#scara: THAT'LL SHOW YOU 3:<< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[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."