.

He’s still out there on the field, doing Archons know what as training and it seems he has the entire world drowned out. Through the blizzard it’s a little harder to see, but it still is that unmistakable bright hair color, signature for the Eleventh as no one else has ginger hair in such a shade. With the clouds obscuring the sky, the light is dim and weak and it gives it the same soft auburn color as the day Scaramouche has seen him for the very first time.

Another thing, that is just the same, is his movement on the training ground. Once again, Scaramouche is witness to the skill Tartaglia possesses. He steps closer, silently feeding into his curiosity, just in order to watch the other man a little better through the snowstorm and Tartaglia does not disappoint with the show he puts on.

His strikes are harsh, executed with two bright blue swords; it looks a lot like Hydro blades, a technique Scaramouche has only ever seen with Abyss Heralds. Briefly, he wonders who could've taught the Eleventh such a trick — probably the same person to shape him into such a warrior. Tartaglia is wreaking havoc over the poor training dummies, that much is visible even through the snow. He moves fast and despite the force of his slashes he keeps that same grace that Scaramouche has seen ever so often. There is ease in his movements, as he darts to the side to deliver the next devastating blow.

His face is concentrated, a mask of indifference, like all this exercise barely even gets to him. He doesn’t seem to be out of breath or even sweating. Instead he keeps cutting the dummies up into pieces it seems, unaware of the audience Scaramouche poses.

Scaramouche hates to admit it, but he has never seen someone move so swiftly and yet with such elegance in the middle of a battle. Although this isn’t one but merely training, Childe makes it look like some sort of twisted choreography, a dance of violence. Something beautiful in the deadliness of his actions. He moves with an experience he shouldn’t have given his age, with a skill he shouldn’t possess, young as he is.

And he shouldn’t hold back.

He can’t help but notice it. Scaramouche isn’t sure what exactly gives it away, if there is a twitch in his tense muscles he refuses to relax, or if he hears some strained yell through the snow, but he sees it. Well… senses it, more likely. Tartaglia isn’t giving it his all, which is impressive given the way he moves already, but it’s just as puzzling.

There is no opponent in front of him right now, no one that would reason for him to hold back and not use all of his strength. Yet he treats those dummies like some low-recruits he easily overpowers when he’s displaying a strategic move with the sword for them to learn.

Why would he not go all out and push himself past the limit he has now?

Scoffing, he decides to finally put an end to this. The feeling of wet droplets on his naked skin is becoming more unpleasant by the second and there is nothing intriguing or impressive about watching a skilled fighter half-assing his performance.

It’s easy, because Tartaglia doesn’t expect it. Scaramouche would call it a lousy beginner’s mistake, but the Eleventh is training all by himself, and you don’t expect dummies to strike back.

With a quick, calculated flash of Electro, he forces Tartaglia down onto his knees before he moves towards him with quick strides. It’s a satisfying sight, seeing his legs give out just like that, watching as he crumbles down onto the soft snow, disrupted by his own traces. It takes the Eleventh completely by surprise, the swords in his hands dissolving into fluid water and disappearing, and then he’s looking up, meeting Scaramouche’s gaze head-on.

It’s the same expression he wore back then. That dark, almost ugly hunger feasting in his blue eyes, screaming for more, though he can’t tell what it’s asking for exactly. Tartaglia looks almost feral staring up at him and up close, Scaramouche can see that even as one of the most skilled fighters of the Fatui, he’s out of breath from endless exercise. His chest rises and sinks in short, ragged intervals and his hair is a mess of dark, wet curls, new snowflakes coming to rest on top of it.

Bared teeth and muscles still taut to the maximum, he regards him and for a second Scaramouche almost expects him to attack, because that darkness in his dull eyes appears overwhelming, but Tartaglia is still holding back. Just like back then and just like before, he doesn’t act upon it — whatever it is that goads him into more.

“Lord Balladeer,” he says eventually, still short of breath, but his face morphing into something kinder, his lips forming a gentle, polite smile. Unlike the grins Scaramouche has gotten used to. He narrows his eyes at him.

“Isn’t it a bit unfair to ambush an unsuspecting soldier like this?”

“You’re not a soldier,” he replies immediately, uncaring of the snide in his voice. Something is off and it’s become all the more clear with the choice to address Scaramouche by his official title. “You’re a Harbinger. You should’ve noticed me.”

He receives a chuckle for that, because they both know with the blizzard, it’s easy to sneak up to just about anyone. However, that’s all there is to Childe’s reply. No witty remark or teasing comment. No joke, no nothing. He even keeps that small, polite smile, so similar to the one Scaramouche witnessed when the ginger was merely a foot-soldier.

“What are you doing out here?” he asks, trying to ignore the weird atmosphere building up between them. He makes a vast movement with his hand, residue electricity still crackling between his fingertips. Childe follows the movement with his eyes the second he raises his head.

Childe merely shrugs, pissing him off further. “Training?”

Before he can think better of it, Scaramouche zaps him again, harsher this time, although Tartaglia has yet to get up. To his surprise, he doesn’t make a sound, but he sure flinches at the short, stinging pain, distracted long enough so Scaramouche can surge forward and grasp Tartaglia’s chin harshly.

Usually he doesn’t let his emotions get the better of him like this, but Tartaglia has managed to agitate him without even being present and right now, he’s pushing it even further. Scaramouche is tired of his stupid little games.

The man lets out a surprised huff, eyes widening for the moment as Scaramouche forces his head up to meet his gaze directly. He’s sure Tartaglia can see the anger brimming just beneath the surface at his antics, can smell the ozone despite the raging wind all around them and he surely can read in his face that the next shock will hurt.

“Easy now–”

“Shut up.”

Just like that, Tartaglia closes his mouth again. If Scaramouche had known it only takes two electroshocks and one command to keep him quiet, he would’ve done this earlier. Right now, though, he can’t revel in the silence from his colleague and instead, he grips his jaw harder, fingers digging into damp, cold skin.

“What is this supposed to be?! Some stupid act to prove your resilience against the cold?! Believe it or not, even your honorable combat skills will not make you anything but a stupid human. If you were that desperate to die, you didn’t have to catch hypothermia first, you could’ve just asked me to kill you.”

“It’s fine, I just wanted to train–”

“It’s not fine, you brainless imbecile! Nothing about this was a smart idea. Now I know you’re not the strongest thinker out of all of us, but I believed that even you have just an ounce of awareness that a cold like this–” he makes another sweeping gesture, “–will kill you dressed like that.” Spitting the last part, he pokes his finger against Childe’s sturdy chest, silently mocking the light training attire he’s currently wearing.

Tartaglia doesn’t look away once during his outburst. He doesn’t even try to get out of Scaramouche’s hold which must be painful considering the force he’s using. Serves him right, is all Scaramouche thinks about that, spitefully tightening his hold a little more with a sneer.

“Lord Balladeer–” he starts, voice low, yet clearly audible with how close Scaramouche is. He seems to be completely sincere as he says the title, which only sets him off more. Tartaglia never uses his title, and if it’s just because he knows it annoys the shit out of him.

“Don’t fucking call me that!” he yells before he can think better of it. Glaring down at the Eleventh, it’s silent for a few seconds and he gets to watch as more ice crystals come to lie on top of Tartaglia’s ginger hair.

“Isn’t that the title your colleagues are to address you with?”

Scaramouche realizes his mistake too late. Clenching his teeth he stares him down, but Childe no longer shows any traces of sincerity or humility. He begins to grin, broad and cheeky, just like what Scaramouche is used to, like he didn’t do anything else minutes ago.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, of course, but I thought, since you only tolerate me as a work colleague, that I wouldn’t be allowed to call you any other name.”

This little bitch.

Huffing out a humorless laugh, Scaramouche finally lets go of the ginger. Straightening up, he keeps watching him, though he doesn’t say a word. Tartaglia gets up after that. His expression is all smug, fitting for someone who just won a game by outsmarting their opponent in the easiest of ways. Wearing them down until they snap and then defeating them using their own weapons against them. Briefly, Scaramouche considers shocking him again, simply to be petty.

He’s still grinning so wide it hurts Scaramouche’s cheeks by only looking at it. “Unless you see me as more than just another fellow Harbinger.”

“Is that what this was about?” he hisses without answering the question, grinding his teeth at the chuckle Tartaglia lets out. “Were your pathetic feelings hurt when I said I wouldn’t hold hands with you and braid friendship bracelets?”

Now that he’s back to his full height, Tartaglia towers over him with ease. It’s a damn shame that his mother designed him to be so small, because now it’s Childe leaning down until they’re only a hand’s breadth away from each other. Up close, the deep, dark azure of his eyes seems even duller, more haunting. Ready to pull Scaramouche in and devour him in the most cruel way possible. Something about it almost makes him shiver.

“Are you saying you’re considering me a friend, Scaramouche?”

Scaramouche still doesn’t answer. Instead, he gives the Eleventh a harsh shove, watching rooted in the same spot as he slips on the snow beneath his shoes and therefore almost careneers into the next training dummy.

“You’re insufferable and I don’t want to see your fucking face for the next five weeks. Now get inside or I’ll change my mind and kill you before hypothermia can do it for me.”

With that and one last, devastating glare sent Childe’s way he turns on his heels and marches back inside, ignoring the humiliation of being exposed so clearly burning up inside of him.

He also pretends not to hear Tartaglia’s malicious cackle, nor does he react when the man catches up with him (Those fucking long legs of his).

“I can’t believe you’re actually concerned for me, Scara,” he coos, clearly mocking him further. In his head, Scaramouche counts to five, reminding himself that the short-lived satisfaction of standing over Tartaglia's lifeless body isn’t worth the Tsaritsa’s wrath .

Unfortunately, to Scaramouche’s absolute chagrin, Tartaglia doesn’t get hypothermia. It's lucky for the Eleventh, given that there is a big banquet coming up only days later and Her Majesty wishes for all her Harbingers to be present. Scaramouche dreads it, spending an entire evening surrounded by his annoying coworkers and politicians and diplomats from all across Teyvat. There's definitely better ways to make use of his time.

Still, he is present, clad in the same white coat as the rest of them. It's thick and heavy, weighing down his steps, which is already irritating enough, but then there's also the fluffy collar wrapping around his neck and Scaramouche loathes it. The way it itches against his skin, hot and stuffy, making it feel like he's suffocating in it.

Dottore notices it, grinning down at him when their eyes meet. He toasts in his direction. "Something the matter, Balladeer?"

Scaramouche grips his own champagne glass a little tighter, ignoring the noise of voices and music being played as entertainment. "Not at all," he replies through grit teeth.

Dottore’s smile becomes almost blood-curling. "I must say, Snezhnayan wardrobe looks quite… unusual on you. You have no need for such thick garments anyway." He's trying to push his buttons on purpose and Scaramouche knows this. He's very much aware of the fact that he never wears anything like coats or suits, nothing to shield him from the death-bringing ice outside. Why would he wear it, if he doesn’t need it? His mother did not mean for a vessel holding a Gnosis to be affected by such feeble things as the weather. And more than that, he always liked the lighter, Inazuman attire better than the heavy fabrics that Snezhnayans use to fight the freezing temperatures.

“Likewise,” Scaramouche replies, although the jab is less effective directed against the Doctor. After all, he doesn’t look nearly as ridiculous as Scaramouche feels in his own coat — and Dottore knows that.

“Lord Balladeer, Doctor.” Scaramouche looks up at the sound of the familiar voice. Turning around, he finds Childe immediately, walking up to them with big strides and a charming smile displayed on his lips. For once, Scaramouche is glad to see the obnoxious ginger hair, if only to help him get away from Dottore’s presence.

Not that he’d let Tartaglia know, though.

Neither does he let him know that, unlike Scaramouche, Tartaglia definitely pulls off the coat. He does so even better than Dottore, he notes with a clenched jaw and swallowing hard. Tartaglia, with his auburn, unruly hair, has the height and the figure for the heavy garment. He wears it like a cloak and it makes him seem like some sort of royalty. More than just a mere soldier, a warrior, a weapon in her Majesty’s hand, but a Majesty himself. A king.

A god.

The realization feels like whiplash, but Scaramouche can’t help but keep looking, giving him a slow once-over. Where his own coat feels suffocating with the fluffy collar, Childe wears it wide over the broad expanse of his shoulders. He’s not choking on the fur, as it smoothly hugs his neck and ends short over his collarbones. There’s a red scarf loosely wrapped around his neck, despite the banquet hall being comfortably warm and even the ridiculously short, weird gloves look more expensive with the unblemished white of the coat falling over his body.

He looks good. He looks attractive.

The moment that thought manifests in his mind, Scaramouche almost physically flinches and shrieks. That is a human right in front of him, an immature manchild that ruins every mission by running headfirst into the center of every battle, completely disregarding schemes and carefully constructed lies to get to the goal. Tartaglia’s ginger hair is a lasting reminder that this boy functions on the smell of blood in his nose, its taste in his mouth

To think such a thing of any of the Harbingers, his coworkers, all maniacs, every last one of them, is appalling. To think it of Tartaglia, the last, the weakest, feels like Scaramouche threw every single one of his standards out of the window with no hesitation.

But once he’s thought about it, he can’t shake it off anymore. It’s like a pest, a bug nestling itself into the deepest crevices of his mind, clutching tightly, not letting it go. So Scaramouche can’t do anything but try to pry his eyes away from the young man, no matter how much he wants to keep looking. He shouldn’t. If Tartaglia notices him staring, he’s never going to let that go and Scaramouche might even act upon his murderous intentions if he starts teasing him about it, which he will.

Yet, his eyes wander back to his form, as Dottore greets the Eleventh too. He gives him only a curt nod, trying to squash his awe, his fascination and the question how such a lanky-seeming young man is able to elude such royalty all of a sudden. How he suddenly appears to have broader shoulders and more muscles, high cheekbones and captivating, azure eyes, although they always seemed like bottomless pits of despair to Scaramouche before.

He can’t fight it. Finds himself stuck on Childe as an old, oh-so-familiar tingle of curiosity and child-like wonder bubbles up in his chest. Something that he thought to be dead for centuries, falling victim to pitchblack venom and a rotten, foul heart.

He hates how the Eleventh keeps reminding him of lives long lived, of memories dead and buried between dirty, mortal flesh and ashes.

“Are you enjoying the evening so far, Tartaglia?” Dottore wants to know, feigning interest. Scaramouche follows the interaction and he’s not sure if Childe picked up on the false pretense or if he believes it to be genuine, because he starts chattering away like he always does the second he is prompted (or not, in Scaramouche’s case).

“Oh yes, it’s always such a good opportunity to catch up with everybody on evenings like these.” Scaramouche withholds a scoff and an eyeroll. Instead, he takes a sip from his champagne, brushing the other man fleetingly with his eyes before he inspects the bubbly liquid in his glass like it’s the strangest thing he’s seen so far. Only Childe would be excited to catch up with everybody, fucking extrovert that he is.

He decides to tune out his happy rambling about how it reminds him of family gatherings — in what world is a political banquet reminiscent of family? — but that is until a few minutes later Tartaglia suddenly calls out his name.

“Scaramouche?”

He looks up, following the white coat, until he locks eyes with the ginger and blinks, confused. “What?”

“I asked if you like the evening so far.” He chuckles lightly, blue eyes growing a bit smaller as his smile stretches wider.

Scaramouche scowls. “It’s a hassle.” He takes another sip from his champagne, though he doesn’t leave Tartaglia out of his eyes. The other man raises his brows, clearly intrigued by that answer.

“Aren’t such expensive, chic things right to your tastes?”

“They’re a bore,” he hisses, almost interrupting Tartaglia in his last word, “Pretentious and following but one goal as everyone tries to appease the other. Every last one of the attendees has their own agenda. While that might be entertaining to observe the first few times, it grows old, too.” Dottore barks out a hearty laugh at that, earning a poisonous glare from Scaramouche. Childe merely chuckles. “I see.”

“Do you, now, Tartaglia.”

Just like that, he has his full attention again. His eyes pierce Scaramouche and one corner of his mouth tugs up a little higher than the other, indicating the ghost of a smirk. He leans down. “What are you implying, Lord Balladeer?”

“That you’re having an agenda, too.”

“It is interesting how you speak as if you wouldn’t have one of your own.”

“I’m here for the food. The Tsaritsa knows how to plan a feast.” No wonder, after centuries of doing so. Still, every time the food is different, a new variation, another combination, the latest delicacy from another nation — Her Majesty knows how to lure the people in she wants to keep close.

“What’s your excuse?” he asks Childe, curiosity getting the best of him. He gives him another once-over, this time rather feisty than fascinated, despite the sight of him feeling like a gulp of fresh water in an empty desert.

Childe shrugs. “The alcohol,” he replies innocently, taking a look around. The banquet is still in full swing, though by now some people have abandoned the dinner tables and are dancing in the vast, wide space in the middle of the hall. “Maybe I’m trying to gain a few new friends.”

“Friends,” Scaramouche echoes, his tone incredulous. He must wear the same expression, because Childe shrugs again when their eyes meet. He scoffs, albeit amused. “That’s a funny title for people you wish to gain a favor from.”

“You’d be surprised,” Dottore suddenly chimes in, amusement swinging in his voice. When Scaramouche faces him, he shrugs lazily, knocking back the rest of his champagne like it’s a shot of firewater. “Most people are enamored by our sweet Eleventh.”

Childe chuckles. “I wouldn’t say that—”

“Oh, but surely that’s what it is! A charming young man who has his way with words if he isn’t plunging into battle before he can make use of them. Especially the female guests find his company particularly honoring.”

Tartaglia has the audacity to look bashful. What’s even worse is the faint pink shimmer, high on his cheeks, as he rubs his neck with another, almost embarrassed-sounding chuckle.

And Scaramouche can’t understand it. He was never good with people. Either they took him in or he didn’t speak to them at all. Either they cower in fear and do not dare meet his gaze, or Scaramouche has nothing to do with them at all. He is not good with them and he was never ashamed of it. They’re all just stupid humans anyways — why would he ever bother with such pests?

But Childe makes it seem like it is some great feat. Dottore praises it like it is more valuable than retrieving a Gnosis from an Archon and Scaramouche doesn’t get it.

“What a waste of time,” he mumbles, “Like some small-minded politicians in weak power positions will ever be able to help you out.”

He drinks the last bit of his champagne and then lowers his gaze to the empty glass in his hand. Childe interjects.

“You’re grateful for some small-minded politicians in weak power positions the second they can arrange something in your favor.”

Scaramouche merely offers the boy a tired smile. “Why ask them when you can also guide them to do so on their own accord, without having to pay them back eventually?”

“Of course you would say that.”

He shrugs, then lazily waves the glass around. “If this conversation is over, I’ll be off following my own agenda again.” Not waiting for neither Dottore’s nor Childe’s answer, he turns on his heel and then he’s off. Unfortunately, the coat around his own shoulders still weighs him down, slowing down his steps as he hurries to get away from them and into the next silent, empty corner.

He can’t wait until the first few people are drunk enough. Then, no one will care any longer if all the Harbingers are present and Scaramouche doesn’t need to stick around anymore.

He doesn’t get far on his way to one of the servants carrying trays full with alcoholic beverages and appetizers though.

“Wait!” Scaramouche suppresses a groan at the shout, tipping his head back with a deep sigh. Annoyance bubbles in his stomach, but he tries to keep it down for the sake of not making a scene tonight. Her Majesty wouldn’t appreciate it. When Childe’s hand lands on his shoulder, he’s quick to shake it off again. “What do you want, Tartaglia?”

The ginger doesn’t make the mistake of touching him twice. When Scaramouche glares at him, he gives him the same charming grin from before in return. “I thought we could spend the evening together.”

He raises his brows. “Are you not trying to make friends?”

“Maybe I’m already done with that,” he says, clearly challenging. Scaramouche watches as he cocks his head to the side, eyeing him for a moment, “Maybe I want to spend time with you now.”

“Maybe I don’t want to entertain you, Childe.”

“Maybe.” To his surprise, Tartaglia shrugs. As one of the servants passes them, he’s quick to grab two glasses of firewater. Less a drink and more the size of a big shot, he hands one of them Scaramouche. He makes no effort to grab the glass, demonstratively crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Childe is undeterred by that. He leans in, still holding one of the drinks out for him. “But neither do you want to entertain some small-minded politician that is of no use to you and your schemes.”

His words are a whisper, almost drowned out by music — and they’re true. Scaramouche grits his teeth, his eyes a storm of electricity as he stares Childe down. Tartaglia smirks satisfied and nudges the glass into his direction. This time, he takes it, albeit out of pure spite.

He’s right, he supposes; together, two Harbingers will seem like they’re discussing some business or plans and not a lot of people will try to get themselves into a conversation like this, between such high-ranking people of the Tsaritsa’s rule.

As obnoxious as Tartaglia is, he holds out his own drink, clearly waiting for a stupid toast. Scaramouche simply keeps glaring at him as he brings his own glass to his lips and then knocks the firewater back in one, swift move.

“Killjoy.”

He watches as Childe downs the shot in one go as well, his head tipped back and he finds himself looking again, without even wanting to. His eyes follow the intricate pattern of accessories at the front of the coat, the small, blood red crystal dangling from a chain, just like the purple one Scaramouche wears on his own coat.

As soon as he’s done, Childe waves another servant over, handing her his glass. Scaramouche does the same, and he’s not sure what he expected from a company such as the Eleventh, but somehow he’s hardly surprised, when the next thing out of his mouth is, “Would you like to dance?”

Of course he would ask something like that. It’s Tartaglia after all.

“Does it look like I’d like to dance?” He gives him an incredulous stare. Childe merely shrugs. “Do you have something to kill the time with apart from dancing? What would you like to talk about for the last few hours? How your strategies are so much better than mine?”

Scaramouche starts to smile at that. In an automatic reflex, he lowers his head, usually to use his hat to shield his face from curious eyes. It doesn’t work as he’s not wearing it right now, though. “I’m sure I’d fill the time thoroughly,” he replies, barely holding back a chuckle.

Childe scoffs and nods along. “Oh, I’m sure. Your creativity regarding insults knows no bounds.”

“So why won’t you let me entertain you?” he muses. Despite that, Childe holds out his hand, palm up, clearly expecting Scaramouche to take it. He even bows down, just the slightest bit but still visible. He looks… beautiful, for a lack of a better word. Scaramouche hates to admit it, but the amused smile dancing around his red lips, combined with the dangerous, dark azure eyes is something to behold. His ginger hair falls into his face, as unruly and wild as Scaramouche knows it and if he wouldn’t know it any better, he’d say this is what it must feel like being worshiped. Treated like something precious, looking up at him, admiring him.

He thinks he could get drunk on the illusion of it.

Maybe that’s why he takes it in the end. Maybe he’s already feeling the effects of such an intoxicating feeling, his vision blurry around the edges, a little tipsy on his feet.

Childe chuckles and pulls him closer the second he holds his hand in a steady, but still soft grip. Like this, he’s almost flush to the other man’s body and he has to crane his neck to be able to look him in he eyes. Childe doesn’t lean down anymore, standing tall, head barely lowered as he looks down on him. This time, his smile looks almost arrogant. “I thought you said you wouldn’t wanna do that, Lord Balladeer, so please — let me do it for you.”

Despite all his fascination, Scaramouche manages a condescending scoff. “Amuse me, then.”

Childe's smile is blinding. He doesn't respond as he pulls Scaramouche along onto the free space used for dancing. There's countless pairs already around them, women twirling in pretty, elegant dresses and men guiding their steps with expertise.

There's a new song played, soft chimes as a beginning as they position themselves. It must be several lifetimes ago since he last danced — with a partner no less. Despite that, Scaramouche isn't scared of what's to come; he still remembers every step like it has been mere hours since he was taught. So when Childe gently, but determined, starts guiding him to the rhythm of the music, he falls into his own steps easily. The ginger’s hand sneaks beneath his coat and settles at his back. Not exactly the correct placement, but Scaramouche decides not to say anything as he puts his own free hand on his shoulder.

The music picks up in intensity, but Childe is a surprisingly good dancer. He keeps the pace steady and his steps are secure and confident. Scaramouche feels his coat brush against his skin with every step as it sways with every movement of his body. As their dance prolongs and Childe clearly only grows more confident, his steps becoming bigger, his movements more freely, some of the pairs make more space for them, as if they’re the show of the evening. Scaramouche hears some whispers, feels burning stares on them, as the audience follows their dance.

Sure, that was to be expected; the two Harbingers together make an unexpected pair after all. He meets the Third’s gaze for a short second, following Childe’s guidance as he turns on his heels. There’s a sly little smile gracing her lips, as usual, and her head’s cocked to the side as if she’s inquiring what she’s seeing currently. Beside her, there’s Pierro, looking at them too, although his expression is far more bored. He doesn’t care about such things.

“You’re quite skilled,” Childe comments then, causing Scaramouche to look back up at his face. He finds his azure eyes already on him, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. Scaramouche frowns. “You expect me to agree to something I’d be bad at?”

To that, he gives him a bright laugh. Childe’s hand leaves his back in favor of lifting the one he holds Scaramouche’s in and then, to Scaramouche’s utter surprise, he guides him into an elegant, short spin. The coat follows his every move, fluid around his body, similar to the way a dress would, if the fabric wasn’t so heavy. When he comes to face the ginger again, he tries his best to keep his face as unimpressed as always, glancing up at him.

“Fair,” the boy says, still grinning as his hand finds its place again like it’s second nature. Scaramouche hates how he doesn’t even mind it, the warmth of his touch, for a second time. Hates how nice it feels, if he’s being honest, his big palm pressed against his back as they keep dancing to the rhythm of the song. Currently, it builds up into a crescendo and just like all the other couples on the dance floor, Childe also amps the dance up another notch.

His steps become faster now, though still to the beat of the music and probably in an unconscious act, he pulls Scaramouche even closer to himself than before. Probably for more control, but Scaramouche can feel the warmth of his body more than ever know, see the freckles on his face so clearly and once more, with the coat around Childe’s shoulders, he feels like he’s in the presence of royalty rather than a coworker ranked lower than himself.

A human no less.

For the time being, he keeps his eyes trained on the taller man, and to his astonishment, Childe does the same. He can’t exactly say what is on his mind, but once more he sees that same look on his face, one that almost makes him believe Childe has sworn him loyalty instead of the Tsaritsa.

It almost makes him want to ask, see what Childe replies. He settles for an insult instead, “Do you always look this stupid, Tartaglia?”

That seems to shake him out of a stupor. He blinks, once, twice, the forlorn look in his dark, blue eyes gone in a second. Scaramouche almost regrets it, especially because Childe doesn’t exactly reply. He makes him do another spin as the music reaches its climax. From then on, his steps are slowing down as the music does. He moves elegant and graceful and when the last sounds echo through the hall, over the noise of people talking, he finally lets go of him.

Scaramouche lingers in place for a moment longer, looking up at him, before he finally takes a small step back.

“Don’t ask me for another one,” he tells him. Although it wasn’t even that bad, he’d rather die than admit that or give the people more to stare at. Childe chuckles and cards one gloved hand through his unruly locks.

He doesn’t ask for another dance, but he does stay practically glued to Scaramouche’s side. As already predicted by Childe, it keeps any other people successfully off his back, so he doesn’t exactly complain about it. However, as the hours drag on and they drink more alcohol, he delivers some jabs to his ego just for the sake of it.

It takes until late at night, when Scaramouche decides it’s finally appropriate to leave the banquet. Half of the guests are drunk and by now, he can’t see the Tsaritsa anymore. If she already left, she won’t be mad, if he leaves too.

The second he tells Childe he’s off to his quarters, the other man perks up. “Already?”

“Wha— already?! We’ve been here for hours!” Scaramouche snaps back, rolling his eyes. “If you wanna stay and catch up with everyone until the early hours of morning, fine. Not me, though.”

He hears him sputter as he turns on his heels and starts making his way to the big entrance doors of the hall, not bothering to turn back around and face Childe again.

Cursed be Tartaglia’s long legs, because he catches up with Scaramouche in no time again, though he doesn’t stop him as they both pass through the huge mahogany doors marking Zapolyarny Palace’s ballroom.

“You’re always in such a hurry, Balladeer,” he hears the boy huff. He’s pretty sure if he were to turn around, he’d even see him roll his eyes in exasperation. But there isn't a real bite traveling in his voice, so Scaramouche merely scoffs back, when he adds, “Were you not enjoying yourself just now?”

“In your dreams only am I enjoying myself in your presence.”

“Sure, that’s why you were so willing to dance with me and spend the entirety of the evening—”

Scaramouche whirls around and Childe falls quiet immediately when their eyes meet. He takes a step closer, whereas the other man comes to a stop, watching his every move. “You think I didn’t just endure these hours? You think I enjoy any minute spent in the midst of filthy humans? The only time I’m enjoying myself is in a dark and quiet place, so don’t go guessing when I would have so much as fun in your presence!”

Childe stays quiet for a long moment. Several beats of silence pass between them as Scaramouche keeps his eyes trained on him, unblinking. He’s almost sure the Eleventh isn’t going to talk back for once, when he eventually still does, “Okay, let’s go, then.”

Startled, Scaramouche blinks up at him with a frown forming on his face. “What?”

“Let’s go enjoy ourselves the way you would, I mean.” Tartaglia shrugs, carding a hand through his hair. Then, he shoots Scaramouche a boyish grin. It makes him look too young for his position.

“I meant alone,” he tries, but Childe only shakes his head. Without wasting any more time, he steps closer and encircles Scaramouche’s wrist beneath his coat. “Come on,” he says, completely ignoring his previous words.

Usually, he wouldn’t give in like this. He’d get out the Eleventh’s grip by zapping him so hard, he’d sport the marks on his skin for hours after that. He’d probably spit one insult after the other at him.

Tonight, though, he blames his leniency on the alcohol cursing through his system. He blames it on the intoxication making him just the slightest bit light-headed. He blames it on anything that comes to his mind as he allows Childe to take the lead and show the way instead of keeping his distance. It has to be something he cannot control — he refuses to believe he has grown soft around the Eleventh. He forbids himself such a thing.

Softness has done nothing but turn into cruelty and Scaramouche knows better than this.

At first, as they trail through the endless corridors of Zapolyarny Palace, he doesn’t know where Tartaglia is taking him. Every space is brightly lit in the main building, as it should be for the banquet. However, Childe leads them out of the main building and into the east wing.

Here, the corridors are only dimly lit, a few soft flickering candles and the temperature lower, but neither he nor Childe are fazed by it. He drags him along, though he trails close to the windows, curiously gazing outside as they pass each one. It makes Scaramouche chuckle. “Just what are you trying to find out there?” he asks, a mocking undertone swinging in his voice. Childe’s laugh is bright and unfazed in return. “Nothing,” he replies, so easy and carefree Scaramouche almost believes him if he didn’t know any better. If he hadn’t seen him staring out into the distance countless times before — like he keeps looking for something that he hasn’t found so far.

It’s when Childe descends down a set of stairs, hand still wrapped around his wrist, that Scaramouche realizes where they’re going.

There’s a set of big doors to their left, leading into one of the only vast halls that aren’t located in the main building. Childe lets go of his wrist solely to place both of his hands flatly against the surface of the doors and push them open slowly. When they give way, creaking and groaning, he turns around and faces him, displaying a wide, smug grin. “Come on in,” he says, like he owns the place.

In truth, the library is a communal area and both he and Childe know as much. He doesn’t say anything though and only scoffs as he trails after the ginger. At this time of the night and with everyone focused on the banquet in the ballroom, the library is completely covered in darkness. No one is there except for them and Childe is quick to grab one of the lanterns hanging in the corridor and bring it into the room instead.

Scaramouche watches him with mild amusement. "How romantic," he mocks. The ginger sets the lantern down at a nearby table before he hoists himself up too, facing Scaramouche.

"So what do you usually do, in a dark and quiet place, all by yourself?" He asks, a grin forming on his lips. He asks with a sensual tone, clearly giving his words a double meaning, but Scaramouche doesn't take the bait. Rolling his eyes, he walks past him, towards the huge shelves filled with books. The library has three floors, walls all covered by shelves that reach the upper floors. They tower over Scaramouche in an almost looming way, which is why he always feels so incredibly small here.

Still, he likes spending time here, since it's mostly empty anyways. Most recruits and Fatui members don't care about books and reading. Usually, he only shares the space with one or two of his fellow Harbingers — but never Childe.

"I didn't know a bloodhound knows how to read," he quips, grinning bemusedly when Childe barks out a laugh. "I used to read my younger siblings stories!" he shouts. The next thing Scaramouche hears is a dull thump and then quick footsteps as he follows him through the narrow aisles that the shelves build.

The lantern is still sitting on the table near the entrance, so now, when he comes to face Childe, it's dark and gloomy all around. The library has a glass dome for a ceiling. It's useless, given the masses of snow that lie atop the construction, making it impossible to see the sky, but the light that shimmers through the snow is soft, casting the entire library, and now Childe too, in a gentle, low glow.

There's soft shadows reaching over his face when he looks at Scaramouche, a smile ghosting over his lips. Once more, he's hit with the realization that the Eleventh is too attractive for his own good.

"Here you are again, giving out precious information about yourself. You can't possibly be this dumb." He leans his head to the side and observes as Childe frowns.

"Me telling you I read my younger siblings stories?"

"You telling me you care about your younger siblings." Scaramouche steps closer to him, craning his neck to keep eye contact, "You telling me I could get to you through them."

At that, Tartaglia suddenly chuckles. He starts mimicking his actions, cocking his head to the side and taking a step forward. He leans against the shelf next to them, his eyes searching Scaramouche's. They're eerily calm, dangerously dark; less azure, more pitch black mud.

"But you wouldn't, would you, Lord Balladeer?" he whispers, "You can pretend as much as you want but you don't hate me enough for such cruelty."

Scaramouche could definitely refute that, could tell him about the cruelties he's committed — but at the end of the day, there's a reason why he's even entertaining a conversation with the Eleventh in the first place. There's a reason why he's here in the library with him, why he endured an entire evening in his presence. And it's not the alcohol, Scaramouche knows it.

"You shouldn't give out such information regardless of my intentions. You're being careless."

"And you've got a stick up your ass," Tartaglia replies, rolling his eyes. "That's how conversations and bonding works, Scara—"

"Don't call me Scara—"

"You get to know each other. Talk about yourself, ask about the other. Aren't you supposed to be better at this than me, master of schemes?" He shoots him a grin, ignoring his interjection completely.

“You know, your constant chattering makes this anything but a quiet place,” he remarks, hoping to steer the conversation away from such vulnerable topics, but Childe is a little smarter than that, apparently.

“I know nothing about you, not really. Are you that scared I might be able to use it to my advantage?”

The thing is, after weeks of spending time together, he apparently also learned what buttons he has to push to get his way. Scaramouche glares at him for those words and grits his teeth. “Like you could hurt me!” he hisses, electricity crackling at his fingertips. He balls his hands into fists, but the static continues to run through him.

“Tell me about your family, then,” Childe prompts, still wearing that easy grin, relaxing against the shelf. Scaramouche wonders how he even managed to get used to his annoying presence in the first place when the Eleventh always acts this insufferable.

“I have none.” The answer is curt and although it sounds like he’s deflecting yet another personal question, he means it. Childe shakes his head with a deep, disappointed sigh, but his smile doesn’t fade. “So you are scared.”

Scaramouche thinks of Tenshukaku, of a set of eyes as purple as his own, staring down at him void of any emotions. He thinks of the pitying noise that followed that sight, the very first thing he ever heard after he was granted life and consciousness.

“How unfortunate.”

He thinks of Shakkei Pavilion, of Katsuragi. Of Niwa. Of that child.

None of them were a family, no matter how long some of them managed to deceive him.

“It’s the truth, Tartaglia.” It won’t be of use to the Eleventh anyway, if he knows this much. Scaramouche doesn’t know why he even entertains him further, yet he chooses his next words carefully as to satiate the other man’s curiosity and still not tell too much.

Maybe it’s the same thing that provoked him to follow him into the library, too.

Childe watches him suddenly more attentively than before and Scaramouche turns away. with his fingertips, he brushes over the backs of a few books on the shelf. In the dark, he can’t make out any titles or authors. “I suppose you could say I have a mother in the broadest sense. But neither did she ever call herself one nor did she act like it. So no, Childe — I have no family.”

“That sounds terribly lonely.”

He scoffs at those words. “Loneliness is nothing but the agony of being on your own.” He gives Childe a questioning look, “Why would I be uncomfortable being on my own? Are you?”

“Not anymore,” he mumbles and something in those words gives way to a deeper meaning. A bottomless pit of the same despair he wears in his eyes.

“Good,” he replies just as quietly, “Such a weakness wouldn’t do you any good in the Fatui’s ranks.”

Childe hums, low in his throat, as if to agree with Scaramouche’s words. He keeps his eyes trained on him, as if he’s expecting more from, like Scaramouche doesn’t feel terribly exposed already. He said so little and yet so much. If Childe only thinks about his words a little too much, he’ll realize they came from a place of genuine concern. He cares, no matter how much Scaramouche tries to tell himself he doesn’t.

Somewhere, in between that first look on the training grounds until now, in the dark library, the Eleventh Harbingers has snuck his way into Scaramouche’s hollow, cold chest and left a tiny piece in there. Nothing close to a real heart, nothing that would fill the void — but something of the size that Katsuragi left. A piece just like Niwa’s back then. A big part of Scaramouche nearly recoils at the realization, wants to tear his shell open and rip it out again, that insignificant, tiny little thing, like a warm spark of fondness that might grow into a raging fire too quickly. Before he knows it, he considers the other man a friend — before he knows it, Tartaglia will be able to hurt him and Scaramouche can’t have this.

When he looks up to meet his eyes again, Childe hasn’t looked away yet. “You’re staring,” he mumbles, suddenly a lot more gruff than before. Turning away, he makes to go around the shelf and escape those murky blue eyes, if it weren’t for Childe’s response, “Because you’re pretty, Scaramouche.”

He stills, his inhale stuck in his throat. It takes a moment to fully process it, but then he whips his head around, staring at the other man from the side. “Watch it,” he hisses, his blood running hot through his veins. He feels equal parts embarrassed and humiliated.

What is Tartaglia saying?! Why would he even say such things if it weren’t for an ulterior motive? Is he trying to wear him down differently now? Instead of teasing and the friendly approach, he’s straight up trying to charm his way into Scaramouche’s empty chest with just as hollow compliments, falling from way too pretty lips and wrapped in lies as sweet as honey?

It’s not like he’s wrong. Or like Scaramouche hasn’t heard such words for lifetimes already; he’s ethereal, absolute divine. He doesn’t think there’s a compliment he hasn’t heard about his appearance yet. It’s not a surprise either, considering the hands that crafted him and gave him life are divine, too. He’s a puppet; naturally, he has no flaws, his skin unblemished and pale, hair smooth and silky, his features perfectly sculpted by hands of gold. Countless merchants on the roads said it, men and women alike were in awe when he visited taverns. Dottore said it and Sandrone used it as a reason when she asked for him as a reference when it came to her cursed machines. Like they would ever turn out like him, a design of a nation and time long lost, perfected by an Archon and not just tiny, greedy hands, no matter how nimble they may be.

But Childe takes no notice of the threatening tone in his voice. Eyes still stuck on Scaramouche, he breathes, “I am. Have been all night.”

And there’s such honesty in his words. Like he’s really just in awe and nothing more, just as star-struck as all the other humans. Scaramouche has had centuries of training in reading people and although Tartaglia is harder to figure out than most, there is no way he could act this perfectly.

“Apparently I’ve overestimated how well you can hold your liquor,” he mumbles, huffing. He changes direction, brushing past the Eleventh as he makes his way back to the doors of the library, “It’s late.”

Childe doesn’t reply and Scaramouche doesn’t turn around to wait for him, leaving the Eleventh all by himself in between the tall shelves of the library as he makes his way back to his quarters.

The words keep ringing in his ears.

After that night, the Tsaritsa has made a few new alliances aiding in her goal to overthrow the heavenly principles and Childe and Scaramouche still share the very same rhythm. They go on patrouilles together; Scaramouche watches as Childe handles the new recruits, because he still lacks the patience a good teacher should have. He still finds Childe mostly sparring and training by himself in his free time and Childe still holds back every single time. Scaramouche never asks and Childe never tells.

He keeps being an annoyance to Scaramouche, teasing him and pushing his buttons whenever he gets the chance to, but Scaramouche finds that it takes longer until he’s finally pissed off about it. It takes more than just some jabs and snide comments or that deep, warm laughter of his. He finds himself humoring the Eleventh with his mindless conversations as they make their way around Zapolyarny Palace’s estate or further out into the city on patrouilles, making time pass just a little bit faster as words fill the usual silence in the darkness.

Considering all these things, it doesn’t exactly come as a surprise when the Tsaritsa orders both of them into the throne room. When they both kneel before her icy throne, eyes cast down to the bottom of the stairs and Childe practically shaking from sheer anticipation, she walks up to them and places her fingertips on the crown of Tartaglia’s head.

“Tartaglia, my child,” he whispers. Although her voice is gentle, she can’t shake the coldness from her words. Scaramouche supposes it comes from being the Cryo Archon — just like his mother always kept her distance, for electricity will hurt the second the voltage unloads.

Childe doesn’t respond, all good manners and loyalty. It’s the first time Scaramouche sees it unfold in front of his eyes. That’s the loyalty that granted him his seat.

“Look at me,” she tells him and Scaramouche feels him stir for the first time ever since he knelt down next to him. He keeps his head lowered, since he hasn’t been addressed so far, so he doesn’t see what is going down, only relying on his ears. “I know you feel betrayed for what happened in Liyue,” she mumbles, keeping her voice low and graceful. Scaramouche holds back a snicker at the reminder of what happened in the Geo Archon’s land, how Childe was nothing but a pawn in a bigger game but was kept believing to be the one pulling all the strings until the very end.

He made a fool out of himself and although they obtained the Gnosis, Scaramouche knows how much the humiliation still burns inside the Eleventh. He never said so, but this one thing he couldn’t hide from Scaramouche.

Childe is quick to deny that statement. “What? No, no— of course not, your Majesty,” he sputters. The nervosity cracks through his carefully curated calm facade in but an instant and Scaramouche almost feels bad for him if it weren’t so amusing. “Your will is all that matters. I’ll happily play whatever role you assign me—”

“Oh, Childe.” The Tsaritsa chuckles, the first traces of warmth seeping into her voice at the sound. Scaramouche can imagine her carding her fingers through the ginger locks before cupping Tartaglia’s face. “My dear,” she sighs, “You burn so brightly against the backdrop of snow covering my land, you could never hide away. It’s one of the reasons I selected you to be my eleventh; your passion is unmatched.”

It shuts the Eleventh up effectively, because he definitely didn’t expect a compliment from the Tsaritsa herself. “Worry not,” she continues, “This time, I will let you burn as bright as the fire inside of you.”

“This time?” he breathes. Scaramouche can feel the tremors of breathless suspense wracking through him although they’re not even touching.

“Scaramouche.” At the sound of his name, Scaramouche allows himself to raise his head and meet the Tsaritsa’s icy gray eyes. “Your Majesty,” he says, allowing her to tuck a strand of purple hair behind his ear.

“You’ve got accustomed to Snezhnaya quite well, haven’t you?” she muses, “But although this is your home now, we never forget the places we grew up at.”

Scaramouche freezes when the realization settles, when the magnitude of her order becomes clear to him. This isn’t just some small trip to make new alliances.

“Your cunning is remarkable,” she tells him, “Together with Tartaglia’s fighting prowess, there should be no obstacle you cannot overcome.”

After the shock, Scaramouche feels anticipation form in the pit of his stomach. A slow but steady drip, filling him up more and more, spreading through his entire body and he has to stop himself from letting out a breathless laugh. He feels light-headed.

“Rumor has it that the Electro Archon lets a puppet rule over her land instead of herself,” the Tsaritsa tells them both, though her eyes stay trained on Scaramouche.

“I’ve heard of it,” he whispers, still breathless more than anything else. His mouth feels dry and there’s adrenaline rushing through his veins that makes it so hard to stay still on his knees.

“You will obtain her Gnosis and bring it back home to me, won’t you?”

It’s not a question.

“Puppet or not,” he replies, “Your will shall prevail.”

She allows for the ghost of a smile on her thin, pink lips. Still, it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I know you two will not disappoint me. You’ll leave by morning.”

After she dismisses them, they both are uncharacteristically quiet, making their way through the empty corridors. They both will have to finish some last paperworks and pack for the trip. Although he usually doesn’t like any kind of trips, Scaramouche can’t wait for morning to come this time. He’s brimming with anticipation and for once, he can’t fight the smile on his lips.

Beelzebul’s Gnosis.

A Gnosis that once was supposed to be his.

“Are you excited to visit your homeland?” Childe’s sudden question brings him back to reality and into the palace. He gives him a short look, finding Childe’s eyes already on him, obviously curious.

He chuckles and averts his gaze. “You could say that.”

Looks like he will get his heart after all.

Scaramouche can’t wait.

The trip to Inazuma is long. First, they get to Liyue Harbor and from there, they take the ship to pass through Inazuma’s eternal storm and get to Ritou.

Scaramouche has never been assigned a lot of trips. Most of his tasks were expeditions ordered by Pierro — and they weren’t throughout Teyvat, but reached deep beneath the ground. However the First managed to find a way to open up the abyss, he did so many times and Scaramouche has descended into the pitch black void every single time.

In recent years, the number of expeditions have diminished. He would be in charge of a lot of paperwork and shorter trips, though never something on a grand scale. To be honest, he never really wanted that to change. He’s not as loyal to the Tsaritsa as the Pierrot or Tartaglia, so naturally, he doesn’t put a lot of effort into being acknowledged by her — or working for her cause, that is.

Still, as he boards the ship, he feels excitement boiling right beneath his skin and he doesn’t think he felt this alive in years. The last time he felt like this might’ve very well been when Dottore unsealed the power his mother locked away centuries ago. The feeling of unbridled, divinity coursing through his entire body has been unmatched to anything else to this day.

But this? This might come close. The idea of getting what has always been rightfully his is exhilarating to say the least. Scaramouche was crafted with the sole purpose to be a vessel and he was cast aside the second he opened his eyes. He never even got the chance to prove himself.

In a way, he feels grateful to be tasked with retrieving the Electro Archon’s Gnosis.

Childe notices his good mood, of course. He’s too happy about being stuck on a ship with the Eleventh and other Fatui members he wished to bring for his plans.

“Wouldn’t have guessed you’re this homesick,” he chuckles, watching Scaramouche as he emerges from the ship’s belly. The few days out in the sun were already enough to make the freckles on his skin more prominent. It seems there’s more than before, too, trailing down his bare forearms as he has discarded his jacket while they’re out at sea and only wears the wine-red button-down.

“Everyone gets sick of the cold and the snow every once in a while,” Scaramouche replies, unnaturally easy-going. He keeps his gaze directed towards the endless sea stretching out ahead of them. In the distance, still very far away, he can make out the outskirts of the storm they’re eventually going to sail through and he can’t deny the tug in his chest he feels at the sight.

Inazuma has long since stopped being his home but still, he favors it over the eternal ice.

“Yeah, I guess it’s pretty dull if you’re used to more colorful sights,” Childe answers. He walks up to him and leans against the railings as well, supporting himself on his forearms. He looks towards the clouds as well. “Is that it?”

“Yeah,” Scaramouche mumbles, “That’s it.”

“So, have you got a plan already?” he asks him then, curiosity traveling in his voice.

Scaramouche turns his head and watches him with raised brows. “What’s this, Tartaglia? you allow me to use schemes instead of waltzing into Tenshukaku yourself and taking the Gnosis by force? Don’t tell me you’re getting tired of the battlefield.”

Childe scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Of course not!” There’s a short pause and Scaramouche observes how the ginger traces the marks in the wood of the railings with his index finger. There’s scars on the back of his hands, just as there are more, dusty freckles visible in the sunlight. Just how many fights has this boy lived through to obtain more scars than the eye can count?

“But the Tsaritsa ordered you to retrieve the Gnosis first and foremost,” he adds, softer this time. He looks up, meets Scaramouche’s eyes. “And you’re ranked higher than me anyways, so your words weigh heavier than mine. Doing it my way was never an option, Balladeer.”

He huffs. “How considerate,” he comments, “Still, as my colleague, I value your opinion. You’ve got more than just brawn.” It’s an invitation like he’ll ever get one from Scaramouche and Childe knows it too.

Scaramouche knows Childe is cunning, he just doesn’t like it all that much. He lives for the center of attention, the heat of the battle and if Scaramouche needs a warrior for his plan, then Lord Tartaglia will be his first choice. But before that, he’s also the one and only Harbinger perfecting Sigils of Permission to awaken an ancient god.

“Waltzing into Tenshukaku first isn’t an option anyways,” Childe says, looking out at the storm again, “Who’s to say the Shogun is still there by the time we get there? Furthermore, if there is a puppet ruling in the actual Archon’s stead, we can’t be sure we’re facing off against the right opponent. That is determined by the question of who's carrying the Gnosis — the Archon or its puppet.”

“I’m impressed — seems like Liyue taught you a thing or two.”

Childe laughs at that, unbothered by the jab it seems. Scaramouche cracks a smile, too, although it all feels too easy and too comfortable. He shouldn’t act like this with Childe. He shouldn’t, he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t. But a part of him doesn’t want to stop either.

“There most definitely is a puppet,” Scaramouche says, cutting through the silence between them and the soft noise of waves breaking against the ship’s bow.

“Really? Why would the Electro Archon have need for such a thing?” Childe asks, audibly in awe at the revelation.

Scaramouche shrugs. “Maybe she can’t carry the burden she was tasked with,” he mumbles, “If anything, it makes her weak.”

Both of her creations were crafted with the idea in mind to withstand erosion, Scaramouche knows that much. They were designed with an unbreakable will — harsher than Baal ever was, more unyielding than Beelzebul ever could be. If not, Scaramouche wouldn’t be still here today.

Scaramouche actually has a plan. It’s just an idea so far, but since Childe has shown he actually knows how to use that brain of his, he lets him in on it as they breach Inazuma’s storm. The ship creaks as it gets thrown around by the rising waves and above deck, all hell is loose it seems. In Scaramouche’s private chamber, though, it’s a little more quiet, though no less shaky.

“Delusion Factory?” Childe repeats, blinking down at the notes upon notes laid out on the table. Scaramouche nods, placing his elbow on the table’s surface to support his head in his hand. He smiles up at Childe, all smug and satisfied. “How much do you know about Inazuma, Childe?”

“Not a lot,” he admits, scratching the side of his head, “I was occupied with Liyue before, so I didn’t spend much time on other nations. And I didn’t have much time to prepare myself for this journey.”

Fair enough. Scaramouche shrugs. “The Raiden Shogun established a Vision Hunt Decree about a year ago,” he explains, “In her opinion, ambitions, which are ultimately tied to visions, are a danger to the Eternity she wishes to establish for her land — so she wants them gone.”

“She’s seizing people’s visions?” Childe stares at him in utter disbelief. Scaramouche’s grin widens.

“Pretty shocking, isn’t it?” If you look at it that way, then the Shogun puppet and him have more in common than initially thought. He’d also be capable of such cruelty if needed for his mission. If you look even closer, it’s obvious such cruelty is also the pillar of his entire plan.

He leans back in his seat and crosses his arms in front of his chest, “Just like the Liyue Qixing, Inazuma has the Tri-Commission governing most matters. The Tenryou Commission is one of the three branches and oversees all military and security affairs.”

“So, they’re the ones seizing the visions?”

“Exactly.”

“And your plan is to hand out delusions to everyone who had their vision taken away?”

“No, that’d be a waste of materials and precious delusions.” Childe cocks his head to the side, clearly trying to figure out where this is going.

“Of course, her people don’t exactly agree with such drastic measures,” Scaramouche continues, “Naturally, where a government oversteps, it is met with resistance. That’s the Watatsumi Army. However, they are a stark minority and it’s only a question of time before the Tenryou Commission will defeat them.”

Scaramouche can pinpoint the exact moment Childe understands. He straightens up unconsciously and it’s almost as if there’s a short, fleeting spark illuminating his dull eyes. A grin starts to tug at his lips. “Tell me, Balladeer, how is Inazuma doing as a whole?”

He laughs softly, letting out a long breath. “It’s not just the internal conflict,” he reveals, “In addition to the Vision Hunt Decree, the Shogun also issued the Sakoku Decree, ordering for strict assessments to be passed before you are allowed to leave and enter Inazuma. That’s the reason for the eternal thunderstorm around the land. Luckily for us, though, this doesn’t apply to the Fatui.”

Childe hums. “Seems like a devastating decision for the economy,” he mumbles, eyes meeting Scaramouche’s when he looks up. He mimics his pose, sinking back and crossing his arms. “On top of that an ongoing war… One could think if this keeps going, Inazuma will crumble in on itself.”

Scaramouche gives him a grin that can be described as nothing short of maniac, eyes wide, adrenaline rushing through his veins at the sole thought of it. “Luckily, the resistance will be crushed soon, right?”

“Just what would the Shogun do if they would grow impossibly strong by a sudden miracle despite being the minority… with the war lasting for an uncertain amount of time and the land’s precious resources dwindling day by day, she’d be in desperate need of an alliance providing them.” Childe barks out a laugh at the end of his observation and sighs, “You’re truly despicable, d’you know that?”

“Anything can be provided for the right prize, Tartaglia,” Scaramouche replies, still as easy-going and gentle as before, “And we Fatui ask so little in return for lending a helping hand.”

Only hours later, they finally set foot on Ritou. It’s evening by now, the sun sitting low in the sky and already starting to vanish behind the horizon. As Scaramouche steps on the dock, he’s met with an unfamiliar pang of nostalgia. No matter how much he hates these Isles, he still keeps the memories he made. A mind withstanding erosions means a mind that can’t forget.

As Childe catches up behind him, jumping onto the docks as well, his attention shifts to the tall, imposing mountain on Narukami Island. There’s a sepulchral glow reaching up into the sky at the mountain top and Scaramouche can see the huge sakura tree even from here. His chest feels emptier than usual, tight and painful around each inhale he takes.

Next, his gaze wanders to the right and there it is.

In the distance, like a fortress rising up against the orange-colored sky, a black silhouette, a husk of Scaramouche’s memories. Tenshukaku.

“Is she residing on top of that mountain?” Childe asks behind him, obviously drawn to the gloomy, purple light Mt. Yougou emits. Scaramouche shakes his head, still looking at the silhouette of the palace on Narukami’s coast. “This is only the Grand Narukami Shrine, home to Guuji Yae.”

For the night, they reside at the Kanjou Commission with Scaramouche doing most of the talking, albeit that isn’t a lot. He keeps his answers short and doesn’t give a lot of information about the reason for their visit.

Despite years of using Snezhnayan, he slips back into Inazuman with no effort at all, like a default setting in his creation. The words come easy to him and there are no traces of any accents, neither one of a northern descent, nor one from Inazuman people. There was a time when he tried to mimic them, centuries ago. He used to parrot words and sentences over and over again, trying to get the intonation and stresses perfectly right. Niwa had always found that to be absolutely endearing.

Now, there is no indication of his origins in the way he speaks.

Childe stays quiet through it all, clearly not as well-versed in Inazuman as in his mother tongue or Liyue’s language.

“I could tell them you’re my personal servant and in no need of a room since you’re accustomed to sleeping outside my chambers and you wouldn’t know a thing until you had no bed tonight,” Scaramouche muses, suppressing an amused smile as she switches back to Snezhnayan. After telling the Kanjou Commissioner that they will have separate rooms. But Childe doesn’t need to know that.

The latter scoffs at that. “I do have some basic understanding of Inazuman,” he quips, “So I’d definitely know.”

“But could you intervene?” Scaramouche throws him a satisfied look before he gets handed two keys for the rooms.

“If you call me your servant I’d surely find a way,” he murmurs, snatching one key from Scaramouche the second he holds it out to him.

At least, Liyue taught him how to use chopsticks properly, as Scaramouche finds out later during dinner, and he’s smart enough to observe Scaramouche’s every move before and after their meal, clasping his hands together and indicating a bow, mumbling the string of syllables Scaramouche pronounced in a rushed exhale, so as to not let his lacking skill show too much.

The next morning is when they set off to Narukami Island and Inazuma City and when their plan begins. The second they booked new rooms, Childe and Scaramouche start putting the first steps into motion, such as finding a good location to set up the factory, getting their hands on the resources needed for the production of the delusions and analyzing the resistance.

The plan is good, but as with all schemes and trickeries, it leaves Tartaglia and him with a lot of time at their hands. After supervising the first steps and making sure their orders will be followed, all they can do is wait until they can work on the next phase.

And of course, the youngest Harbinger loves to travel and see Teyvat. So he’s very quick to ask Scaramouche to accompany him through Inazuma City. Turns out he needs the company of someone fluent in Inazuman, because Childe's basic understanding is anything but presentable. Scaramouche watches him struggling to bargain for a little figurine, decorational junk in Scaramouche's opinion, already lost with the numbers the seller spits on top of his reasoning for his horrid prices.

Childe tries, he really does, but his pronunciation is off and his tongue trips over the syllables and it takes him ages to form a response. Scaramouche can't help it; He laughs out loud, throws his head back, unable to shove it down and stay collected. Of course Childe hears it and he turns his head to stare at Scaramouche, although his eyes hold far less bite than Scaramouche would've thought.

"Archons, you're terrible," he chuckles, wiping an imaginary tear from the corner of his eyes. Next, he holds out his hand for Childe's purse and starts bargaining in his place.

"Teach me," Childe says as he shakes hands with the seller and then opens the purse, "I want to learn."

Scaramouche keeps looking at the Mora he counts carefully before handing it over to the seller, receiving the figurine in return. He hands both the junk and the definitely lighter pouch back to Childe. "There's space in your brain for more than just combat skills?"

Childe notices the lesser weight too, narrowing his eyes at Scaramouche before he opens the pouch. "How much did you– Scaramouche!"

Snickering, Scaramouche turns around, his back facing Childe. "Here's your first lesson," he mocks, sauntering down the street. He pronounces a single Inazuman word very carefully and then, after a short pause, he adds, "It means idiot."

As the days pass and their stay lasts for several weeks, Childe and Scaramouche fall back into yet another rhythm. Different from the first one, yet very distinct in its own way; they have separate rooms but they spend most time together, for some odd reason. Scaramouche has given up on telling Childe to leave him alone when he’s trying to get done with some of his paperwork or simply wants some peace and quiet.

The Eleventh listens as poorly as ever — turns out it's not that he doesn’t hear Scaramouche because of layers upon layers of thick snow catching sound waves, but rather that he’s deaf whenever it comes to that.

He simply ignores the request to leave Scaramouche alone and occupies himself with his own work in a different corner of the room. Like this, they spend countless hours in absolute silence, merely the rustling of paper, soft breaths and the scratching of pens against parchment between them. After a few of these occurrences, Tartaglia starts teasing him that he likes having his company although they both work on their separate things. Scaramouche makes sure to zap him properly for that and denies any claims like these — but he knows, he does it to protect his pride more than anything else.

In truth, he becomes used to the presence of the Eleventh too quickly. It shouldn’t come as such a surprise when he finally realizes it, given that back in Snezhnaya they’ve already spent countless hours together, always paired for the same tasks. It’s natural to grow accustomed to someone you see all the time and the hours spent in Scaramouche’s rather small suite add very little to the mountain of time already spent together.

Still, it makes his skin crawl and has a shiver running down his spine. He finds himself relaxing in Tartaglia’s presence. Finds his shoulder’s dropping and his breathing becoming soft, even. Finds himself comfortable with the sounds of another human being present in the room. He doesn’t look up at the slightest sounds coming from the Eleventh, only when he’s being addressed directly or Childe makes some off-handed comment.

He’s being vulnerable.

And Childe has noticed it. That’s the worst part about it all.

Still, Scaramouche allows him to stay. That’s what tells him he’s grown soft. Weak.

They have breakfast and dinner together every day. Sometimes Childe goes out for lunch and Scaramouche chooses to stay behind, not particularly keen on traversing through these oh-so-familiar streets and being reminded of something at every corner and shop.

Only a few weeks later the Eleventh is already pretty decent in Inazuman, thanks to Scaramouche’s lessons. They’re not exactly lessons, because Scaramouche teaches him any given moment of the day whenever he sees fit or there’s something fitting for the situation that he decides to share with Childe, for example telling him about reasons for particular customs they encounter in Inazuma City.

Most of their early evenings are spent discussing the plan that advances further every day. By now, a good two months after they’ve first set foot onto Narukami Island, the delusion factory is finally working on Yasiori Island.

Childe has yet to see the island with his own eyes and has only Scaramouche’s stories to rely on when he explained why that island would be their best option. Scaramouche knows he wants to, has seen the hungry look in his eyes at the mention of a slain god and its evil energy remaining over the island.

Tartaglia’s the one making sure to pull the right strings and get the promise of a delusion to the right people of the Resistance. For once, Scaramouche admits that Childe’s obnoxious extrovert personality comes in handy. He knows how to filter out the right people and has a good understanding of how to make his subordinates offer delusions at the right moment. It allows Scaramouche to work pretty much withdrawn from everyone else, leaving only the Eleventh as a connection between their subordinates and him as he gives Scaramouche updates about the process.

It’s another point on the list of things he would never ever admit (like enjoying the time spent with Tartaglia or that Tartaglia is very pretty under the warm Inazuman sun, freckles still abundantly on his face).

“We might have to deal with a few obstacles in the near future.” As of lately, Childe enters with no greeting. He doesn’t even think of knocking anymore and Scaramouche is still contemplating just what would get him to use his manners again. He doesn’t think standing naked in his room would do the job. Something in Childe’s defiant nature tells him that it would only encourage him.

Scaramouche makes no move to face him, still standing on the small balcony that borders on his room and with his back to Tartaglia and the door. The sun is starting to set, coloring the sky a soft, golden glow. “How come?”

“Our subordinates stationed in Ritou saw a Traveler arrive today. He goes by the name Aether, he—”

“The one that bested you in Liyue?”

It’s silent for a moment and Scaramouche suppressed a tiny little grin as he revels in the afterglow of gracefully rubbing salt in one of Childe’s most prideful wounds.

“Yes,” he admits eventually, audibly through grit teeth. Scaramouche doesn’t have to look at him to know he’s tense and glaring daggers at the back of his head. He feels it well enough. “He wants to see every nation’s Archon if my intel is correct, so he might start working against us in pursuit of his own goal.”

“We’ll see.” Scaramouche shrugs, “He’s just a human. They’re all weak and fragile.”

He hears Tartaglia walk up to him, joining him on the balcony. He stands next to him, looking out at the setting sun. “He’s a skilled fighter,” he tells Scaramouche, genuine admiration audible in his voice.

Scaramouche gives him a fleeting look, “Sure. But even the best combat abilities are useless when there’s a bigger picture being put together that you’re not aware of — you should know that better than anyone.”

They take some precautions against the Traveler regardless. One of them is appointing one of their subordinates as the acting supervisor in the delusion factory. Like this, the blame won’t be pinned on any of the two Harbingers at first if Aether poses an actual threat to their mission and simultaneously buys them time to either get far away enough to not deal with repercussions or silence the boy effectively.

To Scaramouche’s surprise, Tartaglia adjusts well to Inazuma. It seems, he is made for traveling the world. He listens intently to Scaramouche’s stories and legends about Inazuma, and learns the language incredibly fast; his pronunciation and vocabulary becoming better every day. Sometimes, he catches Childe talking in Inazuman to him, too, although he usually switches back to Snezhnayan with Scaramouche.

One of those instances is when the door to his room opens yet again without knocking and Childe simply states, “I need your help.”

Scaramouche looks up from his paperwork, visibly surprised about such words, only to find the other man in his doorway dressed in the messiest tied kimono Scaramouche has ever seen.

“What in Tsaritsa's name are you doing?” he asks, already getting up from his seat and walking over to Childe. The latter shrugs, looking down at himself.

“I like the clothes here, so I wanted to try them,” he says, like this explains the chaotic way he tied the kimono in.

Scaramouche stops short in front of him, raking his eyes over Childe’s body in an attempt to see what problem to solve first here. It should annoy him that Childe disturbs him for something so idiotic. That he’s wasting his precious time with such stupid things. And yet, Scaramouche only huffs out a laugh and shakes his head, reaching up to push the haori off his broad shoulders.

Instead of annoying him, it reminds him of someone he knew centuries ago, just as unskilled when it came to the many layers of clothing and different robes. He kept his initial garment for as long as possible, refusing to change it, as it was one of the only things his mother had ever bothered to give him. Scaramouche cherished it even more because of it. The older women used to chuckle and coo when he first attempted to dress like the rest of the village, shaky hands unable to properly tuck the fabrics and blushing from the embarrassment of being helped with it in the end.

“Archons, how did you—” He scoffs, taking in the rest of the outfit, “You know what, take it off.”

“All of it?” Childe blinks at him.

“All of it.”

Tartaglia lets out a huff, but he follows the instruction, hands coming up to undo the hakama and the nagagi still hugging his form. “You could buy me dinner first,” the Eleventh says, a teasing undertone in his voice and a smirk forming on his lips as his fingers work.

Scaramouche gives him a look of disdain, shooing Tartaglia’s hands away the second the hakama is untied. “Be glad I’m not letting you out into public like this,” he mumbles, grabbing the nagagi. Except for a few wrinkles and folds, he didn’t do that much of a bad job with it, so Childe doesn’t have to strip naked for Scaramouche after all.

Still, taking care of his clothing like this feels rather… intimate. And Scaramouche would rather not think about it at all. He’s doing this so he won’t embarrass himself standing next to Tartaglia if they’re going out. He doesn’t care about Tartaglia at all past that. And he’s certainly not paying attention to those broad shoulders or that imposing height of his when he’s right in front of Scaramouche.

At first, his movements are rough and jerky, trying to weave as much annoyance into his actions as he can muster, so he brings his point across — which is that he is bothered by such a task. He tugs harshly at the fabric, as if he’s trying to tear it and Childe’s body moves with the force of his hands as he smoothes the nagagi out properly and ties the belt fresh, making the Eleventh hold the nagagi in place as he tightens the belt around his waist.

But Scaramouche notices it too, as he works on, that his hands gradually become softer, more gentle. He slides them over Childe’s chest as he gets rid of the last wrinkles, slow and careful. He feels his torso rise and sink with every in– and exhale and something tells him that if he were to look up, he’d meet the boy’s azure eyes in an instant. His gaze feels heavy on him.

To make sure the nagagi is secure and in place, he slips his hand beneath the top part of the layer wrapped around Childe, grabbing the part of the garment that lies directly against his skin. He grazes it with his fingertips in the process, feels smooth muscles and warmth and if he’s not mistaken, he notices a shuddering intake of air from the Eleventh the second it happens. He freezes for a split second, his hand tensing around the fabric, his knuckles against Childe’s naked chest and although he doesn’t see a sliver of skin other than his neck and his hands, nothing out of the ordinary, it feels as though they both just crossed an invisible line.

Scaramouche gives the seam another, rather harsh tug and then he’s pulling his hand back almost as if burnt by the comfortable warmth. Now, his movements shift to become much quicker. His fingers barely linger on the fabric of the hakama as Childe puts it on again and he moves to secure the belt around his waist. He reaches around Childe blindly, unconsciously stepping closer, but the second his arms brush his sides again, he feels his chest lurch and Scaramouche almost doesn’t know where to put his hands altogether.

It has been years since he’s been this close to another body. Decades. Centuries. The last time it happened he was the one being dressed. Dottore has seen him naked countless times after that, but always managed to keep his distance although he had his hands all over Scaramouche’s body.

Tartaglia smells nice. The thought registers in his brain as he makes sure the belt stays in place and holds up the hakama. Of the breeze the ocean brings and pine wood alike. Somehow very icy, like fresh snow covering the ground, not yet disrupted by traces of living beings.

Scaramouche doesn’t know what to do with that information, just like he doesn’t know where to put the sensation of warm skin and muscles flexing beneath it.

Lastly, he grabs the discarded haori and shoves it against Childe’s chest. “Put it on,” he orders, brusquely. Tartaglia huffs but complies, taking the garment and throwing it on completely inelegant. Scaramouche makes sure it falls nicely over the undergarments, tugging softly at its seams here and there, and goes as far as reaching up to his throat to straighten out the fold in the collar before he deems the Eleventh presentable. He steps away, clearing his throat.

“See? It isn’t that fucking hard, if you used your brain.”

Childe doesn’t reply. He watches Scaramouche with those dark eyes of his, lacking any light. Scaramouche finds himself staring right back into those faithless depths, trying to make something of the heavy expression lurking in them.

It looks an awful lot like want, but he’s not sure if he’s ready to know.

He’s not sure if he’s ready to confront himself about that either.

The world is lying. Always. Everywhere. If his existence has taught him anything, it’s that humans can’t be trusted. Scaramouche has tried and he was disappointed every single time. Not that he was ever off to a good start anyways, with his mother deeming him worthless the second he gained consciousness.

How pathetic that the very same thing that made him a failure in her eyes was also the very same thing being his demise. In some way, this only proves her right and makes him that much more eager to prove her wrong.

He learned his lesson; his emotions are a hindrance and Scaramouche has done well shutting them off and eradicating them as the centuries have passed.

This is how it was after that boy. He let that house burn and with it whatever piece of him that harbored his emotions, let it turn to ashes and dust, scattered by the winds. It’s how he kept it for centuries. When Pierro found him, Scaramouche didn’t care anymore. He knew better than to grow attached, no matter how friendly and caring the First appears. He’s faithful to only one — Her Majesty. If push were ever to come to shove, Scaramouche would, again, be cast aside for someone else.

He wonders how he acquired it, this set of emotions he can’t make any use of. These worthless sensations festering in his chest and boiling beneath his skin. Wonders why his mother would go as far as including them in his design when, on second thought, she decided they were the reason why he couldn’t be the vessel for the Gnosis. Or if she had no say in such a matter and fate or the heavenly principles deemed it an especially cruel joke to give him something so useless in his position. They probably had amused themselves terribly, watching him failing in his role simply by existing, unable to fulfill his purpose.

No, Scaramouche knows better now. The existence of Kabukimono and Kunikuzushi is long gone, his emotions tightly locked away so he’s to exist as nothing but a blank slate for all eternity. Ready to host a Gnosis after all and not be swayed by something as pathetic and mundane as bonds as he also makes sure to keep his distance from the earthly filth that are humans.

He knows this is the best option, given his existence, his entire purpose. Not just is it safer, keeping to himself, but it will also allow him to ascend to godhood.

So when they reach the three month mark of their stay, Scaramouche doesn’t understand why he’s breaking his own rules all of a sudden.

Or, more accurately, why he allowed Childe to tear down these carefully set up and preserved rules throughout all their time spent together. He knows this is not as sudden as he makes it seem — and he knows he let it happen.

He watched as it happened.

Somewhere between him screaming at the Eleventh on the snowy training ground during the blizzard and an evening spent on Scaramouche’s balcony, playing Shogi, something shifted gradually. Maybe his gaze, as he finds it lingering on the other man’s form often these days. Maybe his priorities as he’s doing a lot of things in Tartaglia’s company when there is absolutely no need to.

There’s a voice at the back of his mind, screaming that he’s going to burn himself on the fire that is Childe, that he’s going to come back from this with yet another wound he doesn’t know how to treat, because no one ever taught him. That part of him wants to scream at Childe and watch that filthy, worthless bond between them snap in two, wants Tartaglia to withdraw and ignore him for good.

But a bigger part of him yearns for all of this. For this evening, as the night has settled and the only light is the lantern on the railings, illuminating the tiny table and the playing field, throwing long shadows across Childe’s face full of concentration as he tries to beat Scaramouche.

A bigger part of him has felt lonely for centuries, although Scaramouche made sure to bury that feeling with the corpses of Kabukimono and Kunikuzushi and all their memories. Yet, just like these stirred awake with Childe’s presence, so did the feeling.

Feelings. Emotions.

More than just hatred and disdain and anger that would fuel him on his road to reach his goal. Yearning and loneliness and fondness is what plays through his body when he lays his eyes upon the Eleventh.

He’s feeling.

A work of centuries, an effort that took him several mortal lifetimes, it all comes crumbling down in the face of Childe’s boyish grin as he pushes one of his last remaining koma. Scaramouche despises Childe for doing, so as much as he despises himself for being so weak. Again.

And as if that isn’t enough yet, he also feels fear licking at the pits of his stomach, ready to take a hold of him the second he allows for it to happen. Fear that the voice at the far back of his mind is right and he will carry a fourth scar come time.

“This is what happens when you try to take the world by force,” Scaramouche mutters, moving one of his own pieces. They’re far more in number. “Checkmate — again.”

Childe grumbles and rolls his eyes, accepting his defeat a bit sorely. Not that Scaramouche cares about it as long as he’s winning. Still, tonight his victory doesn’t feel as sweet and satisfying as usual.

Maybe because he allowed himself to be checkmated too, by auburn locks, a Snezhnayan accent and azure eyes.

Their plan unravels faster every day. The delusion factory is efficient in its production and the first delusions have been handed out to the Resistance. Now, all they have to do is let the awe of such raw power in a simple mortal’s possession do its trick and fascinate the rest of them. They’re going to come flocking for more delusions in no time, because humans all strive for the same thing: Power.

Childe tells him about the progress, a feral grin on his lips. “The shogun’s army was defeated today.”

Scaramouche merely chuckles, signing one of the last documents for the day. “I’m sure this must come as a shock to the Archon,” he sighs, “She’ll need time to group her forces anew.”

“And more resources.” Childe gives him a smug look. “Looks like we’ll be on our way home soon.”

It’s those words that make Scaramouche still for a moment. His pen hovering over the parchment, he replays the sentence in his head and then he nods slowly. “Yes.”

The thing is, he hasn’t thought about Snezhnaya and the Tsarita in a long time. Ever since he left Her Majesty’s land, his thoughts have been anywhere but with her and her cause. It must’ve been another joke from Celestia to have her appoint him as the one to retrieve the Electro Archon’s Gnosis — or a second chance from fate.

Childe is loyal to a fault, but not to him. He loves the Tsaritsa the same way a child adores its mother. For Childe it was always delivering a Gnosis to his god, truly the only one he actually cares about. He’s a worshiper at her feet, unlike Scaramouche who had nothing better to do than let his curiosity follow Pierro to a grand banquet, roped into the first Harbinger’s schemes.

Tartaglia went to Liyue to retract a Gnosis at all costs and he went to Inazuma for the same reasons. To him, this is nothing but business, no matter how much he likes Inazuma City and strolling down the beaches of the Islands. No matter how many gifts he buys for his siblings, accompanied by long letters as he tells them white lies about what he’s doing here (he told his youngest brother he’s a toy seller. Scaramouche almost cried, he laughed so much.) he’s a Harbinger first, a warrior second and the human with his own wishes and desires third. They will always come after Her Majesty.

Scaramouche though, is a puppet first and foremost. A vessel above anything else — a fallen god before he has been appointed the sixth seat. And this has never changed, no matter how much time he spent in Snezhnaya, no matter what he has done for the Tsaritsa’s cause so far.

The moment she told him he’d be tasked with obtaining his Gnosis from the puppet that stole it from him before he even had the chance to hold it in his hands, Scaramouche made his decision. This whole thing was never for Barnabas. This is his and now that he finally has another Archon’s blessing to steal it from the marionette that, in some way or another, can be called his sister or directly from his mother, Scaramouche is going to get his way whatever the price may be.

But the price is high and Tartaglia’s idle presence in his room reminds him of that.

He never intended to bring the Electro Gnosis back to Snezhnaya, but how is he not going to do that when the Tsaritsa’s most loyal bloodhound is right beside him? Obviously, he will vanish from Inazuma, leaving no traces to track him down, but for that he has to get away from Childe first, long enough to make it far away enough for Childe to give up any attempt to follow him.

If he had been sent here on his own, none of this would be a problem.

But it’s not just that Childe poses a threat to his own goals, with his undying loyalty and eagerness to satisfy the Tsaritsa. This is the first time that Scaramouche has to admit to himself that he’s caring. That there is something, anything, he harbors for the Eleventh and that he can’t just throw him aside the way he would a soldier he can’t use. He doesn’t care about the skirmishers he’s going to leave behind the second he has obtained his Gnosis — but what about Childe?

As much as he has ignored it, as much as he has denied it when Tartaglia teased him with it, ultimately they are… friends, in their own strange way.

It seems that this time, he’s not going to be the betrayed one.

Scaramouche hates the thought of it, the image of Childe’s possibly crestfallen look when the realization settles, heavy and bitter. And then he hates that he hates it. He hates that he became comfortable enough to consider Tartaglia a friend.

He hates his weakness for not being as uncaring as his mother was, for not being as cruel as Niwa was. He hates that although he tried so hard to rid himself of such emotions, all he did was lock them up and that they’re coming out again now, posing an obstacle in his way to divinity. He never erased them and thinking about it now, he doesn’t think he ever had the chance to.

It was all in vain.

As their plan draws to its end with the resistance gradually overpowering the shogun’s army, Tartaglia grows restless.

Scaramouche notices it immediately; he paces around in the room, he stops being as chatty. Instead, his answers are short and he doesn’t try to make more conversation than giving orders or answering Scaramouche’s questions. He’s not snappy, but he sure looks close to lashing out and that afternoon, when Scaramouche meets his eyes over a set of documents, he notices it. The hunger.

It’s exactly the same as back then on the training field, Tartaglia but a mere soldier yet.

Just this time it’s howling, scratching against Childe’s body, biting at its shackles, trying to get out.

Tartaglia is a warrior after all. Never one to pull the strings from behind a curtain and stay hidden for too long. He’s decent at it, sure, but it’s neither his expertise nor his passion.

“You’re unfocused,” Scaramouche states, an off-handed comment, lacking any bite or disdain. Tartaglia is scratching through a set of numbers and calculations, cursing in harsh Snezhnayan under his breath. He cards his hand through his ginger hair for the nth time; by now, the auburn locks are messier than ever.

Scaramouche keeps his eyes trained on his own document, continues to fill it out, although he feels Tartaglia’s piercing gaze on him.

“Tense, too.”

And just like that, he drops his shoulders and lets out a long breath. Like this makes him any more relaxed. Scaramouche barely holds back an amused huff at the fruitless effort. He’s still tense, his entire body acting like it’s high on adrenaline. He muses what would happen if he were to make one move a little too quickly, if his hand shot out towards Childe a little too fast — would Childe jump across the table ready to pin him down because he loses himself in the howls of that beast he so desperately tries to drown out currently?

“If you’re going to scratch over the parchment for much more, you’re going to tear it, Lord Tartaglia.”

He smirks at Childe setting down his pen with a bit too much force. “What are you trying to tell me, Scaramouche?” he asks, now clearly pissed off despite his best efforts throughout the entire afternoon.

Putting his head in his hand, he looks up at the other man, still grinning lazily. “I’m trying to tell you, I’d be quicker on my own without all your careless mistakes if you’d rather go wield one of your precious weapons, soldier.”

Unimpressed, he observes as Childe scoffs, grabbing his current parchment and bunching it up into a small little ball, before he turns around in his seat and throws it into the room's open fireplace.

“There, there,” he mocks, “I know using so much of your brainpower and neglecting all that brawn is taking quite the toll on you.”

“Maybe if you stopped neglecting yours, you wouldn’t be such a stick in the scenery anymore,” Childe quips back. Scaramouche grins wider, all teeth and wide eyes.

“Are you sure you want to pick that fight, Tartaglia?”

“Would you humor it, Lord Balladeer?”

Scaramouche sinks back in his seat and crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Is none of your subordinates entertaining you anymore?” he asks.

Childe gives him a sweet, docile smile for that, before he replies, “They just… aren’t doing it for me anymore.”

Which concludes several things: Childe must’ve cycled through all of their subordinates willing to spar with him; Cycling through all of their subordinates in search of a good training partner, he apparently came up empty-handed; Given that back in Snezhnaya he doesn’t have a lot of other options either, since none of the other Harbingers are entertaining him to sparrings, Tartaglia has to invest not just a lot more time, but also a lot more subordinates to train to his satisfaction. A lot of people all at the same time. Over and over again.

At first, he wants to shake his head and decline sweetly, knowing fully well he’s going to torture Tartaglia further, since he can’t train properly anymore it seems. It’s quite funny to see him so restless, especially because he’s easier to rile up like this.

On second thought, he looks back into his murky blue eyes and he finds something even darker hiding below. And he remembers that every time he saw him train, Tartaglia held back.

And that makes Scaramouche itch with the desire to make him snap for good. To finally see him unleash all of his strength, watch it come channeled straight towards him — and defeat Tartaglia although the Eleventh is giving him all he has. Which he never does, not even when he’s on his own.

“Fine,” he agrees with a shrug, observing how Childe’s face visibly lights up in excitement.

“Really?” he asks and upon Scaramouche’s nod, he leans closer, “When?”

And well, it can’t hurt taking the puppy out for a walk, Scaramouche supposes. Sighing, he pushes parchments and documents aside and then gets up. Childe gets the message clearly, getting onto his feet only half a second after Scaramouche.

As they leave Inazuma City, Childe asks him where they’re going. Scaramouche doesn’t stop or look at him, making his way down the stairs, leaving the bustling city behind them. “Kannazuka.”

“Isn’t the Kujou Encampment located there?”

“Don’t worry, we’re going a bit further than that,” Scaramouche replies, “Just getting us a playing field.”

He practically feels Tartaglia shiver in anticipation at those words. There’s something close to a skip in his step and Scaramouche scoffs at how excited he is. It’s just proof of how underchallenged he’s been ever since they got to Inazuma.

He gets them a waverider at the beach of Amakane Island and already then, Scaramouche sees Kannazuka reach out of the water in the distance. It’s a rocky figure with high, steep cliffs. The island’s heart is hidden safely out of view from this angle and for a moment, as Childe boards the waverider before him, Scaramouche feels a lot younger, confronted with the same picture.

A beautiful scenery ahead of him, clear blue skies and an island he learned to call home rising from the fog and waves absolutely idyllic. No one would’ve seen the horror playing out in the midst of it.

It takes roughly an hour for them to get there. Scaramouche carefully steers around the first part of the Archipelago where they can see the watchtowers of the Kujou Encampment in the distance. The sun starts to set by the time they draw close to the beaches between the main island and the encampment. Scaramouche feels his breath hitch in his chest when, after steering clear of a shipwreck in a small area of balethunder, he sees part of the village appear behind the steep, rocky cliffs.

Childe doesn’t take notice of it, it seems, looking in an entirely different direction. He’s much calmer already, as if he’s already had a round of training behind him, but still antsy, fiddling with the Hydro vision on his belt ever so often.

When they reach the beach, Tatarasuna has disappeared behind the cliffs again, hidden from Childe’s fascinated eyes as he takes in the island. Despite the length of their stay, they haven’t been to other Islands than Narukami Island.

“Come on,” Scaramouche calls him as he starts making his way towards the steep, rocky cliffs, forming something akin to a circle around the turned-off furnace in the middle. Childe follows him eagerly, still taking in everything he sees on the way. They stay away from ronin and unbeknownst to Tartaglia, they also stay away from Tatarasuna’s heart. They make it up onto the hill and Scaramouche leads them further up.

As they walk up the overgrown stone path in the middle of the hill, towards the cliffs peak, it comes into sight at last. To Scaramouche’s left, the cliffs descend vertically into the depth and lay free the island’s heart — or whatever pathetic remains are left of it.

This time, Childe sees it too, the huge stone formation with a few houses scattered on top of it, circling a huge mechanism floating in the air. It crackles with static, Scaramouche can hear it even from this distance. The sight causes something to stir uncomfortably inside of him, so he’s quick to stomp it out again and look away — unlike the Eleventh.

“What is that?” he hears him ask, completely baffled.

“Don’t get too close!” he snaps immediately, turning his head to give him a glare over his shoulder. True to his assumption, Childe has strayed from the path and has stepped closer to the edge of the cliff, curiously peeking down at the deserted village. Scaramouche feels nauseous. Maybe Tatarasuna wasn’t the best idea after all — but he needed a place that wouldn’t draw a lot of attention and keep any casualties at bay. If he wants to break Childe down, he needs to be ruthless. He can’t have people around then. And Tatarasuna has been abandoned for a long time now.

At his outburst, Childe turns his head to look at him, eyes wide, lips parted the slightest in confusion and wonder. “Why not?”

“The entire area is full of balethunder,” he spits, redirecting his gaze so he doesn’t have to lay his eyes upon the shambles of another life. The roots of a betrayal that still reach so, so deep and hurt even worse, “The concentration is as high as nowhere else. You’d die in a matter of minutes.”

“But— there’s a village!”

Scaramouche keeps silent and starts walking again, continuing towards the cliff’s highest point. He can hear Childe’s steps catching up behind him. The static crackling stays in Scaramouche’s ears, albeit it becomes a little more quiet, like white noise at the back of his head.

The path is a familiar one, but he tries not to think of the steps he treaded centuries ago, eyes as curious as Childe’s now, laughter and awe by his side.

“What happened here?” he hears the Eleventh ask as they draw close to the cliff’s highest point. With the clear sky above them, it’s a vantage point, allowing Scaramouche to see miles into the distance. He can see the silhouettes of Mt. Yougou and Tenshukaku even from here.

“No one knows what happened at Mikage Furnace,” he says, turning around to face the ginger. Childe throws the abandoned furnace in the distance another look. “No one?”

“One of the higher-ups implemented an information blackout in an attempt to control the situation. There are no records about what went down here.”

Childe is attentive, especially when he’s about to have a fight — training or not. He visibly perks up at Scaramouche’s words and narrows his eyes. He takes a few steps closer to him, rolls his head as if to work some knots out.

“And how would you know about an information blackout if you don’t know why it was implemented?”

Scaramouche momentarily freezes when he realizes his own mistake, but he’s quick to brush over it, allowing for his temporary annoyance at Childe’s perception to rush through his system. “Aren’t you here for a fight, Tartaglia?” he snaps, raising his hands as he lets static run through his body. Electric currents start to spring from his fingertips, violent, purple flashes ready to discharge, “So why do you keep talking?!”

Childe only grins at that. He bares his teeth as his shoulders drop and he straightens up fully. For the first time, Scaramouche thinks he can see the hint of light in his azure eyes while Childe licks his lips and takes on a fighting stance. A familiar set of Hydro blades appear in his hands. Good. Water conducts, no matter what shape Tartaglia forces it to take.

“Give me your best shot.”

Despite these words, it’s Childe who delivers the first blow, almost immediately after speaking. He doesn’t wait for Scaramouche to make his move as he immediately hurls a set of slashing water at him. Again, the little trick reminds him of Abyss Heralds and it barely poses a threat to him, dancing out of the attack’s range with nimble steps.

He doesn’t hesitate to reciprocate the kindness with a lighting thundering down in the very spot Childe is located at. “You think you can play it safe from a distance?!” he yells with a cackle as the flash comes down, coloring the area around him an ominous purple for a split second.

Turns out, the Eleventh is as quick on his feet as Scaramouche, because he dodges the attack unscathed. The thick smell of ozone lingers in the air between them. He hears him laugh, deep and full of satisfaction as if he’s already won the fight. It makes Scaramouche’s blood boil, seeing that feral grin stretched out on his lips as he spins his blades slowly in his hands. “Impressive. None of the skirmishers are capable of that trick.”

Scaramouche sneers at him and sends another wave of crackling Electro Childe’s way. The static in the air makes itself heard with deep rumbles of thunder only seconds later. It must be quite the occurrence to anyone close enough to hear it, seeing clear blue skies but hearing indicators of a thunderstorm rapidly approaching.

One could say, the stacks are a little uneven, because Childe’s range of attacks isn’t exactly suited for a lot of distance. The Hydro is sharp and reaches far, but it’s not as fast as the lightning descending down onto the cliff at breakneck speed. Still, Childe does not complain. If anything, he’s exhilarated and more concentrated than he’s been in weeks.

They both perform a terrifying dance of power around each other and Childe is the first to count a hit as he hurls one of his blades at Scaramouche rather than sending another slashing wave. The weapon is faster and it’s only thanks to trained reflexes that Scaramouche manages to dodge enough to avoid a critical wound. Still, the Hydro leaves a cut, albeit not deep enough to be concerning. And Scaramouche seethes with rage at that.

Childe laughs in sheer delight when he sees his expression and realizes he was successful, another blade appearing in his hand. Before he has the chance to throw that one, too, Scaramouche charges lightning at him. Not one or two, but an onslaught — and Childe can’t do anything but dance to his will. With the skill of a warrior that has done nothing else but proved his combat for years, he moves as the lighting strikes; right where he just stood, licking at the heels of his feet as he surges forward; stepping to the left when there’s another one zapping down. The ozone in the air is almost choking and so is Scaramouche’s hurt pride as he orchestrates the static with manic cruelty, rooted in place unlike his opponent.

Childe doesn’t waver once as he dodges the furious attacks, not even when he’s not quick enough for one and barely manages to pull up a shield of Hydro to block the lighting. Despite his anger, Scaramouche has to admit he’s skilled beyond anything the Fatui could ever teach their recruits — using water to block electricity. Another reminder that he didn’t learn these things at Zapolyarny Palace.

Tartaglia heads towards him as he escapes the onslaught of lighting. Fortunately for him, Scaramouche can’t keep up such quick successions of Electro for too long, so when he’s close enough for an attack, he gives up on the downpour and instead, hurls a wave of static at him, similar to Childe’s own technique with his Hydro vision.

This time, Childe’s not fast enough. He gasps at the impact and then he’s sent flying several meters, landing at the foot of an old, destroyed shrine.

Any other person would need a moment to gather themselves. Scaramouche has witnessed it often enough to know that that attack is always going to crown him as the winner, because the shock conducted to the system, the locked up limbs, it all has to dissipate at first. By then, Scaramouche has already reached them, ready for another brutal set of attacks.

Childe, though, is not like any other person. As he draws closer, Scaramouche watches him getting up almost immediately after touching the ground. He doesn’t stagger, doesn’t sway and worst of all, he laughs. He chuckles, absolutely delighted, it seems.

His precious coat is a little frayed and there’s dirty smudges on his cheek but Childe doesn’t care about that as he materializes his weapons again, shoulders shaking from his amusement. He faces Scaramouche with wild glee, the greed in his eyes so clear, it reminds him of his own.

This is what he lives for.

Maybe his loyalty for the Tsaritsa is nothing but loyalty for the beast lurking beneath his skin, wanting to tear apart flesh and bones with a good enough excuse that won’t land him in jail.

Tartaglia isn’t here to fuck around. He wants to draw blood.

He charges at Scaramouche only seconds later, blades as sharp as ever and Scaramouche barely deflects them, has to jump out of the way and duck so as to not get his throat sliced by the tip of the sword.

Adrenaline thrums through his veins and blood rushes in his ears as he summons another cascade of lighting, stronger than before. It seems the longer this drags on, the stronger Childe becomes, as if he’s feeding off of the fight itself, the excitement and adrenaline coursing through his body. He dodges the attacks with ease, ready to come at Scaramouche with all he’s got.

Or… almost.

In the frenzy of their fight, it’s difficult to observe as well as when Scaramouche’s on the sidelines. But as he rushes to the side and charges another attack, hitting Childe square in the shoulder, he notices it. He’s quick on his feet and his reflexes are marvelous. He’s observant, trying to get a hit in whenever Scaramouche is just the slightest bit inattentive. Every step is calculated and his eyes analyze him to the fullest.

But his attacks are soft. Not that they’re not a brutal force itself — but they’re too weak compared to everything else. They don’t come at the same speed as Tartaglia moves himself. He marks Scaramouche with riptide once and yet it feels like he doesn’t try to get the fullest out of the moment, as if he’s still keeping something at bay.

It makes Scaramouche angrier than any of the hits he endures and it shows in every single one of his attacks. The air cracks around them and as the fight goes on, the sun sets lower. Scaramouche uses more force. The Electro comes even quicker, hits even harder, but Childe barely staggers when the attack finds its goal.

“Is that all you’ve got?!” he shouts, hurling himself towards Scaramouche right afterwards. He’s better at close combat, his blades spinning in a deadly circle. Still, it resembles Abyss Heralds, as he summons slashes of Hydro at closer distance rather than directly using his blades against Scaramouche’s body.

“Speak for yourself!” Scaramouche feels his voice strain in his throat as he screams, accompanied by the static crackling of his powers. It’s amplified by the Hydro shield Childe uses for blocking it.

There’s a thin line determining if his rage will make him careless and an ideal target or if it tips to the other side and it makes him the terrifying being he was always supposed to be, divine power unlocking in his chest the way one would call upon the powers stored inside a Gnosis. Scaramouche has yet to use his full power on Tartaglia, which fills him with enough arrogant satisfaction as to not become blind with fury at the realization that even with him, the other man is holding back in a fight.

Still, he cranks it up a notch; his skin feels like it’s on fire and the hair at the back of his head sticks to the skin of his neck with sweat as he unloads another blow of sizzling Electro against Childe.

He’s swept off his feet in an instant and, shaking with fury, he watches as Childe takes a few seconds to get back up onto his feet this time. And yet there’s no change in his attitude. He takes the blow and he dishes it right back out at Scaramouche, grinning in maniac glee, surging forward yet again. So unafraid, it’s almost careless.

Break, Scaramouche thinks, summoning another wave of lighting. He wants him to snap, he wants to wipe that grin off his face and see Tartaglia narrow his eyes at him. He wants to see him seething with the same anger, wants him to go for a kill, blinded by that greed in his eyes.

He delivers a blow so fierce, the ground shakes beneath them. It’s the first time he gets something other than a grin from Tartaglia. He widens his eyes in surprise, watches the spot he just jumped away from and the indent in the ground, grass smothered and smoke curling up, before his eyes flicker back to meet Scaramouche’s.

Break.

The electricity runs through him, making him a high-voltage body itself and he sees Childe part his lips in awe when he raises his hands high above his head, with spiderwebs of lightning zapping from them, reaching the ground beneath.

Break, break, break—

The Hydro in Tartaglia’s hands dissolves as the electricity in the air becomes unbearable and Scaramouche notices as Childe loses his footing. He didn’t expect that — Scaramouche makes use of it with no mercy. He lets lighting strike, harder than before and he lets it explode right into Tartaglia’s stomach.

The air is punched out of him in one swift move and he’s hurled backwards with the impact of it. His fall is more graceful this time; his legs give out and he falls to his knees with a frenzied gasp, clutching at his chest for a few seconds. He shudders, aftershocks still running through his body and then—

he gives up.

“Shit, Scaramouche,” he coughs, not looking up from his spot in the grass as he doubles over and supports himself with his hands against the ground. He’s still heaving.

Scaramouche stares at him in utter disbelief and Childe continues, “You’ve gotta teach me that one.”

He gives up.

Scaramouche’s anger tips from divinity to blindness.

He throws his head back in a hysterical laugh, still not coming down from the high and he stalks over to Tartaglia immediately. He uses no Electro or anything of the like when he kicks him harshly against the shoulder, causing him to sit back and look up at him. Childe pulls a grimace, like he wasn’t the one to just declare defeat on Scaramouche.

Victory has never tasted this bitter on his tongue. He’s not about to get used to that.

“Are you mocking me?!” he snaps, unable to quell the fury boiling beneath his skin. One wrong word from Tartaglia and he’s going to fry his brains out. Then, at least, he won’t have to bother with leaving him behind after obtaining the Gnosis. When Childe doesn’t immediately answer, instead blinking up at him, stumped, he almost goes through with it then and there. “Answer!”

Still a little stupefied, Childe chuckles. “You’ve won–”

“Have I?!” he cuts him off, a shrill ring to his voice. He glares down at Childe and reaches out to grab a fistful of those auburn locks. His grip is harsh as he tugs at the hair, forcing his head back and laying his throat bare. Childe hisses at the unexpected sting, eyes narrowed as he watches Scaramouche.

“Have I?” Scaramouche repeats, curling his fingers harder into the strands, “Or have you let me win?”

“I don’t understand—”

“You’re holding back!” he screams, bending down lower to get closer to Childe’s face. He tries to draw in a deep breath, but Scaramouche fails, too high-strung, too angry. He gives Childe’s hair another harsh tug, “You’ve been holding back ever since I’ve seen you for the first time! What is it, Tartaglia?! Think I can’t handle you at your best? You’re insulting me.”

Childe watches him for a long moment. His lips are pressed into a thin line and his eyes are daggers piercing through Scaramouche and yet he’s deadly still, barely breathing anymore.

“You might want to let go,” he mumbles, still pinning Scaramouche down with his stare. It’s harsh, unforgiving and Scaramouche knows he’s finally got through to him. He’s finally cracking.

He doesn’t get the chance to answer. Suddenly, there’s lighting appearing around Childe and Scaramouche has to draw back in order not to get hit by them. As he lets go of him and takes a step back, he keeps watching Tartaglia slowly getting to his feet. The lighting must be a product of his delusion — the way his legs start to glow purpleish, though, isn’t one. There’s Hydro surrounding him the next second, drawing around Childe like a vortex and then there’s another flash of purple and suddenly Tartaglia seems bigger.

He can barely hear anything over the violent static crackling and the sloshing water, lightning continuing to zap all around the Eleventh’s body just like Scaramouche did it seconds ago. First, he deems it an attack, something Tartaglia copied in the spur of the moment, but then Scaramouche realizes that he is changing. Transforming.

Hands are replaced by black scales for claws. There’s a cape floating down his back, reminiscent of the vast night sky littered with stars. Scaramouche has trouble looking at it directly, as it seems to be non-material as much as physically there at the same time. Childe’s hair is swept back instead of being the usual unruly auburn mop and armor surrounds his torso as the mask he always wears on the side of his head is suddenly pulled in front of his face, a lot bigger than before. The most unsettling thing about it, though, is the singular, purple eye glowing dangerously in the middle of it and the horn-like extensions that have grown out of it.

It happens in all but a few seconds, but the sight causes another spike of adrenaline in Scaramouche’s system. Childe is able to hover above ground like this, whatever it is, and the purple eye is fixed on him as he comes back onto the ground. A double-sided spear materializes in his hand (claw?), seemingly coated in the same material as the cape, though its color is a dark blue.

He’s still wearing his vision, attached to the cape around his neck, and his delusion too, the centerpiece of another piece of armor at his waist — but this isn’t his Hydro vision at work, nor is it the Electro delusion. This is something entirely different. Bigger, darker, more dangerous than Tartaglia himself. There’s the distinctive stench of the abyss’ shadows clinging to it.

Scaramouche’s first guess is an Abyss Herald, which would explain the similar combat style. But he casts that thought aside only a second later again when Tartaglia lets out a deep, low rumble. It reverberates through Scaramouche’s hollow chest and he realizes it’s a laugh. He’s enjoying this.

This is a step further than a simple Abyss Herald. Or several steps. It’s not from this world and doesn’t belong above the surface and yet it’s here. And Childe has made it his loyal beast.

Scaramouche’s pretty sure if he were to have a functioning heart, it’d be pounding in his chest right now, pure exhilaration rushing through him. His lips pull into a wicked grin at the sight of whatever it is, that Tartaglia has let free right in front of him, despite the biting, rotting smell the abyss brings with it wherever it appears.

“Is that what you wanted, Balladeer?” he hears Childe ask, the same deep, distorted rumble as before instead of the voice Scaramouche has grown used to. He’s fallen back into Snezhnayan now, his focus only on the fight ahead of them. He spins the spear in his hand to show-off before he settles it on top of his shoulder and cocks his head to the side ever so slightly. There’s still tiny lighting zapping around his form, which tells him that Childe makes use of the delusion in the state he’s in right now. Interesting.

Is this more of an armor to withstand stronger opponents or does it come with more perks? One of them surely has to be that Tartaglia has become impossibly huge through it. Scaramouche probably only reaches up to his waist now.

“That’s it,” he whispers, huffing out a laugh as he rakes his eyes over the imposing form once more, “Give it to me, Tartaglia.”

There’s no stopping the Eleventh from them on. He takes the invitation and charges forward. This form makes him a lot faster and Scaramouche suddenly has to watch his steps as Childe surges across the field. He lifts the spear high above his head with a single arm, poising it like the embodiment of punishment and Scaramouche only has enough time to get out of the way before it plunges down into the ground, emitting a shockwave of lightning as the spear’s end lodges deep in the earth.

Childe growls. Scaramouche isn’t sure if it still even is Childe he’s fighting with, analyzing the way he tears the weapon out of the ground again and head whipping around to find Scaramouche only an instant later. The eye seated in the middle of the red mask is not so much an eye as it is a smoothened, polished jewel, an amethyst, maybe, yet it feels like it’s glaring at him, full of fury, hatred, manic bloodlust.

Childe wanted to draw blood. This thing… this wants to kill.

Still, Scaramouche feels no fear as he dodges another furious attack with expertise that Childe has yet to gain no matter this ace up his sleeve. He laughs, almost hysterical and then he unleashes his own power, the full force of it, and charges it against the warrior in front of him.

“Is that why the Tsaritsa appointed you to the eleventh seat?” he asks, grinning feral as the huge lighting strikes across the space between them. Childe manages to get out of its way with ease, “Is it because you’re housing this?!”

The perfect warrior. A soldier like no one else; combat skills that exceed his age and wisdom. Strength that has left a trail of soldiers and skirmishers in its wake before he was appointed the Eleventh. Tartaglia already has it all, but this? This seems like it can take an army all by itself. Indestructible and fuelled by a centuries old hatred.

This time it’s Scaramouche landing the first hit. It’s a harsh one, sending Tartaglia’s new form flying against one of the old shrines. The stone shatters and cracks upon the impact, which confirms Scarmaouche’s theory that Childe is indeed wearing an armor for a skin. He gets up seconds later again, the spear flying back into his hand.

Scaramouche cackles in delight at the successful blow and the glaring eye on the mask only seems to get more aggravated.

“How fitting for Her Majesty to use a godless monster as she overthrows the heavens!”

It strikes a nerve it seems, because Childe lashes out like never before. With a bone-chilling roar, he surges forward and all Scaramouche can do for the next few moments is block one cruel attack after the other. The lighting hits home more than he’d like despite his best efforts, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. The world around them becomes a blur of deeply saturated colors of the sunrise as they dance around each other in quick succession. The choking scent of ozone hangs heavy in the air, probably worse than down in Mikage Furnace. Purple lightning is all around them, but Childe has two advantages in this fight: he’s bigger than Scaramouche and he wields a weapon at the same time as he uses Electro at his free will.

The lighting he conjures up are one thing, but apart from these, Scaramouche has to dodge the deadly swings of the massive double-sided spear. One hit is dangerously close as Childe almost slices through his robes, right across his chest. In the last moment, Scaramouche manages to jerk away from the spear’s tip, glaring up at the single purple eye sitting in the mask.

He chases Scaramouche around on the cliff and the second Scaramouche loses his footing, Childe sees his chance. One claw tears through the front of his attire, leaving torn traces similar to those of a wild animal and a singing pain across his chest tells him that he managed to get his skin, too. The other hand pushes directly against his torso, bringing so much force with the movement that he staggers backward, feeling the air leave his lungs in one swift go at the impact.

Next, he feels burning pain explode in the middle of his chest, close to where a heart would lie. Scaramouche yelps and he feels his limbs lock up from the overload of electricity that zaps through his entire body. When Childe draws his knee up into his stomach, he can’t do anything but double over, gagging, before he stumbles backwards. His vision is blurry, unfocused and his mechanisms can barely work through the Electro. It takes him several seconds to regain control over himself and when he looks up, Childe hasn’t moved a single inch, surprisingly.

The spear rests on his shoulders again, head leaning to the side, just like at the beginning of their fight. He seems to inspect him.

“You’re no human,” the creature rumbles, voice piqued with interest. The statement confirms what Scaramouche has already known: He tried to kill him just now. Stop his heart with a voltage too high to deal with.

A manic grin spread on his lips. “Not bad,” he laughs, straightening up. He lifts his hands, drawing Electro. It buzzes in his ears, the ozone is almost nauseating, but Scaramouche can only laugh. “But you’ll need more than that to kill me!”

He can’t keep track of how long the second round draws. How often he delivers a fatal blow and Childe still gets back up on his feet. Tartaglia isn’t getting further either, as Scaramouche is smaller and faster than him, dodging brutal force more often than it hits the target. The sky around them grows darker by the second, yet the place is lit by purple flashes every other second. Childe melts back into the night, making it harder for Scaramouche to attack him properly. Neither of them give up.

There’s a moment when Tartaglia forces Scaramouche down onto the ground. He stopped working with the lightning a few attacks ago, realizing the electricity isn’t going to kill Scaramouche anytime soon (How could it, when it’s been an integral part of his entire mechanism, born from the hands that wield the power like no one else?) and instead, he has moved on to relentless close combat. The spear comes with a force that could shatter human bones beyond repair, proof of Childe’s reckless blood thirst.

After another set of quick attacks, he brings Scaramouche to fall, and there’s nothing but a thin, crackling shield of Electro saving him from one tip of the spear being pushed into his throat. Tartaglia towers over him, growling as the weapon doesn’t budge against the shield and he lets up, only to bring it down harsher the next moment. Scaramouche barely breathes with the adrenaline in his veins, holding the shield with all his might.

“Yield,” the abyssal creature hisses, deep and distorted. Scaramouche laughs right into his face. “Make me.”

The spear comes down again. Childe uses both hands now as he tries to push past the shield and Scaramouche can hear his only saving grace cracking further. It’s the first time there’s a spark of fear igniting in his chest.

“Yield!”

In a last attempt to save himself, Scaramouche conjures up every last bit of divine power stored inside his body. The continuous force against his shield makes it difficult to focus on two things at the same time, but he has no choice. The shield almost splinters as he releases his left hand, holding it up only with his right now. There’s cracks running across the thin, shimmering surface, a terrifying zigzag and his breath hitches in his chest as he sees them appear.

Childe sees it too and he lifts his spear again, high above his head to ram it down for the last time and inevitably sever Scaramouche’s head off his shoulders. Before he’s able to do so, Scaramouche wraps his left hand around his ankle, as much as he can grab it, that is. His fingers scramble for purchase and Childe almost tears himself out of the grip, if it weren’t for Scaramouche being a tiny fraction faster than him.

He discharges lightning right into his body. It illuminates Childe for a moment, purple outlines all around his body as the shock zaps through him at inhumane speed. It’s a voltage that no normal human could ever withstand and Scaramouche uses all of what he’s got left of his power, a last attempt to overpower the Eleventh.

Wide-eyed he watches as Tartaglia above him cramps up, jerking with the overload in his system. The spear clatters to the ground right next to Scaramouche and with a groan, Childe staggers away from him, only to fall to his knees right afterwards.

Panting, Scaramouche keeps his eyes trained on Childe as the Eleventh topples over, finally, rolling onto his back with a groan, his limbs outstretched. One of his clawed hands nudges against Scaramouche’s shoulder and only then, he finally releases the weakened shield.

Childe is wheezing just like him, but Scaramouche’s pride is too big for his body, so he staggers to his feet, gasping for air. The breeze that surrounds the cliff makes his sweaty skin shiver, hitting him in the face properly after what feels like hours of unforgiving combat. It helps clearing his head as he drags his exhausted body over to Childe’s, only to drop himself on top of him, straddling his torso.

Childe audibly groans behind the mask. Now, his voice is no longer as deep and distorted as before, merely the shadow of what it sounded like remains and the purple eye has lost its glow.

“I won, “Scaramouche heaves, although he’s just as exhausted as Childe is, unwilling to admit defeat or a tie. A chuckle rushes out of Tartaglia and Scaramouche gets to observe how the abyssal form slowly returns to where it was hidden away before. It breaks off Childe’s body the way dried blood or mud does, shards of hardened armor plates splintering off his skin. Beneath the outer layer of abyssal morass, Childe’s mortal, human body comes to light again, fully dressed.

It’s fascinating to witness it happen, see that it breaks into pieces instead of retreating back in the same way it appeared. Scaramouche reaches out to graze his fingertips over one of the splinters, feeling the hardened plate himself.

As the rest of his body comes undone again, so does Tartaglia’s face. The huge, red mask cracks on the side and glides off his face slowly. Beneath it, Scaramouche sees the first part of freckled skin again. The crack reaches diagonally through the mask, laying free Childe’s mouth, a part of his nose and one eye.

Dazed, Childe blinks up at him, as if he’s having trouble focusing. He draws in a desperate gasp of air, lips parted as he tries to regulate his breathing. Then, that azure eye finds Scaramouche.

“I almost killed you,” he whispers, voice hoarse like he hasn’t had anything to drink in days. There’s the ghost of a grin on his lips and Scaramouche has to fight his own.

“But you couldn’t.”

“Neither could you.”

He’s right about that, with Scaramouche having exhausted his entire reservoir of strength. Scoffing, he reaches up to brush the other part of the mask off his face, too. It moves easily against his fingers, falling into the grass around them and Childe takes another shuddering inhale at being freed properly.

He gazes up into the night sky like he’s seeing it for the very first time, like he’s coming back from a long, hazy dream, but stays unmoving apart from his heaving chest. Scaramouche spots a Lichtenberg figure blooming on Childe’s neck, reaching all the way up to his jaw. The white outlines diminish and grow smaller as they reach the collar of his jacket and disappear beneath the fabric. Slowly, he traces over some of the lines. Childe suppresses a pained sound, taking another, staggering breath.

When Scaramouche’s eyes jump back to his, he finds them squeezed closed. He swallows hard.

“Does it hurt?”

“The Lichtenberg figures? No,” he rushes out through grit teeth, “They’re a bit numb, but they’ll disappear within a few hours.”

Scaramouche’s hand travels lower, over to his shoulder where still a plate of hardened skin sits. He runs his fingertips along the blunt edge. “But this?”

It takes Childe a few moments to answer, admitting in a low hush, “A little.”

The breeze tousles Childe’s unruly locks and he blinks his eyes open to find Scaramouche. His lips quirk up into a wobbly little smile, “Don’t worry, I’m used to it.”

Usually, Scaramouche would have a snide remark ready on his tongue, how he doesn’t care let alone worry — but technically, he was the one to goad Tartaglia into doing this, using this… whatever it is. So he’s at fault here.

His fingers brush through sweaty, auburn strands in a silent apology and Childe stirs for the first time after crumbling to the ground, slowly turning his head towards the sensation, leaning in with an exhausted sigh. It sounds almost relieved. A tremor runs through Scaramouche’s fingers, but he continues the motion, uncharacteristically soft of him.

“Feeling better now?” he asks, his voice still carrying its ever-lasting brash tone. He means the restless energy in Childe’s system more than the pain subsiding. Childe grins once more and the corners of his eyes wrinkle. “I feel like I could sleep through the downfall of the Heavenly Principles,” he confesses with a scratchy laugh. Scaramouche shakes his head with a low chuckle.

“I bet you’re the last person allowed to sleep through that.”

Childe takes a deep breath, already a lot calmer than before. His eyes rest heavily on Scaramouche and then, with another, tiny yelp, he lifts his arm and mimics Scaramouche’s action, brushing aside sweaty bangs as he drags his hand, no claws and hardened scales anymore, through his hair, untangling knots.

They shouldn’t be doing this. The feeling Scaramouche gets from this sits heavy in his tummy, wraps tightly around his lungs and throat, makes it hard to look away from Childe’s azure eyes. But he doesn’t want to stop. Doesn’t want to withdraw his hand and miss the feeling of Childe’s hair between his fingers. Doesn’t want to avert his gaze and focus on something less interesting than the expressions shifting across the Eleventh’s face. He doesn’t want to.

He’s yearning, but he’s not sure for what exactly. After all, he’s never been good with human emotions, barely getting the gist of them, unable to handle any properly that weren’t idle contentment.

“The Tsaritsa doesn’t know of it,” Childe mumbles, blinking almost sluggishly as his eyes follow the movement of his own hand.

Scaramouche raises an eyebrow. “She doesn’t?”

“No one– ah!” Childe flinches in pain, but Scaramouche can’t pinpoint where it’s coming from. With another sharp inhale, he presses out, “No one does.”

No one but Scaramouche. He doesn’t know what to make of that information, but some part of him, probably the same that doesn’t want to take his eyes off Childe, wishes to keep it close to the empty spot in his chest.

“Just me, then? I am honored, Tartaglia,” he taunts, leaning down to get closer to Tartaglia. The Eleventh watches him curiously, eyes stuck on him as his hand comes to a stop in his hair. Scaramouche uses his elbows on either side of Childe’s head to support himself and not add additional weight on his body. Not that he’d be particularly heavy, but Childe’s still in pain and that’s still Scaramouche’s doing. For today, he doesn’t have to add on top of that.

Still, he lets his lips spread into a tiny, mischievous grin as he breathes against Childe’s face. He can smell his scent this close, ocean breeze and pine wood.

“Just you,” Childe confirms with a tiny nod. He parts his lips around a soft exhale. “It’s always just you.”

Before he can ask what he means by that, Childe lifts his head off the ground and closes the distance between their faces for good. A heartbeat later, he feels Childe’s mouth on his. Kissing him.

Tatarasuna is an island littered with memories. It’s where his mother laid him to rest after barely even opening his eyes. It’s where he found his first friend and then his first family. Mikage Furnace is where the village people taught him to forge a sword, where they taught him to write and read and cook and use chopsticks. It’s where his first betrayal still lingers, etched deeply into the ruins of a village that used to be a very long time ago.

He turned his back on it in hopes to never set foot on it again, to never be confronted with any of these memories ever again.

And now it is Tatarasuna once more, where he experiences his first proclamation of deep affection.

He knows what it means, Scaramouche has seen it often enough, a kiss. He knows about its meaning, because he still remembers watching married couples exchanging them ever so often. At first, in utter confusion, later with envy twisting inside his ribcage, because Scaramouche never had someone to call his own like that. And back then, centuries ago, he still wished to feel as deeply as a human possibly could, longed for emotions to take him by storm — desired a heart he could share with someone else in return.

A few decades later, Dottore asked him something along the same lines, curious about how deep his misplaced feelings can reach.

“Have you ever harbored affection for someone?”

Scaramouche doesn’t know how deep they go. He hasn’t let anyone come close enough to see where his limits to feeling lie. He always assumed that there was a limit, since he never was supposed to feel anything at all. It’s the reason he was abandoned, his mother didn’t account for such a mechanism. He assumed it would be an attest to his being — cursed to experience human emotions and yet also cursed to never experience them to their fullest either, because he isn’t human after all.

But now, as he curls his fingers tighter around Tartaglia’s ginger locks and gasps for air in sheer surprise at the action, he’s not sure if the limit’s really there. His stomach is tying knots, he hears the blood rushing in his ears, but this adrenaline spike is different from the exhilaration of a fight.

He’s inexperienced and therefore clumsy as he moves his lips sloppily against Childe’s, unsure of what to do, how to act. First, he keeps his eyes open, trying to make sense of the warmth flooding him as his entire body goes rigid against Childe’s. His thighs clamp around his ribs and Childe yelps in pain, withdrawing from him.

At that, Scaramouche jerks back, eyes even wider and for some reason he feels more like Kabukimono than Scaramouche that very second, curious yet afraid, scared of doing something wrong, an apology on the tip of his tongue and no understanding of the world. If it weren’t for Childe’s hand still lying in his hair, he would’ve scrambled to his feet and made sure to keep his distance for good. Like this, though, he stays seated on top of him, still as a statue as Childe blinks his eyes open and focuses on him.

“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbles, giving Scaramouche that boyish grin of his, “That was just— unexpected.”

“Unexpected?” he repeats, finally regaining his dignity, “Unexpected?! What are you doing, kissing me like that?! Who allowed you– you are beneath me—”

“But you liked it, didn’t you?”

He shuts up at that question, staring down at Childe. The latter seems unfazed by his little outburst and meets his gaze in a curious manner. His murky blue eyes are sincere, for once no teasing smile on his lips.

Lips Scaramouche just felt on his own. His gaze flickers back up to his eyes right after finishing that thought. “If you think I’d enjoy such mundane things, then you’re dumber than I thought,” he hisses.

Now, Childe’s lips quirk up into a tiny smile. “Then why aren’t you getting up?”

He contemplates pushing against Childe’s ribcage again, just for good measure, as the Eleventh rests the hand in his hair flatly against the back of his hand and begins to pull him down once more. Scaramouche lets him, albeit a bit reserved. He follows Childe’s guidance until their faces are only inches apart again.

“I liked it,” the Eleventh whispers, still in Snezhnayan.

Scaramouche likes it better, he realizes, hearing him speak in his mother tongue. His voice is fuller with emotion then, deep and rich and melodic like a song falling from Childe’s lips. He gulps, eyes flickering across his entire face.

“Then why are you hesitating now?” he mumbles, his voice lacking any of the bite he wanted to put behind it. Childe smirks but he doesn’t respond anymore, too busy to seal their lips together once more.

This time, Scaramouche is better prepared. He mimics Childe, shuts his eyes the second it happens and lets out a shaky little breath. Childe takes the lead without any hesitation. His fingers play with Scaramouche’s hair and he gently moves his lips. His other hand comes to rest on his jaw, tilting his head slightly to the side.

The pace he sets is slow, languid, allowing for Scaramouche to test the waters as he reciprocates, trying to repeat the movements. He stays very still in Childe’s hold, lets himself be swept up by large hands and the ocean breeze and allows for the warmth to spread out into his whole body. The yearning in his chest intensifies, the very feeling he’s been dealing with for days now. From watching Childe struggle with Scaramouche’s mother tongue to beating him at Shogi to fighting him to now. He knows what it is now.

He grows securer by the second. They never truly break apart, only pulling away by a few millimeters at a time, taking a few gasping breaths. Scaramouche barely opens his eyes in these moments, pulled into a comfortable haze as Childe runs his gloved fingertips over his flushed cheek in a tender caress.

Time comes to a stillstand on that cliff. It feels like the air has come to a stop, like memories and life and the entire world has faded out all around them as Scaramouche takes up the sensation of Childe’s mouth, parting his lips as the Eleventh slowly runs his tongue over them.

Slowly, his insecurity trickles away and gets replaced with eager enthusiasm. He’d be lying if he said he doesn’t like this and Childe knows it, too, one hand coming to rest at the base of his neck as the other one wraps around his back, pulling him even closer to his body.

Scaramouche almost loses his balance and knocks his head against Childe as he supports himself with his hands in the grass. Tartaglia isn’t deterred by that, keeps kissing the air right out of his lungs, breathing something else deep into them, something that feels just as light, but also a lot like obsession. Scaramouche wouldn’t want to stop even if the world was ending right now, wants more and more and more, take and take and take, for all the decades he never did.

At some point, when he’s a bit too eager for the next kiss, their teeth clack together slightly. It pulls a chuckle out of Childe, but Scaramouche doesn’t get to pull away and curse at him, embarrassment flooding all his senses, because the ginger keeps him in place, pressing his lips against his without any intention of pulling away.

Scaramouche feels him lick into his mouth, then, slow and lazy, but it feels like a punch to his abdomen, a knot coiling tightly together. He inhales sharply, grasping for purchase at the soft blades of grass and flowers trampled to the ground because of their fight.

Childe groans, low in the back of his throat, only making Scaramouche feel hotter as the knot coils tighter. He squirms on top of him before he pulls away. He cups Tartaglia’s face with his hands and lets his head hang low, slowly coming back to reality as he tries to calm his erratic breathing. Beneath him, Childe laughs softly.

He takes Scaramouche’s chin in one hand, prodding at his bottom lip with his thumb. When Scaramouche lifts his head to look at him, Childe grins, still breathless. “I’ve wanted to do that for ages.”

Scaramouche only manages to scoff and roll his eyes at him. “You’re embarrassing,” he hisses, although he feels his own cheeks heat up traitorously. It only makes Childe laugh, his hand slipping from his face down to the naked skin of his thigh, right below the end of his shorts.

He decides to get off Childe at last, lifting himself off his torso and plopping down in the soft, moist grass next to him. The spear has shattered like the armor, but now, as Scaramouche tries to find the broken pieces that were strewn all around Childe, he finds nothing anymore. As if they’ve grown fluid and the ground had absorbed them while they were caught up with each other.

It finally shifts his attention away from Childe’s pretty, plumb lips again. He watches as the Eleventh slowly sits up, still groaning from exhaustion. At least by now, most of the pain seems to be gone as he moves more freely, looking around and stretching his arms a bit.

“What was that?” he asks him, his voice soft beneath the veil of darkness. Childe turns his head in an instant, nothing of the carefree joy left on his face when he looks at Scaramouche. It’s silent for a long moment and then Childe draws his legs to his body and repositions himself to sit cross-legged. He turns around, his back facing Scaramouche and he tips his head back to look up at the sky. His hair falls with gravity, softly moving in the breeze and Scaramouche wants to reach out again and card his hand through it, already missing the sensation.

He feels drunk on the feeling of affection already.

“My master called it Foul Legacy,” he says, tearing through the silence, “I don’t know what it is, only that it is… It’s like… a symbiosis.” Scaramouche doesn’t move, eyes trained on the other man as he trails the constellations in the sky, it seems. “I am its host, it feeds off me, my energy, and in return, it lends me all its strength at my disposal to use. It takes a toll on the body, though, that’s why I use it as a last resort. It… deforms me to fit me anew. And when it breaks off, everything has to shift back into its usual place.”

It sounds like a painful process and reminds Scaramouche of the countless times on Dottore’s lab table, being dissected like an animal for the cause of the Second’s segments. He would be picked apart over and over again, joints loosened so his fellow Harbinger could examine them properly. He would cut his skin open, would try to shut off his mechanism (it’s the only thing he always failed at. It seems there is no off-button for a puppet like him, as Dottore called it.) and Scaramouche had to endure endless hours and groveling pain all in return for unlocking powers that his mother didn’t want him to use. Sometimes, those experiments felt more taxing than the expeditions down into the abyss.

“Your master,” he mumbles, “are they an Abyss Herald?”

This gets Childe to turn his head and look at him, completely baffled. “Why would you think that?”

He shrugs, ripping a blade of grass from the ground. “Your techniques. They’re similar to them.”

“I don’t think she is, no.” Childe redirects his gaze once more, though there’s a smile tugging at his lips now, “Honestly, I barely know anything about her. She only taught me to fight and gave me Foul Legacy. After that I never saw her again.”

“And where was that?” After all, it’s not everywhere someone gets their hand on a pest of the abyss, strong and powerful as a demon, yet able to be tamed by mundane hands and azure eyes. This master of Childe’s sure sounds like someone interesting.

This time, the quiet lasts longer than previously. Childe is very still, the complete opposite from the afternoon. His shoulders rise and sink with regular breaths and Scaramouche waits, patiently, though he’s not sure if he’ll get an answer out of the chatty Eleventh this time.

As the seconds tick by, Scaramouche finds himself gazing out at the sea. He hears the waves roll against the beaches and cliffs several hundred meters beneath them. The quiet is so loud in his ears after all the fighting they’ve done today.

“I died when I was fourteen.”

He finds Childe in an instant, as if he never looked away. Furrowing his brows, he looks him up and down, but there is nothing giving away what he might feel or think in his posture. He sits upright, still looking up at the sky, as if he’s hoping to find answers there. Scaramouche stays quiet and he continues, even softer than before.

“At least I think I did. It’s the only explanation I have.” A choked up laugh rattles through him, disbelieving, distorted by something raw and guttural buried deep below. Scaramouche watches him the way one does a panicked animal. “I was being chased by wolves and then suddenly— the ground shifted and then it simply… opened up.”

There’s a horror in his words, in the way Childe tells the story, that shakes Scaramouche to his core. A chill runs through him and he knows what he’s going to say next without Childe even getting there yet. He’s descended down there often enough — willingly. He was way older than Childe, much stronger than a fourteen year old could ever be.

“You… fell?”

Childe’s gaze drops down from the stars, onto his hands situated in his lap. Or maybe the ground in front of him. Watching it cautiously, as if he’s scared it could open up again at the mere recounting of it.

“I believe one of the wolves got me and that I just— for some reason, Celestia must’ve deemed me unworthy, I guess. So it sent me right where I belonged.” There’s a rest of that left unsaid, hanging in the air between them and pushed away by another soft breeze. Scaramouche can hear it so, so clearly, a mirror of his own feelings.

Why else would the world be so cruel to him for no good reason? Why else would the ground cave and swallow a child, leave it for dead in a hole crawling with monsters.

Childe is uncharacteristically calm as he tells him about the abyss and the perpetual darkness it hosts. He never raises his voice, even when he talks about his swordmaster and her impressive combat skills. Scaramouche watches in silence as the Eleventh lays himself completely bare right in front of him, vulnerable and unguarded — ready to be struck down.

He does so with ease, it seems. The words come over his lips with little to no hesitation as he recalls mastering every imaginable weapon and receiving the hunger in his eyes and, eventually, how he dug his way back up again at the first sight of light far, far above his head. How he thought there were tendrils and roots circling around his torso and limbs, trying to tug him back down and keep him there forever, become a rotting creature like everything else down there. How he choked on earth and mud, how it stuck under his nails, and filled his ears, his nose, his mouth, entering his airways and clogging up his lungs, until at last, he felt the cold embrace of eternal snow against his hand and the first rays of sunlight on his face after three months of endless, cruel night.

Scaramouche tries to remember what he felt like coming out of the furnace. He barely recalls it past the enormous exhaustion weighing down his entire body. Still, both Childe and him didn’t think they’d make it out alive out of their respective nightmares and yet they did.

After Childe has finished, they fall back into silence, but Scaramouche’s thoughts race. He marvels at how easily Tartaglia told him about all of this. He didn’t seem scared about it at all, telling Scaramouche. Revealing his deepest secrets, his biggest fears. He showed an amount of trust that he never even thought them both to have.

He feels like he owes him something in return, because it can’t be easy to strip naked like that when someone else stays guarded the entire time. He wonders how Childe does it, trust so easily. If it comes with another sacrifice Scaramouche doesn’t see. He wonders how he’s not terrified of it.

But at the same time, he wants to share the burden, even if it’s just a little. So, although it costs him more effort than any of the attacks he dealt today, Scaramouche starts putting down his own armor.

“I cried upon my creation.” It’s a hushed murmur in the dark, but it reaches Childe’s ear nevertheless. His head snaps around and he stares at Scaramouche with wide eyes. “What?”

Everything inside of him wants to hide away from those eyes, wants to curl up and put the armor back on or push the Eleventh away, because this is too close, this is too much. This is more than the kisses they shared, this is giving Tartaglia devastating power over himself and Scaramouche hates that idea. What Childe could do with it one day.

“I don’t remember why. If I woke up from a nice dream or if it was a nightmare or if I was overwhelmed by what I was seeing for the first time — who’s to say why my body reacted that way.” He shrugs, cocking his head to the side, still meeting Tartaglia’s gaze, “But my creator deemed me a failure because of those tears. She abandoned me hours later here, on this island.”

He tells Childe about Katsuragi. He tells him about Niwa. He tells him about the bladesmiths and how he learned to forge blades under their care. And then he tells him about the empty, hollow space in his chest. He doesn’t explain why he’s lacking what crowns the human existence, but he tells him about his former yearnings for a heart of his own. All the while that same hollow space in his ribcage pulsates strangely, emitting a familiar pain, the phantom of a heartbeat that would complete him, finally.

Eventually, he tells him about what happened down there, in that deserted village, surrounded by balethunder. About how he purged the furnace and how Niwa took the thing most precious to him and soiled it with cruelty.

Just like Scaramouche kept quiet before, so does Childe now. They look at each other for what feels like hours and it’s not something that needs to be filled with more words, more stories, like before. This time, it’s an eerie calm, something soft and fragile. Something that leaves Scaramouche shaking into the early hours of morning and makes Childe an anchoring presence as he threatens to be blown away by the breeze.

As the sun begins to rise at the horizon, they finally make their way back to Narukami Island. Leaving the cliff, Scaramouche rests his eyes on the deserted ruins he once called home before he glances over at Childe, only to find him already looking.

He’s not sure what he expected upon returning to the Inn they’re staying at. Somehow his brain hasn’t caught up with the most recent events yet, or he simply hasn’t accounted for Childe to act any differently now. However, the Eleventh is glued to his side and as Scaramouche unlocks the door to his room, the other man doesn’t make any effort to get to his own.

“What are you waiting for?” he asks him, not looking up from the key. He turns it with a gentle click and the door swings open, creaking as it does.

Childe huffs. He tips forward, his chest brushing against Scaramouche’s back as he comes closer. “What, now I’m suddenly not allowed to be in your presence anymore? I thought we were finally getting somewhere here.”

He throws him an irritated look over his shoulder, a frown etched deep into his features, although it probably looks a lot like confusion too. “I’m going to take a nap, so—”

“So let me take a nap with you,” he interrupts with a shrug before he clicks his tongue and raises an eyebrow. “Kissing me senseless in an open field’s fine but cuddling is where you draw the line?”

“Stop being so goddamn loud!” Scaramouche hisses back, but he can’t stop his cheeks from growing hot. Of course Tartaglia spots that and cackles in joyful glee. “Archon’s you’re so fucking annoying,” Scaramouche grumbles, stepping into the room, but he notices immediately that Childe stays behind. Turning around, the other man is still behind the threshold, leaning against the doorframe. He’s waiting patiently, it seems and Scaramouche grits his teeth.

“Get fucking moving or I’ll shut the door in your face, Tartaglia,” he snaps, already reaching out to grab the handle. Childe’s entire face lights up with a smug grin, but he listens, hurrying inside so Scaramouche can slam the door shut almost violently. He feels hot with embarrassment at the sole prospect of what’s to happen next — napping with the Eleventh, who in their right mind does that?!

He can’t believe Tartaglia would even suggest such a stupid thing.

Why did Scaramouche even agree to it in the first place?

It only gets worse from there. Scaramouche disappears behind a partitioner to change into more comfortable clothes and silently laments the good set he has to throw away because it’s full of tears and stained with mud and grass. That training did quite the number on both of them, but at least Tartaglia still has all of his clothes. However, that’s not the problem.

The problem is Tartaglia — what’s new? — when Scaramouche emerges from behind the partitioner again, because he finds him sitting cross-legged on the huge bed in the room, wearing nothing but pants. Which makes him essentially shirtless. On Scaramouche’s bed, ready for a nap. Half-naked.

Scaramouche has half a mind not to stare at his abs and instead shifts his attention as quickly as possible, swallowing a forming lump in his throat. “Don’t you want to go grab something to wear?” he asks him, walking over to the balcony, the bed in his back, and busies himself with opening the door a little bit for some fresh air. He can hear birds starting to chirp

“Huh?” he hears Childe reply, “No, I always sleep like this.”

Scaramouche almost has an aneurysm hearing that. A part of him wants to throw something to wear in Childe’s face, just so he doesn’t have to deal with all that naked skin. Another part of him tells him that Childe would tease him endlessly about how a little bit of skin gets him this flustered already and that’s too big of a hit on his pride.

Gritting his teeth in disdain, he turns around to face the bed after all. Childe is already looking at him, attentive as ever and gets off the covers to pull them back momentarily. The second Scaramouche is lying down, he places the blanket over the two of them, lying down as well. Like this, they’re face to face and Scaramouche feels the ghost of Childe’s breath fanning over his skin as they both watch each other in utter silence.

He’s not quite sure what to do; the last time he cuddled with someone was four hundred years ago when he cradled a dying child in his arms every night, for as long as the boy was alive. That was easier; it was a child, not Tartaglia, and Scaramouche did it out of kindness after the kid asked him to sleep next to him, not because he kissed the person in the bed only a few hours prior.

But Childe’s body emits warmth, unlike his own, and it’s tempting Scaramouche to inch closer and be embraced by it for the next few hours of morning. Taking a sharp inhale, he squashes the urge in his chest like a bug beneath his shoe and with a huff, he turns around so he doesn’t have to face him any longer. Like this, he’s looking at the balcony, watches the satin curtains flutter softly in the wind and is able to tune out Childe’s steady, easy breathing right behind him.

However, if there’s one thing about Tartaglia, it’s that he has absolutely no shame. It takes maybe ten, twenty seconds and suddenly the weight behind him shifts and before he knows it, there’s a warm body pressing up to him and arms sneak around his torso, pulling him even closer. Scaramouche gasps, his entire body tensing in Childe’s hold and for a moment he doesn’t even breathe anymore, simply staring out of the windows dumbfounded.

“What are you doing?!” he hisses a moment later, still not making a single move. His brain is struggling to make a decision; throw Childe out of the bed and the room right now or let him stay because he thinks he might enjoy this.

“That okay?” Childe asks in a low voice, nuzzling his face into his nape. His hot breath sends a shiver down Scaramouche’s back as it hits his naked skin. He lets out a low sigh, forces his muscles to relax again — allows himself to sink back against Childe ever so slowly.

“If you can shut up and let me sleep now,” he grumbles, settling properly against Tartaglia. He hears him chuckle, feels his arms draw a little tighter around him, but he doesn’t mind it all that much.

If he falls asleep with flushed cheeks, then Childe will never know about it, because he never saw it.

(And if Childe wakes up before him just to see him blissfully asleep in his embrace, then Scaramouche will never know about that, either.)

They fall into a new rhythm, one where Tartaglia stays the night, still refusing to wear a shirt to bed, and where Scaramouche falls asleep in his embrace. One where he wakes up in it, too, soft murmurs falling from Childe’s lips as he brushes through his tangled-up strands. It’s in a deep Snezhnayan dialect, making it impossible for Scaramouche to understand the words. Still, he listens in soft contemptment, slowly coming back to the world, as Childe keeps muttering, the words like melodies, rich with warmth.

This rhythm is full of affection because Childe can’t keep his hands to himself — or his mouth, that is. Whenever he gets the chance, he grabs Scaramouche and pulls him close, a grin displayed on his lips before he kisses him quick and barely there, on the corner of his mouth, or slow and deep, making Scaramouche’s head spin. He gets better at it, reciprocating it, wraps his arms around Tartaglia’s neck and goes on his tiptoes, chasing the taste of his lips whenever Childe starts to pull away.

This rhythm is filled with softness. It feels almost domestic, if it weren’t for their subordinates reporting back to them about their plan throughout the days. They’re a constant reminder that they are not in Inazuma for fun and that their time is coming to an end. Scaramouche watches the days pass like sand trickling down an hourglass, because although he climbs onto Childe’s lap whenever the door is locked and they’re on their own, brushing his hands over his muscular chest and pressing their mouths together, he has no plans of returning to Snezhnaya.

Tartaglia doesn’t know anything about that. He doesn’t know about the betrayal that is brewing right beneath the skin he touches when he cups Scaramouche’s cheek or tilts his head up or sneaks his hand under the tight, black shirt he wears. Scaramouche thinks about telling him, and maybe he would’ve, had it been anyone else but Tartaglia, Eleventh Fatui Harbinger. The Tsaritsa’s most loyal soldier. A weapon in her icy hands, blood-stained and deadly sharp, with a loyalty that would force entire nations into submission if needed be.

Maybe, had it been the Ninth, he would’ve told him. But this is the warrior kneeling at Her Majesty’s throne for all eternity. Childe has more loyalty for the Tsaritsa than the rest of them combined. If he were to learn about his plans, he would try everything in his might to stop him.

Affection costs a price. Scaramouche learns it quickly, even the first few days are telling enough. It’s addictive, being looked at like you’re the sun and moon and all the stars altogether. There's a different kind of high rushing through his systems when Tartaglia steps up to him and runs his fingers along his jaw, lifting his head in the process.

He only got it for such a few hours and yet Scaramouche finds himself wanting more, like a starved dog that has been thrown a tiny bone.

“What?” he mumbles, hoarse for some reason, as he looks up into Tartaglia’s azure eyes. They seem to flicker over his face, taking everything in they can find — it’s been a while since Scaramouche didn’t hate the thought of someone watching him this closely.

Childe gives him a tiny chuckle. His thumb grazes his bottom lip before their eyes meet again.

“Nothing,” he replies, just as low, lips stretching into a small smile, “Just admiring how pretty you are.”

Scaramouche’s breath hitches in his chest. He’s said the same thing before; now, it seems like it’s been ages ago, when they were in that library, all the way back in Snezhnaya. Childe had the same breathless tone in his voice and Scaramouche recoiled upon hearing it. Now, though, he’s not sure what to say. This is no scheme for Childe to get his way, unlike what he assumed back then (and what it probably wasn’t either, even then.) and Scaramouche fails with finding a witty reply. Countless people have told him the same but none of them said it like this. So bluntly, less a compliment and more a statement.

Childe laughs some more when he realizes where the lack of a reply is coming from. “Don’t tell me that’s all it takes to stun the mighty Lord Balladeer into silence?” he teases and Scaramouche sputters immediately.

“Shut up!” he hisses, shoving him back. His entire face begins to heat up and Childe cackles some more. He’s silenced quickly, though, when Scaramouche grabs the front of his jacket and yanks him down for a rather harsh kiss. He swallows up his chuckles like they’re something precious and worthy of protection and maybe they are. Maybe Scaramouche has grown to like the sound, wants to remember it forever, especially when he’s no longer around to hear it anymore.

One thing about Childe is that he’s always eager to please. Maybe it’s an integral part of his personality, this undying loyalty of his. Scaramouche receives but a sliver of what the Tsaritsa can make her own as he feels him wrap his arms around the small of his back and lift him up. He lets out a startled little yelp but Childe doesn’t give him the time to draw away properly, continuing to kiss him. There’s something addictive about that, too, he’s sure. There has to be a reason why people keep doing this, why he likes it so much after an abstinence of four hundred years. Why he can’t withdraw from Childe’s mouth and so, instead of telling him to put him down right fucking now, he wraps his legs around his waist and curls a hand into his hair as Childe walks them over to the small table where they’re usually working at.

There’s still documents all over the surface because Scaramouche has yet to arrange them properly — he suddenly had very different matters to deal with this morning and those documents were not nearly as interesting as the pair of curious hands finding a way beneath his shirt once again.

Childe sweeps the documents to the side swiftly, without another care in the world, before he sets Scaramouche down on top of the table and then he’s surging forward again, stealing another kiss from his lips. Childe is good at that, kissing the air right out of Scaramouche’s lungs and making his legs feel like goo.

He settles between his legs and then grabs the back of his knees, pulling him flush against his body. Scaramouche gasps at the touch, a wave of heat breaking down over him and suddenly it’s not enough. Childe’s not close enough, they’re not doing enough, it’s not enough. Tugging at the ginger strands, he lets him run his hands over his body. It’s something close to greed, the way Tartaglia touches, like he can’t get enough either. Scaramouche isn’t complaining, not when he nips at his lips and licks into his mouth the second he parts them.

“Fuck,” Childe breathes, “Scara—”

“Lord Balladeer?” There’s a knock on the door alongside the muffled voice on the other side of the door and Scaramouche’s attention is immediately divided. “Wait,” he mumbles, but Childe has never been one to listen.

When Scaramouche breaks away to turn his head, he grabs his chin with two gloved fingers and turns it right back to face him. His breathing goes ragged and there’s a devious glint in his eyes. Scaramouche feels his chest grow tight with unfamiliar want when he looks into them.

“It can’t be that important,” he hushes, not loud enough to be heard by the subordinate outside. Scaramouche scoffs, but it gets muffled by another kiss and when Childe drags his fingertips down his spine, soft as a feather, meanwhile gripping his waist like he wants to keep Scaramouche right there forever, he feels his attention slip away again, mind growing hazy.

Until the knocking persists, at least. “Lord Balladeer, I apologize for the intrusion, but I fear this is an emergency.”

And okay, well–

Scaramouche pushes Childe away after that. He tries to crowd back into his space, but Scaramouche gives him a glare and slides off the table. He smoothes over his clothes once, goes through his hair and when he hears Childe’s snicker, he grits his teeth. “If you embarrass me in front of my subordinates, I’ll have your head for that,” he hisses on his way to the door.

He looks back one more time, grabbing the handle already and finds Childe in Scaramouche’s usual chair, leaning back against the rest and with that stupid, smug grin sitting on his face. Maybe kissing him was a bad idea.

“You mean between your—”

He shuts up all on his own when Scaramouche yanks the door open, brimming with annoyance. The stare his subordinate receives is murderous. “This better be fucking important,” he snaps. At least, the poor soul that’s been sent to report to him doesn’t crumble from it, still standing tall, albeit his head is lowered in respect.

“We received notice that someone is on their way to the delusion factory.”

At that, both him and Childe in the back of the room perk up. “What?”

“Some of the skirmishers are currently tracking them down—”

“Where?” he asks them gruffly. The hairs at the back of his neck are starting to stand, Electro crackling at his fingertips, “Were you not told to keep everything discreet?!”

At the prospect of punishment, the subordinate does flinch after all. He takes a step back and makes the fatal mistake of looking up at him, “We did–” His response breaks off into a pained yelp when Scaramouche shocks him for the first time. “Useless,” he sneers at the boy, probably not even as old as Childe yet. A mere foot soldier. Canon fodder.

Before he can go on insulting the boy, seething with anger, he hears Childe’s steps drawing closer. “Where are they right now?” he asks the soldier the second he comes to a halt next to him, crossing his arms in front of his chest. His expression is friendly, inviting, but there’s an underlying threat in his tone that allows for no stalling. Typical of him and that endless patience of his.

“They left Narukami Island about twenty minutes ago, Lord Tartaglia. I came to report to you immediately.”

“How many are they?”

“Just one.” The soldier doesn’t look up another time as he answers, though there’s a slight waver in his voice whenever Scaramouche’s electro manifests at his hands, tiny lightning jumping around his fingers.

“Do I have to ask you for every piece of information?” he spits, “Fucking talk!”

The soldier jumps like he’s been shocked twice and scrambles to continue, “It’s— it’s a man! Blond hair, a long braid, golden eyes— he has a floating companion around— The skirmishers said Lord Tartaglia would know them!”

Scaramouche whips his head around at those words and stares up at Childe. The latter is obviously tense, muscles straining under his clothes. His jaw is set and he grits his teeth, dark blue eyes swirling with something that isn’t exactly excitement but also not exactly fury.

“Aether,” he mumbles, keeping his light tone, although he spits the name out like it’s vitriol on his tongue.

“The one from Liyue?” Scaramouche asks. He gets a nod in return and scoffs. “Well then,” he utters, grabbing his hat from where it’s resting on top of a drawer right beside the door. “Let’s make sure Natashka gives him a warm welcome.”

They travel lightly, because they don’t have much time. Aether has a head start on them that they have to get back again. “At least he doesn’t know where exactly the factory is located,” Childe mumbles as they reach Yashiori Island. It’s the first time he’s here and it shows as he lays his eyes upon the majestic snake skull emerging from the ground. It seems to be overlooking the hill and the beach they’ve docked at and Childe takes a moment to admire the slain god.

“If you keep staring at that skeleton, he’s gonna find it before we get there,” Scaramouche quips. He adjusts his hat and gives his companion a pitiful look. At least he has some cover from the continuous rain, unlike Childe who’s already drenched.

They make it there before Aether. On the way, Childe tells him about their fight in Liyue and how badly he wishes for a revanche. Scaramouche only has a tired smile left for that desire. “Don’t even think about it,” he tells him, “Neither do I need you to destroy the entire place when you decide to bring out Foul Legacy, nor do I wish to entertain that pest that long. Save your breath for more important things.”

“He’s skilled, Scara, and I’m sure he’s pissed. He’s gonna fight.”

As they make their way to the upper floor, Scaramouche turns to Tartaglia with a smile on his lips. “Is that so,” he muses, cocking his head to the side before he walks along the corridor, the Eleventh right behind him, “Then I guess we have to prevent him from drawing his sword in the first place.”

“Why did the Tsaritsa even send me along with you?” he hears him huff, clearly annoyed about that plan, “You don’t even need my combat skills.”

“Now, now, let’s not underestimate that Traveler again, Lord Tartaglia. Maybe he proves resistant to my methods. If that’s the case, feel free to tear him into pieces. Until then, though…” They stop in the middle of the room. The floorboards are covered in purple gas and Childe takes it all in with curiosity, although there’s caution in his steps as he catches up with Scaramouche. “That wasn’t written down in your plans,” he notes, but Scaramouche doesn’t address it. When their eyes meet again, he merely adds, “Stay back and don’t get mad.”

He blinks at him, clearly puzzled by that last order, but he doesn’t question it. Maybe because there’s subordinates with them in the room, clearly awaiting their orders too. It doesn’t take long after that until they hear the first noises of commotion coming from the lower floors.

Childe perks up at the sounds, turning his head and listening intently as if he could participate in the fight like that. Scaramouche sees how his hands twitch, ready to manifest his blades again, but he stays put, right next to him, hidden by the darkness of the factory. True to Childe’s word, the boy leaves a trail of their skirmishers as he purges through the place. He’s definitely pissed. According to Scaramouche’s intel, he had some friends in the Resistance that didn’t make it. Poor soul.

He arrives on the upper floor soon enough and when he comes into view, Childe visibly tenses up. Any other person would be seething with frustration about being defeated and would charge blindly into the battle for a rematch. Childe, however, seems more frustrated about having to sit still than he is angry at that blond boy. His eyes glint with excitement, his upper body leans forward, the picture of interest, definitely not fury.

Of course he would be excited for a rematch instead of lamenting his losses. He never knows when to stop. Scaramouche barely holds back a scoff so the newcomer doesn’t take notice of them. Natashka and a last group of skirmishers divert his attention well enough, though and soon enough they get to see the main stage of the factory become an arena more than anything else.

Beside him, Childe is taut like a lifewire, eyes following every movement he catches out there. Scaramouche almost pities him — it must be some sort of torture for someone like him to be left out of a fight like this. Especially when it’s against an opponent he wants to defeat so badly.

He has to admit, the boy is skilled. He takes out the skirmishers and then Natashka like they’re barely posing a threat, although there was a time when Natashka herself has trained under him. The sight of her, unconscious on the floor, ignites not just frustration for their uselessness but also anger. Who does that guy think he is?

When he walks up to him and away from Childe, he can feel the latter’s eyes on him, following his every move. Scaramouche can only hope that he’s going to do as he told him. It’s for his own good.

It’s the first time he meets Aether like this. Sure, he’s heard of him, that golden boy that bested the Eleventh back in Liyue and who the Eighth met in Mondstadt. Whereas Childe called him skilled and a worthy opponent, Signora called him impulsive, someone with a bad temper. Scaramouche decides to tap into that — and he’s not disappointed.

One snide remark about his friend from the Resistance and how Scaramouche couldn’t care less and the boy is downright seething. Easier than Childe, really, which is actually quite pathetic.

Laughing, he observes as Aether stops as quickly as he tried to charge at him, his limbs locking up as the energy shifts. His legs give out next and Aether topples to the floor like a puppet with cut strings, as he lets himself be consumed by his own anger, unable to stop it. His companion is a screeching mess by then, shaking at his shoulder and yelling at him to wake up. As he loses consciousness fully, Scaramouche grows tired of her wailing.

“Archons, don’t you ever shut up?” he scoffs with an eye roll, charging an attack at her. It’s not enough to kill her, but she’s gonna be out for a while for sure.

However, the newfound silence doesn’t last long.

“Still so bitter. You truly did not change, Kunikuzushi.” He freezes at the sound of that voice. There’s footsteps echoing through the dark factory and feels Childe’s presence only a few steps away; he probably stepped closer in the face of another threat.

But the guuji of the Narukami Shrine has never been one for a fight, unwilling to dirty her hands like that.

She saunters into the room the way a royalty would, head held high, that disgusting, sly smile on her lips that Scaramouche has always hated more than anything. Her purple eyes lock onto his in an instant and her smile only stretches wider. She clicks her tongue in disapproval and Scaramouche has to will himself not to lash out already.

“How long has it been?” she asks him, like she wouldn’t know it herself. “Four hundred years?” Her eyes flicker to Childe, right behind him before they settle on Scaramouche once more. “And would you look at that: You’ve found yourself a guard dog in the meantime.”

“What do you want?!” he spits, unable to contain his anger. All he wants to do is charge at the kitsune, but even he knows that that would be unwise. She’s toying with him, as she is with everyone. She’s pushing his buttons. She wants him to lash out.

“No, Kunikuzushi — what do you want?” she chuckles like she made an incredibly funny joke.

Scaramouche balls his hands into fists. “Don’t call me that!”

“Mh, right, what do you go by these days? Balladeer? Scaramouche?” She sighs, turning his back to him as she takes in the entire room with faux curiosity.

“See, I told Ei she should dispose of you,” she says when she faces him once more. This time, her smile has faded, a mask of indifference replacing the friendly features. Her eyes are hard as they find him. “But I guess she felt indebted to you for some reason. Or maybe she was simply too soft to go through with that. After all, she never liked to take an innocent’s life — no less of someone she created herself.”

He can hear Childe inhale sharply as he realizes what Yae Miko is talking about. Who she’s talking about. She hears it too, her eyes settling on the Eleventh with another smile forming on her lips. “That’s right,” she tells him, “Did Kunikuzushi ever tell you, just who breathed life into him? What his purpose was, initially?”

“You don’t get to talk about my life!” he yells before he’s able to stop himself. Yae Miko chuckles again, before she settles on a sigh. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to reminisce about that. Ei didn’t want to listen and here we are. You want something though, isn’t that right?”

Scaramouche spots it immediately, his eyes drawn to it like moths to the fire. Maybe because he’s been looking for it all his life, four hundred years, or maybe because it is the heart of his mechanism, something that he couldn’t ignore even if he tried to. The second it appears in between Yae Miko’s fingers, glowing in a soft, purple light, Scaramouche has to stop himself from surging forward, reaching out to touch it.

The Gnosis.

His Gnosis.

As if entranced, Scaramouche follows the movement with his eyes as Yae Miko twirls it in her hand before she snatches it away, curling her slender fingers around it tightly. Scaramouche looks up to meet her eyes and finds her smiling slyly.

He feels adrenaline kicking in, but he wills himself to stay in place and not move a finger. He already gave away too much staring at it.

“Oh, Balladeer,” Yae Miko mocks, “You can’t hide your greed.”

“Greed?” he repeats, scoffing in indignation, “That Gnosis is mine! It was always supposed to be mine! How can you call it greed when it belongs to me?!”

She hums, clearly unimpressed, and looks him up and down. She is good at appearing friendly on the surface and yet implementing that sentiment of disdain, that she doesn’t see her opponent as something more than dirt beneath her feet. It’s the same type of feeling Scaramouche gets right now and it only agitates him further, makes him want to destroy everything around him until it’s all in ruins.

“If you say so,” she tells him with a shrug and then the chess piece reappears in her fingers. She waves it at Scaramouche like candy. “You can have it.”

Everything comes to a stop as she says these words. Scaramouche can’t even contain his surprise, staring at her completely baffled. “What?”

She shrugs again. “You can have it,” she repeats, like it’s not a big deal. Like it’s not a Gnosis, like Scaramouche wasn’t denied this very thing for four centuries until now. His sole existence serves for holding this tiny piece of divinity in her hands and yet he was never good enough to fulfill it. And now it’s suddenly within reach and Yae Miko isn’t even putting up a fight?

“You’re lying.” The woman lets out an amused laugh, throwing her head back in the process. It sounds like wind chimes; Scaramouche hates how carefree it sounds and wants nothing more than to stifle it. His entire life, neither his mother nor her eternal servant could be bothered with him and now one of them acts like they’re old friends, when she was the one to watch him with pitiful eyes as Ei wiped tears off his face.

“How unfortunate.”

“I’m not one for lies, Scaramouche. You should know that.” Indeed, she’s not. But trickery is on the top of her list, as it should be for a kitsune. It shows even now, during their simple conversation, because she’s obviously stalling with telling him the full scope. The way she’s holding herself, the Gnosis in her hand — dangling it right in front of his face like bait.

But Scaramouche isn’t as naïve as four hundred years ago anymore, no matter how much he yearns for that chess piece in her hand.

“A Gnosis is an Archon’s link to Celestia,” Childe speaks up then. Scaramouche doesn’t take his eyes off Yae Miko, but he hears the Eleventh stop right beside him. He’s just as tense, seizing the kitsune, although he has never seen her before. He doesn’t even know what she’s capable of, what her nature is, that she would never stain her hands with blood — or bruise them, that is. He simply adapts, reading Scaramouche’s body language and grows wary of her. Scaramouche doesn’t know if it’s due to combat skills, trust, or simply because he heard too much about his origins just now and pities him because of it.

“Well, well; the warrior can speak,” Yae Miko chuckles. Her eyes rest on Childe now, taking him in curiously. Scaramouche notices the way her mouth twitches, just slightly because she suppresses it immediately. “The foul stench of Abyss clings to you,” she hisses right afterwards and Childe flinches like he’s taken a hit, not expecting to be found out this quickly. But Guuji Yae is a divine being after all. More divine than Scaramouche, purity flooding her body, power accumulating in every cell — it was a given that she’d know the second she focuses on Tartaglia.

“The Gnosis is used to tap into that power,” he continues regardless of the sneer on her face, unwavering, “You can’t possibly give it away that easily. It doesn’t even belong to you.”

She hums, twirling the Gnosis in her fingers like it’s a fidgeting toy rather than the essence of divine power. Scaramouche grits his teeth, suppressing the urge to rip it out of her hands. “Just who does it belong to?” she asks them, all innocent and curious. She starts walking up to them, closing the distance. Her steps are slow and calculated and she doesn’t spare the unconscious boy and his companion on the floor a single glance as she makes her way past them.

“Does it belong to the Archon that never wished to have it and therefore… discarded it? Does it belong to me, since she handed it over to me to keep it safe?” Her gaze meets Scaramouche’s, then. She cocks her head to the side ever so slightly and he steels himself for her next words, already knowing what’s to come. “Or does it belong to the vessel she initially created to hold it?”

For some reason, the question feels like an insult. Humiliation sears hot and bright through his chest, that exact hollowed space where that damned Gnosis should sit burning up in an aching pain — empty for as long as he has lived. It fuels a rage he barely knows how to keep at bay, but there’s still static crackling through him when he sees her tiny shrug, as if she doesn’t care about the answer. Precisely because she doesn’t. She never did, it never mattered. Not to her. She couldn’t care less what happened to him and if he got to fulfill his divine purpose. To Yae Miko, he’s a failed experiment and that is all he’ll ever be, regardless of his ambitions or his pain. Regardless if he gets to have the Gnosis after all or not.

“What do you want?” he asks her again, pronouncing each word carefully like he’s talking to an idiot instead of a kitsune. Yae Miko is unfazed by the tone he uses. At least, she finally seems to be done with playing stupid, pointless games.

Her eyes glow eerily in the darkness of the factory and she replies, “I need that boy. Alive.”

Scaramouche’s eyes flicker over to the unconscious body on the floor. He still hasn’t stirred, but the energy is probably wearing off already. It’s only a matter of time until he wakes up and although his temper flares rather easily, he’ll watch not to make the same mistakes twice.

“Him?” Scaramouche clarifies, giving a short nod in Aether’s direction. She gives a small movement of her head, indicating a yes.

“That’s it?” Scaramouche watches her incredulously.

Yae Miko purses her lips. “Make sure to leave Inazuma by morning. That is all.”

A disbelieving laugh bubbles up in his chest, rises to his lips and threatens to escape him. Scaramouche has to swallow it down and trample it in the crevices of his sternum again, willing himself to keep his scowl. It can’t possibly be this easy. It can’t. After four hundred years, after lifetimes of yearning, programmed to only think of that Gnosis over and over again, when every other person would’ve gone insane long ago, he suffered through it all. And now all he has to do is spare an insignificant life he doesn’t even care about?

Scaramouche narrows his eyes at her and cranes his head back a little. There’s a flash of Electro hitting the ground, short of Aether’s unconscious body. “Why?”

“Oh, I don’t think I have to give you any reason,” she replies, ice lacing the undertone of her voice. She steps closer to Aether. Her eyes are challenging, although her posture is relaxed. “Given that you’re not playing with open cards either.”

A beat passes and Scaramouche at least tries to give the impression that he’s thinking this through first, waging his options, that he’s letting her grovel just a little bit. In truth, he’s long made his decision, uncaring of any other person in the room. He’s pretty sure Yae Miko knows that too, but still, he makes the effort before his eyes flicker to the glowing Gnosis before he locks eyes with the woman across from him.

“Fine,” he breathes, “I have no use for that filthy human anyway. Do with him as you wish.”

“You’re too kind,” she chuckles and then she holds out her hand and Scaramouche can’t tear his eyes away from it anymore. That chess piece of ultimate power. The core of his mechanism, it’s right there, within reach — it’s his. It’s finally, finally his.

He has tried not to let it show how badly he wants it, has kept the urge under control throughout the entire conversation, but as soon as Yae Miko takes another step towards him, he practically lurches forward and snatches it from the palm of her hand, fearing that she might’ve just been playing tricks and could pull away with the Gnosis if he waits too long.

Yae Miko chuckles at the frantic movement, but she lets him have it. Scaramouche closes his fist around the cool metal that encloses its purplish gleaming core. The second he feels it against his skin, his head almost starts to spin and he has to suppress another laugh, taking a deep, shuddering breath.

He has it.

He finally has it.

He can feel Yae Miko and Childe’s eyes on him and he does his best to appear composed no matter how high on euphoria he is. His mind is like a broken record, repeating It’s mine, it’s mine, it’s mine over and over again.

He doesn’t even think about it as he brings his fist to his chest and then, in the blink of an eye, he stores the Gnosis inside of it. Finally filling that empty space in there. It evokes another rush of power surging through him, less the Gnosis and more his own system being overwhelmed with the realization that he finally has it.

“You’ve heard her.” Scaramouche directs his attention to Childe for the first time ever since Yae Miko showed up, careful to keep the breathless waver out of his voice. He can feel the Gnosis, stored in his chest, feels a soft pulsating, spreading out into his entire body. Like a gentle heartbeat.

The Eleventh is already watching him closely, eyes flickering to his chest, where the divine piece just vanished into. His expression is a mask of indifference, although his eyes search his face when he looks up again. He nods.

“A pleasure doing business with you,” he tells the kitsune, that charming, yet smug little grin sitting on his lips as he turns his head towards her.

Yae Miko clicks her tongue. “I do not wish to see your face on these islands again. Nothing personal, of course, Harbinger,” she replies, but Childe only laughs at that.

He can feel Yae Miko’s eyes on him as they turn their backs to her and leave the factory, but Scaramouche can’t bring himself to care or focus on it too much. He doesn’t even take notice of Childe’s arm continuously brushing against his — not when there’s finally a heartbeat pulsing through him, divine power slumbering in the crevices of his ribcage.

Finally, finally, finally.

The way back to Inazuma City is a silent one. Childe seems to notice that Scaramouche is in no mood or state to talk, too high-strung over the Gnosis he just obtained. He keeps his head low, tries to fight the victorious grin that sits on his lips and contain the tremors that run through him whenever he focuses on the soft thrumming of the Gnosis inside his chest.

Only when they reach Scaramouche’s room, he speaks up, right behind him. “As much as I hate all that scheming, your plan was incredible. I wouldn’t have thought it to be that simple.”

This time, Scaramouche can’t hold back his laugh. It bubbles out of him, softly at first, still tinged with disbelief and it grows louder when Childe clicks the door shut behind him, rises into a fit of hysterical laughter and gasps. All the while, the Gnosis keeps pulsating inside of his chest and Scaramouche feels powerful beyond limits.

He doubles over in laughter, shoulders shaking from the force of it, he’s breathless, drunk on the possibility of endless power running through him. It’s then, that he notices a soft glow.

Childe sees it too. “Your hair,” he whispers awe-struck and Scaramouche looks up at him, still trying to catch his breath, a manic grin on his lips as another cackle escapes him. He shouldn’t act like this around the Eleventh, he shouldn’t let his guard down like this. Childe must be aware of how possessive he is about that Gnosis by now — and he should be worried about leaving it in Scaramouche’s care.

But in his eyes there is no worry, nor is there mistrust. They’re wide, the glow of Scaramouche’s hair reflecting in the azure and he takes him in, like he did back in the library — so full of fascination.

Maybe because it’s the first time he’s allowed to look so clearly and unabashedly at divinity. After all, the glances they are allowed to cast into the Tsaritsa’s face are fleeting.

“And your eyes,” he adds, a soft chuckle escaping him as he steps closer. One of his hands comes up to touch him. Scaramouche brings up his own, reaching up into his hair where he curls them around purplish glowing strands. Another laugh breaks out of him, careless and euphoric.

Childe’s fingertips brush along his jaw, like they’ve done ever so often these past few days. As if it’s an instinct at this point, Scaramouche lifts his head with the soft pressure of being guided to do so, not hesitating once. His eyes find Childe’s naturally and he takes a deep breath.

“Can I see it?” the Eleventh asks, still in awe it seems. The question makes Scaramouche almost jerk away. Only at the last moment, he manages to suppress the urge to bare his teeth at him. Possessiveness surges through him like it never has before, every cell in his body screaming not to let the other Harbinger see it. The Gnosis is his, it’s his heart — Childe isn’t allowed to see it, touch it.

If he tries to take it away from Scaramouche the second it leaves his chest, then Scaramouche isn’t sure if he’ll leave him alive.

Childe seems to notice the mood swing, but he stays silent. His lips pull into a reassuring little smile, eyes emitting warmth for once. He tries to be comforting and Scaramouche isn’t sure if he’s doing it to goad Scaramouche into it or if he really means it. He watches him for another few seconds, unsure what to do.

He should show him, let him see. Childe is still under the impression that they’ll bring it back to Snezhnaya. He doesn’t know about Scaramouche’s plans, so Scaramouche can’t let his possessiveness show, not now. He has to act like this doesn’t affect him — like he can live without the Gnosis once again.

Everything inside of him recoils at the mere thought. He’s not going to give it up, not now, not ever — Surely not to Tartaglia.

Still, to uphold the illusion, Scaramouche forces himself to do it. He places his hands on his chest and then he pulls it forward again. A gasp escapes him as the Gnosis leaves its destined place in his chest and the second it appears in his hands, hovering above his palms and pulsating purple, there’s an aching pain filling the hollow space, a phantom-pulsing running through him one last time. Scaramouche wants to shove it back into his chest immediately, but he pushes through, gritting his teeth.

He keeps the Gnosis close to his chest, still unsure of Childe’s motives, but he allows the Eleventh to step closer, leaning down to take a better look at it. It’s still hovering in his hands, slowly turning on its own axis, bathing both him and Childe in a purple glow. Scaramouche finds his gaze jumping back and forth between the divine piece and the man in front of him.

“Wow,” Childe breathes, like he has never seen a Gnosis before. Technically, he shouldn’t be so in awe, since he’s seen the Geo Archon’s Gnosis before, but Scaramouche can’t blame him. It is a divine essence after all.

And then Childe takes Scaramouche’s hands in his. At first, Scaramouche takes a step back, pulling the Gnosis closer to his chest again, narrowing his eyes at him. “I’ll keep it safe,” he all but snarls, fear rushing through his body.

Childe shoots him a tiny grin. “I know you will,” he mumbles, reaching out again to take his hands into his own, big, warm ones. And then, to Scaramouche’s utter surprise, he lifts them and presses them flatly to his chest — watches as the Gnosis sinks back inside, shifting into its rightful place again. Another pulse runs through Scaramouche, just like the first time. He exhales shakily, looking up at Childe with wide eyes.

“There’s no better place to keep it safe than with you,” he adds, lower this time and Scaramouche doesn’t know if he means it or if he’s just bathing him in compliments for the sake of it. Regardless, he can’t help but laugh.

“I could kill you right now,” he whispers, craning his neck to look at him properly. Something flashes in Childe’s eyes, hot and dangerous, and he nods. “You could.”

But he doesn’t. It’s left unsaid between them, both aware of that weakness, especially when Childe leans down fully, wrapping his arm around Scaramouche’s waist and pulling him closer to press their lips together.

This one’s different from all the other ones. It ignites Scaramouche with a hunger he can’t shake. It’s bruising, and Childe is all around him all of sudden, consuming, taking greedily whatever he can get. His hands run along Scaramouche’s sides like he’s trying to map out every part of his body. Scaramouche wonders if it feels different now, with a piece of divinity sitting in his chest.

Scaramouche sinks against him with a soft gasp, hands reaching into ginger locks, curling around them and then tugging. It makes Childe moan, low at the back of his throat, and Scaramouche feels like he’s going up in flames. The high that surges through him now is different from adrenaline and overwhelming power. It’s something else, something a lot quicker and laced with a greed he hasn’t known so far.

Childe turns his thoughts into mush as he kisses him, needily, not pulling away. He licks at the seam of his lips and Scaramouche parts them without another thought, so, so willing. His tongue dips into his mouth, pulling a tiny whimper out of him and Childe sighs, swallowing it up before it could fall into the empty space between them.

He begins to move, slowly guiding him backwards. Scaramouche lets him, too caught up with that sinful mouth of his as it presses more kisses against his lips, to the corner of his mouth and then leaves a trail along his jaw. He tips his head back, eyes falling closed at the same time as the back of his knees hit the bed.

With Childe’s hand at his back, he slowly lowers himself onto the mattress, Tartaglia following his every move without ever breaking away from him. As he scoots up on the beed, the mattress dips under Childe’s additional weight, climbing onto it right after him.

He settles between Scaramouche’s legs like it’s second nature, one hand cupping his face as he leans his head to the side for a better angle. His other hand starts roaming over his body again, running over his side and down to his thigh before it sneaks its way under the shirt he’s wearing, a warm touch against his cool body. Scaramouche shivers beneath his fingertips and it coaxes a chuckle out of Tartaglia.

He’s clearly enjoying this, making Scaramouche’s head spin with just a few simple touches and sensual kisses. He grows bolder, too, nipping at his bottom lip and when Scaramouche gives him another, sweet, embarrassing little noise, he starts kissing down his throat.

Scaramouche plays with his hair, drunk on the sensation of Childe’s lips on his skin. He feels his tongue tracing the trail he’s left behind already, licking up to his jaw, before he leaves a short, playful bite there. They become gradually harsher, leaving a short, stinging pain in their wake as Childe repeats it all over his throat, pulling the turtleneck back so he has more skin to worship.

It’s nice, the feeling of Childe’s lips and his hands all over him, like he’s the only thing that matters right now. He is eager, so eager. As eager as any mortal granted with the permission to lay his hands upon divinity in its rawest form. His hands push up the shirt he’s wearing, slowly but steadily, to reveal more naked skin beneath. It’s like he’s waiting for Scaramouche’s permission to do so, if he’s allowed to go that far or if he’ll push him away.

He untangles his fingers from Tartaglia’s hair to grab the hem of his shirt and do the rest himself. Pulling it over his head, he can hear Childe inhale sharply and then his hands are back on his torso, even greedier than before. They’re so warm against his own cool skin, another shiver runs through him and he watches as Childe drinks him in, every last inch of bare skin, his eyes pools of pure want.

“Fuck, Scara, you’re beautiful,” he mumbles, licking his lips before he catches Scaramouche’s for another kiss. It’s softer than before but no less hungry. He pries his mouth open and licks into it, begging for a taste and Scaramouche turns to putty in his hands, sinking back against the cushions. Childe follows him like he can’t stand to be parted from him, his hands running over his torso before his head dips down, too, and he lavishes the same appreciation on all the naked skin there.

Scaramouche can’t do anything but tip his head back and enjoy it. The wandering hands on his body caress him like they’re anointing him godhood themselves, Childe’s mouth pressing kisses and bites into his skin like wordless prayers as he worships at a temple. Scaramouche feels weightless, divinity pulsing through him. Childe mouths at his chest, soft pants hitting his skin as his lips brush over the spot where the Gnosis disappeared inside. He wonders if the Eleventh can feel the gentle thrum of it, the soft pulse it emits — if he mistakes it for a beating heart.

When he comes back up for another kiss, Childe presses his entire body closer to his. Its warmth is almost unbearable and yet it’s not enough for Scaramouche as he wraps his arms around the broad expanse of his shoulders pulling him even closer, flush against him. His back arches, he presses up against Childe in an attempt to get so much more than just nimble touches and he feels himself growing wet already.

He mimics him, his lips ghosting along his jaw, trailing over countless little scars as he breathes him in, hungry for every last inch of skin. If there was a way to wrap himself up in Tartaglia, he’d do it, burrow himself in his warmth, and enjoy the prayers the Eleventh is leaving on his body. Like this, though, all he can do is take. Sliding the jacket off his shoulders, loosening the harness around his torso, undoing the buttons of his shirt.

All he can do is take more of him, leave imprints of his teeth on his neck, his shoulder, his collarbones as Childe’s head hangs low and he gives Scaramouche without holding back.

He takes and takes and takes, every touch, every sound he pulls out of him, takes the heat of his body, the shape of his hands as they burn into Scaramouche’s own skin, desperate for a reminder beneath his fingertips that will not vanish come morning.

At the back of his mind, there’s a clock ticking, telling him that even before the sun will rise, Scaramouche will have to bid his goodbye and be miles from azure eyes and auburn hair. But just this once, he wants to stay for a little while longer. Wants to get his fill of warmth and love and affection and whatever else Childe is ready to part with so he can take it with him.

He’s everywhere, stupidly big as he is. Strong, lean arms supporting his own weight right next to Scaramouche’s head, his other free hand settling on his waist for once. He’s all Scaramouche can see when he opens his eyes and looks up, a mess of ginger curls and dark blue eyes. His skin is blemished, full of battle scars he wears like trophies for a lifetime to come, with freckles splattered over his neck and shoulders, reaching down to his chest.

He’s beautiful, Scaramouche realizes. Not just a pretty face, but entirely. From the freckles littering his skin, to his scent that infiltrates all of Scaramouche’s senses, to the way his muscles shift and flex as he moves, pulling him down until their groins touch. He rolls his hips up against Scaramouche once, like he’s testing the waters and Scaramouche can feel how hard he is, moaning at the friction. His cunt throbs.

He gasps, gripping Childe’s shoulders harder at the new sensation and hears his stupid little chuckle right by his ear. Even that is beautiful, the sound of it deep and soft, and his voice that follows right afterwards even more, rich with emotions, something that Scaramouche doesn’t want to focus on coating his words. “Ever had sex before?”

He scoffs. “I don’t dwell on mundane desires, Tartaglia,” he whispers, though his own voice betrays how much he likes it, hoarse and breathless. Childe presses a kiss right below his ear, nosing along the shell of it right afterwards. His hot breath makes jolts of electricity run down his spine and he arches up against him instinctively. There’s an arm wrapping around his back as if Childe is completely attuned to every last move of his. Like a magnet, adjusting to the pull.

Scaramouche feels like he’s the one being reeled in and not the other way round.

“You’ve been missing out,” he tells him, but Scaramouche realizes that he isn’t really coaxing him into more. Despite all the want dripping from his form, despite the hunger he has been touching him with, needy, desperate, like he wants to get his fair share of Scaramouche, too, his hands strayed clear from where Scaramouche wants them the most, needs them the most.

“Enlighten me, then,” he whispers, breathless, giving himself up for Childe. And Tartaglia doesn’t hesitate in the slightest. He groans into the crook of his neck and then he’s making quick work of the shorts and underwear he’s still wearing. He observes how Childe is watching him, eyes drinking in everything he can see. There’s intimacy in the way his pupils are dilated and his mouth falls open around a low, stuttering breath. He gazes at him the way one does when they lay their eyes upon a god. Not just a puppet desperately trying to become one, but a real one. Scaramouche may only be on his way to become one, yet Childe stares at him like it’s all he’s ever been, fingertips brushing over the inside of his thigh, trailing closer and closer to his aching, wet cunt.

“You better don’t play any fucking games, Tartaglia,” he mumbles as he stops short of it, fingers lingering torturously close to where he wants them, yet not giving in. He lifts his head, examines Scaramouche’s face and then he gives him a crooked grin.

“M’not,” he replies, easy as ever and leans down to capture Scaramouche’s lips for another kiss. This one is a lot slower, as if Childe wants to take his time with him all of a sudden. He seems to pour everything into it and Scaramouche feels almost overwhelmed with it — especially when those long fingers of his suddenly brush against his clit, drawing slow, but firm circles around it.

It’s a sensation he’s never felt before, and Tartaglia was right, that fucker. He’s been missing out. His thighs fall open wider and he arches up against his body, mouth falling open around a soft moan. He shudders under the touch and Childe is an anchoring presence as he digs his nails into his shoulder blade, the other hand flying down to Childe’s, wrapping around his wrist.

“Childe,” he gasps, mind completely blank as he slips into a cloud of hazy want. More.

“Ajax.”

“Huh?” Scaramouche has difficulties blinking his eyes open with Childe still drawing circles. He rolls his hips to get more pressure, moaning again, unable to suppress the noises. His grip tightens on his wrist when he slowly comes to a stop and he can’t help the unsatisfied whine leaving his lips.

Why the fuck would he stop now when he’s barely even started?

When he focuses on him, frown evident on his face, Childe swallows hard, eyes resting on him already. He opens his mouth to speak up again, but the first two seconds he makes no sound. It takes another inhale and wetting his swollen lips with the tip of his tongue for him to speak up. “Ajax,” he repeats, softly, “It’s my real name. I want you to call me Ajax.”

All Scaramouche can do is stare at him dumbfounded, the spike of pleasure from just now ebbing away by the second. Is Childe aware what exactly he’s doing to him right now? “Why would you–”

“Don’t–” Childe — Ajax — breaks their eye contact and shifts between his legs, “Don’t ask. Just– please.”

Maybe it’s because he knows about a name he was called long before he became Scaramouche. Maybe he sees this as an equal exchange, a fair trade, although Scaramouche never asked for it. Kunikuzushi no longer lives. By taking on the name Scaramouche, he became someone else. He no longer identifies with that boy, eager for a human heart as a pathetic replacement for the divinity that was promised to him before he even opened his eyes.

None of the Harbingers share their real names with each other. Pierro is the only exception in that case, knowing most of them. They have their titles and their code names and more has never been needed. The Fatui is no place of bonds and yet here he is, Ajax, giving Scaramouche the most intimate piece about himself. An ultimate offer of trust.

Scaramouche’s chest aches at the thought of it and a shudder runs through his body.

“Ajax,” he says, testing the syllables as they roll off his tongue, only the husk of his voice carrying the single word and the man in front of him swallows hard at the sound. There’s longing on his face, longing that Scaramouche wants to kiss right off of it again, a reassurance that he’s still here. At least for now, he’s not going anywhere.

“Ajax,” he repeats, louder this time, the hand from his shoulder slipping up to his neck. He pulls him down for a desperate kiss and Ajax gets the hint immediately. His fingers resume the torturously slow pace once more, coaxing the sweetest noises out of Scaramouche.

He slides one digit inside and Scaramouche trembles around a silent moan, gripping him harder. His moans increase immediately when Ajax thrusts inside of him with the same agonizing pace. He can feel the drag against his walls, clenching around him as he’s unable to prevent the whimpers falling from his lips.

“Please,” he gasps, cut off by another groan as Ajax rubs his thumb against his clit at the same time as he thrusts another finger inside, harder this time. He hears him chuckle with newfound confidence and then he’s leaning down low, mouth ghosting along his jaw, nipping at the skin.

“Aren’t you making the sweetest noises, Scara,” he whispers. Scaramouche can feel the grin forming against his skin. “Wasn’t even hard to coax them out of you.”

He has an insult sitting on his tongue, ready to hurl it at him, laced with poison — but Ajax notices it and the second he opens his mouth, he increases the pace, fucks into him harder and Scaramouche’s anger breaks off into a weak mewl.

"Fuck," he whines, rolling his hips to match Ajax' fingers. The latter laughs almost cruelly at that, watching him with hazy eyes, laced over with pure lust.

"Where's your bratty mouth all of a sudden?"

"Didn't I tell you to— ah— not play any fucking games?!" he hisses, followed by another moan tumbling from his lips. He digs his nails into Ajax' wrist, hard enough to draw blood for sure, but he doesn't seem to be bothered by that as he continues to pump his fingers in and out of his throbbing cunt. There's slick noises filling the room apart from Scaramouche's moans, increasing in volume when he thrusts harder.

Scaramouche throws his head back on a drawn-out, high-pitched whine, rolling his hips in a desperate, almost clumsy manner. It’s not enough. He’s dancing on a wave of pleasure rocking through him again and again and he feels like he’s so close to seeing stars, but Ajax is not giving him enough to actually grasp for them.

“Let me enjoy this a little,” he hears him chuckle, a tease as always. When Scaramouche opens his eyes, panting, he sees a smug smile sitting on his lips, one he wants to smack right off his face in an instant if it weren’t for the way he works his fingers in and out of him, making sure Scaramouche feels every drag and crook. He keens at another harsh thrust, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “I’ve waited a long time.”

Scaramouche tries to cling to his last shreds of dignity, suppressing another wave of embarrassing noises that climb up his throat. He wraps his legs around Ajax’ waist subconsciously, pulling him closer like this is going to help in any way. The hand around his wrist slips away and instead, he slides it up his torso, tracing his toned stomach and chest, the skin hot to his touch. He lets his palm rest right above his heart; it hammers against his ribcage, like he’s been running for hours. He feels so real beneath his touch. So human. So undeniably him, no matter if Scaramouche is calling him Tartaglia, Childe or Ajax. He is there and he’s his.

For a fleeting, short moment, Scaramouche considers going back to Snezhnaya with him, high on endorphins and with lust cursing through his entire system. He’s drunk on it, hazy on pleasure clouding all his rational thoughts and he considers it. Not leaving him in the early hours of morning but staying by his side, boarding the ship with him. Handing his heart over to the Tsaritsa as soon as they’re back, to live on with a chest as empty and hollow as it has always been.

Maybe it wouldn’t be such a cruel thing if he gets to have Ajax’ in return.

Just what is he supposed to give him when he lacks his own?

“What, you were that desperate?” he mocks, though his voice lacks any real bite with his breath coming in ragged, short pants and the moans rising to the front of his mouth. Ajax leans down to kiss them right off his lips, sweeps them up as he licks into his mouth and sucks at his tongue.

Scaramouche suddenly doesn’t know where to put his hands, where he starts and Ajax ends. He wants more, he wants so much more, desperate for that spark to ignite a flame ready to consume him whole. He wants to burn.

“Desperate doesn’t even come close,” Ajax mumbles against his lips. He adds a third finger then, his thumb pressing against his clit, almost overwhelming Scaramouche in the process. He feels so full already and it’s not even his cock yet. By the time he gets a taste of that, Ajax is going to have him drooling. His cheeks flame up in embarrassment at that thought but at the same time, his cunt grows wetter. The idea of Ajax ruining him completely, ruining him for anyone else as he fucks him stupid on his cock is almost enough to make him cum then and there. He’d break him apart and then put him back together with his bare hands and Scaramouche could never let anyone else even attempt to do the same.

“You don’t know how much I’ve wanted you.” He punctuates those words with a harsh thrust of his fingers. Scaramouche throws his head back with his loudest moan so far, scratching across his back as Ajax hits a spot inside of him that has him seeing stars, finally.

“Please, fuck, don’t stop, don’t— Ajax!”

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted you.” He grabs his chin, angles his head down to press a downright filthy kiss onto his lips. Scaramouche is more panting than anything else, but he relishes in it anyways, eyes falling shut as he takes whatever Ajax gives him and crying out in pleasure. “Archons, Scaramouche, I’ve dreamed about you more times than I can count.”

He barely registers the words anymore. His abdomen feels like molten chocolate. There’s a knot coiling tighter and tighter with each of Ajax’ thrust and he’s so, so close. He can taste his release on his tongue, sweet and liberating and he wants it more than anything else. He notices the faint purple glow of the Gnosis reappearing as his control gradually slips away.

“Fuck, are you gonna come on my fingers, baby?” he breathes, leaving another, short peck on his lips. In lieu of an answer, Scaramouche only whines, the pet name leaving a wave of goosebumps on his skin. “Ajax,” he pleads, though he doesn’t know for what.

“Go on then,” Ajax urges, his voice dripping with honey. Scaramouche gets pulled in by it, unable to do anything but listen and give in, “Come for me.”

His orgasm tears through him like a tidal wave. The coil inside of him snaps and Scaramouche moans Ajax’ name like a prayer of his own, riding on the pleasure rushing through him. He trashes on the bed, his cunt spasming as Ajax continues to finger him, slick, wet noises filling his ears beside his own moans.

Gradually, his noises turn into soft, weak mewls, shying away from Ajax’ touch as it becomes too much. “No more, please, Ajax—” he gasps, shuddering at one last, deep thrust before he pulls his fingers out of him. He feels him card his other hand through his hair, brushing his sweaty bangs aside. Scaramouche’s eyes flicker up at him, still catching his breath as he basks in the afterglow of his release.

Ajax’ eyes are dark with want, the azure nothing but a thin ring around his black pupils by now. He breathes just as heavy as Scaramouche, although he’s been denying himself any pleasure up to now. It’s as if everything around them has bled away. Nothing but them remains in the little bubble they’ve created. Ajax has a tunnel vision, burning every detail of him into his memory with the way he’s watching him.

When he brings his hand to his mouth, Scaramouche sees his fingers covered in slick. He would feel embarrassed about it, if it weren’t for Ajax putting them in his mouth without any hesitation. His eyes fall half-closed as he licks them clean, a groan forcing its way out of his chest as he laps up Scaramouche’s taste.

His needy cunt clenches around nothing as Scaramouche watches him, completely dazed, mouth hanging open. Ajax makes sure he watches the entire time, circling his fingers with his tongue thoroughly, like he wants to get every last drop and not spill a single bit. Scaramouche’s cheeks burn at the thought of that.

When he takes them out, they’re drenched with his own saliva. Ajax leans and kisses him again, softer this time. Scaramouche can taste himself on his lips, but he’s too out of it to really care. He hums contentedly against his mouth as Ajax cups his face with his clean hand.

“Think you can take another one?” he asks him. Scaramouche gives him a scoff, opening his eyes to look up at him.

“Don’t take me as some weak human, Ajax,” he warns, only for Ajax to let out a soft laugh.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies, starting to unbutton his pants, before it comes off with his underwear. Scaramouche watches with another wave of hunger rising in his belly as he wraps his fingers, still coated with saliva, around his already hard cock and starts to fist himself. “You’re a god after all, aren’t you?” he adds, head tipping back with a groan right afterwards as his hand moves up and down, thumb grazing at the slit where precum steadily oozes out.

Scaramouche feels pride surge through him at those words. It wouldn’t even matter if Ajax was just saying things to satisfy him, he’d take it regardless. The Gnosis in his chest is proof enough. No mortal could ever compare.

It doesn’t take long for Ajax to crowd into his space once more. His movements are slow, deliberate and his eyes are searching Scaramouche’s face despite the obvious want displayed in them. Scaramouche knows the origin of that, and if he were to have an actual heartbeat, he’s sure it would beat faster in curious anticipation right now.

He tries not to let it show, but his breath catches when he feels Ajax’ cock slide against his pussy, coating himself in Scaramouche’s slick and his eyes widen a bit, nervous energy building up beneath his skin. Ajax settles one hand on his waist, the other guiding his cock into Scaramouche.

It’s overwhelming. Scaramouche isn’t sure what he expected, but nothing comes close to the real thing. It hurts at first, pain searing through him that has him gasping, suppressing a yelp. He grips Ajax’ shoulders and wraps his legs around him once again, clinging to him like he’s a lifeline. Ajax holds him through it, holding still and mumbling sweet nothings into his ear as he trembles against him for what feels like an eternity itself.

When the pain subsides, the first thing his hazy mind focuses on is how incredibly full he feels. A soft little whimper escapes him and he clenches around Ajax’ cock, feeling him jerk slightly inside of him. He draws his arms a little tighter around Scaramouche and buries his face in his shoulder.

“How are you feeling?” he mumbles, voice audibly strained. His entire body is tense, like it costs him everything to hold back from moving. Scaramouche supposes that comes pretty close to it. He brushes through his hair, relaxing in his hold. Ajax notices it immediately.

“Move already,” he hisses, like he wasn’t the one with tears springing to his eyes just seconds ago. Ajax scoffs at that reaction, but he doesn’t need to be asked twice.

He pulls out, ever so slowly and then he sinks back inside and once again, Scaramouche realizes how fucking full he feels when Ajax pushes in to the hilt. He lets out a startled little gasp, eyes glazing over with want and feels the latter’s lips against his throat as he sets a rhythm for Scaramouche to get used to the feeling.

He’s reaching deeper, so much deeper than his fingers ever could, stretching him out so nicely. Scaramouche feels every drag against his walls and it leaves him delirious, head sinking back against the pillows as he holds onto Ajax for purchase. “Fuck,” he chokes, a whine ripping through him as pleasure spikes through his body everytime Ajax buries himself fully inside of him.

He feels like he’s floating, his entire body weightless, the world spinning and the only thing that’s truly in his focus and unwavering is Ajax himself, propped up above him, a thin layer of sweat on his body. He’s looking down at him through lidded eyes, watching his every move and reaction.

It’s so much and at the same time not enough as he hits that same sweet spot again, has Scaramouche arching up against his chest with a cry of his name, tears springing to his eyes. He rolls his hips against Ajax’ and his eyes roll to the back of his head when he feels his fingers rubbing at his clit once more.

“Fuck, fuck, Ajax—”

“Like that?” he asks him, breathless, still pistoning into him. If anything, he only gets harsher, his thrusts quicker as he brings Scaramouche closer and closer to his second orgasm. It’s pathetic how quickly he’s coming undone, but there’s nothing he can do about it. He falls victim to his own body as it betrays his mind, offering itself up for Ajax in its entirety. He could never hide away from him in such a state and Ajax knows it.

He nods, lips parting around another array of sweet, short moans, rising in their pitch. Ajax grabs his waist to stop him from being jostled up against the headboard with every thrust as they increase in strength. He fucks into him like he wants Scaramouche to feel it for days — maybe he does. Scaramouche wouldn’t complain if he managed.

“Please— ah, fuck— just like that, don’t stop.”

He can hear his chuckle, a groan rising in his chest. Feels Ajax gripping his waist harder, making sure it’s going to bruise on Scaramouche’s unblemished skin. At the far back of his mind, the periphery of his consciousness, Scaramouche wonders how long he’s going to see the imprints of his fingers on his body. He hopes they’ll never fade, so he’ll keep something of Ajax with him forever.

When he leans down for another kiss, shockingly sweet in comparison with the way he fucks Scaramouche, Scaramouche mewls, spreading his legs wider as if he could reach deeper like that. There’s warmth that follows the proximity and the kiss they share, Ajax’ hot skin pressed against his cooler body. He likes the feeling of it, him gasping for breath against Scaramouche.

He’s climbing higher and higher, closer to his next release and in time with his euphoria, the glowing starts again, just when he feels the last shreds of his sanity slip away from him, too. He moans Ajax’ name in feverish delight, tugging at his hair as one hand scratches over the broad expanse of his back — Archons, he’s everywhere, caging Scaramouche in completely. He’s never felt so small and he’s the one with the Gnosis sitting in his chest.

“I’m gonna— gonna come, fuck—” he sobs, the pleasure bordering on overstimulation. It’s all too much and yet he needs this, needs every last bit of it. Every time Ajax sheathes himself to the hilt inside of him, Scaramouche has the air punched out of him, scrambling for purchase as the feeling leaves him reeling. He’s not sure he could pronounce his own name right now and frankly, he doesn’t care. There’s only Childe, Ajax, Tartaglia, everywhere, all around, never-ending and Scaramouche gets high on the feeling of being surrounded by him in every way possible.

He feels the electricity building up inside his body just like the heat in his abdomen growing with every second and it’s so much, so, so much and he’s not sure he’s even breathing right now, feels himself breaking under a touch as light as a feather’s when Ajax’ lips trail across his collarbones, mumbling worships into his skin like he’s praying to a god.

“You’re so beautiful, Scara,” he hears Ajax groan, snapping his hips forward in an almost brutal manner. He’s losing control and Scaramouche loves every second of it. He mewls at the words, his pussy clenching around the dick inside of him as if it wants to keep Ajax inside of him forever. The rhythm stutters with that, Ajax groaning deep and wanton. He presses his thumb against Scaramouche’s clit harshly and Scaramouche sees stars.

His vision is blurry at this point, but he sees the faint elemental glow of pure power at the corners of his eyes, sees it growing stronger as he approaches his orgasm and then he falls apart entirely.

Like strings being cut, he finds himself falling, screaming Ajax’ name and another orgasm breaking down over his head. Ajax fucks him through it, milking him dry for all it’s worth as Scaramouche rides the wave out until his thighs shake around his waist and his cries turn into whines and shaky whimpers. He’s pretty sure he loses control over his powers for a tiny moment, given the way the purple hue becomes as bright as a headlight and how Ajax hisses in pain once, twice, only fucking back into him harder when he gets zapped accidentally.

Scaramouche breaks apart, a kaleidoscope of experiences and emotions.

It’s when the pleasure slowly begins to ebb away, leaving nothing but overstimulation, that he finally comes undone too. He moans low in his chest and Scaramouche feels the vibration against his own body as he jerks inside of him, coating his insides and filling him to the brim. He leaves a bite on the junction of his neck and shoulder, hard enough for it to sting, but Scaramouche is too debauched to really take notice of it.

They stay entangled like that for what feels like hours, when it can only be a few minutes. Scaramouche’s limbs feel like jelly, he’s only slowly tethering back to earth and Ajax’ body on top of his, as sweaty and gross as it may be, feels like an anchoring presence. He finds comfort in it, wrapping his tired arms around his torso and keeping him close, uncaring of how disgusting they are. He feels more tired than after that night at the cliff.

He slowly comes back to himself when he hears Ajax hush sweet nothings against his skin, leaving a trail of butterfly kisses in their wake. They’re spoken with the same thick accent he can’t discern, never heard before except out of his mouth.

“What are you saying?” he mutters, fighting the way his eyelids want to droop in drowsiness. It takes way too much effort to make his mouth and tongue cooperate and form the words; they come out rather slurred than anything else. He feels Ajax tense against him for a very brief moment, before he relaxes again, continuing mouthing along his skin in an achingly tender way. It feels an awful lot like how love has always been described to Scaramouche. How he has always thought it to be.

“Just some pet names from my dialect,” he mumbles, switching to standard Snezhnayan. He pulls out of Scaramouche at the same time, ignoring the whimper he gets from him or how he clenches around his cock, trying to keep him inside. Scaramouche whines at the loss and the strangely empty feeling he gets right afterwards, meanwhile Ajax is busy repositioning them so he doesn’t crush Scaramouche with his weight anymore.

He settles down right next to him as he wraps his arms anew around Scaramouche and a beat passes before Ajax resumes to his whispers, another string of melodic syllables falling from his mouth, low and soft, like velvet. Scaramouche feels a strange warmth ripple through him like a stone that’s thrown into a pond — it spreads into the outermost parts of his limbs, into his toes and fingertips alike. He revels in the sensation, eyes closed in bliss.

“Here’s an Inazuman one for you,” he whispers, carding a hand tiredly through sweaty, ginger locks. He feels Ajax nuzzle his face against his collarbone as Scaramouche mumbles the word into his hair — a promise into the oncoming night, one that Scaramouche can’t keep.

He means it nevertheless.

“What does it mean?” Ajax asks, voice tinged with innocent curiosity.

The Gnosis has not made any impact on Scaramouche’s system, apart from its strange, ethereal glow. Neither did he run better nor worse after obtaining it and locking it away inside of his chest.

Right now, though, it feels uncharacteristically heavy in its spot, pressing down on his lungs, making it difficult to breathe— he doesn’t need to, though. He doesn’t need to breathe, only got accustomed to it because he wanted to adapt.

“My Eternity.”

Ajax’ smile against his skin is the last thing he’s aware of before he slips into a dreamless slumber, still pressed up against the other man.

He wakes up a few hours later while it’s still dark outside. The first thing Scaramouche notices is the moon, high in the sky, shining gloomy into the room. The next thing trickling into his consciousness is the heavy, warm arm thrown over his waist, pulling him against someone else’s chest.

If Scaramouche had a heart, it would ache right now. Like this, though, there’s only a phantom ripple running through his body, achingly tender and longing and reminding him of the next thing: He has to go.

They both have to be gone from Inazuma by morning, which leaves very little time until Ajax wakes up too. Scaramouche has to be gone by the time he opens his eyes, no traces left, no indicator about his whereabouts.

He knows what to do, knows what his plan looks like — so why is it so hard to move?

It is as if his limbs are locked up, like he’s a prisoner of his own body. The first time his mechanism would fail him, but deep down, Scaramouche knows his body is perfectly intact and functioning; he could move, if only he really tried.

He keeps lying there for a long time, watches as the moon travels further across the sky, climbing a tiny bit higher before she begins her descent. Scaramouche wonders if the corpse is lonely up there, missing her two sisters. All the while, Ajax barely moves next to him, chest rising and sinking in even breaths.

Eventually, Scaramouche manages to sit up, He rises slowly, so, so slowly, like gravitation suddenly works harder and tries to pull him flat to the mattress again, but he makes it work, until he’s hunched over in the bed, hands in his lap and head slightly turned so he can watch Ajax.

He’s relaxed, a peaceful expression sitting on his face. His lips are parted and he snores softly, dead to the world it seems. The sight almost makes Scaramouche chuckle and he tries to take it all in and store it away in his memory. His mind is to withstand erosion, so if he just looks at him long enough to remember every detail, he’ll never forget about it for as long as he’ll exist.

When he’s sure he’s gotten it all down, to the very last freckle on Ajax’ nose, he slowly turns away. His movements are deliberate, as quiet as possible as to not wake the other man beside him. He swings his legs over the edge of the mattress, wincing at the ache in his muscles, protesting against the movement and then he keeps sitting for another moment, staring at the brightly illuminated corpse up in the night sky.

He should leave. He should be long gone by now, out of Inazuma City, getting onto the next boat and leave. Leave it all behind; Inazuma, Yae Miko, his mother, the Fatui, the Eleventh. And yet he can’t bring himself to get up.

He made his decision months ago, when he first took up the mission. He already knew he wouldn’t return to Snezhnaya. He knew and he also knew that whatever friendship he had formed with Lord Tartaglia wouldn’t change a damn thing about that plan. It wouldn’t be enough to sway him — not a mere mortal that means so little to him.

His chest feels tight as he keeps staring at the room, bathing in its cold light. He knew this would happen, knew this moment would come, even when he kissed him in Tatarasuna. He knew it, he always knew it. There’s a sacrifice that comes with godhood and his is sleeping right behind him, unaware of the turmoil in his chest.

He knew he’d have to leave him. He has thought about it before already and he didn’t change his decision back then, so he can’t change it now. The Gnosis is his given birthright and he’s not going to hand it over to the Tsaritsa just so she can play war against even higher powers. Not with something that is so inherently his, she could never possess it, no matter how tightly she clasps her frozen hands around it.

Scaramouche doesn’t cry. There is nothing to cry about and more than that, he doesn’t want to admit that he feels like crying about the decision he made. This is his destiny and Ajax was something nice and warm along the way, but he is not worth giving up godhood. He is not.

(So, why is he still not getting up, then?)

At least he doesn’t have to see his face when he realizes Scaramouche’s betrayal, when he realizes that he cut all strings, no matter how close-knit they were.

His breath rattles in his chest and Scaramouche feels strangely empty — emptier than before he had a Gnosis to fill the hollow space. He doesn’t realize how his hands come up to his chest and how he pulls it forward again, as silent and slowly as the last time. He lowers his gaze to it, holding his hands like a shell against the slowly spinning Gnosis, emitting its purple glow.

He can feel its soft pulse, like a living being more than a thing. Raw power is alive, in some sense, he supposes. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend it’s a heartbeat.

“Don’t you wanna — I don’t know — hurry up?”

A scoff falls from his lips when he hears the raspy voice behind him. He should’ve known. Quietly, he wonders just how long he’s been awake already, how long he’s been watching Scaramouche struggle with himself, unable to leave this bed. If he was waiting for him to go, waiting to see if he’d be able to go through with it.

“Go back to sleep, Tartaglia.”

There’s a scoff coming from him, audibly amused. “Thought we’re past my title and code name, Balladeer.”

He doesn’t turn around, eyes still focused on the divine power in his hands. He doesn’t store it away this time as he hears Ajax getting up behind him.

It’s silent for a long time. Scaramouche knows he has already lost; there’s no way Ajax will go back to sleep knowing about his plans. He could fight him, in theory, but that wouldn’t bring them anywhere. It would only exhaust both of them and before they know it, they have Yae Miko’s anger to deal with instead of focusing on running away and tracking down the traitor.

His time has run out.

“What if I were to run away come morning?” he asks him, voice soft, tinged with a husk of regret he simply cannot shake. Maybe that is the reason for his stalling, something so simple and yet so deadly. It ties him down, and has him choking on guilt; he knows too well what it’s like to be cast away like this — how could he ever do it to someone else? No less someone he has learned to let in like this, embrace and hold close?

Scaramouche forbids himself to call it love, but if he’s being honest with himself, he’s pretty sure there’s no other word for it that describes it better than that. Love. Stupid, naïve love. Once again, it’s affection that will tear him to shreds. His love for the Eleventh isn’t going to let him keep his Gnosis if he goes back to Snezhnaya — and neither is it going to save him from the Tsaritsa’s wrath if he runs away with it instead.

He loathes himself for it, that he allowed Ajax to reach this deeply, touch the bottom of his soul and leave a mark so burning and achingly bright, Scaramouche can’t possibly ignore it. Has he learned nothing these past four hundred years? Have his betrayals not taught him a single thing?

Love will always hurt.

“I would send Her Sovereignty notice of your betrayal and then start tracking you down immediately,” he replies. Ajax coats his words in so much kindness, it sounds like a promise more than a threat. “I would follow you through every nation until you’ve got nowhere left to run anymore.”

Scaramouche takes another, shuddering inhale, fixing his gaze onto the Gnosis in his hand. Ajax makes no efforts whatsoever to get his hands on it so far. He’s keeping his distance, unmoving behind him.

“What would you do if you caught me?”

Another beat passes between them. “I don’t know,” he mumbles then, “There’s a lot of things I could do; throw you in shackles and drag you back to Snezhnaya where trial will await you. Kill you for your betrayal then and there. Get killed if you’re faster than me. The possibilities are endless.”

Scaramouche suddenly hears him stir, the rustling of sheets betraying his movements. He feels the mattress shift under Ajax’ weight as he moves and then he gets wrapped up in the scent of ocean breeze and pine wood. Ajax scoots closer, his naked chest pressing up against Scaramouche’s back. His warm breath ghosts over his shoulder, leaving a trail of goosebumps on his skin.

It smells safe. It smells like home. Scaramouche almost lets his head fall back in contentment when Ajax leaves a tiny kiss on his shoulder, one calloused hand running along his side and leaving another trail of goosebumps in its wake.

“But where will you go, Scaramouche?” he asks him now, voice still so soft and low, like Scaramouche isn’t laying plans of betrayal out in front of him; Lord Tartaglia, the Tsaritsa’s most loyal Harbinger.

The Gnosis keeps spinning in his hands, bathing them both in its eerie hue. Scaramouche turns his head to the left, as if he’s trying to look at Ajax, though his eyes stay trained to the sheets below. He knows it’s a rhetorical question; if he decides to run, there is no place he’ll ever be safe. The Tsaritsa wants the Gnoses at all costs. Scaramouche is a very small price to pay if it means to obtain the Electro one. He’ll have to pay it no matter where he goes — sooner or later someone will find him. If it’s Ajax, he can only hope that Lord Tartaglia will remember this night and make it quick.

“What will you do?” he adds, even lower this time. His nose brushes along Scaramouche’s nape and he brushes his hair aside to leave another burning kiss. There seems to be no ulterior motive to it, simply expressing his affection as they talk, although he shouldn’t do that anymore. His lips linger on Scaramouche’s skin, like he doesn’t want to part from him either.

But then he does after all. The warmth behind Scaramouche disappears, as his touch and his lips does and the mattress dips as Ajax shifts his weight once more, until it disappears completely.

He turns his head, looking back over his shoulder to watch Ajax for the first time that night, sees him on the other side of the bed, up on his feet. He’s getting dressed, Scaramouche realizes; they have to go. If Scaramouche wants his freedom, he has to be even quicker than Ajax. But will it do him any good to try and run at this point?

“I’ll do whatever I feel like,” he replies, albeit far too late. With that, Ajax turns around, locking eyes with Scaramouche as he steps into his slacks. Scaramouche gives him a simple shrug, “There are no obligations with freedom, are there?”

“I guess godhood can be called freedom in some way.” Ajax moves to grab a fresh shirt and that stupid harness of his. Once more, Scaramouche lets his eyes rest on him as he puts both on. The moonlight bathes him in a gentle glow, unlike the artificial-seeming, otherworldly glow of the Gnosis.

Scaramouche watches as he moves around the bed, grabbing his gloves he lost sometime last night. After putting them on, he looks for his jacket and as he’s putting that one over his shoulders, he speaks up once more, “If you ask me, I think godhood sounds rather lonely.”

“Lonely?” Scaramouche parrots, a bit perplexed by that sudden statement. Ajax shrugs, adjusting the sleeves and making sure everything is in place, before he steps closer to him, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Just look at you,” he tells him and although his voice is soft, no bite behind it, the words feel like punches.

Scaramouche barely suppresses a flinch, gritting his teeth right afterwards. Anger flares up in his veins as he glares up at the Eleventh. “What are you implying, Tartaglia?!”

Of course Ajax only has a small chuckle left for that reaction, unfazed by the threat of getting his brains fried out for insulting Scaramouche so openly. His affections be damned, who does this man think he is?

“You’re a god—”

“Not yet,” he interrupts him, bristling, “There’s more to divinity than simply a Gnosis!”

“But you were crafted for it, weren’t you? Your purpose is divinity and with the Gnosis in your hands you’re already closer to it than most of us will ever be.” Ajax nods at the Gnosis in Scaramouche’s hands and shrugs completely unconcerned.

“What are you getting at?” Scaramouche asks, tired of the little mind game he’s putting forward. The moon is too low in the sky by now, precious seconds trickling past them as Scaramouche still isn’t running.

“A god’s strength is directly proportional with the amount of worship they receive from their people, isn’t it?”

“Among other things,” Scaramouche agrees, suddenly wary of where the conversation is steering.

He observes how Ajax walks up to him now, stops in front of him and then, to his utter surprise, sinks onto his knees. Like this, it’s the Eleventh who has to look up at Scaramouche for once — it feels not so much as intimate as it feels powerful. The Gnosis bathes him in purple entirely like this, the moon at Ajax’ back, illuminating his form like he’s born of light itself.

And he looks at Scaramouche with so much awe, so much wonder and fascination, like he’s seeing more than just a puppet with its heart.

“So, tell me, Kunikuzushi, what’s it worth being a god when you’re not worshiped?”

His eyes widen a fraction as he stares down at the Eleventh. Unconsciously, he wraps his fingers around the Gnosis, clenching it in his fist as if he’s trying to break it for a moment and he has a snappy retort already sitting on his tongue, an insult ready to be fired, but then he realizes that Ajax is right.

What’s it worth being divine when he still is not more powerful than now? All the Gnoses in the world would never make him more of a god. Not just does it ignite frustration and anger alike, because how dare Tartaglia say something like that — speak of his fall from grace when he hasn’t even experienced his inauguration — but also something close to humiliation. A hollow, cruel feeling nesting in his chest, nipping at his ribcage. Loneliness.

“What do you know about godhood to give me advice?!” he spits, trying to disguise the emptiness eating away at his mind.

“Nothing,” Ajax breathes immediately as soon as Scaramouche finishes. His eyes are wide, attention trained on him, like he can’t tear himself away from Scaramouche even if he tried. There’s so much awe on his face, so much adoration, there’s a phantom pang of ache exploding in Scaramouche’s chest. “Absolutely nothing,” he repeats, and then he reaches out, slow and deliberate, raking his eyes over Scaramouche’s still naked form like it is the prettiest sight he’s ever experienced.

The Gnosis is still tight in Scaramouche’s fist as he watches him touch his thigh, gloved fingers gently running up the soft flesh, like he’s tracing something invisible. His breathing quickens and Ajax mouth falls open around a gasp, like he can’t believe he gets to do this. Like he hasn’t touched Scaramouche just hours ago in ways no one ever did.

Scaramouche stays deadly still and silent, observing Ajax’ every reaction; how his eyes settle low on his body, zeroing in on the bruises he left on his waist from gripping it too hard in his hazy pleasure. He places his fingers over them, slow and tenderly, coaxing the smallest little sound out of Scaramouche as he recreates the act. He can see his pupils dilate, how he wets his lips, there’s so much want in his expression, so much longing.

“But I know a thing or two about worship,” he speaks up then, after what feels like a whole lifetime. His voice is hoarse, has a little strain to it, as his fingers trail up further, dancing over his belly, to the expanse of his chest. There, they come to a rest after all, his palm pressing flatly against the hollow space in there. A shiver runs down Scaramouche’s spine and Ajax catches the reaction, eyes following the shudder running through his body, how he parts his lips around a shaky exhale, head tipping back ever so slightly. Ajax groans.

With his other hand, he reaches out as well, though instead of simply touching whatever part of Scaramouche’s body he can put his hands on, he takes his hand into his own this time. He pulls it towards himself and a second later, Scaramouche feels the ghost of a kiss on the back of his hands. Ajax’ lips brush over his skin, barely even touching it and yet, the sensation sends sparks up and down his body.

“If you just let me,” he whispers against his hand, repositioning it, so he’s able to press a kiss on every fingertip, “I promise you, Scaramouche, I’ll make you the most powerful god the world has ever seen.”

In theory, that’s impossible and they both know it. Tartaglia can worship all he wants, he would never come close to the faith of an entire nation. And yet, Scaramouche eats up his words with fervent desire, head falling back fully at such a tempting promise. Ajax as his first follower, blind with adoration, fuelled by nothing but the desire to please him to the fullest. Isn’t that an image? Scaramouche thinks he could get drunk on the idea alone.

He lets out a soft moan, feels as though there’s already a spike in the power he’s able to wield, simply because he has the Eleventh Harbinger on his knees and at his disposal. Just what would Her Majesty think if she could see him right now, her strongest weapon turning away from her?

When he focuses back on Tartaglia, he’s still kneeling between his legs, watching him intently. His breathing goes ragged, like he’s nervous for the answer Scaramouche will give him.

Gently, he pries his hand out of Ajax’ grip; almost immediately his hand falls away, back to the floor and he stays still as Scaramouche cards his own through his hair. His fingers trail down the side of his face, hooking beneath his jaw and slowly gliding towards his chin, lifting his head in the process. Ajax shudders, that’s when Scaramouche knows he successfully reminded him of the Tsaritsa’s touches. His lips pull into a tiny smile.

“Have you not already sworn loyalty to another god?” he whispers, barely breaking through the silence in the room. Ajax gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down and the hand on Scaramouche’s chest presses down harder, it seems.

“I have,” he admits, “Long ago. But what does an oath mean when my faith is gone?”

His eyes rest heavy on Scaramouche, azure burning right into him. Scaramouche feels dizzy, fingers ghosting over Ajax’ lips. “Are you sure that’s what you want to do?” he asks him, his voice breathless. He’ll give up a lot and right now, he can still change his mind. Back out of what he just said, no matter how enticing it sounds to Scaramouche. Act like none of this ever happened, like this conversation never took place and let Scaramouche go, have him carry the burden of betrayal all on his own.

But when he cups Ajax’ face, the latter leans into the touch and his eyes fall closed. When he speaks up, he starts reciting parts of the oath a Harbinger has to swear to the Tsaritsa. Scaramouche watches him, baffled.

“I live to serve you,” he says, leaning away from Scaramouche’s hand and lowering his head to pay his respects. The action leaves Scaramouche reeling even more and the Gnosis pulsates in his grasp. The hand on his chest slowly slips away, fingertips leaving a burning trail before they vanish from his skin completely and Ajax’ hand falls into his lap. “Your will shall prevail, Scaramouche, and I’ll gladly devote myself entirely to your cause.”

He doesn’t look up, though Scaramouche notices he’s anticipating his answer, shoulders tense and his breath coming flatly.

Slowly, he rises to his feet. He opens his fist around the Gnosis, watches it for a few moments and then, without any further hesitation, he pushes it back inside his chest, shuddering as it clicks into place swiftly and without any trouble. Next, he settles his gaze on Ajax, still kneeling on the floor, completely devout.

“Rise,” he tells him and Ajax all but scrambles on his feet, rising to his full height, towering over Scaramouche once more. His expression is solemn, similar to the one he wore when he first entered the meeting room at Zapolyarny Palace, Pierro right behind him.

He means this. Every last word of it.

“Allow me to come with you,” he whispers, softer than ever despite the hoarseness of his voice, “I’ll worship you forever.”

Scaramouche watches him for a moment longer. The Gnosis’ power flows through his veins and he feels like he could take on the Heavenly Principles with nothing but what he has to his name right now, one of these things being Ajax speaking his name in utter devotion, like a prayer to the skies.

His voice is just as soft, but the words are steady and he thinks he sees a flash of light surge through Ajax’ murky eyes as he finally responds, “You may.”