seagloom.

The wound is still bleeding.  

He maps out potential lesions on scarless skin with his hands. Had he been careless, he would have them curving all over his body like vines. He cannot afford to be sloppy. He cannot afford a misstep.  

Scaramouche traces over a mole or two, making a line to connect them.  

He isn’t foolish to have his opponent lay their hands on him enough to bruise. He is too fast, too skilled – untouchable. It leaves his adversary seething when he slips right from their fingertips, falling through their fingers like water. A crackling laughter, cold and ruthless. Fatal hands and violet streaks slashed across their chests. It would only spur them on until they’re left bleeding out where their graves lay.

He stops at his chest, fingers splayed. His foggy reflection stares back at him, weary and jaded.

There is a scar somewhere here, deep rooted and bleeding. He holds back on clawing at his skin to avoid making a mess. It will split open at the slightest touch, no matter how featherlight and tender those acts may be. But it isn’t as if someone would ever handle him in such a way. Wicked things do not deserve to be held – but some monsters crave to be loved more than they crave to kill.  

In the end, it doesn’t matter. He manages to open the wound all on his own.  

Scaramouche drops his hands, gripping onto the sides of the sink. His knuckles turn white from the sheer force of his grip, and the rest of his muscles ache when he tenses. There is a scar deep rooted and bleeding. He cannot stitch it back closed, he cannot cauterize it with his own hands.  

The wound lies abyss-deep, stemming from eternity. 

When he lets go, the world quiets. He hadn’t even realized it was ringing. He gives himself one last look in the mirror, noting how dark his under eye circles have become and how lifeless he is. A mere reanimated corpse for the taking.  

He throws on a shirt, a bit too big on him and flows when he turns. It’s soft to the touch, worn down by years of use. Much like his doppelganger in the mirror.  

From what skin is left bare, he can still feel the sick chill of the Snezhnayan air in his room. He’d been out for far too long today, dealing with training new recruits even though they had already gotten some last week. He had to deal with more imbeciles than he usually does on top of an asinine group of treasure hoarders getting in his way. A group with far too many crushers at their disposal.  

It left him drained. He wanted the frost to melt away. 

Seeking warmth, he walks to the center of his room to the only hint of his room being lived in. If not for this, his room would look like any other. It’s his only prized possession that reminds him of his home without the bitter memories hanging onto it.  

He turns on the heater using a spark of electro from his fingertips, sticking his hands under the blanket. The warmth seeps into his skin and he slides himself closer to the table and underneath the comforter. Even after such a cold day, it’s worth coming back to his room, turning his kotatsu on and falling asleep just like that.  

But tonight, sleep does not come to him.  

The heat on his skin is an echo of a memory this time. He is haunted by the summers of Inazuma, dripping ice cream running over his knuckles, the scent of ocean water and memories too grainy for him to remember.  

The people of Inazuma no longer see skies of blue, always a storm looming over them by her will – threatening them with the fact that she can always flood the cities and strike them down with lightning if she ever wanted to. He wonders if their apathy was worth it. 

Though, it would not fit her ideals of eternity. Why would she kill her people and rid her of her own empire? Without her people’s support, she has no throne.  

It almost makes him want to laugh. A goddess of eternity, but everything in life is transient. Even she will not be a part of the throne forever. The truth of the stars will be the cause of her demise.  

What was once a blessing is now a curse. Something that can be taken away so easily. Something that binds you to a god where they can sever that connection along with your sanity whenever they deem it. They are considered playthings to the gods. And he wonders how long he can live like this before the knowledge eats at him. 

His vision sits on the console table, burning through the wood and seeping right through the earth. 

He shuffles under the blankets further, wanting to encase himself in a cocoon of heat. The cold is relentless. He sticks his hands underneath his shirt to warm his hands, but he still shivers. He thinks about the long sleeve shirt he should have somewhere, but to leave this spot is too much of an effort.  

Of course, he has to stand up anyway, due to an incessant knocking at his door.  

The scowl on his face is grim and annoyed, not too unusual of an expression on his face, and Childe has to face it every time he comes across the sixth harbinger.  

“What do you want?” Scaramouche asks flatly.  

In stark contrast to his grimace, there is a smile on Childe’s face. “Why, can I not visit my favorite harbinger?” His words sound cheery as always, if not a bit teasing. Scaramouche doesn’t offer a reply, but squints at the cut straight across Childe’s cheekbone and remnants of fingers around his neck.  

The corners of his lips tug down further. “Careless again?”  

While Scaramouche is elegant, Childe is brash. He fights up close and gets in your space, pushes you into a corner. Constant. Staccato. One, two, three. It becomes a dance with razor sharp steps, but Scaramouche has never had his clothes torn and his skin slashed when facing him.  

Childe is not one to come back bruised. He isn’t as sloppy as he was when he was younger. The chances are rare in the present, but Scaramouche can count the instances on one hand.  

“It’s quite annoying how treasure hoarders are starting to move in bigger groups,” Childe says, explaining some, but not all of what took place. Scaramouche doesn’t exactly care about the events, but wonders how Childe managed to get choked of all things. To let his enemy get that close. “You wouldn’t mind helping me, would you?” 

“You do whatever you want regardless of my answer,” he snarks, opening the door wider for Childe to slip in. “How many were there?” 

The other slips off his boots and his jacket, hanging it on a rack. “Fifteen? Twenty, maybe? Honestly, I couldn't really tell.” He groans when he touches the side of his neck, tracing over the fingerprints that lay there. “And most of them had those annoying hammers. Don't get me started on the potioneers.” He swears under his breath, muttering to himself while Scaramouche pulls out the supplies to tend to the cut on the harbinger’s face. 

“Somehow, despite training for years,” Scaramouche starts, “you are still not aware enough.” 

When he turns, he’s faced with a pout on Childe’s face. His cheek is squished against the surface of his kotatsu, blankets up to his shoulders. That, paired with the cut on his cheek and his hair a damp mess from the snow – he looks amusing. “Yeah, I know,” he mutters. “I get caught up in the feeling! Can you blame me?”

He scoffs. “If you have the time to get caught up in the feeling, you have time to readjust your focus. 

It’s not often in the present that Childe comes to him. Even when it’s something that Childe could do himself, he shows up at his door from time to time, skin marred after a “good” fight. At this point, Scaramouche assumes that he simply likes it.

He’s given up wondering what Childe must want from him beyond an ice pack over a bruise or a bandage over a cut because after, Childe will stay for a while. They end up chatting the night away about mindless things, sometimes over a meal, a drink, a cracked open window. What started as a place to heal wounds, is now a place to come back to. He’s not sure who offered first, but Scaramouche doesn’t mind even if he had blanched at the thought. He’s unsure where to place his feelings on this. 

Scaramouche is not stupid, but he tries not to think about what it means, considering he has done this for him many times when Childe was only Childe, not Tartaglia. But, he has seen glimpses of Ajax in the soft laughter against a letter, the bowl of borsch held against his lips, in the old songs he sings under his breath where he thinks no one can hear him. It’s intriguing to discern which side belongs to which.

Doing simple things like this remind him that this is not what a harbinger should do. They are machines built for a war. Emotionless. They are not supposed to tend to another’s wounds and pretend that it is an act of service out of love. He is to be cruel and it is inevitable to be disliked. And yet.

Tending to his wounds reminds him that his hands can still be gentle as it was before he held electricity at his fingertips. There must be no edge of humanity in him, but his hands still remember how to care. (Can a killer be gentle at all? When is it face or facade?) 

This is something he struggles to come to terms with in order to aid his scar. This pain and that pain is useless. But it tastes off. 

Childe flinches when he presses onto the cut.  

“Don’t be a baby,” he whispers, a bit harsh. “You’ve been through far worse. Tilt this way for me.” 

He guides Childe’s head to the right with a small touch from his free hand.  

A small huff. “Not a baby.” 

“Aw,” he mocks. “Getting pouty?” 

“Ugh.” Childe rolls his eyes. “You’re a horrible nurse.” 

“Then get up and leave.” 

The quiet settles in as he disinfects the other’s wound. 

Scaramouche allows himself to stare. And think. And stare. Until he feels his chest tingling with warmth he wants to rip out.  

Childe is strange. Carrying dual blades in each hand, but then a heartfelt letter from his sister the next day. His eyes blaze bright under the throes of battle, but then they are flickering stars when the fight is over. Flinching at a little burn of antiseptic. Still as stone with hands around his throat. Where death looms, he is radiant. Strange, confusing, complex. It’s lured him in. 

“Scara,” Childe says to him.  

A nickname shared in quiet moments between the two. He should not hold this as close as he does. 

He hums an absentminded flat note, focused on cleaning the wound. The cut isn’t deep, but it will irritate Childe in the morning. “What is it?” 

Childe doesn’t answer for a moment.  

He places a bandage over the cut, allowing himself to smooth a thumb over the wound as if his touch alone could heal. He allows himself this level of comfort, to allow his hands to be light, not knowing why Childe has to be the object to this gentleness.  

Childe once said that the harbingers do not and cannot get along. He wants to, but does not ask why Childe stays and why he lets him. Perhaps it’s only because he is the only one to reach out to him and stay. Perhaps it’s because he doesn’t point out that this tenderness is strange coming from a person like him. He doesn’t call him heartless, he doesn’t call him cruel. Even when he can be. Even when he is. Perhaps, he is just like any other human that craves another presence beside them.

(Something bitter rests on his tongue).  

Scaramouche doesn’t even realize he’s holding his face until he feels Childe’s hands around his wrists.  

“Are you okay?” is what Childe asks.  

The scar opens up again.  

He raises a brow. “Why?” 

He shrugs. “I'm not sure. You look....troubled.” Childe pulls his hands down off his face and instead takes hold, thumbs massaging the palms of his hands. Scaramouche freezes at the gesture. “Did something happen today?” 

Scaramouche wants to pull away. He can feel the blood dripping out of his wound. “Nothing,” he answers. I miss my home. “Today was as usual.” But yet, I want nothing to do with it. 

This time, Childe hums. He stares at him, and Scaramouche would rather rot away than to break that contact no matter how much he wants to. He stares right back, clawing his way through water and ignoring how his lungs burn. Looking away makes it too obvious that he can’t handle the level of Childe’s gaze. 

“I heard the new recruits gave you some trouble.” Scaramouche holds back a groan. He doesn’t want to talk about work of all things. Childe drops his hands, squeezing all the way up to his shoulders, where he starts to massage between his shoulder blades. “Though, it makes me jealous.” 

The pout this time is much more....cuter than it is amusing. He scoffs, almost a half-laugh. “What on earth are you jealous of? Those idiots?” He’s almost astonished at his way of thinking. “No one gives me as much trouble as you do.”

The words are a guise for something Scaramouche won’t dare to say lest he shatters what little good he has left. He swallows. Being a harbinger has merit, but not happiness.  

He seems surprised with the answer, but satisfied. The pout on his face is smeared away. “Oh,” he says. “Then, good.” 

A short sigh leaves his lips. A bit fond, a bit exasperated.  

Childe still has his hands on his shoulders, warm and comforting.  

The wound closes for now.  

He swallows. Will you stay? He wants to ask, but he won’t.  

Childe then lays down, digging himself deeper under the blankets, pulling Scaramouche down with a soft thud as his head hits the floor pillow. “You know,  as much as I like the cold,” Childe starts in a soft voice, “I really like your heating table.” 

“It’s a kotatsu, dumbass,” he mutters. “I told you that already.” 

He tucks his chin in a bit. “I forgot.” 

His hair seems much more wavy when it’s been through the snow. It almost looks soft. His hands twitch. 

Scaramouche can't stop himself. He places a hand on Childe’s head and starts to play with the strands. To his astonishment, he leans into his touch as if it’s an everyday occurrence. The weight of that knowledge is too heavy to unpack.  

“Mm,” he says. His voice is steady. It has to be at all times, but he’s surprised at this. “Sometimes I sleep here just like this because it’s so warm.” 

Something akin to a giggle or a chuckle leaves the harbinger’s lips. “Seriously? Is it that comfortable?” 

A nod, with a small smile as if he’s sharing a secret.  

Childe stares at him again. Dead sea eyes, trying to find something in shipwrecks. 

What’s wrong with him? He thinks, suspicious. He won’t stop staring.  

It’s almost like he’s back on the beaches of his hometown. Squinting in the distance for a lighthouse’s beam to pierce through the fog, but finding none. His gaze seeps into his very being – water filling his lungs, the sea swallowing him whole. Thousands of shipwrecks reside in his eyes with no lighthouse to lead anyone home.  

The sea calls out to him and he’s pulled in by the ebb and flow. Is it the sirens, or is it Childe? 

Gods, he thinks. I want to drown in them. A thought so visceral it leaves his heart wanting.  

Childe takes his hand off his hair, slowly bringing it down to his lips where he presses a light kiss over his knuckles. 

He holds his breath.  

This is something even more strange about Childe. The touching. The grazes that should be saved for a lover, which is not what he is to him. But yet. When no one is looking, a hand will find his. He will lean in a bit too close than needed. And it is something that haunts and fascinates him, tied up with a sick ache. He shouldn’t misunderstand.  

“Scara,” Childe says, this time with a different tone. Sometimes, his name sounds beautiful. In those instances, it’s only Childe ever saying his name. “Do you miss home?” 

His grip tightens around Childe’s hand on reflex. “It’s changed too much,” he answers. “It would be useless to go back.” 

Scaramouche allows himself to be pulled closer, almost nose to nose with the other. He holds his breath as he presses another kiss to his knuckles, another on his palm, another on his wrist, and another until he’s tickling him down the line of his arm.  

He tries to relax. Tries to not misunderstand what this means.  

“What are you doing?” 

Childe continues his ministrations, kissing the open palm of his hand and looking at him through his eyelashes.  

“Comforting you.” 

Comforting me, Scaramouche repeats. By kissing my hands?  

He closes his eyes and all he hears is the ocean. He can feel the cold rush of water when he sinks, the roar of his thoughts merely waves crashing onto the shore—  

Only to be left gasping for air when he is pulled out.  

“Feeling better yet?” Childe asks. A shrug to say, I don’t know. “Hm.” 

He digs his head deeper into the pillow, sighing. “Do you have any more bruises?” Won’t you stay?  

Perhaps it is delusion: I can stay. “Yeah. Your room is warmer” 

A thoughtless hum. They are only left staring at each other in the midst of the quiet.  

Still drowning, still burning. His wound is still bleeding.  

He allows himself to be pulled in closer by Childe’s hands. Scaramouche crosses the shoreline, hesitant, careful not to drown again.  

“Your home misses you,” Childe tells him. “Are you sure there’s nothing left?” 

The words taste bitter on his tongue. “The seas don’t miss me,” he replies, tucking his head underneath his chin. Does the sea miss the fleeting? If he reaches the bottom will he understand eternity? “Maybe my house is still there, but it’s just an empty shell.” 

Childe’s arms are sling around his waist tight. Protective. Warm. His voice leads him back to the shore when he’s gone too far deep into his thoughts. He’s not sure what he’s talking about, but the rumble of his voice is melodic in his ears, much like the waves. And sometimes his lips will brush against the curve of his ear when he chuckles at something he said and it aches. It’s terrible. If he listens closely, he can hear his heartbeat. 

I want—he tells the sea—to understand eternity. What is so good about forever? The sea is silent, the sea is all knowing. It has heard everyone’s secrets. Perhaps she has said it before.  

Scaramouche plays with the end of Childe’s earring, poking the sharp end of the ruby into his thumb.  

“I'm craving oranges,” he says at one point.  

Childe laughter is soft and fond. “Do you have some?” 

He nods his head. “Inside the cooler.” 

“I’ll get them.” 

He should have prepared himself for the onslaught of cold that invades his space when Childe leaves. There’s a few choice bitter words he could say in the moment, but his mind settles on watching Childe slip into the kitchen – already wanting him to hurry back.  

Internally, he groans, hiding his face in the blanket.  

The other comes back with a few oranges, and the top three buttons of his shirt left open. “Here,” he offers a half peeled orange in his hand. Childe doesn’t go back to his original position to Scaramouche’s dismay, instead crossing his legs as he sits down.  

He takes the orange and peels the rest, tearing a slice off. He hands it to Childe and tears one off for himself. They aren’t the sweetest, but they aren’t bitter either.  

“Rest your head on my lap,” Childe says. His first thought is to say yes, but his mouth refuses to voice his desires. He has dreamed of this before, but he won’t tell.

To be left vulnerable in this state is dangerous. He’s teetering the edge. (But he has already crossed the shoreline. What more is an edge?) Who is he to deserve an offer like this? From a harbinger to a harbinger no less.  

Is it okay? Is it really okay?  

It’s been so long since either of them has spoken that Scaramouche has to decide whether Childe’s words were a hallucination or not.  

He licks over his lips, tasting a faint tinge of the oranges. “Okay,” he tells him, and lays back down, scooting over until his head is perched between Childe’s legs. “Give me another orange.”

Childe snorts. “Sure.” 

Childe dutifully feeds him another slice, offering him another one when he assumes Scaramouche was done swallowing. Scaramouche isn’t close enough to Childe’s face, but there’s something off about it that he didn’t realize when he was tending to the cut on his cheek.  

He sits up without warning, examining Childe’s face. The other pauses from peeling another orange, his eyes the slightest bit wide at the sudden proximity, as if they had not been chest to chest a few minutes ago.  

Again, this is not something a harbinger to do.  

“Is there....something on my face?” Childe asks.  

A bored hum. “Lack thereof,” is his reply. “Your freckles are lighter.” 

“They’re more apparent in the sum—” he stops himself, eyes swallowing the movement of him sliding onto his lap. “Well, no, they are, but they aren’t really that noticeable in the first place.” Childe clears his throat. “My sister likes connecting them.” 

Without realizing it, he’s tracing his freckles like he did with his moles in the bathroom. Starting from the corner of his eye, down his cheek – there’s even a small one at the corner of his mouth. Interesting, he thinks to himself, staring at that spot for far too long. He moves on. 

He breathes a sigh of content as he maps out the freckles on Childe’s face, mind absent of what this means, of what this could lead to. He drags a finger down the bridge of his nose, stimulating a laugh out of Childe. It’s a gentle sound. A breeze with the scent of ocean and sand in the mix. 

“I miss the beach,” he tells him, running a thumb under his eye. “I miss....ice cream.” 

He chuckles. Not of mockery, but of endearment. “Do you have a favorite spot at your beach?” Childe has his hands safely on his waist, rubbing small circles that leaves Scaramouche’s mind spinning. The touch is so distracting he takes longer to process that he calls it his beach. 

In reality, it was his. No one ever bothered him when he arrived and left. He would stay to watch the sunset—the sunrise if he never slept that night—and walk along the shore with ice cream in his hand. Whatever was left in the ice box after a long day. The flavor didn’t really matter to him, but he always favored strawberry. Sometimes, the woman at the counter will have saved an orange creamsicle for him to take. Offered with a tired smile, illuminated by the shop light outside.  

He wonders where she is. 

“I walked everywhere on that beach,” he tells him, recalling the sand and the pretty sea shells he found. They’re in a box, but he doesn’t remember where he put it. “But I didn't have a favorite spot. Maybe it was because I liked all of it.”

Childe pulls him closer, head digging into the side of his neck. Scaramouche could burn. “Mm,” he murmurs, edging him to continue. He’s warmer than the kotatsu. “Tell me more?” 

He plays with the ends of his hair and runs through the strands with his fingers, telling himself that he can have this. He can have this.  

“I collected seashells,” he starts, closing an eye when Childe brushes back his bangs. “One time I picked up a blue one and I heard voices coming out of it. It was two kids talking about a cat they had lost a while ago. They missed her.” 

He remembers foolishly trying to find that cat, not knowing when those children had lost her, not knowing if she was even there anymore. Scaramouche tried for days until he gave up and realized it was a lost cause.  

“I thought I was going crazy,” he chuckles. “But then, coincidentally, the woman that I bought ice cream from was lighting a candle. She never did that before, so I asked her about it.”

He forces himself to continue, and loathes the shake in his voice and the sting in his eyes. He begs the tears to go away, for the tears of a harbinger were not needed. It wasn’t even his story to be sad over. 

“She said it was for her cat that went missing a long time ago,” Scaramouche laughs, but it’s dead and empty. “It had been her birthday that day. She told me stories about her cat for the rest of the evening. She said her eyes were similar to mine. Just purple.” 

Where did she go? He questions again. Is she safe?  

He swallows the burn in his throat. Scaramouche sighs. “I don’t know why I'm—”  rolls his eyes at the crack in his voice, tears falling. He should have kept his mouth shut. “After that, I kind of wanted a cat. The way she talked about cats in general just made me want to adopt one.” 

Childe wipes his tears away easily. “A Fatui harbinger cat,” he muses. “How cute.”

This time, the laugh is real. It’s wet and pitiful, and he hates it. The smile is wobbly, but real all the same. “I'm sure my cat would exceed all of us in ranking,” he says with confidence. “It would be doted on by everyone, though. And she’d get spoiled.” 

“Oh, I would definitely spoil the little thing,” Childe agrees, drying another tear that falls. He offers a tiny smile, warmth glinting like water reflecting sunlight. “Your cat would have the best care here.” 

He sniffs, rubbing his nose. “Dottore would talk to it about his god awful machines for hours on end,” he says, imagining it lounging on Dotorre’s desk, tail swishing in boredom as the man tinkers and experiments on his latest madness. “Signora would take it around everywhere so she could look more intimidating.”

A snort bubbles in Childe’s throat and he hides the volume of his laughter in the crook of his neck. “I have no doubt about that,” Childe sighs, pulling him closer.  

Scaramouche has no choice but to sling his arms around Childe’s neck, still tugging him as close as possible. He can’t let this go to waste. 

He closes his eyes, tears forgotten for now. 

“What is an eternity to you, Childe?” 

The question is repeated in confusion. “An eternity?”  

It surprises him that Childe is taking the time to answer. To make sure his answer isn’t flimsy and something half hearted. He carefully crafts his response in silence, all while he rubs a hand up and down his back.  

“A scar,” Childe tells him. He traces a finger diagonally across his spine. “No matter how many scars a person has, there will be one they’ll always remember. Even if it healed, even when eons have passed. Everyone has them. They’ll last forever and you start to greet the memories like....a bitter lover. Not exactly welcoming, but accommodating maybe.”  

Scaramouche pulls away just to look at the harbinger’s face. They look a bit lifeless, as they tend to be. Did the abyss rip the light out your eyes or was that the cause of something else? He breathes out slow and steady. But they’re still pretty.  

“Where is it?” He asks instead and Childe huffs a soft breath of laughter. “What?” 

“I wouldn’t want you going around trying to find it,” is the answer that comes. Scaramouche squints. “I want to go back and stitch it up myself. Plus, when you reach the bottom, seeing all those stars aren’t worth it. The experience is.” 

“Who knew our youngest harbinger possessed such poetic abilities,” he comments, quiet. He gets a chuckle in return. 

He never knows what to say when Childe talks about the abyss. His thoughts become stilted and blank. “If it’s called the abyss, why is it that when you reach the bottom, you see the stars?” 

A shrug. “I try not to question the divine.” But then he laughs. “I’d love to fight one, however.” 

“Fighting is nearly ninety percent of your conversation topics. Think of something else,” Scaramouche says, exasperated. “Is that all on your mind?” 

This seems to be a catalyst for whatever plan Childe had brewing in his labyrinth of a brain. “Oh, I think of plenty of other things! Currently, I'm thinking of what to eat later, what to mention in my letter for Tonia, how warm your room is. Other times, I wonder how some of my comrades are doing, I think about you, how to get myself to stop throwing my arrow....” He trails off then.  

Scaramouche is about to take back his apparently false statement, but then rewinds a few words back.  

“Me?” He asks. “Why am I there?” 

“Do I need a reason why?” Is his answer. His face shows no sign of him playing a joke, or a lie. “It’s natural for me to think of y—” 

He groans. Scaramouche hides his face in his hands, cursing himself for letting his mind whirl at the thought of Childe thinking about him on a daily basis and now curious of what he thinks about. “Do you seriously do that?”  

It’s awful how he can say that with a straight face. He laments in his mind. How often?  

His laugh is cheerful. “I do. Is it weird?” 

No. He clears his throat, removing his hands off his face. “What....do you think about?” 

“Ah....” Childe starts, eyes widening a fraction as if he was caught. “You, you and you?” 

His brows furrow, annoyed. “That’s not an answer.” 

He acquiesces. “Okay, I think about your room and how warm it is,” he adds on. “And when you say you don’t want to be bothered or you don’t want me here, you let me in anyway.” 

He scoffs. “It’s only because I pity you.” 

“Right, obviously,” Childe dismisses, not believing him. “I always end up thinking about coming back here when I'm done with what I did during the day.”  

Scaramouche stills. “Really? Why?” 

Childe hums, resting his head where his shoulder and neck meet. “I'm always relaxed here,” he tells him. “I don't have to work to feel at ease. I feel better with you.” 

Childe is the reminder that his hands can still be gentle. Scaramouche is his reminder that there is no need to fight to have serenity. The weight of that knowledge is jarring, but there’s light filling his chest. Endless, boundless – maybe. 

And if Scaramouche holds him a little more tighter after processing that, Childe keeps his mouth shut for once. 

They are wordless for an insurmountable amount of time. Time passes differently when he’s in Childe’s arms, he realizes. A slow, steady stream of water – the rivers in Chinju forest. The glow of each petal on every flower. The soft jingling of a bake-danuki and their mystical craft.  

The world still goes on as Childe runs a hand through his hair, but to him, time melts between his hands. There is nothing in the world but Childe and the orange peels left on the table. Just for this moment, the sea stills, the light warms.  

He scrunches his eyes closed.  

But tomorrow, the only source of warmth will be the burn in his chest. Caused by a flickering candlelight, irritating the scar where it threatens to open once more.  

He is haunted by his home, yet he longs for it. He wants nothing to do with it. He wants another popsicle, but he resents the sweetness. When was walking by the shoreline, turned into fleeing from the storms, into the graveyard of the sea? It’s all for eternity, he remembers people saying, as they sacrifice, bleed, drown. It’s all for our eternity. Never has he seen such madness. Never has he been so confused.  

Childe’s voice in his ear leads him back to consciousness rather than a harsh snap back to reality.  

“You’re doing it again,” and it’s mellow in his ears. The shiver that goes down his spine does not go unnoticed. Childe pulls him off gently, just for him to hold his face. He stares and stares, and at some point it makes Scaramouche nauseous.  

“Doing what?” 

“Thinking so loud.”  

“Then leave if it bothers you.” 

Childe doesn’t move. “It doesn’t. But it bothers you.”

He looks away, not wanting to deal with whatever the other is trying to unpack. Childe leaves it alone for now, knowing when to stop pushing.  

They are silent for two beats. One. Two. 

“Scara,” he says again.  

“What.” 

“You’re so pretty.” 

His words are said a little breathlessly, as if he’s been holding them in. It makes his stomach turn and heart lurch. The expression on his face may be adoration, but Scaramouche isn’t a fool. His eyes must be playing vile tricks. 

Pretty, he repeats in disbelief. It must show on his face because Childe says it to him again, running his hands up his sides. He’s so heartachingly soft in his touches. Every touch featherlight, but leaves a blaze in his wake. A little bit of want, a little bit of burn. There’s hunger, a sort of plea that sounds like a song. 

“Is that what you think about too?” 

He cups his face, not answering, and tilts his head down.  

Scaramouche wonders what forever tastes like on his tongue, if Childe could spin stories of infinity and make it taste sweet, not bitter.  

He’s drowning again and this time the burn is welcome.  

“Please?” Childe whispers and it’s all he has to say. 

He’s sick for saying it so sweetly. 

He is far from fragile, but Scaramouche could shatter to pieces under Childe’s hands. The way he holds him so gently, like a lover, but Scaramouche is not a fool.  

His hands wander up and down his back, slipping around his waist and then under his shirt. His lips swallow the sound of surprise of his hands breaching skin and they wander and wander until it leaves them both gasping.  

“Ajax,” he breathes when they separate. The name slips from his tongue and Childe swallows it. He can’t help but chase after him for another kiss. Even if it did look needy of him, even if he was hungry for it again – Scaramouche craves. He craves. 

“You’re so pretty,” Childe tells him again, tilting his head to the side and kissing down his neck. He can’t bear to believe the sound that comes out of his throat was his own, but he has no time because Childe bites down and leaves teeth marks for the rest of the world to see tomorrow. “I adore you.” 

His hands tighten around his collar. Do you? Scaramouche wants to ask. How can you?  

“I hate you,” he hisses, tugging him closer. Impossibly closer. “How am I going to cover that up.” 

“Now why on earth would you do that?” Childe laughs, kissing each corner of his lips. “It looks pretty there.”  

He parts his mouth open with his tongue, guiding him slowly and so loving, calling him to the seas. I adore you. The words echo in his head. I adore you. It’s all his mind can think about when Childe knows exactly where to kiss him, pulling whispers of divinity, wishing on eternity. What will happen once this moment runs its course? 

He traces the remnants of fingers around his neck, something unfurling within himself. Those marks should not be there.   

“Does it hurt when I press on it?” he asks, trailing weightless kisses down the side of his throat.  

“It’s okay,” Childe tells him. “It doesn’t.” 

He licks over a pressure point before taking the skin between his teeth, just enough to redden, not bruise.  

What is eternity? He cannot find the answers in the breathless gasp falling from Childe’s lips, he cannot find it in the warmth of his hands. He can’t find it. He still can’t understand. When he thinks of eternity, he thinks of existence stretched out. Worn thin. Fragile. Cursed with a life where death will not be due to time. 

The box of shells under his bed are silent. They don’t carry messages from the sea. Is it the divine or the transient? Where empires will fall someday, mortals will return to the dirt, the skies, the sea. Those are the eternal things. Which is it?  

He thinks the answer will never come. He will never know the true meaning of eternity. Whatever lies in forever, what seeks infinity. Celestia is boundless and he is still breathing, still bleeding— 

The easy answer would be to say he finds eternity in Childe’s lips, the way he says his name, his loving hands. That isn’t it. This moment will end. Tomorrow may bring nothing. If tonight is left as is, wouldn’t it taste so bitter? 

He pulls away slowly.  

“Can you—” he doesn’t dare to finish that sentence. He hopes Childe doesn’t catch it.  

“Hm?” Curse him. “Can I what?” 

He scrunches his nose in distaste. “Nothing.” 

“Can I make you dinner?” Childe guesses, actually thinking about it. Scaramouche is unimpressed. “Can I kiss you again?” He doesn’t wait for an answer and does it anyway, taking him by surprise. Quick and sweet. His heart aches. “Oh, can I spar with you tomorrow?” 

Childe seems to be keen on the last one. He snorts.  

“Okay, can I....” He trails off, looking around the room for inspiration, then finding nothing. “Can’t seem to think of anything else.” And he says it with such a charming smile. What a killer thing.  

He fiddles with the collar of Childe’s shirt, threatening to tear it off with how tight he’s holding it. I can't say something insane like that, he bemoans. That’s stupid.  

He takes a breath and it’s quiet. 

The word is barely there. A ghost. 

“Stay.” 

The only indication of Childe hearing him is the stiffness in his shoulders.  

For a moment, he thinks it’s the wrong thing to say. That Childe doesn’t understand what he means by stay. Would a single word be the cause of this moment running bitter on his tongue? His heart is already aching and swelling – terrible, godawful. He should let go of Childe’s pretty words and gather the sorrow into his hands.  

This is something he cannot take back. Plagued with this memory of this time. The disappointment tastes sour. 

“Are you sure?” Hesitance. Silence. One. Two. Three. 

You can leave if you have to. He trains his eyes on the orange peels, refusing to look at Childe. Yes, I'm sure. There’s still one half of it left. Please, stay. Please. If he doesn’t finish the rest of them in the bowl, they’ll start to rot. I won’t stop you from leaving. But, Gods, I wish you would stay.  

“It’s your choice,” Scaramouche decides. 

“This gives me the full right to bother you.” 

The stiffness exhales from his bones. He hadn’t realized how stiff he’d been while we waited for Childe’s response. 

He looks away from the oranges, scoffing. “As if you don’t do that already.” 

“I won’t ever leave you. I might even haunt you.” 

Scaramouche looks at him, finally taking in the sincerity in his eyes, finding that there are no hints of vile tricks. It makes his heart warm. “Do you plan on dying before me?” 

“I thought we could die at the same time.” 

Like dust, the tension is swept away. 

“Then why haunt me when I'm already dead?” Not even waiting for a reply, he moves on to another question his mind drafted up. “Also why in your scenario does it involve us dying at the same time?” 

Childe has the gall to look perplexed. “I think it would be romantic to die at the same time?”

He raises his brows. This is ridiculous. “Why would we be dying in the first place?” 

“Outside forces?” He says, like it’s obvious. “Something beyond our control?” 

“Something beyond control is nothing to you.” 

His perplexion turns to a coy smile. “You’re so sweet, Scara. I didn’t know you thought of me so highly.” 

“Quiet,” he mutters, pushing his face away when he gets too close. “You’ve done impossible things. I don’t even think death will stop you.” 

He’s so quick to deflect, but he knows of Childe’s lack of limits. Falling into the abyss at such a young age, and coming out of the woods alive is already hard to beat. Becoming a harbinger shortly after, climbing through each rank with memories of the depths written all over his body.  

A ruthless fighter that still writes letters to his family at every chance he gets, spoiling them and the friends he has. Following Scaramouche into his room to fix his scrapes when he is hated by all. Holding him close like this, staying with him. It is lovely and terrible all the same, how someone would stay by his side.  

Alongside of impossible things, maybe he will find the reason. Or maybe questions of eternity will never be answered, for it is out of his grasp. Is it possible for him to come to terms with eternity? Maybe the answer to eternity may come in death. The fates are fond of ironic things, he thinks. 

“Oh, death can stop any man,” Childe laughs. “I am not eternal, as most things are.”

After a moment of quiet, Scaramouche sighs.  

“You tired?” 

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”  

Childe hums a low note, leaning up to place a kiss on his forehead. The surface tingles when he moves away.  

He stands up to lead them both to Scaramouche’s room. His legs immediately cross over his back, arms looped securely around his neck. “Are you tried?” Scaramouche asks, looking up.  

He lays him on the bed against his pillows and he looks at him. “Not really,” he replies. The moon highlights Childe’s features, his eyes almost crystalline. It’s nearly mystifying, finding himself enraptured only to rip himself out of it before he spends the rest of his life gazing.

“Stop staring,” Scaramouche grouches. He keeps doing that.  

He hovers over him, hands tenderly holding his face. “I can't help it,” he tells him. “I just want you all to myself.” 

Roses petals fall onto his cheeks. There is only the stem and the thorns left. He can feel the blush on the tips of his ears too and Childe brushes them, pinches them, and cooes over them. Scaramouche’s only response to that is to shove him away, planting his face into a pillow, ignoring Childe’s pleas to let him go.  

He hisses, “You can’t just say that.” 

“I can!” Comes Childe’s muffled reply. “I mean it.” 

He bites the inside of his cheek, steeling himself before he can continue. “That’s impossible.” 

“You yourself said I can do impossible things,” Childe reminds. Damn him. “Can you let me go now?” 

Reluctantly, he removes the pressure he had on his head. Childe turns to face him properly and this time, the moon makes his hair shimmer – a rival to strings of gold, but perhaps only he is the one to think that and will not bother to have anyone else second this. He wouldn’t want anyone to see Childe dressed up in starlight and moonshine. This image is only for him to see.  

He breathes out, slower.  

“You can’t possibly mean that.” 

“I do,” Childe counters. “With my heart.” 

Everything he was taught tells him that this will not last. Nothing does, and maybe he is as naïve as he was as a child, but he wants this to last for as long as it can. For as long as the fates will allow. Perhaps Celestia will have him tangled up in strings one day, were he to fail. 

His whole purpose as a harbinger was to disrupt the makings of the gods, to rip their hearts right from their chests. He is challenging the divine, the skies – how long will they be able to hide from the eyes of Celestia? 

They’re all lying anyways, he thinks. The truth will come out sooner or later.  

Here, he lies with longing – and it eats him alive. It almost feels inhuman with how he craves it.  

Childe stares down at him with a gaze unwavering, telling him, I adore you. I want you. I can't help myself. And Scaramouche adores. He wants. And he is helpless.  

He is given the choice.  

He breathes out again.  

“Okay,” he whispers, with a dry throat and a restless heart.  

Childe presses him deeper into the bed, kissing him within an inch of his life. His hand finds his, bound for eternity. Whispered words of praise, warm smiles. The hint of gold light coming from a street lamp outside. Snowfall. His lips, breathing honey into his mouth. Weaving light into his bones. He feels weightless, trapped in a dream-like state – as if these are rose-colored phantasmagorias, strung up by his mind’s whim. 

But Childe makes sure this is real, biting down and laying an eon’s worth of fire to his heart.  

“Ajax,” he breathes. This is the second time he’s said his name so breathlessly.  

The use of his name makes him light up with a smile. Childe presses one last kiss of the night to his forehead. “Yes?” 

“Nothing.” He cracks a small, rare smile. “Felt like saying it.” 

Childe is unresponsive, staring blankly at him until that shatters and he’s squeezing him in his arms. Scaramouche’s muscles ache at the contact, but he can’t help but laugh.  

He mumbles something incoherent. Perhaps something loving, something sweet. A voice tells him that the love of a harbinger is no love, the same way that the tears of one is useless. He does not let himself linger on the words. He wants this. 

Eternity speaks to him later that night when he’s laying on Childe’s chest, talking about nothing and everything. It asks him what he thinks it is. Where he should plunge his knife after learning the truth of the cosmos.  

He traces stars on his lover’s skin and does not answer.