Scaramouche sat over the empty classroom’s table, pressing a dry cotton against Childe’s bloody nose. Childe had injured himself in P.E, wounds everywhere when he rolled down the benches, but blood only sipped out of his nose—gladly. Scaramouche was concentratedly taking care of the wound, while Childe simply looked at his boyfriend’s cute concentrated face. With a grin so wide it's like he's not deeply in pain.

"You should be more careful.." The indigo haired boy pointed out, voice loose.

"And spoil the fun of you taking care of me? Never." Childe replied meekly, hoping to break his boyfriend's firm demeanour. Failed, badly.