Chapter Text
Out of all the Harbingers, Tartaglia was the one Scaramouche couldn’t stand the most.
Their initial meeting left an irritating itch on his skin. An itch that never goes away, just like Tartaglia himself.
Scaramouche was a little too familiar with condescension than he wanted to be. Stature somehow was a precursor for underestimating someone’s capabilities. Intimidating was the last thing one would associate to a person who’s a head shorter than them. Surely, a short man would be an easy target. Wrong.
He loathed the fact that opponents sized him up quickly as much as he delighted in it. Fools, ignorant fools, who never learn not to let appearances deceive them. Must they brandish mighty arrogance before him, better have what it takes to back up all that talk. He’s always partially let down when it transpired to the typical outcome: audacity was all those idiots had. Disappointment never outweighed the satisfaction though. He liked how they stuck their heads to the ground where it belonged.
Begging for mercy. Egos destroyed. Dignity abandoned in the ruins of conflict.
Scaramouche found getting underestimated to his liking over time – the aftermath of misleading others into a trap was thrilling. People will view him as weak regardless. Then, so be it. He’ll have his fun later.
That was until Tartaglia joined. The eleventh Harbinger was no different from others; he carried himself with a wretched air of self-assurance and also had the audacity to grate on his nerves as soon as they first met. Scaramouche was not only pissed off – he was livid at Tartaglia’s unwitting approach.
It was one thing to underestimate his strength, but to think of him as a child? Tartaglia wished for a death sentence.
Genuine shock on the newly appointed Harbinger weighed insignificantly to Scaramouche at the time. Red had blinded his vision and clouded his judgment, nothing but bloodshed was on his mind as his veins pulsed violently. Had it been a silly mistake, an honest blunder on Tartaglia’s part that bear no vile intention, Scaramouche was too infuriated for the situation to deescalate.
Either way, it wasn’t a problem.
He would have been startled, if temper hadn’t reared its head greedily at the height of his emotions. In-fights occur inside the Fatui. Tartaglia was the first, though, whose eyes gleamed with childlike excitement as the threat of violence loomed over his head. He couldn’t put if it was stupidity or bravery, or an atrocious mix of both. The other had just been eager at the prospect of getting his ass handed to him.
What a crazy fool. Scaramouche thought back then.
Much to his chagrin, Tartaglia was not a fool on the grounds of battle.
And his win hardly felt like one at all.
Tartaglia is the Harbinger he had the most displeasure of meeting again and again.
Joint missions between two Harbingers weren’t scarce. The issue here is, Scaramouche was rarely assigned to work with another due to his lovely rapport with the other Harbingers – none of them got along with him. No one likes him, he doesn’t like any of them. He’d rather keep it that way.
The last time he breathed in the same space with another Harbinger felt distant. He can’t even remember who it was.
The last time until – Tartaglia.
Tartaglia approaches him a lot. Lips curved amicably, gaze slanted slyly. He mingles with him as though they share a form of affinity, a bond. Ridiculous. Cynicism drills repeatedly into his skull, mistrusting of the interest the eleventh Harbinger has taken in him. Given his history in the Fatui’s ranks, it’s impossible for Tartaglia to harbor an ingenuous misconception of the Harbingers.
Even among the lowest of recruits, friendship is unheard.
What's hidden behind fascination is unknown. Perhaps, it hides nothing. Tartaglia engages not in the wildfire of malicious stories about others nor about him, and chases merely for self-content. Gratifying a personal, selfish desire.
Maybe, Tartaglia just doesn’t think when he acts or speaks. He strikes Scaramouche as such.
“Why the long face?” Irritatingly jovial as ever, Tartaglia flashes a grin he deems as nothing but trouble. “Aren’t you excited we’re working together again?”
Scaramouche scoffs. Tartaglia must be in good spirits if he was already this annoying. Best to ignore him, he might get the memo and fuck off.
“How cold! Not even the usual insult? And they say you never know when to shut up.”
Of course, that’s never the case.
“I’ll stitch your mouth shut if you open it one more time.”
Tartaglia’s eyebrows disappear behind ginger fringe, clearly satisfied upon provoking a reaction out of him. Archons, he’s so insufferable. Who thought it was a brilliant idea to bring in a man-child? More importantly, whose idea was it to pair them up for the third time?
Oh, the ever loving Tsaritsa must be getting a kick out of his suffering.
He pins a dubious glare at Tartaglia when he doesn’t hear from him again. His suspicion is met by another one of Tartaglia’s vexing grins followed by another gap of silence. If Scaramouche hadn’t known better, he would have thought the youngest Harbinger actually heeded the threat to sew his mouth shut. But he knew better, and Tartaglia won’t stay quiet for long, unfortunately.
“You truly wound me, Balladeer. And here I thought we’ve been getting along quite well.” Tartaglia bemoans while clutching his chest.
Scaramouche barely bats an eyelash at the exaggerated display of hurt. Recognizing an actor when he sets his sight on one, and because Celestia knows they do not get along. It’s all theatrics to Tartaglia. Only a fool would believe the words that he strings together; only a fool who doesn’t distinguish the artificial layer in the lilt of his voice.
He doesn’t trust Tartaglia as far as he can throw him across the room.
“I was excited myself when I found out I’m heading to Inazuma with you.”
Rolling his eyes, Scaramouche asks. “Excited?”
There’s no real curiosity in humoring the other. Scaramouche’s actions lie on the intent of insulting Tartaglia for whatever response that’s going to come. It’s bound to be senseless, aimed to get a rise out of him, and he sees it coming from a mile away.
“It’s fun when you’re around.” Tartaglia speaks in a tone that’s strangely absent of ridicule.
Scaramouche goes to a frightening still, not expecting that kind of response. It sounded a bit too honest to be something that intends to piss him off. Honesty is not something he expects from Tartaglia.
“What do you mean?” His brows furrow.
All hints of wiliness vacate Tartaglia for a split moment.
He fails to catch on the act of contemplation. Ignorance nabs the remains of his composure, nothing bothered him the most than failing to deconstruct a person down to their bits, revealing everything he has to learn. He refuses identifying Tartaglia as a conundrum but Scaramouche can’t deny that he’s struggling to get a read on him and pinpoint what exactly motivates his actions.
“I believe my words were clear. Even if you’re that tiny, I’m sure your brain is big enough to understand.” Tartaglia smirks.
It dawns to him that he was right not to trust a single thing that comes out of Tartaglia’s mouth.
Half an hour hasn’t even passed since they’ve been in each other’s presence, and yet, he’s already considering violence against the younger Harbinger. Scaramouche glares at Tartaglia with ferocity that made lesser men cower. He doesn’t attain a similar reaction, instead the other even has the nerve to grin in return.
“You’re already testing my patience, Tartaglia.” He yanks him down to his height. “Watch that damn mouth of yours or else.”
He doesn’t have the time nor does he wants to indulge whatever Tartaglia is playing at.
“Or else what?” Tartaglia challenges.
Scaramouche sees the spark of hunger in blue eyes, a look he has received countless of times from their first encounter. The poorly concealed excitement plants a wicked idea in his mind. Soon, he relaxes as if he wasn’t so close to bashing Tartaglia’s head with his knee just a few moments ago.
A fight is what Tartaglia wants? Then, like hell he’s giving him that.
“Ah, I forgot.” Scaramouche’s face falls, scowl smoothed down into a flat line.
He keeps the apathetic front even as Tartaglia’s eyes lose its shine. Childlike glee dying in its wake, trampled over like a lone flower on a road. Not yet, Scaramouche reminds himself. He can’t be smug yet.
“Anyways, I’ll let you off this time.” He lets go of Tartaglia’s bunched cloth and reaches up to mess with his hair, purposefully knocking his mask off place. “Because you’re adorable with that stupid look on your face.”
Scaramouche steps back. Finally allowing malevolent satisfaction weave upon his features. Tartaglia looks exactly like a child who had his candy stolen. Scaramouche just beat him at his own game. Until this moment, Scaramouche has never felt so immensely content. Though the high of victory doesn’t last long. Tartaglia promptly gets over his shock, regaining his senses and composing himself.
He sighs before fixing a peculiar look at Scaramouche. The fusion of awe and exasperation, if both could mesh together in one expressive glance.
“There really is no dull moment with you.” The corner of Tartaglia’s lips present the tiniest hint of a quirk, amused.
Scaramouche ignores him.
Sooner or later, they’d be back at each other’s throats. An inevitable predicament for those around them and for himself as well. From the incident earlier and even before, Tartaglia is still a puzzle he can’t solve. Threats don't daunt him, arguments are entertainment for him, and he doesn’t understand where his fucking place is.
He doesn’t know what to do with Tartaglia nor how to keep him away.
Scaramouche has been all but friendly. Deliberately acting shitty towards Tartaglia because it’s easier to ward off people than maintain some semblance of a proper relationship. It worked on the other Harbingers. So, why wasn’t it working on Tartaglia? Explanations that make sense never surface, sound logic doesn't apply to him. Scaramouche flipped his brain upside down and right side up, and still comes up empty-handed.
Tartaglia comes back. Again, and again, and again.
And it’s frustrating, an annoyance.
As Tartaglia continues on approaching him in his own volition, lingering even if it’s only to be a pest towards him, he will reach a point where he is used to Tartaglia’s presence. With his tolerance improved, and without the conscious effort to endure the eleventh Harbinger’s brazen nature, he would rather deal with him than any other Harbinger.
He’s not entirely happy with what that entails.
If Scaramouche were to tell his past self that he’ll accompany Tartaglia while he scouts for souvenirs in the near future, past him would have laughed at the sheer impossibility.
And yet, for some unfathomable reason, Scaramouche is standing at one of Inazuma’s crowded temples because Tartaglia wants a photo of the place. Tsaritsa, I’m losing all the patience I have left for this man-child. Tartaglia is perfect opposite to the irritable state he’s in, seemingly unbothered and questionably appreciates the constant buzz around the area.
“It’s rather lively here, isn’t it?” Tartaglia says, glancing around eagerly.
“I’m sweating like a pig. It’s disgusting.” Scaramouche complains.
The last thing he expected to hear was a laugh. A stupid hearty laugh as if Tartaglia enjoys being here – in the middle of a crowd, sweaty and gross. Is Tartaglia crazy? Maybe, he is. Scaramouche doesn’t want to share his madness. He wants to get out of this place the sooner the better and if they don’t he might just end Tartaglia right then and there.
“Come on, it’s not that bad. You probably haven’t been here since a long time.”
Scaramouche looks up to Tartaglia wearing the gravest deadpan he can muster. I never planned on coming back.
“Just take the picture so we can leave.” He urges, teeth grinding angrily.
Paying no mind to Scaramouche’s impatience, Tartaglia checks the kamera in his hold, setting it up for the last time.
“Yeah, yeah. Wanna be in the photo?” He turns to him, genuinely asking.
Scaramouche stares at him with heated confusion. Why would he want to? Tartaglia must have hit his head hard if his brain was functioning on a state worse than usual today.
“No.” Still, being none the wiser, Scaramouche provides a verbal answer.
“Suit yourself.” Tartaglia shrugs.
He then finally does what they came to the temple for, probably taking an ugly photo of an Inazuman temple packed with people. Scaramouche doesn’t see the appeal. Overcrowded temples weren’t any spectacle to behold, let alone worthy to be captured in film. He would have brought Tartaglia somewhere less popular but as sacred if it wasn't for their tight schedule.
Scaramouche frowns when he realizes his train of thought. That meant he didn’t mind acting like a tour guide for Tartaglia, when in fact, all of this was against his will. Scaramouche doesn’t even know why he let the younger have his way in the first place.
“Look," Tartaglia flips the picture to his direction. "I took a nice photo, right?”
What a complete waste of good film. His hunch was right. It looks like a random photo of Inazuman people blocking most of the shrine. Tartaglia isn’t even in it. Not that Scaramouche would take the photo himself. Enduring the crowd under the sweltering heat of Inazuma was the extent of his generosity. Tartaglia is undeserving of more.
Scaramouche doesn't bother sugarcoating his words. “It’s a shitty photo.”
“Is that so?” Tartaglia purses his lips as he looks at the photo again. “I think I clearly caught the spirit of this place though.”
The people? He took a picture of the people?
Scaramouche utters his next words without hesitation. “You’re fucking weird.”
“Uh, uh.” Tartaglia waggles his index finger before Scaramouche's face. “It’s bad to curse at a temple. You’re tainting the holiness.”
With this size of a crowd, the temple barely retained the holiness Tartaglia preached about. He keeps the thought within himself though. Nothing can diminish Tartaglia’s mood, not even his sharp and cutting words.
He doesn’t feel like starting an argument with him, anyway.
“Whatever. Let’s leave now you got your photo.” Scaramouche eyes it distastefully. “What do you even need it for?”
He can’t think of anything the photo would be of use. Unless, Tartaglia is a complete weirdo and gets off from obscure pictures of people and supposedly sacred places. He holds back a disturbed shudder, that’s none of his concern.
“Oh.” Tartaglia breathes out, faintly surprised at his inquiry. “I’m sending it to my siblings as a souvenir when we get back home because they won’t be able to come here personally.”
The sudden shift of tone grabs Scaramouche’s interest. He glances at Tartaglia, and finds an expression he’s hasn’t seen on him before. Edges of his features were soft with unabashed affection, almost appearing gentle. Seeing a different side of Tartaglia disperses a portion of the irritation he felt. Instead, he’s intrigued and at a loss.
“Never thought you’d be a family person.” Scaramouche notes quietly, not intending the other to hear him.
It’s not something he would have related to Tartaglia. Not when all he’s ever witnessed is the freak with an absurd lust for fighting. The realization that Tartaglia isn’t just a battle maniac spurs churning in his stomach that Scaramouche can’t discern whether to be nauseating or odd. Tartaglia is encompassed with many facets and recognizing this will cost him again.
The caricature that is Tartaglia’s mask falls apart and it reveals another person before him.
As Scaramouche thought of it, Tartaglia’s loyalty not only to her Majesty’s cause but towards Tsaritsa herself finally clicks to him. Devotion like that doesn’t stem from nothing. Tartaglia is different, he's unlike him who caged the remains of his humanity. Locked away never to be touched again.
“There’s more to me than meets the eyes, Balladeer.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” He grumbles. “We’re going now.”
Scaramouche doesn’t wait for Tartaglia and starts walking to the exit, navigating through the horde of people with practiced ease. Tartaglia catches up to him once the crowd has thinned out, falling into step with the older Harbinger.
“Going where?” Tartaglia voices out his curiosity.
“Where you can buy stuff for your family.”
Should he be questioned, Scaramouche isn't sure himself why he said that.
Scaramouche opts not to mull over what he’s about to do. There are things that he simply feels like doing, and it just so happens that he feels like being nice to Tartaglia today because he can be nice to him. He doesn’t need a particular reason for it. Kindness is inherent even though it’s something others normally wouldn’t anticipate from him.
He inhales sharply. Rationalizing isn’t helping.
Scaramouche turns his attention back to Tartaglia who he expects a bout of teasing from.
“Really? Cool.”
Tartaglia flashes a sincere smile and the teasing never comes.
Apparently, Tartaglia interprets his inquiry earlier as an invitation to tell stories about his siblings as Scaramouche guides them to the closest street market from the temple. Luck seems to be on Tartaglia’s side because there’s a minor festival currently held in the area of Inazuma they were assigned to. There are variety of items that he can choose from to take home for his family.
Scaramouche swallows the discomfort bubbling in his throat like a bitter pill. He hates the nostalgia that walking through familiar streets bring him. Somehow, Tartaglia’s ceaseless chatter helps distract him from it. Scaramouche focuses on his voice instead. If he were to suffer, he'd pick what poison to die from.
Listening gains him more pieces of Tartaglia despite not directly disclosing about himself.
Based on his stories, he assumes Tartaglia is the oldest among his siblings, or older than the ones starring in his anecdotes. All of them sound very close to each other, how nice. There's no doubt that Tartaglia considers his family as everything to him. Should he choose between his family and their cause, he wouldn’t be shocked if Tartaglia picks his family.
Envy prickles lightly on his sternum.
Scaramouche ignores the sensation as he ignores everything linked to weakness. Quelling the beginnings of emotion before it comes to complete existence, palpable, real.
“And Tonia got so angry at me for siding with Anthon—”
“Interesting.” He cuts Tartaglia off. “We’re here.”
Tartaglia is upset at the interruption but his expression immediately morphs into wonder when his gaze lands upon the spectacle before them. Arrays of shops – an endless illusion from where they stood; streams of lanterns hanging overhead, elaborate designed crests, and paper fans in bursts of color.
Tartaglia admires everything, akin to a child once again, causing a faint surge of pride inside Scaramouche.
“Woah.” He says in rapt awe.
This pales in comparison to the actual festival of the season but if Tartaglia is easily impressed, he’ll let him be.
“I trust your conversational skills are decent.” Scaramouche says to gain Tartaglia’s attention. “Some things sold here are hardly worth their price. I’d tell you to spend wisely but I know being smart isn’t something you’re capable of.”
Tartaglia chuckles. “Of course, of course. How naive of me to think you’d be nice to me the whole day.”
“Have fun. I’ll be watching.” Scaramouche smiles innocently.
Though, what happens after is far from his expectations. Tartaglia wasn’t bad nor good in his language. He stumbles over his own tongue, mispronounces some words, and comprehends basic phrases at most. But, for some goddamn reason in every stall they stop by, the sellers are charmed by him. He doesn’t even have say much, discounts are offered to him on a platter.
Scaramouche’s annoyance spikes with each star struck, doe eyed stare Tartaglia receives from lady vendors. It annoys him even more that Tartaglia reciprocates. He tunes out after the third victim of Tartaglia’s charisma until he hears something noteworthy.
“I’m Childe. And you, pretty like flower, are?”
A name. It’s the first time Scaramouche heard of it.
Scaramouche leaves the scene after that, heading towards the next stall with the goal to be away from audible radius. He had his fill of Tartaglia horribly attempting to flirt in his language. Scaramouche fears with dread that he’d be unstoppable if he became fluent in Inazuman. He didn’t need to hear more.
When Tartaglia joins him again, his mouth runs before he could even think.
“Childe? Fits you a lot.” Scaramouche mutters under his breath, scornful.
“Oh, no.” Tartaglia waves his hand in the air, sheepish in an awful way that annoys him. “That’s not my real name.”
An alias, of course. Tartaglia has an alias. How didn’t he think of that? Scaramouche finds it hard to admit, even to himself, that he’s forgotten Tartaglia isn’t actually an idiot. He wouldn’t make a novice mistake as to spreading around his true identity. In the first place, however, giving away a name or some sort wasn’t necessary.
“You’re a fucking player.” Scaramouche says it in realization, not exactly hostile in delivery but still accusing.
Tartaglia takes offense, as if he wasn’t flirting with several women earlier.
“Rude! I like to think I’m very gentlemanly.” He argues petulantly. “And to prove that, I got you this!”
Tartaglia dangles a kitsune mask keychain at his face. Scaramouche stares at the trinket weirdly, then at Tartaglia himself. Before he can process the situation, Tartaglia grabs his hand and drops the keychain on his open palm. Scaramouche stares back at the object as though it offended his whole existence.
“You look like I gave you poison.” Amusedly, Tartaglia points out.
Scaramouche glances up to him, gaze questioning. “What is this?”
“A keychain.”
Tartaglia blinks dumbly at him. Scaramouche reconsiders all of the decisions he made today.
“I know that it’s a keychain, smartass. Why did you give it to me?”
“Ah, faking innocence is not a cute look on you, our dearest Balladeer.” Tartaglia tuts.
Repressing the urge to throw everything in reach at Tartaglia, Scaramouche curls his free hand into a fist. Nails lightly sinking into flesh and knuckles turning white. Tartaglia will never not stop testing his patience, will he?
“It's a gift for you.”
Scaramouche stiffens. Seething anger subdued to a low flame. He glares at Tartaglia in consternation, Tartaglia simply stares back at him, adding nothing to answer his confusion.
“A gift.” He deadpans.
Tartaglia nods.
“As thanks for showing me around.” Tartaglia provides an explanation.
Scaramouche glowers at the keychain on his outspread hand. He doesn’t receive gifts, hasn’t received anything in a long time. What was he supposed to do with this? There has to be something that Tartaglia wants in exchange and Scaramouche would rather drown than be in Tartaglia’s debt one way or another.
Besides, if he kept the trinket, it would only remind him of Tartaglia.
“Take it back.”
Scaramouche stretches his fist holding the trinket towards Tartaglia who’s now staring at him oddly, trying to decipher the reason behind his action.
“Why?” Tartaglia frowns slightly.
“I don’t need it.” Scaramouche says brutally blunt.
Tartaglia’s face contorts strangely.
Stating the truth shouldn’t feel quite like an ordeal. The trinket offers no utility to Scaramouche, it's frankly a useless thing. He doesn’t uphold sentimental attachment in objects, nor generally speaking. But as Tartaglia attempts to hide the degree of hurt upon the rejection of his gift, he considers the notion that perhaps it’s to his advantage if he does accept the keychain.
He might gain some leverage over Tartaglia since he’s the one who values sentimentality between them.
“Well, aren’t gifts like that?” Tartaglia shifts his weight to his right, arms crossing on his chest. “It would be boring if gifts are just things that we need. I’m not taking it back.”
He continues to gauge Tartaglia’s mood. Should he keep it?
Tartaglia, though, reads his lack of response differently. “Oh? Were you being bashful? I didn’t know you had it in you–”
Yeah, no fucking way. He throws the keychain without warning and it hits Tartaglia precisely right on the bridge of his nose. Scaramouche then marches ahead, leaving behind the nuisance of a person that is Tartaglia. He’s fairly certain that the younger Harbinger would be able to find his way back to their lodging on his own.
Later, Scaramouche finds the keychain placed on the table of his room. He sighs, Tartaglia is unbearably a stubborn kid. He picks up the trinket, observing the design of the kitsune mask. It looks nice enough to bring back to his house. They embark for Snezhnaya with the trinket snug inside his pocket.
He denies seeing it to Tartaglia.