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A puppet does not have to sleep, and Scaramouche, for his part, does not even particularly like it. But Childe’s skin is hot against his under the covers, and his breath comes soft. Soft from the chest of, by anyone’s account: an instrument of war, the Tsartisa’s blade.
He’s so young.
Scaramouche stares at the sconces and moulding that border the walls from a cage of Childe’s arms. He holds him so tightly, and does not ask after the initial inquiry why Scaramouche’s pulse does not thrum like his does. When they fuck, or ever, for that matter. He is still a domesticated thing, no matter the length of the leash they allow him. When Childe runs ahead on it, the friction frays the soft skin of Scaramouche’s palms.
He buried these feelings down so, so long ago that being here feels like pressing on a yellowed bruise.
Against the shell of his ear, Childe’s heart beats steady in sleep. Metronomically, Scaramouche times his own breaths with it. Too much time he has wasted on the fantasy of what it must feel like, but too much time it has been since he shared a bed with someone, too.
After so long, the shifting light being the only indication that he has not slipped into the purgatory of his early creation, a strange dread takes root in him. That the sound will stop; that Childe’s heart will turn itself off.
If it does cease to pound, will they be the same?
Scaramouche does not ask how frequently he makes use of the Delusion, because it is not any of his business. But by all accounts, it could lead to such a thing, couldn’t it? Dottore would certainly have no qualms. It is a possibility.
Something seizes in his own empty chest, because Scaramouche realizes he cannot allow that to happen.
All of those times they sparred as a moth-bitten veil for other desires, Childe’s pulse would rush, full and wild. Faster, and faster, until Scaramouche, in his inexperience with such an organ, was sure it would burst. But Childe was reckless, and he wanted nothing more than the feeling of racing veins and bruised knuckles.
Ba-dum, Ba-dum, Ba.
A shove, and a noise of surprise quickly becomes one of air sucked in through teeth. Scaramouche presses his weight onto Childe, who watches him, immediately awake at the motion next to him.
“Hey?” says Childe, throat thick and expression curious.
“Could I try something,” asks Scaramouche, but it is not a question. He wants permission.
“Okay,” replies Childe, ending in a sigh as hands smaller than his loosey slide their way around his neck.
Scaramouche leaves them there for a moment, and he lets out a small gasp of wonder as he actually feels Childe’s pulse speed up under his fingers. In the dark of the room, lifeless blue eyes look even more so. But they lock on him all the same, and Scaramouche counts the beats of Childe’s heart up to ten before he meets them.
“Oh,” breaths Childe, at once realizing what is about to happen to him and how much Scaramouche likes it.
Scaramouche squeezes.
The air from the sudden inhale is trapped in Childe’s throat, his eyes fluttering shut. Scaramouche watches, his head swimming, eyes trying to take everything in. He cannot keep count with how fast the beats go, almost overlapping one another.
He leans down, ignoring the way Childe bucks his erection into Scaramouche’s own hips, and turns his head sideways to press his ear to Childe’s still chest. It feels taut, suspended in breaths.
The heartbeat is hummingbird-quick, and Scaramouche closes his fingers tighter. Above him, a whine: choked-off note, out-of-tune. Scaramouche presses his forehead to Childe’s chest and grinds down against his clothed cock.
And Childe makes the most wonderful sound Scaramouche has ever heard.
All for him, Scaramouche’s thoughts scream though he tries to quiet them. He’s letting you do this, letting you set the pace of the most important thing in his chest. Why would someone ever do something like that? Childe is too trusting, his hands grip the sheets as his brows furrow and he tries to last for as long as he can…
For what?
Suddenly, his hands scramble to pry Scaramouche off, but the action is barely registered. Scaramouche presses himself into Childe, as close as they can go, not wanting to miss a single beat. The chest beneath him heaves and Scaramouche’s eyes close contentedly.
Childe’s heart is like a rabbit in his ribcage, terrified and heavenly. Scaramouche made it so, like Childe was the puppet and not himself. Played on his veins and heartstrings like it was nothing.
“You like that?” asks Childe when he’s caught his breath, short and eager.
Scaramouche nods against him. It’s still so fast against him, so warm. Childe must have been scared, must have liked that feeling.
“Do it again,” Childe swallows, and sweet as he is, brings Scaramouche’s hands back to his neck. “Please?”
Scaramouche indulges him. “Good boy. You’ll take it, won’t you?” It’s late and he feels a peace take shape between their bodies, like this is all they need to be. Childe moans, like he always does, because Childe is easy, and Scaramouche likes that.
So he laughs, airy and flirting with something genuine. “Don’t worry. If anything happens, I can always start your heart up again,” he cocks his head, and lets timid purple sparks dance across his fingers.
Childe nods, Yeah ’s and Yes ’s tripping over one another in an attempt to leave his mouth. He sits up against the headboard so Scaramouche may straddle his thigh, wet already through his underwear. He moves his hips, grinding down and testing the feeling. To his surprise Childe groans under him, though Scaramouche was only focused on his own pleasure.
“ Yes , gods, I– I want you to use me. Just like that,” he nods.
“You’re disgusting,” Scaramouche whispers, because he knows it’ll set Childe off more. Leaning in, he presses his mouth to Childe’s neck, and finds his pulse still racing. “You might be starting to bruise. Isn’t it a shame your uniform is so low cut?”
“I want to be yours,” Childe turns his head in embarrassment and whimpers, and Scaramouche feels his stomach sink in a not-unpleasant way. Before his brain catches up, his hands are back around the warmth, and he’s squeezing, like if he tries hard enough he can crush Childe’s windpipe and stop him from ever saying such sickly things again.
All that escapes his slack mouth now are small jewels of sounds, high-pitched and wanting. Your heart’s racing for me, Scaramouche thinks as he feels two beats overlap. You’d even let me control what’s inside you.
If he wasn’t already painfully close he would finger Childe open, real and pliant and needy, and listen to how different that pattern sounds. Maybe slightly slower, different than the one that comes from breathlessness, which in turn is different from fear, from excitement.
Childe knits his shaking fingers into Scaramouche’s hair, gentle more than anything. It takes him by surprise, because he is still choking him, hands pressed up against his chin now as his hips move sloppier against Childe’s thigh. The empty cavity in Scaramouche’s chest vibrates with emotion as he removes his hands from Childe’s neck to grasp at his shirt. The pulse against his cheek is so loud and he’s losing himself to it, small, pathetic pleas of Tartaglia, Tartaglia, Tartaglia, yes, yes, yes.
He spreads his fingers over Childe’s heart, and imagines that if he possessed one, they would be beating in time, now.