Chapter Text
To say that Albedo looks like some lovesick puppy is an understatement at this point. He looks stupid, is what Scaramouche has been saying for the past three months, you’re making a goddamn fool out of yourself — and for what? The guy’s not even noticing you!
Now, Childe is not as brutal as that short menace, but at this point he’s gotta agree. Scaramouche has a point.
He realizes it on another Tuesday morning. Him and Albedo made it a habit to meet up and study together, because Childe is unable to get his work done on his own. And if he does, there’s three mental breakdowns, one panic attack and five days of procrastination preceding that. Albedo was eventually the one who suggested the Body Doubling or whatever it’s called. It’s not like Childe actively tries to remember all the big, smart words that man is uttering on a daily basis.
However, after explaining how that works, he invited him to tag along — and if one of his friends actually makes an effort to help him get his goddamn degree, then he’s not one to turn them down on the offer.
Needless to say, it worked, to his utter surprise, meanwhile Albedo barely acknowledged it, having already expected that success and they continued doing it twice a week.
The only thing about that is, though, that Childe can’t focus on his homework and essays for the life of him when Albedo is more distracted than him when he’s off his meds.
“Isn’t he, like, long out of your view?” he asks with a sigh, shifting his attention from his laptop to his friend sitting opposite of him at the tiny table. Albedo turns his head immediately, icy blue eyes finding Childe’s. There’s a noticeable blush creeping up on his cheeks at being caught like that and Childe can’t help but teasingly coo at the sight of it. “Aren’t you cute, pining like that.”
Albedo’s face immediately twists into a frown. With a curse, he goes to smack him across the head, which Childe barely dodges with a lazy laugh.
“Shut up,” he hisses, finally paying the sheets in front of him attention again, although he doesn’t do more than neatly piling them up before he gently knocks them against the wooden surface and places them down in front of him again. “It’s not like that?”
Childe gives him an unimpressed look, eyebrows raised and letting out a huff. “Not like that, huh? Like what, then? Only like I wanna drop down on my knees and suck his di-” He gets interrupted through another smack against the side of his head, harder this time.
“Oh my God, shut up!” Albedo looks horrified, which makes it all the more amusing to Childe, but he merely shrugs, shooting him a cheeky grin.
“Listen, you can tell that lie to someone that hasn’t watched you pining longingly at that dude like it’s some long lost lover from your past life, who’s not remembering you when he should,” he replies, making a bored, sweeping gesture with his hand, “That he hasn’t noticed you yet is a miracle, honestly.”
He being Kaeya Alberich. That much Albedo has already told them. They share a course together and were together in a group project half a year ago. But apparently, outside of that project, they have not interacted a single time yet.
Albedo shrugs, his blush deepening on his cheeks. Adorable, if you ask Childe. “It’s difficult,” he explains, suddenly shy and timid, but Childe has no time for such excuses.
“How difficult can it be,” he scoffs, leveling the blond with a disbelieving gaze, “How about you just go talk to him? Flirt a little — I’m sure he’s gonna find your academic jokes hilarious.”
Albedo gives him a scowl in return, ignoring his shit-eating grin in the process. “Oh, really? How about you do the same with your little crush, Tartaglia.”
“Hey! That’s different, you know–”
“Childe has a crush?”
The voice is unusual soft, full of audible surprise and the familiar sound makes Childe’s heart suddenly beat in his throat with a wave of horror. Albedo is already looking at the newcomer, eyes wide and the mistake evident on his face, barely doing anything to conceal it, though, so it’s up to him, it seems.
He turns around in his chair, one arm propped up on the rest and gives Scaramouche his broadest, widest smile as he looks up at the other man who just arrived. “Scara! Hi, hey, how’re you doing, all good? Yeah?”
Scaramouche acknowledges him with the same quizzical stare he always gets when he’s being suspicious, mostly because he’s a terrible liar and Scaramouche an expert when it comes to reading people.
He moves around him and drops his bag next to Childe’s before he takes a chair from a table nearby and drags it over to theirs. Plopping down on it, he looks back and forth between him and Albedo. “How come I didn’t know about this?”
“Don’t listen to Albedo, he’s spewing bullshit,” Childe tries with a tiny laugh. Even to his own ears it sounds insecure and nervous, so it doesn’t do shit to convince Scaramouche.
“You’re a terrible liar,” he says in his direction, lacking any kindness to sugarcoat his words and make them sound a little nicer. Childe almost winces at the icy tone he delivers them with, although he’s used to the bluntness by now. He watches as Scaramouche leans across the table to come closer to him and instinctively shies away from the proximity, leaning backwards against his chair.
“So,” the black-haired man says, taking one of Albedo’s sheets from the pile and folding a tiny part of the top left corner. It gives a good view of the chipped, black nail polish he’s always wearing and his elegant fingers adorned with silver rings. Childe’s eyes snap back up the second his tone becomes more threatening. “Why didn’t I know about this?”
“Since when do you care?”
It’s the wrong answer. Narrowing his eyes at him, Scaramouche doesn’t even hesitate to kick him hard under the table, tearing a pained yelp out of Childe’s throat.
“Don’t give me that shit,” he spats. The annoyance is plainly evident on his face, with the way his mouth is pulled into a scowl and his brows are furrowed. He tears away the corner he folded before, ignoring Albedo’s glare in the process as he focuses on him. “Usually you yell at me about every person that fucking breathes in your direction and merely has a skincare routine that visibly works.”
That much is true. Which is why Scaramouche’s question is such a good one that he can’t simply bullshit his way out of it. Usually, Scaramouche is the first to know about any kind of new infatuation Childe has developed. He knows it all and has heard it all, from any kind of stranger he’s seen in the supermarket in the snack aisle that he’ll never see again after he’s rounded the corner to the hookup he had at the last party that barely made him cum, but hey, his eyes were pretty, so Childe’s not really going to complain.
Scaramouche is his best friend without the official confirmation. The only proof is his presence in most pictures that are taken of Childe and the fact that he’s always the most recent contact he either texted or directly called. Although Scaramouche would rather be caught dead than admit that he likes being around him in any shape or form, he still shows it by answering the call, even if it’s 11pm and Childe’s gonna be greeted with an insult hurled at him in soft-sounding Inazuman, or through shit like this right now. Simply showing himself intrigued, wanting to know what’s going on — being obviously offended about the fact that he wasn’t the first one to be informed about Childe’s crush.
Because a crush is an entirely different level than a mere infatuation.
And Honestly, Childe would’ve told him about it, if it weren’t for one small, silly problem: Scaramouche is the crush.
That, combined with the fact that he can’t lie to save his fucking life, made it impossible to even breath in Scaramouche’s general direction with that word sitting on the tip of his tongue. He would have to confess then and there and that’s absolutely not going to happen. Childe is going to take these feelings into his grave, forever unspoken of in Scaramouche’s presence.
It’s only for the best, really. For the sake of their friendship, which is very, very dear to him and which he wouldn’t dare destroy over some stupid butterflies in his stomach and a pounding heart. Being his best friend is good enough already. Besides, it’s not like Scaramouche shows any traces of romantic (or at least sexual) interest in him, so Childe decided that giving up on a fruitless task is easier to do when he hasn’t even tried it. Better to break his heart in silence than in the face of indifference and a muttered apology. Following tip-toeing around each other because he made things weird with a confession.
So, thank you very much, but no. He didn’t plan telling Scaramouche a thing about that and Albedo knew that making that stupid comment that brought him into this mess in the first place.
“It’s not a crush, he’s exaggerating,” Childe tries. Albedo nods along enthusiastically. “Yeah, it’s just another of his infatuations,” he provides helpfully, rolling his eyes in fake exasperation.
Unfortunately, Scaramouche doesn’t buy that anymore.
“Hiding it makes you all the more suspicious. Who is it?”
“No one– ow!” He gives the other man a glare when Scaramouche kicks him again in the same spot as before.
“Tell me,” he commands, as demanding as Childe knows him. That’s probably a default setting with an influential mother that was able to buy him whatever he damn pleased as a kid. His purple eyes glint with furious intent, ready to use violence again if Childe keeps denying him.
Which leaves him only with the possibility of giving Scaramouche a name. He wipes his sweaty hands on his pants and tries to fight down the panic rising in his throat. It’s already forming three cursed syllables in his mouth, putting them behind his teeth, ready to have them fall from his lips the second he decides to part them and Childe can’t do that. He can’t, Scaramouche can’t know about this.
“Childe,” Scaramouche pushes, ignoring Albedo’s soft interjection to let him keep his secrets if he wishes. There’s pity in his eyes, an apology right below in those icy blue depths and Childe curses the fact that his friend has such a soft face that he can’t even be mad at him for causing the situation. How was he supposed to know Scaramouche would join them today out of all times?
There’s blood rushing in his ears and his heart is hammering against his ribcage in pure fear and he wracks his stupid, panic-riddled brain for a name that isn’t Scaramouche. But alas, he’s a bad liar. He has never been good at making up excuses, always sticking to stories his friends provided. His brain simply blacks out in situations like these and everyone knows it.
So this time, when his brain actually manages to spit out a name that isn’t his best friend’s, he picks it without thinking about it, simply glad to have something to work with that isn’t going to end in a terrible confession then and there. It’s out of that sheer terror only, that he blurts, “Zandik!”
There’s silence at their table for all but two seconds.
“Zandik?” Albedo repeats, completely floored. His mouth hangs open, his expression is incredulous, eyes wide, his voice a mixture of surprise and the same terror that now replaces the panic in Childe’s veins, crawling up his spine with a cold shiver.
“That fucking creep?!” Scaramouche yells at the same time, loud enough to draw the attention of the entire coffeeshop to their table.
Childe uselessly flails his hands, moving to clamp one over Scaramouche’s mouth with a hiss. “Will you keep it down?!” he snaps. His voice comes out wrong, several pitches off its usual tone and he’s glad that at least he can blame that on the embarrassment of Scaramouche’s shout.
The latter shoves his hand away that very moment. He looks over to Albedo. “You’re shitting me,” he says and when Albedo helplessly shrugs, he redirects his burning gaze at Childe.
He wishes he could tell Scaramouche that he’s shitting him indeed, but alas. He shrugs too and hopes the smile on his face is convincing. At least his embarrassment makes it seem like he’s blushing at the mention of the older student.
“Listen, he– he has good qualities!”
Scaramouche barks out a humorless laugh. “Like what?” he asks him, tone sickly sweet, delivering the message that he’s about to kick Childe’s ass verbally, “That he’d like to dissect people like they’re some amphibian? I guess if you’re into that, Tartaglia.”
“He’s attractive!”
“He wears a harness under his clothes!”
“Now you’re just kinkshaming, Scara.”
“I mean it is a little weird,” Albedo provides, ever-so-helpful but Childe throws him a devastating glare before he can side further with Scaramouche. “I don’t wanna hear that from you!” he snaps, “You’ ve started at Alberich so much, you know exactly what he’s wearing!”
Albedo blinks innocently, “What’s wrong with that?”
Childe huffs, eyes widened incredulously, “His favorite shirt has a boob window and a neckline down to his belly button!”
“Okay, but we’ve been knowing that Albedo’s taste is questionable,” Scaramouche says, planting both his hands flatly onto the table. He gives them both a pointed stare, but lingers when it comes to Childe. “But you.” He seems to search his face, probably to unravel the lie he surely can sense.
Childe tries not to let it show that he’s sweating fucking buckets, holding his glare stubbornly.
“What about me.”
“I assumed your taste was bad, I didn’t expect it to be non-existent.”
Childe sputters. “What is wrong with me liking Zandik?!”
“Have you met the guy?” He’s about to answer that question with a proud yes, grin already spreading on his lips when Scaramouche shakes his head. “No, actually, have you ever spoken to him?”
And well, that’s wrong with him liking Zandik. He did meet him and he did talk to him. It was very brief, because Childe needed help from one of the guy’s friends. He was present when he came to ask and it seemed that Zandik is good at making conversation, given how much he made Childe chatter about everything and anything.
It’s just that he’s— well, he’s weird. A brilliant medical student, a genius, really. You hear it far and wide on campus, the professors love to praise him. But he’s just… weird about his studies altogether. Strangely obsessed with them. Childe had the pleasure of being pinned down by his eyes only once but it was more than enough. The memory still makes him shiver unpleasantly.
“He’s nice!” he tries to save himself, because Zandik was indeed very polite. He has a strange sense of humor, sure, but he wasn’t rude at all that one time they talked.
Scaramouche buys it as much as Childe means those words. “Nice,” he repeats, dry and regarding Childe with something close to disgust in his purple eyes. “Really, Childe?”
“Yes, really,” he mumbles, fighting the urge to pull his shoulders up and hide away in embarrassment. His voice grows small nevertheless, though.
There’s another few painful seconds passing between them as Scaramouche continues to stare him down, his face twisted in obvious disdain. Then he scoffs and gets up from his chair again. “Zandik,” he repeats with a shake of his head, “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard you say yet.”
“Aren’t you gonna stay?” Albedo asks him when he goes to pick up his bag.
“I was planning on getting a coffee before class, but that whole–” he makes a hand gesture directed at Childe, “–thing spoiled my appetite.”
Albedo and him watch him leave with that. Childe doesn’t even have it in him to protest or say anything about his insults. He watches as the black-haired man leaves the coffee in big strides and without looking back. When he’s out of the door, his gaze shifts back to Albedo, all weak and so close to a mental breakdown.
Albedo raises an unimpressed brow. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and leans back in his chair. “Was Zandik really the only name you came up with?”
Childe looks away, a defeated sigh spilling out of him as he tips his head back and stares up at the ceiling for a few seconds. Eventually he settles for falling forward, arms on top of the keyboard of his laptop and hiding his face in them with a terrified groan. He’s royally fucked.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
“So… let me get this straight.” Kazuha clears his throat softly. His expression is solemn, that much Childe can see through the screen of his phone, despite his image being tiny since he’s sharing that screen with Albedo and Venti, too. Still, although he tries his hardest it seems, he can also spot the way his mouth twitches, desperately fighting the grin from breaking through. “Scaramouche overheard that you’re having a crush and instead of just denying it–”
“No, he didn’t believe that!” he whines immediately, dragging his hand over his face, exhausted, “He wanted a name!”
“True,” Albedo confirms. The conversation finally seems to take an interesting turn for Venti too, because his face comes closer to the camera. He seems to squint at Childe. “Wait, did you actually confess today?!”
“No!” he hisses, much to Albedo’s amusement. Venti joined only a few seconds ago, in the middle of doing his skincare routine, given the silly headband he’s wearing and the array of products set out on the table in front of him. He didn’t hear the entire story yet, but he’s about to, because Kazuha takes over again.
“Okay, so he wanted a name and the only one that you came up with was…” This time, he can’t hold back a chuckle. The mere thought of what Childe has done seems to amuse absolutely everyone but him. It makes him want to curl up in a lonely corner and die.
“Whose name did you say?” Venti inquires, burning up with curiosity. Unlike Kazuha, he doesn’t even have the decency to act unbothered. There’s a shit-eating grin already spreading on his lips, because he senses already that Childe fucked up. That’s why he dreads saying the next two syllables so much, but apparently, everyone is waiting for him to do it.
“Zandik.” It’s only a hushed, embarrassed murmur, ears burning up in shame and his chest constricting awkwardly at the mention and the memory of this morning.
True to predictions, Venti bursts out into howling laughter then and there. He grips the little bottle in his hands tighter and throws his head back, shoulders shaking from the effort. At the sight of him, Kazuha can’t help it either, though he does Childe the favor of covering his mouth with his hand, trying to keep it down as he makes fun of his misery. Albedo merely shakes his head with an exasperated chuckle. “Scaramouche was appalled.”
“Zandik?!” Venti guffaws, slapping the surface of his table, “Fucking— Zandik!”
“Yeah, funny, hahaha, can someone in this call also show some compassion?”
“Compassion for you fucking up?” Kazuha replies, dry as ever and eyebrows raised before he shifts his attention back onto the workbook in front of him.
“You had all the names in the world. It’s not our fault you decided to go with Zandik,” Albedo adds
Venti nods, still chuckling as he puts some serum onto his cheeks. “Why did you even pick him? Why not his friend— what was his name again? Pantalone? You’re closer with him anyways.”
Childe huffs. “We’re not close at all,” he replies, looking down onto his blanket where he’s busy drawing invisible patterns onto. With his other hand, he grips his phone a little tighter. “I simply ask him for advice in one class sometimes. He had the same professor.”
“Okay but that still would’ve been better than saying you’ve got the hots for Zandik!”
Before Childe is able to defend himself against Kazuha (not like there’s a lot he can say against such a statement, because his friend as a point) Scaramouche joins the call, completing the group. He seems to have heard the last part of the sentence, because he scoffs as soon as the connection is stable.
“So he told you,” he concludes, regarding the camera with a borderline disgusted glance. Childe is pretty sure that one is only directed at him.
Kazuha and Albedo nod. “He sure did.”
Scaramouche busies himself with something out of the camera’s view, eyes focusing on something in his hands and he mutters, “Well, what do you know about Zandik?”
It takes a few beats of silence for Childe to catch up, “Who, me?”
He receives an eyeroll in return. “Yes, you, dumbass. I don’t think there’s anyone else making heart-eyes at that creep.”
He hears Venti cackle as he’s applying a mask onto his face and even Albedo suppresses a giggle. The only one who manages to keep a straight face is Kazuha with his lips pressed into a thin line. Since Scaramouche still isn’t looking at the screen, he delivers a pitying glance at the camera.
At least someone’s being nice to him today.
“I– well, uh, we talked… once? So, like, there isn’t a lot I know about him?” he replies with a slow shrug. Scaramouche purses his lips playing with the labret sitting snugly around the middle of his bottom lip. When the tip of his tongue appears to protrude at it lightly, seemingly unconscious as he’s thinking, Childe can’t even look away, as pathetic as that is.
“So we’ve got nothing,” the other man concludes, finally looking at the camera again. His purple eyes are hidden by the long shadows the lamp on his nightstand casts. He has always hated the bright overhead lights, no matter where he is. Childe knows by now to turn on smaller lights in lieu of the big one and he does so even before Scaramouche shows up at his apartment.
He does so even when he isn’t even coming, because it became a habit with time.
Confused, he furrows his brows. “Nothing for what?”
“Nothing to work with so we can get you a fucking date at least.” Scaramouche regards him like this is the most obvious thing in the world, playing match-maker. Venti almost laughs again at that. He audibly gasps, but manages to stay quiet. The only indicator giving away his fun are his shaking shoulders and hand as he applies more of the mask onto his face.
“O-oh,” Kazuha stammers unhelpfully, “We wanna— we’re gonna, uh, get them together?”
Scaramouche’s glare is terrifying, sending a shiver down Childe’s spine. “I know we shouldn’t support Childe’s godawful taste, but then again, maybe you’re going to stop pestering us as soon as you’ve got a boyfriend to annoy. I’m just thinking ahead and finding the best solution for all of us.”
“You love my company,” Childe interjects. For the first time today, he feels a genuine smile creeping up on his face as he leans closer to his phone, “I’m funny and smart and witty, you’d miss my presence.”
Scaramouche seems entirely unconvinced by that, but apart from a single, condescending scoff, he doesn’t say anything else, so he counts that as a win.
“Anyways,” he continues on waving his hand dismissively, “I also don’t think anyone else but you would ever think about crushing on Zandik out of all people, so impressing him and gaining his affections shouldn’t be too hard — even for a lost cause like you.”
Albedo snickers at that comment and Childe wishes he was physically there to punch him in the arm right this second. But alas. All he can do is sputter and protest. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?!”
“It means you wouldn’t know how to have a good date if someone wrote out a step-by-step plan for you,” Scaramouche provides unimpressed, which finally breaks Venti’s resolve entirely. He starts laughing again, despite the drying mask on his face starting to crack already.
“That is not true—”
“Yeah?” Venti looks at the phone again. He smiles innocently at the camera, “Then why have you still not been in any relationship despite being a good lay?”
“Not everyone meets the love of their life during their first year in uni?!”
Venti cackles gleefully and once again, Childe asks himself not just why he’s even friends with that useless little shit but also why Xiao, that idiot’s boyfriend, sticks with him, too. Surely, there are better options out there.
“Why are we even discussing—” he shakes his head and gives his friends a pointed glare, “Maybe I don’t wanna be in a relationship.”
“With Zandik?” Kazuha asks, seemingly bored as he doesn’t even look up from his workbook and jots down another thing in there, “Yeah, me neither.”
Why is he friends with any of these assholes, really?
Stifling an annoyed groan before it can escape him, Childe takes a deep breath. “Not at all.”
“I agree with Kazuha. You, however–” Scaramouche points an accusing finger at the camera and Childe knows well enough who it’s for. “–you’re crushing on the dude. Who has a crush and then no interest in dating them?”
“That sounds pretty arophobic if you ask me,” he comments, expression somber. Unfortunately, Albedo isn’t giving him an out with that. “Actually, aromantic people can have queerplatonic relationships, which are closer and more intimate than a normal friendship. Is that what you desire, Childe?”
He’s this close to asking him which side he’s on. After all, Albedo is partially responsible for getting him into this fucking mess, so why in all archons names, is he acting like this? All of his friends know about his real crush. Why are they trying to get him deeper into this mess, still?
“I’m perfectly content just… admiring him from afar, really,” he explains, trying his hardest not to let the despair seep into his voice. He doesn’t even know where Scaramouche got that stupid idea to play match-maker from. Part of him doesn’t want to know either, but he also wouldn’t put it past Kazuha or Venti, honestly.
Still, he isn’t too keen on having to act upon his stupidity with his friends more or less forced to breathe down his neck, pushing him towards the wrong fucking person.
“Bullshit,” Scaramouche interjects, “Before you know it, we are going to have to deal with your crying about him. And I’m not letting that happen. We’re going to get you a date.”
With that it’s settled, it seems, because if Childe’s going to refuse further, it’s going to be suspicious again. More than that, the more he tries to go against Scaramouche, the more stubborn that guy gets. It’s a lost battle, really. His fate is written — he’s positively doomed.