Archive of Our Own ^beta

Scaramouche does not like being touched.

And no, he doesn’t mean it in that way – though actually, he probably wouldn’t like being touched like that either, not unless it’s... That’s not the point! The point is, he doesn’t want people touching him. Ever.

None of that casual affection between friends, or those good-natured pats on the back that were common with his subordinates in the Fatui.

Wandering around Teyvat for as long as he had, Scaramouche has witnessed far too much hardship and loss. He’s fought more than he’s rested, and as a result, he’s learned how to protect himself, allowing his instincts to attack.

A stranger who unexpectedly gets too close will alert his brain he’s being ambushed. A hand that moves too quickly is presumed to be clasping a weapon.

These responses are ingrained in him; to assume the worst in strangers, to hide knives underneath his clothes, to summon Electro onto his fingertips. Or maybe they’ve just been built into him by the kagemusha who spent centuries slaying enemies and preparing for battle.

But it means Scaramouche can let his body moves on its own, quick as lightning, evading unfamiliar hands and unknown intentions. If anyone so much as breathed near him, they risked getting electro-shocked as a warning.

Truly, he’s never seen that to be a problem.

It’s annoying as hell though, when people don’t respect his boundaries. By now, they’re there for everyone else’s sake than his own. Too many instances have occurred where he zapped someone because they got too close and his instincts kicked in before he could stop himself from striking.

At least when he was in the Fatui, everyone already avoided him out of fearful awe, and the Harbingers never liked him enough to bother getting near him. Not like Scaramouche made any effort with them either.

All of them but one.

“Wait, so you’re telling me you’ve been alive for like, five hundred years, and you’ve never kissed anyone?”

Scaramouche scowls in annoyance at the devious grin on Tartaglia’s face.

Tartaglia. The exception to Scaramouche’s never-ending ‘I hate everyone’ list.

It’s always been Tartaglia.

After everything that happened with the other Harbingers, the Fatui, and the Tsaritsa - the absolute last thing he expected to happen is that he’d escape them all with Tartaglia by his side as someone he could call an ally. A friend, when Scaramouche is particularly sentimental – until his mouth opens to spew the most ridiculous nonsense possible, and Scaramouche thinks, never mind I don’t want to be near him anymore.

This evening, they arrived at a tavern on the outskirts of Fontaine, booking a room to rest for the night before continuing their slow journey to Mondstadt in the morning. Tartaglia, of course, immediately went to order some fire-water.

He’s come back to their shared room, tipsy and carefree, promising he’s only had one drink, which is never enough to get him wasted, but it does make him giggly and inquisitive about everything.

Scaramouche cannot understand how the direction of this conversation managed to steer towards his lack of a love life. Though a fact about tipsy Tartaglia, as Scaramouche has had the delight of learning, is that he latches onto every word you say and spots your slip-ups when you don’t even know there’s slip-ups to begin with.

Which is probably how they ended up on this topic.

“I electrocuted any Fatui soldier who so much as looked at me funny,” Scaramouche answers, irritated as Tartaglia evaluates him for lies, “did you really think I would have actually kissed somebody before?”

Tartaglia shrugs in response. “Well, it’s not like you’ve been in the Fatui your whole life. You wandered all of Teyvat and you want me to believe no one’s ever caught your eye before?”

Tartaglia glances over at him, convinced Scaramouche is hiding a secret crush.

Stormy violet eyes meet shadowy blue.

“That’s right.” Scaramouche replies with a tone of finality, and hopes the other won’t pick up on how rigid his voice sounds.

Talking about his love life is strange, almost. Sorta makes him feel like a teenager, and Tartaglia a nosy friend who meddles too much for his own good, itching to pry some scandalous daydream from Scaramouche’s head.

But honestly – romance has always been the last thing on Scaramouche’s mind. Considering the grand scheme of things, it holds little significance to him.

Even if he wanted it, Scaramouche has never had the time for it. Relationships take too much effort – building trust and connecting with someone until he feels safe enough to give his love to them. Too much time and dedication, and a heart Scaramouche isn’t able to give.

Sure, he’s met plenty of people, human and not, who were beautiful, but he never wanted to pursue anything with them. They were merely passers-by in his life, stepping stones that brought him closer to his goal, or adversaries who stood in his way. He didn’t want a connection with them – they were never people he felt safe enough around to be himself, to reveal his most vulnerable side to them.

The broken little doll desperately seeking to understand how to function when his sole reason for existing has been ripped away, his heart a chess piece for a game more important than his yearning. That’d definitely steer a lot of people away, wouldn’t it?

For a long time, he’d assumed he wasn’t built to even feel love, any kind of love. The God of Eternity couldn’t possibly have wanted to grant that to him – not if her doll ended up like she did, with an unmendable soul devastated by grief. Though he slowly learned otherwise, figured out he loved a lot of different people already. His love for Ei could coexist with his hatred for what she did. His love for Katsuragi taught him it was possible to lose a part of you in another’s death. Even if it took him many years later to figure that out.

But sometimes, the knowledge that Scaramouche can love – in all these different types of ways – is terrifying.

Because what he feels for Tartaglia is something he’s never felt for anyone else before.

It took a long time to build the trust that simmers underneath their insults and jabs, the type that allows them both to share moments of weakness, to talk of their origins and what has been torn from them. Also, their shared traumatic experiences helped too. Those are really good at building connections between people.

“That’s okay, there’s nothing wrong with that.” Tartaglia says, tearing him from his thoughts. “Not wanting to be with anyone, I mean.”

Tartaglia isn’t laughing at him, but it’s not surprising given that he’s always been more understanding than he had any right to be. The type of person you can confide to at your worst, and still be accepted. Even if Scaramouche came to him saying he buried a body outside the Zapolyarny Palace walls.

Actually, Scaramouche has come to him when he needed to bury a body outside the Palace walls.

The playful grin on Tartaglia’s features softens as he sinks deeper into the shoddy sofa they’re sitting on, arm on the headrest and cheek squished against his hand.

“And here I thought with how much you were prying that it was the most important thing in the world to you.” Scaramouche says dryly.

“I was only joking, you’re just way too easy to tease,” Tartaglia says dismissively, “besides, it’d be pretty hypocritical of me to make fun of you when I’m in the same boat.”

It takes a moment for the information to register in Scaramouche’s head. “Wait, you mean you’ve never…?”

Tartaglia must not have expected Scaramouche to actually ask as he blinks owlishly at him.

A flush of sheepishness pinkens his cheek. “I have kissed someone before but it was never… I was like, thirteen but-”

“Thirteen!?” Scaramouche exclaims, much louder than he should in a room with paper-thin walls. He grimaces, lowering his voice into a bewildered whisper. “You were kissing people at thirteen years old?”

“I was a dumb kid!” Tartaglia defends like it explains everything. “I had a group of friends back in Morepesok, and we did a lot of stupid stuff. The girls got dared to kiss the boys, and I ended up having my first kiss with one of them because I thought it’d make me cool.”

The image of a young Tartaglia comes to mind, red from his ears down to his chin, with a faceless girl attempting to plant a gross kiss to his mouth.

Scaramouche bites the inside of his cheek, trying not to laugh.

Tartaglia twists the loose strings of a cushion, ripping a hole into it that they’ll somehow have to cover before they leave. “Anyway, my point is - there’s nothing wrong with not wanting to kiss people or not liking anyone, okay? It’s better than going along with those things just because a lot of other people do it.”

Scaramouche raises a brow in amusement. “What, so you’re telling me kissing people won’t make me one of the ‘cool’ kids?”

“Shut the hell up,” Tartaglia’s glare isn’t nearly as effective as it should be given how embarrassed he’s gotten, “I didn’t think anything of it at the time. My friends wouldn’t shut up having crushes or their first kiss, and I wanted to fit in with the other kids, y’know?”

Scaramouche can’t really chime in seeing as he’s never actually been a kid.

“But what I meant when I said I was in the same boat as you...” Tartaglia’s face clouds over, “I also don’t have any interest in being with other people but... not really for the same reason as you. So uh, yeah can’t exactly make fun of you for it without being a complete hypocrite.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Tartaglia purses his lips, lost in though like he’s struggling to convey what he wants to say. The silence wears on Scaramouche’s nerves, and he’s ready to drop the subject entirely when Tartaglia speaks up.

“After I... after all the shit with the Abyss, I've never been with anyone...” he bites his bottom lip, eyes foggy and lost in memory, “I’ve been scared of getting close to somebody.”

Scaramouche exhales a shaky “oh.”

Suddenly, he’s at a loss for words. Tartaglia told him about what happened, about how he’d fallen into the Abyss – but he never said much. He never talks about how the Abyss changed him, how the miasmic curse from there is flowing through his veins now.

This though? A fear of being with someone is somewhat unexpected. Scaramouche wouldn’t have thought Tartaglia’s ability to form relationships would be impacted by his experiences.

Why? Scaramouche wants to probe. Why are you afraid of it? A morbid part of him is curious to dig deeper into Tartaglia’s mind, to understand a human being’s way of thinking.

Are you as scared of love as I am?

“Are you… afraid of getting hurt?” Scaramouche asks, trying to piece it together.

Tartaglia’s expression is bittersweet, like he wants to make light of the situation. “Yeah, a little bit. But it’s more that… I think people are afraid of me. When they find out about, everything. People realise how fucked up I am and leave.”

Scaramouche stares at him intently.

“When I came back from the Abyss, my parents were terrified of me, of what I’d become,” Tartaglia reveals, “my dad couldn’t even be near me anymore, and my mom, she… she tried to pretend like everything was okay, but I remember, one time I tried to hug her, and she… I could tell she wanted to push me away so badly.”

Something cracks and splinters in Scaramouche’s chest. He’s struck by the sudden urge to reach out, to close the small distance between them on the sofa and, and – touch him. Touch Tartaglia’s shoulder, his hand – to do something to prove he isn’t anything to fear.

“I lost all my friends too,” Tartaglia’s voice is distant, lost in memories, “they were… horrified. I was a monster to them. So, when my dad sent me to the Fatui, I kind of just… accepted that I wasn’t really human anymore, not in the eyes of anyone I loved. And I knew that a lot of other people I’d meet would think the same and leave me too so I… I never tried looking for someone, and I stopped letting myself love anyone until…”

His eyes dart towards Scaramouche, and immediately avert to the wall, scrutinising the tacky portraits and peeling wallpaper. “Uh, yeah. I didn’t really want to put myself through that.”

“I don’t think you’re a monster.”

Scaramouche can’t comfort people. He sucks at calming down crying children, or panicking civilians. He doesn’t know the right words to say, never inclined towards sympathy and reassurance. But he can’t let himself stay silent when Tartaglia is so convinced he’s a monster, that he’s something to be feared. It just doesn’t sit right with him.

“I mean, it probably doesn’t mean much coming from someone like me but,” Scaramouche audibly swallows, “I don’t see you as a monster. I just… I just see you.”

With a sharp inhale, Tartaglia’s gaze snap towards him, blue eyes dark and intense with emotions that cause Scaramouche’s face to burn stupidly red with embarrassment. Suddenly he feels like he’s said too much.

“It’s just,” he scrambles to come up with some sort of excuse that won’t make his stupid infatuation for the other so glaringly obvious, “how can I see you as a monster when you saved my life?”

The road to their current dynamic was certainly fucking rough to trek. After Tartaglia got him captured, and let Dottore rip the Electro Gnosis away, it wasn’t exactly easy to see Tartaglia as a ‘good’ guy, but it’s not like Scaramouche was good to him either.

But for some unknown fucking reason, Tartaglia came back for him. He came back and helped Scaramouche escape the Tsaritsa’s ice prison.

Tartaglia, for some inexplicable reason, chose Scaramouche over his Archon. He risked his life and defected from the Fatui to take Scaramouche away, to heal their fractured trust and revive the broken hope inside his soul when there was nothing left at all.

He didn’t have to do that, he could have left Scaramouche to freeze in that prison cell.

But he did.

And for a reason he doesn’t want to acknowledge, Scaramouche fought by his side.

Now they’re here, running away from Snezhnaya, all the way to Mondstadt where the Traveller is waiting for them. Getting involved in a war that’ll force them to encounter Celestia, as well as the Abyss.

He doesn’t have to do any of that, yet he still chooses to stay by Scaramouche’s side.

Only an idiot would this stupid, and brave enough to keep the promise he made on that snowy hilltop. A promise to stay, a promise to regain his trust, a promise to show him meaning even without the Gnosis.

An idiot, but not a monster.

“Just because…” The weighted silence is heavy in the room, “just because some people see you like that doesn’t mean it’s true. I mean, you’re going to meet a lot of people and beings who aren’t afraid of you. Or one! Even one is enough – someone who can see you and accept you for everything you are and love you regardless…”

A flush creeps across Scaramouche’s cheeks. His brain is screaming shut up shut up shut up- “Just one can be enough, sometimes.”

Okayy maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if Celestia opened the sky and eradicated him on the spot right now. They’d be doing him a favour by saving him from dealing with Tartaglia’s reaction.

Oh Archons he can’t believe he just said that-

His brain is starting to contemplate jumping out the window, when Tartaglia suddenly snorts and a peal of laughter escapes him.

Scaramouche’s spiralling thoughts screech to a halt.

Tartaglia can’t stop laughing, face bright and so devastatingly attractive when he smiles. Scaramouche stares like he hasn’t ever seen anything so wonderful before.

The cushion Tartaglia has been tearing apart is clutched tight, and he brings it up to bury his face into the fabric. “Archons, you’re going to be the death of me, Scara.” He mutters, voice muffled.

“Huh?” He says smartly because why the fuck is his laugh so nice-

“Never, not even in my dreams have I have imagined you saying something like that to me,” Tartaglia admits, “you really are too cute.”

“Cute!?” Scaramouche bristles, shoulders rising to his ears.

Before he can utter a single insult, Tartaglia unveils his face from the cushion and the sight makes Scaramouche’s breath catch in his throat.

Red splotches across his cheeks from laughter, smiling wide and glowing with amusement like the world isn’t going to end soon. He’s effortlessly handsome and it’s so unfair how he’s able to affect Scaramouche so easily. His hair is a wonderful mess of wind-tangled curls, and Scaramouche can’t stop staring, trying to determine whether it’s as soft as it looks, wondering what it would be like to run his fingers through it and-

Celestia above, Scaramouche is so utterly enamoured with him.

“You seriously have no idea what you do to me, do you?” Tartaglia sighs with a tender smile. “You’re so cute it makes want to -”

Tartaglia raises his hand like he’s about to reach out and pinch Scaramouche on the cheek, stopping at the last second as his brain catches up. His hand doesn’t move, hovering in the space between them.

Scaramouche is paralyzed once he realises what he was going to do. And yet none of his instincts try to push him away. Scaramouche would have let Tartaglia touch him. He wanted Tartaglia to touch him.

“It makes you want to what, Tartaglia?”

Blue eyes fixate on Scaramouche’s own, looking at him like he’s the only person in the world. Like it doesn’t matter if he’s never kissed or loved anyone, if he’s a puppet whose sole purpose was to hold a Gnosis, if he has as much power as an Archon, or if he has nothing at all.

None of that will change the way Tartaglia looks at him.

It’s overwhelming, bordering on too much, the force of emotions directed at him. Something aches inside his chest, almost like it’s going to spill right out of his ribcage. That abandoned space left for his heart is suddenly overflowing.

The air shifts, electric in a way Scaramouche is wholly unfamiliar with. Every sensation in his body lights up, blood humming beneath his skin.

Here, in this cheap little tavern, a space opens between them. A tiny world of their own, where whatever they say ought to completely change their relationship. If they’re brave enough to say it.

“It makes me…” Tartaglia’s mumbles, “It makes me want to touch you so much. And it’s so… it’s so difficult because I’m not… I’m not good with physical touch, because all I know is fighting and it’s so stupid to want something and be so terrified it at the same time! But I can’t help that every time I see you, all I want is to pull you close and hold you and, and…”

Tartaglia grips the cushion tight, brings it close and wraps his arms around it in a shallow imitation of a hug. Scaramouche wants to toss the stupid thing across the room and take its place.

The fire-water must be making Tartaglia lose his filter, it has to be, allowing him to say whatever thought comes to his head. But his eyes are too clear and his expression too earnest for this to be the result of alcohol. Tartaglia is being completely serious.

“…And I’m so scared because I think if you touched me too, I’d fall apart completely.”

Scaramouche takes in a sharp breath, like he’s been hit in the gut. “Oh.”

As the string of Tartaglia’s frail words comes to an end, his eyes fall shut, deflating like the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders. The cushion is pressed tight to his chest, squeezed in his arms like it’ll take the edge off his cravings.

“Yeah… oh.” He repeats, sinking into the sofa.

The immediate response that comes to Scaramouche’s mind is please don’t be scared, you can touch me if you want, you can do anything you want to me, I’ll catch you if you fall apart, I promise I promise- followed the incoherent screeching from the logical part of his brain.

The words echo through his head, over and over, the achingly vulnerable ache in his voice so intense with longing that it makes Scaramouche’s skin burn.

“Shit…” Tartaglia curses, peeking out from the cushion “I’m sorry, Scara, I didn’t mean to suddenly throw all this on you, it was – it’s just some dumb shit running around my head, and I didn’t realise how much it’s been eating me up and – oh Archons,” he groans and buries his face into the cushion in embarrassment, “can we forget everything I said just now?”

But Scaramouche doesn’t want to forget. He couldn’t even if he tried.

He needs to know for sure, even if he’s terrified of whatever answer he’ll receive.

“When you say you’ll fall apart, is it because you haven’t let anyone near you in so long, or is it... because it’s me?”

They look into each other’s eyes, blue and violet, gravitating towards one another like an electro-charged riptide.

Tartaglia swallows a lump in his throat. “I think I’d probably just feel overwhelmed if someone got near me like that, but I think... it’s because it’s you that I would fall apart.”

“Why?” He dares ask.

Why me? What do you see in me other than divine powers and strength? Why did you choose me? Why do you look at me like I’m something precious to you?

“Scara, I literally just poured my heart and soul out to you,” Tartaglia has the audacity to sound deadpan, like Scaramouche is the idiot here, “surely you understood what I meant, right?”

Scaramouche flusters, trying to deny that he understood, because if he speaks it into reality, Celestia won’t need to put him out of his misery. He might die right here.

“Because it’s you, Scaramouche.” Tartaglia says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world, like it explains everything. He leans into the space that separates them. “I like you. I’ve always liked you.”

Something lodges itself in Scaramouche’s throat, the words too real to accept. His voice cracks. “Tartaglia, I-”

“And I know – I know we just spent the night talking about how you don’t love anyone, and I’m not saying this because I expect anything from of you, I just thought it’d be fair to let you know. Why I feel like this around you. Why I helped you escape the Tsaritsa. Why I chose to stay by your side. It’s because I’m in love with you.”

Archons, he just said the big scary ‘L’ word. Scaramouche might pass out. He digs his nails into his leg to make sure he’s not hallucinating.

This can’t be happening.

“Tartaglia, I don’t – I don’t know what romantic love is supposed to feel like.” He admits and hopes it doesn’t sound like a rejection because that’s far from what he wants.

Carefully, he slides his hand across the sofa and places his fingers gently over Tartaglia’s own. A spark ignites on his fingertips, and his entire body is alight with nerves. Tartaglia’s breath hitches.

His voice is thin, barely above a whisper. “But… what I feel for you is – it’s nothing like anything I’ve ever felt for anyone else. And these feelings I have for you, they’re so strange to me – I don’t know what to do when I’m around you because all I want is for you to stay by my side.”

Embarrassment flares through him, but he might as well go all out with it.

“I’ve spent so many years wandering Teyvat, convinced I wasn’t capable of love, any kind of love.” Scaramouche admits. “But now I know that’s not true. I can love people, I can love friends. I can love you too, in a way I never wanted to love anyone else before.”

“Oh.” Is the only coherent thing Tartaglia manages to say.

Scaramouche huffs a laugh. “Yeah… oh.”

Fontaine’s traditional music travels from the ground floor up to their rented room, a crowded tavern full of drunken singing and shouting. The sharp tang of alcohol clings to the walls. This could not have been a worse place to confess.

"There’s always been something different about you,” Scaramouche says, “I never knew what, but you were so easy for me to trust. I never wanted to admit it, because I knew Harbingers weren’t to be trusted, and I knew that meant you too.”

Defecting from the Fatui and leaving Tartaglia had hurt more than he’d ever imagined possible. And being captured by Tartaglia, to be brought to the Tsaritsa, nearly broke him. Scaramouche wanted to hate him back then.

He should’ve despised Tartaglia for what he did, should’ve planned his revenge on him the moment he escaped. Should’ve, should’ve, should’ve. He could never hate him.

“But I never hated you, not entirely.” Scaramouche confesses. “You’re still an annoying piece of shit and that’s never going to change but… I’ve come to realise that I trust you enough to l-love you too.”

I trust you more than I should. I love you in a way I’ve never liked anyone else before in my life. I want you to stay by my side until the bitter end.

There’s a connection between them – at least on Scaramouche’s end. Something that allows him to feel this way towards Tartaglia. To be able to love him romantically. It’s a connection Scaramouche hasn’t ever felt with anyone else before.

Though that’s not to say he hasn’t felt connected to anyone else before – Katsuragi is the first to come to mind, and even if he loved Katsuragi differently than how he loves Tartaglia, their connection had been just as important and irreplaceable.

Silence fills the room for a few seconds. Minutes pass. It seems like forever.

“So… when I asked if anyone’s ever caught your eye before and you said no,” Tartaglia grins, “you weren’t actually telling the truth, were you?”

“Are you serious right now?”

“Does that mean you didn’t want to admit you had a crush on me?” He laughs, and Scaramouche wants to punch him and kiss him at the same time. He wants to punch him more right now. “Scara, I never thought you’d be so coy!”

“That’s what you got out of all this?” He snaps, humiliation creeping up his neck. “After everything I just told you? Well, then I take it all back, I don’t like you at all!”

“No, no, no, Scara, don’t say that, please.” Tartaglia tugs on his wrists, pulling him closer until their knees nudge one another. “I can’t help myself, it’s so adorable to imagine you having a crush on someone and I just… I can’t believe it’s me.”

Scaramouche scoffs, but his glare softens. “Unfortunately, it is you.”

“Then I’m the luckiest person in all of Teyvat if I am loved by you.”

“Ew, don’t ever say that sappy light novel shit to my face.” His nose scrunches in distaste, even as the knot of anxiety unfurls in his belly.

“So, me talking about how much I want to touch you isn’t the sappiest shit you’ve heard?” Tartaglia hums. “Duly noted, I’ll be sure to remember that.”

“Shut the hell up before I make you sleep outside.”

“I’ll stop, I’ll stop, I promise,” Tartaglia insists, grabbing onto his wrist like he thinks Scaramouche wants to escape. His laughter mellows.

The air grows warm, heady with fretful yearning.

Scaramouche turns his hand so his palm faces Tartaglia, presenting it like he’s waiting for the other to take it, whilst trying to play it off like it’s no big deal.

“Do you want me to hold your hand?” Tartaglia questions, brow raised.

Scaramouche shoots him a look. “Why else would I be doing this shit?”

“Right, because I’m supposed to magically read your thoughts.”

“You said you wanted to touch me, so here you go,” Scaramouche wiggles his fingers, “touch me.”

Tartaglia chuckles. “What a romantic. Those light novels have nothing against you.”

He presses his hand against Scaramouche’s before he can retort, and – wow, okay. They’re holding hands.

Tartaglia’s hand is bigger than his – which isn’t exactly surprising given how bitterly small Scaramouche is – but to know something and see it in real life are completely different.

He intertwines their fingers. Scaramouche’s skin is buzzing with phantom static. He feels like he’s about to explode.

Tartaglia’s hand engulfs his so easily. Tanned from so much time spent outdoors with scars over his knuckles. A stark contrast to Scaramouche’s thin fingers and wrists with skin that is forever free of blemishes.

“Is this okay?” Tartaglia checks.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Scaramouche squeaks. He wants to bury himself into the floorboards.

Tartaglia rubs his thumb along his skin and Scaramouche has to take a moment to focus back on the conversation. “I mean, you did say you electrocuted people that got too close to you, so I’m wondering if you want to do that to me too.”

“I always want to electrocute you,” he retorts, “but this is fine. I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want it too.”

“’Too’?”

Fuck.

“We literally confessed our feelings for each other.” Scaramouche huffs. “Of course I want to… touch you too. And I trust you.”

Tartaglia smirks. “I trust you too, Scara.” He uses that damn nickname like he knows it makes Scaramouche’s stomach flutter. “I just wanted to be sure. Communication is important, after all.”

“Great,” he clips, “and now that we’re done communicating, we can get back to… whatever it is we’re doing.”

He raises a brow. “Holding hands?”

Scaramouche rolls his eyes. “You can do more if you want, I told you it’s fine. We’ll move at your pace.”

So Tartaglia moves at a pace that won’t have him falling apart. Scaramouche lets him do as he pleases, moving his fingers up Scaramouche’s arm and stopping below his elbow. Careful like Scaramouche is going to shatter beneath his touch.

I won’t break if you decide to give me a harsh little pinch, Scaramouche wants to tell him, but I might if you continue being so gentle.

He tries not to lean into it. He’s rarely craved affection before, never thought it was necessary. Now he’s not so sure. Tartaglia’s given him a single taste, and Scaramouche might be on his way to becoming an addict.

No thought comes to mind of Tartaglia trying to hurt him in this position, none of his instincts jump forward, warning him of a hidden weapon in Tartaglia’s clothes. He finds he might not care even if Tartaglia did.

Even when he knows Tartaglia is poisoned by corruption, even when he knows Tartaglia is twisted up and burying his Foul Legacy form inside his soul. Scaramouche doesn’t care. It’s not like he’s any better.

He just wants Tartaglia, the soldier who’s tied to the Abyss for eternity. The Harbinger who chose to save Scaramouche’s life even after everything he put him through. The mortal who chose him over his Archon.

“Is this okay?” Tartaglia’s fingers hovers hesitantly along his jaw. Scaramouche has to resist the urge to rest his head on his palm, nuzzle against him like a god’s besotted convert.

He feels like he’s dreaming, teetering between sleep and reality. Everything is so peaceful and quiet. Safe. “Yeah, go ahead.”

Tartaglia gently cups his jaw, and trembles surge through Scaramouche’s spine. A thumb slides to the corner of his lip, just shy of pressing against it. Tartaglia’s hand is warm, calluses brushing along his face. He wants to hold Tartaglia’s wrist, keep him right where he is, so he could bask in this sensation all night.

“Fuck,” Tartaglia curses under his breath, a tidal current of desire drowning out the blue in his eyes. “Can we keep going? I don’t think I’ve had my fill of you yet.”

Heat curls low in Scaramouche’s stomach. “What more is there to do?”

“A lot.” Tartaglia doesn’t elaborate, but his hungry expression says it all. Scaramouche’s nails dig into the skin of his palms. “There’s hugging. I’ve always wanted to hug you.”

Archons, Scaramouche needs to get it together. “You make that sound like something special.” He quips weakly. “It can’t be that life-changing, can it?”

It can’t be that life-changing, he says as he’s about to keel over from the mere thought.

He takes the plunge and spreads his arms open, inviting Tartaglia closer.

Tartaglia pauses to take in the sight, and shuffles closer. He circles his arms around Scaramouche’s waist. As they settle on his back, Scaramouche’s brain short-circuits. The distance between them becomes smaller and smaller. He lifts himself higher so his arms can go around Tartaglia’s shoulders.

The empty chasm inside his chest tightens with the phantom beat of a non-existent heart.

Tartaglia’s watches Scaramouche’s feeble attempt at keeping it together, offering a wobbly, reassuring smile like it’s him who needs it more.

Honestly, it’s almost hilarious how they’re both pretending like they’re not falling apart in each other’s arms.

Tension stiffens their movements. Scaramouche strokes the cords of tight muscle along Tartaglia’s shoulders, and he’s sure the firmness in his lower back is prominent too. But it’s as if some sort of gravitational force is present in the room, pulling them closer like they’re drawn to each other in a way that’s beyond Scaramouche’s understanding.

Chest to chest, settled into each other’s arms, Scaramouche can feel the erratic rhythm of Tartaglia’s heart drumming against him. An anxious pit-a-pat beat he won’t ever experience. Tartaglia buries himself in Scaramouche’s neck, inhaling his scent.

Goosebumps rise where Tartaglia’s shaky breaths tickle his skin. He grips onto the back of his shirt like everything is going to fade away if he doesn’t hang on. Tartaglia’s hold around him tightens. It’s warm. It’s so, so warm. Reminiscent of faded memories of gentle arms wrapped around him in the night, when he hadn’t had the capacity to understand why he cried and cried and cried in the night.

For the first time in a long time, he feels safe. Like nothing in the world is able to hurt him.

Their surroundings fade into a blur of tacky wallpaper and the muted edges of streetlights outside their window. Teyvat disappears around them, and fate allows them a moment where nothing else matters. Not the Tsaritsa, or the other Archons, or the fact that they’re running away from the world. The sky could open and Celestia could step onto Teyvat, and it wouldn’t matter.

So long as Tartaglia stays in Scaramouche’s selfish arms, nothing else matters.

Tears blur his vision and Scaramouche squeezes his eyes shut, leaning in until his face is hidden in Tartaglia’s neck. He doesn’t want to cry right now, he doesn’t want to do anything that’ll take them out of this moment.

He wants to stay like this. For as long as Tartaglia will allow it.

They embrace so tight it’s like they’re trying to prevent one another from breaking. Tartaglia is practically melting into him.

He’s so much taller than him, more muscular and so much warmer. For so long, he’d been envious of that height and muscle strength. Now, it makes him shiver to see how small he is when they’re like this. He’s drowning in Tartaglia’s arms and it feels so fucking nice.

The scent of his homeland still clings to his skin, ice-frozen lakes and winter sunlight, the only remnants of Snezhnaya that he could keep. And underneath there’s a scent that distinctly belongs solely to Tartaglia, the earthiness of the Abyss and the honey he puts in his tea.

The night passes by without them present. The tavern patrons grow quiet the higher the moon climbs into the sky. Scaramouche and Tartaglia remain with their arms wrapped around each other until the world is asleep.

It takes a great deal of effort to pull away. Tartaglia moves away from the space he’s made for himself in the crook of his neck, but still holds Scaramouche close, like it’d physically hurt him to break apart.

He stares at Scaramouche like it’s the first time he’s seeing him, like he’s finally found who he really is, and still thinks he’s wonderful. He feels utterly at ease, drunk off Tartaglia’s scent, and his hands and his body.

Tartaglia’s eyes examine Scaramouche’s face, taking in his flushed cheeks, his heady gaze, and drift low, fixating on his lips.

“What are you thinking about?” Scaramouche asks because his brain isn’t yet ready to accept that he knows exactly what’s going on in Tartaglia’s mind.

“I’m wondering if I asked you to kiss me whether you’d try throw me out the window.”

“Not at all,” his gaze hovers on Tartaglia’s mouth, soft and pink, “but I have to remind you, I’ve never kissed anyone before so it probably won’t be very good.”

“You have no idea how long I’ve dreamed of kissing you,” he squeezes his waist, “trust me when I say I do not care if you don’t know how, so long as you want to kiss me too.”

“Then I don’t want to hear a word of complaint from you after.”

With that, Scaramouche closes the distance between them and surges forward to kiss Tartaglia.

Electricity sparks between their lips, currents flowing seamlessly from one to the other. Their teeth clack, too eager and too desperate to slow down. Scaramouche clutches onto Tartaglia’s shoulders, eyes fluttering shut. One of Tartaglia’s hands trails up to his face, tilting his head to the side and Scaramouche shudders at how easy it is to let himself be controlled.

It’s exhilarating, a kiss that you feel with your entire body, inscribing itself onto your lips for all of eternity.

Tartaglia gently leads Scaramouche through the motions, tucking a stray hair behind his ear as he guides him along. His thumb brushes against Scaramouche’s bottom lip, urging him to open his mouth wider and sending something sinful rushing down his body.

When Tartaglia’s tongue flicks against his own, Scaramouche can’t suppress the moan that escapes his throat, flinching at the sound of his own voice in this quiet room. Tartaglia moans in response and deepens the kiss, presses harder against his skin.

Scaramouche is drowning in a flood of ecstasy.

He’s being touched by someone he trusts – someone he loves – one hand on his cheek whilst the other trails from his shoulders down, down until he’s squeezing his thigh, digging blunt nails into his shorts until Scaramouche is groaning into his mouth. He’s immediately hooked on Tartaglia’s wicked tongue, his large hands and his warm body.

His fingers catch on the back of Tartaglia’s head and fist his hair. He yanks on it and Tartaglia’s groan of pleasure vibrates against Scaramouche’s chest, pressing indents into his skin in retaliation. A shockwave of satisfaction pulses through him at the thought of wearing Tartaglia’s bites and bruises.

Suddenly, Tartaglia falls back against the sofa, and drags Scaramouche on top of him until he’s settled on his lap, hovering above his thigh. He’s able to manhandle him so easily, drag him and pull his body however he wants.

He could do whatever he wants with Scaramouche, pin his wrists with easy, crush him into a wonderful embrace, hold him by the back of his neck to kiss him until his mind is numb. He could tease him for his small hands and his small body, and Scaramouche would let himself sink into the fog of delicious humiliation if it meant Tartaglia would touch him. He’d be willing to beg if it meant Tartaglia used him as he pleased.

A small sound rises in the back of his throat, the thrill of his imagination making Scaramouche shove himself closer, right up against Tartaglia’s chest.

What the fuck, he wants to scream. What the fuck.

Is kissing supposed to be this good? Or is it just Tartaglia? How is he so skilled at this? It’s embarrassing how easily he’s turning Scaramouche into putty with only his mouth.

The kiss turns messy, slick with saliva as they sink into each other.

Scaramouche’s body radiates with desire, a heat settles low in his gut that has him squirming. The movement makes his knee slip further between Tartaglia’s thighs, brushing against something that has Tartaglia hissing against him, teeth biting hard into his lip as his muscles turn rigid beneath his fingers. His hands flex in warning, so large on his waist that he could splay them across his stomach if he wanted to. He realises Tartaglia is hard against his leg, keeping himself under control so he won’t rut against him. Deliciously sinful heat coils tight in Scaramouche’s core.

It’s not an unfamiliar sensation, the drip of something slick between his legs. But it surprises Scaramouche how eager he’s become, quickly awakening a part inside of him that he rarely has a need for. It’s crazy that Tartaglia manages to make him feel so much. Selfishly, Scaramouche wants more. More, more, more – as much as Tartaglia wants to give him.

He doesn’t know how much time passes until they’re tangled in an intoxicating mess with one another, but Scaramouche notices the heat in the room and the ache in his lungs, and has to pull away.

He starts to pull away. “Tartaglia – mh!”

Tartaglia chases his lips and kisses him again, like his hunger isn’t staved yet. He leaves chaste kisses along his mouth, the corner of his lips, and against his cheek.

His lips trail along his skin, down his jaw to his neck where he pressed his tongue onto the sensitive skin. Scaramouche’s flesh tingles, and he curses when Tartaglia’s teeth nip at a spot on his throat, heat pooling in his belly and leaving him dizzy.

“T-Tartaglia, hold on,” a choked gasp cuts him off, and as much as it pains him to stop, Scaramouche tugs on the back of his shirt, “wait – Tartaglia, wait.”

Tartaglia rips himself away from his neck like he’s been electro-shocked. “I’m so sorry, is this too fast?” He scans him over in worry. “Are you okay?”

He looks so fucked out and they didn’t even do anything sexual. His pupils are dilated, begging for more, and his lips are kiss-swollen and rosy pink, hair in tangles where Scaramouche tugged it.

It takes everything in him not to go in for another kiss and never stop.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he assures the other, caressing his flushed cheek, “but we probably shouldn’t go… further.”

“Further?” His voice drops off halfway through the word, losing himself in thought, and Scaramouche hates that he knows exactly what Tartaglia is picturing.

Scaramouche smacks his arm lightly. “We have to leave early tomorrow! We can’t stay in one place for too long.” He reminds him. “This is not the time or the place for- for more.”

Tartaglia tumbles back to reality, out of his daydreams. “Right! You’re right, I’m sorry, Scara. I just got caught up in – in you.”

He needs Tartaglia to stop speaking like that, otherwise he’s going to do something stupid, like get on his damn knees for him.

“Besides, I don’t know if I’m ready for… for more yet.” Tartaglia admits with a sigh. “Not tonight at least.”

“There’s no rush.” Scaramouche tells him quickly, calming himself down from his high. “We don’t have to do everything in one night. Or ever. If you don’t want it. Nothing will change between us if we don’t.”

“But do you want it?” Tartaglia asks. “To do more with me?”

Yes, yes, yes I do, so badly, I want everything so long as it’s with you. “Only if it’s you. And only if you want it too.”

“One day. Maybe someplace… nicer than a tavern that smells like piss beer.” Tartaglia’s features softens into something awfully fond. He suddenly says. “I love you. So much.”

He makes it seem so easy to utter those words, spilling them all over his soul until he grows a heart of his own. Scaramouche doesn’t think he’ll ever get over how lovely he sounds when he says it.

“I tolerate you at best.”

A gasp of betrayal escapes Tartaglia’s throat and he pouts. “Scara, don’t be mean!” He whines, manhandling him closer, entirely unaware of how bad it affects him that he can so easily jostle him around.

“We need to go to bed.” Scaramouche reminds Tartaglia, as well as himself. “Otherwise, you’re going to complain again for all of tomorrow about how tired you are, and I do not have the patience for it.”

“Fine,” Tartaglia relents and lets him get off his lap.

He doesn’t comment on how wobbly Scaramouche’s knees are, but his eyes are leering and Scaramouche wants to kick him.

They toss of their outerwear and pull on whatever spare clothes they have in their bags that can be used to sleep in. It isn’t until Scaramouche sits down on his bed by the window that he’s hit with a sudden need to cuddle Tartaglia again.

Is this what it’s going to be like from now on? Is he going to feel like he’s dying every time he isn’t touching him?

He’s really fallen low in life, huh?

He assesses his bed with thin covers and uncomfortable pillows, the curtains billowing right over the headrest, then at Tartaglia on the opposite side of the room. He captures his attention as he slips under the covers, and Tartaglia’s drowsy expression brightens for a second.

Without needing to say anything, Tartaglia pulls up the bedsheet and makes room for a second person. “C’mere.”

Like a puppy, Scaramouche walks over, clambering into the bed. It’s really not made to fit more than one person, but it doesn’t matter. Tartaglia’s arms wrap around him, and Scaramouche tangles their legs together until it’s impossible to tell where he ends and Tartaglia begins.

Good thing summer in Fontaine isn’t scorching, otherwise they would suffocate in one bed. Scaramouche presses as close as he can, until he can pick up the thump of Tartaglia’s heart. Steady and constant. Alive and human.

He presses an ear against his chest and listens.

“Does this mean I can tell everyone that I’m the only person in the world that the elusive wanderer has fallen for?” Tartaglia breaks their tranquil silence.

Scaramouche takes a deep breath to placate his rising nerves.

“Who are you going to tell?” He grumbles. “Everyone wants us dead.”

“The Traveller doesn’t.”

“Wow, that’s one person who isn’t out to kill us,” Scaramouche cheers sarcastically, “and it’s the weirdo who’s from an entirely different planet or some shit.”

“If we were still in the Fatui, I would have told all the cadets about it.” Tartaglia boasts. “I’d make them all so jealous. Did you know like half of them were into you? They thought you were terrifying but still wanted to get in your pants.”

“Tartaglia, please go to sleep.”

“Okay, okay, sleeping.” He squeezes his eyes shut, but he’s still smiling like a fool. “I’m just really happy right now.”

Scaramouche listens to the sound of his heartbeat, it’s repetitive rhythm instilling in him a quiet calm. “I am too.”

“I love you.”

He shuts his eyes. “I love you too.”

Scaramouche does not like being touched, and Tartaglia fears touch as much as he craves it.

But Scaramouche can make an exception for him, and promise Tartaglia he’ll stay by his side, so he can indulge as much as he wants.

Scaramouche does not like being touched, unless it’s Tartaglia’s hands that are on his skin.

And as long as Tartaglia wants it, Scaramouche will indulge in his touch cravings too.

Even if fate will no longer allow it, he promises to stay by Tartaglia’s side until the bitter end.