Chapter Text
Everyone’s heard of the harbinger now roaming the Fortress. Not many have had the bad luck of catching a bright ginger glimpse but nonetheless people are afraid of the consequences of pissing off a man that kills for a living. After a dozen days, the amount of people in the medic’s gradually increased and the poor Melusines were getting overworked worse than the daily chaos years before the beloved duke was here.
Speaking of the duke, Wriothesley was practically begged by the Melusines and exiles alike to sort out the bloodthirsty harbinger. At first, the duke dismissed the complaints but steadily they were piling over the days. Duke Wriothesley technically couldn’t really do anything considering all reports about the situation say the harbinger is inflicting horrendous injuries through the fight ring and not random assault.
Needless to say, the countless injuries constantly coming in and out the medic’s was getting out of hand so the darling duke was going to pay a visit a.k.a investigation to see if the harbinger can be tamed. Sure, Wriothesley was not an often visitor of the Meropide’s exiles but he had never encountered the ginger. Almost as if the ginger was avoiding him . . . but the duke was not one to come to silly conclusions.
Now he didn’t have to do lots of searching because having a tuft of bright hair and distinctly Snezhnayan clothing is extremely hard to miss, especially around the depressing monotone of the Fortress. Making his way south, he caught some gossip about the harbinger and, to no one’s surprise, the harbinger was currently battling it out with a group of scavengers. If the duke’s memory was anything to go by, the groups was known to be quite feisty when ticked off; but here was the scrawny-looking boy fending off each member with nothing but the well-worn, red gloves on his hands that were probably protecting the scavengers more than the ginger wearing them.
Now, Wriothesley expected nothing less of a harbinger but by Celestia was the pre-, um, pretty strong boy flooring the muscular men and women approaching him from all sides with weird grace. Examining more intently from the sidelines, the duke could see the technique was wrong by all boxing but powerful. Oh, and the endless power executed was near breath-taking. Literally and metaphorically. It definitely could use some work. Perhaps he could mentor the boy. No, no boy stood before him but instead a ruthless murderer.
After wiping the slight smile that somehow bled into his face without him realising; the duke, feeling quite sympathetic for the bleeding scavengers, signalled to the ref who promptly ended the fight with a sharp whistle.
“Hey! I was hardly getting started.” ringed through the space as the boy let go of the limp figure in his now-bare but bloody hands.
The ginger squatted down next to the duke’s presumed leader and gave her face a light poke, lolling the knocked out head a bit, before promptly standing up, brushing off some imaginary dust and addressing the crowd. A considerably small crowd since Wriothesley’s time but still larger than usual.
“Anyone else want a piece? I’m feeling peckish for some more action cause,” a pale thumb pointing at the laying scavengers with a strained expression, “these guys were kinda lame for my standards.”
Wow. This kid has no shame. Without even realising, the duke raised his hand, immediately catching the ginger’s attention and the attention of others in the crowd that hadn’t noticed their duke standing within them. Some light gasps and hurried whispers of shock were shared among the crowd that dispersed a little at the duke’s sudden appearance.
For a second, Wriothesley thought he caught a look of surprise on the ginger’s face but it was quickly overshadowed by the god awful sentence,
“Well hurry up, pretty boy, I haven’t all day.”
All muttering ceased at these words. I mean, who could blame them when this same ‘pretty boy’ was the prince of this underworld for years in his exile before becoming who he is today. And it is no understatement to say people in the Meropide know full well how dangerous Wriothesley can be from his time of brutal reign.
But to their utter disbelief, the ex-prince chuckled and willingly stepped into the ring. Rumours spread fast in the Fortress and within seconds of the duke’s appearance, the previous dispersing was reversed tenfold as the area around the fight ring was swarmed.
- - -
“Holy shit! What- What the fuck? Oh my dear Tsaritsa, why? Explain, please, why the hottest man I’ve ever seen is here? I was avoiding people just like him for fuck’s sake! Idiot Childe, idiot Childe . . . just play it cool, you're a Celestia-damn harbinger pull yourself together.” was frantically running through the ginger’s mind as he tried to appear collected. The next words to come out his mouth were expected of his reputation but would probably lead to one of two things, a great fucking fight or . . . no fight? Or both, he’s not picky. So he says the insane words of “Well hurry up, pretty boy, I haven’t all day.” While subconsciously tapping his feet with his heart, fast and hard.
When people have their jaws half-way to the floor, Childe assumes it’s because the hot guy’s rich here or really well-known. The latter would be awesome because his gist of the place is well-known = powerful. He was wrong because not only is handsome guy well-known and powerful but pretty, “Oh my Celestia, I really did call him a pretty boy”, rich for an ex-exile.
Anyways, stop thinking about how pre-. The dying-inside ginger’s thoughts were quite literally cut short as gorgeous guy’s chuckle sent Childe’s nervous system shivering. “Holy shit, who is he?”
As the attractive guy stepped into the ring, Childe’s tapping stopped so he could wipe the back of his red-stained knuckles against the back of his tattered top while taking in a closer look of this elegant man. Honestly, he looks refined as fuck.
“Finally, you look tough.” The ginger takes languid strides to the taller, darker and way more muscular man with hands hanging loosely behind his back. Leaning up onto tip-toes, mouth a breath away from his ear. “But not tough enough.”
He hears a small huff as he takes a step back to watch with a tilted head as the man ahead of him gives a small smile before looking at the referee. Said referee lets out a whistle and the fight between the 11th Fatui Harbinger and Duke of the Fortress of Meropide.
- - -
Wriothesley raises his hands and his opponent doesn’t. The ginger starts a slow circling which the duke follows, keeping his eyes trained onto the harbinger. The duke knows that the man isn’t conventional but he could at least show his hands- a too fast blow aimed at his face is blocked by Wriothesley’s forearm. The first attack is followed by multiple more; one to the left shoulder, stomach, ribs, crotch and three kicks to his shin. Some were blocked but the duke’s sure some dark splotches will be littering his torso and shin.
As the harbinger aims for his head, Wriothesley evades it and grabs the ginger’s arm. Arm in hand, he twists so he’s behind the kid but fails to account for pain tolerance because within seconds, the ginger’s nearly dislocated his own arm and slipped out of Wriothesley’s grasp and smashed a knee into him. Slightly keeling over in pain, a muttered “fuck” escapes the duke’s frown only to the harbinger’s obvious delight.
“Getting tired?” comes with false worry and mock. The only reply the duke gives is a hard breath then a hard glare before completely switching tactics from defence to offence. Perhaps he should’ve brought his gauntlets because his uppercut does little to diminish the wide grin painted on the harbinger’s face. So Wriothesley hits the harbinger again and again and again but even with his face bloody and bruised the ginger looks excited.
Both panting hard, they’re eyes lock and the duke finally notices the startling blue in his opponent’s eyes. There’s a searching spark in them that enamours the duke but it's gone as fast as he notices it. Now the enamour is replaced with a sinking darkness. Both the bright and dark of the harbinger’s eyes were sublime, beautiful, something Wriothesley would not hesitate to kill for.
It felt like hours staring into the glinting navy. It felt like hours when he stared into the glinting navy of Fontaine’s water. He once thought the beryl in Neuvillette was beautiful but it simply didn’t compare. Even as the seconds ticked by it was as if the world stopped for him and even then it wasn’t enough. There wasn’t enough air, there wasn’t enough pain coursing through his veins, there wasn’t enough of the ginger.
Before the duke could linger any longer on what the fuck that meant, the world flipped leaving him pinned to the floor where the child was once pinned. Sound came back in time for him to hear his opponent's hard laugh.
“What? See a ghost?”
Y’know what, maybe he did because Wriothesley is still breathless but for a completely different reason now. The harbinger is straddling his waist and without letting the duke reply, which he couldn’t’ve done anyways being rendered speechless by said harbinger, punched him square in the nose.
“That’s for breaking my favourite earring, fucker.” was sneered with a side of spit that landed on Wriothesley’s chest. Guess he struck a nerve with that but maybe not because he’s still smiling like a fool.
“Well-” he grabs the ginger’s hair, “this’ for-”, jade eyes widen, “Aide”, the floor is concrete, “and”, he’s on his knees now, “Feuille”, elbow hits spine which makes the harbinger cry out, “ and Camomille”.
Maybe he shouldn’t have done this one considering the reason all of this is going on is because too many people were going to the medic and he’s definitely sending the harbinger to one now. Actually, the harbinger was never recorded in Feuille’s monthly report so either the ginger never got injured or . . . anyways, a kid with a few injuries shouldn’t be a problem.
Snapping out of his thoughts, a high-pitched whistle rings through the arena. The duke assumes he’s won because of the deafening cheers of the crowd but he’s too focused on the ginger’s limp right arm.
Of course the kid’s still adorned with a cheshire grin but he has a fucking broken arm. The audience is dispersing but the kid’s got a limp arm. The sounds of exiles are long gone but his arm is broken. He fucked up his shoulder. Did he even fix the original problem? No idiot, fuck!
Without a second thought he snatches the kid’s not-fucking-broken shoulder and is inches from sprinting through the Fortress. And even when he’s worried sick about someone he knows kills people for a living he can’t help but feel how calloused and rough the kid’s hands are. He’s all but dragging the kid by the time they get to the medic but the kid hasn’t said a thing.
Wriothesley also doesn’t say a thing when he storms in and shoves the kid onto the nearest stretcher.
- - -
He hisses at the collision between him and the stretcher. For fuck’s sake, could he be a little gentler. Childe doesn’t even know what’s going on now. Usually after a good fight, he can go back home- well he doesn’t really have one of those but the nearest thing to it in the Fortress would be above all the exiles in the ceiling beams because Tsartisadamned those metal beams are BIG. He’s a harbinger, he can handle a bruise or two but here he is in a tiny medic getting manhandled by some guy he just got his face smashed into by.
At the hiss, a small “sorry” escapes his doom, sorry he meant a person he definitely won’t grow to care too much about. Who knew the hottest guy here was so secretly strong as fuck. Childe’s not complaining but it’s also not fun to get your earring obliterated across your face.
His whole body stung as the adrenaline wore off. The bastard that dragged him here was rummaging through some drawers and Childe guessed he found everything he was looking for because piles of supplies were dumped onto the stretcher beside him. Was he really going to get useless bandages slapped on just because this random man felt guilty or some shit.
Just as Childe opens his mouth to excuse himself, the stranger slaps, not bandages but a wet cloth across his mouth without looking. Good aim. Then there’s a hand peeling the cloth off and the man grimaces at the sheer amount of blood staining it now. Oh yeah, Childe probably looks like a hot mess right now. Emphasis on hot though because even Celestia couldn’t make an archon this gorgeous, oh dear Tsaritsa save this harbinger’s heart.
The handsome guy washes the cloth with water Childe didn’t notice and brings it up to Childe’s face making him flinch back. It’s now his turn to say “sorry” and the ginger leans back forward to let the brunette do whatever. The ‘whatever’ was gingerly wiping the blood away. It was so gentle, Childe doesn’t know the last time someone has treated him so . . . fragile? No, affectionate. Actually, he does but that was a long time ago and it turns out caresses from dragons just leave you with scars. Healed but still there. Why would he be worthy of anything except scars anyway.
A grumble slips through as Childe groans in mental anguish. Just STOP THINKING.
. . .
Keep thinking. By Celestia, that was boring. The guy keeps going until Childe assumes his face is clean of blood. But he doesn’t stop there, he goes down to his neck, arms, hands and lastly, torso. It really didn’t take long to clean away the muck dirtying his wounds however his leg started bouncing up and down regardless. It could be excitement or Tsartisa knows what with this man tenderly dampening his bleeding knuckles and numb arm. With his scarf, top and coat stained through with blood gingerly removed to reveal a heavily bruised chest, the Shneznayan mourns the loss of his clothing. Gods, does he need to wear a scratchy, worn-out, old, bland, stupid, dirty shirt that everyone down here seems to wear now?
This skilled harbinger also can tell what a dislocated shoulder feels like having done his left arm in a few years ago. So in anticipation he bites his bottom lip hard as the man slips the sleeves off. The man cuts the straps around his chest and unbuttons the maroon shirt underneath. Childe would consider this romantic if under different circumstances. Cool cloth brushes past his skin and despite his wonderful pain tolerance Childe has to whimper at the tender skin around his definitely broken rib. Maybe if this guy could show a little emotion he could do anything except mutter a stupid sorry.
Anyways, the harbinger’s skin went from a glossy red to a matte with all the bruises littered around. The man in front of him now stands up and puts the bloody water and cloth aside. Then he again removes another layer from Childe’s torso leaving him naked from the waist-up. The silence was getting a bit heavy now so the harbinger quips a, “Should’a taken me to dinner first, no?”
He thinks this was well-worth it as the guy’s lips turn up a bit. Those lips turn down once more though as the man says, “This bit’s going to hurt, sorry.” as he braces Childe’s right arm and without warning snaps it back into place. Now usually, the harbinger would have his hand in his mouth to bite down onto but without, he shouts in surprised pain.
“FUCKER!” rings out the clinic.
- - -
The duke makes a seldom attempt to comfort the ginger with small strokes on his back as he reels in on himself in pain. If Wriothesley had to guess what the harbinger was thinking he bet it would start with bastard and end with “fucker”. Perhaps he should’ve given a better warning but surprise is better than fear in his experience. With the pain fading now, the kid looks up into his eyes and lets out a harsh, “thanks.”
“Sor-”
“Stop that! What’s up with you constantly saying sorry? Gosh, just say anything except sorry for once.”
After a small, awkward silence the duke answers.
“My name is Wriothesley.”
“Wriothesley, hm, Wriothesley, Wriothesley, Wriothesley. Cool, Childe.”
“Child?”
“With an E, C-H-I-L-D-E, don’t ask.”
The duke doesn’t. Instead he opens a nearby drawer to retrieve some rolls of bandage and plasters.
“Well then, where can I find new clothes. I don’t think I can wear,” the ginger points at the pile of bloody and blood coloured clothing, “these anymore.”
“Well, haven’t you come across the exile’s market? You can buy yourself a fine shirt there.”
“No, no, no. I want like what you’re wearing. It’s quite the outfit. I’m surprised I haven’t seen more people ‘round here wearing things like that. How much did it cost? Weared the exile get the fur from. I mean it’s quite high-quality. Seems you guys from Fontaine took a page outta Snezhnaya’s book, huh.”
It seems the kid hasn’t clocked in that Wriothesley isn’t an exile. Anymore. Well, he can play along a bit.
“I had it custom-made. It wasn’t made by exiles. A melusine, Feuille. I can ask her to fix up your clothes.”
“How much?”
“Melusine’s don’t accept money. It means nothing to them. You must genuinely befriend them or just appreciate their work to receive it.”
“Huh, well I’ll be sure to appreciate the only good clothes in this gods forsaken fortress.”
“Good.”
Silence befalls the room again while the duke carries on wrapping red skin with white. Wiothesley puts some salve on the open wounds and bandages them afterwards. A few plasters are needed for the ginger’s nose and ear. The kid needs a better shoulder brace than the makeshift one the duke tried to DIY but other than that, Childe should be fine. As a final precaution, the duke ends off with, “Don’t get into any fights for at least a fortnight. Surely you can hold off ‘till then.”
The ginger stares at Wriothesley with his jaw dramatically open and putting his left arm to his chest gasps, “What! I’m perfectly capable of fighting after a good night’s rest. An injured harbinger is still a harbinger. Do you underestimate me so?”
“No. I wouldn’t dare so dear harbinger. You're simply too strong, capable, handsome, courageous, for that, my harbinger.” the duke makes sure to roll his eyes with much emphasis on his sarcasm.
“Aww, you think I’m handsome now?”
“You think I’m pretty now?”
. . .
Childe does not respond, he just averts his gaze to the wall. The duke scoffs at the kid’s reaction then removes his coat and draps it over the ginger. The red and black suit the harbinger’s complexion extremely well, the red is quite similar to that of the kid’s button-up shirt.
“Thank you, Wriothesley.”
“I’ll have these handed to Feuille, come to Tea and Coffee so I can hand them back to you when they're done.”
“Aye, well then, it's a date. Goodbye, my dear Wriothesley.” the duke nods back.
Childe makes a half-bow and leaves the clinic.
A date it is.