Chapter Text
The doorbell wakes Scaramouche up from his very well-deserved nap - he’s sprawled on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket that he’s sure he didn’t cover himself with, resting against the pillows, the TV faintly playing his stories on the background. Begrudgingly, he pushes himself up to a sitting position and makes an attempt to get up with his eyes still closed, but he hears the sound of footsteps coming down the corridor and into the living room. A hand brushes his fringe out of his face, and he can feel a press of lips against his forehead.
“I’ll get it, love. Go back to sleep.”
It takes him a few minutes to gather his bearings, but Scaramouche manages to get up from the sofa and walk back Childe’s steps towards the door of the gaming room, which is slightly ajar - he grabs the handle to push it open and peeks his head in without thinking twice about it.
“Hello, everybody,” Scaramouche greets, still from the doorstep, and he can already see the chat picking up speed. “I’ve been summoned to entertain you while Childe takes a shit,” he makes up on the spot. He takes a few steps forward, borrows himself further in his blanket, and plops down on the gaming chair, bringing his knees up to his chest to get comfortable.
The amount of text in front of him is too much for his barely awake brain. He reads something about addressing the elephant in the room, or clarifying what Childe said, but he has no idea what they’re talking about, and lets them know as much.
“What are you guys talking about?” Scaramouche says and rubs his eyes to clear up his vision. “Please don’t be cryptid, I just woke up.”
adastra_abyssosque : Childe just basically confirmed you two are together
There’s a pang of worry in his chest, almost out of instinct, but it quickly goes away. They have spoken about this many times in the past few months - Childe was set on finding the most obnoxiously annoying way (he had called it romantic , but Scaramouche was convinced it would be more annoying than anything else) to tell his audience but had yet not decided on one.
So, instead of panicking and trying to deny everything, Scaramouche’s brain goes a thousand miles an hour trying to find a way to make Childe’s life a little bit harder - he has to bite his lip not to smile as a lightbulb goes off in his head.
“What do you mean just confirmed?” He furrows his brows together and tilts his head, picture perfect confusion in his expression. The chat seems to buy it. “I thought that whole thing was a bit, we’ve been married for, like, a year.”
Scaramouche waits a second for the chat to start responding, and the answer is immediate - he has never seen so many caps lock and question marks used in one single place.
“He hasn’t told you? That hurts my feelings.”
peeperpooper420 : you should dump his ass
“Yeah peeperpooper420, you’re right…” He answers to the message on the screen, and sighs as he brings his legs down and lets the blanket fall off his shoulders. Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on the table as he props his face up with his hands in mock innocence. “The thing is, we have a mortgage together, that’s a bond stronger than love… Well, that, and the children.”
As soon as the words leave his lips, the door opens, and Scaramouche only barely sees the reaction from the chat before he turns around in the chair to directly face the intruder.
“I’m back!” Childe announces loudly, but he stops in his tracks when he sees that there’s someone already occupying his throne. Scaramouche presses his lips into a line, trying his best not to smile, and that already seems to tell Childe there must be something going on, because the ginger bites his bottom lip and furrows his eyebrows, throwing Scaramouche a pained look. “You picked the literal worst timing possible to show up.”
Scaramouche shrugs and turns back around, getting up from the chair to let Childe sit, which he does with a deep sigh. Childe’s eyes look at the screen for a few seconds, flashes of messages of how dare you , poor scaramouche , #freescaramouche quickly appearing on it, and he blinks a few times like he doesn’t know what’s going on, which he probably doesn’t. Scaramouche hides a smirk behind his hand.
“Scara,” Childe calls out, a sliver of panic in his voice, blue eyes wide with a puzzled expression. Scaramouche has never seen Childe look this confused in all his life, and it’s tickling him to death. “What have you done?”
“They were asking, so I told them.”
“What did you tell them?”
“The truth.”
“You’re a fucking demon,” Childe says, but there’s clear amusement in his voice. “We live in a rented apartment, we don’t have kids, and we’re not married,” he announces like it pains him to say something so obvious. He then pauses for a moment, and Scaramouche is looking at the screen, so he can clearly see him mouth the word ‘ Yet ’ and give the camera an exaggerated wink.
“I can see you through the monitor, you know?”
Childe just turns his head and smiles sheepishly at Scaramouche, which earns him an eyeroll. “It hurts my feelings that they thought I wouldn’t be the type of obnoxious husband that would have made a six-hour stream just telling them how I picked the ring.”
“Childe, babes,” Scaramouche says as he pushes Childe’s bangs out of his face, the sarcasm in his words not matching the tender way in which he’s touching the other man. “I don’t think anybody believed me, they’re just fucking with you.”
“Only you can do that,” Childe smiles again, and Scaramouche closes his eyes with a sigh. Satisfied with the reaction, Childe turns back around to face the camera again. “I wanted to do something special to tell you guys, but I hadn’t yet figured out what to do,” he explains with a pout, and Scaramouche has to fight back the pang of fondness in his chest urging him to lift a hand and run his knuckles on Childe’s cheek. The ginger turns his head to look at Scaramouche again, pout unwavering. “Are you mad at me?”
“Of course not,” Scaramouche can feel his words get soft around the edges, and that’s not something that he’s going to allow himself to do in public. He clears his throat. “And if I were mad at you, I wouldn’t yell at you on stream. I would wait for it to be finished to preserve the last shred of dignity you have left.”
“Such grace, Scara, thank you.”
“What did you even say for them to find out?”
“It slipped up,” Childe replies way too quickly, and he puts his hands up in surrender. “I said I had to run to the door because we were waiting for a new bed for our room to be delivered. Last time I went to the living room you were sleeping, and I didn’t want to bother you,” he says, and shakes his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “Which was true,” he adds, like that somehow makes it better.
“It’s my room,” Scaramouche argues, and he crosses his arms over his chest. Technically, it is. Literally, however, they have been using what used to be Childe’s room as a storage unit because he hasn’t slept there for at least three months. “You barged in once and haven’t left me alone since.”
Childe looks at him, biting his lip, and Scaramouche knows him well enough to know he’s trying not to say We banged in it once, and I haven’t left you alone since with all his willpower. Scaramouche sighs.
“Oh, but it wasn’t my idea to get a bigger bed so we’d be more comfortable.”
Instead of gracing Childe with a response, Scaramouche points a finger at him and turns to speak to the camera. “Does anybody want him?”
Childe laughs at that, and reaches out to tug Scaramouche’s sleeve, pulling on it until he’s sitting on the ginger’s lap. It feels oddly reminiscent of the first time Scaramouche found himself on the same position and ended up with an existential crisis. This time, though, he doesn’t bat an eye as Childe presses his chest against his back and brings one hand to rest on top of his thigh. It’s a different kind of touch, more gentle, more familiar, and less teasing, but he melts into it all the same.
“You do,” Childe says, snapping him back to reality. He presses a kiss to Scaramouche’s shoulder blade, and leavers himself up to rest his chin on the shorter man’s shoulder.
Scaramouche decides to ignore it. “I’m serious,” he insists, and he absent-mindedly lifts a hand up, his fingers barely brushing the side of Childe’s face with a softness uncharacteristic of a man like Scaramouche. “I will send him to you for free, you just have to pay for shipping.”
As soon as he registers what his body is doing without his permission, Scaramouche quickly brings his hand down to rest on his lap like Childe’s skin burns, and he can tell he hasn’t been very lowkey about it when he hears a chuckle from the man behind him. He doesn’t know what kind of spell Childe has cast on him for him to be able to touch so freely and without thinking, but it’s not very practical when they have a lot of eyes on them, and Scaramouche is very much still weary of showing any type of human emotion in public.
“You’re not discreet, Scara.”
Scaramouche turns his head so his eyes meet blue ones, and even through the weird angle, Childe’s eyes glint with a certain something that screams ‘trouble’.
“Hey, recklessp, are you around?” Childe says, and as soon as there’s a response of ‘ i’m here ’ in the chat, he smirks. “Do you remember our conversation the first time Scara showed up on stream? I’m willing to lower it for you. Fifty mora.”
The donation notification rings through the speakers, and Childe’s smirk only gets bigger.
recklessp : there you go king
Scaramouche wrecks his brain to know what the ginger’s talking about, and suddenly remembers that same username asking him and Childe to suck face on camera months ago, but it’s too late - Childe’s fingers are already on his chin, tilting his head. Scaramouche’s eyes close on instinct as he feels lips pressing against his own, and instead of pulling away, as he should do, he leans in. He hates himself a bit for it.
Eyes still closed, Scaramouche lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding as soon as they part. “I’m going to fucking kill you one day.”
“Baby, I’m sorry, but it’s very hard to take you seriously when you’re blushing,” Childe chuckles, and Scaramouche opens his eyes and glares at him with all the seriousness he can muster up with flushed cheeks. Instead of fighting it, he grabs Childe’s hands and tries to pry them away from his waist, but Childe tightens his grip. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Scaramouche manages to get Childe’s hands off him and takes a few steps back, enough so the other man cannot grab him again and convince him to stay. Which will probably only take a few sugary words and well-placed hands on his body - despite what he tries to make people believe, Scaramouche isn’t made of stone, and he has a slight weakness for Childe. Very slight.
“To pack my things. I’m leaving you.”
“Okay, have fun!” Childe singsongs and pulls himself closer to the desk, not bothering to turn around to witness the nasty look Scaramouche’s shooting him. He defeatedly walks out the room thinking he should have kept napping on the sofa, and he catches Childe’s words as he closes the door behind him. “He’s really cute when he’s flustered, isn’t he?”
***
Scaramouche is tired. He’s been stuck at the hospital for longer than he should have, and he feels like the very little energy that his small body held to carry on with his day completely ran out hours ago.
As he’s shoving his stuff on his bag and getting ready to leave, his phone starts vibrating (because it’s been on silence since he bought it, he doesn’t even know how his ringtone sounds like), and he picks up immediately without even looking at the caller.
“What?”
“Grumpy,” Childe’s chuckle comes muffled through the phone’s speaker, and a warmth that has no reason to be there starts spreading through Scaramouche’s chest at the sound. “Have you come out yet?”
“I didn’t think that would be necessary at this point,” Scaramouche states plainly, and he shoves his badge on his tote bag with his free hand. He levers the phone against his shoulder and waves a hand to the nice Mondstadtian nurse that he’s shared most of his shift with as he mumbles a see you tomorrow , because he might be a bit of a prick, and he might not know her name after working with her for weeks, but he was not raised by wolves. As the break room door closes behind him, he speaks again. “Childe, I’m gay.”
There are a few seconds of silence at the other end of the line, and he hears Childe let out a sound. If it’s a laugh or a pained scoff, he’s not too sure. “I meant out of the hospital.”
“About to, why?”
“You forgot your umbrella,” Childe says, and it’s only then that Scaramouche walks by a window and realizes that what was a sunny sky when he walked in has turned into one of those ugly, gray, typically Snezhnayan days. It’s not pouring, but the rain outside is strong enough to be annoying if not carrying an umbrella. He silently prays to an Archon, whichever of them might be, he doesn’t care, that it doesn’t get cold enough for the rain to turn into snow. “I thought your shift ended, like, forty-five minutes ago. I’m outside.”
With a pang of guilt from having Childe waiting for him for so long, Scaramouche walks out the main door. He’s immediately hit with a gust of wind and water droplets in his face that he wipes off with a tired hand. “Told you many times I don’t want you to come pick me up, what if a coworker sees me? I would immediately lose their respect.”
“And what if they realize you’re capable of feeling more than one emotion at a time?” Childe gasps, not even close to hurt at the comment. “That would be a disaster.”
Scaramouche strains his eyes against the curtain of water and the dark clouds, but it’s not hard to spot Childe - he’s wearing a long jacket, his pajamas obviously underneath it, and his hair is like a lighthouse in the middle of a dark day. If Scaramouche were a more sensible man, he would be able to appreciate the metaphor.
“Hey,” Childe greets, taking a step forward to cover Scaramouche with the umbrella, and there’s an easy smile on his lips. Scaramouche has to stand on his tiptoes to kiss him hello, and it’s not a blow to his ego. It’s not.
He takes the opportunity to throw his arms around the ginger’s neck and bring him closer. “Hey,” he greets back into the shell of Childe’s ear, the warmth of the body pressed to his making him not want to move at all.
“I have something for you,” Childe announces, and Scaramouche reluctantly takes a step back, eyeing the other man with a curious look. Childe produces a cup from the hand that was resting behind his back, and Scaramouche immediately recognizes the logo of his favorite coffee shop in all Teyvat. “It’s probably cold by now, though.”
“Thank you. It’s the small things, you know?” Scaramouche says, and he takes the coffee from Childe with eager hands. The other man hums, and he lets the words float in the air for a few seconds before completely ruining them. “I’m talking about your dick.”
Childe barks out a laugh, seemingly taken aback by the response, but his eyes immediately shine with delight, like Scaramouche being mean to him is his favorite pastime. “It’s the first time I’m hearing any complaints about it.”
“I get a bit more clarity of mind when I don’t have it up my ass.”
“So crass.”
With a hand to his lower back, Childe guides him so they start walking, and Scaramouche quickly notices that one, the umbrella is too old and it’s starting to have leaks and two, Childe is too tall for both of them to be equally covered by it.
“Childe,” he starts, pressing himself against Childe’s side to avoid one of the leaks on the umbrella to drip straight into his face. “I don’t know if you thought that sharing an umbrella would be romantic or something, but it’s not working.”
“You don’t have a romantic bone in your body anyways, I don’t know why I would even try.”
“Get used to it.”
“My mom called,” Childe blurts out like it’s been on his mind for a while, doing a 180 on the topic at hand. Scaramouche waits a second, but the other man doesn’t elaborate. In the corner of his eye, Scaramouche can see him furrow his eyebrows and chew on his bottom lip like he always does when he’s nervous, so he knows there’s more to it than Childe is letting on.
“Okay. Mine hasn’t. In years,” he replies. “Is that a flex?”
Childe shakes his head and keeps looking ahead. “She asked me to go to Morepesok next weekend, she’s planning a family gathering. Would you like to come with? You know… Officially.”
“Do they know?”
“Of course they do,” Childe chuckles, and he turns his head to fix blue eyes into violet ones. “Tonia would have killed me if I didn’t tell her I got into your pants after years of pinning after you.”
“Gross way to word it, but okay,” Scaramouche quips back, and he decides to ignore the last part of Childe’s statement for his own sanity, because if he stops for even one second to think what the fuck he meant by pinning for years , he’s probably going to have an aneurysm. That thought aside, it’s now his turn to worry his bottom lip with his teeth - he knows Childe’s family, has been to their home many, many times. But it’s always been as Scaramouche, the best friend, and not as Scaramouche, the boyfriend. “Isn’t it too soon?”
“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” Childe quickly replies. “It isn’t too soon for me, but I’ve had a lot of time to think about this whole thing. I understand if it is for you.”
Scaramouche hums, the sound only an excuse to give himself some time to come up with an answer. “Give me some time to think about it?”
“Of course.”
They stop when the light of the crosswalk turns red as soon as they approach it. It gives Scaramouche some time to settle his thoughts, and they keep circling back to the pinning for years comment. He never noticed that Childe treated him differently than he did any of his other friends, and he most definitely didn’t notice any deeper feelings from him. The little voice inside Scaramouche’s reminds him that he’s not the most trustworthy person when it comes to emotions so, with a deep breath, he decides to at least try to get an answer instead of letting curiosity bubble up in him for the rest of his life.
“Childe,” he says, lightly tugging on the other man’s sleeve to call for his attention, and the word comes out more wobbly that he would have liked it to. “What do you mean years of pinning? How long have you...?”
“Been in love with you?” Childe finishes for him, and there’s a deep settled fondness behind his eyes and tugging at the corner of his lips. He hums, like he’s deep in thought, and starts walking as the light turns green. “How long have we known each other?”
As the words hit him, Scaramouche almost trips over his own feet.
“What the fuck?”
“What the fuck, indeed,” the ginger chirps, but there seems to be no frustration or hurt in his words, just an amused undertone that Scaramouche clings to like a lifeline. “You called me a silly little boy on voice chat, I got a boner and I’ve never been the same since then.”
“That’s the most Childe thing I’ve ever heard.”
“What about you?”
He takes a sip of his coffee, looking up as if that would help him come up with an answer. “I don’t know.”
“Of course you don’t.”
“It just clicked one day,” Scaramouche shrugs, and he involuntarily leans into Childe’s side, even though it would be physically impossible for them to be walking closer to each other. “Well, it clicked that I wanted to fuck you, and that kinda made me want to die,” he waves his free hand around dismissively, and Childe laughs, bright and loud, a sharp contrast to the weather around them. “The feelings thing was just a very annoying byproduct, I don’t know where it came from.”
There’s no red light this time, but Childe stops in his tracks, and Scaramouche has to do the same thing not to get wet from the rain. He looks at the other man with a questioning look but is only met with that same smile that Childe seems to have playing on his lips every time they lock eyes.
“You love me.”
Scaramouche scoffs. It would be easy to just say yes, but he’s never prided himself in being an easy man. “Why do you sound surprised?”
“I know that you do, but it’s nice to get confirmation from time to time.”
Childe leans down to kiss him, and almost gets hit in the face by the umbrella in the process when a gust of wind makes it sway in his hand. That doesn’t deter him, though, and he leans back down, softly catching Scaramouche’s lips with his own.
Knowing that the shorter man would dread making a scene in the middle of the street, Childe quickly pulls back. He maneuvers his grip on the umbrella, and Scaramouche feels Childe’s hand slip into his own, fingers intertwining like they were made to slot together. He’s very tempted to tell Childe that it would be more comfortable for him to properly hold the umbrella and not his hand, but the content expression on the ginger’s face makes him shut his mouth for once in his life.
“I can hear you think from here,” Scaramouche breaks the silence after a while, the gears turning in Childe’s mind too loud to ignore them for too long. “And it’s weirding me out, I didn’t know you could do that.”
“I know you were joking, but it sounded nice, you know? What you said on the stream,” Childe finally says, voice so low that Scaramouche has to strain to hear it against the pit-pat of the rain against the umbrella. “Having that kind of life with you…”
It takes a second, but it all clicks in place in Scaramouche’s head. Oh, he means the married with a mortgage and children life.
“Archons, fuck, no,” Scaramouche splutters around the edge of his cup of coffee but, as always, Childe doesn’t seem to take his words as rejection, and only chuckles at the blunt reaction. “I’m going to need, like, a lot of therapy before I can even start to seriously think about that.”
“But you aren’t against it?”
Scaramouche takes a moment to reply. He realistically knows that Childe is a family-oriented man - he’s always talked about having kids, a partner and a white picket fence life like it’s inevitable that it will happen, and it probably is for him. That’s what he wants, what he’s wanted most of his life.
For Scaramouche, though… He doesn’t know. He hasn’t really thought about it, and for a very long time, he didn’t have anyone in his life that he would like to settle with in that way. He doesn’t know if it’s for him, if he would be happy with such a life. But if it’s with Childe… Well. It’s different, then.
He shakes his head, and Childe lets out a breath and his shoulders let out the tension that they were holding. He looks visibly relieved. “I need time,” Scaramouche says, swallowing around the knot on his throat that has suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Childe nods, muttering a small all the time you need , because of course he would be understanding. He always is. “But we can buy a cactus,” Scaramouche offers lamely, but it is a compromise. At least for now. “And if it survives, we move up from there.”
“I think it would be an accomplishment to kill a cactus.”
“You would be surprised.”
They kill the first cactus they get together, and the one after that. When they manage to keep the third one alive for a whole year, they get a cat, and Childe keeps complaining that Scaramouche loves the cat more than he loves Childe, which Scaramouche doesn't argue against. A few months after that, they get a dog, because the cat, Childe argues, needs a friend. Scaramouche gives in and doesn't say anything, but he's sure that Childe loves the dog more than he loves him.
They make it work, in their own dysfunctional way. Scaramouche doesn't know if he will ever be ready to take his life where Childe wants it to be, doesn't know if that’s going to be what breaks it for them. But when he gets home from work and Childe greets him with a cat curled up in his arms and a puppy running around between his legs, a little family of his own, he decides that doesn’t mind trying.