Chapter Text
This was a history in the making, the cultivation of true Fatuian diplomacy.
And where better, you would ask, than in one of Snezhnaya’s most notorious underground fighting rings– that is, The Dumpster, a moniker cutely adopted by those most intimately familiarised with its venue.
That’s right; basement brawls, bare-fisted scrums on a blood-scuffed floor, the dingy undercroft to some shonky bureaucrat’s restaurant cellar. It was subterranean to a fault, disgustingly primitive, lingering with it a scent of toil, kisses of hysteria smattered on the bruising skin of beasts; a scene of infliction so palpable that it wafted with the heat of the room like stinking trash.
And Tartaglia, the Eleventh member of the Fatui Harbingers, revelled in it.
For this is where he’d had the pleasure of first meeting Diluc Ragnvindr.
As it goes, everybody knew of the Eleventh– inside, outside, above all else: down in the ring. Bewareth the Eleventh Hour, they'd warn, for you didn’t know what you were really up against until it was almost too late. A mighty swing at the stroke of midnight, chiming the gap in your mouth, teeth spilling out on the floor.
That was to say, Childe wasn’t what you would call a stranger to the going ons down in The Dumpster. He’d had more than his fair share of enthusiastic participations over the years. It was, after all, no secret that the place was a magnet for the restless, pulling to those fitful brains that needed something to scratch that violent itch; and who better to show for than one of The Dumpster’s Hall Of Famers himself? He moved happily to its ruthless dance, swung his hips with its punch; invited the pain, encouraged the levity, laughed with the crack and crunch of a blow.
It was a simple pleasure– nothing more, nothing less, a hobby, of sorts, if you had a twisted enough sense of logic to call it that.
For that's what it was: Childe had signed himself up for a good time, and a good time it was– a feeling mutually felt, he hoped, by the decorated faces of his opponents.
And if not, then, well, you seemed to have found yourself wandering into the wrong establishment.
Now, unfortunately for Childe, as his days as an unassuming, kitchen table Fatuus became numbered, there came a big, fat extra helping of scrutiny in addition with the title Harbinger, one that he detested at even the best of times. He’d had to sweeten the pill– the ugly reality of which it was– to keep some person or another off his ass. That said, if he’d wanted to continue with his so-called escapades, he’d have to do so, but responsibly.
And so, while Childe scratched his head figuring out of what, exactly, that meant, he claimed himself something of a hatchet man, one that kept the not-so-pleasant activities down here in check– so as to avoid an incident that would shut it down permanently.
Yes, for even the more almighty of the Fatui sneered down at its “heathendom”, but accepted it for its perks. It did wonders for good behaviour, after all, made it so that the troops could beat out all of their frustrations ready for the next day’s worth of gentle consultation and practised savoir faire.
It had, ultimately, come down to that one saving grace– a drawing board with a list of cons and pros– where morale was no doubt scribbled out in large, black letters to counter all of that which was distasteful on the page.
Childe had had to do a lot to keep the place running, had to, ironically, fight tooth and nail just to make it public accessible; for he insisted that the protection of this “pursuit of recreation” as a Fatui exclusive event was as underhanded as their reputation made them seem. He didn’t see how it mattered so long as those contending kept it fair play, Fatuus or otherwise, and came with Childe’s humble opinion that there was no need for scrupulousness when the fighting spirit was indiscriminate.
It made his job easier too. For when Childe made it so his authority was felt – enforced, even, where necessary– he wouldn't regard much for who you were when the time came for him to step in. No biases, no foul play– it was what just needed to be done, as simple as that. It wasn’t personal. Not until you made it so, anyway.
Oh yes, because with great power comes greater responsibility, and Childe put it on himself to intervene on the occasion in which someone grew balls big enough to transgress the rules– to weed out the proverbial garden, if you will, even if it meant having to put his foot down on his own associates.
It happened to be that such an evening came about on a day especially slog-filled, glasses topped up with the result of a week’s worth of rigorous work: blizzards, numbing fingers, and stale rations be damned. There was something explosive brewing, a tension in the atmosphere swelling from the rows of fidgeting hands and taut shoulders, agonizing prolepsis, everybody on edge.
Childe was amongst them, slinking his way through the crowd, keeping a watchful eye on those sparks of hostility jumping through the clusters of increasingly shortening tempers. He played with a thought as he caught the irritable gazes of his compatriots– whether or not he should throw himself in the ring this time, for he hadn't for a while– and nodded at their probing faces as he passed.
Tonight’s first event had already kick-started, with two contestants steeling themselves for a brawl, centre-floor, having the crowd hollering and raving like mad dogs. It was a climate perfect for the Eleventh’s debut.
Oh how it was going to be eventful.
On approaching, Childe couldn’t say that he recognized either of the contenders. Both men were young, around Childe’s age, with one clad in the doleful colours of the Fatui uniform. His hair was black and pulled back in a ponytail, high-hanging and lustrous, perfect for pulling if your opponent decided to play it that way. The latter, however, looked ragged, frail, a navy-blue fleece hanging threadbare from a small body. He held himself defensively, body braced, and yet it was hard to think that you couldn’t just push him over with a finger.
Naturally, this piqued Childe’s interest. You had a few brave souls who, despite physically leaving much to be desired, still gave it a decent shot. There were, in fact, occasions that Childe had found himself pleasantly surprised.
Being on the scrawnier side didn’t have to necessarily mean being weak. It had its upsides: being nimble, light-footed, barraging an opponent with needled attacks and a limitless amount in stamina, where it was made easier to take the upper hand with the underestimation that came of having a smaller physique. It was just all about how you utilised what you had.
On the other hand, in all of Childe’s time spent “moderating”, it was exactly one of these types of people that he had learned to be most wary of. It wouldn't be the first time he’d seen the impossible confidence that came from some halt-pint facing off an opponent twice their size. For what, possibly, could it be that they had that would blow away the competition? Turns out, people were desperate to make a name for themselves down here.
They would smuggle in all sorts: from garrottes to potions to other creative means— Childe had once heard of someone wielding a Hilichurl Shooter’s arrowhead, for Archons sake— and it was cause of some serious headache if they concealed themselves well enough. Crafty, oh yes, that they were, a fact in which Childe would have come to respect if the circumstances had been any different.
But instead, Childe played the part of parent, dealing with an unruly kid, one that tried to assemble firecrackers using a school’s alchemy textbook– pesky, easy to catch out if you were looking, but dangerous nonetheless. Childe would know, he was that kid.
It became predictable after a while, precisely being for that reason, with this new power of foresight, that Childe held steadfast to his reservations, rushing forward as soon as he spotted the telltale steel-gleam from the inside of the contender's sleeve.
Pushing through the crowd delayed him, Childe having missed the blur of a clumsy arced brandish in the direction of the other contestant. A ponytail was swinging from a veer, the target having come to the same realisation and anticipated the attack, the blade narrowly nicking his shoulder as he dodged. Childe launched himself across the open ring. Nobody dared to stop him.
“Now, now…” Childe seized the man by the neck, prying the blade from his hand before he could strike out again. “We don’t care for that around here, friend.”
Childe kept his grip on the man’s throat, keeping his expression in earnest.
The man looked up at him with big eyes, grey, grey as mildew, grey as the dulled out craters of the moon; big, dusty craters. He had also a rectangular-like face, and for some reason it reminded Childe of a chimney. Perhaps it was because his hair looked sooty and mussed, his features dirtied with a layer of grime. He instinctively clawed at the hand where Childe held on his throat, shaking and pale, his nails spotted black with bruises.
Childe kept a firm grip on the blade with his other hand, his stare as unwavering as his hold. The colour drained from Chimney’s face as his eyes grew clouded and pink, his lips blanching, hair glued to his temple with sweat. Should’ve thought about that before you broke the rules, Childe thought, as Chimney made a desperate attempt to gasp out, his chest puffing out an uneven stutter, puffing out exhaust from a chimney top.
Childe brought the knife up from his side with one fluid motion, pointing it skyward and holding its hilt close to his cheek. “And what’s this?” Inazuman made. A lucky find then; or pilfered, most probably. “A tanto?”
He made a show of inspecting the blade, rolling its handle between his fingers. It was small and blunted, but it glistened with the light, just like the surface of a grey lake, just like Chimney’s eyes.
“You hunt much, comrade?” Childe asked, nothing short of being casual. The make of blade was uniquely angular, straight-spined, and perfect for piercing.
Chimney sputtered out something unintelligible, choking on a strained breath, spittle flying from his mouth. How many rats have you had to catch, using this? He’d wanted to add, but decided against it. Rat meat was a Snezhnayan staple for troops down on their luck, as Childe had more than enough been acquainted with knowing. He wasn’t going to hit that low. So instead, Childe dragged the point of the blade gently across the bridge of the man’s nose– a tad crooked, he observed, as if it was broken and never properly realigned. Childe knew the feeling.
Chimney wasn’t going to last long. His eyes were becoming dangerously glazed, and so Childe released some of the pressure from his throat. He wouldn’t want him to pass out before he could really get the ball rolling, after all.
Childe had to act quickly, moving to put the hilt of the knife in his mouth. Chimney took this as an opportunity to break free from Childe’s grip, which was, unfortunately for him, a terrible mistake. He socked him in the stomach to incapacitate him, readjusting his hold on his neck. He then forced Chimney’s chin upwards, swaying it in his grip like a limp fish.
“Straighten up,” Childe said, mumbling around the handle of the knife. He moved his hand to cup the plush of the man’s ass. Childe made a sound of discontent. “We don't have much to work with here.”
Lips quivering, Chimney’s eyes widened and he jolted with the touch.
Then, with teasing deliberateness, Childe took the knife from his mouth, letting his tongue drag across its hilt– languid, as if he had all the time in the world. He let a trepidation build, let the thought of what Childe was about to do really sink in.
He didn’t break eye contact, a moment long, heartfelt, and painfully static– Childe riveted by the sheen of the man’s eyes, this illusion of innocence, leaking silver, meek and terror fraught, as if his irises were melting.
And then one beat, two, and Childe was twisting the blade into Chimney’s right buttock, clutching his shoulders and pushing for him to fall to the ground. It was like watching someone throw away a very sad, crumpled up piece of paper.
The spectators shared perplexed looks amongst themselves, which was surprising as much as it was rewarding, for it was, for this crowd, normally hard to incite a reaction to this effect.
“And we were doing so well, weren’t we?” Childe rebuked, arms spread out from his sides. Come on now, people. There hasn't been an incident like this for a few weeks now, and left them all with but a slap on the wrist.
He heard a groan at his feet and redirected his disappointment. “Yeah, I wouldn’t do that if I were you, pal.”
Childe kicked away the hand reaching out to pull out the blade, sticking out like, for all intents and purposes, a broken tibia; a fucked up finger; a tooth through the cheek. Chimney grunted as he crumpled at the contact, Childe making a wry sound, lips pursed. All things considered, he had gone easy on him. He looked back up at his audience.
Shame, he thought, shaking his head. Childe had wanted a real challenge.
On the bright side, it looked to be that Ponytail had recovered quickly from his shock, sending Childe a pointed look. It was impressively sour, a lot more so than what he thought was warranted, to be honest. Childe had, after all, just done him a favour.
“Do you know him, comrade?”
“No,” he replied, coldly.
Childe couldn’t get a read on him, not with that terribly dreary expression on his face, Sweet Tsaritsa. But then he’d held his eyes for a moment longer, and it was nothing like Chimney’s grey which reminded him of Snezhnaya’s gloomy winter skies. No, this man’s eyes bled; bled through the canvas of his face, spilling by the dark of his hair and bleaching red the mournful emulsion of a barren wasteland palette– skin unseeing of the sun, clothes washed-out and dour, shadows a hard line on sallowed cheeks– it framed the danger that lurked beneath. It had Childe wondering if that was the trick to it, if that was what gave this man this illusion of such fury.
Curious. As it currently stood though, if there was a story there then Childe knew he wasn’t going to get it. Not right now, anyways. One step at a time. He turned to face the crowd. “Anyone else here know him?”
His voice rang out through a sea of shaking heads and shrugging shoulders. He scanned the crowd for anybody showing signs of piping up, that is, until he spotted a pair of men making a bee-line towards the exit, their guilty scuttling as awkwardly obvious as a troupe of mice pattering across creaking, wooden floorboards.
“The pair in the back, awfully quick to hide, aren't you?”
They froze, halting in their panic. Glancing back and forth between themselves, their whispering, albeit not very quiet, echoed with the crowd’s silence.
Childe whistled in a beckon and sighed under his breath, tapping his foot with impatience. “I don’t have all night,” and then, for good measure, pointed at the snivelling man curled at his feet and added, “Neither does he.”
There was a murmur of dissent that followed the pair as they walked up with their bowed heads over to Childe.
“You should work on your poker faces, boys.” The two men– related, he guessed– flinched. They were paler than a babushka’s Easter Pashka, sweating from under their matching, frankly just awful, blonde crooked-cut bangs.
“And where’s the spirit of camaraderie?” Childe said, patting them both on the back, probably with more force than what was really necessary. “Right? This is what it’s about, helping out your comrades-in-arms.”
Childe kicked the heap on the floor, startling Chimney from slipping into unconsciousness. The knife sticking out of his ass really was comical. “Now come here and drag out our friend if you have to, and don’t make him forget what happened here today. I don’t care much for names, but faces,” Childe raked his eyes over their meek expressions. “I always remember.”
The pair nodded in hasty compliance and manoeuvred Chimney up by the armpits. His face was puffed out and red, cheeks tear-stained and pooled with snot. His lips trembled out a low groan as they hoisted him up.
“And you…” Childe turned to face the other man, who’d, of course, stood by scowling for the duration.
“Sergei.”
“Sergei,” Childe gestured to the trio, now clambering off to whoever medical professional cared enough to see them in. “You should go with them, get that checked out,” and then indicated to the bristled stretch of fabric on Sergei’s shoulder.
“I’m fine.”
“Listen, I get it. You came here for something, just like all of us, and you didn’t get it because of someone deciding to break the rules. Trust me, I’m not happy about it either.” He paused, and like a reticle, his eyes sidled across Chimney’s stupefied face. It was rumpled between the shoulders of the bad haircut duo. “But I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing it for this.” Childe then motioned to the crowd, sweeping his arms out as if he was introducing the starring cast to a well-received show.
“We teeter a fine line here. An injury like that could get us into trouble. Liability and the like.” Childe shrugged, angling his head towards some invisible thing they all knew was hanging over their heads. It was fucked up in a funny kind of way. The ones upstairs didn’t so much as blink at their boys turning up more splattered than the canvases of an abstract art exhibit; but if there was so much as a whiff of a weapon-related injury outside of the training regimes, well then, suddenly that drew their attention.
“Contractual pain,” Childe proclaimed. “There are, apparently, terms and conditions.”
Sergei made a face as if he didn’t quite get it, and then turned away, sneering.
Childe winced, sucking in air through his teeth. Rude. He was beginning to lose his patience. “I don’t appreciate the disrespect, comrade.” He held himself with a relaxed bearing, kept level-headed, but made no hesitation to invade Sergei’s personal space as he prowled forward. “Let’s not make this any more difficult than it needs to be, huh?”
They were nose to nose now, Sergei meeting his eyes and wow. Archons, could Childe feel the heat in that stare. It was boiling him alive, prickling along his skin like the notes of an indignant sonata. From so up close, Childe could see just how his jaw worked, teeth clamped down in a frown, and where, as if to spit in the face of Childe’s challenge, leaned that ever bit closer and jeered.
“Fuck you.”
The silence that followed was at a calibre of devastating loudness. A mega decibel in hitched breaths, the buzz of anticipation in the room as clamorous as a poorly ventilated fan.
“Fuck you?" Childe parroted. It was local down here, so of course, it was in Snezhnayan, which Childe had been speaking in until now. He couldn’t help but cut through the tension with a gaping laugh. The lilt in Sergei’s accent was, for a lack of a better word, adorable.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” Childe asked, the question inflected with the harder syllables of the common tongue. He grinned as Sergei’s eyes widened, a muscle in his cheek twitching. Childe could see everything, every detail of his expression, and knew at that moment that he'd hit the nail right on the head.
“You should have just said something, comrade. There’s no need for the hostility over a little miscommunication.” Childe drew back a little, patting Sergei’s shoulder in reassurance. “I get it, the language is a little hard to keep up with at times.”
But then, as if he was sharing a secret between them, Childe leaned over to whisper in the shell of Sergei’s ear. His words were sibilant, honeyed, a plucking to the strings of a harp. “By the way, I think you should only reserve saying something like that to someone you really like,” Childe all but rumbled with the words, pulling away, his tongue caught between the teeth in his cheek. He switched back from Snezhnayan. “Don’t get me wrong, I love the confidence, but woah! Warn me a little next time.” He squeezed Sergei’s shoulder and gave him a hearty wink.
He was shook off, Childe’s lips quirking up with the confused contortion of Sergei’s face, just before he took a step back and regarded the expectant faces around him.
“How about this…”
There was a zizz of energy that bounced on his fingertips, tingling in his nerves. His brain was like an electrode titillated by a current. It was the suspense, it made Childe restless; zapping him into action.
“You and I,” Childe drawled, finger pointed to and fro between them. “Will do it the good ol’ fashioned way.”
Sergei raised an eyebrow.
“If I get you to the ground first, then you forfeit. If you get me to the ground first, then I give you your free rein.”
Sergei didn’t seem like he’d back down from a challenge.
“Sound good?”
Childe hoped he was right.
“Have at it then,” Sergei replied brusquely.
Childe hummed with approval, hands rested on his hips. He rolled his head with a click, stopped to survey the crowd at his flanks. He made it look as if he was biding his time, being dismissive and overly self-assured.
Sergei didn’t make a move.
Childe risked turning himself away, inching the side-lines and leaving himself exposed, where yet, even still, nothing.
Interesting.
Either he was lacking the confidence to take the initiative or he was catching on to Childe’s ruse. He’d be disappointed if it was the former.
But Sergei remained fixed to the spot, Childe almost thinking him a statue if it weren’t for the way his fists clenched, his eyes darting with every twitch of Childe’s body, every rustle of fabric from his pacing steps. Even for the wrong reasons, the scrutiny worked to excite Childe even more.
Well of course he wouldn’t be so easily thrown-off.
“Let me get to know you a little, Sergei.”
Childe lunged forward.
He aimed a punch to Sergei’s chin, swift and tight, but was met with the head of an empty space. Sergei swerved, holding his fists protectively over his face, landing himself squarely. Quick to react, Childe thought, bouncing on the balls of his feet; directing a few more calculated hits only to be glanced off. The contour of Sergei’s body was like a protective shell, a face closed-off and cool, peeking from the gap between his levered up forearms like the bars of a prison cell.
Childe let out a frustrated huff. “So tell me,” he said, and attempted to feint him, to strike out at his abdomen, aim for the ribs, hit by the liver. No openings. Sergei was on the defensive, rolling with the punches. “Anything in the Snezhnayan cuisine that has tickled your fancy?”
Sergei was unresponsive. He moved when Childe did, a shadow, a reflection in a mirror; untouchable, or like those mimes you’d hear about in Fontainian theatres.
“What do you like to do in your free time?” Childe was orienting himself to Sergei’s sidling, tracking his footwork, lest he’d get jumped on from an awkward angle and immobilised. They prowled around each other like it was the start of a dance. “Apart from frowning all day?”
Childe didn’t want to do anything too bold that could back-fire on him. It may just as well be playing right into Sergei’s hands. And while it wouldn’t be wise to underestimate the dynamic of the fight, he was starting to get real sick of playing the offender. “Creative? Good with numbers?” Childe paced from side to side, shaking out his knuckles.
“Music? Academics? Do you like to garden?” Childe had a tendency to talk through a fight; some vague idea of a strategy that worked to throw off his opponent and skew through their concentration, but found himself, in all truth, genuinely wanting to know the answers. “If you do, please, tell me. I would really like to know how it is you manage that here.”
Sergei looked unperturbed. Frustratingly so. “Come on, give me something to work with here, buddy.”
While Childe didn’t expect to be humoured half the time, he felt he could squeeze out an answer or two if he tried hard enough. In fact, in his last fight, he’d locked horns with a somewhat demure man that Childe had learned was a bee-keeper. He had a dazzling silver-capped tooth, was picking up playing the organ, and held a fondness for the colour yellow. He had also a nasty left hook. Sometimes it was just all about asking the right questions.
“I think I got it. You’re more of the business type, am I right?” It was less of a question, more of the set-up to a punchline. “Because everybody here either wants to export their own alcohol or get into the fish market,” Childe said, failing to keep the humour from his voice. He’d heard a few members in the audience groan, for it wasn’t Urban Snezhnaya without hearing of someone’s plans to sell the next best brand of fire-water. Did you want me to be your taste tester? He’d joke. I'd never be short in supply. Sergei did not look impressed.
So unimpressed, apparently, that he finally decided to give up on his posing as a brick wall. He weaved his feet, scuttled like a spider did from a damned cup, getting the drop on Childe’s left side and lassoing his neck with his arm.
“Sorry, was I not meant to know that just yet?” Childe choked out through the headlock.
Sergei muttered out a shut up through gritted teeth, straining with the effort of his injured shoulder as he braced against the weight, curved with the arm around Childe’s neck. Childe steered himself inward to Sergei’s body, allowing him enough access to gasp out a no way before he propelled himself upwards. He was trying to straighten out, to disarm Sergei from the hold; keeping himself firmly planted to the floor, leg muscles braced.
He stretched out and grabbed for Sergei’s face, reaching under his chin and pulling his head back. It was enough for him to slacken, to unsteady him, make it so Childe could direct a hit to his gut, or, if he really wanted to be a dick, in the groin. Childe was able to land a messy punch to the stomach, but Sergei recovered fast, prying himself off and pushing Childe away, leaving them both staggering.
Sergei clutched at his belly, grabbed for his shoulder. He let out a laboured breath, sweat pooling on the bridge of his nose. But was, otherwise, still left standing.
And so was Childe.
The anger was rolling off Sergei in waves, Childe looking, no, staring, point blank at Sergei’s fuming face, and it was like being blinded by the sun, like looking in through the window of a furnace, leaving Childe with that gnawing feeling of wanting something more. That while he had wanted to drag it out, provide a little bit of a show and get to know who he was standing off against, it wasn’t really meant to be what he was looking for.
“Do you have a Vision?”
The question caught them both off guard, Sergei blinking away as if he had to think about it, Childe unsure of how to proceed.
But then Sergei looked back up, meeting Childe's eyes– muscles seized, bodies braced– and they collided, scrapped, no rhyme nor reason, messy and uncoordinated, reminiscent to that of a pair of teenage boys jostling it out in a school’s courtyard rather than of two Fatui trained soldiers blowing off steam in some musty cellar. But where was that line drawn, anyway?
No, this wasn’t the fight that Childe had sought. He knew that it had the potential to be something better. And while he knew he could be called a lot of things, unfair wasn’t one of them. He would earn his wins, earn his losses; otherwise it just couldn’t be called a fight at all.
That’s what he told himself as he dug his fingers into the tear on Sergei’s shoulder, followed then by a knee he’d sent flying to the man’s gut soon thereafter. He watched him cave in, Childe grasping his hands on the crumpling peaks of Sergei’s shoulders and pushing him to his knees. It wasn’t a win. It wasn’t a loss.
Sergei hunched over with a groan, his head bowed in respite and his arms angled out in front of him. His hands shot up, curved from the ground in a quaver as they pivoted from the wrists. A surrender? The crowd booed.
Childe didn’t like that he had taken advantage of Sergei’s weakness this way, but knew that it wasn’t a question of honour, and thus decided to will away the feeling of guilt as he took a step back from what looked like a lump of coal at his feet; a testament to Sergei’s clear affinity to a choice of dress better suited for a funeral reception.
“Well, I guess that settles that. You should hurry up and catch up with them, comrade. I’ll send someone with you to make sure you don’t try to jump ship.”
If only Childe knew that he was being played for a fool. He found himself on his ass quicker than the time it took for him to turn his head. It was like the strike of a sidewinder, Sergei’s hand curling around Childe’s heel from the leg he had shifted forward. In the same second, he felt the weight of a head pressed against his inner knee, leaving no time for Childe to react– to string together a thought no less– as Sergei grabbed at his other foot and dislodged him, leveraging him from his ankles to stumble backwards, landing him with a thud.
Childe lamented on the fact that he had let his guard down so quickly, yet couldn't help but be impressed all the same, breaking out in peals of laughter as Sergei picked himself up with a derisive grunt. “No best of three,” he said, straightening out his uniform.
“Guess we’ll have to compromise,” Childe replied, holding a hand to his bubbling chest. He peered up at Sergei’s displeased scowl. It wasn’t a terrible view. “Brighten up, sunshine. Smile a little. You took the challenge. You delivered.”
Sergei did not take to that kindly, his grimace a dangerous flash of teeth on an already very angry face.
“And frowning like that isn’t going to change the fact that you still lost,” Childe teased, ignoring the warning. He stretched his legs casually out on the floor. “So no need to keep the claws out, tiger.” He then winked at him for what was the second time that night.
Childe was surprised that Sergei didn’t make to rip his throat out then and there, seeing as he could sear a glare through the moon right now, shatter all the stars in the sky with his twitching fists.
Childe gave only his most charming smile in turn. He then snapped his fingers for the attention of the crowd, raising his voice. “Someone get me Doctor Lavanda,” he said, leaning back on his elbows.
After a minute or so, a man with something of a rumpled appearance pushed his way through the bellowing masses of the crowd, sing-songing and raucous, a cigarette hanging precariously from his mouth and his aviator-esque glasses knocked askew. There was a crack in one of his lenses, and only one of his sleeves were rolled up, there being a slew of sweat tracking down the other arm in which the sleeve was ripped off entirely. This was one of the most organised men Childe has had the pleasure of knowing.
“Our compromise,” explained Childe, as the man almost got barrelled over by the belly of a legionnaire. “Our doctor, Nico, for those I really think need it.”
He stood up to receive him, dusting himself off and catching the discontented look on Sergei’s face.
“What, not happy with that? Want me to give you a free shot inste–”
Before Childe could finish, could even stand upright for more than one Archon Blessed second, Sergei suckerpunched him right on the nose, and Sweet Tsaritsa, if that didn’t hurt like a bitch. He may have just been witness to the opening of the divine gates of Celestia itself, the oohs of the crowd a chorus of Godly voices seeing him forth as he reeled a little.
“You drive a hard bargain, comrade,” Childe slurred, finding back his bearings and wiping the blood from his nose, the message of Sergei’s wrath now dutifully received on his, hopefully still intact, nasal bones. “Doc, check him over and leave him be.”
Nico glanced over Childe’s bleeding face, scratching the scruff of his chin, not paying Sergei much mind. Fair enough, it was hard to think Sergei hurt with that small, self-praising quirk of lips he sported as he shook out his knuckles. Thanks to him, it was for the first time in Childe's life that he avoided the attention, turning away and ducking out of view before he could be called out on it, on cue for another fight that was about to break out. He threw a hand up in a half-wave as he sauntered off. “See you around, sunshine.”
Sergei only cared to shake his head, and yet, Childe still felt the stare at his back, probing at him with the heat of a Natlan hot spring.
It was funny, he didn't really strike Childe as being a Sergei.
It was even funnier now, in hindsight, when Childe laughed to himself with the thought.