balladccr

[balladccr]

Only natural that the pair of them had reached the point of laughter. Bitter, humorless, devastatingly unsteady laughter as a replacement for whatever other emotions they refused to acknowledge had taken a firm and debilitating hold.

It was always easier like this, wasn’t it? Second nature. Get angry, shout, fight, do whatever it takes to drown out a disgusting reality with which neither of them hoped to contend. This was nothing new for them: some sick and twisted waltz they kept doing time and time again, because at the root of this all, no matter how much Scaramouche hissed his declaration of how different they were… Weren’t they both here right now struggling with the same stupid thing?

Childe wanted to fight. The fool always wanted to fight. But the fire burning in his core, flooding liquid heat through all of his veins and nerves, wasn’t born of the same hearth this time. Oddly enough for one who claimed to feel nothing, to have forsaken his own heart due to its utter uselessness, Scaramouche absorbed something igniting the air between them. Taut threads alight not with anger, not with the animosity that used to sharpen their tongues like blades, but that something that shouldn’t be there.

They knew it shouldn’t. They had acknowledged this already. But accepting it…?

Well, at the very least, they were equally averse to that latter part.

Scaramouche realized—painstakingly and with horrible regret not at the Harbinger in front of him now, but at himself—that Childe wasn’t fighting him, but fighting for him. Even more passionately than all their arguments before, than all the ways they destroyed each other without even trying. Childe was here because he had to be. Because every piece of him was tethered to The Balladeer, somehow strong enough to not snap. And Scaramouche was here, subconsciously waiting for him, because he couldn’t risk even the slight possibility of losing.

Losing him. When had that suddenly become such a guiding principle in this joke of a life?

He was right. Childe was right. Childe was right.

Scaramouche hated nothing more.

Except, maybe…

“I hate you.” Stated not with hatred, but with acceptance. Cold, begrudging acceptance. He forced himself to look away when that characteristic smirk bled through the prior severity on Childe’s face, because Scaramouche had then feared his resilience shattering. His tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth, annoyed (but peculiarly teetering into that typical mood of theirs), as he forced a glare into the distance, and he kept resisting. He kept fighting that itch beneath his skin, that thrumming desire: if not to punch the grin right off Childe’s lips, then—

What a sad state of affairs, a voice mocked him. You’ve been reduced to this.

And the part of himself receiving said scolding won out. Swiftly, perhaps before he could continue this witless oscillating, a hand went out to snag the front of the tall idiot’s coat. He yanked him down in such a rush of adrenaline that small sparks of Electro ribboned around his fist, and with his other hand tipping his hat back, Scaramouche planted a kiss right on those infuriating lips. Forceful and rough, he made sure to clean the smirk off of them. His teeth acted much like an admonishment, biting as he pulled away.

But only just enough to pin Childe with a reproachful glare.

“Don’t forget that.”

Why should I care?

That was always the question, wasn't it? The one thing they asked themselves over and over, desperate for any answer that wasn't the one their wretched hearts always provided. An opportunity for conflict, a stepping stone to power...all just empty excuses.

They both knew the truth. But lacking all ability to accept it, all they could do was fashion it into their strongest weapon. Striking at each other's weakest point: at that very same truth within the other.

Normally Childe enjoyed when they fought. For such a yappy pipsqueak, Scaramouche had a fire within that was on par with his own. It made things fun. Drawing him back to the Balladeer time and again until, before either of them realized, all that fire between them burned differently than before. Brighter. Passionate. And now, Childe smouldered in it as the Sixth launched verbal daggers of his own. He felt hollowed out by the other's unsteady laugh, helpless in the face of getting no enjoyment from any of this.

But he held his ground. Remained rigid as Scaramouche approached, nails digging crescents into his fisted palms. Miraculously he said nothing, only watching as a derisive sneer slowly slipped away. The storm in Childe's eyes didn't fade—at least, not until a question so absurd in so many ways hit him like a punch to the gut.

"Why—? Have you met me?" he barked on a near-hysterical laugh. "When have I ever given up a fight?" Battle wasn't just in his blood; it permeated his mind, body, and soul. Not just combat and bloodlust—but strength. Relentlessness in spite of odds or logic. Even now, when Scaramouche stood worn down and defeated, studying him as if searching for a reason to turn away and never look back, Childe couldn't just "give up." He couldn't.

He drew on that part of himself to fortify all the others that ached. This wasn't a fight with Scaramouche; this was a fight for him. Childe couldn't just give him up, either.

"You don't—We've already done this," he growled, raking a hand through his hair as he grappled for words. "But you know what? If you really want to go through it all again, fine! Leave the Fatui if you want, it doesn't matter! But if you think that means you're going to get rid of me, then you're ten times stupider than you always accuse me of being. I don't give up, and you know it even when you pretend you don't. You knew I'd come find you and you stayed right here anyway."

Childe's heart rioted within the void in his chest. Pounding louder than the drums of war; fighting harder than any adversary he'd ever faced. He didn't know if it fought to break free or stay buried, but the aftershocks rattled his bones. The ground felt unsteady beneath his feet.

"You know why because it's the same reason why you let me find you. But, hey—" Here he shrugged, gesturing vaguely in the Sixth's direction with the other hand on his hip. "Lucky for you, I'm always up for a good fight, so we can do this as many times as you want." Pinning that desperate stare, for the first time since their confrontation conversation began, a ghost of Childe's signature, confident smile hooked one corner of his lips. "I'll never stop. You really ought to know that by now."

[balladccr]

There is nothing more wholly asinine and laughable than this. Nothing The Balladeer would rather avoid than giving this complete moron any more attention, any more of a reason to fluff his feathers. To feel... important.

But this was a problem mostly in himself, wasn't it? Childe had become important. Horribly, disgustingly, devastatingly important.

And when someone managed to wriggle their way into that position, apparently that meant giving a damn about these trivial, utterly foolish things.

Ugh. Kill him.

Scaramouche despises the amount of thought he's put into this. As equally as he despises that his conclusion is so stupidly simple. So when Childe rounds that turn in the winding paths of the Sumeru forest, he leaps into action without missing a beat (beyond, perhaps, a quiet sigh).

From a thick branch in an even thicker tree, he descends with a charged orb of Electro nested in his palm. Scaramouche unleashes it at his target with a sharp flick of his wrist, lands in the brush several lengths ahead of him with a soft thud.

Childe will dodge it. This, Scaramouche knows in confidence. And if he doesn't? Just as well.

"I heard today's a special day of some sort," he crows as he rises to his feet. The Balladeer looks at the oaf who cursed this world on such a day so many years ago, gaze sparkling with challenge, expectation—the things he allows it to show that veil absolutely everything else. As if in promise, his fingers flutter in the air beside him, sparks bounding between thin digits. "Supposedly, that means we ought to make it something memorable. What do you think?"

// ... h-happy... birthday, childe??? Enjoy some roughhousing and sparring with your tiny bf ??? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ (but also we love the precious boy and hope he has a wonderful day! ;w;)

Answered! || @balladccr

((ahHHH his tiny bf knew exactly what he'd want for his bday!! 😭 just a casual, loving duel between boyfs asfjlkds SUCH DORKS 🥺❤️))

This was the first birthday he'd spent in Sumeru.

He made a point to return home for his siblings' birthdays when he could. (Or, at the very least, to send them something extravagant—ordering his subordinates to deliver gifts to his family's doorstep as soon as the sun rose on the exact day being celebrated.) He couldn't always manage a visit for his own birthday, but for them? It didn't matter how far he was from Snezhnaya or how urgent his current orders may be.

All the time, effort, planning...it was always worth it. That's simply what one did for the people who were most important.

Despite being far from home for his birthday this year, Childe found himself missing his family less than usual. Deep down, even his Abyss-tainted heart knew exactly why:

He was still spending it with one of those most important people.

Ugh. Just the thought made him want to kill something.

As if on cue, a rustle from the treetops drew his attention just as an orb of Electro hurtled towards him. In one fluid motion, he rolled sideways, summoned his bow in a burst of water, and sprung back to his feet. The foliage around him shook as the sphere struck the ground a few feet away.

The attack was familiar by now. He knew exactly who his "assailant" was before he straightened to face Scaramouche looming (as much as the pipsqueak could) further along the path. When their eyes locked, his own filled with glee.

"Oh, really? Where did you hear that?" Childe didn't recall telling the Sixth that particular detail, but even if he had...Heh, well wasn't it cute of him to actually remember? The promise of a fight ignited his veins in the best way—drowning out the giddy, budding warmth of something far softer that frothed underneath. "You think you've got what it takes to leave that kind of impression?" he challenged, grin curling wide. "Go ahead and try!"

No further warning given, an arrow materialized knocked and ready, and Childe fired upon his target before leaping forward, following in the arrow's wake with blades held high.

[balladccr]

Not a hero, huh?

She didn’t seem all that tickled by the title, which was as entertaining of an observation as it was subject of The Balladeer’s continued curiosity (and practically against his will at this point— Children. Children. Why was it always children?). As easily missed as that minor twitch in her expression was, he still managed to catch a little knot in her brow, a quiver in her lips like they hadn’t decided whether to fully frown or simply grimace. His own gaze narrowed somewhat while he watched her. And then… And then—

“Don’t worry ‘bout me.” “Don’t worry.” Worry—?

Scaramouche laughed.

“Oh, please! If it’s not ‘helplessness,’ then it’s always something else: you must be a bigger sucker than I thought,” he crowed, and where the mirth came from, he didn’t know. Rather, “mirth” or… something else. Another one of those forsaken things—emotions…? No, just things. Things—he wasn’t supposed to endure anymore. Couldn’t. Impossible.

A shake of his head—akin to a parent exasperated with a naive child’s antics—temporarily concealed his face from view, but when he peeked back up from the shade of his hat, his smile remained. Haughty, at this point practically drinking the silly girl’s sudden sense of urgency. “If you’re not planning on rushing in like some headstrong fool to save the day, then what exactly are you trying to do?” Scaramouche cocked his head, and his fingers drummed lazily in the fold of his arms. “They’re not causing you any trouble specifically, are they? Then why bother?”

❄️ SCARA BRO ❄️

Again, he was given pause.

One heel had barely grazed the beaten path before freezing mid-step, and Scaramouche’s balance swayed unsteadily for a bare breath before he found himself—nearly against his will—peering back. His head cocked only just enough to locate the meddlesome girl’s face out of the corner of his eye, but he needn’t focus on that expression to know what, precisely, she meant by her queries. Her tone gave it away. Just as much as it had proven her lack of childish naivety (she had giggled at him, after all: further evidence of her knowing full well what she was doing).

“Heh. Figures,” The Balladeer scoffed, and this time, it was him smiling to combat the sudden severity that had warped her expression. “I give you advice to stay away from trouble, and here you are behaving like you plan on running straight to it.” In a few trailing seconds, he continued to face away from her—as if she couldn’t possibly be less of an interest to him. But eventually, and with the poise of one who had all the time in the world and no rush to grant any of it to those unworthy, Scaramouche pivoted.

He swung his weight sideways, crossed his arms, and met the determined fire in her gaze with a passive curiosity. That same look reminded him of a certain Traveler… Perhaps that was what made it so amusing.

“Don’t tell me you’re about to go play ‘hero,’” he trilled pathetically, that earlier smirk on his face twitching into something reminiscent of disgust. “A ragtag group of imbeciles obsessed with treasure is hardly worth the time.”

   HEH, SHE... HADN’T REALISED... that HAD been a little warning on his part, hadn’t it? For as cold and distant and off putting as the bro TRIED to make himself appear to be to the little one… he had in his own way just told her then to keep away from danger, didn’t he? Told the helpless little rabbit to watch out and be wary then. As there were others out here that would not practice the same patience and propriety that he did then.

   … Was that why he had simply left those TREASURE HOARDERS be, when he had first taken notice of them? While there might be some truth to those words, Itsuki simply couldn’t take that chance. Not after the numerous times such SEEMINGLY UNSEEMLY FOLKS eventually took advantage of her people and home…

   She would firmly shake her head at that, never believing such a title to ever be befitting of her. A small inking of her own disgust dabbing briefly upon her very features, before it was gone the very next moment. Now fully replaced with nothing more than a serious resolve, in settling this matter as soon as she could.   

   “Ah… can’t take dat chance, bro…” It was a hard learnt lesson, that she could never truly let her guard down… “Plus, folks like dat are nothin’ but trouble!” What were they even looking for around these parts? As much as Itsuki hated to admit it… her little corner of this big ol’ world of theirs didn’t exactly have the most worthy treasures for them to be obtaining… “Please, bro. Tell me where ya saw ‘em…”

   She most definitely needed to at least investigate into this then, instead of simply leaving them be. 

   “An’… don’t worry ‘bout me, ah ain’t the helpless lil’ rabbit dat ya think ah am~”

[balladccr]

Again, he was given pause.

One heel had barely grazed the beaten path before freezing mid-step, and Scaramouche’s balance swayed unsteadily for a bare breath before he found himself—nearly against his will—peering back. His head cocked only just enough to locate the meddlesome girl’s face out of the corner of his eye, but he needn’t focus on that expression to know what, precisely, she meant by her queries. Her tone gave it away. Just as much as it had proven her lack of childish naivety (she had giggled at him, after all: further evidence of her knowing full well what she was doing).

“Heh. Figures,” The Balladeer scoffed, and this time, it was him smiling to combat the sudden severity that had warped her expression. “I give you advice to stay away from trouble, and here you are behaving like you plan on running straight to it.” In a few trailing seconds, he continued to face away from her—as if she couldn’t possibly be less of an interest to him. But eventually, and with the poise of one who had all the time in the world and no rush to grant any of it to those unworthy, Scaramouche pivoted.

He swung his weight sideways, crossed his arms, and met the determined fire in her gaze with a passive curiosity. That same look reminded him of a certain Traveler… Perhaps that was what made it so amusing.

“Don’t tell me you’re about to go play ‘hero,’” he trilled pathetically, that earlier smirk on his face twitching into something reminiscent of disgust. “A ragtag group of imbeciles obsessed with treasure is hardly worth the time.”

❄️ SCARA BRO ❄️

The “purdiest”? His outfit was… Excuse me—?

What was perhaps a rarity—at least for those who dared to test just how sharp his tongue could be—was The Balladeer’s rendered silence after the fact, pinning this silly girl with nothing more than a look that painted his response for him: his utter stupefaction at what could only be described as yet another ridiculous observation that came unfiltered through her quirked lips. In any other case, he would’ve assumed she was making fun of him. But in the way she held herself—the undeterred cheer, as if she was wholly unbothered by his poisonous remarks—proved it wasn’t quite the case.

She threw him off because he couldn’t read her. Oddly enough, it wasn’t naivety—obliviousness—that guided her here, made her at all unaware of his insults and desire to be left alone. (Supposedly…? But then why hadn’t he just walked away by now?) She wasn’t that entirely dimwitted, loath as Scaramouche was to admit, but then simultaneously, he failed to discern if her chipper attitude was meant to be grating, or… simply the kind of sunshine-y person she was. (Ugh.)

What an annoying puzzle. And one Scaramouche shouldn’t be wasting his time on.

“Whatever.” He didn’t entertain her ideas further, talk of where exactly rabbits stood in the grand scheme of things a hill on which he didn’t plan on dying. (He would’ve won the argument, though; just to be clear.) In the middle of a light sigh, The Balladeer adjusted his hat one more time, then moved to walk past her. “If you’re satisfied, I’d suggest you hurry on home. It’s not exactly safe out here for little critters, and something tells me the treasure hoarders I passed earlier don’t really care whether you’re helpless or not.”

   UNABLE TO HOLD BACK HER GIGGLES THEN, a single mitten would raise itself in a half-hearted attempt to muffle them back. Tightly clamped lips but still wriggling into a wavy little line, with each titter that would still manage to sound itself past them. 

   That utterly BEFUDDLED expression that would befall upon those normally unimpressed features of his was just too funny for Itsuki to try and politely bypass then! Gosh, it was almost as if he had hardly ever received a GENUINE COMPLIMENT in his life, and that couldn’t possibly be true! And… if that was actually the case… it was just too sad to think about… Something Itsuki didn’t want to linger about for long– especially now that she was here to change that!

   Lightly rolling her eyes then, Itsuki had already seen that response coming from a mile away. Still, she had tried! “Sure, ya say dat now. But ah bet yer gonna ‘ave second thoughts, da next time ya see one of ‘em, though!” With a final wag of her finger, the little one will then leave it at that. Especially upon hearing what was said next by the other. Something that would make that once playful smile of hers finally fall from her face.

   “… Wait– did’ja jus’ say TREASURE HOARDERS?” With a sudden switch in her demeanour, it would seem that this friendly little exchange between the two of them would have to come to an end. “Where are they, bro? Where did’ja pass them by?”

[balladccr]

“You’ve got it all wrong.”

He had to say that. Immediately. Before he gave himself any time to think about the words like daggers on Childe’s tongue, cutting, slicing, digging deep with a poison Scaramouche wouldn’t notice until it had fully sunk in. Down to the marrow of his bones. In the space of a breath—or not even that much—he’d bit back in this neverending (and, pride allowing, pointless) war between them, silently noting the hitches in the Eleventh’s breath and satisfied…

—but not for the reasons he should’ve been. Not because he wanted Childe to hurt. Not because he wanted him to feel low and desperate (like him). He wanted...

He wanted him—

No you don’t. You don’t want any of this. Get a grip. Move on.(You’re good at this; you’re used to this.)

Don’t find comfort in places it shouldn’t be.

A breath. The Balladeer forced himself to return when he was needed most. Bury that weakling so deep he can’t come crawling back up.

“I’m having a hard time believing I’m the scared one here,” he sighed, steering his tone now into utter boredom, a lack of interest in wherever this conversation decided to go next. (Yet here he was. Still having it.) “The Fatui was a resource. A stepping stone. One of hundreds that can easily be replaced. Just like they’ll find a way to replace me; why should I care?” He didn’t. At all. Though he kept having to remind himself, didn’t he…?

Stay buried. Stay buried. “You’ve been tossed aside again”— I know! And I don’t care!!

The next unsteady thing that came out of him was a laugh. It rumbled first on naught but air, then lifted, riding high on the roof of his mouth and fluttering out on broken wings. “You’ve been lost ever since the Abyss spat you out, Tartaglia.” Scaramouche finally moved closer to him. Close. Because for another inexplicable reason, there was an intoxicating pull against which he could not fight. Despite the animosity, the friction burning in the air between them.

He looked directly into his eyes, toe-to-toe, and searched him. Quietly. The mocking simper slowly slipped away, but his lips remained parted.

Breathe.

“Why…” That wretched thing that wasn’t supposed to exist squirmed and lurched in his chest. “Why can’t you ever just give up and walk away?”

That feeling of wrongness grew with Scaramouche's every excuse and insult: a bitter, disgustingly familiar taste on his tongue. They'd been down this same path once before. Two angry and broken souls fighting against feelings they shouldn't have, against emotions they didn't want. Refusing to acknowledge any of it for so long that, even once backed into a corner, they had no idea how to begin to try.

Scaramouche spoke as if it had all been transactional. Each side benefiting from the other—nothing more. Clash two blades together and you're bound to get sparks; that's all any of this was ever supposed to be. Which begged the question of what the hell was Childe doing here?

His lightless heart couldn't articulate the answer. But, perhaps, his reason was the same as the Balladeer's had been after the Geo Gnosis had been recovered.

If they were nothing alike, how had they both succumbed to this same infection of softness and weakness in hearts that were hardened against such things? None of this was what it was supposed to be anymore. They both knew it just as much as they both hated it.

Scaramouche had said that he didn't need the Fatui. So why did it sound like he meant...Why did it feel like he meant...?

Why did Childe care either way?

If the Abyss had robbed his heart of light, of feeling, then why hadn't it stolen his heart's ability to hurt, too?

The urge to retaliate forced him to grit his teeth. When he uncrossed his arms, it was so he could fist his fingers against that feeling—not because the Balladeer's coldness had struck a nerve. He reminded himself that fighting now wouldn't be any fun. He was already weak. It wasn't worth it. Why don't you want to hurt him back?

Oh, but he would.

"If you really think I'm the one who 'needs' the Fatui, the Traveler must've hit you harder than I thought," he sneered. "Who else do you have without us, hm? You don't have friends or a family. All you've ever been is a plaything to be passed around. The Shogun, the Tsaritsa, Dottore—one after the other, they all got tired of you eventually. Who even are you without someone pulling your strings?"

He didn't believe any of this. Childe was the one person who was here, after all. The Scaramouche he knew didn't, either. But he kept pushing. No mercy. C'mon, where's that fire of yours? Where's that fight that I lo—

This was exactly why Childe had mastered all types of weapons. He would draw blood with words if that loathsome weakness filling his hollow heart wouldn't let him do so with swords.

His next breath was ragged with the effort of forcing it out from his constricting chest, little more than a growl between his teeth. "All that you 'considered' is that you've been tossed aside again. You're just running away because you're scared that if the Tsaritsa and Dottore don't need you anymore, maybe none of the Fatui do."

In the absence of blades, his eyes were just as sharp. Through the rage and the ache fueling it hotter, he knew he'd exposed a hint of that festering weakness within himself—and now, his piercing gaze raked over Scaramouche's face, desperate to carve him open and put them on equal ground. "But yeah, sure: I'm the lost puppy who needs the Fatui."

[balladccr]

"Well, that attitude does sound like ✨the ravings of a lunatic.✨

But hey— At least you're committed to your role."

" oh? ME the PROBLEM? not at all! it's ALWAYS someone else... "

[balladccr]

"I'm gonna go out on a limb here— Maybe you're the problem."

" people seem to always misunderstand, DON'T THEY? "

[balladccr]

friendly reminder that i love my gf @howthesleeplesswander and all the ways she rips my heart out and crushes it under her foot ( ´ ∀ `)ノ～ ♡ what a dish, what a doll ! ♡

[balladccr]

Don’t think he didn’t see that, Your Royal Politeness. But, at least this was getting interesting, now.

Scaramouche’s alert glare skirted over the faint crinkles in his company’s face, surveying a civil facade gradually crumble away to what could only be assumed was amusement, and… He finds this humorous, huh? (Guess I’m just a funny guy.) Earlier agitation slunk to the back shadows of The Balladeer’s mind, and his posture slackened by just a trace. Still stiff. Still poised and prepared to combat another throwaway remark, if necessary. But the threat had dwindled—

Puh… threat? No, he wasn’t threatened. This know-it-all prince knew absolutely nothing. So whatever analysis he had to make shouldn’t wouldn’t didn’t matter.

“How many times did you recite that line?” he asked, all with an unimpressed quirk in his brow. Arms folding—entirely indifferent—across his chest, his weight swung onto one leg, and a piercing stare dulled while Scaramouche looked away. “Well played, Your Highness. Maybe you are more than the loyal little lapdog I thought you’d be, but another word of advice, since I’m so very insightful…”

His head cocked back, eyes sliding with it. “Try not to look so pleased with yourself. It’s irksome.”

balladccr​:

Regrettably, the prince had pinched a sore spot in his calm (irritatingly so) pursuit: a spot Scaramouche would vehemently refuse to admit existed—and yet in the aftermath of the prodding was still recovering from even the faintest lapse in his composure. He was so abhorrently conscious of every minor twitch in the other’s expression, every meager shift in his tone: doubtlessly, the two of them were busy analyzing each other in equal parts, and that was the root of the problem. Scaramouche didn’t want—no, he refused—to be analyzed.

He was busy making assumptions about the other. Occupied with that agitating quirk in his brow an embellishment to his persistently steady tone. But for any of that judgment to be mirrored…? No. You don’t get that privilege.

Amusing that the prince believed he could even attempt to understand.

“What a ridiculous question,” The Balladeer groused. “I exist in this tedium just like the rest of us; something is always ‘happening,’ no matter how useless that something may be.” Or someone, he should’ve announced. “Were you blessed from birth with a penchant for shoving your nose into things you shouldn’t?”

Allowing more amusement to drift into his expression, corners of his mouth pinching, faint wrinkle to the corner of his eyes rather than the mask of polite interest before, it takes everything in Nico’s power not to laugh in the other’s face. While he’s sure the other is a formidable opponent and likely has some reason to be kept around, he could think of small neighboring countries that would benefit from all the hot air the other produces, if only to help the mills grind grain.

Tedium and things happening? Well, that spoke to something of the contradictions preoccupying the other, or at least his generally disagreeable disposition. If he couldn’t be pleased with things happening or with tedium, he was almost certainly never going to be happy. But that much was obvious.

And a sickly smile bloomed on Nico’s mouth, adopting the look of one of his father’s more ingratiating advisors. “One of the hazards of being born noble, I’m afraid. Can’t do a thing about it.” A beat and the smile dropped away, revealing his expression merely interested. “Your advice about the ways of the world is very insightful.”

[balladccr]

Every muscle in his body had tightened, and each breath became more of a chore than the one before. This cycle was endless and frustrating, because Scaramouche knew it had nothing to do with physical ailments. His pride was not so swollen to believe he had fully healed after the battle (vexing weakness still thrummed in his muscles and bones), but he realized, and he hated, that the way his lungs practically collapsed on themselves was nothing but foolishness having no right to be here. Stupid. Idiotic. And so repulsively ironic to be incited by the Harbinger who fit those same descriptors.

Oh, it annoyed him. He annoyed him. But that was where this cycle performed its never-ending loop, because Childe could give him one look, say one word, breathe one breath, and it did these disgusting things to The Balladeer’s chest that only infuriated him… and thereafter made all those twisted knots coil tighter.

Shut up. Shut up. Why couldn’t you have just left well enough alone?

Why can’t I get rid of you? (Or was the question here more accurately “Why won’t I?”)

He felt that dissonance in the air. And it was amusing, in its own way, that it could bother him when their inability to get along was nothing short of natural by now, but no… the flavor of this particular discord was offensive. It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t comfortable, habitual, necessary for two lonely souls who refused to admit they ever needed or wanted anyone else. There was a static that tasted like copper on his tongue, and with every sharp word Childe threw at him, Scaramouche hated the heightening effort it took to swallow.

He should’ve been angry. He should’ve grabbed that fool by his dumb scarf and yanked him to the ground, stomped him into the earth and left him. But he— He couldn’t. Maybe he wanted to—tch, if he only knew what he wanted anymore—or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he didn’t have the energy to waste… Maybe he was just sick of this.

But once Childe was done, The Balladeer found… he still didn’t walk away. Neither of them did.

“Reduced to what, exactly? Am I supposed to think you were waiting like some lost puppy for me to come back to you—is that what you wanted?” And he played the part, now, arms folding like the disappointed owner of a mutt who had been whimpering needlessly at his feet. “No, I don’t see anything pathetic about considering my next course of action. Naturally, that sort of thing wouldn’t even occur to you.”

His next exhale stumbled out disgustingly shakier than he anticipated, but even when a fragile (pathetic) part of himself was desperate to look away, to break that eye contact and give himself a reprieve from the sea of tumultuous emotions—emotions… why?—swirling in Childe’s stare, he dug his heels into the ground, fortified his center. 

“Remember that you and I are nothing alike,” Scaramouche affirmed through clenched teeth. “I don’t need the Fatui to validate my existence. There’s nothing to be gained from either side anymore, and in that case… Maybe it’s about time I went my own way.”

The other's eventual answer was far from kind, yet the insults held none of their usual bite. Every syllable dragged with a weight that such a small frame didn't seem capable of carrying. What should have been scathing words now barely crackled with dying embers; a fire that was nearly extinguished.

Childe should be glad that Scaramouche's arrogance had been cut down to size. He should be reveling in this snotty little pipsqueak finally being put in his place. Once upon a recent time, he would have. And not just reveled—laughed and gloated, rubbed the defeat in his face.

Don't ask him why he didn't now. He didn't know. He didn't know how to admit it.

All he knew was that this was wrong.

Above everything else, that thought stuck like a sword plunged straight through his skull. Even lacking fire, each word Scaramouche spoke bloomed an odd pain at the center of his chest. But he was a child of war; that pain should have excited him as it always did. It shouldn't make him angry—it shouldn't cause this white-hot fury that simmered in Abyss-tainted veins, that clenched the fists of his crossed arms tighter with the urge to plunge his weapon into Dottore's smug face, into the Traveler's kind eyes—to inflict equal pain onto those who were the cause.

The truth was that Childe knew this feeling all too well. It was the same unbridled rage he'd felt towards the scumbag who'd broken Tonia's heart when she was fifteen. Towards the hilichurls who'd dared so much as aim their crossbows at Teucer the last time he'd been home for a visit.

This was why Childe didn't work with the other Harbingers. This was exactly why he refused to rely on anyone's strength but his own. Until the pedestal of the strongest warrior in Teyvat was his—rightfully earned through breaking and reforging himself as many times as it took—being defeated in strength was inevitable. But...this? The defeat of fight? Of spirit? Of who a person was, all because of the failure of someone else's strength?

You're better than this. Didn't you used to know that?

For a fleeting moment Scaramouche seemed to regain a flicker of that fire, but it was wielded only as a feeble attempt to order him away. Childe barked out a laugh. "Yeah, I can see that." Even the shorter boy's glare lacked the ardor he'd come to know. His own voice more than made up for the sharpness the other's lacked. "Man, so all it takes is one defeat to reduce you to this, huh? You know, you're a lot of things, princess, but I have to say: I never thought you were pathetic."

The emptiness of his eyes laid bare the storm within; all the anger, the disappointment, the ache. "Fighting you now would be a waste of time. You can barely look me in the eye; you wouldn't be worth the effort of conjuring my blades like this." Childe shook his head. "It's no wonder you didn't bother coming back. I do know just as well what the Fatui is like; and right now, it'd eat you alive."

[balladccr]

He really is trying, isn’t he? To appear entirely unperturbed… unbothered by any name or scathing remark Scaramouche sneers in his direction—? How… cute.

But even a cold, heartless puppet is practiced in this now—having spent enough time mingling with other lifeforms beneath him—and though the silly fox puts on a good show of maintaining his composure, the tightness in his tone gives him away: every word rumbling out on something reminiscent of a growl, and what do you know? “Mutt” seems like far too accurate a descriptor.

I don’t see what you’re so upset about.

But The Balladeer tucks that information away for later exploitation, and as their conversation (which a small voice in his head reminds him is entirely unnecessary: just walk away!) moves forward with the same rhythm as before, he meets Kinji’s cockiness with a deadpan. “Amusing that you assume I’d want to find him,” he retorts, face screwing up like he’d just gotten a whiff of something terrible. “I only ask because my patience to deal with imbeciles today is low.” One is more than enough.

–mutt. that insult really nails him in the chest it looks like, a grasp at his dark coating. “..mutt.” he mutters under breath while the other continued his sentence. but, they couldn’t ever find anything new, couldn’t they? it’s always going to be mutt. and, oh– if only that would, or if it could hurt the fox demon’s feelings, he would be whining and crying; yelling about how he isn’t a mutt, proving his worth and yet.. he sneers at the balladeer instead, “watch yourself.” he starts to tell him, “i’m not a mutt.” tongue to end, it rolls into a growl.

while arms have fixed back to cross across his own chest; he huffs, giving an irritated eyebrow fixture towards the other. “there’s no leash.” there was never any leash, he wanted to say but– he didn’t want to make that part of the conversation go further.. such a teasing tone taken from the fox though, maybe he should re-think this, “if tartaglia wanted you to know where he was–” almost letting a snort burst his fire, he pinches his nose– still the chuckles seep from his teeth. “why don’t you go find him?” like, kinji would ever tell him (sarcasm).

[balladccr]

The “purdiest”? His outfit was… Excuse me—?

What was perhaps a rarity—at least for those who dared to test just how sharp his tongue could be—was The Balladeer’s rendered silence after the fact, pinning this silly girl with nothing more than a look that painted his response for him: his utter stupefaction at what could only be described as yet another ridiculous observation that came unfiltered through her quirked lips. In any other case, he would’ve assumed she was making fun of him. But in the way she held herself—the undeterred cheer, as if she was wholly unbothered by his poisonous remarks—proved it wasn’t quite the case.

She threw him off because he couldn’t read her. Oddly enough, it wasn’t naivety—obliviousness—that guided her here, made her at all unaware of his insults and desire to be left alone. (Supposedly…? But then why hadn’t he just walked away by now?) She wasn’t that entirely dimwitted, loath as Scaramouche was to admit, but then simultaneously, he failed to discern if her chipper attitude was meant to be grating, or… simply the kind of sunshine-y person she was. (Ugh.)

What an annoying puzzle. And one Scaramouche shouldn’t be wasting his time on.

“Whatever.” He didn’t entertain her ideas further, talk of where exactly rabbits stood in the grand scheme of things a hill on which he didn’t plan on dying. (He would’ve won the argument, though; just to be clear.) In the middle of a light sigh, The Balladeer adjusted his hat one more time, then moved to walk past her. “If you’re satisfied, I’d suggest you hurry on home. It’s not exactly safe out here for little critters, and something tells me the treasure hoarders I passed earlier don’t really care whether you’re helpless or not.”

❄️ SCARA BRO ❄️

She wasn’t supposed to take the snide remark as a compliment, and yet the dolt was a little more than just undeterred, beaming as if he’d just bestowed upon her the highest praise. Oddly unexpected, Scaramouche was rendered yet again utterly silent while he watched the cheer light up her face, and thereafter a pair of obscured hands rise to tug at her braids peeking out from under the hat. He shrank somewhat into hunched shoulders, and crossed arms only locked tighter into place—fingers bunching up his sleeves—as his gaze stubbornly shot sidelong.

“I don’t make a habit of walking up to people and asking for their clothes,” he articulated, as if the childlike curiosity she wore was so preposterous a behavior. But even then, The Balladeer didn’t properly scold her, nor make a single move to indicate he wanted his particular article back. Only as the silly girl began twirling in the thing did he glance back, a brow arching in quiet judgment.

Indigo eyes traced the movement of the veil, seemingly bored—uninterested. And to further sell that lack of care, he made her wait a moment. Then another. Before Scaramouche finally extended that hand to accept his hat back. His fingers fluttered over the rim of it, down the sheer fabric as if to clean invisible debris after she had had her time fooling around.

As he set it back down cleanly atop his head, her words earned her another scoff. “Naturally, it would. It’s better suited for me much like fashioning yourself to look like a stupid, defenseless animal suits you.”

   WEEEELL, SHE SUPPOSE she did have a bit of practice beforehand. Especially when it came to conversatin’ with other grumpy fellas like ya, bro.

   In fact, there was just so much about you that would remind her of a certain someone… A certain samurai warlord, who was just as much of a meanie bean in his own right. Who in– his all of his meanie glory– had indeed made her cry all those seasons ago. But then unexpectedly, his biting demeanour was quick to crumble. As he had actually PANICKED, the moment he had caught sight of the tears that had begun to rim her eyes. Demanding her to STOP– and even trying– in his own awful (But still, well-meaning) way– to comfort and calm her down.

   Needless to say, it was an odd beginning to their relationship. But since then, it had definitely further opened Itsuki’s eyes to the different bonds that she would be able to form with different folks. That even a bad first impression wouldn’t actually be the end of it all. And that sometimes… things can take an even greater turn for the better.

   And she would have to try her best to stifle her giggles then, especially when it came to his huffy responses. The other not seeming to expect to react like this, which in turn, made it all so much funnier to her. And instead of tossing some sour words of her own back his way, Itsuki would once more go for the opposite approach, “Ahhhh get’cha, bro… it’s cause yer outfit’s already one-a da purdiest around!” She would conclude with her final– and most graceful twirl yet. As she directed that compliment and a wink over his way.

   And while he wouldn’t immediately take it back for her, Itsuki was quick to recover with a bounce back and a ready grin on her lips. Almost as if she hadn’t even been made to wait too long in that pose. Her hands now retreating to simply rest themselves behind her back, 

   “Now see– Dat’s what they want ya ta think, bro! Them critters ain’t as helpless as we think they are~” Itsuki had to even wag her finger lightly at him then, as she placed her other hand upon her hip.

[balladccr]

"Oh yeah; that's right. You're the little lost mutt who only follows idiots around," he drawls lazily, an air of nonchalance—or boredom, perhaps—mirroring the energy coming from the other. It's laughable, really, that this imbecile would gravitate toward those so very much like himself: two fools Scaramouche would be more than pleased to never set his eyes on again—

If he were only so lucky.

Barely resisting a roll of his eyes, The Balladeer gazes off in quiet rumination for a lingering second. "So. Is Tartaglia somewhere nearby? Or has his leash on you slackened?"

           oh, yeah– “you bet.” he says, irritation from the other seemingly to feed into his scheming, slick grin. though, slack from his shoulder to lean on his foot hold. acting nonchalant around him, leaning on his own while the fox picks at his dirty, ashy nails. almost SPITTING as a recoil to the accusation, disrespectfully– kinji scans his build back. agitated, like he even had to point him out, jabbing at him, “i’d have no reason to follow you around.” that’s true. as far as kinji knows, for right now. “i don’t need a contract with you anyways.” that’s the only reason kinji would ever follow someone out of his own free will– 

[balladccr]

"Get yourself a man who doesn't get off every single time someone flashes a knife at him. You never know where that type of guy has been. And with whose knife."

Or, better yet? Don't associate with anyone at all ever. Words of advice.

[balladccr]

sorry for the inactivity! i have a disease called "i get stupidly stressed out over a dumb website called tumblr to the point of being afraid to start new things with the worry i'll just stress myself out by having 'too much' but then also not having enough to do since i'm forever scared of actually starting anything"

but how's it hanging for you folks?

[balladccr]

Regrettably, the prince had pinched a sore spot in his calm (irritatingly so) pursuit: a spot Scaramouche would vehemently refuse to admit existed—and yet in the aftermath of the prodding was still recovering from even the faintest lapse in his composure. He was so abhorrently conscious of every minor twitch in the other’s expression, every meager shift in his tone: doubtlessly, the two of them were busy analyzing each other in equal parts, and that was the root of the problem. Scaramouche didn’t want—no, he refused—to be analyzed.

He was busy making assumptions about the other. Occupied with that agitating quirk in his brow an embellishment to his persistently steady tone. But for any of that judgment to be mirrored…? No. You don’t get that privilege.

Amusing that the prince believed he could even attempt to understand.

“What a ridiculous question,” The Balladeer groused. “I exist in this tedium just like the rest of us; something is always ‘happening,’ no matter how useless that something may be.” Or someone, he should’ve announced. “Were you blessed from birth with a penchant for shoving your nose into things you shouldn’t?”

balladccr​:

    He flinched before he could stop himself. Not a full-body tremor—no, nothing so telling and weak—but a twitch across all his fingers: a short jerk of those thin digits curling ever so slightly into his palms. The so-called prince had refused to grant him a real response, and further had the audacity now to deflect those words back, attempt to pin Scaramouche beneath a irritatingly knowing look… As if he had any idea, any upper hand here—

    Status-wise, perhaps.     But the Balladeer certainly had no care toward that.     You’re not above me.

    When he breathed again, his exhale skated past his teeth in a contemptuous tsk. Scaramouche shook his head. “Why would I? I’ve never been stupid enough to try it,” he sneered. Because of course he hadn’t. How foolish did you have to be to trust anything a pathetic human so much as sneezed? “If I had, do you think I’d be standing here in one piece in front of you now, delighting in this conversation? No.”

Nico catches the twitch, the hitch in the other’s breath. He struck a nerve, but it’s tricky to tell if it’s a particularly personal chord or just a personal gripe. From Nico can tell of the other so far, there’s most likely a wide overlap between the two areas. Not that this gives Nico much to work on either, but it does feel nice to make the first touch.

Stupid enough to try something though, Nico decides, silently replying to the other even as he holds his face carefully neutral. It’s still at least obvious to him that the other has already formed several opinions about him without even knowing anything about the prince, and his expression finally shifts, a single eyebrow cocking.

“So did something happen to you or were you just blessed from birth as such a charming conversationalist?”

[balladccr]

" you ready ? hah, that was a rhetorical question . " kaeya quickly adds before the other can get a snarky remark in.

" well, then, let's go ~ " / idk how but kaeya roped him to come along . they're probably going ice skating alslslwls

@geleum || it's been too long since the Pest™ has asserted his dominance u-u

"I'm impressed."

His tone says otherwise, monotonous and bored with his companion... as opposed to the usual irritation.

"I thought you'd already reached peak idiocy." He folds his arms while the fool moves to step onto the ice: quite literally in his element, and a place Scaramouche personally prefers not to be. "No, I'd rather watch, actually," hums The Balladeer as he very uncooperatively takes a seat on the ground like a toddler refusing to move when asked.

"Don't be careful, please." Said, of course, with a sickeningly sweet smile.