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“What. Is that.” Scaramouche stares at the travesty in front of him, eye twitching.
“It’s a scarf,” Lumine says. Which is helpful, because Scaramouche would never in a million gazillion years have guessed that on his own.
“Lumi’s taken up knitting!” Paimon chimes in from where she’s chattering with Tubby.
He knows that. She works at her newest hobby most evenings, wielding her knitting needles by the campfire after a long day of work, as Childe picks fights with that Diluc fellow and Ganyu dozes off. He usually tries to ignore her, but he always feels like she’s about to stab one of the needles into his eye. So he watches her movements carefully—out of a healthy dose of self-preservation, not because he finds it soothing to watch how her fingers knit and purl, knit and purl in the flickering firelight.
He hadn't realized she was making a scarf. Maybe because the thing in Lumine’s hands does not look like a scarf. In fact, it doesn’t look like much of anything. It’s lumpy, misshapen, and frayed at the edges from too many undone knots. It looks to have been blue once—before she dragged it in the mud and dropped it in the river and accidentally wiped hilichurl blood on it. And it’s barely the length of his forearm, too short to be a scarf of any merit.
“That’s not a scarf,” he says, squinting at Lumine like she’s trying to pull a prank on him.
“It is!” she insists. “Look, you can wear it like this.” She loops it around her neck, displaying it like Fontaine haute couture. He ignores how it highlights the blue petals in the gold of her hair.
“Well, it’s disgusting,” he says, and Lumine scowls at him.
“You don’t have to be mean about it,” she says primly, pulling the “scarf” off her shoulders.
“Yeah!” Paimon scolds, flying over. “Lumi put a lot of work into that!”
“I don’t care,” he snaps. “It’s shoddy craftsmanship, pure and simple. It’s frayed and lumpy and I’m pretty sure that’s a missed stitch right there.” He jabs his finger into the scarf. (It’s softer than he expected.) “I don’t know what colour this was supposed to be–”
“It’s obviously blue,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I picked the yarn because it matched your hat.”
Scaramouche is about to continue his anti-scarf tirade when her words sink in. He closes his mouth. She picked the colour to match his hat? How long has she been planning to give him this? How much effort did she put into it? If this is a prank, it’s a very high-effort one.
He finds his voice and barrels on, because he’s nothing if not committed. “Well it’s not blue anymore. The bloodstains made sure of that.”
She frowns at the lump of yarn. “Sorry. I did try to get the blood out.”
“And it’s too short to be a scarf,” he says, ignoring her. “You think that thing is going to protect anyone from the elements? It might be the right size for your floating… companion-thing, maybe, but not for anyone normal-sized.”
Paimon crosses her arms. “Hey! Paimon's normal-sized!”
“Fine,” Lumine says. “I get it, it’s a shit scarf and you hate it.” He suppresses a pang of remorse at the disappointment in her voice. Then she starts to turn away and the remorse turns into panic.
“Where are you going?” he demands, a little too urgently. “I didn’t say you could leave.”
She pauses and frowns at him. “If you don’t want this, I’m going to go find someone who does. I’m sure Barbara would like it.” She holds it up and tilts her head. “Or hey, it sort of matches Childe’s eyes.”
The thought of Lumine giving away something she made specifically for him makes the Wanderer's chest squeeze viciously. His hand flexes involuntarily, like it wants to snatch the scarf from her fingers.
“Yeah!” Paimon chimes in. “We don’t have to stick around with you, Mr.… Mr.… Mr. Big Hat Man!”
“Not one of your better nicknames, Paimon,” the Traveler says. And then she turns away.
In a heroic feat of self-control, he resists the urge to grab her shoulder. Instead he crosses his arms and says, “Did I say I didn’t want it? I never said that. Maybe you should get your ears checked, Traveler.”
Lumine turns back around slowly, eyebrows raised. “I thought you said it was, quote unquote, ‘disgusting.’”
“I maintain that it looks gross,” he says, before his brain catches up to his mouth.
“And frayed, and lumpy, and bloodstained, and too short.”
“It is all of those things, yes,” he says, and oh gods someone shut him up before he digs this hole any deeper.
“But you still want it,” Lumine says.
A pause, as Scaramouche weighs his pride against his possessiveness. “Yes,” he mumbles finally, and it feels like an admission of weakness.
Lumine looks down at the “scarf” in her hands, and then back up at him. He glowers at a tree in the distance, fidgeting with the tassel at his waist.
“Okay,” she says.
Scaramouche blinks and looks down to see her holding out the scarf to him. He stares at it for a second too long and Lumine pushes it into his chest. “Come on. You wanted it, so take it.”
He’s self-aware enough to admit that he doesn’t deserve this. But he’s also a selfish bastard. So he snatches it from her and his fingers tangle tightly in the yarn. “Thanks,” he mutters.
“You’re just going to give it to him?” Paimon demands. “But he was so mean to you!”
“I made it for him, Paimon,” Lumine says, cheeks a bit pink. “Even if he is a little shit.”
Paimon sniffs. “Fine. Now come on, let’s go get lunch! Xiangling’s cooking today!”
She hurries away, and Lumine follows her—but not before offering Scaramouche a small smile.
The Wanderer clutches the scarf to his chest. His heart is disgustingly warm.
Scaramouche steps into Lumine’s teapot house a few days later, holding a knapsack and feeling rather silly.
Childe is sprawled on a couch near the entrance. He sits up as the Wanderer walks through the door. “Comrade!” he exclaims, far too excitedly for someone who was supposed to be hunting him not too long ago. “Here for a spar? This place is so peaceful it’s boring.” He glances around guiltily. “Don’t tell Lumine I said that.”
“I’m not here for you, idiot,” Scaramouche says, and Childe pouts. “Have you seen the Traveler around?”
“She’s upstairs, in the library,” Childe says, flopping back onto the couch. Then he narrows his eyes. “I thought you hated her. The two of you can’t go two minutes without getting into an argument. Why are you looking for her all of a sudden?”
“None of your business,” Scaramouche snipes, striding quickly towards the stairs. Childe laughs but leaves him alone.
He finds Lumine in the library, thankfully without Paimon around. She’s reading a book, nestled into an armchair so plush that she appears to be sinking into its depths. She looks up as he enters and smiles, a little confusedly. “Wanderer?” she asks. “What are you doing here? You never come into my teapot unless I drag you.”
Ordinarily he would pick a fight about that, but right now he needs to move quickly before he loses his nerve. He reaches into his knapsack and pulls out a soft length of yarn. “Brought you this,” he mutters.
Lumine stares at him. And then at the article in his hand. And then back at him. “Is that what I think it is?” she asks finally.
“How would I know what you think it is?” he demands. “I’m giving you a gift, dumbass, come here and take it.”
She sets aside her book, pushes herself out of her chair and walks over to him, grinning. “You big softie. You got me a scarf.”
“I made you a scarf,” he corrects stiffly. “Had to show you what a real scarf looks like, after you gave me that travesty of an accessory the other day.”
He holds it out towards her, but she bypasses it and walks right up into his personal space, so close that he can smell the mint she’s been chewing. Scaramouche swallows, reminding himself to breathe as she reaches up and tugs at the “scarf” around his own neck. “It may have been a travesty, but I guess that hasn’t stopped you from wearing it,” she says, sounding highly gratified. “You put a little button on it!”
“It wouldn’t stop falling off my neck,” he grumbles. “I told you it was too short. I put a button on it so it stays in place.”
“It looks great,” she says. She runs the backs of her fingers over it, and her nails scrape gently against his neck. Then she finally steps away and peers at the scarf in his hand. “This is blue too.”
“It matches your dress,” Scaramouche mumbles. The lopsided smile she gives him is nothing short of sickening.
She pulls it from his hands and turns it over. “It feels so nice,” she says, then examines it more closely. “Where’s the end of it?”
“There’s no ends,” he says shortly, taking it back. “It’s what they call an infinity scarf; it goes in a loop. Come here.”
She steps closer obligingly and he drops the scarf over her head, settling it on her shoulders. Stray locks of her golden hair brush over his hands.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathes. “And so soft.” Then she looks up and narrows her eyes at him. “You never told me you could knit, you asshole! All that time watching me struggle with my knitting and you never once offered to help.”
“I don’t knit,” he sneers. “I crochet. Which is clearly superior.”
“Sure,” she says skeptically. “Where did you even learn how to crochet?”
“You don’t live hundreds of years without picking up a few useful skills,” he says. “Frankly I’m surprised you haven’t learned how to knit in all your years of travelling. You’re slacking off, Traveler.”
Lumine rolls her eyes. “Don’t they say better late than never?” Then she runs her hands across the scarf and the corners of her mouth twitch up. “Seriously though, Wanderer, thank you. I love this.”
“Just showing you how a real scarf is made,” he mutters, embarrassment flooding his cheeks. “You need to cover up, anyway; you run around Dragonspine wearing next to nothing.”
“Aww, you do care,” Lumine says, mischief flashing in her eyes. “I knew you weren’t entirely the evil bastard you pretended to be.” She holds the front of her scarf up to him. “And look, now we’re matching.”
“No,” he says, horrified. “No, that’s not what this is.”
She grins. "Sure it is. We made cute matching scarves for each other.”
“They only match because they’re both blue,” he protests.
“And we both have a ton of blue in our outfits, you’re right,” Lumine says thoughtfully. “I suppose we’ve always been matching, then.”
“No,” he says again, shaking his head in panic. How the hell has this situation gotten so out of hand? “Stop this nonsense, Traveler. Gods, did you misplace your brain somewhere?”
He’s forgotten how close they’re standing. So it takes him by surprise when she reaches up and grabs him by the lumpy “scarf” fastened around his neck, pulling him down to eye level. “I was only kidding,” she says, and he feels relieved for a second. Then she adds, soft and cruel, “But you’re very cute when you blush.”
The Wanderer feels his face twist and his cheeks burn hotter. He wrenches himself out of her grip and lunges for the door. “Screw you,” he spits over his shoulder. “I’m never doing anything nice for you ever again.”
“Thank you for the lovely scarf!” she calls after him.
The sound of her laughter curls around his shoulders as he flees.