Work Text:
When Albedo enters Enjou’s office, he can tell the man’s been through a lot. On the nearest wall, a poster showcasing F.A.T.U.I’s headline at last year’s Liyue festival has been ripped. Albedo’s been warned about the situation. The oldest agent in this line of work is retiring. And his job is Albedo’s if he’s crazy enough to want it.
When he looks up at him, Enjou looks nothing like the pristine image Albedo has seen in magazines and videos. His hair has lost its shine, his eyebags are visible even through a thin layer of makeup and he looks impossibly tired, like he’s been to hell and barely made it back.
Without so much as a hello, he hands him a folder.
“Open it.”
Albedo does as he’s told. The folder only contains four pictures. The first one is Signora, F.A.T.U.I’s lead singer. The second one is Tartaglia, their guitarist. The third one, Scaramouche, is their drummer. Lastly, Dottore, their bass player, looks at the camera like he wants to kick the photographer in the face. Albedo can’t believe they went with this picture.
“I know the members of the band,” he says, feeling a little insulted.
“No, you don’t. Please take a moment to look at them, and tell me which one you think is the worst.”
“Can you define what you mean by the worst? The one who never shows up on time? The one who never wants to do interviews? Or the one you have to ban from using social media?”
Enjou barely raises an eyebrow, looking far from impressed.
“You’re good. But let’s see if that’s enough. I’m going to cite four, real-life experiences I had with this band and if you can tell which one of these rascals did it, the job is yours.”
Albedo nods.
“Alright. I’m listening.”
“Who, according to you, slept with all three members of a band I won’t name during the same festival, resulting in said band breaking up?”
“Tartaglia,” Albedo says confidently. He’s heard that story.
“Correct. That one was easy. Now, which of them was three hours late to a show because they couldn’t find the right shade of eyeshadow?”
Albedo thinks for a second.
“Signora.”
“Well done. Which of the remaining two smashed my car?”
Albedo furrows his brows.
“I will say Dottore. I’ve heard things about his temper.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Scaramouche did it. See, this is exactly what I was afraid of. Everyone underestimates that little pest. He’s the devil wearing eyeliner and a purple hoodie. If you want that job, you will have to be careful.”
“I lost the game, though. Am I still qualified ?”
Enjou laughs. He looks miserable.
“Yes. But you’re also the only candidate who wants that job and looks like he can actually handle it. So it’s yours. I’m sick of these bastards, or as I like to call them, the four horsemen of the apocalypse.”
Albedo barely blinks. He isn’t afraid of handling a difficult band. Actually, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity given F.A.T.U.I’s popularity. He crosses his legs, feeling like Enjou’s rant is going to be even longer than he anticipated.
“Let me introduce you to the cast of the worst movie you’ll ever get to see. You will do all the work, but you’ll never be in the spotlight. But then again, if you want to be an agent, you know that already.”
He gestures to the photo on his screen.
“Signora, or as her identity card says, Rosalyne. I call her Death because she almost murdered her own career more times than I can count. She’s not a diva, she’s a diva’s worst nightmare. She thinks she knows everything better than you. You just can’t win with her, you’ll have to compromise. Every time. Make it look like you’re making a terrible sacrifice.”
Albedo nods, mentally jotting that down.
“Tartaglia, Ajax, or as I like to call him, Pestilence. He’s insufferable and you will have to fight his fangirls the hardest. Though he’s great at talking to the crowd during concerts, I’ll give him that. Don’t bother reminding him to take his bodyguard everywhere he goes, he isn’t going to listen. But hey, if he dies, that’s one less problem to deal with.”
Albedo’s familiar with that one because he’s seen him trend many times on Twitter. He decides to ignore Enjou’s last comment.
“Dottore. Oh, where do I even start with Dottore? He’s Famine. He is constantly starving for something, be it attention, new lyrics, or another concept album. He’s restless and he’ll throw tantrums for the dumbest shit ever. He’s the real diva, Signora isn’t.”
Albedo nods.
“Last but not least, Scaramouche. This little shithead is War, in this metaphor. He’ll start shit just for fun. I’m pretty sure the other three hate his guts too, but they can’t get a better drummer for two reasons: he’s insanely talented, and he also has quite a handful of fans. People seem to like it when celebrities are mean to them. I can’t tell you the amount of bleach I had to pour into my eyes whenever I looked at what his fans say about him. Also, I had to make him shut down his verified Twitter account because he was picking fights with random people. Watch him closely. He’s the worst.”
Albedo did watch him. He’s gorgeous. And he isn’t afraid of dealing with difficult artists. He’ll never get this kind of opportunity again, anyway.
“Where do I sign?” he asks Enjou.
The agent studies him for a short moment. Albedo smiles at him, resting his chin on his hands.
“You look insane.” Enjou sighs. “You’ll fit right in.”
Enjou’s goodbye to the members of F.A.T.U.I after five years of service is a very formal email saying he’s resigning. Attached to the email is a selfie of him at the beach flipping them off. Scaramouche smiles as he opens the picture.
As if on cue, a notification from the band’s group chat pops up on his screen. It’s Tartaglia.
Pestilence @ FATUI: Yo have you seen Enjou’s email ???
Death: I’ll just pretend to be surprised.
Scaramouche reclines against the comfy pillows on his sofa and types a reply.
War: who’s sad about that old dude leaving anyway
Pestilence: come on he wasn’t that bad.
Death: nah, scara’s right.
Famine: The next one could be worse tho
War: we’ll eat him if he is
Death: I’ll leave that to you guys
Pestilence: depends on how hot he is
Famine: as usual, you’re gross, ajax
Scaramouche grimaces as well. Tartaglia’s habit of sleeping with literally anyone he finds remotely pretty never fails to make him gag. However, if he sleeps with their agent, he’ll strangle him. Adjusting to a new one is already going to be a pain in the ass, they don’t need things to get more complicated.
Later in the evening, they receive an email from the person named Albedo, who’s set to replace Enjou.
Death: so do we know who this Albedo guy is?
War: don’t know, but if the label picked him he’s probably decent
Famine: We’ll see about that. We can count on you to bully him if he isn’t, anyway.
War: I would hate to disappoint <3
A few days later, as they’re all gathered in the meeting room to meet their new manager, Scaramouche’s checking his nails, pretending not to give a fuck. The black nail polish on his pinky is chipped.
The man who walks into the room can’t be over twenty-five. He looks like he’s about the same age as them. But that’s not what startles Scaramouche, who drops the nail polish he’d just fished out of his bag.
Albedo is beautiful. In an ethereal sort of way, with pale blond hair framing his face and gorgeous blue eyes. With a face like his, he could easily be a model or an actor. But instead, he decided to take on the music industry’s worst job position, which can only mean one thing: he’s insane. That’s hot too.
Agents are supposed to be arrogant or grumpy middle-aged men, unattractive at best and hideous at worst. This isn’t an agent, it’s like someone just plucked the perfect fantasy man out of Scaramouche's well-guarded daydreams.
There is no way Scaramouche can bully him in these conditions. In fact, it’ll be a miracle if he can say anything mean to him.
“Hi,” he greets them. “I’m Albedo, and I’ll be your new agent.”
“If you can survive us,” Dottore mutters, and Scaramouche gives him a look.
“I heard that, Dottore.” Albedo said. “And I think I will, thank you very much.”
“That’s interesting,” Scaramouche thinks.
Most people are too polite to call Dottore out. Screw this, Scaramouche is the one who won’t survive this.
“Hi,” he says, and he probably sounds like a complete moron because all three of his bandmates look at him as if he’s just grown a second head.
Albedo himself looks a bit surprised, but he smiles at him and oh, Scaramouche is fucked.
“Your past manager told me what I needed to know to be able to handle things moving forward, but I’ll be doing solo meetings with each of you so we can discuss how to work together to ensure your reputation is well-handled.”
“Can I go first?” Signora asks. “I’d like to renegotiate my sponsoring contract. They’re clearly not paying me enough.”
“I assume you’re referring to Bubu Cosmetics?”
“Well done, you really did your homework.”
Albedo smiles at her and this time, Scaramouche can tell it’s a warning. He’s subtly telling her that just because he’s a pretty boy wearing a nice cardigan doesn’t mean he’s a pushover.
God, he’s getting hotter every time he opens his mouth.
“Of course. I take my job very seriously. Now, are there things you wish to discuss with me before we start with the agenda for the next few months? The main goal of the meeting is also to get to know each other.”
“Why did you pick us?” Tartaglia asks. “I mean, Enjou’s probably told you how difficult we can be.”
“I’m up to the task. Besides, you’re a very popular band and it would have been stupid of me to refuse the job because I was scared of some fifty years old geezer complaining about musicians being musicians. No offense, of course.”
Tartaglia bursts out laughing and Scaramouche glares at him.
“I like your honesty,” Ajax says.
No one asked you, Scaramouche thinks.
“Likewise,” Albedo says. “Anything else?”
“Where did you study?” Dottore asks. “And what’s your previous experience in the field?”
“You’re working for HR now?” Scaramouche snorts. “You know they hired him already, right?”
“Piss off, worm.”
“I’m going to switch your bass strings with spaghettis, old man.”
So much for being on his best behavior. Screw this.
“You’re older than me, asshole.”
“That’s not what the makeup artists seem to think,” Scaramouche retorts. “I heard we’re already out of concealer.”
Albedo clears his throat and Scaramouche decides, for once, to be polite and lets him continue.
“I graduated from Khaenriah’s House of the Arts and I was Xinyan’s manager for a while.”
“Really?” Tartaglia exclaims. “She’s a gem. Honestly, in a few years, she’ll be as popular as us. If not more.”
“Striving for mediocrity as always, Ajax,” Dottore comments.
Tartaglia sticks out his tongue at him.
Albedo doesn’t comment, but Scaramouche suddenly feels very self-aware and wonders if they just look like a bunch of clowns to him. He’s never been ashamed of being a brat before, but for some reason, he doesn’t want Albedo to dislike him. Probably because he’s hot as hell. And seems nice. Unlike that bastard Enjou.
As they move on to the most urgent topics, such as their upcoming set at the Liyue festival, Scaramouche forces himself not to stare at him.
He’s their agent, for fuck’s sake.
The days until his scheduled meeting with Albedo go by in a flash. In the meantime, he keeps himself busy with rehearsals and playing video games with Kazuha until ungodly hours, thanks to the latter being farther than the fucking moon.
“How’s the new agent?” Kazuha asks.
He’s so close to the camera it makes him look stupid. Scaramouche misses him terribly.
“He’s.” Scaramouche pauses. “Not terrible.”
Damnit, he replied too fast. Kazuha raises an eyebrow. He knows him so, so well.
“You like him, then? Not terrible is high praise coming from you.”
“No shut up, I don’t.”
That betrays him even more.
“I never said – oh.”
“Don’t fucking oh me or I’m hanging up.”
“Tell me more about him,” Kazuha says, moving even closer to the camera.
“He’s blonde. Not too tall. Doesn’t chatter uselessly.”
“Your type, then.” Kazuha teases.
“Fuck off,” Scaramouche replies before hanging up.
He really misses Inazuma sometimes.
The following morning, he’s paying the price of staying up until 3 am in the fucking morning. He almost emptied his concealer trying to look decent for his meeting with Albedo.
However, the first topic his agent mentions when they sit in his office is enough to wake Scaramouche up. That, and the triple matcha latte he’s still finishing up as he enters the room.
“I think you should reopen your Twitter account.”
He can tell Scaramouche didn’t expect it because an amused smile lights up his face.
“Are you sure you graduated from agent school?” Scaramouche asks. “Or are you a spy who’s trying to ruin our reputation?”
That makes Albedo chuckle. It is far too early for Scaramouche to be this gay, but there he is.
“No, I’m aware of the past complications. But if you’re willing to follow a few rules, I think it would be beneficial to the band. That is, if you’re comfortable with it.”
Scaramouche loves Twitter. It’s utter chaos and he uses his secret account to insult Tartaglia on a daily basis.
“Why?”
Albedo turns his computer screen and points to a tweet that says: “ Can Scara’s agent let him out of twitter prison pls. I need his fashion week threads back ASAP .” It has a million retweets.
Scaramouche grins.
“Your fans miss your tweets. It also drove a lot of engagement at the time, even if it had its downsides, according to Enjou.”
Scaramouche shrugs.
“What’s the catch?”
Albedo smiles. Scaramouche needs him to be secretly evil so he doesn’t develop a crush on him.
“There’s none. I just want what’s best for you and the band. And I think it’s a part of your identity that’s great. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t insult people, but your tweets are funny. I think Enjou’s decision was a little harsh.”
“You think they’re funny ?” Scaramouche grins.
Albedo clears his throat.
“Your fans do.”
“Alright, I’ll bite. I’ll do it.”
The worst part of being in a band is, well, bandmates.
None of them would say they’re friends, except Signora and Dottore who knew each other way before F.A.T.U.I even existed, but they have to put up with each other. Most of the time, they’re ruining Scaramouche’s life. The rest of the time, he’s ruining theirs.
“So, what’s gotten into you?” Signora asks as they’re taking a break during the recording of their latest single.
“What are you talking about, hag?” Scaramouche asks after taking a sip of his grape Fanta.
“She’s probably referring to your puppy act around our new agent,” Dottore helpfully supplies. “Did you learn manners overnight or do you have a crush on him?”
“Don’t be fucking ridiculous,” Scaramouche scoffs. “I just want him off my back, I’m not missing Enjou’s big brother energy.”
“If you say so,” Signora shrugs.
“Unlike someone I won’t name, I’m not stupid enough to go after someone I work with.”
“Then why are you justifying yourself?” Tartaglia laughs. “Usually, you would have already hit one of us.”
Scaramouche throws his drumstick at Tartaglia’s head, missing him by an inch.
Needless to say, Scaramouche’s pissed for the entirety of the recording session. Good thing being angry can’t get in the way of playing drums, he can always pretend they’re all Tartaglia’s head.
The most annoying thing about this entire ordeal is that Tartaglia’s right, for once. Why the fuck did he have to be attracted to their new agent of all people?
Scaramouche rarely gets crushes. So he has no idea how long this one is going to stick around before he gets his shit together.
Because there is no way in hell that he’s making a move on his agent.
F.A.T.U.I gives Albedo a total of a week and a half of peace before everything eventually goes to shit, just like Enjou had warned him.
On a sunny morning, Albedo’s called into the recording room because of a concerning text from Tartaglia.
Tartaglia: Hey. You should come to the studio. There’s a problem with Dottore. Ngl, it’s a shitshow.
Albedo lingers by the door for a little while. It isn’t closed all the way.
“Piss off, Scaramouche.” Dottore says. “What’s your fucking problem?”
“My problem is that you haven’t played decently for over an hour. So you either get your shit together or we can call off this rehearsal. I didn’t wake up to waste my time.”
“It’s 3 PM,” Tartaglia observes.
“Exactly.”
Albedo knocks on the door. Tartaglia seems relieved to see him. Signora doesn’t look up from her phone, Scaramouche sighs and Dottore adjusts his sunglasses over the bridge of his nose.
“Is everything alright?” he asks.
“Not really. I think we’re all a little on edge,” Tartaglia says. “Especially-“
Dottore cuts him off.
“Did you fucking text him?”
“Yes, because it’s his job to help us. You’re clearly not in your normal state, and –“
“Fuck this, I’m out of here.” Dottore snarls before storming out of the room.
Albedo frowns.
“Forgot something,” Dottore says, coming into the room again.
He takes an abandoned bag of Monster Munch crisps with him and leaves without another word.
Signora lets out an exasperated sigh.
“Go,” Scaramouche says. “You’re the only one he’ll listen to.”
Signora gets up to go after Dottore, and Albedo crosses his arms.
“Can someone explain what’s going on?”
Scaramouche puts down his drumsticks.
“Dottore broke up with his boyfriend.”
Albedo raises an eyebrow.
“He’s the singer from Frost and Flame, for the record,” Tartaglia adds. “It had been going on for more than a year. We don’t have any details because he doesn’t talk to us about this kind of stuff but I’ve never seen him like this. It’s why I called you, even if he’s going to be pissed at me for it.”
“I appreciate it, Ajax. Thank you.”
This is bad. Albedo knows that Frost and Flame have been F.A.T.U.I’s opener several times and that their label was looking forward to doing it again.
“We have to find a new opener,” Scaramouche says like he’s reading his mind. “It won’t be difficult. In fact, that’s a pity for them more than for us.”
“Yeah, sadly they weren’t that famous before they opened our tour two years ago,” Tartaglia says.
“Pity. Their music’s better than ours,” Scaramouche snickers.
“Hey-”
“Just the facts. But we’re digressing.”
He looks at Albedo again.
“I don’t think he’ll want to tell you about this,” Scaramouche says, carefully. “But you have to insist anyway. It could be bad for us if he isn’t careful about how he deals with his mental breakdown or whatever’s wrong with him right now.”
“Thank you. Any ideas on how to address the topic?”
Tartaglia pats his shoulder.
“Remember that he’s not mad at you. He’s mad at himself.”
Albedo grimaces.
“Thanks, both of you. I’ll deal with it.”
Needless to say, dealing with it is far more difficult in practice than in theory. Three days later, when Dottore finally accepts to meet Albedo in his office, he looks even worse than that day in the studio. He still wears his sunglasses indoors and his outfit is bordering on atrocious. He has a very peculiar sense of fashion, but he normally looks decent. No matter how eccentric his clothes are, they usually look good together.
Today, he’s wearing fuschia pants with what looks like a t-shirt from one of F.AT.U.I.’s earlier tours. It’s three times too small for him.
“Thank you for coming all the way here, Dottore. I can’t imagine what you’re going through but I’m here to help.”
Dottore rolls his eyes.
“What, you’ve never broken up with anyone before?”
Albedo crosses his arms.
“I didn’t.”
“Good for you. Now, what do you want from me, exactly?”
“I want to make sure you’re okay, first.”
“And then?”
Albedo doesn’t ask again.
“Then, I have some questions. Feel free to tell me if they are too invasive. I just want to make sure this doesn’t turn into a scandal, since your ex-boyfriend is also part of a famous band.”
“Not that famous.”
“Sure. But they were supposed to tour with you next summer.”
“They won’t. Diluc isn’t going to agree to this any more than I am.”
Albedo nods.
“That’s fine. We’ll replace them.”
“Good. What else?”
“Do you think he might talk about your breakup publicly? Or to someone who might mention it on social media, for example?”
Dottore scoffs.
“His brother is nosy as fuck. But I don’t think he’d go that far. He probably told him to stay the fuck away from me. I bet he’s thrilled about this.”
Albedo looked up the band before their appointment. Frost and Flame, a rising pop-punk trio composed of brothers Diluc Ragnvindr and Kaeya Alberich, and bass player Rosaria.
“I’ll call their agent to cancel. The contract wasn’t signed anyway. It will be fine.”
“Good. Can I go back to binge eating and staring at the ceiling now?”
Albedo doesn’t give him any sympathetic looks, because he looks like he’d find any way to get mad at him.
“Yes. Take the time you need.”
Dottore nods and leaves his office.
Albedo immediately texts Signora.
Albedo: Can I count on you to check on Dottore?
Signora: Smart move. He won’t talk to anyone other than me. Also, you don’t need to tell me to take care of my friend. Bye.
Albedo puts down his phone, a half smile forming on his face.
Now, he only needs to call Frost and Flame’s agent. He knows this is going to be the hardest part, even harder than getting Dottore to talk to him.
He dials the number.
“Hi. Kamisato Ayato speaking. How can I help you?”
Albedo puts him on loudspeaker.
“Hello, Mr. Kamisato. I’m F.A.T.U.I’s new agent.”
“Ah, you’re early. I know what this is about.”
Albedo silently prays that this doesn’t end in a disaster.
“I take it you’re aware of the complication surrounding the upcoming tour, then.”
“Yeah. We can’t have Diluc performing with that douchebag you call your client, I’m afraid.”
Albedo’s eyes widen but he doesn’t let Ayato’s lack of professionalism deter him.
“I’m not sure what kind of relationship you had with their previous agent, but I’m not keen on insulting my clients, let alone letting people do it.”
“I mean, at this point, I’m just stating facts. Enjou would have agreed with me.”
“We’re agreeing that Frost and Flame shouldn’t open for F.A.T.U.I, then?”
“Yeah. Actually, we have many other options so don’t think this is going to be a career-ending incident.”
Albedo resists the urge to tug at his hair in frustration.
“I never –“
“Good. Now I think we’re done here.”
“We are. Have a nice day.”
“Likewise.”
Albedo lets out a sigh as he hangs up. At this precise moment, he hears a knock on his door.
“Come in.”
It’s Scaramouche. Albedo saw him in the studio a few hours ago but he thought he was long gone by this hour.
“Hey,” the drummer says. “Just wanted to check on you after this Dottore fiasco.”
Albedo smiles.
“That’s nice of you. You can sit down if you want.”
“Yeah.”
Scaramouche sits on one of the armchairs and asks:
“So, did you call Ayato?”
“Just got off the phone with him, actually. Charming man,” he adds, sarcasm heavy in his voice.
“No one and I mean no one likes him. He’s a pest.”
“I can see why. But he had good news. They don’t want to do the festival opening either.”
“Of course they don’t,” Scaramouche scoffs. “They should have never opened for us in the first place. Don’t get me wrong, I really like their music. But we don’t have the same kind of fanbase. That was a mistake on Enjou’s end.”
“Who do you think should be your next opener, then?”
Scaramouche doesn’t miss a beat.
“Definitely Keqing. She’s getting popular and a lot of our fans listen to her as well. Also, her last album is incredible. It’s just me pushing my own agenda at that point but since you asked...”
“Thank you for your input. I’ll see if she’s available.”
Albedo hesitates before asking his next question but decides to go for it anyway.
“Are you seeing anyone?”
Scaramouche’s initial reaction is a raised eyebrow. Then, he smirks.
“A bit unprofessional to ask your client out, isn’t it?”
“No, I didn’t mean-“
“I’m messing with you,” the drummer says, but there’s a slight flush on his cheeks. Albedo can’t tell if it was there before. “And no, I’m not. So no flashy and public breakup to worry about on my side.”
Albedo nods.
“That’s a relief.”
That makes the drummer grin even harder. It’s a good look on him.
“I’ll have to ask your other bandmates the same thing, I’m afraid. I know it’s intrusive, but it goes with the job.”
“Yeah. Also not to slut-shame anyone but you might want to book an entire day if you want to know everyone Tartaglia’s sleeping with.”
Albedo sighs. It is going to be a long week indeed. But he doesn’t feel as isolated and alone as he feared. Actually, his experience with Scaramouche is a stark opposite of what Enjou told him about. He doesn’t know what to make of it.
“Do you perhaps…want to get lunch with me?” he asks him.
He’s got every reason to stay on his good side.
“Sure, why not,” Scaramouche says. “I’m picking the restaurant, by the way. You’ll learn very fast that I’m very annoying and especially when it’s time to eat.”
Albedo tries and fails not to laugh at that.
Over the course of this lunch, he learns that Scaramouche likes a particular brand of grape soda that only a few cafés in the city have in stock and that he’s gotten pretty good at disguising himself mainly because he wants to be able to go buy his grape soda without being bothered by fans. A pair of sunglasses and a wig usually do the trick. If not, a hoodie makes him look like every person on the street of Snezhnaya because it’s crawling with celebrities trying to get their frappuccinos without being harassed.
After another dozen lunches just like this one, he learns other things that certainly won’t help him in his job as F.A.T.U.I’s manager, but they do help him to get to know Scaramouche better, which is kind of his job anyway.
Enjou did tell him to watch him closely.
And he does. From backstage, when he’s on fire during every single F.A.T.U.I set. From behind the glass at the recording studio, as he’s recording the backup vocals of their new singles and his voice is like magic, and so unlike what you would expect from a drummer and especially from him. From behind the camera every time F.A.T.U.I’s interviewed by a press outlet. He’s beautiful, incredible and so talented that Albedo can’t wait to see what’s in the future for him. For them. All of them, of course.
Eventually, he does earn their respect.
Dottore never thanks him for cleaning up the PR mess that his breakup with Frost and Flame’s lead singer was, but he stops whispering mean comments under his breath during meetings, or at least not directed at him.
Signora stops pretending not to remember his name on the day he convinces Pantalone to renegotiate her contract with Bubu Cosmetics and lands her a front cover for Vogue Teyvat. She does complain about his edits to her interview, but Albedo’s sure that deep down she knows it’s for the best.
Tartaglia was never the more troublesome of the bunch to begin with but under all these smiles, Albedo knew he was the most reluctant of the four to trust him.
However, there’s a particular incident that earns him the youngest F.A.T.U.I member’s trust.
It’s been two weeks since journalists stopped bombarding newspapers with unflattering pictures of Dottore contrasted with model shots of Diluc with fantasy stories about their breakup. Albedo is slowly starting to think they’re in the clear for good. He stops getting calls from BuzzFeed wanting to interview Dottore and he’s mostly able to go to sleep before 2 AM.
That is, until he gets a call from Tartaglia at one in the morning on a Sunday.
“I need your help,” he says, sounding so distressed Albedo almost expects him to blurt out that he just killed someone.
“I’ll be over in twenty minutes,” Albedo says, getting up from his bed.
It’s a short car ride to Tartaglia’s apartment, especially this late at night, so Albedo has less than twenty minutes to brace himself for the worst. He absently hopes he didn’t get anyone pregnant. Surely, even Tartaglia isn’t that stupid. Maybe he punched someone. That wouldn’t surprise him either.
What he doesn’t expect is to see one of his childhood friends sitting on Tartaglia’s million-dollar couch. Albedo’s jaw almost drops.
“Hi,” Kaeya says. “Sorry about that, you look like you haven’t slept in days.”
Albedo blinks and somehow finds his way to the nearest armchair. Tartaglia doesn’t sit down. He looks more anxious than Albedo’s ever seen him. He’s always so carefree, even when the worst pictures of him get out on the internet. That’s worrying.
“What exactly is going on here?” Albedo asks.
Kaeya reaches for an object on the coffee table that Albedo hadn’t paid attention to. It’s a professional camera. He hands it to Albedo.
Albedo turns it on and quickly skims the gallery. The last picture in the camera roll shows Kaeya and Tartaglia kissing against a car. From this angle, he can only see Tartaglia’s face clearly. His eyes are closed and he looks like he forgot where he was for a second as if Kaeya just kissed him stupid. He feels like a creep just by watching the picture as if he’s peering into something so private, something never meant for his eyes, which is probably the reason Tartaglia’s so worried.
“Whose camera is this?” Albedo finally asks.
“Some paparazzi. In a formidable display of brute strength, Tartaglia jumped him before he could disappear and snatched his camera. He was pissed. And even if he doesn’t have the pictures anymore, he can always tell the press about what he saw.”
Albedo chooses his next words very carefully.
“And what did he see, exactly?”
Tartaglia speaks before Kaeya can:
“Do you need to know that?”
“Ajax,” Kaeya says. “It’s fine.”
Tartaglia doesn’t look fine. Albedo’s more confused by his attitude than by anything else.
“I’m sorry to ask but are you two dating? Has this been going on for a long time?”
“No. And yes.” Kaeya replies. “We’re-“
“We’re just sleeping together,” Tartaglia says.
Albedo probably doesn’t look very convinced because Kaeya feels the need to nod in confirmation.
Then, he adds:
“It would be bad if word got out. Not that it’s never happened to any of us before but I’m sure you’re aware of my brother’s past relationship with another F.A.T.U.I member I don’t want to name.”
“I am, unfortunately,” Albedo replies, feeling a headache looming over him.
“So, what can we do to avoid that?” Tartaglia presses.
“Firstly, did you injure that paparazzi?”
Tartaglia shakes his head.
“No. And no one else saw us.”
“Good. Also, you need to go out with your bodyguard even when you aren’t alone, Tartaglia.”
He rolls his eyes.
“I was fine.”
“No, he has a point,” Kaeya says. “What we did was really stupid.”
Tartaglia sighs.
“Do you think the newspaper would take his word at face value without proof?”
Albedo shakes his head.
“Unless he’s a trusted source, I highly doubt it. And given the number of paparazzi in Snezhnaya, the chances are slim. However, stealing his camera is bad. Why didn’t you just erase the photo?”
“He ran,” Kaeya says. “But he can’t exactly go to the police and say he harassed Ajax and he stole his camera. They’d just laugh at him.”
“Probably. But we need to get rid of that camera. I’ll handle it.”
“Thanks a lot, Albedo.”
“You two should calm down. That’s really not so bad. But if I may…Who exactly are you trying to keep this a secret from?”
“I don’t want Diluc to know,” Kaeya says. “This breakup has been really tough on him. I doubt he’d be thrilled to know about me and Ajax.”
“Besides, it’s not anyone’s business. And we were.. we were seeing each other even before they started dating, so.”
Kaeya sighs like there’s more to that story but he doesn’t feel like telling Albedo right now at one in the morning. It’s understandable.
“Well, I’m going to go. See you later, both of you,” Kaeya says.
Albedo nods.
On his way out, Kaeya stops to give Tartaglia a kiss on the cheek and whispers something Albedo can’t hear in his ear. This so does not look like they’re just sleeping together. But really, it’s none of Albedo’s business.
When the door shuts, Tartaglia lets out a frustrated sigh.
Albedo wants to go back to his bed as soon as possible. But Tartaglia looks like he’s about to tear all his hair out.
“Sit down,” Albedo tells him.
Surprisingly enough, Ajax does as he’s told.
“I know this is very personal and we haven’t known each other for long but if you need to talk, I’m here. This will stay between the two of-
“I’m in love with him.” Tartaglia blurts out.
Albedo’s eyes widen in shock. Not at the fact that Tartaglia loves Kaeya because that much was pretty obvious from his entire body language during their previous conversation. No, what really surprises him is that he told Albedo about it.
He can’t imagine how long he’s held himself back from saying it.
Ajax looks like he’s about to cry. A little awkwardly, Albedo gets up to sit closer to him.
“What are you so scared of?” he asks. “Do you think he doesn’t feel the same way?”
“No, I think he does. But after all that fiasco with Dottore and his brother…It’s gotten really complicated. And I don’t want to give this up.”
Albedo puts a hand on his shoulder.
“He didn’t look like he wanted to end things.”
Albedo shouldn’t be involved in their personal affairs. Especially since Kaeya’s his friend. But since the latter didn’t bother to inform him of his relationship with his client, he’s a little underprepared to deal with this crisis.
“I know I should just tell him how I feel,” Childe sighs. “But it was the one thing we agreed on years ago when we first started sleeping together. He asked me not to fall for him and I said that wouldn’t be a problem, but here I am.”
Albedo can perfectly picture Kaeya saying something like that. There’s nothing that scares him more than emotional intimacy.
“If you keep it to yourself it will only get worse. I think you should talk to him. But I can’t tell you how it will end. All I can do is take care of that picture and make sure no one knows about it.”
Tartaglia heaves a sigh. He reclines against his couch.
“Thank you. I’m glad I had to explain this to you and not Enjou. He’d always give me shit whenever the press got wind of who I was sleeping with. But I didn’t care. Not until now.”
“You have the right to a private life too.”
“I wish,” he sighs. “Do you know that song that’s like: if you play guitar you can’t want things? That’s my life.”
Albedo resists the urge to roll his eyes.
He stays the night regardless.
They don’t hear about the paparazzi again and Albedo takes care of the camera. A few days later, he gets a call from Kaeya.
“Hi,” Albedo says, carefully balancing his phone between his cheek and shoulder as he opens the break room fridge to look for the almond milk.
“Hi. Are you mad at me for not telling you about Ajax?”
“Not really,” Albedo says, as he turns on the coffee machine. “But if you want to tell me about him now, I’m listening.”
There’s a sigh at the other end of the line.
“It’s complicated. How is he doing?”
Albedo considers his question for a second. He had to spend the night at his place while he was wrapped in a fluffy blanket and Tartaglia made him watch the most ridiculous sitcom he has ever seen, one that was taking place in a store. He’s now subscribed to Netflix and sleeps even less than he used to so really, Kaeya should be asking about him in the first place.
“He’s alright. You haven’t talked to him since the other night?”
“Yeah, I did. But he has the tendency to play it cool when he doesn’t want me to worry.”
“Reminds me of someone I know,” Albedo says.
The coffee machine whirrs.
“Touché,” Kaeya replies. “Well, if you want to come by my apartment sometime this week, I can tell you all about it. How does that sound?”
“I’d like that,” Albedo says as he walks back to his office. “I’ll text you which day I’m available. I have to go.”
“See ya.”
“I’ll call you,” Albedo says, as he puts one of the two steaming cups of coffee on the coffee table of his office.
“Thanks,” Scaramouche says, sprawled in the armchair of Albedo’s office like a cat. “Who was that?”
“A friend,” Albedo replies.
Then, he resumes with his day.
Dottore never really moves on from his breakup and becomes somehow even more of a jerk than he previously was, but this isn’t about him. Not yet.
Scaramouche never moves on from his crush either. He wakes up and falls asleep wishing he could kiss Albedo and that desire never fades away, not as seasons pass and their manager puts up with their bullshit as patiently as ever.
He’s kind but calls them out whenever he needs to without an inkling of fear, and that’s exactly what they needed. Scaramouche keeps his Twitter account and their fans are happy, he’s happy, but more importantly, Albedo’s happy.
They get pizza together after shows, which is something they’ve never done with Enjou, and when Albedo’s birthday comes up, Scaramouche doesn’t even have to force them all to buy him a gift.
He makes their life easier, and in return, they do not go out of their way to ruin his. They truly do not deserve him but Scaramouche wants to keep him forever anyway.
He keeps his feelings to himself. He does want Albedo to push him up against a wall and kiss him until he’s breathless, but he also wants to be a superstar. He’s not going to ruin everything they’ve built because he can’t stop thinking about his manager’s mouth and soft hair and blue eyes and delicate hands.
He is not.
He pointedly does not throw a chair at the interviewer when they’re in front of the camera and they’re making them read these ridiculous thirst tweets and more than five of them are about Albedo.
But Aether is his last straw.
It’s almost midnight when they swing by Cat’s Tail, a mid-range diner that’s not far from the recording studio because well, they’re hungry and it’s been a hell of a day. Dottore and Signora had a huge fight over who should do this song’s background vocals and no, this key isn’t the right one, no fuck you, you don’t understand shit about music –
“Every day I tell myself I have to leave this fucking band,” Scaramouche mutters, looking at the greasy menu.
“And every day I think I should resign from this job, but here we are,” Albedo replies.
Scaramouche looks up from his menu in a heartbeat. Albedo merely laughs.
“I’m kidding. Just like I know you’re kidding.”
Scaramouche breathes a sigh of relief.
“Thank god. You’re not allowed to leave. We would probably end up killing each other if you did.”
“Good thing I’m not going anywhere, then,” Albedo says, closing the menu and resting his chin on his hand.
His smile does unspeakable things to Scaramouche. He wants this man so badly it’s a wonder he’s still able to act like a civilized person when they’re in the same room instead of, you know, reaching over the table without a warning to pull him into a kiss.
And he’s about to say something that’s probably risky, surely inappropriate, but –
A blonde guy with a pink polo shirt and a matching cap comes to their table to take their order, effectively breaking the spell.
“Hi,” he greets them.
“Hi, Aether,” Albedo says, as he turns to him.
Scaramouche does not like seeing him smile at other people.
“Hey, Albedo. It’s pretty late, what are you guys doing here at this hour?”
“Eating, eventually,” Scaramouche says dryly, glaring daggers at this man and his stupidly perfect hair.
“Oh, meet Scaramouche,” Albedo says. ”He’s-“
“Oh, I know. You’ve told me plenty about him.”
Scaramouche’s eyes drift back to Albedo.
“Did he, now.”
Aether grins at Albedo, who smiles back in turn, and oh, Scaramouche definitely does not like this guy.
He proceeds to order the world’s most complicated cheeseburger with a shit-eating grin while Aether painstakingly notes every change on his notepad.
“You know,” he jokes, “If you wanted a salad, I think Angel’s Share’s still open.”
“Nah, Albedo insisted on this place even if I don’t really get why. But that’s just me. Always going out of my way to please others.”
“He’s kidding,” Albedo says. “Late evening rehearsals make him cranky, don’t worry about it.”
Scaramouche sticks his tongue at him.
When Aether leaves, Scaramouche reclines against his seat and turns his attention back to Albedo.
“So, who is he?”
“A friend of mine. He’s also an actor.”
“Like most waiters in this city,” Scaramouche comments. “Where did you two meet?”
“Hm,” Albedo muses, fingers tapping against his chin as if he’s trying to recall it. “I think it was my friend Kaeya who introduced me to him.”
“ Kaeya. As in Kaeya Alberich, from Frost and Flame? Why do I only learn you two know each other now?”
Albedo shrugs.
“It’s a small world. We’re actually from the same small town in a part of Teyvat you’ve probably never heard about.”
He’s right. Scaramouche’s probably never heard about it but now he wants to because it’s a part of Albedo’s story.
“Anyway, he met Aether at some kind of party a few years ago and they’ve been good friends ever since. He’s got a lot of friends in this industry.”
With that pretty face of his, it’s no wonder, Scaramouche thinks, irritatingly enough.
As it turns out, on top of being pretty, Aether’s a great cook. Every bite irritates Scaramouche even more because this is close to being the best burger he has ever eaten.
“Looks like you’re enjoying it,” Albedo notices with a glimpse of amusement in his tone.
“I guess,” Scaramouche says, pointedly not looking at the plate he nearly licked clean.
He’s still glaring daggers at Aether from the other end of the restaurant when he sees a group of girls entering the diner. They don’t pay attention to them, instead settling into a booth a few meters away. Two of them have the F.A.T.U.I logo on their shirts.
Scaramouche instantly tenses. He forgot his hoodie at the studio because it’s so warm today and he doesn’t even have his bucket hat on. That was incredibly stupid of him. They’re going to recognize him and he’s definitely not in the mood for that.
He snaps out of his anxious trance when he sees Albedo take off his wool jacket. His hair is left ruffled and he looks so gorgeous Scaramouche forgets what he was worried about in the first place for a few seconds.
“Take it,” he says. “It has a hood.”
Then, he hands him a pair of sunglasses. Scaramouche wordlessly takes them, his heart rapidly beating like it’s trying to escape his ribcage like some unhinged bird.
“Thank you,” he says.
“Do you want to get out right now?”
Albedo looks calm – he always does. Scaramouche knows he’s going to be fine. He literally trusts Albedo with his life every day.
“Yeah, but we probably should wait a bit.”
“No need,” Albedo says, fishing out his phone from the pocket of his jeans. “I’ll tell Aether to distract them. He’s pretty good at it.”
“I bet,” Scaramouche replies but this time there’s no bite to his words.
Aether does distract them, and as they get out of the diner by the backdoor, Albedo takes his hand and leads him to his car.
“I’ll drive you home.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Scaramouche sighs.
Albedo follows his gaze. On the other end of the street, someone’s taking a picture of his car.
“Let’s go to mine, then. It’s farther from here, we’ll have more time to get rid of them.”
Scaramouche nods, pulling the hood further down to hide his face. It smells like Albedo’s perfume and he’s never going to give it back.
“Okay.”
Albedo’s place is nice. It’s exactly how he expected it to be, with brown and beige furniture and a desk that has so many papers on them that he can barely tell what color it is.
“Sorry about that,” Albedo says when the door shuts. “We probably should have taken a bodyguard with us to dinner.”
“It’s fine,” Scaramouche says, inspecting a picture of Albedo holding a little girl on the wall. He recognizes his stepsister, Klee.
He looks younger by a few years in the picture, and the laughter and happiness in his eyes make Scaramouche want to know what he’s like when he’s not working, to fit himself in that frame so he won’t just be Albedo’s client, but a piece in his puzzle.
“Do you want something to drink?” Albedo asks.
“Oh, yes.” Scaramouche grins.
A few glasses of gin later, Albedo looks a little flushed and infuriatingly more gorgeous, like it’s even possible. The alcohol’s also warming Scaramouche’s cheeks and really, he should take that jacket off but he does not want to.
“So,” Albedo asks, leaning on the armrest of the couch. “Is it true that you trashed Enjou’s car?”
Scaramouche flushes. There’s no way that bastard told him about the fucking car.
“Why would that old fuck tell you about this?”
“He mentioned it during my interview,” Albedo says, and he’s smiling so hard Scaramouche can’t find it in himself to be mad. “So I’m guessing it’s true.”
“It was an accident.”
“Mmh,” Albedo hums. “Tell me more.”
“He wouldn’t get someone to go buy me a new set of drumsticks, and said I could wait a few more hours. I couldn’t, so I took his car and went to get them myself. Then, some asshole decided he was going to steal my spot. I was faster.”
Albedo starts laughing and Scaramouche has to avert his eyes to avoid looking like a lovestruck idiot.
“What else did he say about me during your interview?” Scaramouche scoffs, crossing his arms.
Albedo looks at him with something that looks like fondness.
“He said you were the worst of all the F.A.T.U.I members and that I should be prepared for the worst. So I was. But you’ve been the nicest of the four to me since the day I arrived. I’m still a little confused by it, by the way. I guess he must have been exaggerating.”
He was not, Scaramouche thinks. Not in the slightest, but I happen to have the biggest, most embarrassing crush on you so, of course, I wasn’t going to be an asshole to you.
“Of course he was,” he scoffs, before pouring himself another glass of gin.
“So, have you confessed to him yet?” Kazuha asks him over the phone.
It looks like it’s freezing in Inazuma right now if his best friend’s ridiculous beanie is any indication.
“I’m not confessing to anyone,” Scaramouche mutters, lowering his voice even though he’s alone on the roof of the studio’s building.
“Scara.”
“Kazu.”
He sticks his tongue out at him.
“It’s so blatantly obvious that he’s into you too.”
Maybe. Maybe not. Scaramouche doesn’t want to think about it but it’s all he can think about regardless.
The truth is, he wants to know, he desperately needs to know if there’s a chance of him stealing all of Albedo’s clothes and seeing him every evening so he doesn’t have to cling to a fucking jacket because it smells like him.
He wants to kiss him until he’s breathless, until he can no longer tell where he ends and Albedo begins.
But he’s still scared.
“I don’t know,” he sighs. “Let’s talk about something else. When are you visiting?”
“Actually, we’re going to the same festival next month. I just heard from Heizou, it’s confirmed.”
“You should come to Snezhnaya before that, then fly with us to the festival. How does that sound?”
“If your boyfriend – I mean your agent’s okay with it, why not.”
“He can’t say no to me.”
“You’re further proving my point but good for us, I guess.”
When Scaramouche asks Albedo about it, he doesn’t seem opposed to the idea.
“I don’t see why not. Is his manager okay with it?”
“With him taking a week off?” Scaramouche snickers.
“No, with him being escorted by our own security to the festival.”
“Yeah, that’s fine.”
“Well, I look forward to meeting him, then,” Albedo says.
Scaramouche prays to every god out there that Kazuha doesn’t say anything that could embarrass him. He’s also secretly relieved to have him on the plane because he absolutely despises flying.
Scaramouche is not a pussy. He just gets anxious whenever he’s on a plane because that’s normal behavior. What if this fucking thing crashes and his life is absolutely destroyed before he makes it to Hu Tao’s Late Night Live talk show? What if they end up on some deserted island and he has to eat Dottore’s disgusting flesh to survive? What then?
Kazuha takes his hand and every stupid thought running through his head evaporates. It’s been like that since they were fourteen, and it’s a damn shame that he can’t accompany him on every goddamn trip because he isn’t going to hold Tartaglia’s hand instead, even if he’d probably be kind enough to offer.
However, as comforting as holding his best friend’s hand is, he really should have anticipated Albedo’s reaction.
It barely lasts a second, but one moment he’s looking out of the window and the next he catches Albedo’s gaze laser-focused on his and Kazuha’s linked hands.
Oh for fuck’s sake.
He takes his hand back as if he’s been electrocuted.
“Are you alright?” Kazuha asks, frowning.
Scaramouche’s presented with a dilemma. Either he talks too loudly and Albedo hears him or he whispers in Kazuha’s ear and it looks even more like they’re dating.
He decides on the second option, but only because he’s got a plan.
“Talk about your boyfriend,” he mutters. “Quick.”
“What?” Kazuha asks, incredulous. “You never want to hear about-
“We’ve been holding hands for forty minutes. I don’t want him to think we’re dating.”
A smile slowly stretches Kazuha’s lips.
“Fucking talk about Heizou or I’ll kill you-
“Okay, okay.”
Kazuha clears his throat and gets his phone out of his pocket. Then, with the self-confidence of a theater major, he says:
“By the way, do you want to look at the pictures of my last trip with Heizou?”
Scaramouche hates him so much. If there’s one thing he hates more than baby pictures, it’s pictures from a couple’s holidays.
“Sure,” he says between gritted teeth.
“That’s when we went to the Narukami Shrine.”
“How nice of you to take him to the most touristic spot in Inazuma. It’s like you hate him or something.”
“Hey don’t be mean, of course, I don’t, he’s my boyfriend .”
Scaramouche rolls his eyes.
“Ugh, we get it, you’re dating Heizou. Whatever.”
Kazuha steals a glance at Albedo. Scaramouche pointedly keeps his own eyes on the hideous picture of Heizou eating dango in front of the shrine. He looks stupid.
“I think we’re good,” Kazuha whispers in his ear. “He stopped looking at me like he wanted to murder me in my sleep.”
Scaramouche vehemently denies blushing after hearing that. He’s still grateful for his best friend, in his own way.
The rest of the festival goes by without a hitch. They perform a setlist that contains almost all of Scaramouche’s favorite songs and the crowd eats it all up. The parties are decent, meaning Scaramouche doesn’t even avoid attending them and he drinks Tartaglia under the table. His hangover on the last morning is well worth the trouble.
However, just as he’s about to pass out on the plane with his sleeping mask on, Albedo slides into the seat next to him. Kazuha’s gone back to his own band’s stupid bus which means Scaramouche was prepared to spend the flight swallowing his anxiety and avoiding it by sleeping.
Albedo evidently has other plans because as soon as the plane takes off he takes Scaramouche’s hand in his.
Scaramouche can barely breathe and doesn’t dare to turn his head to face him. Instead, he squeezes his fingers a little, as if to test if this is a dream or not.
He’s going to fucking pass out. His brain can’t deal with this, especially not with how little sleep he’s gotten in the past few days and the remaining alcohol in his body.
“Kazuha mentioned you get anxious on planes,” Albedo says.
“Did he, now,” Scaramouche whispers, about to combust.
“I hope this is fine,” Albedo suddenly says. “If you don’t-
“If you let go of my hand you’re fired,” Scaramouche blurts out.
Then he falls silent.
Albedo laughs, and thank god he does because Scaramouche absolutely did not mean to say something this rude but he panicked and –
“I’m not going anywhere,” Albedo replies. “Don’t worry.”
“You better not,” he mutters and slides his sleeping mask over his eyes.
He sleeps like a baby during the whole flight and when he wakes up his head’s resting on Albedo’s shoulder.
It’s the best thing ever and he suddenly looks forward to the next time they’ll get on a plane.
Scaramouche is fucked. He’s known that for a while but since that time Albedo held his hand on the plane, he can’t stop thinking about kissing him on the mouth every time they’re alone in the same room.
It’s all he thinks about, and yet he can’t bring himself to make the first move. Although what Albedo did technically constitutes a first move. Or does it? He can’t tell. Maybe they’ve just been moving toward each other since the beginning.
Scaramouche knows he’s being unfair. He’s not the only one whose career could be compromised by something like this – hell, Albedo has even more to lose than he does.
But he can tell he wants it too, and it’s only a matter of time before something happens. Scaramouche can’t stand the waiting, he’s been pining like a teenager for months now but he’s also scared shitless.
He tells himself he’ll wait for the perfect opportunity, knowing damn well the chances of him working up the courage to confess are abysmally low.
Scaramouche hates the Windblume Tour parties. He’s not that fond of parties in general, but this is the worst festival in terms of how quickly things go to shit. Besides, it’s not like he wants to get laid with anyone there, which is the reason everyone goes to these parties. And the alcohol sucks, most of the time. He’s not drinking apple juice and vodka, he isn’t fucking eighteen for god’s sake.
So, as he usually does, he hides in his hotel room, the only place no one will come looking for him. Except when Albedo does come looking for him.
“Scaramouche, I know you’re in there.”
“I’m very sick,” he says, as he combs his fringe in front of the entryway mirror.
He fakes a cough.
“You weren’t sick three hours ago when you sang the chorus to Ominous Fandango.”
“It was my last breath.”
“ Scaramouche .”
“Oh no, you’re using the voice. Now I have to open the door,” he mocks.
“I brought grape Fanta,” he says like Scaramouche is a cat and he’s shaking a bag of treats.
It does work.
Scaramouche opens the door and is greeted, as usual, with the prettiest face in the world, which is giving him a stern look.
“I know you don’t like it, but you should at least make an appearance.”
Scaramouche snatches the bottle of Fanta and Albedo follows him into the room.
“There won’t be any press. Why does it matter?” he sighs.
“Well, five years ago you posted a photo that went viral at one of those parties. I believe the publicity was well worth the trouble.”
It is true that Scaramouche has a talent for photographing the most ridiculous things celebrities happen to do right under his nose. That picture of Tartaglia laying face down on the floor is still the most used F.A.T.U.I Twitter reaction pic.
“Are you stalking me? That’s embarrassing,” he scoffs, to hide the fact that a blush is creeping up his cheeks.
“I’m your manager.” Albedo blinks.
“Still.”
“Come on. At least stay for one hour. Then you can go back to…what were you doing, again?” he says, crossing his arms.
“Scrolling Reddit. I promise you it’s way more interesting than whatever’s happening at that party.”
“Please,” Albedo sighs.
Scaramouche sighs even louder.
“Fine. But you’re coming with me.”
Albedo considers it for a minute, then realizes it’s probably the best offer he’s getting tonight.
“Alright. I’ll come with you.”
“Great. Now sit down. You can’t go there if you aren’t wearing makeup. You’ll stand out too much.”
Albedo does as he tells him without complaining and Scaramouche looks for his makeup bag to find that shade of blue he’s never used before because he got it specifically because he knew it would look gorgeous on Albedo. Just in case he got to do this at one point.
It’s been in his makeup bag for two months now.
“Close your eyes,” he tells Albedo as he sits next to him on the sofa.
Again, Albedo does as he’s told. Scaramouche uncaps his eyeshadow pencil and pointedly does not think about kissing him.
God, his face is so close. His fingers are shaking and he has to take a steadying breath before he puts his hand on Albedo’s face to keep him from moving.
Then, he traces the outline of his eyelid with much less precision than he usually does. This is so humiliating. He’s been a master at eyeliner since he was fifteen and now he can barely trace Albedo’s upper lash line without making a mess.
Being gay truly is a curse.
He feels more than he sees the shiver that goes through Albedo when he gets closer to inspect his work.
This isn’t going to cut it. He’s never going to be able to finish this simple task simply because his agent is so beautiful, all soft skin and soft hair beneath his fingertips and it’s taking all his willpower not to push him against the cushions to ravish him.
“Hm,” he says. “I’m going to do the second eye now.”
He reaches for his face again, but Albedo opens his eyes instead. Then, his hand closes around his wrist, and he makes Scaramouche put down the pencil.
He looks fucking ridiculous with only one eye done, but when he finally, finally kisses him, Scaramouche sighs against his mouth, in relief, in longing, in desperation. It’s slow because it needs to be after all the time it took for them to get there, but Albedo’s hand is firm against his neck like he’s resolved to do this, like it’s about time .
That fucking party can wait five more minutes. Ten, even.
He opens his mouth and Albedo groans, sliding his hand through the hair at Scaramouche’s nape. This is happening, Scaramouche’s brain unhelpfully supplies as the kiss deepens. We’re kissing, he kissed me, I’m kissing him back-
He’s been holding back for so long that his hands don’t know what to do, frozen between them as he frantically tries to reboot his brain, which is making a thousand Windows error sounds per minute.
Albedo suddenly pulls back, eyes dark, and says:
“I have feelings for you. I have, for a while, and-
Scaramouche flushes impossibly redder than he already was and blinks, trying to remember how words work.
“I’m also your agent,” Albedo says, looking a little confused, and at least that makes two of them.
Still, Scaramouche doesn’t like where this is going, so he cuts him off.
“I’m aware. I’m notifying you that you’re now also my boyfriend.”
Albedo licks his lips. His face is flushed and it’s a good look on him.
“Fine by me.”
They kiss again, and again and again until Albedo’s straddling him and Scaramouche’s made a mess of his braids so that his hair is falling everywhere. It’s messy. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
“I’ve been wanting you to do this since you first stepped into our meeting room eight months ago,” Scaramouche mutters.
“I did too,” Albedo replies, without missing a beat and oh, Scaramouche’s so in love with him it’s a wonder how he has survived the past few months without Albedo’s lips on his.
Albedo always figured Scaramouche would be the type to bite but he does not. He also doesn’t remember thinking about it so much but apparently, he did. Probably in between long-winded meetings and recording sessions when his attention was never focused on Signora or the other members of the band but definitely on Scaramouche, his mind busy cataloging every gesture, every tell and every quirk of his like his sole purpose was to be able to decipher what’s on his mind, to know when something’s wrong so he could immediately make it right again.
So, much like he’s witnessed it so far, Scaramouche’s all bark and no bite. Instead, the drummer kisses him softly, carefully, like he’s cherished. With urgency, too. He can tell he’s wanted that for a while, that he’s thought about the way he would kiss Albedo, and oh, that does things to him.
People are so wrong about him.
No one would believe the way he holds Albedo close, nor would they believe the words he softly speaks to him between kisses as Albedo melts against him. It’s their loss. All of this is Albedo’s and Albedo’s only, and he intends for it to stay that way.
Needless to say, they don’t make it out of the room at all that night.
“You still have eyeliner on,” Scaramouche tells him when Albedo emerges from his slumber the next morning.
He blinks, then rubs at his eyes. His thumb is a bright, glittery turquoise indeed.
“That color looks good on you.”
“Maybe you should try to do my makeup again, then.”
“No promises that it won’t end exactly like this,” Scaramouche says, slinging an arm around Albedo’s waist to bring him closer.
“I have no complaints about it,” he murmurs against Scaramouche’s neck.
He has no idea what time it is. He’s probably late for something. And he knows he absolutely can’t trust Scaramouche to have set up an alarm.
The other F.A.T.U.I members had warned him early on that it was notoriously difficult to wake Scaramouche up before noon. He had assumed they were joking, much like he’d assumed Enjou was suffering from dementia.
Albedo had learned his lesson when Scaramouche had sauntered into the recording room three hours late one day, and none of his bandmates had bothered to comment on it. Tartaglia had told Albedo that it was their own fault in the first place for expecting him to show up at ten in the morning as if that made any sense.
“If you’re looking for my phone, it’s turned off,” Scaramouche says after Albedo unsuccessfully tries to squirm out of his grasp.
Albedo sighs.
“How do you never look at the time?”
“It’s none of my business what people do in the morning. Those hours aren’t real.”
That’s crazy logic, but Albedo’s in love with him and for once, there are things that matter more to him than being on time for the morning’s schedule.
“You’re going to have to get up at some point, though.” Scaramouche sighs. “They’re going to figure out what happened if you’re late too.”
“We need to talk about it first,” Albedo says, holding Scaramouche closer.
He feels him shiver.
“I know it’s going to be complicated but I wouldn’t have kissed you if I didn’t want this. I love you.”
Scaramouche leans down to make eye contact with him.
“I love you too.”
Albedo hates to have to follow up with something so terrible, but one of them has to be the reasonable one.
“Also, if this somehow doesn’t end well, I’ll probably have to resign. I don’t want that, but I won’t have a choice.”
“Or I could quit the band.” Scaramouche deadpans.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Albedo chuckles.
Scaramouche flicks him on the forehead.
“ You’re ridiculous. Don’t talk about us breaking up ever again. Kiss me.”
“Fine by me.”
They eventually decide that it’s for the best to keep it a secret for now. From the rest of the band, and from the rest of the world.
That, of course, doesn’t include Kazuha Kaedehara, as Scaramouche quickly explains to him.
“He’s never going to let me hear the end of it.”
Albedo hopes he doesn’t, either.
It is notoriously difficult to wake Scaramouche before noon, however, Albedo always has a few tricks up his sleeve.
“Scaramouche,” he whispers in his ear. “I know you’re not sleeping.”
Scaramouche stays perfectly still. He doesn’t flinch, even when Albedo tickles him.
“They’re not lying, you’re good.”
Albedo kisses his neck and the skin right below his ear where he knows he loves to be kissed.
“You may be persistent,” he says. “But I am too.”
His teeth lightly graze his jaw and Scaramouche caves. He wraps his arms around Albedo’s neck and makes the space between their lips disappear.
Albedo smiles against his lips as his heart does a stupid little backflip in his chest. This isn’t what he planned on doing when he accepted to take this job, but it’s much, much better.
Noticing his distraction, Scaramouche flips their positions and whispers:
“What’s on your mind?”
Albedo looks up at him through half-lidded eyes.
“I’m glad I ignored Enjou’s advice.”
Scaramouche grimaces.
“Ew, don’t mention the old man when we’re about to have sex.”
Albedo nearly bursts out laughing.
“Who said we were going to have sex? We’re going to be late, maybe if you had woken up on time –
Scaramouche looks so indignant it’s almost comical. Still, Albedo can compromise.
“How did you even wake him up?” Dottore asks less than an hour later, quirking an eyebrow. “Did you set off his fire alarm?”
Scaramouche flips him off and sits down behind his drums.
“I have my secrets,” Albedo replies and closes the door behind him. “Have a nice rehearsal.”
It isn’t nice by any means. Scaramouche nearly blinds Tartaglia by throwing one of his drumsticks at him and Signora decides she does not want Ominous Fandango on the setlist anymore, which Dottore has a LOT of opinions about, and voices none of them nicely.
All in all, it’s a normal day.