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“Ah. If it isn’t the most precious member within our ranks… sitting in my chair.”
Scaramouche frowned.
That voice- he knew the timbre of those words very well. There was no need to tear his gaze away from the steam rising before him, seeing as all he’d find were the dreadful, putrid eyes of one Marionette.
So, just to fight snark with snark, Scaramouche made sure to echo her disdain in his own short, clipped words. “I certainly don’t see your name on it.”
Somewhere above him, Sandrone growled.
It served her right. Who did she think she was, barging into a room and accusing him of all people for something as childish as assigned seating?
Well, truthfully, this didn’t come as much of a surprise to Scaramouche. After all, she’s the one who hosted such immature get-togethers time and time again.
A get together he was currently attending.
Ugh.
From beside him, Scaramouche caught the tail end of a sigh.
“Rosalyne, did you invite this puppet to my tea party?”
Yes- he was sat next to La Signoria. They arrived together, and much to his clear aversion, The Fair Lady decided to take the spot directly to his right.
He hoped, now, that she was regretting such a bold move.
“Unfortunately.” Signoria loudly took a sip of her tea. “I found the poor thing wandering the halls. Just look at him- that sweet, dejected face was enough to make even my heart squeeze with pity.”
How did that saying go? Joke’s on me, considering it was Scaramouche who now dreaded the decisions that brought him there.
In any other case, he would have rebutted. He would have shocked her with the harshest of his lightning bolts for daring to take pity on him- but La Signoria told a partial truth. She did find him roaming the halls, looking like a mess and a half. This- Scaramouche was aware of.
What he wasn’t so aware of were her reasonings to extend an invitation for tea. If appearance alone was enough to shake even La Signoria’s cruel attitude, then he must have looked just as awful as he felt.
Scaramouche… he’d just emerged from one of Dottore’s many laboratories when he ran into Rosalyne. He didn’t know how long he’d been staring into space, walking aimlessly throughout the halls of the Grand Palace- because truth be told, La Signoria’s presence was the one thing that snapped him out of the pain ridden, empty haze he’d been thrown into.
Embarrassing. That was a rare lapse in judgement for him, but considering… the one source of semi-comfort he had was nowhere near Snezhnaya at the moment, things could have gone worse.
In the end, Scaramouche was in no state to do anything drastic. The most he could muster was a scowl- aimed sinisterly at the table, but directed entirely to Rosalyne.
Signoria, for her part, gulped another sip of tea.
Besides the Marionette making an appearance, Scaramouche could just about hear the sound of two others shuffling around. He didn’t look up, but if he had to guess, the two others who had joined Sandrone must be The Knave and The Damselette.
Unsurprisingly, the women of the Fatui Harbingers had formed their own little group. He was hesitant to call them friends, but Childe sure thought–
Hmph.
Scaramouche focused back on the present, fingers taking the handle of his own cup. It took more strength than he would have liked, but eventually, the bitter liquid spilled onto his lips and into his awaiting mouth.
Sharp. Biting. That’s how he liked his tea, amongst many other things.
There was a break in the women’s conversation- a rather short one, filled with the clinks and clangs of porcelain sets. The three had gone to grab their own tea, and now, Scaramouche felt their presence as they slinked on over to the table.
His head was still too heavy, though. Scaramouche listened for the sounds of their footsteps. First Arlecchino, then Sandrone- but who he couldn’t hear–
“Pain.” Columbina floated past him, her steps light and eversoft. “Are you hurt, Balladeer?”
Scaramouche grit his teeth.
The Damsalette unnerved him- she was too soft, too direct. Whether it be intentional or out of sheer ignorance, her floaty personality always brought about bad news. How could someone like her survive in the Fatui?
There had to be another side to her face.
Yet, for as much as he speculated, Scaramouche could find nothing but childlike curiosity in Columbina’s words.
“No.” He eventually grumbled, his hand falling on the saucer.
“You’re sure?” Sandrone sneered. “You look positively dreadful.”
Scaramouche closed his eyes- of all the people he could not stand, Sandrone had to be near the very, very top.
“As do you, Marionette.”
And just because he was so very sure he’d get an immediate escort out of the ladies’ tea part, Scaramouche moved to stand. Except, he didn’t get far at all before his own legs betrayed him.
They couldn’t bear his weight. They just… couldn’t.
Weak.
“Come now.” Arlecchino stepped in, always the voice of stern reasoning. “You’ve gone through all the trouble of fixing yourself a cup of tea. Best not to let it go to waste.”
At his side, Signora hummed in agreement- though, neither of them clarified that it was Rosalyne herself who poured and served him his bitter, acidic tea.
“Yes, yes. Stay, for all I care!” Sandrone, ever as dramatic, shrieked into the air. “Better here than out there, aren’t I right?”
Scaramouche ignored her.
For a while, the women led an idle conversation. Inquiries about the children, rants about their upcoming dispatch missions- and about a dozen other topics Scaramouche couldn’t be bothered to remember. Through it all, though, Scaramouche stared at his lap.
Of course, he did muster the strength to interject every once in a while. Mostly at Sandrone’s expense, but anything more simply wasn’t… feasible.
Scaramouche couldn’t remember the last time that sorry excuse for a doctor left him so out of the loop. He never felt quite right after one of their meetings, but this melancholy was different. Heavier, more oppressive…
Maybe that’s why he followed Rosalyne to these private quarters. Maybe he just wasn’t accustomed, anymore, to bear the brunt of torture and be left to deal with it all alone.
And it was all Ajax’s fault.
Scaramouche bristled to himself.
Whatever. It’d wear off, eventually.
In the meantime, Scaramouche resorted to quiet meditation. He focused on himself, on the turmoil coiling in his wires… and pictured it melting away.
Of course, Scaramouche didn’t completely shut down. He still had one ear open, the conversation and subtle shift of bodies quite like a distraction. A good one, at that.
“…I simply adore those Sumerian flowers.” Sandrone droned on, much like background noise. “They’re just the prettiest to look at- and, not to mention, make the most interesting choices for tea.”
A shuffle. “Were those the ones you served to me in our last tea party?”
“No no, Columbina.” Signoria said. “That pot was from Chenyu Vale, was it not?”
Scaramouche frowned at the ensuing squeal.
“Right you are.” Came Sandrone’s annoying voice. “Only the Chenyu Adeptea is as potent as that batch of tea was. The smell alone is enough to satisfy even the wisest of tea connoisseurs.”
Arlecchino hummed. “That, even I can attest to. Nothing in Fontaine was quite as exquisite as that adeptea.”
“Well, that’s because the people of Chenyu Vale have spent millennia cultivating the Chenyu Adeptea plant. It’s the perfect specimen for tea.” A sip. “I have little experience regarding Fontanian tea, but Sumeru has quite an odd variety. If you want something out of the norm, then I’d suggest an import from Sumeru.”
Scaramouche, without much of a thought, scoffed.
He’d been rather quiet, up until then. As he did in nearly all official matters, Scaramouche let the others converse. Why waste breath speaking if the topic of conversation was to none of his interest?
Unfortunately- just like those tiresome assemblies- the slightest of his movements were immediately perceived by the simpletons he surrounded himself with.
Namely, the one person he could hardly ever stand.
“Something to add, Balladeer?” Sandrone’s tone turned sharp, on edge. Like she was greeting an unwanted guest to her line of sight.
The feeling was more than mutual.
Still, Scaramouche couldn’t bring himself to look away from his half-finished tea. “I wasn’t aware you cared for anything outside of your own creations.”
Sandrone huffed. “I’ll have you know, I have an extensive assortment of flowers up in my quarters. Pressed, of course. I don’t have the time to keep such flora alive.”
“I’m amazed you can keep anything alive.”
Quite suddenly, there was a crash on the table. If he had to guess, Sandrone must have slammed her tea cup down in preparation to chew him out.
But, her voice never came. Instead–
“Oh, would you give that little tongue of yours a rest?” Rosalyne grumbled, leaning ever-so close to Scaramouche. “Honestly. Your disdain for one another is almost as bad as your disdain for Tartaglia.”
Something in Scaramouche’s chest burned.
“Gross.” Sandrone made a particular noise. “I’m not the one throwing myself on my back for our most juvenile colleague.”
And at this, for the first time since he sat on that chair, Scaramouche’s head snapped upward. “You–”
“What? Thought you did a good job keeping your little affairs a secret?” She smirked, her face just as irritable as Scaramouche remembered. “Please. Pulonia is better at keeping silent than the two of you are.”
Hot. Scaramouche was positively seething with rage, but he could hardly do anything in his current, weakened state.
From Sandrone’s right, Arlecchino nodded along. “Quite deplorable, I must say. Though it is a rather obvious relationship.”
Scaramouche suddenly felt like an unstable container- brimming with lots of unexplored, unstable emotions.
“We all know you two sleep together.” Signoria scowled, her lips twisting with displeasure. “It’s no secret. Don’t look at me like that.”
Like that being unbridled rage.
“All of you are wrong.” Scaramouche spat. He had half a mind throw his drink at the one who started it all- Sandrone and her stupid robo friend- but that was simply much more trouble than it was worth. “There’s nothing between that simpleton and I.”
A dreamy sigh filled the room.
“Oh, but that’s not what the other one says.” Sandrone leaned forward, mockingly resting her cheek on her hands. “Tartaglia shared some very interesting things the other day.”
Scaramouche fought the urge to scowl. If he did, he knew they’d be on him like hounds.
“Love is a strong emotion.” Columbina mused, fingers dancing across the rim of her cup. “Is it not?”
Scaramouche wrapped his arms around his torso. Columbina’s words made him angry, of couse… but there was something else. Something he couldn’t quite put a name towards. “There is no love.”
All three women, excluding Columbina, shared a look. Almost as if they, too, noted his very unusual lack of defence in order to distance himself from Childe.
“Ah, but you should have seen the way he longed for you.” Signoria grinned, holding her teacup close to her chest. “Dare I say, it might have been the sweetest thing I’ve witnessed in years.”
“Sweet enough to make my tea pale in comparison.” Sandrone rolled her eyes. “Though, I don’t see how- what with your rotten personality. Perhaps it's that face you carry around with you.”
Scaramouche wanted to rebut- but for what? Yes, he knew he was beautiful- but that wasn’t the sole reason that boy chased after his heel like a lost puppy.
Was it?
Er- besides, if he moves to defend himself now, it’d only add fuel to the women’s fire. Silence was the best shot at saving face, even if his own warmed the tiniest bit.
Arlecchino stared at him over the brim of her cup, eyes as unnerving as the day he first faced them. “You’re beautiful, Scaramouche. No one denies that very obvious fact.”
Even Columbina, from her spot splayed over the table, hummed a soft note of agreement. “The Electro Archon did well.”
This- it made Scaramouche twitch.
“Enough.” He growled, cursing every single event that led up to that very moment. “He got attached. Even then, there’s nothing more to it other than basic needs.”
“Ha!” La Signoria barked a laugh- something almost crude enough to damage his ears. “You’ll have to tell that to him, then. The poor boy is smitten.”
Scaramouche gripped at his torso, fingers digging into his roughed clothes.
Listening to all this- hearing it from a good number of his coworkers–
Smitten. Was this truly how others would describe Aja– Tartaglia? The same insolent idiot they knew to be the Eleventh of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers?
He looked about the table, searching for any hints of dishonesty in the women' s faces. Nothing, nothing- and then, his eyes landed on Sandrone.
She sneered. “Please. Is it so outlandish to believe Tartaglia nurtures something for you beyond a little crush?”
It wasn’t.
The fight within Scaramouche had simmered, replaced instead by something cruel and biting. It didn’t help, either, that everyone around the table broached this subject with the thinnest veil of curiosity and… concern.
A part of him hoped their words weren’t true, but the other part…
No. He couldn’t allow himself to think like that. Tartaglia was nothing more than an outlet for his baser needs.
“Think about it, dear puppet.” Rosalyne reached towards him, her gloved hand patting him on the thigh. “Humans are very, very fragile.”