Chapter Text
It’s almost scary how well Scaramouche takes to his new job as a Fatui Harbinger.
It’s like you were made for this, people would say, and Scaramouche would only respond with a confident smirk. He’s swift, ruthless, cold-blooded - all signs of a capable killer, and just the sort of leader the Tsaritsa was looking for. It wasn’t long before Scaramouche was rising the ranks, becoming one of the most powerful members of the affiliation.
However, being powerful did not always equate to being respected.
Scaramouche was infamous for his sharp tongue. His ruthlessness in battle was reflected in his everyday mannerisms; he was harsh and unforgiving, shutting down any good intentions that ran his way. The only way he maintained power over his underlings was through pure threat -- no one wanted to be on the receiving end of Scaramouche’s active wrath. Better to do what he says and complain about him later, in the safety of the shadows.
Scaramouche isn’t stupid. Far from it, actually. He has a keener mind than people expect. As such, it doesn’t take him long to catch on to the sheer dislike he’s accumulated in his years. He hears the hushed whispers and the fabricated rumours, sees the dirty looks that are thrown his way. Admittedly, he had, at first, been a little annoyed - he became more irritated and snappy the more those behaviours persisted - but as time passed, he resolved to let the smaller things go. Let them call him whatever they like. So long as they did their job when it came to it, Scaramouche had no qualms.
Tartaglia was the first one to confront him about it all. At the time, he had simply been the new recruit; Scaramouche had been asked to act as a temporary mentor of sorts, letting Tartaglia tag along his missions. (Suffice to say, Scaramouche hadn’t been thrilled with the arrangement, but a direct order from the Tsaritsa was not to be denied.)
“You know everyone hates you, right?”
Scaramouche had been startled, to say the least. After all, it was the sort of topic that everyone was aware of, but never dared bring to light. To hear it stated so bluntly was a surprise Scaramouche hadn’t been expecting.
He quickly steeled his face back into one of indifference. If Tartaglia noticed his momentary shock, he said nothing. “Yes.”
“... Are you going to do anything about it?”
He only chuckled humourlessly. “I couldn’t care less about what those fuckers think of me. Now get back to work. Gossiping isn’t part of the job description.”
If Tartaglia noticed anything about how quickly Scaramouche shut down the conversation, he said nothing.
What Scaramouche cares about is irrelevant. He needs to only carry out the orders of the Tsaritsa. Emotions are secondary. Any dreams are crushed under the voice of duty.
(It is only in the dead of night that Scaramouche will let himself dream about maple leaves, whistled tunes, and the soft laughter of a life he’d let go.)
“Have you ever thought about leaving?”
“What, leaving Inazuma?” Scaramouche looks at his friend like he’s grown a third eye. “Are you insane?”
Kazuha simply hums. Scaramouche thinks it strange that Kazuha says nothing to his baseless accusation - Kazuha is the farthest thing from insane. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t acknowledge the comment, because he knows that it’s hardly a threat.
“Perhaps,” Kazuha says, the lilt in his voice indicative of a soul far beyond a twelve-year-old. His eyes are trained on the horizon ahead of them, his piercing gaze trained on nothing in particular. Then he turns that gaze to Scaramouche, and Scaramouche feels as though his breath has been pulled right out of his lungs. “Answer the question.”
It’s not a demand, per se, because Kazuha never demands anything of anyone, but there is an underlying sense of urgency that makes Scaramouche’s skin prickle.
“Why would I want to leave?” Scaramouche chuckles. “I have everything I’ve ever wanted here. Besides, I could never leave you behind.”
For a moment, Kazuha says nothing. He simply stares, but Scaramouche can practically hear the gears turning in his head. It’s almost frightening to see Kazuha thinking so hard about the words he’s said. Scaramouche briefly turns over his sentences in his head, wondering if he’d said something wrong, wondering what in the world Kazuha could possibly be over-analyzing.
After what feels like an eternity but could only have been a few seconds, Kazuha smiles; there’s something melancholic in his eyes, however, and Scaramouche is about to ask what’s wrong when Kazuha says: “Okay. I believe you.” Because Kazuha trusts him.
And Scaramouche must have been a fool, because he was the one that went and threw all that trust away.
But as he recalls Kazuha’s calculating yet fearful gaze, he slowly realizes that maybe Kazuha knew he’d leave all along. Somehow, Kazuha’s always seemed to know him better than he knows himself.
He wonders if Kazuha had predicted all of this. Wonders why Kazuha had decided to stick around, even knowing that Scaramouche would eventually leave.
Wonders if Kazuha knew what he would eventually become, wonders why he didn’t stop him.
Usually, Scaramouche receives direct orders from the Tsaritsa. It’s how she runs the system -- making her underlings face her on a daily basis serves as a reminder of her power, a reminder of who they are ultimately serving. Today, however, he receives but a simple knock on the door, is met with the stoic face of one of the Tsaritsa’s few messengers, and is tasked of heading to Liyue Harbour.
He wrinkles his nose at the news. Liyue Harbour is a far commute from where he is currently residing, and it is commonly bustling with people. Most of them don’t react kindly to a Fatui Harbinger parading amongst their ranks. “What business do I have there?”
“The Northland Bank has sent news that Tartaglia seems to have been slacking on his tasks recently. Her Majesty would like you to check in on him.”
The words fill Scaramouche with rage. If Tartaglia is slacking, that’s his problem -- why must Scaramouche act as babysitter? But the Tsaritsa gets what she wants, so Scaramouche simply grits his teeth and dismisses the messenger.
This is how Scaramouche finds himself walking through Liyue Harbour. By the time he has arrived, the day has reached mid-afternoon, and the Harbour is practically alive with the amount of people present. He makes a beeline for the stairs up to Northland Bank, though he is not oblivious to the strange looks that are thrown his way. His hat sticks out like a sore thumb, but he keeps his head high and carries himself as proudly as possible.
Entering the Northland Bank is like a breath of fresh air. For one, it’s almost completely empty, save for the blank gaze of Ekaterina and the faint sound of chatter in the back rooms. Secondly, Scaramouche can stop holding his breath. He’s a Fatui, in Fatui territory. He can relax.
Ekaterina straightens up upon seeing him. “Sir,” she greets.
Scaramouche squints, making no move to acknowledge the greeting. “Where is Tartaglia?” He demands.
He knows he will not get an answer, not when the Northland Bank themselves are the ones requesting assistance in locating the man, but he might as well try to get some leads. “I do not know, sir,” Ekaterina says. “He has not shown up to work for the past three days. He has left a note in his chambers, claiming he has ‘good reason’ for his disappearance, but I thought it necessary to report to the headquarters, should something be happening.”
Scaramouche lets out a hum. So the bastard is being vague. So be it. “Very well. I will go find him.”
“Will you be requiring assistance, sir?”
He sneers at this, barely noticing the way Ekaterina flinches. “I do not need your assistance. You will be more of a hindrance than anything.” He pauses, then adds, as an afterthought, “If he returns while I am gone, keep him here. I will be back at the end of the day, regardless if I find him or not.”
Ekaterina nods, keeping her head down in a semi-bow. “Understood, sir.”
Scaramouche didn’t think it would be this hard to find a 6”0 ginger in Liyue Harbour.
He spends hours scouring the harbour, trying to find sign of the boisterous Harbinger; his search proves all but fruitless. As the hours pass, it becomes increasingly harder to ignore his aching feet. Added on top of the hot summer sun, the continuous strange looks he receives, and his pre-existing anger at the stupid task, Scaramouche’s irritation is quickly reaching a breaking point.
“I swear to the Archons, when I find this bastard, I’m going to skin him alive,” Scaramouche curses under his breath. Tartaglia owed him big for this.
Four hours into the search, he finally decides to bite the bullet and ask around. He tries to put on his best polite face, so as to obtain the best and quickest cooperation. (If he’s speaking through gritted teeth, that’s for him to know.)
“Excuse me, have you seen a tall ginger in gray clothes and a mask on his head? He’s kind of loud and annoying, it’s hard to miss him.” The small jab at the end was unintentional.
“Oh, I think I saw someone similar heading that way.” The person points across the bridge, towards Mt. Tianheng. “I think there was someone else with him, with white hair.”
Scaramouche bows his head in quick thanks before heading towards the mountains. Fueled by his anger at Tartaglia, he merely acknowledges the extra detail as an accessory. Tartaglia is known to be a social butterfly, after all. To see him slacking off in the company of another isn’t uncommon. Maybe he has a new lover, Scaramouche muses with a smirk on his face, That would be something he could tease Tartaglia with for an eternity.
Scaramouche hears them before he sees them. As previously mentioned, Tartaglia is loud and boisterous; his voice carries through the valleys with ease. As he strains his ear to get a better sense of the source’s location, Scaramouche faintly detects a soft laughter as well.
There’s something about the laughter that pulls an unknowing smile onto Scaramouche’s face. It feels like warmth, comfort, home.
(And maybe, somewhere deep down inside of him, Scaramouche has a hidden inkling as to who that laughter might belong to, but he’s been living in so many years of wishful thinking that he writes it off even before he consciously processes the thought.)
He follows the sound. For once, he is grateful for how loud Tartaglia is; he locates the man swiftly, and is about to confront him when -
Scaramouche stills.
Tartaglia’s silhouette is unmistakable. He is standing with his back facing Scaramouche, head thrown back into a fit of laughter, and just over his shoulder, Scaramouche is given a clear look at the face that is giggling alongside him.
White hair. A red streak. Eyes that are shut as he laughs, but eyes that Scaramouche knows will glow a vibrant red when they are once again opened.
Scaramouche’s throat runs dry.
For a moment, he simply stands there. There are so many things he’s thinking of all at once. He’s still alive. He looks happy. He’s safe. How did he get out? Why is his hand bandaged? Why is he with Tartaglia? Does he even want to see me?
And at the same time, Scaramouche is thinking nothing at all. His head is just white space. There is nothing but a faint buzz.
It finally occurs to Scaramouche that he’s been standing and staring for longer than necessary, and at any moment now they might notice him, and that is enough to send Scaramouche running back into hiding.
As much as he wishes to speak to the other, he knows he isn’t ready. Not yet.
He makes his way back to the Northland Bank. He will state a feeling of sudden illness, will tell Ekaterina that he couldn’t find Tartaglia, but that if they are to look anywhere, perhaps Tartaglia has hid in the mountains.
He wonders where the dampness on his cheeks came from.
“Strange,” Childe mutters as he checks behind him once again. “I could’ve sworn I heard someone there.”
“Oh, really?” Kazuha says. “I heard no such thing.”
“Huh. Maybe I’m just too high-strung.” Childe shrugs. “Well, let’s bring these Qingxin flowers back to Aether, comrade! He must be getting worried soon.”
Kazuha acquiesces, and lets Childe lead the way.
He’d been lying. Kazuha’s senses had detected the third party long before Childe had noticed anything. But he had said nothing.
He couldn’t, not when he knew exactly who it was.
It was him. He was here.
Kazuha clenches his fist.
So why did he leave?