Chapter Text
Rain is wet. The sun is yellow. And there are two men strapped naked against the walls. One considerably noisier than the other, but Childe can’t bring it in himself to blame the man. The bed, which he can only assume is what he is laying on, feels much more comfortable than a pale concrete wall would. Turning his head to the side caused ginger hair to sweep past his eyelids, blocking his sight. From what he could see was a setup of a basic, minimal concrete room. A single light. That must be the source of his headache. It blared a mute fluorescent white against the top of Childe’s forehead, leaving a pulse in its wake. Upon the harbingers attempt to push a sweaty palm against his aching head, he realized the two above him weren’t the only ones restrained. His body resembled a crucified white boy, and he had to give applause to whomever was ballsy enough to kidnap him, of all people. Well, he would applaud. Had he the use of his hands.
“You took my vision, but you didn’t take my urge to murder.” Scaramouche. Not a doubt in Childe’s mind. The younger couldn’t think of a single person who holds an amount of hatred even close to resembling The Balladeer. Were they visionless? Childe pushed his head upwards and doing so left a pattern of swirling stars in his sight. He was most definitely drugged, and unfortunately unable to enjoy the ride. A chortle escaped his throat at the thought. He was definitely high.
“And look who gets the bed,” so, it was a bed, “The prissiest of us all.” It came out as a sneer, but Childe felt the concern dripping off the tendrils of the insult. Two harbingers, arguably the strongest (which came from a completely unbiased place), managed to be captured against their will. Childe cannot even attempt to imagine who the third person is. Perhaps he should check the state of his being, or at least try to again. Slowly, but surely, Childe raises a heavy head – When did it become so heavy? – to see that – oh, he is naked. His head smacked the thin linen pillow. Certainly no vision. No underwear either. That’s not very considerate. Childe hears the tell-tale sound of thin wrists beating against metal. Scaramouche must be beating himself senseless in his attempt to break free. “Get your drugged sacks of flesh up and move!” The last word came out as a demand. Again, Childe could hear the concern in his voice, but at this point it was more desperation.
“Why didn’t they give you anything?” The inquiry dragged out in a slow, sluggish manner. It’s hard to talk when you’re more fucked up than a Snezhnayan on their 18th birthday, that’s for sure. Childe opened his eyes, regardless of how it felt like he was ripping two glued pieces of sandpaper apart. Dragging his gaze upwards, he was filled with instantaneous regret. There in all his 162 centimeters of glory was Scaramouche. Naked, sweating and heaving at the chest. His hair draped across porcelain shoulders in messy violet streaks. His waist was smaller than he imagined it would be, and Childe must have absently said something of the sort, because now there were pointed white teeth being barred in his general vicinity.
“Why didn’t they give me anything? I’m not so weak as to be doped off human drugs.” A considerate hum left Childe as he pondered that statement.
“A shame. You’re really missing out, if you like, ignore the circumstances.” Scaramouche guffawed at Childe’s mindless words. Hopefully, he will sober up soon. Thin fingers toyed with the smooth bracket of his metal cuff. But for now, he was too relaxed to care. Too relaxed to even think about who else must be locked in this room with two violent harbingers. But like most things, Scaramouche ruins it.
“Why don’t you tell your boyfriend you’re doing just fine? He’s been staring at you this whole time.” Childe snapped his eyes open again. As quickly as he could, anyways. He bent his neck forward, only to see something even more disturbing than Scaramouche naked. Zhongli was held in chains unique to himself and no one else. Gold glowed off the many cracks and splits of the restraints. As if absorbing his adeptal power from the source. In his mouth was a bit that kept his canines pushed forward and tongue pressed back against the bar. Drool and sweat leaked from his pried open mouth. Naked arms graced against the concrete walls in a manner that could only be described as limp and defeated. And those eyes were staring directly into Childe’s own. Pure fear, possessive need, and anger. It was enough to overwhelm any mortal, and Childe felt his own heart’s inability to fully understand how deeply fucked he actually was.
The next time he woke up, it wasn’t as pleasant. And that damn light was still there. Scaramouche was thankfully silent. Actually, the whole room was silent, save for the humming of, fucking Tsaritsa, that damn light. He was hungover. It was an undebatable fact. All the same, Childe found himself resisting his restraints in a catlike stretch. “Scaramouche? Zhongli? Are you both alive?”
Silence followed. And then the sound of rustling chains. “Unfortunately.” The sixth sounded much, much more exhausted than he did the day before. Has it been a day? A week?
“How long have I been out?” The more Childe moved and verbalized, the stronger his primal urge to escape grew. Perhaps absolutely fucked up Childe was fine with the current dilemma of being strapped naked next to his comrades, but that version of Childe was checked out. Whoever decided to imprison three of the most violent homosexuals of Teyvat in a room together, they were sorely fucked.
Scaramouche interrupted his homicidal spiral. “Fuck if I know. A few days?” His limited sight gave way to two very bloodied and very bruised wrists. Scaramouche must have refused to stop beating his restraints senseless, long past Childe slipped from consciousness. The eleventh winced at the sight. Turning his head to the other man was no better. Once an all-powerful being, Zhongli’s body laid slack against those golden-etched chains. The man was nowhere near awake, one look at his pallid face showed as much. There was going to be no way out of this, at least, not an easy way.
“Well, Scaramouche, you pissed anyone off lately?” Childe asked with an increasing amount of rage in his voice, giving way to violence. Perhaps projecting his frustration wasn’t exactly fair, but the amount of people in this room was very, very limited. And Childe can’t blame himself for starting with the short-tempered and even shorter man in front of him.
Oddly enough, Scaramouche didn’t take the bait. “No, I haven’t. Not to this extent, anyways,” Childe watches with his upside-down gaze as the Balladeer flicks violet eyes around the room, analyzing. “Either Dottore is very excited to try out some new toys, or your karma for royally fucking up Liyue has finally arrived.” A neutral tone with harsh words that spit on Childe’s chest with indignation. In all honesty, the puppet knew that Dottore had no part in this. There were no tools, no experiments or assistants milling about. And, even that blue-haired freak of nature would know better than to mess with an archon. Or, ex-archon. Whatever. Scaramouche held disdain and an extreme lack of respect for all archons. Sue him.
Childe lifted his brows in interest, plastering his oceanic stare against Scaramouche’s violet. “As much as I would hate to be tortured while you watched. What would you have to do with Liyue? And Zhongli? Why is he here?” While fear and confusion came and went, violence was in Childe’s nature. Embedded into him, and everyone in this room knew that. The only response Scaramouche deigned the younger was a shallow sigh which, again, seemed to clash against that short-circuited attitude of the Balladeer. Something was wrong. The other must know something.
“There are only so many reasons we, as a group, would be contained and naked,” Scaramouche continued the next part with his eyes to the floor. His neck dipped with the motion, and Childe watched as strands of his bangs blended together. “Childe, I am sure there is a reason for only requiring a single bed.” The words were stringing into sentences, but the ginger’s daft head wasn’t comprehending them. Frustration flooded Childe’s senses. Of course, the little man knew something. And he was spouting in riddles about it.
“Enough bullshit, Balladeer,” The younger was shaking, and the motion set off his sore limbs in uncomfortable waves. His body was being damaged just by the sheer amount of time he’s spent bound to this bed. This prison. “If you know something, now is the time to speak.” Scaramouche looked at the boy, truly looked at him with a look of something in those artificial eyes. But, it was gone the next moment. His limbs were strung from the ceiling, making him appear all the more like the puppet he was.
“I don’t, Childe.” It came out as a whisper, and, oh, perhaps this wasn’t exactly pleasant for the other two as well. The red head quieted after that, allowing the peace to settle once more. Zhongli was barely audible, his breathing shallow and soft. For once, they all stayed in that quiet, mentally preparing for whatever happens next. Something has to happen next. The fear of the unknown was something Childe became quickly familiar with, but it was never something he became comfortable in. “It reminds you of the abyss a bit, no?” Childe whipped his head forward at that, meeting a soft gaze with a wide-eyed challenge. Scaramouche scoffed, looking away in disinterest. “It wasn’t a jest. This place isn’t exactly homely for me, either.” You never had a home. Childe thinks, and then immediately discards the thought. The sixth was acting odd. And if those wooden limbs quivered with every movement of a chain, Childe pretended not to notice.
A loud voice. “Subject two will be forced into a conscious state. Subject one will be unbound. Subject three has exactly five minutes to bring subject one to sexual completion. Failure to achieve this goal will be punishable by subject one’s death.” Silence, except for the low hum of that damnable object that managed to keep Zhongli subdued. Eventually, that stopped, too.
“Childe,” Scaramouche began, uncharacteristically quiet. “Don’t allow emotions to sway you right now.”
“You knew,” Childe hissed, “You knew, and you chose not to tell me. Why? To get my full reaction?” His hands were balled into tight fists. White knuckles trembled under the pressure.
Scaramouche dipped his head to the ground, and he looked so lifeless. Hopeless. “I was hoping that I was wrong.” Childe let out a breathy laugh, staring at that fucking ceiling. He laughed until it became difficult, until he couldn’t understand where all of the air in the room escaped to. Disgusting. Absolutely, utterly fucking disgusting. He dared not to look at Zhongli, lest he lose all remaining sanity. This was inhumane. Abhorrent. Something Dottore may be capable of, but even he would never do. And yet - And yet here I am, shackled and binded to the whims of some sick fuck. He couldn’t breathe. Childe could hear the Balladeer saying something to him, but he couldn’t focus, couldn’t even try. Zhongli being here was his fault. Only his.
He blamed it on dehydration and the sheer amount of bloodlust that rushed through him, knowing that his lover was being held against his will, with some unknown device sucking the life out of him, and Childe could do nothing, he couldn’t protect him, he couldn’t save him, he couldn’t- “They want us to fuck each other.” A solid statement that boomed from Scaramouche, finally catching Childe’s ears.
Safe to say, the words shocked Childe out of his inevitable spiral. He looked upwards to see Scaramouche, but Scaramouche wasn’t looking at him. His gaze was still hard set on the floor, and his ears were stained a dusty shade of red. “Huh,” was Childe’s very intellectual, very helpful response. Neither spoke for a while, and the only sounds were the slow rises and dips of the two’s breaths, along with Zhongli's slowly, but surely, deepening breaths. The tension was there, but it was odd. Childe had long since been accustomed to that silent yet thick atmosphere that’s created before a fight, the kind that rises quickly and sharp and leaves the people involved with bloody fists and broken teeth. This kind of tension, however, Childe had not a single fucking clue how to deal with. It festered under his skin and left him leaving nervous glances around the very boring, very dull room. He tried not to pay attention to how the bed sunk under his weight. “Is that so bad? Not like they’re asking us to dismember the other.” Was… was Scaramouche attempting a joke? Never in his short yet traumatizing life would he expect Scaramouche, the Sixth Fatui harbinger, to lighten an atmosphere. This must be worse than he thought. Worry stretched him to a point where it felt like his skin was splitting at their invisible seams.
“Okay,” Childe began, voice small and uneasy. “Okay, yeah, that’s what they said.” A few grumbles sputtered from the slowly reaminating archon. In his eagerness to see the state of Zhongli, he missed Scaramouche’s next question.
“Wait, who is subject one, and who is subject three?”