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The next time they meet, it’s in the throne room.
It’s an official meeting, an important one — all the Harbingers are here, on one knee and bowed before the Tsaritsa, Her Majesty — and Childe is no different. They’d all been called back from their duties in different regions for this meeting, for the Tsaritsa to move forward in her plans.
“My dearest Harbingers,” She begins, her tone mellow and gentle. Her gaze flicks over the bought of them, and they all feel it keenly. “Welcome home. I have been notified by each of you personally of your progress, and I believe it is time for us to move onward.
“You may rise.”
They all stand up, heads still bowed in respect towards their superior, before they slowly look up to watch Her Majesty on her throne.
“I will be assigning each of you a region to work with, and I trust that you will understand how the tale should unfold. Our main goal is to attain every gnosis. Documents have been sent to your rooms.”
She then smiles warmly, a stark contrast to the rest of her — rigid, poised and unyielding — before saying, “There will be a grand feast tonight. Come if you would like to, rest if you do not. Do enjoy the peace while it lasts, my loves.”
Her Majesty rises, descending the steps, walking towards them. They return to one knee, head bowed. The Tsaritsa touches La Signora on her shoulder lightly. “Mondstadt.”
Then she moves to Childe. “Liyue.”
Il Dottore, “Sumeru.”
The list went on.. and she came to Scaramouche.
“Inazuma.”
Childe could see him tense ever so slightly.
And then She’s moving on to the rest, before striding back up to Her throne. “You have been assigned the respective nations — do not fail me. Draft out your own plans. As long as it succeeds, you will be granted permission and access to all necessary sources.”
She takes one last, long look at them. “You are dismissed.”
They salute to Her with deep bows, and Childe ensures his is perfect for Her, before he, too, leaves the room.
The hallway out of the throne room is a short one. After it comes a larger space that leads to different hallways, and most of them drift in the direction of their apartments, others scattering to other places.
Strangely, Childe feels like he’s missing something that’s supposed to be there — perhaps he’s supposed to be concentrating on the task at hand, organising troops and thinking about how exactly he’s going to get his hands on Rex Lapis’ gnosis — but he’s never been one for paperwork, and, well, after such a long, extended period of work…
All he wants to do is to sink into his bed, preferably with someone in his arms, and rest for a few moments. Subtly, he glances at Scaramouche, and is startled to see those purple eyes already on him.
When their eyes meet, Scaramouche looks just as surprised as he, before his head jerks in the other direction and he hastens his pace towards his room.
“Balladeer,” he calls, catching up to him with steady strides, “Wait.”
Scaramouche barely slows down. “What do you want?”
Childe grins. “You.”
The second Harbinger gives them a long look.
“Stop being weird,” Scaramouche snaps.
Childe pauses at the obvious discomfort in his tone, as if he’s in a particularly bad mood, because the way he’s saying it now sounds different, somehow.
Decided, the eleventh grabs his wrist and pulls him along. “Come with me.”
“Hey-” Scaramouche hisses, stumbling over his own feet in a hurry to move along at a steady pace with Childe’s long strides, “Bastard, what- what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
The hairs along the back of Childe’s nape raise in warning, and he lets go just in time to see Scaramouche’s eyes glow and for electricity to crackle right where he’d been holding.
Childe gapes at him. “Are you serious?”
Scaramouche glowers at him. “You walked past my room. I’m going back.”
The younger grabs at him and manhandles him into his arms, carrying him easily and Scaramouche squawks in protest. “What are you doing! Let me go, Tartaglia you bit-”
Childe merely tightens his hold and makes a run for it, sprinting towards the end of the hall where his own apartment is, and drops Scaramouche back onto his own two feet. He unlocks the door quickly and pulls him into the room, not allowing time for him to escape before he closes the door shut behind them with a shit-eating grin. “Hey, my stamina isn’t that bad, is it?”
Scaramouche has an unreadable expression on his face, but it’s mostly been overwritten by a “what just happened” look.
He mumbles incoherently, glaring at Childe, and Childe shivers at the annoyance in his eyes. He raises his hands in surrender. “Look, I just thought you looked like you could use a good hug, and since I need one too, I figured we could make things work somehow. A win-win situation, if I may.”
At the mention of a hug, Scaramouche pales and presses his back against a wall, eyes wide before his brows furrow. “Don’t even dream about touching me,” he says with a frown, pulling his hat off to press against his chest as if to keep a physical barrier between them.
Childe opens his arms as if in invitation. “Come on, I give good hugs. I swear. Promise. Pinky promise.”
Scaramouche looks at him in near disbelief.
“Now, don’t give me that look. You’ve hugged me before, for several hours actually, and-”
A hand slaps over his mouth as if to stop him from pouring out all the secrets Scaramouche would take to his grave, a harsh glare finally shutting him up.
“Idiot,” the Balladeer mutters. “You’re such a huge fucking idiot.”
Childe shrugs. “I may be stupid, but, yeah.” His words are muffled by the hand making sure he can’t speak properly.
Scaramouche rolls his eyes. “Yeah.”
“Scara,” Childe says after pulling his hand off, “please?”
It’s not everyday you hear a Harbinger say please, if everyone's being honest. Perhaps even close to never.
Scaramouche purses his lips and avoids his gaze. “...I’m leaving.”
And then Childe starts stripping. On the spot.
Scaramouche balks. “What are you- Ajax!”
He leaves only his boxers on as he sidles into his home, sort of home, leaving his Vision carelessly on the table and plops down onto the couch.
The Balladeer gapes at him in confusion.
“You can come if you want,” Childe says almost lazily, though he’s most definitely hoping Scaramouche would just cuddle him already and he might probably wither away if the sixth actually opened the door and left, “I’m planning to just rest for today. No work. No stress, just for today.”
He tries to keep himself in a posture that seems unassuming to coax Scaramouche into taking the bait.
He can see Scaramouche’s hands tighten around the brim of his hat, that gaze lighting over him, considering his proposal-
Childe grins.
Then the door opens and Scaramouche leaves with a muttered “asshole” before the door slams shut again, and Childe is left gaping in incredulity.
Childe doesn’t turn up for dinner.
Scaramouche chews on his food angrily, fuming as the Harbingers take turns asking about what he and Childe have been doing together.
I’m going to kill him, Scaramouche decides.
“I didn’t know you all would be so busy meddling in my business,” he snaps when one of them lays a hand on his shoulder with a smirk.
“Now, now, dear Balladeer, we’re merely curious about our colleagues’ newfound love,” Signora coos, her eyes glinting, “After all, none of us have ever had an affair with each other before you two.”
“We are not having a fucking affair!”
“They were hugging,” the Second calls out.
“I do not have to explain myself to kids,” Scaramouche seethes. “And, we were not hugging. He was fucking dragging me.”
“I didn’t know you were weak enough to be dragged merely by hand,” Dottore comments, “Should we do a couple more experiments to test your limits again? You seem to be weakening in strength.”
Scaramouche’s eyes glow once more.
“That’s enough,” Pierro interrupts before Scaramouche could kill everyone in the room. “Remember that we are in the Palace.”
Pantalone smirks.
Scaramouche scowls.
As the Harbingers disperse to the various food stations, Pantalone strides up to him, swirling a glass in one hand and offering Scaramouche the other. Scaramouche takes it and downs half the liquid in one go.
“That’s not how you drink wine,” Pantalone chides.
“I don’t care.”
“Cheese?”
“No.”
“Chocolate?”
When there’s no answer, Pantalone offers a chunk of chocolate that Scaramouche wolfs down.
“Sweet tooth, I see.”
“Shut up.”
“That was supposed to go with the wine.”
Scaramouche rolls his eyes. “As if I care.”
“How’s the food?”
“...Not bad.”
“Tartaglia’s not here.”
“I can see that.”
“Mm,” Pantalone hums, studying the other Harbingers. “You wanna bring him some food?”
Scaramouche glowers at him. “Why the fuck would I?”
The Ninth smirks again. “I don’t know, you tell me.”
The Sixth ignores him in favour of brooding in his own thoughts.
“The kid’s taken with you,” Pantalone snickers quietly, almost like a giggle.
Scaramouche turns his head to glare at him so fast his neck might have broken were he not immortal. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t see it?”
“See what?”
“I forget that you’re really dense sometimes.”
“...”
The feast draws to a close late into the night, with Scaramouche lingering around to make sure everyone has left before he can pack whatever he’s filled his plate with into a box. He eyes the food with some apprehension, after getting a few “Good luck on finishing that!” calls from the other Harbingers.
Scaramouche glares at the box in his hands, biding his time as he walks (storms) towards the rooms. Why am I doing this?
Pierro told him the general outline of what was to happen in Inazuma earlier — Something concerning selling Delusions amidst the chaos Vision Hunt Decree stirred. Vague, but the report should contain more information for him to work with.
Inazuma.
The chances of meeting her are slim to none, since she’s currently attempting to preserve her idea of Eternity within her own mind — but what would she say if she is to find out that Scaramouche is behind everything?
The idea makes a laugh bubble in his chest, bordering on hysterical. He lets out some of it and tamps the rest down, choosing to leer instead. Would she be surprised? He smirks. Would she regret not having sealed him away?
Country Destroyer.
He would finally live up to his name by destroying his hometown.
His heart twists with a different emotion he has no wish to put a name to.
And alas, it is not his call. Everything has been planned, he just has to execute it.
“Balladeer?”
He freezes, looking up and into blue eyes, the light in them long gone.
Childe gives him a tired smile. “Hey, comrade. Any chance the cafeteria is still open?”
“It’s closed.” Scaramouche croaks, hating the crack in his voice. He clears his throat to regain some dignity, standing up straighter.
“Ah.” Childe looks at him with concern. Scaramouche hates it.
He shoves the box in Childe’s chest, and the younger takes a step back in surprise. “What-”
Scaramouche purses his lips. “Don’t know what you like, so I got one of everything that wasn’t finished.” At Childe’s wide-eyed look, Scaramouche shoves it at him again. “Take it. Fuck, I don’t know why I bother with you at all.”
Childe takes the box from him obediently.
Scaramouche sighs. “Because of you, asshole, they think we’re having an affair.”
Childe peers into the contents of his dinner-box, then at Scaramouche. “Is that bad?”
The Sixth frowns. “Why would it not be?”
“Because I like you.”
Childe watches as those dark eyes under that silly hat widen with surprise, glancing up at him sharply.
“...What?”
Childe shrugs. “Thanks for the food. Goodnight, Kuni.”
“Tartaglia, what?”
Childe strides to his room, and Scaramouche chases him down the hallway. “You can’t just fucking- Archons, what do you mean?”
When there’s no reply, Scaramouche’s brows furrow. “Ajax!”
The kid’s taken with you.
Childe stops and swings around so fast Scaramouche crashes into him. With a tug, they’re in Childe’s room again, and the box is left to one side, forgotten as Childe pushes him against a random wall.
The Eleventh kicks the door shut, his usually open and playful expression gone. In its place is a guarded, hooded look, and it’s not something Scaramouche is used to seeing from the younger Harbinger.
Childe looks away for a bit, and they both stand there in silence. Scaramouche’s hat fell to the ground when it hit the wall, but Scaramouche can’t be bothered to pick it up.
This is a drastic change from the Childe earlier, before Scaramouche left him here in his room. Scaramouche is at a loss.
“Do you mean it.. romantically?” He asks slowly.
Childe swallows hard. “I do,” he answers, “More than anything else.”
Scaramouche crosses his arms. There’s a weird feeling again. “...I don’t know if I believe you.”
Within seconds, Childe has him backed against the wall once more. His eyes are unreadably dark, brewing with an emotion Scaramouche can’t recognise, but he sees the frustration outlining his face. “You don’t have to believe me to know that I do,” the younger mutters.
He’s dangerously close.
If it were anyone else, Scaramouche might have killed them a long time ago — but it’s Childe, his stupid and oblivious junior who loves his family more than he loves himself.
Arms wrap around him, pulling him close for a hug. A head buries itself in the crook of his neck. The taller has to bend down almost awkwardly to reach Scaramouche, and the latter hesitantly raises his own to wrap around him too.
“...What’s wrong?”
“A letter came,” comes the muffled reply against his neck. “Mum’s sick.”
Scaramouche holds him.
Then they sit in silence as Childe eats. The younger’s eyes flick up to his from time to time, as if in disbelief that he’s still here after that confession. Or that he hasn't been killed yet. Scaramouche just watches him without saying a word.
They eventually move to the bed, with Scaramouche borrowing one of Childe’s shirts to wear.
Childe tackles him the moment he crawls into the bed, rolling them to the center and snuggling into him.
If he’s being honest, Scaramouche is feeling apprehensive about Inazuma as well, so he secretly takes some comfort from the warmth they’re sharing. Even if Childe is half naked again.
Childe mumbles something suspiciously similar to “I missed you”, but it’s muffled and Scaramouche doesn’t want to think too much about it.
So they lie there, with Scaramouche on his back again, and Childe draped over him, face nestled into the crook of his neck, the position they usually find themselves in. Because for some weird reason, Childe really likes resting like that.
(Scaramouche enjoys it too.)
Scaramouche’s arms are draped around Childe’s neck, holding him close despite his grumbles and minor complaints, eyes closing.
But Childe keeps shifting around. It’s getting annoying.
Scaramouche opens his eyes, a frown pulling at his lips, about to tell him to stop, but Childe chooses that moment to brace himself on his arms to peer down at him.
He looks uncertain and uneasy. Scaramouche raises a brow in question.
“Kunikuzushi…” Childe trails off, gaze flickering over his face slowly, “...Can I kiss you?”
Scaramouche stares at him. He stomps on the impulse to touch the side of his lips, where Childe last kissed him, and his lips part in surprise.
He looks away. With the smallest of nods, he agrees.
Fingers grasp his chin, turning his head and catching his lips in a kiss.
Scaramouche has never been kissed on the lips before in all his years of living. He just never saw a need for such a thing — emotions have never been his thing, after all. Kissing is supposed to be intimate, something shared between lovers.
Is this what this is?
Childe lets him go for a few seconds before swooping down for another one.
Soon, he can’t seem to let Scaramouche go, peppering his face and neck with kisses, then attempting to pry slow ones from his mouth, tracing the seam of his lips with the tip of his tongue until Scaramouche parts them.
Scaramouche grabs at Childe’s shoulder to push him off lightly when it lasts too long, his face flushing. “Enough.”
Childe leaves one last, long kiss on his nose, a sweet smile curving his lips as he nuzzles his nose against Scaramouche’s cheek.
“You’re really clingy,” the older mutters.
“You like it.”
Scaramouche can’t refute that, so he gives a grunt in response.
Childe rolls to his side instead, pressing yet another sweet kiss to the tip of his ear. Scaramouche is going to go insane if he keeps doing that. And he almost misses the weight of Childe draped over him, but he swears he doesn’t.
Childe pulls him close in a hug again, this time treating him as he would one of his huge whale stuffed toys back home.
“You could apply for temporary leave with the Tsaritsa,” Scaramouche mumbles, fingers carding through Childe’s hair. “Visit your family or something.”
“Mm,” Childe hums in sleepy agreement, “How are you feeling?”
Scaramouche stops for a moment. “What do you mean?”
“Inazuma.”
Scaramouche tenses, then he forces himself to relax. “Fine.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Whatever you say. I’m all ears, whenever and wherever.”
Scaramouche smiles, and Childe can’t see that.
“‘Night, Kuni.”
A hand squeezes his in response, unsaid feelings lingering in the air; but they fall asleep easily, as they always do with each other.