Chapter Text
There were never permanent addresses anymore for anyone. Everyone went away often enough to fight jet lag with another, contrasting dose of it. Of course it’s a legality to have one - a permanent address, not a dose of jet lag - but these said “permanent” residences were of empty filled households that hadn’t seen a son or daughter in a long time. Some liked to live that way, some didn’t. Some liked the escape and freedom it brought, the way it felt like you were never tied down and making progress. Others were afraid of the constant changes and long flights on overpriced fancy seats. A lot had a mix of both emotions clouding around, but when you put two people who hate flying together in the same spacious, private jet cabin, who have exactly contrasting opinions of travel, it causes a rift wide enough to suck the entire plane up if it weren’t for coffee and melatonin keeping the two musicians level headed.
Tartaglia sat on the side closest to the exit, having the somewhat childish view that if his back were facing the pilot he’d have more fun going backwards as he looked out the window. The man was young, just below twenty-one by a couple of days, so the youngest in Deluded. It didn’t bother him, he was an adult, his co-stars were adults, they could all be civil when they needed to at irrelevant panels and “surprise” paparazzi bombardments.
Levelling the plane on the other side of the cabin, was Tartaglia’s labelled “lesser-guitarist” and Rosalyne’s “Little Songbird.” Scaramouche hated a lot of things about fame, the storage clumping dm’s on social media, not being able to go out without some ridiculous accessory in fear of it ruining his image as a “style icon,” not being able to go out at all. But something Scara hated the most about fame, was the reliance you had to put into others around you. Managers, fanatics, show hosts, venue dealers, and of course keeping drug dealers away from you. No wonder people failed to keep the latter up, it’s exhausting relying on humans, because they always change and never stay. They retire, move away, break away or die. But drugs always stay drugs, and unlike fake supporters, fake or altered drugs are still drugs. That can’t always be said about humans - sometimes they feel just like monsters.
But Scaramouche and Tartaglia withheld from such substances, both for differing, personal, reasons.
An announcement fell over the intercom, proclaiming an ETA that was still a little too soon for one passenger and not soon enough for the other. Two signs levelled the plane, and a few screenshots were sent to Childe’s instagram of people tracking their plane on a flight radar app - screenshots of that and… other photos… to which Childe just laughed at and used the block button and self control to not send a beaver emoji back. Scara probably had similar messages, but they remained unopened so therefore didn’t exist.
Eventually the still flight tilted and shook itself into the ground. Tartaglia stretched out his arms and let out an obnoxious yawn, fluffing his hair and slipping the classic mask accessory onto the side of his fiery locks. Grabbing a sponsored carry-on bag from some Italian label and slinging it over his shoulder, he looked in the reflection of his matching sunglasses to spot the short man that sat stationary at the back of the plane.
“Ohayo, shortstuff,” He coed, closing one eye to bring the annoyed sleeper into focus through the dark lenses. “Welcome home.”
Scara ignored him and grabbed a bag of the same sponsorship as Childe and grumpily marched down the aisle.
“Shut up before I make your face match your hair.” He growled.
Tartaglia slid on the sunglasses, a picture perfect celebrity. “Don’t make me blush, little guy.” He took the large headpiece that remained leaned against the cabin door for the whole flight and brushed off the non-existent dust on its custom material before messing Scara’s hand with his other hand and slamming the hat down onto his head. “Wanna say good morning to me as well-”
“Fuck off.”
“Ah, there it is.”
The two exited the aircraft to a distant applause of caged fans a couple of hundred metres away. Childe smiled and people swooned, Scara made no eye-contact and some fainted. Walking down the stairs was a symbol of exposure, even though Scara was covered in lavish and expensive sponsors and garments, he felt cold in the Tokyo heat. It was a reason he never made eye contact, never gave much away about himself at all. And that was the reason his fans adored him so much. The mystique of it all.
“Childe! Childe! Over here!” A fan girl called from behind Scara. Tartaglia’s heeled footsteps halted as he probably winked or smiled at the girl, because before he could even start walking again, there was a whole commotion of screaming and squealing.
One girl attempted to do something similar to Scaramouche, calling “ Scara!” and waiting for an opportunity to fall to her knees with idolisation. But, as always, she was hushed by what sounded to be one hundred other girls.
“No one deserved to be the one who saw behind Scara’s mask of secrecy.” Tartaglia had read an article out loud at a marketing lunch one day, mainly to embarrass his colleague and make pompous sponsors laugh at undeserved “banter.” “His dark stare, his frozen heart.”
Jesus Christ Scaramouche fans were cringe.
Once they got to the limousine, Childe gave one more wink or kiss - Scara never checked - and then slammed the door, letting out a long sigh, letting go of a shield of ego.
“Well, another happy landing, huh, comrade?”
Scaramouche scoffed as the vehicle pulled away, forcing his smaller form into the back of the car, and jolting Tartaglia forward. “You’ve always been such a suck up.”
Tartaglia leaned back, once again his back facing the driver to get that superficial childish thrill. “You surely haven’t changed your tone.”
“How would you know? You like the sound of your own voice so much you couldn’t tell a key change if it hit you in the face.”
“My fans would disagree, Mr Scara.”
Scaramouche felt a smile prick up the edges of his lips. “Then stay in line and stay on pitch. Wouldn’t want your tuning pegs to be placed wrong…”
Tartaglia snorted a little. “Pegs-”
“Shut the fuck up.”
The rest of the ride was filled with the sounds of popstar Childe mocking Scara’s comeback, and eventually, the low hum of mixed pitched voices outside. The loud roars of men and supportive cheers of women. It increased in texture and clarity for a moment, causing neither musician to flinch as the door opened and a tall blonde woman slipped into the car, removing her sunglasses as the door slammed shut.
“Morning, boys.” Rosalyne greeted, removing her scarf and airing out her shirt from the summer heat.
Childe’s head bowed kindly.
Scara waved, looking out the tinted windows to see two security guards jump a man who’d pulled his pants down.
The woes of fame.
“Welcome home, Scara.” Rosalyne took out her phone and began to read through the narrowed down emails from her SM Manager. “Feel good to be back?”
Scara ripped his eyes from the invasive scene outside and began to scroll through his own phone, much to Tartaglia’s dismay - whose phone had died twenty minutes ago, and the dumbass didn’t think to bring a charger.
“I missed the food, that’s about it.”
“Not your family?” Tartaglia pondered.
“Nope.”
“Or your fans?” The blonde inquired.
“Did you miss them?”
Childe and La Signora give differing answers. Scaramouche let them argue it out for a bit.
Soon, Scara’s phone buzzed, to which he hung it up before even checking what it was. Then La Signora’s did, to which she looked at the “No Caller-ID” with a sigh.
“Answer it.” Tartaglia suggested. “Could be funny.”
“Could be a scam.” Scara argued.
“It could be a work call.” Rosalyne concluded over the top of the brewing tension between the two men. “Hello, La Signora here.”
A man’s voice on the other side of the phone caused her to groan with annoyance, signalling for her co-workers to do the same. When she hung up, they already knew what was up.
“Dottore…” Tartaglia yawned again with boredom. “Is everything seriously just work with him?”
Scara massaged his temple. “Here I was thinking I’d get the night off.”
Rosalyne showed her disdain in a more subtle way, the small twitch of her eye was one of the only indicators of stress in her body at that moment. “Sponsor cocktail party. Tonight. 6pm. Don’t be late.” She repeated his instructions. “I swear to God…”
The party itself, well, it was a little more than those simple instructions. It was the beginning of a long line of illness and heartache.