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Scaramouche sat in the comfort of his own room. He was resting on his knees, atop the tatami mats which covered the entire floor, with his hands on his lap. His eyes stared off into the distance, unblinking as he watched snow fall from the cloudy sky.
There had been a Harbinger meeting.
He didn’t bother to attend. It wasn’t as if attendance was mandatory. His presence mattered little in those sessions anyway, and he would rather conserve his energy than waste his time going to unimportant gatherings.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
It wasn’t that he was about to fall asleep. Because of his puppet nature, he had no need to rest, and he rarely let the lull of slumber take him. He often ignored the bed in his room, which stood against the wall. He would rather work with hands than to doze to pass the time. It was out of boredom that he decided to shut his eyes—for he had nothing better to do. All that he could do was sit idly and wait until something interesting happened.
Just then, there was a knock on his door.
Three measured taps. Scaramouche ignored it at first.
Silence stretched for a second. It was broken only when the muffled howls of the winds outside made contact with the window. More knocks followed. It was only then that Scaramouche sighed, allowing a frustrated expression to adorn his face, as he stood up and opened the door.
He was greeted by Dottore and Pantalone. There was a smile on both their faces, but their presence only resulted in souring his mood.
“What is it? What are you doing here?” Scaramouche grumbled.
“Oh? Is that any way to greet your colleagues after we’ve decided to come all this way?” Pantalone asked while he tilted his head. Not once did he falter at Scaramouche’s rude tone, “The meeting’s over, if you must know.”
“Tch. So what? If you’re here to waste my time, then leave. I don’t want to deal with any of your nonsense today.” Scaramouche was about to close the door.
Only for Dottore to block it with his foot. The door came to a stop with a dull thud against his boot. Scaramouche narrowed his eyes at him as he tried to force the door shut. It was unfortunate that Dottore didn’t relent, and instead, forced his way inside his room without a proper invitation.
Dottore chided, “Don’t be rude.”
“You’re the one who suddenly barged into my room. If anyone’s rude, it’s you!” Scaramouche bit back.
Dottore chuckled in turn. Pantalone followed after him as he, too, entered Scaramouche’s room even after he told them to leave him alone. Just as he was about to yell at them to get out, Pantalone suddenly pulled something from under his coat’s thick layers. Scaramouche couldn’t quite see what it was at first.
“Apologies for the sudden intrusion. Here, I bought this just for you.” Pantalone brought out his hand, which held a small bag that contained boxes marked with a familiar label, “It’s tea imported from Inazuma. I recalled that you preferred Inazuman tea to Fontainian and Liyuean tea.”
Scaramouche glanced at the bag.
He didn’t know what to say. He stared at Pantalone oddly since he never expected for him, of all people, to actually remember his preferences. Did they ever even talk about tea to each other? Scaramouche couldn’t bring to mind a single instance in which they discussed about his favored tea brews. Did Pantalone figure this out by watching over him? He didn’t know what to feel.
It made him suspicious.
“What do you want?”
“Don’t be like that. Must I always want something in return to treat you with generosity?” Pantalone wasn't fazed by the apprehension he was regarded with.
Scaramouche scoffed, “You never do anything unless there's something in it for you.”
“He’s got you there.”
Dottore covered his mouth as he laughed.
Pantalone huffed at that. He let out a fake cough before he returned his attention to Scaramouche, “There just so happened to be a merchant from Inazuma when I went to the market last month. He had a rather fine selection of tea leaves, so I purchased a few boxes for you. Think of it as nothing more than a gift.”
Scaramouche’s eyes lingered on the bag for a second before they returned to Pantalone’s face. He searched for any hints of deception—a twitch on his lips, a fleeting change in his expression, anything that would betray whatever ulterior motive he may have.
To his surprise, he found nothing but sincerity. That alone disturbed him.
The room fell quiet. Snow continued to gather outside the window. The warmth of the fireplace kept the cold at bay, not that it mattered to him. He was impervious to the cool temperature that forced everyone in Snezhnaya to wear thick clothing to protect themselves from the possibility of freezing to death.
Pantalone continued to hold the bag out.
Scaramouche cautiously took it after a few more minutes of deliberation. He took out the boxes from the bag and opened them on the table. He inspected them separately, wary at the likelihood of Pantalone lacing the tea leaves with unsavory substances. He wouldn’t put it past him to make an attempt against his fellow Harbinger.
“You’re aware that I can’t be poisoned, right?”
“I would never.” Pantalone sat down on the chair beside him. That only irked Scaramouche even more.
“If this is some sort of experiment,” Scaramouche began as he shot Dottore a glare, “I’ll make sure you’re the first one to drink this.”
Dottore’s grin widened as he moved to drape himself all over his shoulders. His arms enclosed around his neck as he said, “Let’s have a tea party then. So that we can prove our intentions to you.”
Scaramouche’s face twisted. He scrunched his nose and furrowed his brows.
“Get off of me.”
“I refuse.”
Dottore rested his chin atop Scaramouche’s head. His laughter echoed when Scaramouche tried to push him away, only for his attempt to be thwarted when his wrist was caught and given a light squeeze.
“I think it’d be rather enjoyable. It would be a waste if we don’t use the tea,” Dottore spoke.
Pantalone nodded in agreement, “I noticed that some of our colleagues are having a tea party of their own. Why don’t we do the same? Besides, aren’t we much better guests than the likes of the other Harbingers?”
“You barged into my room even after I told you to leave me alone,” Scaramouche deadpanned.
“I fail to see the issue.” Pantalone shrugged. He then opened his eyes, which were usually closed in public spaces, revealing amethysts, which shone beneath the faint sunlight that managed to reach them through the window, “We were simply concerned for your well-being.”
That perplexed Scaramouche.
Why would anyone be concerned for him? Much less, these two in particular. Really, he doubted that Dottore and Pantalone would ever worry over him. He found it difficult to believe. He was by no means stupid.
“Hah. The nerve you have to lie to me.”
“We’re not. You skipped a meeting. We wanted to check whether you were still alive.” Dottore played with some strands of Scaramouche’s hair. He rubbed them together between his gloved fingers, which caused Scaramouche to roll his eyes.
“I’m a puppet. It’s not easy for me to die,” Scaramouche pointed out, as with a sharp tug, he freed his wrist from Dottore's grasp.
Pantalone hummed, “So? That doesn’t make us care any less for you.”
It was absurd. Those words sounded so casual coming from Pantalone. It was as though they carried no weight whatsoever. Yet, to Scaramouche, they were foreign.
Care, huh? When was the last time anyone had spoken to him in such a manner? He couldn’t quite recall.
No.
Perhaps, he could.
His expression darkened for a moment before he pushed the thought aside. There was no point in remembering memories that had long since rotted away. He willed his body, which he only realized was as tense as a drawn bowstring, to relax within Dottore’s embrace. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the stiff smile that graced Pantalone’s lips had loosened as he leaned against the backrest of the chair he sat on.
“I’ll get my teapot,” Scaramouche relented.
Dottore decided to finally let go of him, “Shall I fetch us some desserts then?”
“I hate anything sweet.” Scaramouche scowled.
“Ah. Never mind then.”
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
Scaramouche poured them freshly-brewed tea. Steam curled upward from the porcelain cups in delicate wisps and brushed against his face. The fragrance of roasted tea leaves gradually filled the room. It mingled with the faint scent of burning firewood from the hearth. They all settled around the table, sitting in their respective chairs as Scaramouche handed Dottore and Patalone their own cups before taking one for himself.
The tea appeared to be of high quality.
He then raised his cup and parted his lips. He took a small sip of the tea.
“Well?” Pantalone regarded him curiously.
“It’s far from the best tea I’ve had,” Scaramouche replied honestly, “But, this is better than most of the tea served in this nation.”
Pantalone smiled into his cup, “I’m relieved to hear that.”
“This brew is so bitter,” Dottore commented after he took a sip from his own cup.
“The bitter the tea, the better it is.”
A comfortable silence then followed. The crackling of the fireplace filled the room as Scaramouche found himself absentmindedly watching the flames dance behind the iron grate while he slowly drank more of his tea. It had been peaceful, which was unusual within the walls of Zapolyarny Palace.
Neither Dottore nor Pantalone seemed intent on ruining this rare instance of peace. Dottore just traced the rim of his porcelain cup with his finger, while he stared heavily at Scaramouche beneath his beak-shaped mask. All the while, Pantalone cradled the warmth of his cup between his gloved hands, with his eyes half-lidded. They didn’t speak. Scaramouche almost preferred them this way as he poured more tea into his now empty cup.
“…The Harbinger meeting,” He murmured at last.
Pantalone looked up.
“What about it?”
“What did I miss?” Scaramouche asked.
Dottore and Pantalone exchanged a brief glance. There was a conversation shared by their eyes alone. Dottore then responded, “The Tsaritsa wants us Harbingers to retrieve the Gnoses for her grand plan.”
Scaramouche froze. His stomach dropped.
“The Gnoses?” Had he not been a puppet, he knew that he would have severed his tongue with the amount of force he exerted when he bit on it. He tightened his grip around his cup’s handle, “…I see.”
Scaramouche lowered his gaze to the tea that sat within his cup. The liquid inside trembled ever so slightly from the subtle movement of his hand before becoming still once more. He watched as his own reflection became distorted on its surface.
A memory he wished he had forgotten resurfaced; the image of the Electro Archon’s cold eyes, the clinical sensation of her touch—how she abandoned him all those centuries ago.
He shook his head. He couldn’t bear those memories any longer. It’s been so long since he last thought about his creator, yet there he was.
“Is that all?” He forced out.
“Pierro assigned us to specific nations. You’re to head for Inazuma, while I’m to go to Sumeru. Pantalone here was only told to manage our financial arrangements,” Dottore added as he tapped his fingers against the armrest of his chair.
Of all the nations, it had to be Inazuma.
“Inazuma, huh? Whatever. I can handle that.”
Pantalone calmly stirred his tea with a spoon, “So you have no objections?”
“Why would I? Inazuma ceased to be my homeland in a long time.” His answer came far too quickly. He couldn’t help but feel relieved when neither Dottore nor Pantalone commented on it.
His chest now felt all the more hollow. He disliked the feeling. Why? Why did this happen whenever he recalled his creator?
The tea no longer tasted quite as bitter.
It was cold now.
“Thank you for the tea party. It was wonderful.” A sincere smile graced Pantalone’s lips as he set down his empty cup on the table and stood up, “We should probably take our leave. We wouldn’t want to waste your precious time any longer. We’ve intruded your space enough as it is.”
“You were truly a wonderful host.” Dottore also set his cup down. He was about to follow Pantalone, ready to leave Scaramouche’s room.
Only for Scaramouche to tug on their sleeves to prevent them from walking away. There was a conflicted look on his face as he couldn’t quite believe what he was doing, which was matched by the mild surprise that crept onto Dottore and Pantalone’s faces.
“Scaramouche?” Dottore prodded.
“It wasn’t our intention to make you uncomfortable. If we did, then we apologize.” Pantalone sounded so honest. It didn’t suit him at all.
“Just… stay for a bit longer.”
Scaramouche had his eyes fixed on the floor. His grip on their sleeves remained light—far lighter than expected as they could pull away if they so wanted. Yet, they chose to stay there, within his loose hold. He felt his ears burn as he waited for them to say something, to either agree and continue to keep him company, or to say their goodbyes and still leave as they had planned.
The silence was deafening. It was unbearable.
“Forget it.” After a minute, he was about to pull his hand away as shame flustered his cheeks.
But, before he could do so, Pantalone gently placed his hand above his own. He proceeded to speak in a soft, reassuring tone, “…Alright. As you wish, we’ll stay.”
“If that’s what you want.” Dottore rested his free hand on his hip, “How could we ever say no to you?”
Scaramouche released the breath that he didn’t know he was holding and let go of their sleeves. Pantalone then returned to his seat, as though he had never intended to leave in the first place. Dottore, meanwhile, let out an amused hum before he dropped back into his chair with all the ease of someone who had already made himself at home hours ago.
“There,” Dottore said, “Are you satisfied?"
“Don't make such a big deal out of it.” Scaramouche, too, sat back down.
“To think that you initially told us to leave you alone. But, look at you now. I knew that you enjoyed our company a lot more than you would ever admit,” Pantalone mused.
“Hmph. Shut your mouths.”
Dottore's body shook with unrestrained laughter.
He leaned back into his chair, with one leg folded over the other. Scaramouche wished that his mask hid his entire face and not just his eyes. He could only pretend that the smug smirk on his lips was a byproduct of his imagination.
“…Don't get used to this,” Scaramouche muttered.
“To what?”
“This.” He vaguely gestured toward the table, “Having tea parties together.”
Pantalone rested his cheek against his palm, “We won’t. But, we’ll gladly accept if you’re to send us an invitation in the future.”
Scaramouche opened his mouth, ready to deny that such a thing would ever happen. However, those words never came. Because, deep down, he knew that this wouldn’t just be a one-time occurrence. He could sense it in how Dottore and Pantalone acted around him. His future was to be filled with more tea parties hosted in his room.
Unexpectedly, he didn’t hate the idea of it.