#hey man B))) angrily kissing him is the best way to get childe to stfu

[howthesleeplesswander]

They had done this before. A laughably short time ago, in fact. And it was only because of that previous disaster that Childe recognized the devastating feeling that intensified the longer Scaramouche stared. His pulse raced and stuttered enough that the vibrations threatened to quake his entire frame. That damnable feeling rendered him helpless; seizing control of limbs and lungs alike until his chest was crushed in an iron grip.

Not the explosive heat of anger that he should still be feeling over this ridiculous ordeal, but the opposite. Instead, creeping ice squeezed his heart until it trembled, then ached even more in disgust of itself. Ensnared by the one thing a weapon of war should never feel.

This was... Was this really what fear felt like?

Childe hated it. He hated that he had no idea what Scaramouche was thinking behind that baffled stare. Hated that he had no idea if his presence, his declarations...if he—damn it all!—was enough.

He had no idea what he would do if he wasn't.

The half-smile on his lips nearly buckled beneath the weight of those fears. Sharp and fragile as glass. Heat bloomed across the back of his neck, but it was that of shame instead of anger, and Childe swallowed hard against it. This was still a fight—though one far different from the sort of battles where he was confident and comfortable. He wouldn't back down. He wouldn't lose. He couldn't lose when that meant losing Scaramouche, too.

Before he broke the suffocating silence himself, the Sixth finally found his voice. Such a simple, mild declaration was first met with an astonished blink. But as the words registered...

Slowly, Childe's expression lit up as the tremor in his veins quieted. Between anyone else, those words would be devastating: an ending both solemn and final. Truly, the laughter that bubbled out in response was only fitting.

They weren't like anyone else, were they? They were a joke. An unwanted impossibility to which neither of them had ever agreed.

And yet, here they were. Together again against all odds.

Sudden as his movements were, Scaramouche's eyes betrayed his intent split-seconds before the pounce. The yank at his scarf was only for show, though—for Childe bent to meet him willingly. Eagerly.

The kiss was harsh and bruising as their insults. When they parted that minute distance, Childe's grin was much the same as after he'd won a particularly arduous battle. "How could I ever forget when you're so diligent about reminding me?" he chuckled, his breath fanning against Scaramouche's lips still so tantalizingly close. In spite of both of them, his tone could only be called affectionate.

In one swift motion, an arm snaked around Scaramouche's waist while the opposite hand flicked down on the back brim of his ridiculous hat. Childe's grin sharpened wolfishly as the accessory tumbled to the ground.

"Hate you, too, princess. Though, how 'bout next time you don't make me trek all the way to Sumeru to prove it, huh? Since you always claim to be so smart, and all." But he gave the Sixth no time to respond before closing that distance again. Childe claimed that smart mouth with all the passion of their shared "hatred," drawing his smaller frame into the proper circle of his arms to prevent him from fleeing from this again.

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.”