Tags and Trigger warnings: Emetophilia, sickfic, mild hurt/comfort, Scaramouche has a bad time

Summary: In which at an introductory meeting for some new recruits Scaramouche's stomach causes him some issues.

Posted to Ao3: August 28th 2021

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Fatui Harbingers were supposed to be pillars of strength and power for the Tsaritsa. A goal that every Sneznhayan soldier should aspire to be.

At the moment, however, Scaramouche felt like anything but that and he absolutely fucking hated it. At the moment he stood in a large field helping Tartaglia, and La Signora welcome in some new recruits something to help bolster their fighting spirit and morale apparently but honestly, he could care less about any of this.

Hell, if it hadn't been for Pierro, the 1st harbinger, being the one to request their presence for this matter none of them would be here let alone in the same vicinity as one another. While Childe did probably the best job at hiding it, it was no secret that the three of them would rather fight each other in the middle of Snezhnaya's streets than work together.

But seeing division amongst your own men was not a good look for Snezhnaya and especially for the Tsaritsa, so the three of them held their tongues for now and played nice.

"He's still going," La Signora huffed under her breath as she watched Childe speaking to the new recruits, a scowl on her face.

Scaramouche sighs but says nothing, simply crossing his arms as he glared down at the ground. He didn't care about any of this, what was the point when these idiots would just go out and die useless deaths anyway. Still, even if he did care about any of this his current condition would make it hard.

Scaramouche's stomach was killing him, he didn't know if he'd picked up some stupid bug from one of his subordinates or if he'd eaten something that just didn't agree with him but something was clearly wrong. It was uncomfortably disgustingly hot, outside leaving Scaramouche feeling as though his normally comfortable clothes were constricting around his body smothering him.

The heat was doing his stomach no favors, the nausea already violently swirling in the pit of his stomach making him feel as though its contents were actively curdling inside of him.

He grits his teeth, one hand tightly gripping his sleeve when a deep ache spreads across his stomach settling alongside the ever-increasing nausea and strange heaviness that'd already been there.

It's a struggle to breathe, his lungs feeling as though they can't expand all the way, his normally form-fitting and comfortable clothes now acting as an almost tight band around his abdomen constricting it.

Scaramouche grits his teeth again forcing himself to take as deep a breath as he can possibly manage, his entire body tensing up, his nails practically digging into the skin of his arm when the pain gets worse, suddenly spiking as that ache spreads across his stomach.

It feels as though it's being squeezed in a vice grip, and he fucking hates it. He hates how he's left practically breathless from the pain, barely able to draw in even the smallest amount of air. He hates how he can feel his stomach violently churning, its contents writhing and bubbling inside of him like a pot of boiling water as waves of dizzying nausea wash over him relentlessly.

But most of all the thing Scaramouche despised the absolute most about this situation was the fear and panic currently looming over him settling heavily in his chest, a beast ever-present in the back of his mind since he'd first noticed his current symptoms.

Scaramouche knows he's more than likely sick, but he refuses to acknowledge it, to admit it to himself because it's a weakness and he'd learn very early on to never show anyone his weaknesses.

So he remains quiet, his gaze on the ground as he swallows thickly trying to clear the near river of drool building up in his mouth. It tastes vaguely sour, almost rancid and it's sticky clinging to the back of his throat no matter how much he tries to force it back.

His stomach makes a low growling noise and Scaramouche closes his eyes for a moment when he feels its contents slosh against the walls of his stomach, his nails dig further into his arm a slight sting dancing along his skin where the nails begin to break the skin.

The pain helps momentarily gather his focus, but it does not chase away the fear and panic rising alongside his nausea.

He opens his eyes shifting slightly, feeling sweat trickle down his skin as he glances down at his stomach only to quickly glance away when he realizes it looks bloated.

Archon help whatever idiot gave him this illness because things will not end well for them if he finds them.

La Signora sighed, shaking her head. "How long is he going to placate these fools," she muttered. She glanced over at Scaramouche when he strangely enough still hadn't said anything, it was strange because normally he didn't know how to keep his mouth shut.

Scaramouche has his eyes closed, his arms crossed over his chest. The man was normally pale but at the moment he was as white as a sheet, a fine layer of sweat coating his skin despite the nice light breeze currently following. His right hand trembling as it tightly clutched his left arm, his nails digging into the skin, despite that though Scaramouche's entire body was tensed.

Feeling eyes on him, Scaramouche opens his eyes slightly glancing up at La Signora. The woman is staring down at him with a look of amusement in her eyes.

"What?" Scaramouche huffed his eyes narrowing as he glared up at her.

La Signora chuckles softly, shaking her head as she looks away from him. "Nothing," she said, not bothering to hide the small smile spreading across her face. While she'd hated being out here for this nonsense at least she'd found to amuse herself with for the time being.

Scaramouche rolls his eyes as he turns his gaze to the ground once more, his irritation growing alongside the fear and panic still looming over him. From the amused almost taunting look in La Signora's eyes he can tell that she knows something is wrong with him and he hates that. He absolutely despises the fact that she can so easily see his current weakness.

Closing his eyes he grits his teeth, his entire body tensing up almost unconsciously when that deep ache in his stomach spikes again leaving him breathless and feeling as though someone had kicked him in the stomach. And honestly, that'd be preferable at the moment to what was actually happening, at least then he'd get a respite from this hell he was trapped in right now.

His eyes snap open when his stomach suddenly sloshes, like someone violently shaking a filled-up water balloon on the verge of bursting. It makes a loud gurgling noise, one that Scaramouche has no doubt La Signora heard but he ignores the smirk spreading across her face too busy swallowing, in an attempt to force back the bile he can feel bubbling at the back of his throat.

His panic and fear are practically enveloping him as both his pain and nausea reach unbearable levels. He closes his eyes again taking slow shallow breaths, it feels as if the world is swirling and tilting dizzyingly around him.

Scaramouche tries to convince himself that he'll be fine. He's experienced worse pain than this, he could handle it. He knows that being stabbed is a lot different than dealing with what illness he has right now, but he doesn't care he needs to hold it together, he can't let any of these people here see him like this.

The heat he feels, that's no doubt caused by his fever, is making this extremely difficult as it only makes his nausea worse. A very soft muffled hiccup leaves his mouth as his stomach sloshes violently, its contents practically curdling inside of him as the heat practically burns him from the inside out.

He swallows rapidly trying to clear the salvia still overflowing in his mouth, each time he tries though it feels as though it's clinging to the back of his throat, sticking it together.

"You are aware you can leave right or did you not think of that?" La Signora chuckles, having been watching Scaramouche's condition gradually deteriorate these last few moments.

Scaramouche says nothing, choosing not to acknowledge her as he puts all the energy and focus he can muster into forcing back the bile trying to creep its way up his throat. That disgustingly bitter and sharp, almost rancid, sour taste only turns his stomach further, and he just barely forces back a burp threatening to leave his mouth.

His stomach is in absolute agony, feeling as if it's on the verge of bursting open as it continues violently churning its contents bubbling inside of him. He can barely breathe let alone speak from the pain and delirium inducing nausea currently consuming him.

He knows La Signora is right as much as he absolutely hates having to admit it, he should leave as soon as possible but he can't move, because he knows that if he tries to it'll no doubt set his stomach off the moment he tries. Plus considering the way his entire body is trembling at this point he doubts he'll make it far on trembling legs.

Another soft muffled hiccup bubbles its way out of his mouth and La Signora scoffs as she glances down at him. Scaramouche can hear familiar footsteps approaching as Childe comes over to them with a sigh.

"You know, you two could've lended a hand," He huffed crossing his arms as he glares at La Signora. Behind him, the new recruits were sparring with each other.

La Signora smirked at him. "Considering how much you enjoy entertaining your own subordinates, I figured you'd be more than capable of handling the task alone."

A cold visceral fear grips Scaramouche, digging its claw deep in his chest as he realizes with growing horror that he's fighting a losing battle against his body. He begins to panic, he needs to leave, now before something embarrassing happens, before someone else notices his gradually worsening condition but he can't move. His limbs feel stuck, practically locked in place as he trembles slightly.

A cold sweat pricks at his skin as the near river of saliva building up in his mouth takes on a salty almost metallic taste. Scaramouche quickly opens his eyes only to instantly regret it, squeezing them shut another soft hiccup leaving his mouth when it seems as if the world is spinning before his eyes, his stomach making a tense gurgling noise.

La Signora chuckles and Childe looks down at him with a scowl, as he takes in Scaramouche's condition.

"What's wrong with him," Childe asked her. Scaramouche is incredibly pale, his skin almost bordering on ashen grey. Despite the fact that his entire body is tense like a coiled spring he's shivering, practically trembling.

"He's sick," she told him clearly amused, a sneer on her face as she looks at Scaramouche.

Scaramouche eyes snap open fury clear in them as he glares up at La Signora and his senses were right, he definitely shouldn't have moved as that is the straw that breaks the camel's back.

His bloated, gurgling stomach heaves, practically convulsing, eyes wide and panicked Scaramouche quickly clamps his hands over his mouth as a loud, wet, gurgling burp tears from his throat bringing with it a wave of thick, lumpy pale and tan vomit. It coats his hands in an instant, spraying through his finger as it splatters heavily on the ground and his clothing.

The sharp rancid scent of bile mixing with the sour, half-digested remnants of lunch as the hot, almost searing mixture quickly begins soaking into his clothes.

La Signora laughs loudly, practically cackling as if she's just been told the best joke in all of Teyvat. "So he can learn to shut his mouth."

Panic and fear sits heavily on Scaramouche's chest like a cold crushing weight, especially when a brief glance up tells him that La Signora's laughter is drawing the curious eyes of some of the recruits.

Childe grimaces quickly glancing back over his shoulder at the recruits before he reaches out quickly grabbing Scaramouche's arm, scowling when he feels the heat rolling off of his skin as Scaramouche trembles. "Come on, come with-"

"D-don't touch me!" Scaramouche chokes out, practically snarling the words although it's hard for him to sound intimidating with how much his voice is wavering.

Scaramouche has just enough time to note that the thick almost oatmeal-like slurry feels disgustingly hot, sticky, and slimy on his hands before he burps loudly the noise getting choked off by a wet sickly sounding hiccup as his stomach heaves again.

Scaramouche presses his lips together, trying his damnedest to hold everything back. The bitter-tasting bile and sour remnants of his lunch flood his mouth, filling it in an instant as his cheeks bulge out from the effort of trying to contain everything. He needs to leave now, his mind is screaming at him that he needs to run because he can't let anyone else see him like this, hell just one person seeing him like this was already too much but he can't fucking move. His legs refused to cooperate.

Childe sighed a frown on his face when Scaramouche's shoulders shook with a barely suppressed retch.

"Now, now Tartaglia, if he wants to sit there covered in his own sick like a useless baby, that's his choice. He's old enough to make his own decisions," La Signora said in between her bouts of laughter. Seeing the clear fear and pain Scaramouche was in at the moment was completely cathartic for her. "Plus it keeps his mouth shut, everyone wins. Except him of course," she told Childe cheerfully.

Childe glares at her. "Shut up," he sighed, shaking his head. Then he's reaching out tightly grabbing Scaramouche's arm. "You, come with me, now," he told him as he began pulling Scaramouche towards the nearby forest.

Childe has to practically drag him along, not because Scaramouche is digging in his feet but more because it seems as if Scaramouche's body isn't obeying his commands. His legs shaking as he stumbles struggling to put one foot in front of the other.

Glancing over towards where a few of the recruits are now looking over at them with curious and confused eyes, Childe gives a soft huff as he briefly releases Scaramouche's arm instead hooking his hands beneath Scaramouche's arms as he half drags, half carries him the remainder of the way into the forest out of sight.

Scaramouche's body jolts with a muffled hiccup, his stomach giving a low, almost sickly growl as he begins struggling in Childe's grip. Childe releases him instantly, stepping back slightly as Scaramouche collapses to his knees, his entire body trembling like a newborn deer.

Scaramouche keeps his eyes squeezed tightly, as he tries to swallow a futile attempt to force his stomach's contents. He needs to get this to stop, his mind is screaming at him to, there is no other option. He attempts to swallow again, but his stomach heaves, a loud ominous gurgling noise splitting the air, a cramp twisting it as it forces even more of its contents up tears gathering in his eyes as his face burns with embarrassment.

"Maybe you should just let it out," Childe suggested hesitantly as he stared down at Scaramouche. The man was clearly in a lot of pain and Childe was sure it'd ease up if he'd just let himself be sick.

Scaramouche can't really say anything, despite the fact that he wants to shout at Childe to leave him the fuck alone. His bloated stomach heaves again, forcing his mouth open as more of that thick, lumpy sludge sprays through the cracks in his fingers splattering heavily on the ground.

Gasping and coughing, Scaramouche shakily lowers his hands from his mouth, placing them on the ground to steady himself as he retches up another large wave of vomit.

The mess is thick almost like a smoothie, practically congealing into a pile as he chokes it up. A harsh pain streaks across his stomach with each heave, he feels as if he's burning from the inside out and the sweat soaking his clothes makes them cling to his skin making him feel as though he's being smothered.

Childe says nothing as kneels beside Scaramouche laying a gentle hand on his back, rubbing slow soothing circles. He might've said something to calm Scaramouche down considering the tears rolling down his face, and the soft whimpering noises he made in between the waves but Childe knew without a doubt that Scaramouche wouldn't have appreciated any words of comfort, especially not from him.

Scaramouche gives a series of wet, sick-sounding hiccups leaning over the mess on the ground as he pants, his eyes wide and drool dripping from his mouth running down his chin. He can barely breathe as that deep ache continues gripping his stomach and he just wants it to stop.

A weak, almost desperate whimper leaves his mouth, his face pinching in pain right before his body jolts with a loud gurgling burp that has another thick wave of lumpy vomit gurgling up his throat.

Childe can't help the almost morbid fascination and slight surprise he feels by just how much Scaramouche was bringing up, especially considering how small he was.

Scaramouche groans his body jolting with one final loud burp, the noise becoming a strangled, violent sounding retch that brings up one final enormous wave of vomit that leaves him dry heaving, and hiccuping sickly over the mess on the ground.

For a few moments, Scaramouche just continues kneeling there on his hands and knees, greedily gasping for air, his eyes wide as he blinks away the tears and black spots in his vision.

He swallows, his stomach hitching slightly at the slimy utterly vile taste coating his mouth nausea still swirling in the pit of it. When nothing else comes up, thankfully, Scaramouche continues to sit there seemingly dazed as he pants, drool dripping from his lips.

His stomach is still killing him and churning violently despite the now hollow feeling it holds. But he doesn't feel like he's going to start gagging with each breath he takes so he considers that a plus.

"There you go, I think you're done," Childe sighed as he drew back and got to his feet. "If you think you can walk, let's go back."

Scaramouche looks at him, fury in his eyes as that cold fear grips him once more, looming over him like some ravenous beast as he comes to the realization that Childe knows one of his weaknesses.

Childe merely stares back completely unphased. "Well, can you walk?"

"Why did you do this? Do you expect me to thank you, huh is that it? What do you get out of helping me," he practically snarled, still panting heavily as he glared at Childe. He knew how much the other Harbingers disliked him so Childe clearly wanted something, probably blackmail material, it was the only logical reason the man would help him in Scaramouche's eyes.

"Huh?" Childe said with a scowl. Then he closes his eyes, giving a soft hum. For a moment or two, he's silent as Scaramouche continues glaring up at him, as if trying to burn a hole through Childe's skull.

Childe opens his eyes and shrugs. "Nothing honestly."

Scaramouche frowns, his expression turning into one of pure confusion at Childe's words. "W-what?" He practically splutters completely dumbfounded.

Childe sighed, shaking his head. "Look, you're an asshole and I don't like you one bit, but the rest of us are assholes too. I'd be a giant hypocrite if I just abandoned you here while you're clearly sick just because of that."

Scaramouche continues staring at Childe for a moment slowly blinking before he gives a small huff shaking his head slightly. "You're so stupid I think I'm losing brain cells trying to understand you."

Childe rolls his eyes but says nothing long used to Scaramouche's verbal abuse.

"I hope you know that this changes nothing between us," Scaramouche mumbled as he looked away. He's still trembling from his ordeal, and he knows that he's probably unable to stand right now but if Childe notices he doesn't say anything.

At his words Childe gives a soft snort, a slight smile crawling across his face. "I would hope not, it would make punching you in the face a lot less satisfying in the future."

Surprisingly Scaramouche says nothing for once, while it would be amazing if he'd finally learned to keep his mouth shut, Childe has no doubt that the man is just incredibly exhausted by his ordeal.

So for once, an almost peaceful silence settles between the two of them.