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Scaramouche was pissed.
Well, he was almost always pissed about one thing or another. But this? This pushed him past his limits, this made him want to rip his own hair out.
The Balladeer did a good job at concealing his emotions. He could hide them well, and he could wear a mask as if it were second nature to him — and it was.
Yet even he could not steel his expression into one of calm. Even he could not force himself to nod along and smile. Because although the Tsaritsa was his ruler, the god he was supposed to listen to and worship, he couldn’t understand just why she was sentencing him to this trivial task.
As the Sixth Harbinger, Scaramouche was expected to listen to the Tsaritsa without batting an eye. If she wanted something? He would bring it to her. If she demanded something of him, he would give it to her. Whatever her icy heart craved, he would ensure she had it.
And that was just fucking annoying.
Because, come on, let’s be honest. Scaramouche didn’t like obeying orders. He didn’t fancy the idea of being anyone’s idle lapdog. It was why he had failed his creator. It was why he was deemed defective. It was why he was cast aside, thrown out and discarded like he was simply worthless dross.
Scaramouche despised the gods. He loathed the Archons. Every last one of them.
Whether it was the one who breathed life into him, or the one that cherished freedom, or the one that resigned to the life of a mortal, or the one that valued love above all, or the one that reveried wisdom — he hated all of them with an equal amount.
They were all idiots. Idiots who deserved to be knocked down, crushed from the throne that they sat upon. He wanted to bring them all to their knees. He wanted to see them cower beneath him. He wanted to hear them beg. He wanted to watch them plead and sob and corrode underneath him. It was only fair.
The gods had cursed him with something terrible. They had cursed him with existence.
He was doomed to wander these mortal lands for all of eternity. It wasn’t what she had originally intended for him to do. He had strayed from her ideal path; he wasn’t the perfect little puppet that she wanted.
“Kunikuzushi,” she had whispered to him. “Destroyer of nations. Destroyer of countries. Kunikuzushi. That is what you will be named.”
Kunikuzushi. Well, he would make sure he lived up to the title. He’d collapse the entirety of Teyvat, he’d sink this shithole to the ground. He would watch as chaos crept over every last corner of this hell, and he would relish in it.
Humans were fragile, weak creatures — pathetic. He didn’t care what happened to them. If they died, if they suffered, why should he bring himself to worry over it? Yet despite their weaknesses and meek bodies, humans were fascinating. They were intriguing.
And, in the end, he was modeled to resemble them, after all. He was made to look human, made to act human, everything about him mimicked a human; but he wasn’t. He was no mortal. He wasn’t even supposed to be his own sentient being — yet here he was.
He had fought hard, tooth and nail, to get to this point. He had roused himself from a deep slumber, he had wandered the lands of eternity mindlessly for years, he had endured painful alterations of his body — all for this.
All to be ordered around like he was a puppy. He was expected to sit back, wagging an imaginary tail, waiting for orders to be bestowed upon him. Maybe if he was lucky enough, the Tsaritsa would throw him a bone. Maybe she’d entertain his ideals a bit.
Well, it wasn’t enough for Scaramouche, and it never would be. The Tsaritsa? She could go fuck herself. The Fatui could go fuck themselves. He gave not a single damn about them.
They thought they were using him; using him how he was intended to be used. Like a puppet. They thought they were pulling him around and around by his strings, but they were wrong. He had cut off those strings a long time ago. He was no puppet, not any longer, and he never would be again.
He was using them. They were his puppets, being tossed along in a game they didn’t even realize they were playing.
Every Harbinger had their own agenda. Scaramouche didn’t exactly care enough to figure it all out, he didn’t give a damn about the others’ motives. Dottore probably just wanted to further his scientific research and experiments, Childe probably craved power and protection for his family. And Scaramouche? What about him?
He knew what he wanted, he knew it from the start.
I want the gnosis. I want power. I want to make the Electro Archon suffer. I want to take her place, I want her to feel the way I had. I want to rule and fulfill my name’s purpose. I will play the role of a villain, and I will do it well. I don’t care what I have to do. My dreams will be a reality.
Scaramouche clenched his jaw. Yes, he was close. He was close to reaching that dream; it had been so far-off before, but now it was attainable, it was something that could be real. He wanted to smile just thinking about it, but he never smiled. Not anymore.
Despite his anticipation and excitement, the moment he was longing for would have to wait a bit longer. Because for now, he was still forced to work under the Tsaritsa. He was still forced to carry out her will. He reminded himself this was all for his own benefit; this would reward him in the future.
Still, what the hell? What kind of job was this? Who did the Tsaritsa think he was?
He wasn’t just some dumb errand boy, he wasn’t some lowly agent. He was a Harbinger!
Surely, he shouldn’t succumb to something as fickle as this. Surely, he should be given a proper job, like . . . Commanding the Delusion factory, distributing the Delusions, anything but this.
“Bastards,” Scaramouche hissed to himself. He crumpled the note given to him angrily, watching it wrinkle under his grasp. It folded and tore beneath his harsh hold, and Scaramouche was comforted by it. He imagined the Archons as that slip of paper, and some of his rage ebbed away slightly.
The Tsaritsa wanted him to head off to some secluded, reclusive forest in Inazuma. All so he could gather materials to create more Delusions. Just wonderful. A duty that could have been completed by an agent, or anyone else but him. He didn’t understand why she gave him this task. As a punishment?
Perhaps that made more sense. He pursed his lips into a thin line. Did she suspect his treason? Did she sense his hatred? Was this a way of reminding him? Reminding him of his place? No. She couldn’t know; he was just being overly worried. She was an idiot, just like the humans were.
Scaramouche stuffed the note into his pocket, grabbing his hat. The gentle sound of bells chimed as Scaramouche arranged his hat onto his head, feeling comforted by the snug fit. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm.
Then he exited his tent, ready to set off on this new (and boring) mission.
✿ ✿ ✿
Kazuha smiled to himself, taking a breath of fresh air.
It was a beautiful day, and he was excited for the prospect of a nice adventure. As a wanderer, Kazuha drifted aimlessly from place to place, allowing his only guide to be the wind. Kazuha enjoyed spending his time like this; it was refreshing.
When you didn’t worry about where you were going, or about the destination, you found that life became simpler. You were free to do whatever you pleased. There were no rules or regulations. There were no responsibilities or expectations. There was just freedom.
Kazuha had spent the earlier stages of his life confined. After all, the Kaedehara clan was one of nobility — and so he was expected to play his part. Kazuha was a noble, or well, a former noble. His clan had fallen apart due to debt and the erosion of time, and so that meant he was the last heir. A sad reality, indeed.
His family would probably want him to marry. To continue the Kaedehara traditions. To act out his obligations as a samurai. To form offspring so that he could pass on his clan’s ideals and customs. That wasn’t the life he wanted, not even close. Kazuha refused to ever allow those things to happen to him.
Instead, he lived life the way he had always wanted to. He wandered. He made plenty of friends (and plenty of enemies), and he spent his time becoming one with nature. It was peaceful, it was dreamy, and it was all he’d ever wished for and more.
He never forgot where he came from, however. Kaedehara Kazuha was still a samurai, and he still honored that part of him. He knew how to wield a sword, and he often fought — living the life of a wanderer wasn’t entirely easy nor pleasant. He came across his fair share of bandits and monsters.
Kazuha practiced his sword-fighting. He practiced his martial arts. He made sure he didn’t forget. He engraved the instincts within him. For as long as he lived, he would cherish his sword. After all, it was the last connection he had to his home.
Kazuha was a sentimental person, admittedly. He liked to hold memories of his past close. Although he focused on the present, he could never entirely let go of the past, either. It was what made him, what shaped him, so how could he cast it aside? Memories would never cease to haunt him.
Laughter filled his ears, faint and echoing — laughter of a friend lost to the land of eternity. Tomo was his name. Tomo, someone who Kazuha wanted to forget, but he never could. Tomo had changed Kazuha’s life in so many ways; both good and bad.
That was just how relationships worked. They had rises and falls, ups and downs, positives and negatives. They were filled with emotions; whether those emotions were pleasant or foul was undetermined. Kazuha had experienced his fair share of sadness and pain thanks to Tomo, but he never regretted a single thing.
As of now, Kazuha was traveling by himself.
He had ventured with the Crux Fleet for quite a while. They were a band of pirates and sailors, led by a marvelous woman named Captain Beidou. However, Kazuha’s journey had called him elsewhere. Beidou understood — Kazuha was no pirate. If the wind whispered to him, he would follow.
Their parting had been cheerful, because it wasn’t really a goodbye. They would meet again; Kazuha was certain of it. Whenever he needed them, the Crux Fleet would be there for him. They would welcome him with open arms, always. It was comforting to consider.
Kazuha was about to enter a new forest, one he had never heard of before.
He hadn’t stepped a foot inside this domain, and neither had anyone else — and for good reason. Apparently, this place was dangerous, though no one could tell him why.
Whenever he asked, he was simply turned away. People merely advised him to steer clear. Their warnings were dark and ominous, but it was difficult to take seriously when they didn’t tell him what made the forest so deadly. For all he knew, it could be something entirely minor.
Kazuha tended to listen to others. He was good at that; he was excellent at following orders. He also tended to follow his gut instinct. If his body told him something, he was inclined to pay attention. If something seemed amiss, he wisely avoided it. He wasn’t prone to taking unnecessary risks.
Standing outside the forest, Kazuha peered up at the trees. Their branches ruffled slightly in the gentle breeze that blew by. Leaves scattered around him, drifting slowly down to the ground, and Kazuha caught one in-between his fingers. He held delicately onto the leaf, trailing his thumb across the fragile surface.
He brought the leaf up to his lips, blowing tenderly. A melody echoed throughout the air, created from his own tongue. He allowed the tune to play for a while; it brought him a sense of peace. It was only when he grew tired that he stopped, lowering the leaf from his lips with a quiet sigh.
He released the leaf into the sky, watching the breeze catch it. The leaf was soon carried away from him, gliding off into the distance. He hoped that the music he had played would reach some other lost soul. Perhaps it could bring them comfort, like it had done for him.
Kazuha shifted his focus back to the forest. He considered things for a moment, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip. Despite the various warnings he had received, he couldn’t find anything wrong with this place. Kazuha knew appearances could be deceiving, yet when he looked to the wind for advice, even it told him of no dangers.
Well, there was no good journey without a little bit of risk, anyway.
He moved into the forest, his steps oddly light. He carried himself elegantly, each movement graced and poised — the diligent pattern of a trained samurai. Even if this forest was packed to the brim with tricks and threats, he was certain he could handle it.
(He was wrong.)
✿ ✿ ✿
Kazuha had been walking for a while now.
Directions seemed to be pointless here. He wouldn’t deem himself lost, but he wasn’t exactly found, either. It would probably take him a few days to find the exit to this forest, but that was alright. He was prepared for that; it wasn’t anything he couldn’t deal with.
Sunlight filtered in through the gaps in the trees, covering the forest floor and in turn, Kazuha. It bathed him in a gentle golden glow, and he smiled to himself, tilting his head back to welcome the warm rays. He felt strangely happy; he was in a good mood.
He hummed quietly to himself as he walked, the soft chorus of his song reverberating throughout the forest. Throughout his trip, he hadn’t seen much wildlife. There were birds, occasionally deer and boars, and maybe a rabbit or two — but nothing more than that. He wondered if his humming was scaring them away.
There definitely wasn’t any danger here. He hadn’t sensed a single monster anywhere. Not even a slime! In fact, Kazuha had never quite seen a forest so peaceful. There wasn’t even a hint of a threat. No predators, not even a lone wolf. Kazuha himself was probably the most dangerous thing within the forest.
Or so he thought.
He bent down to examine a bush, filled to the brim with berries. He recognized them. They were large, glistening and round, and they looked delicious. They would make a wonderful afternoon snack. Kazuha grabbed a hold of one, slipping it into his mouth and chewing. It tasted amazing, just as he had predicted.
He wiped juice from his lips, feeling some of it staining his pale fingers, and that was when he heard it.
The gentle chiming of bells.
It was the first sign of coherent life that Kazuha had noticed since arriving here. He valued his privacy, and he definitely didn’t mind being alone. He could spend weeks, even months at a time, by himself. It didn’t faze him. Despite this, he couldn’t help the relief which he felt. Someone is here, too.
Kazuha straightened up, dusting his hands off on his pants. He figured he might as well investigate the sound; what else was there to do? Perhaps he could make a new friend. Kazuha was always open to meeting new people, always open to befriending someone.
He trailed after the noise. The bells were light and melodic, almost like Kazuha’s singing had been. They nearly put him into a trance. They were so compelling, so alluring; he couldn’t bring himself to resist their call.
Kazuha pushed past a cluster of undergrowth, stepping out into a clearing. His shoes crunched across the leaves scattered over the floor, alerting whoever was there to his presence. He didn’t try to hide himself; there was no reason to. He didn’t want to appear as if he were a threat.
“Hello?” Kazuha called out timidly, his voice abnormally soft. He hadn’t talked in what was most likely a few days. He rubbed his sensitive throat, adjusting to the feeling of speaking again.
In front of him, a figure stood, completely tense and rigid. Kazuha’s gaze trailed to a large hat, decorated with bells — that was where the sound originated from. The hat was big, and seemed quite heavy. Didn’t it hurt to wear that all day? Kazuha’s focus drifted to the hat’s owner, his breath catching.
It was a man, an unusual man, that was for sure. Kazuha didn’t recognize him, but then again, he figured he wasn’t supposed to.
He wasn’t too tall — in fact, he seemed to be on the shorter side, much like Kazuha himself. Although, the shoes he wore added some extra height to him, and he seemed to gain a few inches over Kazuha — a fact which didn’t pester the samurai. Kazuha was well-used to people being taller than him.
The outfit the stranger wore screamed ‘Inazuma’ in big, bold letters. They flashed at Kazuha, begging for him to notice, which of course he did. He would be an idiot not to see that this person hailed from the same land which he did. He felt even more compelled to this man; they automatically had a connection, sharing the same birthplace.
When the mysterious stranger turned around to face him, Kazuha had to stifle a gasp. He kept his face one of utmost composure, when inside, he felt his heart skip a few beats. How was it possible for someone to be so handsome?
His face was fair — fairer than any other — and he looked almost ethereal. As if he weren’t actually real. And maybe he wasn’t. Was Kazuha hallucinating, after all? Was this just his overactive imagination playing tricks on him? But no, his keen senses told him that this wasn’t a trick being played on him.
This man was very much real.
Oh, and he was also very much enraged.
Dark blue eyes flashed, electricity beginning to thrum throughout the air, when it definitely hadn’t before. The skies were clear, and Kazuha sensed no chances of rain or a storm. So an electro vision, then? Kazuha wondered to himself, though he saw no visible vision upon the man.
“You. Just what do you think you’re doing?” He snarled out. His voice was dark and deep — low and grating and definitely dangerous. Maybe he was the threat that the various villagers had warned him about. Kazuha definitely wouldn’t be surprised.
He blinked slowly. Carefully. He was always advised to never, ever turn your back on a predator — and so he didn’t. He faced this danger head-on, and did so with a smile.
“Me? Oh, I was just exploring when I heard the sound of your bells, so I came to investigate. The wind led me straight to you, and fate has seemed to have brought us together at just the right time. My name is Kaedehara Kazuha. May I be blessed enough to know of your own name?”
The man looked at him with an expression Kazuha could only properly describe as disgust. His lip curled into a sneer, and he crossed his arms over his chest, shaking his head and causing the bells to ring again.
“Kaedehara Kazuha? What a ridiculous name. And why the hell do you talk like that? Are you a bard or something? Hate to break it to you, but if that’s the case, you’re far from where you’re supposed to be.” The man rolled his eyes, and Kazuha giggled, causing his newfound companion to recoil as if he’d been struck.
“Wh—what the hell is so funny?! Did I say you could laugh?!” The man exploded, like a pot overflowing with boiling water — a volcano erupting. His anger was unmatchable, endlessly flowing, and rather than being threatened, Kazuha was simply amused. He’d never met someone so short-tempered before.
“No, you did not. I apologize.” Kazuha bowed, his head dipping towards the ground, and he could hear the other man scoff.
“Fucking idiot. Do you even know who I am?” The tone was an incredulous one.
Kazuha righted himself into a proper position, straightening out his posture. He tilted his head, almost like a confused puppy, and pursed his lips into a thin line. Had they met before? But that was impossible.
Kazuha remembered everyone he came across, and he was positive he would recall meeting a man like this. But when he tried drawing up any memories of a similar meeting, he came up blank. They were total strangers. Or was his memory really failing him? Had he hit his head on the way here?
“. . . I do apologize again, sir, but I don’t think I know who you are.” Kazuha smiled sheepishly. “Pardon me. Please forgive me for my improper manners, but who are you?”
The man stared at him as if Kazuha had sprouted two heads, wings, and a tail. His mouth parted and then closed as if he were some kind of fish. Then he rubbed his temple, as if trying to maintain his patience. Kazuha appreciated the effort, at least. It was nice of him to attempt to keep his cool.
“The Balladeer,” the man — Balladeer — ground out. “The Sixth of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers. You must have heard of the Harbingers. Or what, have you been living underneath a rock for your entire life? I mean, it certainly looks like it.” He snickered mockingly, but Kazuha wasn’t fazed at the insult, he simply shrugged lightly.
He peeled through his mind, and sure enough, he remembered.
The Fatui — Aether, the traveler, often complained about them. They were an organization of no-good, bad people who did terrible things. They served the Cryo Archon, and their goal was unknown to Kazuha. He wasn’t too sure if he wanted to know what their plans were.
Was this man his enemy, then? Was the Balladeer someone Kazuha should be fighting? A part of him said yes. He was certain that if Aether were with him, his sword would already be brandished, and he would be quarreling with the Harbinger. However, he wasn’t like Aether. They were similar, but not entirely the same.
He wondered where Aether was now. He knew his friend was in Inazuma, presumably with the Resistance. He hoped Aether was faring well. He was the most wanted criminal in Inazuma, taking Kazuha’s former title of the most desired fugitive. He wondered if their wanted posters were plastered side by side. The thought made him nearly smile.
Aether would definitely scold him if he knew Kazuha was treating a Harbinger so kindly. Paimon would probably be screaming, chewing him out entirely for this, and yet—
“Yes, I’ve heard of the Harbingers,” Kazuha concluded, nodding to himself. “Though I don’t pay too much attention to gossip, I’m afraid.”
“Gossip?” The Balladeer echoed through gritted teeth.
“Well, you know how people talk, do you not? Many fear you. Many loathe you. My dear friends in particular do not like you. I, however, will form my own opinion. I think everyone should be regarded as a friend before they prove otherwise.” Kazuha beamed, and the smile he wore was one which rivaled the sun itself.
The Balladeer seemed stunned, before the shock faded and he scoffed. “Then you’re an idiot,” he ground out. “Just like the countless other people I’ve met. You’re an airheaded, idealistic fool who doesn’t give a damn about the world. Open your eyes, I’m not your fucking friend. In fact, I should kill you where you stand.”
“You could try.”
Kazuha continued to smile, and it never once faded, never once even wavered. He seemed entirely composed, and it was because he was. He wasn’t afraid, like others would have been. Instead, he just felt a sensation of calm. There was nothing for him to fear. He didn’t know why, but he knew the Balladeer wouldn’t hurt him.
Kazuha was confident in his combative abilities. Maybe he wasn’t stronger than the Balladeer, but he was certainly faster. He also knew nature like the back of his hand; if it came down to it, he could avoid any battle and remain unscathed. He wasn’t as naïve as the Balladeer made him out to be.
“Try? You—” the Balladeer looked like he wanted to attack Kazuha, but he didn’t, instead pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Look. Why don’t we start over?” The Harbinger suddenly changed entirely. It was like a flip had been switched. Instead of the grouchy, short-tempered man Kazuha knew, he became something else. Kazuha was almost (almost) unsettled at the abrupt shift. It was a bit unnerving how fast he had changed, how swiftly he had altered himself.
“I’m the Balladeer. You can call me Scaramouche.” He smiled, but it didn’t meet his eyes — no, not even close. He held out his hand, pale and covered in a strangely patterned glove. Kazuha examined the situation for a moment; it seemed like a peace offering. But how genuine was it?
Not genuine at all.
“Scaramouche,” Kazuha repeated. “That is a pleasant name, albeit unique. What does it mean?”
“Skirmish.” Scaramouche continued to smile. The more he smiled, the more forced and fake it seemed. Kazuha was excellent at reading people, and Scaramouche was no exception. Kazuha saw through him, read him like an open book — did Scaramouche really think he could trick Kazuha?
“I see. My name means ten thousand leaves.” Kazuha hummed to himself. “Fitting, right?” He gestured towards himself and his attire, at the maple leaves which adorned his figure. “I know plenty about nature and the natural world, so I am pleased that my name reflects that.”
“Oh?” Scaramouche suddenly perked up, stepping closer. He kept his hand extended, and it took all of Kazuha’s self-restraint not to move back.
“Indeed.” Kazuha eventually moved forward, shaking Scaramouche’s hand. The other’s touch was far too firm, almost restricting, though he released Kazuha after a brief moment. Kazuha realized he had been holding his breath, so he exhaled shakily once all was done, his heart thumping weakly.
“Then how about this . . . I’m a part of the Fatui, a Harbinger, as you know. I need to complete an imperative mission, assigned to me by the Tsaritsa herself. I have to find some special materials. A type of flower. However, I’ve never seen or heard of this flower before. I’ve only been given a vague description. I’ve had no luck so far at locating the flora, so if you would please—”
Scaramouche took a deep breath, as if saying such things physically pained him, which Kazuha supposed it did.
“Please, would you be so kind as to assist me? If you can locate this flower, I will offer you a plentiful amount of mora as a reward, or anything else which your heart desires.” Scaramouche adjusted his hat slightly, the bells ringing throughout Kazuha’s sensitive ears.
“So what do you say?”
Kazuha stared at Scaramouche for a while. The man simply stared back. Blue on red — and neither of them dared to look away. Kazuha was considering his options. Mora and rewards didn’t exactly matter to him. Money and materialistic things held no value when he survived off of the land.
If he helped Scaramouche, it would be out of the kindness of his own heart.
Kazuha always liked to lend a helping hand to people. It was how he made a variety of friends, and it was how he got by surviving in the wild. If you were kind to someone, that good deed would eventually come back to reward you. That was how the world worked.
Yet . . . He wasn’t too certain if assisting Scaramouche was a good idea. He was a Harbinger, and the Fatui weren’t the best people out there. What if he used the flower to make some kind of poison? What if he was up to no good? What if Kazuha would just be helping him push some twisted, messed up agenda? He didn’t want that.
“I would have to know what you were using the materials for first,” Kazuha responded after a pause. “To ease my conscience.”
Scaramouche’s gaze flashed, ever-so-briefly, but Kazuha caught it. He could scent Scaramouche’s anger. Though the Harbinger appeared completely at ease, he was upset. His mask was a good one — it was hard to pick apart. If Kazuha wasn’t so alert, if he wasn’t so observant, he wouldn’t be aware of anything wrong.
“If you so wish.” Scaramouche sighed dramatically. “But this is strictly confidential information, so you can’t let anyone else know what I’m about to tell you. Okay?”
Kazuha found it very, very hard to believe that Scaramouche was just going to tell him all the mischievous deeds he was planning. There was simply no way. His brow furrowed, and he went to object, but Scaramouche stepped closer, a grin forming onto his face.
He bent his head down towards Kazuha, who was still awfully suspicious — and for good reason.
Scaramouche gripped tightly onto Kazuha, flinging him down onto the ground. The boy fell with a soft ‘oof’ and hid his grimace. Scaramouche towered over him, his false act of being a ‘nice guy’ entirely fading. It dissolved, like sand running beneath water, and Kazuha found himself being grateful.
He was glad Scaramouche wasn’t pretending anymore. He liked him better this way, where he was true to himself. Even if his actual self was sadistic and twisted, it was better than some fake, two-faced version.
“Oh, that is a relief,” Kazuha breathed out, even as lightning began to form, crackling within the air. Purple energy snapped and cracked around the forest, and Scaramouche peered down at him, looking irritated — everything Kazuha did seemed to annoy him.
“A relief?” Scaramouche snarled. “Listen here, you little shit. Quit being a brat. Did you really think I would let you know of the Fatui’s secrets? Fat chance. Just show me where to find the damn flowers, or else I’ll char your ass into nothing but ashes.”
Kazuha tried to hide the way his chest tightened. Tomo’s smiling face appeared within his mind, before it was all burned away by lightning. He frowned, shifting his head away and sighing softly.
“Please calm down,” Kazuha murmured. “I can not help you find the flower if you don’t even tell me what it looks like.”
Scaramouche huffed. “Okay. Well, the description said it was purple, with red streaks, and the pollen is quite potent — are you even paying attention?! God, you’re insufferable.” The Harbinger lifted a hand, which glowed with a ball of electro energy.
He seemed ready to strike Kazuha, but the white-haired boy was quicker.
He flung his arms out, and a strong gust of wind sent the Harbinger flying backwards. Kazuha didn’t mean to overreact so much, however, he had an aversion to lightning, and he didn’t fancy being burnt into a crisp. So perhaps his response was justified.
Nonetheless, he still found himself scrambling towards Scaramouche. The Balladeer had fallen back, out of Kazuha’s sight, and he was letting out quite a violent string of vulgar curses. Kazuha was concerned, admittedly; he wondered if he had hurt himself.
“Excuse me. Are you alright? I didn’t mean to do such a thing, you just gave me a bit of a startle, is all.” Kazuha pushed past fronds of foliage, looking down to see Scaramouche lying in a cluster of purple flowers.
Purple flowers . . . With red streaks. Kazuha’s mouth parted in surprise before he smiled.
“Oh! Well isn’t that convenient? Everything happens for a reason, does it not?” Kazuha gestured towards the flowers. “It looks like I really did help you find what you were looking for.” Kazuha chuckled to himself. How ironic. He wanted to spin a verse or two about this situation, but he didn’t get the chance to do so.
“You — bastard!” Scaramouche hissed out, right before he sneezed. He covered his mouth with a hand, and that was when Kazuha noticed a coating of pollen all over the Harbinger’s face and clothes. Well, that wasn’t good, especially since he seemed to be rather allergic, too.
“Ah, here. You should get away from there,” Kazuha insisted, holding a hand out for the Balladeer to take. The Balladeer, of course, did not accept his help — instead, he sneezed yet again, this time more forcefully. “Fuck,” he groaned out, burying his face into his hands. His voice sounded quite hoarse.
Kazuha knew he shouldn’t care, but he couldn’t help feeling worried. “. . . Scaramouche? Are you feeling alright?” Kazuha inquired hesitantly. “You really should move away from those flowers. Your body seems to have a negative reaction to them. I believe you could be allergic.”
“That’s impossible, you stupid mortal!” Scaramouche snapped, his patience withering away. Kazuha pointedly ignored Scaramouche’s odd phrasing, instead stepping back. “Well, if you insist,” he murmured. “I suppose I’ll get going then, since you have found what you desired.”
Scaramouche let out a faint grumble, and Kazuha noticed his face was flushed pink. The samurai frowned. Even if the Harbinger was cruel and quite deadly, Kazuha still couldn’t shake away his concern. If the man was ill, Kazuha would be plagued with guilt for leaving him all alone in this forest. Helping him out would be the right thing to do.
“. . . Let me assist you,” Kazuha mumbled. “We should leave this forest and find you a doctor. Some medicine will do you good.”
Scaramouche didn’t respond, which just made Kazuha grow even more anxious. He moved towards the dark-haired man, bending down to crouch beside him. “Can you hear me?” He asked quietly. “Scara—”
A gasp was the only thing that escaped Kazuha as he was suddenly knocked back, collapsing onto the ground. He grimaced as his head collided with the dirt, his body being pinned underneath Scaramouche’s. This was definitely an unexpected turn of events — he wondered what probed Scaramouche to do such a thing.
“Did I offend you somehow?” Kazuha managed to choke out. “Please, accept my humble apology, I was only—”
His words were cut off by a cry of shock. Scaramouche had lowered his head down, burying his face into the crook of Kazuha’s neck. The boy was motionless, and for once, he was genuinely speechless. He didn’t know what to do or what to say; nothing like this had ever happened to him before. How should he react? What should he even do?
“Scaramouche?” Kazuha repeated. He could feel his face warming up, and he realized he was blushing. Though who wouldn’t be blushing? This was a fairly intimate position, all with a basic stranger! Kazuha wasn’t well acquainted with romance at all, but he was certain that things (usually) didn’t go this way.
The only reply Kazuha got was a strangled groan. Scaramouche was panting like a dog, and Kazuha inhaled briefly, immediately hit with a strange scent. His nostrils were almost overwhelmed, and he coughed, trying to tilt his head away. Such a stifling smell—
Before, when Kazuha had first stumbled across Scaramouche, he had carried the scent of the night. Of electricity and stars. And of course, all of that was still there. Only now, there was also the tang of something else. Something thicker and sweeter, sickeningly so. It was so potent it almost made Kazuha gag. His throat felt exceptionally dry, and he swallowed, his lips becoming parched.
He’d never smelled anything like it. It wasn’t Scaramouche’s natural odor, that was for sure. Something had caused it, but what? Kazuha’s mind drifted to the flowers; they were still lying in a small patch of them. Maybe that was the source of the odd scent?
Still, this didn’t explain Scaramouche’s behavior. What had gotten into him?
“It’s alright.” Kazuha attempted to soothe the other. “You’re sick, and that’s okay. Let’s just get you to a hospital as soon as possible. I’ll try to help you stand up, just get off of—” Kazuha tried to escape Scaramouche’s grasp, only for his hold to tighten, akin to a vice. Kazuha winced, stifling a yelp when he felt Scaramouche’s fingers digging into his wrists.
Scaramouche wasn’t speaking, which was worrying. Kazuha didn’t know him all too well, but he reasoned that Scaramouche would usually be talking and complaining a lot at this point. For him to be so silent seemed almost uncharacteristic of him. If something was direly wrong, then Kazuha really needed to get him some help.
“Please, let me get up,” Kazuha pleaded. “I’m worried for you. Did you injure yourself? Did you hit your head when I knocked you back?” If that was the case, Kazuha would feel terrible. If Scaramouche was hurt or severely injured because of him, that would be awful. He'd never be able to forgive himself.
Kazuha once again tried to wriggle away, only for Scaramouche to sink his teeth into the pale expanse of his neck. Kazuha couldn’t help but squeak in alarm, his eyes widening.
“O-oh — what are you doing?” Kazuha flushed, hating the way his voice wavered. Was Scaramouche trying to eat him? Was his illness making him resort to cannibalism? Kazuha didn’t exactly fancy becoming someone’s meal. He attempted to break free from Scaramouche for what felt like the millionth time; of course, to no avail.
“Scaramouche, I would greatly appreciate it if you released me,” Kazuha tried. “I don’t want your illness to worsen, so please just—”
Scaramouche abruptly bit him again, harder this time, and Kazuha immediately fell silent, a strained whimper spilling past his lips.
He squirmed underneath Scaramouche, who simply seemed spurred on by his actions. Kazuha’s flesh was burning, stinging with a faint sense of pain — and along with that pain came the delightful tingles of pleasure.
Kazuha didn’t often experience pleasure, not when he was so busy exploring and venturing the wild. He had little to no interest in pleasing himself, and though there were plenty of people who wished to court him, he simply never found any of them compelling enough. He preferred to stay single.
He didn’t need to entertain himself with affairs such as romance, not when he had the wind as his loyal companion. Nature would guide him, and it wasn’t leading him to any kind of bed. Kazuha didn’t care for the process of coupling. Instead, he wished to adventure and witness various sights and landmarks. It sounded much more appealing.
. . . Although now he wished he had more experience under his wing, because in this moment, he was for once entirely unprepared.
The wind couldn’t help him through this, and nature could not provide him any kind of advice. Kazuha was on his own; and he found himself lost. His mouth parted, but no sounds came out. What was he supposed to say? Scaramouche wasn’t talking at all, which made it incredibly hard to reason with him. This seemed like an impossible situation.
“Scaramouche,” Kazuha eventually whispered. “Please tell me, what are you—”
Scaramouche suddenly shoved his head down, pressing his face into the floor. Kazuha spluttered, choking on some of the flowers surrounding them. Pollen got into his eyes and nose, and he sneezed, his symptoms quickly forming, much like Scaramouche’s had.
His body felt all too hot, all too quickly. His face flushed, tinting into a dark crimson shade which matched the streak of red within his hair. Whatever the flowers were, they clearly weren’t normal. Maybe that was why Scaramouche sought them to begin with. Perhaps the Fatui wanted to research them?
Kazuha’s thoughts were becoming more and more muddled by the second, yet he forced himself to maintain reason. He shook his head firmly, exhaling shakily. No matter what was happening to him, he would stay focused. He wouldn’t lose himself.
“Scaramouche . . . Please get off. If you allow me to assess the situation, I think I can rationalize as to what happened, and I believe that I can also figure out what these flowers are,” Kazuha insisted. If he just had a moment to step back and think, he was certain that he could figure something out.
“Shut up.” Scaramouche finally — finally — spoke. And it was just to say that?
Kazuha blinked, as if he were caught within headlights, and Scaramouche flipped him over so that the two were face-to-face. Kazuha met Scaramouche’s dark stare, and he noticed that hints of a pink hue had entered the Harbinger’s gaze. Well, that wasn’t normal, now was it?
“I think—” Kazuha began, only for Scaramouche to cut him off with a kiss.
Scaramouche was tired of listening to Kazuha talk; his head was aching, his temple throbbing with an intense pain. He just wanted the agony to cease, and he was positive that Kazuha could help with that.
Scaramouche didn’t understand what was happening to him. One moment he was completely fine — angry, but that was entirely typical of him — and then the next he was like this. His body was warm and flushed all over; he was sweating as if he were some kind of pig. It was disgusting! This wasn’t anything like him!
He’d fallen back thanks to Kazuha’s annoying gust of wind, right into a patch of irksome flowers. They looked hideous, and smelled even worse; and on top of that, their pollen made him sneeze fiercely. It shouldn’t have happened. He was crafted by the gods, surely he shouldn’t be allergic to flowers, and yet—
Here he was, seemingly allergic to flowers.
Or perhaps there was some magical quantity to them? They definitely didn’t appear like the average flower. Kazuha didn’t seem to know what they were, but he was trying to figure it out. Scaramouche, however, could care less. What the flowers were didn’t matter to him, not anymore, what mattered instead was one thing: getting rid of the discomfort he felt.
He could barely think properly — all he could focus on was Kazuha. Kazuha was beautiful. Did he realize that before? Kazuha was also soft to the touch, and his hair was delightfully fluffy. He was like a cloud.
His face was so gentle and kind, too. Scaramouche wanted to break him. He wanted to shatter that sweet façade and watch the samurai crumble. He wanted to ruin Kazuha’s perfect composure.
There was a burning heat between Scaramouche’s legs, something entirely foreign to him. What was this? Was this desire? As an all-powerful, immortal being, Scaramouche didn’t often feel such trivial emotions such as lust. He didn’t have the time or the need for them. The only emotion he frequently experienced was anger.
And it was hard to be angry when Kazuha was looking so pleasant. Scaramouche wanted to devour him, he wanted to eat him alive. He wanted to hear him scream, hear him cry, hear him moan. A part of him was frightened at his own desires. He had certainly wanted to make people suffer before, just never in this way, never . . . Sexually.
Scaramouche was barely in control of his own body. He hated this feeling. He hated feeling like a puppet, as if he couldn’t even dictate what he felt or did. But no matter how much he tried to fight it, he couldn’t suppress the instincts that overcame him.
Kazuha was caught by surprise, his mouth parted in a gasp. Scaramouche never failed to catch him off-guard, time and time again. Was this going to become a routine? He felt his hands moving up, and he tried to push Scaramouche away, to no avail.
This was his first kiss. It was stolen from him, in a way. There was no romantic buildup, no ethereal or beautiful setting, no pleasantries exchanged before the act. Wasn’t this supposed to be something enchanting and magical? Instead, Kazuha felt like Scaramouche was trying to consume him rather than kiss him.
In the end, though, he didn’t mind. Kazuha could easily adapt to many things, and even though he was caught by surprise at first, he swiftly adjusted to the situation. He opened his mouth a bit wider, slowly moving his lips so that he could kiss Scaramouche back.
Perhaps he should be vandalized, perhaps he should be yelling and throwing a fit. Wasn’t this some kind of assault? Scaramouche didn’t ask before kissing him, after all — but Kazuha didn’t hold it against him. The Harbinger probably wasn’t used to asking. He most likely just took whatever he wanted. So really, Kazuha considered himself lucky.
Things could always be worse.
Besides, Kazuha didn’t mind kissing Scaramouche. He was handsome, and he seemed to know what he was doing. Kazuha wondered just how much experience the other man had. Was he well-versed in the art of romance? Kazuha himself was clueless, so it would be beneficial if Scaramouche wasn’t.
He was starting to crave air, so he pried a little harder at Scaramouche, trying to let him know that he needed to breathe. Didn’t Scaramouche also need a breath? But instead, he seemed entirely resilient, as if he could go on for ages without pausing. That was a bit frightening; how extensive was the Harbinger’s stamina? It seemed almost inhuman.
Scaramouche finally moved away, and Kazuha gasped, his chest heaving. He inhaled desperately, quivering slightly as he regained his bearings. It was a relief to finally have oxygen spilling back into his lungs. He was worried he might pass out.
“. . . Well that was entertaining,” Kazuha offered after a moment of tense silence.
Scaramouche stared down at him, and Kazuha noticed there seemed to be an internal debate going on within him. He appeared guilty, almost — and that made Kazuha smile slightly. He reached a hand out, his fingers brushing lightly against Scaramouche’s warm cheek.
Scaramouche tensed at the contact, going entirely rigid, before he leaned closer slowly, relaxing ever-so-slightly. Kazuha continued to smile, humming quietly. “Don’t worry,” he murmured. “I enjoyed it. Whatever you want to do, I will accept your advances. Although I don’t—”
Scaramouche cut him off. “Don’t,” he insisted. His voice was weak, and he seemed to struggle to even talk. “Don’t. I can’t control myself. We’re basic strangers. I don’t know what happened to me, and gods, I would love to just break you — but I can’t. Not like this. The things I want to do to you are new to me, I’ve never felt like this before—I—”
“It’s arousal,” Kazuha interrupted. “I’m assuming you’re attracted to me. Although, I can’t imagine that it would cause you to act in such a way. Which makes me think, perhaps it is the flowers . . . ? Maybe they are the cause of your predicament. Your symptoms only began to show after you inhaled quite a lot of their pollen.”
“Then how do I stop it?” Scaramouche growled out. “How do I make this shit go away? It’s driving me insane.”
“Well, do you have any urges?” Kazuha inquired patiently.
“Of course I do! Don’t you see? I lost my cool and acted out on some of them. Gods, I can’t believe I kissed you, I . . . Fuck.”
“Well, what are your other urges? Perhaps if you indulge upon them, your condition will gradually improve. I am willing to help.” Kazuha tried to maintain his focus, even though his mind was beginning to fog. He suspected the flowers were starting to affect him, too.
“You don’t want to know.”
“I asked, didn’t I? Which means I do.”
“Smartass,” Scaramouche snarled, his expression darkening. “Keep mouthing off to me, you fucking brat, and I swear I’ll pound you into the ground and make you see stars. I’ll make you forget your own damn name. Is that what you want? Is that what you desire? I should have known you were a whore.” Scaramouche suddenly reached out, gripping tightly onto Kazuha’s chin.
Kazuha, of course, was startled, his wide eyes staring up into Scaramouche’s. Oh, my, was all Kazuha could truly think.
Kazuha tried to consider Scaramouche’s words. Was he a whore? Well, he certainly complied to Scaramouche’s advances fairly quickly, though the flowers probably helped with that. He also found that he didn’t really mind their current problem, and in fact, he didn’t know if he wanted it to be solved.
Though he had no real experience with sex, and Scaramouche was the only person Kazuha had gone this far with. Maybe after this, Kazuha would start trying new things and pushing past his boundaries more. Maybe this could be a new start for him.
“Don’t you know it’s rude to say things like that?” Kazuha chided, keeping his tone light, though clearly mocking. He wanted to push Scaramouche’s buttons; he wanted to see how far he could drive Scaramouche before he snapped. It was amusing to watch the way his brow furrowed, it was amusing to watch the way he grew frustrated.
Scaramouche growled, and he crashed their lips together again without further warning, causing a muffled whine to escape Kazuha.
Now that Kazuha had given his full consent, Scaramouche probably wasn’t going to bother holding back — and Kazuha didn’t want him to. Kazuha would accept whatever Scaramouche gave him. He found himself growing excited, despite his better nature, yet he hid that excitement well.
He was a master at concealing his emotions, even when he felt like he was going to burst from them. The desire that coursed through him made him want to explode, but he kept a mask of calm across his face — ensuring that he didn’t slip up. He didn’t want to let his fragile composure fade; he clung onto it as if it were a lifeline.
“For a Harbinger, you are quite sinful, and lack some much needed self-control,” Kazuha gasped out as soon as Scaramouche pulled away, which just seemed to anger said Harbinger further.
Scaramouche’s words seemed to go without saying. Stop talking.
Kazuha wisely fell silent, and Scaramouche seemed pleased that he listened so easily. Kazuha himself was a bit embarrassed that he had complied so quickly, but he was always a good listener, and he wasn’t prone to protesting too much.
“You haven’t done something like this before, have you?” Scaramouche inquired, his voice low and husky with desire. “I can see it all over your face. You’re a total virgin.” He certainly intended for the words to be insulting, and he probably wanted to embarrass or mock Kazuha, even despite his own inexperience. Instead of growing distraught, though, the boy just smiled, chuckling weakly.
“Well, I won’t be one for much longer, right?” He pointed out slyly, and Scaramouche huffed, glaring down at him.
He seemed ready to retort when he suddenly sneezed again, quickly covering his mouth with a hand. Kazuha stifled a giggle, and Scaramouche grumbled in annoyance, glowering at a bemused Kazuha. “Is this funny to you?” He ground out. “Quit laughing, brat.” He tugged on Kazuha’s clothes impatiently, attempting to pull them off.
Kazuha decided to do him a favor and help him out. He slowly stripped himself of his clothes; they felt far too tight and hot, anyway. He wasn’t used to being bare in front of other people, especially strangers, but he figured there was always a first for everything. There were no rewards if you didn’t take some risks, after all.
Kazuha admittedly was a bit insecure with his body. He didn’t consider himself the most attractive person out there, and he wasn’t all that used to exposing himself in such a way. He was nervous, though he made sure not to show it. He kept his face a façade of nonchalance, forcing himself to seem at ease.
Maybe if he faked it enough, it would become real. Maybe as time passed on, he would gain more confidence. It was all he could hope for. He was praying that his embarrassment would go away soon; he could feel his face burning, his cheeks stinging with the effects of a blush.
Scaramouche was staring at him — openly staring — and of course he would. He didn’t give a damn about whether or not Kazuha was flustered. In fact, he probably wanted to make Kazuha flustered. Scaramouche’s gaze trailed up and down Kazuha’s body, rhythmically, and Kazuha had to fight back against the urge to cover himself.
His hands drifted downwards, ever-so-briefly, and Scaramouche reached out, grabbing tightly onto him. He stopped Kazuha’s movements, his tone surprisingly sharp. “No,” he said firmly, his voice a hoarse hiss. “Don’t you dare hide yourself from me.”
Kazuha tilted his head to the side, biting down onto his lip instead of responding. The poet, for once, couldn’t find a single thing to say. No reply bubbled to his tongue. Instead, he could only feel the faint hints of shame. Would Scaramouche ridicule him? Would he be mocked and insulted? He braced himself, readied himself for scorn—
“You’re stunning,” Scaramouche muttered faintly, running his hands across Kazuha’s skin and causing the boy to shiver. Stunning? Kazuha wondered faintly, his mouth parting. Did he hear that right? Was he imagining things, or did Scaramouche compliment him?
Kazuha wasn’t hallucinating — Scaramouche really did think he was stunning. Over the course of his (very long) existence, Scaramouche had seen plenty of people. Beautiful people, ugly people, average-looking people — yet not a single one of them could ever compare to Kazuha.
Perhaps it was the effects of the flowers influencing his emotions, but to him, Kazuha seemed far superior than anyone else. Was Kazuha the divine one? Scaramouche was supposed to be the godly one amongst them, yet to him, Kazuha took on that role. Kazuha looked as if he were also sculpted by the Archons; he looked too good to be true.
Scaramouche dug his fingers into Kazuha’s skin, just to be certain that he was real. He heard Kazuha gasp softly, and yes, that confirmed the fact that he was very real, and very enticing. Scaramouche wanted to touch him all over, he wanted to ruin him, he wanted all of him, all of the time, always —
He shook his head. The damn flowers and whatever magic they were infused with . . . It kept getting to him. He had to snap out of it, yet he couldn’t. How was he, an ethereal and eternal being, altered so much by some pollen? It was humiliating, and he supposed this was probably another reason as to why he was deemed defective.
His focus fixated back onto Kazuha, and he could feel a burning sense of desire course through him. It trickled slowly into his veins at first, like a stream, before it became an all-encompassing torrent which refused to leave him be. He had to bite his lip to stifle a groan; Kazuha looked so damn divine.
His skin was so silky and smooth, as pale as freshly fallen snow. Scaramouche held tightly onto him, watching as Kazuha’s milky flesh shifted into a bluish-purple hue, exactly the color Scaramouche longed to see. The Harbinger grinned, the gesture crooked and twisted. Watching bruises appear upon Kazuha’s body was far too addicting.
His thighs were surprisingly thick, and Scaramouche squeezed them for good measure, earning a startled yelp. His groin throbbed at the sound, and he inhaled sharply, regaining his bearings. “Are your thighs sensitive?” He asked casually, sinking his nails into Kazuha’s thighs and ripping a whimper from the white-haired boy.
“I . . . My whole b-body is sensitive,” Kazuha replied after a moment of hesitation, his voice wavering. “My senses are heightened. Everything I experience is amplified, I suppose you could say. So I’m sensitive to the slightest to— ahh!” Kazuha’s words were cut off as Scaramouche bent his head down, suddenly sinking his teeth into the inside of Kazuha’s thigh.
Kazuha whined, clawing at the ground as tears bubbled into his eyes. He quickly blinked them away, covering his mouth with a hand to muffle the noises that threatened to escape him. Scaramouche was biting at his skin mercilessly, drawing blood wherever he pleased. Trails of red streaked down Kazuha’s pale skin, staining it a deep crimson color.
“That hurt,” Kazuha reprimanded him quietly, though he didn’t seem too angry.
Scaramouche glanced up at him, and for good measure, he bit Kazuha again, this time a little harder. The boy preened, his back arching, and Scaramouche smirked against his thigh. He eventually pulled back, licking up the blood that had fallen from Kazuha’s wounds. They weren’t anything too deep or major, but enough for it to sting.
Scaramouche straightened up, wiping blood off of his lips with a single finger. “That was the point,” he retorted after a pause. “If you can’t handle pain, I’d suggest leaving now, before it’s too late.” You’re lucky I’m even giving you an option, Scaramouche thought dryly. His mind was so foggy with desire, it was a miracle he could even talk properly.
Something within Kazuha’s gaze hardened, and he clenched his jaw, clicking his tongue. “I did not say that I disliked it,” he replied evenly. “Do as you please. I will make sure to inform you if something bothers me, Lord Harbinger.”
Shit. Scaramouche’s nerves were set on fire, his body alighting with a burning lust at Kazuha’s words. He leaned closer, gripping onto Kazuha’s hair tightly, tugging fiercely at the strands.
“Then listen here, brat,” Scaramouche hissed out, straining to maintain his sense of control. “You’re going to be a good boy for me, got that?” He glared down at Kazuha, leaving little room for argument, but it wasn’t as if Kazuha was going to protest. The samurai simply nodded, and Scaramouche tightened his grip on his hair.
“If you disobey me, or if you piss me off, you’ll pay for it. You don’t want to be punished, now do you?” Scaramouche leaned his head down, trailing light kisses along Kazuha’s jaw. He could feel the other shake his head, and he hummed in approval.
“Good boy, Kazuha.”
In truth, it turned him on to see Kazuha obey him so well. They were a good match in that sense.
Scaramouche was addicted to power. He fed off of it; he got high off of it. He loved making others feel weak. He loved watching people grovel and cower underneath him. He was built to be a leader. He was created to rule. He was made to be superior to others. It was something engraved within him, and he embraced it, he welcomed it entirely.
It was part of the reason he tolerated being a Harbinger. While he had to obey the Tsaritsa, he could still pass out orders to others. He could boss various agents around as he pleased. He could enact all of his fantasies out freely; he could get a taste of the power that he craved so desperately. Watching his subordinates tremble at the sight of him, watching them shake at the sound of his voice, watching them fear him was amazing.
Being in total control was something he adored. He never wanted to be bossed around, he never wanted to be ordered about or restrained. He was the one pulling the strings, he was the only puppeteer around. No one could manipulate him, not ever again. He would crush anyone that tried.
That’s why he loved this so much.
He loved how Kazuha obeyed him. Admittedly, he might have a bit of a smart-mouth, but that could be trained out of him with time. He’d learn his lesson after the first punishment or two.
Kazuha listened to Scaramouche so effortlessly, like it was second nature to him. He seemed like a follower, not the type of person to lead or speak up — exactly what Scaramouche liked. He was sure that Kazuha would please him, and he was positive that Kazuha would never be able to take advantage of him.
They were a match made in heaven, or perhaps made in hell.
Scaramouche rose to his feet, straightening up slowly. Kazuha peered up at him expectantly, and Scaramouche leaned against one of the nearby trees, grinning down at him. Kazuha fought against the urge to blush; Scaramouche was undeniably attractive, perhaps the most attractive man that Kazuha had ever seen.
“Are you just going to sit there and stare?” Scaramouche asked, his tone mocking, and Kazuha dipped his head to hide the way his cheeks flushed a faint pink.
“. . . What would you like for me to do?” Kazuha asked, hating how breathless he sounded.
“Come on. I don’t have to tell you how to do everything, do I? Do you really need to be guided that much?” Scaramouche demanded. He gestured Kazuha forward, but when the boy went to stand up as well, Scaramouche immediately shoved him back down.
“Did I say you could stand?” Scaramouche snapped. “I don’t think I did. You’re staying on your hands and knees where you belong.”
Kazuha nodded without further debate, settling to sit in front of Scaramouche, placing his hands neatly into his lap. He was awaiting further instruction.
Scaramouche reached a hand out, tangling his fist through Kazuha’s hair. “Undress me,” he advised. “If you tear my clothes or mess anything up, you’ll be sorry.” Scaramouche stared down at him with a gaze so intense, Kazuha couldn’t help but feel a bit nervous. He was usually completely steady in his movements, but what if he messed up somehow?
He didn’t know why the thought excited him.
Nonetheless, he was meticulous in the process of stripping Scaramouche. He made sure to handle the other man’s outfit with great care. It was a bit complicated to undo, and Scaramouche offered him no help whatsoever, instead opting to watch him with contempt.
When Scaramouche was finally just as bare as Kazuha, the white-haired boy nearly swooned. Nearly. He knew how to control himself, unlike Scaramouche.
But Archons — how could someone be so perfect? It was mind-blowing. Kazuha wanted to turn himself away to conceal his reactions, but Scaramouche wasn’t going to let him get the chance. Kazuha was forced to fight for his composure, sinking his teeth into his tongue until he tasted the metallic tang of blood.
Scaramouche, on the outside, appeared to be lithe and almost frail. Yet Kazuha knew better, and the muscles that rippled across Scaramouche’s abdomen proved that he was right to suspect that Scaramouche was far stronger than he initially looked. Kazuha dug his fingers into his thighs, hissing softly when he touched some of the bruises Scaramouche had left him.
Speaking of marks and bruises — Scaramouche had an arsenal of scars across his skin. Kazuha wondered where they were all from. As a samurai, Kazuha donned his own fair share of battle wounds and scars, so of course he wasn’t going to judge Scaramouche for his. In fact, it just made him feel closer to Scaramouche, in a way.
“What are you ogling at, boy?” Scaramouche demanded sharply, redirecting Kazuha’s attention. He met Scaramouche’s gaze and smiled, tilting his head slightly.
“You, of course. You are quite handsome,” Kazuha told him sincerely, and Scaramouche tensed, as if he wasn’t expecting the compliment. His eyes widened slightly, for a fraction of a moment, and Kazuha wondered if he’d ever received a genuine compliment before.
“Has no one ever told you that before?” Kazuha pressed, keeping his tone gentle. He didn’t want to anger Scaramouche or offend him somehow. He reached a hand out, trailing it across the other’s smooth stomach, criss-crossed with scars. “I’ve never seen someone as captivating as you. You are like the night sky, dark and endless, yet filled with a million beautiful stars.”
Surprisingly enough, Scaramouche remained both still and silent. He allowed Kazuha to touch him, though he was tense beneath the samurai’s gentle hands. Kazuha had the distinct feeling no one had ever touched him like this before.
Kazuha’s gaze drifted upwards, resting upon a strange marking on the other’s chest. It was shaped weirdly, and Kazuha found it to be quite out of place. It looked nearly carved into his skin. His mouth parted, and he reached a hand out, tracing his fingers lightly over the surface. What is this? He wondered without needing to say it aloud.
“There are some things mo— boys like you don’t need to know about,” Scaramouche spoke suddenly, snatching Kazuha’s hand away.
“You can tell me. I do not judge. If I am correct in my assumptions, it looks quite similar to a gnosis, does it not?” Kazuha was filled with curiosity — but like the saying went, curiosity killed the cat.
“You talk too much,” Scaramouche hissed. “Shut up.” He gripped tightly onto Kazuha’s hair, suddenly yanking the samurai forward. Kazuha was pressed against Scaramouche’s crotch, and he knew instinctively what the other wanted from him.
Kazuha, despite his mature age, had never seen another man’s cock before. He painted his face into an aloof expression, pretending as if this was no big deal to him, but it was. Scaramouche was so different compared to him, so much larger. Kazuha’s stomach churned, and his mouth parted. Will it even fit?
Scaramouche didn’t seem to share his concerns, and so Kazuha told himself to get it together. The surge of motivation allowed him to lean forward, taking Scaramouche’s cock into his mouth.
Kazuha didn’t know what to expect, but he definitely wasn’t anticipating this. Scaramouche tasted pleasant, almost addicting. Kazuha couldn’t get enough of him. He wondered if it was the flowers doing this, or if it was just how things were. In the end, he decided he didn’t care which was true. All that mattered was Scaramouche.
Kazuha hesitated for just a moment before moving, slowly starting to bob his head up and down. He might not have much knowledge regarding these acts, but he could at least try, and he was always open to learn. He brought his hands up, resting them gently against Scaramouche’s thighs to steady himself.
He trailed his tongue along the underside of Scaramouche’s cock, testing things out. He was moving slowly, carefully — it was like dipping your toe into a pool rather than diving right in. He wanted to do this just right, he wanted it to be perfect, he wanted—
Scaramouche didn’t seem to share his sentiment. He gripped Kazuha forcefully, roughly grasping the boy by the hair. It wasn’t long until Scaramouche was directing Kazuha’s movements, guiding him quite harshly. He obviously lacked patience, and Kazuha wasn’t taking things quick enough for his liking.
“Do I have to do everything for you?” Scaramouche drawled out, and Kazuha hummed in response, the vibrations of the action causing Scaramouche to hiss with pleasure. Kazuha hummed again, just for good measure, and Scaramouche bit back a groan, thrusting his hips roughly into Kazuha’s throat.
Kazuha was left with no choice but to remain still, taking whatever Scaramouche gave him. He could feel the Harbinger plunging deep into the back of his throat, and it hurt; tears rose into the corners of his eyes, and Kazuha struggled not to gag, choking slightly.
Spit dripped down the corners of his mouth, and he was sure he looked revolting. Far too undignified and messy. Yet to Scaramouche, he was perfect. He loved seeing Kazuha so undone; he loved turning the other boy into nothing more than a frazzled wreck. It caused his movements to grow even rougher, even more frenzied and sporadic.
Kazuha clung tighter onto Scaramouche’s thighs, whining pleadingly against him. He couldn’t breathe; he was starting to panic. He couldn’t get in enough air. Whenever he tried, he simply got a mouthful of cock instead. He clawed weakly at Scaramouche’s legs, and the Harbinger spared him a glance, never once slowing his pace.
“Stop panicking,” he advised, running a hand through Kazuha’s disheveled hair. “Silly brat. Just calm yourself down and breathe through your nose. You’re not even doing any work, so just be a good boy and take it for me, will you? Surely you can do that.”
Kazuha focused on his words, managing to nod slightly to show his agreement. Scaramouche grinned, rocking his hips slowly into Kazuha’s mouth, and Kazuha started to relax more. He focused on breathing through his nose, and when Scaramouche resumed his brisk pace, Kazuha wasn’t as uncomfortable anymore.
He could feel Scaramouche’s cock hitting the very back of his throat, time and time again. He groaned faintly, seeing stars briefly dance in front of his vision. Tears continued to blur his eyes, but they weren’t as bothersome anymore. He opened his mouth wider for Scaramouche, adjusting to take more of him.
“Fuck—” Scaramouche hissed out. He started thrusting even harder into Kazuha, who struggled to remain composed, soft whimpers escaping him occasionally. It was a strange feeling, to be used in such a way, as if his body was nothing more than a means for pleasure. It was foreign, but it was exhilarating. Perhaps he enjoyed this too much.
Scaramouche’s movements became more frenzied and uncontrolled, and Kazuha began to piece things together. The Harbinger was close. Kazuha could hear the way his breath hitched; his sensitive ears missed nothing, after all. He made sure to keep still, allowing Scaramouche to do as he pleased.
Scaramouche pounded relentlessly into his throat, chasing desperately after his high. He didn’t care if Kazuha was in pain, he didn’t care about anything other than his own pleasure. He wanted to obtain that blissful sense of relief, and so he would.
It didn’t take long before Scaramouche released into Kazuha’s mouth. He gripped tightly onto the boy’s hair, tugging so hard he nearly ripped out the soft strands. “Swallow it,” Scaramouche ordered, his husky tone leaving no room for any kind of debate, though it wasn’t as if Kazuha could argue.
Kazuha swallowed all of Scaramouche’s cum, doing so almost dutifully. He made sure there wasn’t even a drop left on his tongue, and it was a good thing he did. Moments later, Scaramouche had pulled out of his mouth. The Harbinger leaned down, forcing Kazuha to show him his tongue.
“Tsk. You really did swallow it all. Good boy.” Scaramouche trailed thin, pale fingers across Kazuha’s cheek, and Kazuha did his best not to preen at the praise. He didn’t know why, but it sent thrills of electricity down his spine. He loved it when Scaramouche showered him with praise, and he loved it when he degraded him. It was a constant duality.
Kazuha licked his lips slowly, chasing the remnants of Scaramouche’s seed. His release had tasted different; something new and foreign, though it wasn’t unpleasant. He could find himself getting easily addicted to the taste if he wasn’t careful.
“That’s all the preparation you’re going to get,” Scaramouche told him idly, and Kazuha gaped up at him. “But—” he began to protest, but Scaramouche wasn’t in the mood for back talk. He gripped tightly onto Kazuha’s chin, tilting his head. “Are you deaf?” Scaramouche inquired with a false sense of patience. “Or perhaps you’re just stupid?”
Kazuha was knocked back onto the ground moments later, Scaramouche climbing on top of him. This was all going quite fast, and Kazuha had thought that things were quick before, but this — was Scaramouche not going to prepare him even a little? They didn’t even have any lubricant! Kazuha whimpered faintly, beginning to squirm.
“S-Scaram—”
“Don’t call me that,” Scaramouche snapped, and Kazuha paused. His lip quivered as he peered up at the other, his red eyes glossy with unshed tears. They looked like twin diamonds; rubies, perhaps. Scaramouche thought they were deceptively beautiful. The same shade as blood. Perhaps red would become his favorite color at this rate.
“Then what am I to call you?” Kazuha whispered, and Scaramouche leaned down, wrapping his hands around the boy’s fragile throat. Kazuha tensed underneath him, but he didn’t have to be so afraid. Scaramouche wasn’t planning on killing him anytime soon.
Scaramouche bent his head down to nip at the boy’s ear, causing him to flinch slightly. He was so skittish, almost like a rabbit. Scaramouche wanted to laugh, but his desire outweighed his amusement. All he could properly think about was Kazuha; he wanted him. No, the proper term would be he needed him.
“You can call me . . . Master,” Scaramouche decided after a moment. “Or perhaps Lord Harbinger.” He grinned impishly, and Kazuha eyed him with a curious gaze, though he nodded nonetheless. Scaramouche hadn’t put much thought into what Kazuha should call him, just not — not Scaramouche.
Not the name that damn Archon gave me. I’m sick of being called that, I’m sick of being given names by gods who think they know it all. Call me something else, Kazuha. Call me something only you’ll be able to address me as.
Scaramouche, at least, took care when lining himself up with Kazuha’s entrance. He knew the boy was inexperienced, and well, so was he — but that didn’t matter. He’d take the lead, he’d guide Kazuha and he’d call all of the shots. Kazuha would just have to follow along with whatever Scaramouche wanted. He had no room within him to even protest.
Despite how eager Scaramouche was to just fuck Kazuha senseless, he forced himself to maintain some control. Kazuha had mocked him for his lack of it before, and he didn’t need to add more fuel into the fire. Besides, though he wanted more than anything to see Kazuha in pain, he didn’t want him in agony.
Scaramouche sank himself gently into Kazuha, pushing just the tip inside of the boy, and gods — he was so unbelievably tight. “Shit,” Scaramouche hissed out. Kazuha was whining, trembling underneath him, and Scaramouche tightened his grip on the boy’s throat, muffling any noises that threatened to escape him.
He wanted to just shove himself all the way inside without giving a damn, but — he didn’t. It wouldn’t feel all that great to him, and he knew it would feel even worse for Kazuha. So he made sure to be cautious, because — fine, Kazuha pulled at a soft spot within Scaramouche, a spot he didn’t even know existed before now.
Scaramouche peered down at the boy, whose eyes glistened with tears. They rolled slowly down his porcelain cheeks, and Scaramouche could feel his cock growing impossibly harder at the sight, which caused Kazuha to whine. Scaramouche’s hands trembled ever-so-slightly as he squeezed Kazuha’s throat, exhaling heavily.
“You alright?” Scaramouche muttered. It was so uncharacteristic of him to ask such a thing; it was so different from how he usually was. If any of the other Harbingers could see him right now, they’d surely be mocking him, ridiculing him for going so easy on Kazuha.
That thought just made Scaramouche tighten his grip on the boy, causing him to gasp. Scaramouche didn’t want to picture the other Harbingers; the thought of them filled him with rage. He could only imagine how they would be in his position. They’d have zero regards for Kazuha or his comfort. They’d destroy him, break him apart, and that made Scaramouche furious.
Only I can do that. Me, and no one else. Why am I thinking of those stupid fucking assholes right now? Scaramouche shook his head to himself. He pressed his hips into Kazuha, shoving himself to the hilt inside of the boy without any further warning.
Oh — maybe he should have waited for a response. And oh — Kazuha couldn’t exactly speak, not with Scaramouche’s hands pressing against his throat.
Scaramouche couldn’t bring himself to feel guilty, however. He was annoyed, pissed at himself for his own thoughts, and pissed at Kazuha for bringing out a side of himself he didn’t think was even possible.
Underneath him, Kazuha was crying even more now, the tears splattering across his fair skin. “H-h. . .” Kazuha was trying to talk, his voice a weak rasp. Scaramouche eventually took pity on him, moving his hands away from Kazuha’s throat to wipe away the samurai’s glossy tears. “Hm?” He hummed, prompting for the boy to continue.
“Hurts,” Kazuha whimpered, choking on a sob. He was shaking, and Scaramouche sighed, cupping the boy’s cheek in his hand.
“I know,” he responded, and his voice was oddly quiet. Soft, even. Dare he say, gentle. “Just bear it for me, okay? You’re doing so well. You’re so good for me, Kazuha, so obedient. You feel amazing. You take my cock so good, you know that?”
Scaramouche was surprised at his own words. Here he was, praising Kazuha, when he shouldn’t even be talking to him. He should be using Kazuha like the whore he was. He shouldn’t be coddling him, he shouldn’t be pampering him as if they were— as if they were something more, something intimate.
Scaramouche’s praise seemed to do the trick, though. Kazuha relaxed, some of the tension fading from his body. “That’s it,” Scaramouche cooed, brushing his knuckle across Kazuha’s cheek. “Just like that.”
He started moving gradually, thrusting into Kazuha at a slow pace. It was unbearable for him; he wanted to pound into Kazuha without any care in the world, but he didn’t. He treated the other boy with a tenderness he didn’t know he was capable of showing.
Kazuha stared up at Scaramouche, his heart leaping within his chest. He had never felt this way before; he didn’t even realize such emotions existed. He was struggling to maintain his composure, fighting to balance out his expression — it was no use, though. The tears that dripped down his cheeks betrayed him; they showed just how he felt.
It hurt. It hurt worse than anything else Kazuha had experienced. It felt like he was being split open, torn apart from inside. His guts were being entirely rearranged, and Scaramouche was hardly even moving. Perhaps this was a bad idea; a very bad idea. Kazuha had played with fire, and he’d gotten burned, burned straight to ashes.
But he realized that he didn’t care. If Scaramouche burned him into nothing, if Scaramouche ruined him, that was alright. Kazuha could always be put back together again. He was resilient. He had survived countless terrible situations; this was nothing. He just had to be brave, like he always was.
Besides, he knew that with time, this pain would pass. Agony didn’t last forever. It would fade. And sure enough, it did — the unbearable sensations that had plagued Kazuha began to fizzle out, simmering away like the dying embers of a fire.
His lower half still ached slightly, a dull background noise, and Kazuha knew he would be sore later. Though that was all later. He could worry about it when it happened. He could take some medicine to help with any discomfort, anyway. He was prepared.
Pleasure slowly began to creep through Kazuha, gradually at first, before it became all-consuming. He could feel so much, he could feel everything. Scaramouche felt wonderful inside of him; he hit every sensitive spot within Kazuha just right, he set the samurai’s body alight.
Every small movement, every slight shift, Kazuha felt it vividly. His keen senses made everything amplified, until it all became too much. He reached out, wrapping his arms around Scaramouche; clinging onto him for dear life.
Scaramouche seemed to take the hint. He didn’t waste another second, moving himself so he could thrust into Kazuha without any more restraint. As soon as he started to properly fuck Kazuha, the samurai gasped, digging his nails into Scaramouche’s back. He was worried he might hurt the other, but Scaramouche didn’t even bat an eye.
Did he even feel pain?
Scaramouche moved his head down, sinking his teeth into the soft expanse of Kazuha’s neck, which was now covered in faint bruises from where the Harbinger had choked him. Kazuha moaned faintly at the feeling of Scaramouche marking his flesh; it caused goosebumps to ripple up his spine, his back arching up off of the ground.
Scaramouche made sure to litter Kazuha with marks; Kazuha would have to bundle up in thick clothing to hide them. He didn’t know if he even wanted to conceal them, however. He was certain that Scaramouche would want them to be on full display, for all of the world to see. To see that he was—
“Fuck,” Scaramouche hissed out, eventually moving his lips away from Kazuha’s skin. “You’re mine, Kazuha, do you understand? Mine, and no one else’s. I don’t care who you knew before me — forget about them. They don’t matter anymore. Devote yourself to me instead.” His tone bordered on hysteric, and Kazuha’s mouth parted breathlessly. He wanted to speak, he had so much to say —
He went to reply when Scaramouche drove deeper inside of him, hitting a spot within Kazuha that made the boy cry out. His fragile composure cracked, his sense of dignity slipping away. His pride wavered as Scaramouche peered down at him, a predatory glint shining within those blue eyes. “Oh? It seems I found it,” he murmured tauntingly, and Kazuha’s breath hitched.
Scaramouche didn’t hesitate to thrust harder into him; Kazuha wondered if he had a limit. Did he ever tire? Did he ever exhaust himself? Kazuha was left no choice but to crumble apart at the seams, his cries echoing throughout the forest for all to hear. He was certain they were the only ones around for miles; or at least, he hoped so.
“That’s right.” Scaramouche appeared animalistic at that point, a wild glitter adorning his gaze. “Moan for me, all for me. Don’t hold back. I want to hear it all, I want to hear everything. Moan louder for me, Kazuha.”
Kazuha gasped weakly, and who was he to protest? Perhaps it would be alright if he allowed his mask to fall. Just for Scaramouche. It was hard to object when the Harbinger was rearranging his insides, it was hard to think properly when Scaramouche moved inside of him like that.
He moaned, allowing his cries to ring out through the trees. He blushed with embarrassment; he wasn’t aware he could make such wanton noises. He didn’t even sound like himself, he sounded like someone else entirely. It was almost mind-boggling.
Scaramouche suddenly moved down, crashing their lips together, and Kazuha gasped, his whines muffled by Scaramouche’s mouth on his. Scaramouche ate up every little noise Kazuha made, swallowing it all down to keep to himself. He was possessive, Kazuha could tell that right from the start, but he didn’t realize just how possessive Scaramouche could be.
Scaramouche was driving deep inside of him, reaching places Kazuha didn’t know existed. He could feel every twitch of the Harbinger’s cock; he could feel the way it curved inside of him, brushing against his sensitive insides. Kazuha couldn’t help but clench around him, his hole tightening around Scaramouche’s length as the pleasure grew to be unbearable.
Scaramouche growled against Kazuha’s lips, groaning faintly, and Kazuha shivered at the sound. His toes curled, and he noticed white spots dancing in front of his vision. So this was total euphoria, wasn’t it? This was pure bliss, and he never wanted it to stop.
There was a steady buildup rising within Kazuha, and he realized it was the urge to release. It was like a spring, begging to be set free, and Kazuha wanted to cum. He wanted to so badly — he was ashamed of himself, ashamed at how he could barely last, yet he couldn’t bring himself to struggle against his internal desires.
He wanted to touch himself, he wanted to touch his own cock which was dripping with precum. He could feel himself tightening around Scaramouche again, his body seizing up, his mind blanking—
“Don’t you dare cum,” Scaramouche snarled, pulling roughly away from the kiss, leaving Kazuha gasping and breathless.
“Sc— master,” Kazuha whined, catching himself before he could make a fatal mistake.
Please. Please allow me to release, I can’t hold myself back, I can’t . . .
“What’s wrong? I didn’t have you down as being so weak,” Scaramouche mocked him, and with each word, he thrusted roughly into Kazuha, jerking the boy’s body and causing Kazuha to wail in unabashed bliss.
“You’ll only cum when I say so,” Scaramouche went on. “If you don’t obey me, brat, then I’ll make sure to train you better. I’ll make sure you listen next time. And if you can obey me . . . If you can do as you’re told, I’ll reward you. Understand?”
Kazuha could only sob in response, nodding weakly.
“Good boy. This should be easy for you. Come on, now. You were so regal and composed before. You were mocking me for my lack of self control. Let’s see yours.” Scaramouche smirked down at him, and Kazuha realized that he wasn’t being set free anytime soon.
✿ ✿ ✿
Kazuha was right. Scaramouche really hadn’t planned on setting him free, not for a while, anyway.
Kazuha had lost track of time in this forest, but by now, he assumed it had been a week.
A week of nothing but pleasure. Mind-blowing, all consuming euphoria. Kazuha could barely think straight half the time, reduced to nothing but a puddle of his own tears and cum.
Scaramouche had to provide for them. He hunted, and when Kazuha could compose himself, he forced himself to cook. Scaramouche collected water, and he made sure Kazuha drank enough of it. He was oddly tender, treating Kazuha as if he were nothing more than a porcelain doll.
Scaramouche knew mortals were fragile things. They were weak and pathetic, but he didn’t want Kazuha to break on him. He wanted to preserve Kazuha, and so he would take care of him. As an immortal being, Scaramouche could last much longer than Kazuha ever could.
Sometimes, Kazuha would pass out, losing himself to the bliss. Scaramouche would continue to fuck him, anyway; he was too insistent on chasing his own high to stop. When Kazuha would awaken, it would almost always be to Scaramouche releasing inside of him, spilling his cum deep into the samurai’s sore hole.
As of now, Kazuha was lying on a patch of grass, dazed from yet another round of brutal coupling. He was covered in cum, and he could feel it leaking out of him, dripping down his thighs. His embarrassment at this compromising state had long since faded.
Instead of preparing for another session like he usually would, Scaramouche dressed himself, slipping his clothes on slowly. Kazuha watched him lazily, his gaze unfocused and distant. He assumed Scaramouche would go out hunting, but then the Balladeer turned to look down at him.
“I’m leaving.”
Kazuha paused, his senses returning to him. The words were like a bucket of ice cold water being dumped all over him. His mouth parted, and he must have looked upset, because Scaramouche sighed, interrupting whatever Kazuha was about to say.
“I’ll come back for you.”
Kazuha blinked, like a deer caught in headlights. He had expected Scaramouche to abandon him. He had expected for this to be just some fling, some fleeting moment that would be lost within their memories later on. But it seemed like that wasn’t the case.
“What? Don’t look so surprised.” Scaramouche scoffed down at him, adjusting his hat upon his head. “I told you. You’re mine. I’ll come back for you eventually, but I have some . . . Business to attend to. Nothing you need to get involved in.”
Kazuha sat up slowly, covering himself with his kimono. “I . . .” He tried to protest, but Scaramouche’s glare silenced him.
“I stayed here too long already,” Scaramouche muttered scornfully. “You trapped me here, you little minx.” Kazuha wondered if he was imagining the affection in Scaramouche’s tone, or perhaps it was genuinely there.
Scaramouche moved closer, reaching down to trail a finger along Kazuha’s jaw, which was littered with bruises.
“Wait for me, Kazuha.”
✿ ✿ ✿
A few months had passed since the events of Inazuma, and even more time had gone by since that blissful week with Scaramouche.
Kazuha had reunited with many old friends. The traveler, Beidou and the Crux Fleet, yet he hadn’t seen Scaramouche. Not once.
As of now, Kazuha was in the land of contracts — Liyue. The land where promises were meant to be kept.
He was sitting by himself atop one of the various mountains, a leaf raised to his lips. The gentle tune he played echoed across his surroundings, and a nostalgic feeling enveloped him. He didn’t know why, but he often thought of Scaramouche. His mind always came to linger on the Harbinger.
Kazuha paused, lowering the leaf slowly. He released it from his grasp, allowing it to float away on the wind. He sensed him before he announced his presence. The breeze whispered to him, informing Kazuha of his arrival.
The sound of bells chiming brought a smile to Kazuha’s lips, and he didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to.
“You’ve come back for me, I see.”
“I told you that I would, didn’t I?”
He could hear Scaramouche approaching him, each step poised and tactical. Scaramouche stopped directly behind Kazuha, bending down to wrap his arms around the white-haired samurai. “Did you miss me?” He inquired mockingly.
More than you know. “A substantial amount, yes,” Kazuha murmured after a pause.
There was so much he had to say. So many questions he had to ask. So much he wanted to do.
“Did you accomplish what you wanted?” Kazuha asked quietly.
For a moment, electricity crackled through the air. And then Scaramouche laughed — low and almost maniacal. Exactly how Kazuha had remembered it. He smiled.
“I did.”
Kazuha turned to face him, then, and Scaramouche studied him closely.
“Do I want to know what you have done?” Kazuha whispered, and Scaramouche reached out, cupping Kazuha’s face in his hands. His grip then tightened to become painful rather than tender, the grin that rested on those lips far from reassuring.
“No.”
Scaramouche brought their lips together, capturing Kazuha into a rough kiss, and he was powerless to stop it. He was powerless to stop himself from melting into it. He was powerless to stop himself from wrapping his arms around Scaramouche and kissing back.
I’m glad you kept your word, Balladeer.