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Scaramouche feels like the shell of the person he used to be.
Most people who know him would say that’s good; He’s had character development, he’s healed, he’s changed.
But is change worth it if he’s not any happier?
Sure, now he has so many more people around him, but what does it matter if he’s not happy?
The wind blows through the indigo strands of his hair.
Scaramouche thinks it is trying to shut him up.
-
Crashing.
Burning.
That’s the conclusion Scaramouche has come up with.
He is once again crashing and burning.
This time, he has no idea why. His life is good. He studies at the Akademiya. He learns what he wants to learn. There’s no longer a Dottore pissing him off with some new experiment, breaking him apart and then putting him back together, he rarely thinks of his mother who abandoned him, and no longer is he hung up on all of his friends he lost. Nowadays, he no longer goes by Scaramouche, or Kunikuzushi, the Balladeer, Kabukimono, or anything that could tie him to his past, choosing to be a nameless wanderer instead.
So why is he so…sad?
Scaramouche is snapped out of his wallowing by a concerned Nahida.
“Stop trying to read my mind. I know you’re listening, Buer.”
“Sorry, sorry. You seem out of it. I’m always here, you know?” Nahida sighs.
“I’m aware, you tell me this every time.”
And with a silent nod of acknowledgement, Nahida disappears.
-
Sumeru City as a whole can be described as one word: lively
It’s too lively.
The chatter fills and clutters his ears and it’s terrible. It isn’t long before a group of scholars start asking him questions regarding their essays, because he, unfortunately, made a name for himself critiquing stuff like this. They’re asking stupid questions, like if Mondstadtians enjoyed wine more than the average person and Scaramouche thinks it’s insane to be asking questions like these when you attend one of the most prestigious educational institutes in the world.
Is it so much to ask for peace and quiet while traversing his new home?
Once he escapes from the grasp of the scholars with a couple of probably disheartening comments, Scaramouche tries to retreat into the comfort of his house, before he suddenly stops in his tracks because he sees a certain ginger man right in front of him.
His heart must’ve dropped to his ass with the sharp pain he just felt in his abdomen.
It feels like his world crumbles, right then and there.
What the actual fuck is Tartaglia doing here? What Fatui business is here on?
Scaramouche turns around and opts for a different route to his destination. However, he starts to feel like the ginger asshole is boring holes into the back of his head with how hard he’s staring. Scaramouche tries his best to ignore it and get out of his sight as fast and nonchalantly as possible.
Shit like this is why he struggles to stop crashing and burning.
-
In a small, secluded table in the corner of the House of Daena, Scaramouche sat. Scaramouche was peacefully writing a passive-aggressive remark to an idiot scholar talking about the political climate of Inazuma, until he looked up momentarily and spotted bright orange hair and dead blue eyes walking into the building. Just his luck. The second he walks into the building with his obnoxious personality, Scaramouche’s entire week is ruined. Unfortunately for him, Tartaglia’s eyes immediately set on Scaramouche. Fuck my life, Scaramouche thinks.
He tries to focus on whatever he was doing previously, but it proves to be fruitless as he is distracted by Tartaglia approaching his space. Just his luck.
“Hey comrade!” Tartaglia cheers, pulling out a chair from the table.. Scaramouche feels the nostalgia pooling in his artificial body. Something like this has happened before, but only one of them remembers it.
“State your reasoning for approaching me.”
Tartaglia is slightly taken aback, something Scaramouche is familiar with but the latter is no longer, before he responds.
“Woah, you’re sure to be friendly,” sarcasm drips from his voice, “Sorry comrade, just thought you looked interesting and sorta familiar. Have we met before?”
There it is. That’s not supposed to happen, but Scaramouche has gone through these events before in his head. He can handle it.
“Nope. Wrong person. Leave me alone.”
Tartaglia lets out a chuckle. “Can I sit here?” He says, pulling out the chair opposite of Scaramouche.
“If I told you no, you would’ve sat there regardless.”
“Haha, you’re funny. What’s your name? Mines Childe.”
“I’m aware. Can you leave me alone?”
“No can do, sorry! You’ve piqued my interest. What’s up with you?”
“I told you to leave me alone.” Scaramouche begins to get irritated now.
“Still a no. I’ll ask again, what’s your name?”
Suddenly, Scaramouche’s mouth betrays him. “Meet me at the second-most southwestern tree in the Avidiya Forest tonight at 8:30pm sharp and maybe you’ll figure something out. Now shoo.”
Fuck, Why did Scaramouche say that? That wasn’t in the conversation he rehearsed with himself.
“Oooo, mysterious. Okay comrade! I’ll be on my way.” Tartaglia says, finally leaving and pushing in the chair. Scaramouche wonders how Tartaglia isn’t the least bit suspicious or wary of him.
“Whatever, Fatui scum.” Scaramouche mutters under his breath. He can and can not believe that Tartaglia would still be dutifully serving the Tsarista. He really is a dog.
Apparently though, Tartaglia hears his mutters.
“How do you know who I am?”
“You have the Fatui insignia all over you. Make it any less obvious and we’d still be able to tell, Tartaglia.”
“Fair point. But how do you know my name?”
“Who doesn’t fucking know your name?”
“You know–..you know both of my names?”
Scaramouche audibly sighs. How can a man be so dumb?
“Yes, you fucking dumbass. You’re a Fatui Harbinger. You’re literally infamous all around Teyvat. It would make me look stupid if I didn’t know who you were.”
“Fair…point again! I’ll just see you later then, mysterious Hat Guy.”
Scaramouche rolls his eyes before packing up his belongings and leaving before the ginger can say any more.
-
8:30 arrives a little faster than Scaramouche would like, but then again, he chose this time, so he really has no one else to blame. Except Dottore. Dottore was always at fault. It’s Dottore’s fault.
Scaramouche chuckles at his own remark.
He sits upon a branch on the tree. The breeze flows through the air, blowing through him, the leaves, and the wildlife. The sun has long set and the air is cool, but still managing to be incredibly humid. Typical for Sumeru. Scaramouche feels peaceful, for the first time in a while. He had managed to forget all about his crash and burn during the time in which he had an unfortunate encounter with the Eleventh Fatui Harbinger. Thank Kusanali.
And speak of the devil too. Nahida shows up in his head.
“What are you doing tonight? Meeting up with someone? You don’t normally do this.”
“You literally have access to this information. Read my mind and find out.”
“But you have explicitly expressed your disdain with me looking through your thoughts.”
“That’s awesome, I’m meeting up with an old co-worker,” Scaramouche tries his hardest not to laugh at that. He knows that he and Childe were anything but co-workers when he was a Harbinger. “Leave me alone.”
And with that, Nahida disappears again.
Suddenly, as if on-cue, the fucking ginger bastard shows up right after Nahida leaves.
“Hey comrade! Nice to see you again! I almost thought you were bluffing for a moment. Anyway, how do you get up there? I don't enjoy yelling just for you to hear me and I’m sure you don’t want that either.”
Scaramouche rolls his eyes and points to his vision. Typical Childe. He knows that Childe knows that he can just fucking climb if he wanted to be up here so bad.
“Climb, dumbass.”
“Didn’t answer my other question,” Scaramouche did answer his question, “but it’s alright, mysterious Hat Guy,” Childe laughs at himself while climbing up to the branch Scaramouche is on.
“Shoot me with your questions. Don’t be a dumbass and ask some stupid shit though, I’m only giving you three questions.” Scaramouche scoffs at himself. This is, again, not how he imagined the reunion with his….ex-co-worker-friends-with-benefits-but-not-really.
Childe laughs. Why is he always so fucking jolly? “Okay first things first, you are too familiar to me. It’s like I know you, and I used to know you well. What is your deal, mysterious Hat Guy?”
“Call me Scaramouche.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me. Call me Scaramouche”
The name feels familiar on Childe’s tongue. He wonders where he has heard it, and some memories of someone eerily similar to mysterious-Hat-Guy appear, but they are short and too vague and very blurry.
“Okay then, Scaramouche. Answer my question?”
Right, Scaramouche nearly forgot about that. This entire meet-up had yet to be rehearsed by Scaramouche during late nights, much unlike all of the other weird encounters he’s had.
“Don’t know, what is my deal? You were too vague. Should I give you another chance to guess or leave you with one question less?”
“Come on,” Childe sighs, “Don’t be cruel. You know what I mean. Do I know you from somewhere?”
The look of distress on Childe's face is unmistakable. His brows are furrowed and his eyes are dark.
Scaramouche almost feels bad for him. Almost.
“Maybe you do, maybe you don't.”
“Answer the damn question Scara.”
Scaramouche is taken aback. He hasn’t been called Scara by anybody, let alone Childe, since he erased himself from the Irminsul nearly two years ago. He blinks in shock.
“I know I fucking know you from somewhere. I’m comfortable with you like nobody else. What happened between us? Who are you? Tell me because it’s killing me.”
Childe’s frustration is visible. Scaramouche nearly cracks. He used to hate seeing Childe so stressed, although he’d never admit it. It was rare, but it still happened and Scaramouche hated it. He’ll never admit that there was a time when they were in-love. Well, when HE was in-love. Scaramouche doesn’t know if Childe ever reciprocated those feelings or if he was just looking for a quick-fuck.
“First things first, that’s way more questions than I allotted to you. Second things second,” Scaramouche pauses, looking over his word choices, “I’ll say this. You knew me. Knew, as in past-tense. You don’t know me anymore, and frankly, I don’t want you to know me past what we used to have.”
“But I don’t fucking know what we used to have, Scara.”
Again, Childe with the nickname only he called Scaramouche. The indigo-haired-boy wonders how it just rolled off of his tongue so easily.
Scaramouche snaps. “Maybe, just maybe, Childe, that’s what I want! I don’t want you to know me!”
The sudden raise in voice level widens Childe’s eyes.
“Fine. That’s all I needed to know, Scara. I’ll see you around.”
Childe leaves, a visible look of confusion and anger flash in his eyes. Shock fills Scaramouche. The Childe he knew wouldn’t give up so easily.
Scaramouche might’ve just fucked up something, again.
He feels the crash and burn furthermore.
–
Puppets don’t need sleep. He is artificial. He doesn’t need to breathe, eat, or rest like humans do. Yet that night, Scaramouche sleeps.
He dreams of the Inazuma stars. The sandy beaches, the wind, and the weird plants, but he also dreams of people like Niwa, or people like his mother.
But then his dream switches from Inazuma to bright orange hair. To sneaking off with each other after Fatui meetings, to Scaramouche in Tartaglia’s bed, to arms wrapped around one another, basking in the afterglow, to Childe showing up in Scaramouche’s quarters looking worse for wear, and asking for kisses over his scars, with Scaramouche agreeing reluctantly, throwing a couple of insults in the process.
Scaramouche wakes up in a cold sweat.
He is painfully aware of how his cotton bedding feels against his skin.
Scaramouche rolls over in his cold, empty bed. In his dream, his bed wasn’t empty nor was it cold. Tartaglia was there next to him, warming him up.
Scaramouche doesn’t even realize the hot tears starting to trail down the side of his face.
Is this why Ei abandoned him?
How strange his life truly was. Created and abandoned by a god, everybody he loved dying, taken in by a borderline terrorist organization, being experimented on by an insane scientist, almost fulfilling his purpose before being destroyed and deciding to erase himself from the world, then seeing a…close ex-coworker from the terrorist organization who despite all of your history, no longer remembers you. But that was the goal–for him not to remember.
However, Childe is stubborn and curious and unfortunately for Scaramouche, he piqued Childe’s interest.
How could someone be so foreign yet familiar?
Scaramouche sits in his bed for a moment longer, before getting up and leaving his house for another day at the Akademiya.
–
Scaramouche should’ve expected this in hindsight. The world really likes to play cruel tricks on him. It was karma for all the bad deeds he’s done in life.
He didn’t even get to enter the House of Daena before someone tapped him on his shoulder.
And of course, it just had to be Tartaglia.
Scaramouche turned to face the ginger man and just stared at him.
A pregnant pause. “So…..wanna elaborate on yesterday?” Tartaglia says to break the ice.
“You do realize I could’ve elaborated much earlier if you hadn’t stormed off right?”
“Yeah! Yeah of course!” Sarcasm colors Childe’s words.
“Right, so no.” Scaramouche said sternly, walking off to his corner.
Tartaglia obviously followed.
“Soooo…” Tartaglia begins, pulling a chair out. “What did you mean by “you knew me?”
“What do you think I meant genius?”
“Come on, tell me?”
“Fuck no, Tartaglia. I already told you this, I don’t fucking want you to know.”
He probably could’ve worded that better.
Maybe Scaramouche should consult Nahida for some advice.
“Please?”
“No.”
“Please?”
“Childe.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Childe fucking quit. I’m not going to tell you.”
“I’ll try again tomorrow," mumbles Tartaglia. He gets up from his seat. Scaramouche is going to make sure he’s not going to try again tomorrow.
“See you later comrade,” He cheeses.
Scaramouche doesn’t respond. Only staring at the fading silhouette of the ginger.
He should definitely consult Nahida.
-
“Buer.”
“Hi there! Never thought you would arrive!”
“I need help,” the words fall from his mouth before he can even start thinking about them. He doesn’t notice how Nahida expected him.
“Is everything okay?” Nahida asks, concern lacing her face and worry covering her words.
Scaramouche sighs, “Old co-worker.”
“This is about Tartaglia isn’t it?”
Scaramouche doesn’t want to know how she knows that.
The silence tells Nahida everything she needs to know.
“He sure is smart. There’s no point in hiding it anymore. Come clean. Tell him something, anything from your past that involves him.” is the first piece of advice Scaramouche receives. Easier said than done. But he has to admit, it’s solid advice. “Bring him to me and I’ll do the rest,” Nahida suggests next. He knows exactly what she means by that. Nahida is going to walk Tartaglia through his past involving Scaramouche, just like she did with him when he was reborn.
That doesn’t seem too bad compared to the other option.
But alas, Scaramouche chooses neither.
He, once again, chooses to make his life harder.
–
Avoiding somebody was actually really easy if you know them but they don’t know you.
Scaramouche knew that Tartaglia liked the aesthetic of the House of Daena and the Bazaar. He told him that on a freezing day in Snezhnaya. Tartaglia also liked to hang out by the docks; “Because it’s cool,” the ginger had explained. And that’s why Scaramouche is choosing to be locked up in his home today.
He stares at his ceiling, laying on his bed. A sudden pang of sadness hits Scaramouche’s heart like a harsh wave to course sand.
Why does he feel like this?
He is completely artificial—A puppet created only to serve as a vessel for the Electro Gnosis. He has nothing inside of him, besides maybe mechanical remnants from Dottore and some mysterious stuff from which he was created from. He is hollow and heartless; Yet he is able to feel. Why? He asks himself. Why, why, why?
But what does he feel? Is it love? Is it hate? Is it despair? What could it possibly be, that is plunging him into the deepest parts of the abyss? The feeling overtakes him, like that harsh wave that overtook rough sand and dragged it back down with it, leaving only an imprint in its wake.
It is inherently cruel, Scaramouche thinks, of his body to subject him to this torture. He is crying. He is crying like he did when his creator saw him. The tears burn as they cascade down his face. He is weak. Crying is weak. His mother threw him out because of this. Why hasn’t he learned? Crying is weak. Crying is for those unfit. Crying is embarrassing.
The tears don’t stop until he passes out from exhaustion.
–
Golden rays cast their light onto the stained glass windows of Scaramouche's house. They let in colorful patterns and warmth.
It’s weird because Scaramouche hasn’t felt warm since he saw Childe.
He’s debating spending another day in his home avoiding the ginger or working on random texts for the Akademiya.
Or both, that’s an option too.
Scaramouche opts to get out of his bed and go outside, because he knows Nahida will get onto him if not. Then she’ll force him to interact with people like Kaveh and Alhaitham, who’ll spend the entire time bickering like a married couple. Idiots. That’s what they are to Scaramouche. Absolute idiots. It’s too obvious that they’re both pining for each other and are both too stubborn to admit it.
Sumeru is cooler than usual this time of year and the breeze feels refreshing. The feeling of refreshment does not last long however because once again, Scaramouche spots the ginger in the distance.
A plethora of questions arise:
One, how has Childe been here for so long? Is the Fatui just letting him off now? Has the Fatui lost the plot since he left?
Two, why is Tartaglia literally everywhere he goes? It’s ridiculous and the chances of this happening are slim to none with the size of Sumeru City.
Three, how has Childe not gotten bored of the same old surroundings? The Childe Scaramouche knew years ago would’ve gone out to explore the entirety of Sumeru after spending a maximum three days in the city.
He knows he’ll probably never know the answer unless he asks Nahida, but with the chance of her saying something he’s aware of and doesn’t want to accept is incredibly high. He’d rather not be reminded of his painful parasite that is his love for Tartaglia.
Scaramouche realizes that standing outside the door of his home probably is not the best idea, and chooses to go sit on a tree in the Apam Woods.
–
This is Scaramouche’s favorite place to just sit and think. Albeit he hasn’t been in a while due to a disturbance caused by a certain Fatui Harbinger.
The scenery still manages to mesmerize Scaramouche, despite having seen it a million times. The platforms created by the absolutely massive trees, the vines, the wildlife–all of it makes Scaramouche wonder why he even wanted to ascend to godhood and bear responsibility for an entire nation while this forest was just sitting there.
The air here is even cooler than Sumeru City, something to do with better air circulation or something. It’s nice.
Scaramouche thinks about what he should do about Childe again. He knows he can’t just run from his problems forever, because that’ll only create more problems. Scaramouche learned this after his little godhood trial. But what could Scaramouche possibly do, without having to talk to Tartaglia? That’s the last thing he wants to do because he knows in good faith that he will cry. And the tears will be unstoppable. And then he’ll pass out from crying for so long. Because he is weak. He is incredibly weak and that is why Ei abandoned him.
Nahida talks to Scaramouche about this mindset nearly every time he visits her. Every time, she tells him the same thing. “Crying isn’t a weakness. Having feelings isn’t a weakness. It’s okay to cry, because it’s natural.” And every time he hears it, he feels no better. It doesn’t change his mind at all. Why?
A bird snaps Scaramouche out of his head by landing on his hat. Ha. Nahida sent him this bird to tell him to stop thinking like that and change his mindset, Scaramouche jokes. He knows that’s probably actually the case, but he clearly likes to live in delusion. Just like those idiots in the Fatui, except they actually live in their delusions.
Scaramouche laughs at his own joke.
–
Truth be told, Scaramouche has no clue what the fuck he’s doing, despite what other people think.
It isn’t rare for him to overhear scholars whisper about his mysteriousness and how he always seems to know everything and how he's so put together. He tunes them out.
It’s a carefully crafted mask that Scaramouche has perfected.
Then Tartaglia reentered his life and fucked up his mask because now, he avoids the House of Daena like the plague, even though he needs to go there for his studies and he can so-very-clearly hear the talk about how Hat Guy hasn’t been to the library in a while and how it’s “uncharacteristic” of him. It’s confusing because they don’t even know him.
What the fuck is his life?
Why?
But thankfully, Scaramouche did not see Tartaglia a single time during his little study session. And he doesn’t see him the following week. Or two. Or three.
Weird, but not unexpected.
After all, Childe is easily bored and enjoys nothing more than exploring and bloodshed.
But Scaramouche has close relations with the archon of Sumeru and Nahida tells him Childe hasn’t left the city.
Huh.
Scaramouche decides that this is utterly unimportant and he has better things to do with his life, like solve the crashing and burning he experienced not-too-long ago that he might’ve forgotten about with the arrival of Tartaglia.
Wow, that ginger really is the root of all of his problems.
–
Deciding to do something about this unfortunate situation Scaramouche has found himself in, he talks to Nahida again.
Of course, she says the same thing about just telling the truth because being honest is good and how keeping Childe in the dark wasn’t good, but Scaramouche doesn’t really know because he stopped listening about halfway through. Then, Nahida drops a bomb on him and tells him to go out to Lambad’s because it’s Kaveh’s birthday party and he had wanted to invite him but had no idea where Scaramouche was.
And if there’s anything Scaramouche knows, he knows he’s incredibly indebted to Nahida, so he attends the party.
It’s really not that bad, honestly. Scaramouche kind of just sits in the corner while everybody else mingles. Kaveh eventually gets to him and thanks him for attending and gives him a whole spiel about how Scaramouche listens and gives good advice (Scaramouche visited the tavern once to see a drunk Kaveh and upon noticing him, Kaveh stumbled over and started rambling about Alhaitham and how he’s so narrow-minded and “stupid attractive,” and unfortunately, Scaramouche made the grave mistake of listening and providing insight. And unfortunately, Kaveh remembers, and that’s why they’re here today.)
Collei also attends and eventually approaches Scaramouche. Conversation between them flows easily. They’re alike in a lot of ways. From their experience with Dottore to their interests, only Collei is kinder and a whole lot better morally compared to him. They met through Nahida, who had forced a freshly born-again Scaramouche out to meet her.
Collei was one of the first people Scaramouche entrusted with his past, much to everybody’s surprise. Collei opened up to him first, telling him about all the horrors Dottore and his underlings performed on her, which led to him telling her about the horrors Dottore did to him. That's how their bond was formed.
The rest of the night is fairly uneventful, minus a couple of awkward moments between Kaveh and his roommate Alhaitham. Scaramouche wonders how it’s possible to even be so dense.
—
Scaramouche and Childe meet for a fifth time, much to Scaramouche’s dismay.
He was under the impression that Childe wasn’t visiting the House of Daena anymore after he had gone MIA for a month from it.
Unfortunately, that was clearly not the case and upon spotting him, Childe approaches him immediately.
“Long time no see, Scara,” Childe waves and sits down across from Scaramouche.
Scaramouche tries to press his head further into the textbook he’s studying. “What do you want?”
“Can we please talk?”
Scaramouche looks up at Childe’s face and it’s like his world has been shattered.
He sees big, blue eyes that resemble the abyssal void looking at him like he’s murdered his entire family. The expression on the ginger’s face is nothing short of pleading and longing. His cheeks are slightly pink and he has new freckles and scars, ones that Scaramouche’s porcelain hand hasn’t grazed before, and the thought of that creates cracks in his metaphorical heart.
“No,” Scaramouche manages to push out before looking away, a heat creeping up his neck.
He can’t bear to look at Tartaglia again, not with an expression like that.
“Please, doll. Let me explain. I’ll leave you alone forever afterwards,” Childe pleads.
“Don’t call me that,” Scaramouche chokes out. The words “I’ll leave you alone forever afterwards” echo in Scaramouche’s head. How desperately he wants that not to happen.
How desperately Scaramouche wants Tartaglia to stay, to have everything return to the way things were, but with the old Childe and a new Scaramouche.
There’s a pause. The silence is loud, and it screams in Scaramouche’s ears.
It ended with Childe begging, “Please?”
“Not here,” scolds Scaramouche.
The two walk silently out of the House of Daena, out of Sumeru City, and then out to an empty field right outside the city.
“So…”
“Childe.”
“Huh?”
The next words that are supposed to come out of Scaramouche’s mouth are stagnant. His mouth is open but nothing’s coming out. Childe stares in anticipation.
“What are you even going to explain? You don’t owe me an explanation, you don’t even know me,” He manages to choke out.
“But I do know you,” Tartaglia starts, “I know that I know you because you know me, because you know how I think!”
Scaramouche just stares at him, “And how do you know that? We’ve talked like, what, three times?” The air around them is thick with tension and it hurts. It’s suffocating and so painful that Scaramouche would rather inch towards false godhood again than stay here for a second longer.
“I know the truth.”
The words fall from Childe’s mouth and Scaramouche feels his world come to a sudden halt.
How, how could he have remembered? That’s supposed to be impossible!
Scaramouche chokes on his spit before managing to stutter out a pathetic-sounding “How?”
Childe studies his face, “You kept showing up in my dreams after we stopped talking. I kept dreaming of you and the Fatui.”
Scaramouche’s eyes widen as he tilts his head up to face Childe. The expression on his face is nothing short of sad. The ginger’s blue eyes, usually so devoid of light, suddenly have something glossy. He’s crying. Childe is crying.
This is a first, for Scaramouche has never seen Childe cry.
And he hates that he is the reason why the dam breaks.
“I’m sorry,” is all Scaramouche manages to say, lowering his head.
He should probably leave, his presence clearly distresses Childe and that’s the last thing he wants. But then again, what if Childe doesn’t want that? He doesn’t want to make Childe even sadder than he already is!
To see someone who’s usually so cheerful and strong break down in front of you–because of you–it shatters Scaramouche's metaphorical heart once more and then throws it on the ground.
After a long pause, Scaramouche wraps his arms around Tartaglia. Uncharacteristic of him, but he knew that Tartaglia liked hugs.
Childe only looks up at him in confusion.
“I’m sorry, I’ll go,” Scaramouche mutters before letting his arms fall and walking away.
Tartaglia’s eyes, still glassy with tears, follow his figure until he disappears into the distance.
His metaphorical heart can’t be more than a fine powder now.
–
The first thing Scaramouche does once he enters the city is run straight to the Sanctuary of Sursthana.
Bursting through the doors, he immediately spots Nahida’s look of concern.
“I’ve fucked up,” he starts, “actually, everything’s fucked up. The Irminsul’s fucked up.”
Nahida’s eyes widen as she approaches him, “What happened?”
“Childe still remembers me, that’s not meant to happen! He was crying because I’m such a fucking dumbass!”
“Oh dear,” Nahida envelopes Scaramouche’s now-shaking figure. “I didn’t tell you this when you erased yourself from Irminsul because I truly believed it would never happen, but while everybody forgets you and will never remember the past you again, people who have been in places like the Abyss, where the Ley Line connections are significantly weaker, can,” She says, letting go of Scaramouche, “but it’s such a rare case, I never believed it would happen to you.”
Scaramouche only stares up at her.
“I know how much this hurts you, but I think you should keep your distance from Childe for a bit while the both of you process what has happened,” continues Nahida, “I’ll handle him, don’t worry.”
Leaving Childe alone? When he had just seen him cry for the first time ever? It’s a ridiculous idea in Scaramouche’s head, but he knows that in the end, Nahida is right. He needs time. But he had left Tartaglia alone back there in the field, and that alone is another nail in the coffin–another reason why he should go see him and apologize.
Scaramouche blinks twice at Nahida and she seems to understand. “Go home now, child, I’ll take care of it,” she says, smiling sweetly.
And with that, Scaramouche leaves for his home reluctantly, because Nahida knows best.
–
The first thing Scaramouche does upon arrival is change into comfortable clothes and then jump straight into his bed.
He has never needed sleep. He’s gone through this thought process again and again, and he’ll only continue the cycle today. He doesn’t need sleep, so why is he here, on the verge of breaking down like a dam that has been pushed to its limits, and falling asleep at the same time?
Scaramouche turns over and stares at his ceiling. He wonders what Childe would say to him if he hadn’t sought out Nahida for her advice and had instead gone back and said something. What would he even say?
Why was it even possible for Childe to remember? (He knows the answer, he found it out not even twenty minutes ago, but he refuses to accept it.) It’s insane. It’s cruel. It’s the world's nth time toying with him.
He thinks about earlier this year, when he came to the conclusion that he was spiraling back into the hole he had worked so hard to dig himself out of. How foolish he was, all those years ago, thinking that he could just disappear off of the face of Teyvat. Of course there would be a catch—why would it be that easy?
Scaramouche is an idiot.
And he spends the next week stuck in his home, choosing to do all of his Akademiya-related work at home instead of in the House of Daena like he usually does.
It isn’t until Nahida shows up in his head and reprimands him for not going outside that he chooses to leave. He walks around the Grand Bazaar for about ten minutes, before remembering his disdain for it, and then leaving.
Scaramouche’s next destination is the Apam Woods, again. It brings him comfort when he sits on his tree branch and just looks.
He’s seen this view, the trees, the wildlife, the flora, fungi more times than he can even remember but it has never failed him.
It feels like quiet.
And it’s oh so peaceful.
–
Scaramouche never gets mail.
It’s uncharacteristic of him to have anything delivered to his home, so imagine his surprise when he approaches his porch to see one, singular piece of mail.
His face contorts into confusion, before he lifts the envelope and inspects it for danger.
There’s nothing on it—no name, no return address, no sender name, none.
Scaramouche enters his home, envelope in hand, and sits down on the sofa.
Upon opening the letter, Scaramouche feels his imaginary heart fall onto the floor and shatter.
Dear Scaramouche,
I’m sorry. I know it was alarming to just drop such a bomb on you, especially when I have already caused a disturbance in your life. I know you didn’t want to see me, because if you did, you wouldn’t have erased yourself. Again, I’m sorry.
I came to Sumeru because the Tsaritsa had no need for me anymore and I had never really explored Sumeru and I thought a change of scenery would be a nice change, but what really solidified my choice was the nagging feeling of something I lost being there. I know it’s odd and I know it makes no sense but there’s no other way of describing it. I visited my family before I left. They were good, same as always, but the moment I entered my childhood bedroom, I felt a strange sense of “did I forget something important?” because everywhere around me was just a reminder of you. I had a keychain that belonged to you on my dresser, a note from you in your loopy italic handwriting, telling me to ‘stop being stupid,’ and I was nothing short of bewildered.
I kept asking myself, ‘who’s stuff is this?’ but I kept coming up with nothing. Sometimes, I saw your indigo hair and pale skin, but that was about it.
When I saw you in Sumeru, turning away from me, I knew something was up. You looked so similar to the person I kept having visions of, so I kept following you, kept asking, kept bugging. It wasn’t until you told me your name that something clicked. Your name was so familiar. Calling you ‘Scara’ was familiar. It just felt right on my tongue.
Again, I was nothing short of bewildered.
The second we stopped talking to each other, for whatever reason that might be, I started having these dreams. Your face was foggy in the majority of them. The first one, I dreamed about your Fatui quarters at HQ. The second one, I dreamed of you, your face, sleeping next to me in my bed. The third dream was you. You told me you loved me, before you faded into nothingness. It was all variations of these scenarios, until the sixth dream, where I saw you at the Irminsul tree, deleting yourself. And that’s when it all clicked into place, everything came back to me.
Sorry, I’m rambling. I have to get it off my chest.
Just to clarify, I don’t expect you to come and find me and apologize. I’m not mad at you. You didn’t want me in your life anymore, and that’s valid. Don't feel too bad, I understand why you did what you did. I’ll leave you alone now, Scaramouche. And if you’re wondering, I had Nahida deliver this to you. I’m not sure you would be too keen on me knowing where your house is.
I think still love you, Ajax
What the fuck did he just read?
The guilt washes over Scaramouches body like a cold shower; It raises the hairs on his arm.
Wow, he really is an asshole.
Why has he been so cruel to Childe, and why hasn’t he noticed?
He signed the bottom of his letter with his actual name. Tartaglia doesn’t do that. The Tartaglia Scaramouche knows doesn’t write letters period. And he most certainly does not sign them with his real name.
So not only does Scaramouche not know Tartaglia—No, Ajax anymore, but he’s also been a major asshole to him.
The revelation cuts his skin bone deep, and guilt seeps out like blood.
He doesn’t know when the tears started, but they’re here and they drip onto the letter still clutched in his cold, shaky hands, staining them with his anguish.
The grip Scaramouche has on the paper slowly falters, however, before the letter slowly falls to the floor. His hands cup his face, and he sobs.
He sobs like he has been abandoned by his creator again. He sobs like Dottore has cut him open and began placing foreign objects in his body as a means to make him stronger. He sobs like he has faced loss once again.
Except this time, it was all his fault. He had nobody to blame. No Dottore, fire, and certainly no Ei.
It was him.
But he couldn’t blame other people for the deaths of his friends and his soul, because it was his fault too.
If Scaramouche had been a little stronger—just a little bit less weak, he could’ve prevented the death of so many people. If he had been a little less sensitive, he wouldn’t have been thrown out, he wouldn’t have had a target placed on him by the Fatui as a result, and he wouldn’t have met the child who tragically died to human fragility, and none of this would’ve happened. He could’ve prevented the death of hundreds.
He could’ve been good.
He could’ve been fixed.
It’s a cool, crisp, 68 degrees in Sumeru when Scaramouche falls asleep on his couch with tears drying on his face.
–
The first thing Scaramouche thinks of when he awakens is Childe.
It feels like a stubborn bruise which has been there for years, looks like it’s healing, before getting ten times worse and spreading.
It’s a tragedy that Scaramouche loves someone who is so good, so pure-hearted, as someone who is nothing but bad.
It’s cruel for fate to make somebody like Scaramouche the love interest of somebody like Tartaglia.
Scaramouche’s body is aching when he gets up, probably from the weird position he slept in on his couch that definitely isn’t meant for sleeping on. In his bathroom, his mirror shows his puffy, red eyes and a man who has done nothing good in life.
He has accepted this.
He washes his face with cold water to hopefully reduce the puffiness and to wash off the dried tears.
It is nothing short of pathetic. How did he even get like this?
Unfortunately, as much as Scaramouche wants to sulk around in his house again, he still has responsibilities to attend to, so he heads to the House of Daena to write more papers.
He prays he won’t see Tartaglia.
–
Scaramouche doesn’t know what’s gotten into him.
The second he entered the House of Daena and sat, he didn’t write anything but five drafted apology letters to Tartaglia. He scrapped them all because none of his words flew out from his pen right. They’re all corny and belong in an Inazuman light novel, one that his step-mom would publish. It’s absurd to think someone like him would even write them in the first place.
It takes Scaramouche a nonsensical amount of time to realize that what he is doing is not efficient, and he gets back to doing what he’s supposed to be doing, with only thirteen thoughts of Ajax in a span of ten minutes.
And as if his life wasn’t hard enough, somebody he didn’t want to see entered the library.
That’s ridiculous, why would Childe enter the House of Daena so often? The guy didn’t even like reading!
Scaramouche then realizes that Childe is coming here to see him.
Huh.
He hopes the textbook he has open is enough to cover him because knowing Tartaglia, he would approach Scaramouche the second he saw him. He’s not doing that again.
Much to Scaramouche’s surprise however, Childe does not do that. In fact, the ginger does not waste a second of time and grabs a book from the history shelf and sits down at a table, pulling out a notebook, and beginning to write.
Not like Childe at all, but Scaramouche doesn’t know this new Childe, and he has to remind himself of this constantly.
The thought of that hurts, but Scaramouches pushes through and tries to get through his work.
He is really bad at focusing, especially when he sometimes catches a pair of deep blue eyes staring in his direction.
–
Three weeks pass with this library distance ordeal.
It is nothing short of confusing, because the Childe Scaramouche knew never liked books, never liked studying them, didn’t like school at all, constantly expressing his disdain for education because it was tedious.
And every single time he hops on this thought train, Scaramouche has to remind himself. You don’t know him anymore.
And every time, it hurts more and more, like a hole is being slowly dug through his chest.
Childe does not pay attention to Scaramouche once during the three weeks.
Good for him, Scaramouche thinks.
–
The three weeks pass like nothing and soon it has been a month and a half.
Scaramouche wonders why he is acting so oddly about Childe being in the library.
Sure the man never liked books and words, but he hasn’t known Childe for a while, so obviously he has changed and gained new hobbies, so Scaramouche shouldn’t dwell on it.
And plus, so what if Tartaglia gained a new hobby? Why does Scaramouche even care so much? It isn’t his life.
But it still pains Scaramouche, because he used to know the ginger man so well, and now he doesn’t recognize him at all.
He drafts a new apology letter every single day, only to scrap it because it is cheesy and cliché.
And sometimes, Scaramouche talks to Nahida about it. She understands and she listens and no longer gives advice, because she knows Scaramouche won’t listen to it.
This is the new norm Scaramouche has grown used to.
Wake up from your unnecessary sleep.
Look put together.
Go on a walk in nature.
Go to the library.
Work.
Go home.
Unnecessarily sleep.
Rinse and repeat.
It is comfortable and familiar and it helps him forget about Childe for a while.
But sometimes, in the dead of night, Scaramouche thinks.
And he thinks, and thinks, and thinks.
He thinks until his head feels like it’s about to explode, his eyes are pouring tears, and his breath is uneven and heaving.
And sometimes, he thinks of ending it.
What’s the point of being on this planet if all he does is cause misfortune? Scaramouche’s hands have so much blood on them, so many people hurt and killed because of him, it’s a miracle karma hasn’t sought after him to make him atone for his sins.
There’s also what he’s done to Childe. Childe cries because of him. Childe isn’t Childe because of him. All Scaramouche does is fuck things up.
That’s what he has always done.
He did it to Niwa, the unnamed child in his past, and now Childe.
How many peoples’ lives must he ruin before he learns?
Scaramouche thought he didn’t believe in suicide anymore.
Evidently, the opposite is true, because he finds himself on the edge of a cliff the next time he blinks.
Would a drop from this high even kill him?
Mechanical enhancements linger in his body, and those were painful and probably did a lot more damage to him than this would in theory do—it’s evident from the scars on his backside.
Regardless, the thought of jumping feels freeing and the peaceful atmosphere surrounding him definitely did not help his case.
Scaramouche glares daggers at the ground and revisits the question—would this kill him?
Would anything kill a puppet like him?
He feels something wet drip down his face, blurring his eyesight. Archons, he’s crying. He never stops crying.
Raising a hand to wipe the tears clouding his vision, he takes a step closer to the edge.
Would anybody miss him?
Would Childe care?
He takes another step and more tears come out from behind the curtain.
At this point, he is no more than a foot away from falling to what would hopefully be his death.
For a minute, he feels nothing. He has accepted that this is it. This is his life. There’s nothing else to it.
A small step this time, getting closer with each passing second.
His head is clear—ready for what's to come.
And Scaramouche is one breath away from dying, when Nahida’s voice shows up.
“Please,” a meager voice cries from behind him, “back away?”
Nahida’s voice is uneven and unsure, almost like she’d been running here.
Scaramouche’s head makes a sharp turn behind him and when Nahida’s frame enters his vision, he runs to her and drops to his knees.
The tears spilling from his eyes multiply by the minute, and Scaramouche can’t help but sob.
Nahida opens her arms and Scaramouche falls into them.
“I-I just,” Scaramouche chokes out, his tears creating wet patches on Nahida’s dress.
“It’s okay, let it out, you don’t have to explain,” Nahida consoled, “I’m not mad at you.”
All of it just makes him cry more.
The thoughts that were previously absent from his head come rushing back in.
Bright ginger hair, nothing in deep blue eyes, freckles littering pale complexion, toned muscles and the maybe sweetest soul on Teyvat.
Long purple hair in a braid, fading lighter at the ends, cold eyes like his own, the mole on her left cheek, fair, porcelain skin. Weird and unusual. Grief-stricken.
Light blue hair, cruel red eyes masked. Sharp, metallic scalpel in hand, ready to dissect him. Vicious and evil.
He must’ve been crying on Nahida’s shoulder for an eternity before he lifted his head.
Scaramouche doesn’t want to think about how stupid he looks.
“You’re not stupid, you’re struggling,” Nahida says.
Shit, he forgot she could read his mind. He laughs through his tears, body shaking.
Nahida gives a weak smile, “Come on, let's go home,” patting his shoulder and beckoning him to follow.
With weak knees and swollen eyes, he follows. He doesn’t have the heart to disobey Nahida. Literally.
–
Nahida keeps a close eye on him now.
Scaramouche thinks she blames herself for not realizing he was struggling. He thinks that’s bullshit.
If anything, it’s his fault. He’s the screw-up who made it all go wrong.
Scaramouche lays on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
It hasn’t been long since his not-so-attempt, only around three days, and he hasn’t done much but visit Nahida and sleep.
Everyday, Scaramouche is mad at himself. He should’ve jumped sooner. He shouldn’t have stood and contemplated his life, he had all day to do that.
He brings a fist to his forehead.
God, why is he so stupid?
Nahida’s voice echoes through his mind again, “you’re not stupid, you’re struggling.”
He feels rather stupid for a struggling person.
Turning on his side, he catches Childe’s letter on his nightstand. Immediately, a wet droplet rolls down his cheek. He’s already crying, great.
Scaramouche doesn’t do anything though, he only lays and stares holes into the letter, tears occasionally flooding his vision.
Actually, he’s not stupid, Childe is. Tartaglia is a fucking fool. A stupid fucking fool. One that is too stupid for his own good.
Nobody in their right mind would love Scaramouche, after all that he has done.
Maybe Childe doesn’t, maybe he’s just confused.
Scaramouche starts praying to the Archons that this is the case, knowing they aren’t listening.
He wants to tell his mom that she was right, he was too emotional, he wants to tell Dottore that he shouldn’t have wasted so much time and effort on someone so useless, but most importantly, he wants to tell Childe that he is a stupid, confused, buffoon.
He is nothing good at all.
“Scaramouche?” a voice echoes inside of his head.
Shit, Nahida found him wallowing in his sadness pit.
“It’s okay,” she starts, “It’s hard, I know, but it’s going to be okay. How about you come visit me for today? A scholar recently published a “historically accurate” paper about Inazuman history after the Cataclysm—do you want to come pick it apart?”
He doesn’t even respond with words, only reluctantly getting out of bed and making his way over.
–
The peaceful silence is only filled with the occasional nitpicky comment coming from Scaramouche and the clutching and turning of parchment.
“Whoever wrote this is absolutely fucking stupid. The people of Tatarasuna did not cause the Mikage Furnace to begin producing dangerous amounts of Tataragami, it was Escher–no, Dottore and his fuckass urge to cause mayhem.”
Nahida blinks, “What’s their source? Surely such a bold claim must have evidence backing it up right?”
Scaramouche flips the pages around in anger, “it’s from a conspiracy theorist newspaper,” he exasperatedly sighs.
“Well that explains it,” Nahida listens. She’s been listening to every critique Scaramouche has had on this poor scholars’ analysis for what seemed like forever, and it seemed like it would never end.
Scaramouche squints his eyes and locks in on the paper, and that meant he had found yet another issue.
Not very historically accurate, that’s for sure.
He finds about ten more inaccuracies by the time he reaches the end of the paper. Somehow, his mechanical eyes have grown to tire.
Scaramouche is alarmed.
That’s not how a puppet works. Puppets don’t blink, don’t sleep, and don’t breathe. How in the world are his fucking eyes tired? Is he finally succumbing to humanity?
Part of him feels excited about the prospect, but the other half believes that humans are fragile and needy—he doesn’t want to be fragile nor needy.
“It’s okay to rest, Scaramouche.”
Right, Nahida, his saving grace.
He nods in response.
Scaramouche thinks he owes Nahida one massive debt.
—
He kind of wants to see Tartaglia again.
Scaramouche doesn’t want an exchange of meaningless words or a heartfelt conversation, he just wants to be in the presence of Childe. Bask in the view of him.
In hindsight, it’s a stupid thought. There is a reason the two haven’t had contact in a hefty long time, and Scaramouche intends to keep it that way (unless Childe happens to catch up to him and initiate it like all of his dreams portray). He’s not one for this whole feeling thing.
All of his life has been spent running away from feeling, it’s all he knows now. It would be a futile effort to change that. Laughable, even.
But because Scaramouche never listens to himself and is a lovesick fool, he makes his way around Sumeru to find Childe.
It’s not a hard feat, that’s for sure. Check the House of Daena, the Bazaar, the ports, popular restaurants serving dishes Scaramouche knows Childe enjoys. It’s methodical and completely reasonable.
And that’s why Scaramouche spots Childe fishing just outside of the city. A location Scaramouche definitely could’ve predicted.
At first, Scaramouche only watches from afar, perched on top of a high building rooftop in the middle of the city. While he can’t see much, he can observe the bare minimum of movements. Good enough.
He doesn’t realize that he slowly starts scooting closer, hopping off his ledge and approaching the ginger.
He doesn’t realize until he’s behind a tree, dangerously close and quietly observing the ginger.
Tartaglia sits on the grass with practiced stillness. The water is calm and the breeze ruffles his hair.
He looks peaceful—happy even.
Something about that makes a piece of Scaramouches’ allegorical heart break off.
Scaramouche stays relatively unnoticed and Tartaglia is mostly undisturbed until a stronger wind blows and jingles the bells on Scaramouche’s clothes. For a second, Scaramouche panics, eyes widening at the revelation that he might actually have to face Childe. But Tartaglia doesn’t stir, and Scaramouche calms down.
“Scara?”
Never fucking mind.
Childe doesn’t turn around when he says his name, he knows Scaramouche is there.
It’s chilling, that Scaramouche could be so predictable. Surely his Harbinger skills weren’t becoming rusty so quickly?
Scaramouche wants to run away, far away, disappear into nothingness, into the depths of Teyvat, beyond the false sky. But Scaramouche also wants to meet Childe's eyes, come from behind the tree, and talk.
Instead, Scaramouche stays still in uncertainty. Would Tartaglia be mad at him?
“I’m not mad, Scara. Come here.”
What the fuck?
No time for questions, Scaramouche thinks.
He takes a step forward. Late summer Sumeru sun casts down on his figure as he leaves the tinted shadow. If Scaramouche wasn’t visible from Childe’s position then, he definitely would be now.
Tartaglia turns and their eyes meet, “It’s actually you?”
Scaramouche stills and rolls his eyes, “Obviously, dipshit. You knew that.”
The space in between the two decreases with every step Scaramouche takes. His pace is even, calculated, but if he had a heart, he is sure it’d be moving thrice as fast as his feet.
Tartaglia drops his rod and stands, opening his arms.
Scaramouche takes off and runs into them. He feels tears welling up in his eyes.
Childe is warm. Warmer than Scaramouche’s perpetually cold, lifeless body will ever be.
And in Childe’s arms, Scaramouche feels love again. He feels the painful burning in his soul be quelled and calmed.
“I think I’m in love with you,” Scaramouche muffles against Childe’s chest.
“You’ve never said that to me before. Holy shit.”
“I’m so in-love with you it hurts, Ajax,” Scaramouches stops to sniffle and wipe his tears against the soft fabric of Childe’s shirt, “I think you’re the best thing to ever happen to me and every second I spend away from you is time wasted on invaluable moments.”
Childe can only smile and nod, the tears having hit him too. The grip around Scaramouches’ waist tightens a little more, “I love you too,” he chokes out.
Scaramouche lifts his head from the place he has buried it within Childe and reaches his hand out to wipe away the tears staining Childe’s face.
“You’re so stupid. If you remembered and still loved you shouldn’t have made me go through mental gymnastics to find you again,” Scaramouche teases as he sinks into Childe’s shirt again. Tartaglia laughs, sniffling in the process, “Yeah, yeah, I’m the worst person in the world and I’m so incredibly stupid. I missed you, you know?”
“I do know. I missed you too, dingus,” Scaramouche replies, muffled.
“Hey Scara?” Scaramouche lifts his head and his eyes widen at the nickname. Childe takes the chance to crane his head down and kiss Scaramouche.
At first, Scaramouche is surprised, but he quickly calms down as he focuses on the soft lips currently touching his.
Scaramouche hasn’t felt this peaceful in a while.
For once in his life, the burning fire in his head that burns him everyday quells.
Eventually, they pull away and start to laugh.
“We’re stupid,” Scaramouche chokes out in between chuckles.
“Tell me about it,” a smiling Childe replies.
The car that is Scaramouche has stopped crashing and he thinks he’s finally happy.