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It’s not like Tartaglia was waiting for Scaramouche, okay?
He could have been standing out in the middle of a courtyard for conceivably any reason. Zapolyarny palace was huge, and he probably passed through this particular courtyard at least a dozen times everyday to get from one office to the next. He was only taking a little break here, where he knew Scaramouche was bound to pass at some point, because he liked the weather.
The freezing, absolutely frost-bite inducing weather.
Tartaglia burrowed into his coat.
...okay. Maybe he was lying to himself.
In all honesty, Tartaglia wanted to go inside.
Or—no. He wanted to spar! Wanted to get some blood pumping! That would warm him up and chase off how his fingers had been itching to cut someone up all day. The only problem was that all his subordinates ran away when they saw the bloodthirsty glint in his eyes. And the other Harbingers were way too busy being pompous somebodies with schemes a mile-wide to indulge Tartaglia.
So.
Scaramouche.
Easiest little guy to rile up. Could definitely put up a good fight. Unofficially, Tartaglia considered them to be something like sparring partners. Though Scaramouche would certainly disagree.
But never mind that! Scaramouche just so happened to finally be back from whatever Abyss mission her Majesty had sent him off on this time. It was perfect! Scaramouche couldn’t have picked a better time to get back from his mission, because Tartaglia was desperate for a little bloodshed.
Unfortunately, some things were just too good to be true, Scaramouche’s return being one of them. The key issue being—
“Hey, comrades,” Tartaglia called suddenly. Across the courtyard, two of Scaramouche’s subordinates jumped. They must not have seen him sulking there, gathering snow on his shoulders like a statue. “That Sixth of yours, is he finished yet?”
They shared a look—or at least Tartaglia assumed they did. It was sort of hard to tell with the masks.
“No, Lord Eleventh,” one said, a little nervously. “Lord Scaramouche is still... getting his check-up with Lord Dottore.”
Tartaglia sighed, deeply aggrieved. “Still? It’s been...” he glanced to the snow accumulating on his frame. A few inches. “Three hours!”
“Four,” one of the grunts corrected.
“But, ah, I think he’ll be finished soon? If it’s an emergency.” They kept their gaze firmly and respectfully on the ground. “Since it’s only an annual check-up, it shouldn’t be much longer.”
What kind of annual check-up takes four Archon-forsaken hours!? Tartaglia’s annual check-up with Dottore had been last week. And after half-an-hour of having blood drawn, looking at eye charts, and having his heart listened to, the Second had practically chased Tartaglia out of his lab.
Maybe Scaramouche was sick? Only, Tartaglia couldn’t really imagine that.
Again, Tartaglia sighed. He waved the grunts off, and they hurried away looking pleased not to have to stand at attention any longer. They left him there to his brooding.
And, again, while Tartaglia was absolutely not waiting for Scaramouche... he did just keep standing there.
Waiting...
..for Scaramouche.
He cleared his throat.
Luckily, it seemed Scaramouche’s subordinates were right. It was only another ten-or-so minutes before the Scaramouche was suddenly walking out into the courtyard.
The Balladeer had his head down and shoulders hunched, walking purposefully across the snow-covered ground. For some odd reason, he wasn’t wearing the big, fluffy coat all the Harbingers usually wore. Though he didn’t look any colder for it. Scaramouche walked with an odd gait, leaving uneven trails in the snow. Tired and annoyed—that was the impression his whole demeanor seemed to exude.
Good! If Scaramouche was already in one of his moods, he’d be easy to provoke into a fight!
Tartaglia perked up instantly. If he were a dog, his ears would have pricked to attention—his tail started wagging. But he wasn’t. And he also had a good deal more self-control than that. Tartaglia jumped out in front of Scaramouche’s path, slid on a slick of ice, then smoothly collected his footing.
“Scara! Let’s spar!”
Scaramouche’s head snapped up to meet him.
Closer now, Tartaglia could see that his eyes were a little glassy. Probably exhaustion from his last mission—which only added to the irritation now oozing off of him. If Tartaglia were anyone else, he would have flinched at the venomous sneer now facing him. “Don’t fucking call me that.”
Tartaglia laughed. “Scara?” He repeated, and Scaramouche’s glare darkened, to his amusement. “I thought it was cute! It might help your image with the newbies to have a cute nickname.”
“I don’t want those insects to like me. Now move. You’re in my way.”
“Aw, come on, Scara! It's lucky we just happened to bump into one another! That calls for a spar to celebrate.”
Scaramouche lifted a disbelieving brow.
Tartaglia continued to smile at him, grin never wavering.
But after several seconds of staring, Scaramouche still didn’t budge. Instead, he glowered, and said, “I don’t have the patience to deal with you today, Eleventh. Take your hard-on for bloodshed somewhere else.”
Well, that wouldn't do.
“Make me.”
“What.”
He beamed. “Make me move. Otherwise I’ll follow you around all day until you do!”
“What are you, a parasite?”
“I’m your sparring partner!”
Scaramouche grit his teeth. “The fuck? No matter what, you get what you want. Leave me alone.”
Tartaglia, smiling wide, summoned two hydro blades. They roared with the ferocious power of water, but Scaramouche only eyed them with thinly veiled annoyance. “Come now, comrade! You have to commend my persistence a little.”
“Manipulation doesn’t suit you,” Scaramouche glared. Then he grumbled, “...You’ve been talking with Dottore too much.”
Thinking about the four-hour check-up Scaramouche had just gotten out of with Dottore, Tartaglia laughingly commented, “shouldn’t I be saying that to you?”
Seriously, what kind of routine check-up lasted that long?
To Tartaglia’s surprise, Scaramouche’s entire body suddenly went rigid. His scowl, which was already deep with annoyance, turned a shade darker and reflected some emotion Tartaglia couldn’t place. Something simmering. Something closed off.
It immediately had Tartaglia enthusiastically drawing his blades up to his chest.
The face of someone about to snap!
Sure enough, it was only another few seconds of silent glaring when Scaramouche finally picked up the gauntlet Tartaglia had thrown down. He plucked the wide-brimmed hat off his head and set it gently by the wall. Generally, Scaramouche treated very few things with care. It must be expensive.
“Make this quick,” Scaramouche growled.
Tartaglia needed no further permission.
He was shooting off before even a second has passed. This time, he expected the slick ice underfoot, and pushed his weight against it so as to keep his balance. Tartaglia threw his arm out.
The blade tore a line through thin air.
At the last second, Scaramouche dodged back. It looked effortless. Unconcerned. He dodged again at Tartaglia’s next several strikes, and took only a single step back for each one.
“Aw, come on, Balladeer!” Tartaglia slashed at his face. “Just dodging is no fun! At least give me a fight!”
Scaramouche ducked at the last second. The blade swept over his head. Smoothly, Scaramouche spun on the ice, leg extended to sweep.
Tartaglia jumped over it. He retaliated with another dozen split-second stabs.
“Give it your all, Scara!”
“Brat,” Scaramouche ground out.
Fast as lightning, Scaramouche suddenly jerked forward. He summoned Electro around his hand. So powerful, the air was buzzing with it.
Just before it pierced his throat, Tartaglia smacked Scaramouche’s hand away with a blade of water.
But when Hydro touched Electro—!
Tartaglia expertly dashed several steps back.
Just a second later, the two elements reacted. Where Tartaglia’s blade had been, the water exploded outward. It splattered against the ground, the walls, Scaramouche’s hat. Electro-charged. The whole area blistered with residual electricity.
It was dangerous.
It was exhilarating!
Tartaglia whirled on Scaramouche, a taunt already on his tongue. “Scara, you’re finally putting up a good—huh?”
Only, Scaramouche visibly wasn’t putting up a good fight.
In fact, Tartaglia didn’t think Scaramouche had tried to dodge the explosion at all. Instead, he was standing in the middle of the Electro-charged puddle, staring dazedly at the sparks like he wasn’t really seeing them.
Tartaglia bounced on his heels. After a second’s thought, he called on his Vision to summon a new blade. “Come on, Scara. I know Electro doesn’t really hurt you, but taunting me like that’s just no fun!”
For a second, it seemed like Scaramouche hadn’t even heard him. Which. Weird. Scaramouche was rude, but rude in the way that he was constantly belittling people. Not rude in the way that he’d just pretend you didn’t exist. But after a moment, Scaramouche blinked. Then he was back to glaring at Tartaglia like he usually was.
“Speak for yourself, Tartaglia. All you ever do is talk.”
Tartaglia grinned sharply. “No more talk, then,” he promised, drawing both blades in front of his chest, offensive. “Let’s get to the fun part.”
Without warning, Tartaglia launched forward. He dove through the sparks, ignoring their prickling against his skin.
Again, Scaramouche dodged.
He really wasn’t taking this seriously at all!
Tartaglia swung out with his blade. Expectedly, Scaramouche moved to dodge it. But at the last second, Tartaglia shifted his footing and sliced with the second blade instead.
Quick on his feet, Scaramouche corrected almost instantly.
He turned, focused his weight on one leg, then elbowed Tartaglia harshly in the chest.
“Ack!” Tartaglia coughed. He had to stagger back several feet. Discomfort coiled in his lungs and made the next several breaths difficult. For someone so little, Scaramouche sure hit like a ton of bricks! Enthusiastically, he called, “Now you’re fighting dirty!”
“What happened to shutting up?”
“My bad, my bad!” Tartaglia rubbed at his chest. He didn’t think anything was broken—which meant Scaramouche was still holding back. And—
Across the courtyard, a thin, red line suddenly slivered across Scaramouche’s cheek. A second later, blood sluiced down his chin.
“Why don’t you start giving it your all, and shut me up yourself?” Tartaglia taunted. “I’ve never landed a hit on you so easily before, Sixth. Off your game?”
Scaramouche growled. Like a feral animal. Honestly, it was a little scary.
Then, without warning, Scaramouche dashed forward. Tartaglia only narrowly dodged. He laughed gleefully. This was the kind of fight he was looking for! Sparks flying, centimeters from his wide-open eyes.
Tartaglia side-stepped a second and third strike. This time, lightning arced out from the attack and made the air tingle with raw power. By the fifth rapid strike, Tartaglia’s arms were bruised from blocking.
But still, Tartaglia thought as he shifted his weight to go on the offense, aren’t you stronger than this?
Scaramouche landed another heavy hit against Tartaglia’s forearm. But again, it bruised. Didn’t break.
And Tartaglia knew with absolute certainty that meant, “You’re still holding back!”
Reactively, Tartaglia grabbed Scaramouche’s wrist out of the air and tugged.
The momentum had Scaramouche losing his footing. He stumbled forward into Tartaglia, who was readying a blade to the gut with his other hand. He was only a split-second from thrusting the water sword in when—
Scaramouche squeaked.
Tartaglia's brain stuttered to a stop.
He blinked several times in shock. Then he blinked several more, certain he must have just hallucinated The Balladeer making such a pathetic involuntary noise.
But. No. That was absolutely real.
Despite himself, Tartaglia hesitated.
And, for perhaps the first time in his life, Tartaglia drew back his sword before landing the final strike. A sure-fire victory, rescinded.
Scaramouche didn’t take the out. Didn’t fight back. Didn’t twist out of Tartaglia’s grab, or break his wrist.
Just.
Stopped.
Right there. Leaning into Tartaglia’s chest, wrist held overhead.
Like a ragdoll. A puppet cut from its strings.
Tartaglia stared down at the top of Scaramouche’s head. Waiting for... something. He didn’t really know what. He’d never seen Scaramouche act like... whatever this was.
Just seconds after he was ready to bite Tartaglia’s face off, he suddenly gives up entirely? Unheard of!
Roughly, he gave Scaramouche’s wrist another tug. The pull had Scaramouche half-slumped into Tartaglia’s frame, and half stretched awkwardly to a fuller height.
Scaramouche grunted.
But. He didn’t pull away. Or try to kill Tartaglia, or stab him, or bite him, or whatever.
Tartaglia pulled the wrist higher, and Scaramouche’s weight seemed to be carried with it. Limp, was the word that popped into Tartaglia’s head. It stayed there and festered concernedly. Limp was not a word he’d ever used to describe the senior Harbinger before.
Tartaglia frowned. “Is this some new battle tactic?” he asked dubiously.
“Shut up,” Scaramouche grumbled into his chest.
Tartaglia hummed. “Hey, it’s a fair question. What is this?” He gave the wrist a little wiggle. “You’re really lucky I was nice enough to hold back the killing blow just now. Because if you went boneless like this in the Abyss, you’d just die for sure.”
Pressed into him, Tartaglia was able to feel when Scaramouche went tense. Tartaglia prepared himself for their fighting to resume, but Scaramouche had only twitched. He sighed disappointedly when Scaramouche merely lifted his head to peer around the courtyard. His eyes were unfocused. Just like they’d been earlier.
They wouldn’t be fighting again any time soon, it seemed. This sucked.
“S’not in the Abyss, dumbass.”
“...No. We’re not.” Tartaglia said slowly.
Okay. This situation was officially very, very weird. The weary appearance, the squeak, the... the all but collapsing into Tartaglia’s chest! Not to mention the apparently several hour check-up with Dr. Leave-Me-Alone-I'm-Busy Dottore... Either Scaramouche was onto some new, super weird mind-games. Or...
The realization jolted Tartaglia so hard, he jumped. Unfortunately, he was still holding up a very limp Scaramouche, who tripped at the startle.
“Scara, are you sick!?”
It was silent for a moment.
By this point, Scaramouche was putting most of his weight into Tartaglia’s chest. He wasn’t sure, but it seemed like Scaramouche would fall to the floor if he stepped away.
“Can’t get sick,” Scaramouche said. It was muffled heavily into Tartaglia’s coat. But when he pricked his ears, Tartaglia could tell Scaramouche was slurring his words.
Tartaglia suddenly became very aware of how hot the body pressed against him was. Scaramouche was practically radiating heat. It would be comforting in the inhospitable, Snezhnaya winter if not for how dangerously hot that kind of temperature was in a living person.
“You have a fever, though,” Tartaglia told him.
“No.”
He lifted a brow. “Yes.”
Then, with a sigh, Tartaglia finally—reluctantly—expelled the final water blade from his hand. With it, the thrill of the fight bled from him. Battle was absolutely no fun when your opponent couldn’t give it their all! And this... this was definitely not Scaramouche’s all. Even injured with one foot in the grave, Scaramouche was a better fighter than... Whatever this was.
Well. Scaramouche much be really, really sick. Because you didn’t just go on multiple, back-to-back solo missions in the Abyss without knowing your way around a fight.
Scaramouche right now looked like he barely knew how to stand.
Tartaglia couldn’t help himself but to laugh, bewildered. He hadn’t even though Scaramouche could get sick, what with all his high-stakes missions and not-quite human physique. But here Scaramouche was. Fevered. Slurring. Not at all the menace he usually was.
His heart was pounding in his chest. Not from the thrill of battle, this time, but from the pure strangeness of this entire situation.
When Scaramouche only continued to blink sluggishly at him and his surroundings, Tartaglia decided, “if you can’t fight, there’s no point in continuing.”
“’tinuing what?”
Tartaglia blinked. Add ‘disoriented’ to the growing list of symptoms.
And while Tartaglia couldn’t exactly be described as caring, he couldn’t help but soften a little at Scaramouche’s current demeanor. Maybe it was the short stature. The red and puffy cheeks. But he was reminded distinctly of little Teucer right now. The familiar twang in Tartaglia’s chest had him wanting to help.
Only a little, mind you.
“Okay,” Tartaglia said, swinging a stumbling Scaramouche onto his side so he could half-carry the Sixth. “Let’s get you back to Dottore before your brain melts out your ears, huh?”
Tartaglia had, naturally, expected Scaramouche to maybe slur some reply. To trip his way limply after him.
But instead—
Scaramouche shot into action.
He jerked out of Tartaglia’s arms, nearly falling over in the process. And when Tartaglia reached out to catch Scaramouche, he was smacked away almost desperately.
Scaramouche barely caught his footing and slumped against the wall. “Not Dottore,” he gasped, breathless.
Tartaglia stared. Again, he was utterly bewildered with this new behavior.
Another second passed. Then Scaramouche blinked several times, as if even he was startled by his sudden franticness.
“I...” he trailed off, looking confused. Tartaglia was starting to wonder just how present Scaramouche really was. Or if the fever had melted his brain and his attitude, leaving behind only whatever version of The Balladeer he was looking at now. Scaramouche shook his head. “I’m leaving,” he said. But his voice was no steadier than it had been earlier. “Do not follow me.”
Saying nothing further, Scaramouche clumsily pushed himself off the wall and turned towards where he knew the Harbinger housing to be.
Tartaglia watched him stumble feverishly for a few seconds before collecting himself. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Scara?”
He plucked Scaramouche’s forgotten hat from the ground and gave it a playful wave. The veil clumped messily, as it was wet from snow.
Scaramouche squinted at the hat for several seconds before finally seeming to realize what it was. “My hat. Give it.” Here, he raised shaking hand to take it. But otherwise he made no attempt to steal it, as Tartaglia knew he would have if he were in a more coherent state of mind.
“Nah, you can have the hat back after you beat me in a fight,” Tartaglia taunted. Unfortunately, Scaramouche was too out of it to even glower at him and instead only stared blankly. No fun at all... “I meant about getting medicine, or something. You look half-dead. Who would I spar with if you die, huh?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care.”
“I’m only looking out for a comrade! Go see Dottore so—”
“I'm not going to visit—!” Scaramouche abruptly cut off with a hand to his mouth like he might be sick. He swayed dizzily, but didn’t puke. Still, Tartaglia took a step away. Out of the splash zone, just in case.
Under his hand, Scaramouche shakily muttered, “Dottore would just make it worse.”
Tartaglia, as was seeming to be entirely the case today, was again confused. “Is this why you’re so sick? You ran out of your check-up with the Doc before he could finish treating you?”
That would certainly explain the extra-long meeting between the two of them. Anyway, Scaramouche was prickly enough, he probably annoyed Dottore into letting him leave without any medicine. It was a bad situation all around. Tartaglia was sort of wishing he’d focused his bloodlust on a training dummy instead of getting himself involved in some sort of quarrel between Harbingers.
“Would you,” Scaramouche grumbled, “shut the fuck up?”
“Only because you asked so nicely.”
Scaramouche glowered at him, but his eyes were unfocused in a way that was less than intimidating. He waited another second, apparently making sure Tartaglia was actually finished speaking. Then said, “Good.”
Tartaglia waited for more. He still held Scaramouche’s hat, but wasn’t sure what he was expecting on that front. Scaramouche clearly wasn’t going to take it back. But—
Without another word, Scaramouche turned on his heels and began to walk away.
Or he’ll forget about the hat altogether, Tartaglia realized. Again.
Okay. So maybe everyone’s least favorite bite-sized Harbinger was more than just a little out of it. Watching Scaramouche stumble every few steps and dizzily edge around ice had Tartaglia honestly? A little worried about the guy. He clearly wasn’t in the right headspace to be walking around without supervision. Dottore was off limits—for some reason. And as far as Tartaglia was aware, the others...
Well. They really didn’t like Scaramouche.
But when Tartaglia really thought about it, the other Harbingers didn’t really like him much, either. If he ever got seriously ill, he’d probably wind up stumbling back to his room all by himself, too. Actually, he had done that before.
But between Scaramouche and himself...
Tartaglia was kind of ambivalent on the subject of The Balladeer. Good for a spar. Great in the Abyss. Kind of an ass. They didn’t cross paths, much.
Anyhow, he was pretty sure Scaramouche might trip and die if no one helped him to lay down. And that wasn’t good for anyone.
Before Tartaglia could think on it any further, he was hurrying after Scaramouche.
The Balladeer had already entered the main building, but hadn’t gotten much further than that. He was leaned up against the wall. One hand on it to steady him, and both feet merely sliding across tile.
“Scara! You forgot your hat!” he called.
Scaramouche sluggishly turned to face him, eyes glazed over and cheeks pink with fever. “Wha—” Tartaglia plopped the hat down on his head. It fell over his eyes. Scaramouche fussed with the brim with clumsy fingers before grumbling out, “No. I was gonna kill you for it.”
Tartaglia laughed. “You were going to fight me for,” he corrected, teasingly. “You’d get in trouble if you killed the Tsaritsa’s dear Eleventh!”
When Scaramouche finally got his hat sorted out, he turned out a not-so scathing glare. “Don’t care,” he slurred. “You’re annoying.”
Tartaglia patted him on the back. Unfortunately, Scaramouche wasn’t at all firm on his feet, and Tartaglia had to catch him before he face-planted. “And you’re sick,” he said, because it beared repeating. “It’s a good day, so I’ll walk you to your room.”
Scaramouche squinted at him.
“Come on, Scara. Just admit you need help. I won’t tease you too much.”
“I’d rather die.”
“You look like you might,” he said, eyeing Scaramouche’s fevered face.
“With any fucking luck.”
Tartaglia blinked. “Ah... don’t say things like that. I’ll get worried about you.”
Scaramouche continued to stare at him, disgruntled and at least semi-unaware. “Don’t act like you care, Eleven.”
“Of course I care, when you say stupid things like that.” He started to cross his arms, petulant, then decided better of it. Instead, he brought both hands down on Scaramouche’s shoulders to hold his swaying steady. “Anyhow, we’re practically sparring partners! I’d like to keep you around a bit longer.”
Scaramouche hissed. He rolled his shoulders to dislodge Tartaglia to no effect. “We aren’t anything,” he argued.
“Sure we are, Scara!”
“That damn nickname—”
“—is a sing of our friendship!” Tartaglia finished, chipper.
Scaramouche glared daggers at him. Sharp enough to pierce—it almost had Tartaglia readying for a fight!
But the fact that Scaramouche only glared at him, and didn’t try to stab him in the chest, was indication enough of his illness. If all the earlier symptoms hadn’t been enough.
Thinking this, Tartaglia gave Scaramouche’s shoulders another quick pat. Then, ignoring the shorter's protests, turned him on his feet. Tartaglia marched him down the hall. The dorms weren’t far from here, but surely it would have taken Scaramouche several painful minutes on his own. Assuming he didn’t pass out on the way. And Tartaglia could only imagine what kind of reactions the other Harbingers might have to finding Scaramouche passed out in the middle of the corridor.
It was a little difficult to walk Scaramouche, what with his frequent squirming, growling, and tripping. But Tartaglia managed. He’d spent enough time dueling in the Abyss to know his way around some fast-footwork, so he was always quick to catch the Sixth before he fell. And managing a fussy Teucer made the snide remarks a little more palatable, as well.
“Get your dirty hands off me, insect,” Scaramouche said.
“These dirty insect hands are walking you to bed,” Tartaglia reminded him. Scaramouche twisted under his hold. “Ah, here we are!”
After several moments of walking, they stopped in front of Scaramouche’s room.
Tartaglia had never been inside before, but had seen Scaramouche going in-and-out of there often enough to know it was his. He started reaching for the door handle before abruptly realizing,
“Scara, I need your key.”
He waited for another snippy response. Nothing.
“Scara,” he tried again. This time, he shifted Scaramouche in his arms so they were meeting eye-to-eye. “I need—”
Oh.
Scaramouche’s eyes were half-lidded, and dropping tiredly by the second. He was... falling asleep standing up?
Okay.
Well then.
Heat radiated off of Scaramouche’s whole body. His face was flushed red with fever and exhaustion. And he desperately looked like he needed to lie down. Even without a thermometer, Tartaglia could feel that this fever was dangerously hot. That Scaramouche was passing out in his hands was indication enough. He needed help. Now.
“Hey,” Tartaglia gave Scaramouche’s cheek a light slap. “Eyes open.”
Surprisingly, Scaramouche didn’t snarl at him for the slap. He merely grunted, then blinked several times with foggy eyes. He looked barely aware. Scaramouche was deteriorating very quickly. Tartaglia couldn’t help but to feel a nervous burn in his chest at the sight.
“Wake up, comrade,” Tartaglia tried again. He slapped Scaramouche more firmly this time.
“Wha—you—” Scaramouche spluttered. “Fuck are y’ doin’?”
“Waking you up, so I can put you to sleep,” Tartaglia told him, and only felt a little guilty when Scaramouche’s brows furrowed confusedly. He made a grabby gesture with one hand. “Your keys?”
Scaramouche stared at him for a long, dazed moment. But eventually, he seemed to understand what Tartaglia was getting at. He patted around his pockets blindly. After a few seconds, he finally pulled out a small, silver key.
Shakily, Scaramouche tried to fit the key into the lock. But his hands were too uncoordinated, and his vision too blurry. He ineffectually scratched the door lock instead.
Taking pity on the both of them, Tartaglia plucked the key from Scaramouche’s fingers and unlocked the room himself. He opened the door with one hand and held Scaramouche upright with the other.
The first thing Tartaglia noticed about Scaramouche’s room was...
Well.
Nothing.
There was nothing to say about Scaramouche’s room, except that it was undoubtedly a copy of every other room in the palace. The kitchen was there, the sitting room here. Those back doors lead to a bedroom and bathroom, respectively. A few shelves. A table.
“Do you actually live here?” Tartaglia couldn’t help but ask. He searched around the home for any indication of life. Pictures of family (Tartaglia had plenty of those!). Books. Games.
Nothing.
Scaramouche bristled at his side. “What kind of question is that?” he slurred.
“I mean,” he said. “Don’t you have any hobbies?”
Even the coffee table was completely barren, save for a few work documents Tartaglia couldn’t be bothered to squint at. The whole place looked practically unlived in! How anyone could bear to spend their free time here was beyond him. Tartaglia eyed the empty walls like they’d personally offended him.
“You don’t even have a training dummy,” he bemoaned.
“’cause I don’t wanna smash up my walls like you, idiot.”
Tartaglia huffed, and Scaramouche slumped into his side like a dead weight. Deciding not to linger any longer, he began to slowly cart Scaramouche towards the bedroom. Scaramouche let himself be dragged along without complaint, and Tartaglia was again wondering just how present the Sixth was at the moment. Usually, he’d be kicking up a fuss by now. When they entered the bedroom, he was again met with blank, impersonal walls. The bedspread was plain and scratchy looking.
Tartaglia dropped Scaramouche into a heap on top of the bed cover. His hat fell away and landed on the floor.
“Ugh, don’t drop me!”
“Hm? Did you want to be carried more?” Tartaglia teased as he looked around the bedroom. There wasn’t even a light on the bedside table.
Scaramouche flailed a hand angrily that Tartaglia laughed at. But when that proved ineffective, he made a grumpy noise instead. The hand dropped heavily beside him. Then, slowly, as though every movement pained him, Scaramouche curled up against the headboard.
He looked... small. Like this.
It was the meager figure, plus the watery eyes, plus the cherry-red fever... Tartaglia couldn’t help the way his heart clenched to see it. Even when it was his prickly superior wearing that miserable expression.
Tartaglia’s eyes suddenly latched on Scaramouche’s cheek, where a line of blood was smeared and drying.
“Well,” he declared abruptly. Scaramouche’s eyes narrowed at him from the bed. “Home sweet home! I’ll do us both a favor and leave now.”
“Good riddance,” Scaramouche grumbled, curling in on himself a little more.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to at least call Dottore down here? You look—”
“No!”
Tartaglia blinked in utter shock.
Scaramouche sounded downright panicked. Frantic.
...scared?
Tartaglia stared at him for a long moment. And though Scaramouche was clearly attempting the same, his eyes kept drifting shut intermittently, and the fever stole most of his concentration. That kernel of worry burning in Tartaglia’s chest twisted.
“No,” Scaramouche repeated after a long moment. “Don’t... bother him.”
“Hey, what’s going on between the two of you, anyway?”
Scaramouche blinked at him slowly. “Wha—?”
“You and Dottore. You spend hours with him, but you don’t want to talk to him. Are you two...” Tartaglia’s eyes widened with realization. “You’re fighting! Oh my Archons, did you two break up?!”
That seemed to startle Scaramouche awake—if only for a few seconds. His exhausted expression morphed into one of disgusted astonishment. “You think I’m dating that freak?!”
“I don’t know! You and Dottore are weird! He's always giving you those super intense looks! And, I mean, why else would you spend over four hours doing a regular check-up!” Because now that he thought about it, Scaramouche’s grunts had spoken too casually about the check-up. Like they knew it was going to take a long time, even though Tartaglia’s visits to Dottore had never taken more than half an hour maximum. Which meant Scaramouche routinely spent several hours hanging out with Dottore.
“Wh—that’s—of course it—”
Scaramouche spluttered.
But the shock of Tartaglia’s accusation and Scaramouche's emphatic response was unfortunately too much for the sick Harbinger to handle. Before Scaramouche could choke out a coherent thought, he suddenly curled into himself, groaning in pain. His arms wrapped around his stomach.
“Ah, shit. Sorry,” Tartaglia apologized. “Do you need anything? Meds? Or I could get you some crackers to settle your stomach.”
Scaramouche glared up at him through the fringe of his bangs. “Not nauseous.”
Tartaglia eyed the hands gripping tightly at his waist dubiously.
“’m not.”
“Okay, okay,” Tartaglia waved dismissively. He didn’t believe that for a second. But far be it for him to scold the Sixth about opening up. “You keep laying there, looking miserable. I’ll go and raid your kitchen for something to settle your not-upset stomach.”
“Bite me, Tartaglia.”
He laughed as he backed out of the room.
Tartaglia considered, for a moment, just leaving. Or getting Dottore and letting them work out their differences after Scaramouche was taken care of properly. This was a good time for it. And Scaramouche would hardly complain about being left alone...
But instead, Tartaglia only walked to the kitchen to poke through Scaramouche’s drawers. He was hoping to find crackers. Only, just like the rest of the home, there was just. Nothing. Several minutes of opening and closing cupboards revealed only empty shelves. He finally managed to find a small collection of teas in the far back of the pantry, but couldn’t find the corresponding kettle. Maybe between Scaramouche’s Electro and Tartaglia’s Hydro they could heat something..?
Well, probably not.
Fruitless search aside, Tartaglia eventually returned to Scaramouche’s bedroom with a wet cloth in his hands. It was, quite literally, the least he could do.
“Hey, Scara,” Tartaglia dropped the cloth over Scaramouche’s forehead. His resulting protests quickly turned into sighs of relief as the water cooled his fever. “What do you do with your paycheck?”
Scaramouche glared up at him. “Mind your own business. And—hey. Don't just make yourself welcome!”
Tartaglia ignored him and sat down beside him on the bed. Scaramouche didn’t shuffle over to make room—actually, he was ineffectually kicking at Tartaglia’s side to push him off. Tartaglia paid him no heed. “I bought my family some nice souvenirs on my last trip to Fontaine. And it’s taking up a ton of space in my living room, until I can finally give it to them.”
“Did I ask? Get off my bed.”
“I mean, you don’t even have food in here. So what are you buying?”
Scaramouche kicked him again, harsher this time but still too sluggish to do anything other than make Tartaglia chuckle. “I don’t need to eat. Mind your own business.”
“Your business is my business, Scara!”
“Die.”
“No need to be like that. Let’s save the threats for our next sparring session!”
“We aren’t sparring partners, and I don’t like you.”
“I don’t like you either. But we’re still partners.”
“...Makes no fuckin’ sense,” Scaramouche groaned into his pillow.
“Hey, if you roll over like that the cloth will slip off,” Tartaglia said. He caught the cloth just before it could fall off onto the blanket and reaffixed it over Scaramouche’s eyes.
“Ugh.”
Tartaglia snorted, finding their banter almost as fun as an actual fight would have been. But his humor quickly turned to trepidation when he realized Scaramouche’s grunt hadn’t just been one of annoyance—but one of pain.
Again, Scaramouche’s hands were clutching tightly at his stomach.
Tartaglia shifted on the bed to get a better look at Scaramouche’s expression when he saw—
Wait. Was that..?
Blood!
There was blood on Scaramouche’s shirt. All across his stomach, inking into his shorts, then onto the sheets.
Tartaglia shot off the bed in an instant.
That much blood indicated a big wound. If anyone knew that much, it was Tartaglia.
Wasting no time, he launched to Scaramouche’s side. He hastily made to pull away the soaked shirt from skin—to get a look at the wound before he started recklessly applying pressure.
“Get off me!” Scaramouche yelled, kicking out again violently. “Fucking—idiot!”
His foot collided with Tartaglia’s face. Painfully. Scaramouche may not be at full strength, but he still hit like a brick when he wanted. Tartaglia staggered back. Though he could have simply wrestled Scaramouche to the bed, he raised a hand placatingly instead. The other had wento cupping his nose which, mercifully, wasn't broken. It only stung like it was.
Scaramouche eyed him suspiciously. “You’re bleeding,” Tartaglia explained. Because between the fever and the exhaustion, Scaramouche must have forgotten about his wound. That was the only explanation Tartaglia could assume, at least.
“No thanks to you! Manhandling me like a wild beast,” he growled. But the emotion fell flat, when Scaramouche was still curled around himself and shivering minutely. The cool cloth had fallen off his head and was now soaking up several smears of blood near Scaramouche’s waist.
“I’d remember if I hit you in the stomach, Comrade,” Tartaglia said, and it was the truth. Details of his battles were never lost on Tartaglia. Scaramouche knew this, and scowled into his pillow. “So you got this in the Abyss.”
Which was. Never a good thing, really. The Abyss was rife with corruption and malaise, and if Scaramouche were anyone lesser he’d probably have died by now. Though, Tartaglia didn’t smell the tell-tale reek of corruption in the air. A festering kind of necrosis. The air in Scaramouche’s house really only smelled of dust.
“Right? You need to get that patched up immediately, Scara.”
Scaramouche stilled for a moment, hand still palming over the wound. Tartaglia itched to see it—how deep it was, how tainted, how long. But Scaramouche had become so viscerally uncomfortable last time he tried. No way was Tartaglia pushing that boundary again.
“How did you even make it out of your check-up with that—”
“S’not from the Abyss.”
Tartaglia blinked.
Well, where else could it be from? Because as far as Tartaglia knew, Scaramouche had been in the Abyss for the last two months. No other missions. No other assignments. Tartaglia had seen Scaramouche off personally.
“Wah, it’s no fair if your getting secret assignments from Her Majesty!” Tartaglia whined. And though he was still worried over the amount of blood Scaramouche was losing, he was still relieved to know it wasn’t infected with the rot of Abyss.
“It’s not a secret assignment, you—” Scaramouche groaned, and pinched the bridge of his nose before thinking better of it and pressuring his wound again instead. Clothes squelched wetly at the action. “You can’t be this stupid.” He bit his tongue, then asked as though it genuinely pained him to be so vulnerable, "the drawer there. Get me bandages."
Tartaglia frowned. He did as he was told, opening the side table drawer. The only things contained within were a few rolls of gauze, clean, and some medical tape. Tartaglia passed them off to Scaramouche obligingly.
“But if you didn’t get hurt on a mission, then you must have been...” he trailed off. The answer suddenly struck him like a gavel. “You were hurt in the Palace? Woah! Did someone break in? No, no. Even with a fever, any old weakling couldn’t hurt you.”
Scaramouche snatched the offereed bandages. He eyed Tartaglia for a moment, clearly distrustful, before heaving out a great sigh. Painstakingly, he lifted up the edge of his shirt to reveal the wound. Tartaglia could barely make out the size and shape for all the blood, but he knew it was bad. Regardless, Scaramouche seemed to know what he was doing. He grumbled, “you are an idiot.”
“My talents lie in fighting!”
He pressed a finger into the wound, and it made a truly godawful noise in response. Scaramouche and Tartaglia both winced. “It doesn’t matter what happened, anyway. I’m hardly going to die from a cut like this, so just leave it alone.”
“Saying it like that just makes me more curious.” Tartaglia peered around the bed to try and peek at what Scaramouche was now grumpily fussing over, but he had curled into such a tight ball it was impossible to make out. Tartaglia's fingers danced uselessly at his sides. “Well, who did you fight then?”
If it was one of the Harbingers, then, hey! How come they didn’t come to fight Tartaglia instead? Everyone knew he was always itching for battle!
But then, Scaramouche went and ruined Tartaglia’s whole theory with only four words:
“It wasn’t a fight.”
Tartaglia’s mind froze up instantly. His fingers stilled at his sides.
Carefully, as though speaking to a young child, Scaramouche explained, “I was in with Dottore. You know that.”
…
“...huh?”
As if that answered anything at all!
What in Teyvat did Dottore have to do with this!?
“And he didn’t patch you up,” Tartaglia confirmed after a short pause. “Right. I assume that’s because you two are having some sort of lover’s squabble—”
“Seriously, go die.”
Tartaglia mimed zipping his mouth shut and throwing out the key.
Scaramouche poked at his wound once more, groaning. But something about the pain must have steeled him, because a second later and he was trying to lever himself up against the headboard. It was a shaky process, and looked to leave Scaramouche dizzier than not. Tartaglia watched him without offering a hand. He did, however, re-collect the wet cloth and offer it again. Scaramouche glared at the cloth for a few seconds before snatching it.
Rather than prop it back up on his feverish head, however, Scaramouche suddenly began dabbing it aganist his bloody side. Cleaning up the blood.
“Fuck, I’m dizzy.”
“Then don’t try to sit up. You won’t let me take care of your wound. At least don’t strain yourself before you bleed out and die.”
“I’m not going to die,” Scaramouche said. The cloth was turning red. But the bleeding seemed to have stopped, so that was a positive. “Dottore wouldn’t let me.”
“Dottore isn’t here right now, if you haven’t noticed.”
“I mean: he wouldn’t have let me leave the lab if I was in any real threat of dying. I’m no use to him dead. Idiot.”
Tartaglia went stiff.
His eyes, which had been narrowed half-amusedly on Scaramouche’s disoriented expression, flicked down to the wound again. Scaramouche had lifted the cloth to inspect it himself. And though Tartaglia was no expert, he recognized the gash as careful. Clinical. A straight line along the underside of Scaramouche's stomach.
The words seemed to echo in his ears, 'Dottore wouldn't let me,' and, 'I'm no use to him.'
Possessive, was the first thought that popped into Tartaglia's mind. Why did Scaramouche make it sound like Dottore was possessive of him? It was strange. And totally not like the ever self-assured Balladeer to suggest he was somehow beholden to someone else. Tartaglia rolled his shoulders. He must be mistaken.
Afterall, he assured himself, Scaramouche was hardly coherent. The Sixth seemed to be moving in-and-out of incoherency throughout their conversation. His words slurring every few sentences, then sharp and punchy the next. It was difficult to keep up with. Would have been more difficult, if Tartaglia weren't used to the similarly ebbing-and-flowing dance of battle.
"So Dottore patched you up, he just did a bad job of it," Tartaglia surmised for himself.
"He did the stitches like he always does," Scaramouche scoffed. "It's because some idiot decided to spar with me right after surgery that the stitches broke."
"Surgery?"
"Hey, are you ignoring the part where this is your fault?"
"Scara. Surgery?" he repeated.
Because, what?
There was a pause.
Then, slowly and looking like the motion pained him, Scaramouche lifted a hand to peel away the cloth. His face was still flushed red with fever, and his eyes still glazed over. But despite the obvious illness, Scaramouche managed to level him with a surprisingly severe glare. Tartaglia didn't back down. "What could possibly be your problem now, Tartaglia?"
"Surgery!" Tartaglia gaped. "I thought it was just a regular check-up, or I'd have left you alone!"
He should have known! Four hours, of course it wasn't just a check-up. Or a break-up. Or whatever.
Except then, absurdly, Scaramouche said, "It was a check-up."
And all of Tartaglia's thoughts, again, ground to a sudden halt.
"A check-up with surgery."
"Obviously."
Tartaglia stared. At Scaramouche. At the blood. At the empty room. And suddenly, because it seemed like the thought may never have occurred to Scaramouche, he felt the need to ask, "Scara, you know that's. Super weird. Right?"
Scaramouche paused half-way through swiping clean his stomach to stare up at Tartaglia as if he'd just lost his mind. "That's Dottore for you," was all he said.
Which. Didn't clear anything up at all.
But Scaramouche seemed completely oblivious to Tartaglia's inner panic, and instead turned back to his work. He nodded at his stomach, evidently satisfied with the cleaning process. It wasn't bleeding anymore, save for a sluggish trickle, so he discarded the cloth haphazardly onto the bed.
Next was the gauze. Scaramouche's fingers feathered over it searchingly for a moment before finally grabbing hold.
Tartaglia made a face. "Let me do that for you."
"You'd mess it up," Scaramouche told him, hands shaking so much he kept missing the wound.
"Fine," he huffed. Then he shifted track, "you have regular sugeries, though? Are you... ill? Aside from right now, obviously."
Scaramouche glared down at his incision. "I'm not sick right now, idiot."
"I mean, the fever says otherwise, but okay."
Again, his hands were shaking so badly he accidently poked open the wound again instead of patching it. "That's just a side-effect from whatever injection Dottore gave me. I'm in perfect health, as always."
...
Scaramouche couldn't be serious. Right? He was talking like a... like a lab rat!
"...you're going to give me a heart attack if you keep talking like this, Scara."
"Good, maybe then I can get some peace and quiet while I—fuck!" Scaramouche swore.
In a burst of energy Tartaglia hadn't expected, he suddenly threw the gauze across the room. It thwapped wetly against the wall.
Tartaglia startled, wide eyes on Scaramouche. "While you what?"
He growled. Scary.
"Get this damned gauze on! Fuck, my—" Scaramouche's voice pitched, almost whining. He stared down at his bloody and shaking hands, furious betrayal written across his face. Tartaglia's heart clenched.
"Here," Tartaglia said. Gently, like he was speaking to Teucer. He grabbed a fresh piece of gauze from the pile. Slowly, he bridged the gap between them. Tartaglia very softly pressed the gauze into Scaramouche's wound.
"Don't. Touch me."
Tartaglia hummed. "You aren't hitting me off, though," he commented. With his free hand, he began taping the gauze in place. He repeated the process once more, where the incision was longer and deeper. "I'm helping."
Scaramouche shifted in place, and when Tartaglia glanced up at him, he'd turned to face the wall instead. There was a press between his brows, and a faraway look in his eyes. With the fever, it was impossible to say if the warmth on his cheeks was embarrassed or ill. "You're a pest," Scaramouche finally said after a significant pause.
Tartaglia laughed. "A helpful pest. Admit it, you like having me around."
He clicked his tongue, and said nothing more. Tartaglia only laughed louder.
But it wasn't long before he was sobering up once more. "Dottore's never given me a surgery."
"Lucky you. He has awful bedside manner."
Tartaglia finished taping up the last piece of gauze, and sat up to give Scaramouche his space. Almost immediately, Scaramouche curled back up into a tight, uncomfortable looking ball.
Tartaglia frowned. "I'll bet. But. No, Scara. I mean, Dottore has at most patched me up after a tough mission. The random surgery thing is," really, really freaking me out, "just him being weird with you, I think. What was this surgery even for?"
Scaramouche's fingers tightened, curling the bloody sheets into a spiral. "I don't know."
Tartaglia stared. The pit of growing dread in his stomach curdled into horror.
"You don't know."
"It's Dottore's experiment. I didn't ask."
Something bit at Tartaglia's chest. "But it's your body!"
Scaramouche jumped. He stared at Tartaglia, startled like he hadn't expected the outburst. Or like he'd never heard the words in conjunction before. "It's," he cleared his throat, "useful."
"Actually, this whole thing just sounds pretty messed up. What's useful?"
Scaramouche stiffened, like he was bracing for a blow. "This body."
What the fuck. Actually what the fuck.
"Archons. What did he give you?" Tartaglia stared, aghast, into Scaramouche's eyes. To blown, unfocussed pupils. He laughed nervously. "Why are you telling me this?"
"I told you, I don't know," Scaramouche pouted. "And because you asked? Like it's a big deal—fuck off."
"This is a big deal! I'm kind of losing my mind a over here, Scara! You're Dottore's lab rat!"
Scaramouche bodily flinched. "Don't... don't say it like that."
"That's what this is!"
He sniffed. "Test subject is the proper term."
"Oh my Archons, Scara. You're killing me."
"And yet, here you are."
Tartaglia sighed. Long, and loud. It relieved absolutely none of the pressure building up in his chest, and it made Scaramuche stare at him like he was an idiot. Maybe he was. Because Scaramouche was acting like this was all well and good. Meanwhile, Tartaglia was severely reconsidering his opinions on one of Sneznaya's most respected Harbingers.
Scaramouche yawned. Then, he grimaced.
"Okay..." Tartaglia murmmered, feeling a little at his wits end. He was good and killing things. Not... trying to explain to his coworker that he's being abused. Or. Something. This was so much more than Tartaglia had bargained for today. "Okay."
But...
He couldn't quite regret it. There was a new fury burning in him right now. Absurdly, Tartaglia was feeling protective. Fiercely so. And the rage currently consuming him had almost a rush like battle.
The idea tickled him.
"Hey, I think I care about you, Scara. Isn't that weird?"
Scaramouche jerked—at some point, his eyes had slipped closed again. Now, though, they were bugged out in Tartaglia's direction. "Yes, ew. Don't say that to me, you worthless insect."
"Yeah, you're pretty hard to like, actually," Tartaglia agreed.
He expected Scaramouche to snap at him for that remark, but he didn't. Scaramouche only nodded.
"I guess it's because we're sparring partners—"
"Shut the fuck up."
"Still," Tartaglia said. "Oh! When you're finished not-dying, I should introduce you to Tuecer!"
Scaramouche groaned. He rolled over so his face was smushed up into the pillow, and his expression hidden. But Tartaglia could still see how the flush of his fever reddened his exposed neck. "...not meeting you're family, 'leven."
He was back to barely discernable slurring, then. That wasn't good.
Tartaglia leaned forward so his shadow was cast over Scaramouche's tiny body. "You aren't dying, right?"
"I already said as much." This close, Tartaglia could see how Scaramouche's eyes were closed. All their talking must have worn the last of him out. Then, just as Tartaglia thought, he muttered, "...tired."
Tartaglia hummed. Scaramouche didn't see fit to comment on that, which was fine. Looking at The Balladeer so small and weak like this...
He drew in a breath. "Hey, Scara. Scooch up."
When Scaramouche didn't answer, Tartaglia asked again. This time, he got a grumbling, "Wha?"
"Scooch. I'm going to—yeah. Like that."
Tiredly, Scaramouche had moved further up into the pillows. He'd somehow found a way to curl up into an even tinier ball, in a way that Tartaglia thought couldn't possibly be comfortable. But he'd moved enough that he was no longer laying on top of the blankets.
Tartaglia very gently tucked Scaramouche in.
The blankets were bloody and gross. But so was everything about the Fatui. Judging by the sleepy, contented sigh Scaramouche made, he didn't seem to mind. Which. Good. Tartaglia wasn't mentally prepared to walk all the way to his room and pick up a fresh blanket right now. Something about the pounding of his heart told Tartaglia to stay through the night.
He considered sliding into bed beside Scaramouche. He wanted to—a little bit. But he also remembered how viserally Scaramouche had reacted to touch earlier. Also, for all Tartaglia was growing fond of Scaramouche, he was farily sure the Sixth had yet to warm up to him the same.
Tartaglia settled himself on the floor. He waited for the sun to rise, or for Scaramouche to wake. Whichever came first.