a kiss in the rain filled with the foreboding of a goodbye
another kiss prompt (accepting, limited.) // @stcrconch
Tartaglia’s lips are soft while the rest of him is a weapon. They stand together beneath a tree, barely shielded from the wind and water that pelts the workers loading the ship that Scaramouche will be taking to Inazuma. He hadn’t expected a goodbye, hadn’t planned for one- so he hadn’t said it. He had given Tartaglia the brief on his mission, that was all that really needed to be said.
Here, exposed to the elements, the cold rain lashes at their skin like a vindictive lover. Tartaglia had had the audacity to bring himself into Scaramouche’s space, lifting his damned hat and claim his lips for himself.
Scaramouche doesn’t know if he’s said anything- if he’s shown his hand too clearly. He can’t think with the way the Eleventh barges into him- his mind- occupies the space with himself and makes it impossible to think of anyone else. Maybe Tartaglia is just an affectionate, clingy pup. Maybe he knows something. He’s always had a wicked sense for Scaramouche’s thoughts.
There’s no way he could know the truth of the matter. If Tartaglia was onto him, Scaramouche would’ve expected more violence. Instead of lips against the hollow of his throat, he’d have hands wringing his neck.
There is something beautiful about the ugly way they take from each other. Tartaglia steals his breath away from his lungs, Scaramouche plans to rip the heart out of him. The kiss is hungry, like the vanguard means to sear it into the Balladeer’s memory. His breath is hot, a burning red iron in the bitter cold they’re standing in- pressed deep into Scaramouche’s mouth, between his teeth.
He sucks on Tartaglia’s tongue, eager to steal some of that fire for himself. Tempted to leave his own marks on the other’s mind.
When the Tsaritsa sends her most loyal dog after him, she will not know that it has a better master.
A part of Scaramouche wonders, perhaps, if that is why he’s allowed this to happen- his mouth against Tartaglia’s, not for the first nor the last time. Or perhaps fate has lined itself up in the most perfect ways as it tends to do. He has dug his hands into so many lives, twisted and churned souls the way that gravediggers shovel soil. If nothing else, Scaramouche’s purpose was to witness the beginning and the end of every soul other than his own.
As his fingers weave themselves into Tartaglia’s soaked hair, he thinks to himself that this is destruction at its finest.
He has thought this since the day they first met. They are stars colliding, nexuses of chaos threatening to swallow each other whole. When in each other’s presence, there is little peace to be had if any at all. They were made to tear each other apart. That is surely what was fated for them.
Is this why, then, that Scaramouche seeks to escape the stars the Gods have chosen for him?
The kiss doesn’t end- not truly, not really. Scaramouche stays nose-to-nose with Tartaglia, panting hard, clutching harder.
“You’re such a mutt,” He huffs out something that could be out of amusement. “I’m going on a mission, not being sent to my death.” It might as well be the same. “Trust me,” He murmurs against the coolness of Tartaglia’s skin, embers brought to life in his lungs, his breath.
“You won’t miss me at all.”
