They say black holes can sing. A constant note from the depths of space, a chorus from the cosmos. It is the last thing a passing star will hear before it’s swallowed whole – torn to shreds before bursting into light.
To scientists, stars near a black hole make it much easier to deduce its location. But In the eyes of the cosmos, is the song of a black hole a requiem or an aubade? No human will ever be able to hear it in its pure form, for it is far too low, and far too deadly to come across. It only sings for the stars, and kills them in the process.
Isn’t that awful? he thinks.
“Ah,” a voice says from behind. “There you are.”
He fixes the disturbance with a glare, a twinge of annoyance in his chest for the broken silence.
“Don’t you have other things to do?”
Childe sits next to him on the window seat, knocking his feet off the surface, but placing them on his lap shortly after. “I’ve done all I needed to do today,” he says, glancing. “I was wondering where you went. You weren’t with everyone else.”
As soon as he saw Dottore pulling out alcohol from the coolers, he slipped away before anyone could drag him into their drinking games. Being surrounded by the harbingers was enough to deal with already. Being in their near vicinity while they were drunk is a migraine he wants to avoid. Just thinking about Pierro’s piercing laugh and his god-awful jokes are enough to make his temples throb.
He ended up wandering through the halls with no particular destination in mind until he found himself in front of the observation deck. For a moment of peace, he stared off into the cosmos, pointing out familiar stars and thinking about home. Had Childe not found him, he would still be caught in grainy memories and old time capsules.
“I don't want to be near Dottore when he drinks,” he snarks. “He gets loud. And Pierro's jokes are ten times shittier than they normally are.”
Childe cackles, eyes wrinkling at the corners. “I'll tell him you said that.”
Scaramouche shrugs, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Doesn’t matter to me. By the time you tell him that, we’re all fast asleep and he won’t even remember a thing come morning.”
Childe settles back against the wall, head tilted up towards the ceiling where he is no longer looking at the stars. The blue glow of the floor lights sharpens his features, but hides them all the same in the shadows. He can make out the front of his face and the line of his jaw, but the rest of his body fades into the dark. If not for the lights, Childe may not have seen Scaramouche on the deck, drenched in shadows and facing celestial beings.
Scaramouche does not bother to continue the conversation when it stills. He's been waiting for a moment of peace ever since he stepped foot onto this ship. The only time that peace is ever granted to him, is when he’s asleep.
Now this time of respite is spent with Childe, who has a hand around his ankle, rubbing soft circles with his thumb.
He allows it to happen, just like he always does. His arm around his waist. Leaning on his shoulder during a morning meeting as he dozed off. Jumping on top of Scaramouche when he’s on his bed, arms snaking around his waist where he threatens to never let go.
He’s a leech, a thorn on his side – but his hands are soft when they breach skin and his eyes reflect the cosmos at just the right angle. A walking dream that he wakes up to every morning. A heart more light than flesh. Too bright to be considered a star, too warm to say it’s just body heat.
As Childe wedged himself into his life, he found himself reciprocating each touch with an edge of fondness refined and forged from wanting that was larger than his need to retreat. He did not know this still existed within him.
Childe’s voice tugs him out of his reveries.
“Until when?” Childe asks, gazing at Scaramouche, gazing at the stars.
“In an hour,” he answers softly. “Not too long now. Don’t be too impatient.”
He chuckles. “I’m not impatient. I just wanted to know how long I have until I can't see you anymore.”
Scaramouche tears away from the stars.
Childe’s eyes are not glittering or glowing like how they do sometimes. This time, they’re dull. Weary. A bit jaded. With the hue of the lights, he can’t tell that Childe’s eyes are rimmed with the faintest shade of red.
He sighs. “Obviously, you will see me again. It won’t even feel like years have passed.”
“I'll miss you though.”
He has to bite his tongue from saying, I’ll miss you too.
“You'll see me again,” he says once more, taking his hands in his. Childe’s shoulders go lax at his touch. “It's not like I'll disappear in my sleep.”
“But still—”
Scaramouche gives him a pointed glare. “Ajax,” he chastises, voice gentle. Even now, the softness shocks him. “You’ll see me when you wake up.”
He runs a thumb over his knuckles back and forth. with a relenting groan, Childe brings his hands to his lips and kisses each knuckle. “I know,” he mumbles. “I know. It won’t even feel like anything except cold.”
“And you’re used to the cold,” he reminds, as if to reassure.
Childe drops his hand, fingers fiddling with his braided bracelet around his wrist. “I haven't been home in a while though,” Childe says, turning a bead over between his finger and thumb. His voice was first quiet and nostalgic, now panicked. He looks up at him in horror. “Oh no, maybe I’ve lost my Snezhnayan touch.”
Scaramouche laughs, leaning his head on the wall. “I highly doubt it. I hear you singing Snezhnayan folk songs in your sleep.”
His eyes pop out of his skull, alarmed. He's grasping his hands for support. “Wait, seriously? I do that?”
He snorts, a corner of his mouth flipping up. “You do it every now and then.”
The tips of his ears are a light shade of pink upon closer inspection. He can’t see them all that well, but he knows it’s there. He debates pointing them out just to tease him, but Childe is already digging himself into a pit of embarrassment before he could properly entertain that idea. The expressions he makes when embarrassed is quite cute.
This side of him twists something inside his chest. Something that dares to call Childe precious – a word he will not use on anyone else.
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier! That must’ve been so weird to wake up to.”
He ignores him. “I didn't know Snezhnaya had songs about fishing,” he teases, “and so many at that.”
A small, embarrassed sound escapes from Childe’s throat. He’s hunched over, hands still in his grasp. Scaramouche can feel his lips brush over his skin with every word. “I sung those ? I didn’t even know I knew them, let alone memorized them to the point where I'd sing them in my sleep.” He stops his inner turmoil to think. “Did I sound good?”
He scoffs in disbelief. “No, you sounded awful,” he says. “I’m certain your Tsaritsa is disappointed in you.”
“You know, that isn’t even that weird,” he counters, crossing his arms. “Whenever we sleep, I always wake up with my shirt gone and you all over me. How do you manage to do that in your sleep?”
Scaramouche raises a brow, feigning confidence, but he can feel his face heat up. “What the hell do you want me to do about that? You’re warm and Pulcinella ignores me when I ask him to fix the heater in our room.”
“Whatever,” Childe mutters, looking away. He holds back a chuckle. “I still think that’s weirder.”
He shrugs and leaves it at that.
They have half an hour left by the time Childe speaks up again.
“Hey,” he says, tightening his hold around his ankle to get his attention.
Scaramouche hums. “What is it.”
“Did you know there’s a whale with a call no other whale can hear?” he asks him, his temple meeting with the glass. Scaramouche breaks away from the window, placing all his attention on the stars reflecting in the cold blue of Childe’s eyes. “The found it in, like, the 1980s. They started to call it the loneliest whale.”
Scaramouche stares. And stares. At his eyes, the slope of his nose, the swell of his lips. He's so pretty.
“It's true, but it sounds sad,” he continues, softer. “The sound itself was heard in a bunch of different places. That only means the whale has been traveling around, trying to see if there’s one that can hear it.”
He breathes in.
How ironic, that the skies and the seas are echoes of each other.
Climbing towards the cosmos, entering another layer of celestia. Out from the atmosphere and into the void, into pressure that will snuff you out if you aren’t careful. You will choke on galaxies, breathe in nebulas – but, you will see the stars, you will see the stars and hear the old hymn of a black hole. If the pressure doesn’t kill you, this will.
You seep into the ocean, stepping from murky blue to wine dark, deeper, darker. Colder. Pressure. (Still breathing yet?) Perhaps you will come across a lonely whale, singing an old song, wondering and wandering. Where will it find someone who will understand? By the time you try to come up with an answer, your bones touch the seafloor.
Scaramouche exhales.
“Isn’t that awful?” he says in response.
Childe catches him staring, eyes lingering for a moment before they look away. “There’s some beauty in it, I think. I don't know. It’s kinda interesting in a sad way.”
He doesn’t have a response for that. Though, he doesn’t need to.
Childe stands up, holding out his hand.
Knowing that he isn’t going to put it down anytime soon, he takes it. “What are you doing?” he asks, letting himself be pulled to the center of the room.
“I want to dance with you,” he answers simply, glancing over his shoulder.
God, he can be really cheesy sometimes.
Once at the center, Childe places his hands on his hips. Scaramouche feels tense around his shoulders, nervousness prickling his neck. He's on autopilot as he situates his hands on Childe’s shoulders.
“With what music?” Childe starts to sway their bodies in place for the lack of response with the faintest of smiles on his face. “You don’t even know how to dance properly.”
He chuckles. “And you do?”
Scaramouche averts his gaze. “Well, no—”
Childe steps backwards, both arms spanning wide with their hands still linked for some grand gesture that Scaramouche thinks is idiotic. “Then just do whatever.” He tugs him back closer, chests touching, one hand on his lower back. The action is swift and smooth, catching him by surprise. “Unless you want me to take the lead.”
“Okay, eat shit,” he mutters, scrunching his nose.
He makes no move to take the lead, a silent offer to let Childe handle it. The steps are a bit clumsy, without routine, but there’s a hint of sweetness to it. A waltz among the stars, two shadows framed by the cosmos. Since they are to go to sleep for infinity, this is a memory he wouldn’t mind playing over and over again until he succumbs to the abyss.
Childe hums a short melody over and over again until Scaramouche memorizes the notes.
He takes a hand and spins him around gently. “You’re staring at me,” Childe points out, a laugh that’s all air leaving him. “Am I that pretty?”
“What the hell am I even supposed to look at then?” Scaramouche mutters, coming back to face Childe once more. He steps closer. Close enough to rest his head on his chest. “You’re the only one here.”
There’s no help in looking away. He will always come back to his gaze. He's pulled in by his whispered hymns, golden light that rivals the sun. He has failed trying to fight it. But when has anyone turned away from the light of the stars?
He gazes down at him, vision tinted with roses and only Scaramouche in his sights. As if nothing else matters. As if he is greater than space and time.
The weight of his scrutiny is too much to bear, especially when he’s looking at him like that. He could collapse in on his own gravity, only to be rebuilt by Childe’s own hands. It makes all the words he wants to say lodged in his throat, stuck behind a prison of his teeth.
Childe stops swaying and places a soft kiss on his forehead.
Scaramouche doesn’t let him move too far away, stopping him by cupping his cheeks.
Oh, how could he have forgotten. There are stars all over Childe’s face.
He traces each one with his thumb, breathing in and out, slow and steady, ignoring time.
“Black holes can sing,” he tells him, still tracing stars. “Low enough that even we can’t hear it. Only the stars, but they don’t end up hearing it for long.”
He leans in close enough to kiss him sweetly, teasing him with a bit of his tongue before he slips away, a wicked smile playing on his lips. The frown on the other’s face is only there for a second before it fades away with another kiss.
“Do all black holes sing?” Childe asks.
A shrugs. “Don't know. But it would make quite the cosmic choir.”
If all black holes were to sing, perhaps it would shatter the stars.
When time catches up to them, Childe grabs him by the hand before they meet up with everyone else. They’re a hallway’s distance away from the stasis room, muffled voices and music just beyond the door. If Scaramouche focuses hard enough, he can hear Pierro’s voice singing along with the lyrics.
They don’t have time to stand here, but Childe doesn’t seem to care about it, even when Scaramouche makes it apparent that he’s getting impatient.
“Whatever it is, couldn’t you have told me earlier?” he questions, brows pulled together. “What is it?”
Childe does not answer, only holding his face by the chin, scrutinizing him. As if memorizing every detail on his face. Comitting it to memory. Under this level of inspection, he pulls himself back, but it only makes Childe follow.
“Hold on,” he whispers and runs a thumb along his lips. “Just let me look at you.”
“What, are you gonna forget the minute you fall asleep?”
The chuckle is delicate in his ears, warm and fond.
“No, I just want to make sure I dream of you.”
He scoffs. When did he learn how to talk so sweet?
His eyes flutter close when Childe kisses him again, hands slipping into his hair and pulling at the roots. He's trying to chase time down all the way to the second, milking this moment before they will inevitably sleep the years away. He can taste desperation on his tongue, feel need in his wandering hands. He is nothing but desire when he’s like this. Perhaps there is a tinge of regret there too.
He doesn’t mind. Childe must feel how desperate he is as well.
But he still doesn’t quite get it. They will lie frozen until they reach their destination. Time will pass and they won’t feel the ache of missing each other. But the thought of it is enough to sigh in defeat, shoulders sagging. Maybe that’s it. The hollow ache. A fool’s love for the other. Maybe because they are lovers.
He’s almost glad he won’t feel it. Missing him burns a bit too much.
“We have to go,” Scaramouche whispers, panting. He's forced to tilt his head up when he feels Childe’s hot breath on his neck. His next words are cut off with a hiss as he bites down on the skin, taking it between his teeth. “Childe.”
“Okay,” he breathes, separating. “I’m done.”
He’s faced with a satisfied grin, too proud and vexing. “I can't stand you,” Scaramouche grits out, a hand over the bite Childe left behind. “When we get back I’m going to shove broken glass down your throat.”
Childe throws his arm around his shoulders. “Yes, honey.”
A noise of disgust is his only response to that.
By the time they meet up with the rest of the crew, they’re already saying their goodbyes and see you laters. Dottore is smuggling a bottle of wine into his stasis pod, claiming that “it’s a perfect spot since it will remain cool” and “it’ll be lovely to pop open when we wake up.” Although it will end up freezing, no one bothers to mention this to him.
Signora is already waiting inside her unit, sitting up and touching up the wine red of her lipstick. He wonders how the shade will look when she wakes up.
They make eye contact and she smirks. “Now, where were you two?” she asks, scraping a long pointed nail on the corner of her lip to perfect the edges. “We were waiting.”
“None of your business,” Scaramouche says the same time Childe responds with, “Making out.”
He refrains from smacking him over the head, opting to settle into his pod instead. He closes his eyes, listening to the harbingers’ voices, relaxing into the tight space.
Dottore rolls his eyes. “Very funny. I’m glad I won't be able to hear Childe speak for a few years.”
“I’m sure we all collectively think the same of you, doctor,” Childe sneers, laying down into his pod, right next to his.
Capitano laughs, hearty and strong. He's the last one to enter. “Alright, everyone. Relax. We’ll be going now.”
They all say their goodbyes again – wistful yet dancing with excitement. I bet I’m gonna wake up first! Pierro claims. A scoff from Signora. I don't want to see you first thing in the morning. Archons. Scaramouche listens to their back and forth curses, amused.
Their final quips and jokes succumb to white noise as the door to his unit closes with a hiss.
An unknown force drags his eyes to Childe. Something tells him he should look at him one more time.
He is already facing him by the time Scaramouche turns his head.
What, he mouths.
Childe grins. I love you.
And the cold seeps into his bones.
I love you too.