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Home has become a bit of an abstract concept to Tartaglia. Zhongli asked him, a long time ago, where his home was. Snezhnaya had been on the tip of his tongue. It would have been so easy to push it past his lips, to drop the most obvious answer into the water just to watch how it sinks. But would that have been honest? A God of Contracts values not only the upholding of a contract, but also that the upholder upholds the contract with honesty and integrity. And in all honesty, Tartaglia wasn’t sure anymore. Isn’t sure. But perhaps that is the nature of being mortal. Knowledge evolves and shifts over time; as does the understanding of a concept, especially one so subjective and vague.
Is home a place? The Tartaglia from before would have answered yes with certainty, perhaps with an extravagant eye roll and a raise of the eyebrow, as if to say what a silly question. Now, as Tartaglia has come to understand it, home could be a place, but is it really the place itself that identifies it as home, or simply the memories and people one’s come to associate with said place? When defining Snezhnaya as home, he doesn’t really think of the snow capped mountains or vicious wind; rather, it’s the coziness of the fire, the warmth of his family, the playfulness of his brothers and sisters. It’s the sense of peace and comfort that stretches over him, the calming knowledge that they’re all fine. These are the feelings he keeps cupped in his palms on particularly homesick nights, when the night chill steals into his room and he’s warmed only by the remaining shards of memories.
But that’s one version of his home. Before, he was certain that he would never find another home. How can one have more than one home?
It seems that his journey to Liyue was only partly to preside over the city as a Harbinger. Perhaps the majority of it was to prove his previous views wrong, however discreetly or subconsciously that process might play out. Maybe Liyue wasn’t where he was born. But does that mean it can’t become home? A previous Tartaglia would have said yes. He’s starting to think that his previous self would have said yes to many questions without stopping to consider it. Such was his nature, after all. Why dally in the uncertain and theoretical when there’s thrill to be sought from the concrete ritual of battle?
He still adheres to that old belief, but the definition of home for him is rapidly unspooling, unwinding, to shape into something different.
It’s shaping into a man who wears the night sky on his head and the stars in his eyes. Home is becoming this bustling harbour city teeming with life and activity. Home is becoming the bracket of strong arms he finds himself reclining into sometimes. Home is the grey area between sleeping and waking, the initial alarm of where am I to the realisation that he is safe. Home is that moment when the sun first filters in through the curtains and scatters handfuls of gold streaks through Zhongli’s inky hair. Home is the treasured piece of land he’s been given behind the bones of Zhongli’s rib cage.
Home is Zhongli.
It took him an awful long time to come to that conclusion. In retrospect, the pieces were there all along, waiting patiently for him to come along and examine them. Except he never did, not until Zhongli smiled at him one evening and sent the pieces spiralling to come together on their own. Zhongli was excruciatingly patient, so calm, so ready to settle down and grow roots to wait for him. He couldn’t exactly bring himself to apologize, the nature of his pride an obstacle. Zhongli never asked it of him, because perhaps he understands. Immortality inevitably invites pride; the accessibility to unchecked power and millenia of knowledge can make any prideful over enough time given.
It’s not like it matters though, because Tartaglia is happy with the way things are now.
The evening spring breeze filtering through the harbour city of Liyue leaps over the bobbing heads of tourists and merchants and ruffles playful fingers through a head of gold-rust hair. With it comes the tantalizing scent emitted by the snack stalls lining the crowded streets. Tartaglia pauses in front of his current lodgings, basking in a moment of stand-still as the rest of the world flows on. Cerulean eyes take in the scene before him. It’s a scene becoming rapidly familiar: the constantly occupied streets, the trade ports, the mountains proud in the background, the layered structure of the city. It’s a glaring contrast to his home, where it’s buried in snow and battered by wind. He sends a mental well-wish to his family, to his brothers and sisters, in hopes that they’re faring well.
Tartaglia turns and steps over the threshold, ascending gracefully to his room. There’s few people milling about the commons area, the majority having gone down to the harbour to observe the new trade goods. Tartaglia has no such interest: excitement comes in the form of battle-thrill and physical challenges instead.
He pushes open the unfolding doors to his room with one hand, agile footsteps evading the threshold easily. Waning sunlight combined with lantern light spill in where the curtains fall open, illuminating the little room. Tartaglia closes the door behind him, running elegant fingers through silken strands. He makes his way further into the room, footsteps light from habit. A man sits on one side of the tea table, fingers steepled under his chin as he gazes into nothing, seemingly lost in thought. Tartaglia treads over, smiling, and folds himself into the seat across. His fingers move of their own accord to pour the tea, Tartaglia observing quietly as the steam floats up and warps the man’s face.
“先生, care to share what has intrigued your mind?” Tartaglia inquires in lieu of greeting. There’s no use for it anyways; Zhongli was long expecting him.
A sweet smile curls on familiar lips. Twin amber orbs refract the light pouring through the open window; for a second, it’s like he’s contained the galaxy within his eyes. Zhongli sips from his cup absently, fingers tracing its rim, smoothing over the errant liquid lingering on the edges. His movements are languorous, a mellow image blanketed over a sharp wit and even sharper skills. It’s a skillset honed by time and immortality, unwavering power at the very heart of it all. Tartaglia is privy to the legends of the Rex Lapis; he’s fully aware of Zhongli’s capabilities, however mortal he may seem now.
“Nothing in particular, save for perhaps just how beautifully the lantern light adorns your features.” It’s nonchalant, carelessly tossed. Tartaglia thrums with it—the casual sweetness woven into the fabric of Zhongli’s words. Zhongli tunes his tongue with skill, with every bit the mastery he employs to wield his powers. It catches Tartaglia off guard sometimes.
“I could say the same to you, 先生.”
Zhongli hides a smile behind the rim of his cup, and Tartaglia stares in fascination as the stars in Zhongli’s eyes shift in their tracks, still revolving around the central sun of his pupils, but brighter and faster. They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul; Zhongli’s are the windows to his true self. There are stories of centuries-passed fossilized in the amber of them, churning with his emotions and spilling, sometimes, through loosened lips.
Under the gentle and calm demeanor he dons smoothly each morning, there lies a turbulent sea, frothing with power and unchecked rage. It’s tamed admirably, a feat only the gods of the greatest powers can achieve, but sometimes it shines through. It makes for a horrifically beautiful scene to watch when that power is whetted into a weapon held with an iron grip. Tartaglia supposes it’s a perpetual part of Zhongli’s personality. It’s no matter; Zhongli would not be Zhongli without it.
“公子, care to share what has intrigued your mind?” There is a youthful type of playfulness precipitating his words. Tartaglia smiles, drifting back from the untouchable place of his mind to settle back into the present.
“Nothing in particular, save for perhaps just how beautiful your eyes are.” It’s sappy; it’s stickily sweet with love. Tartaglia enjoys it with the same fervour with which he enjoys battle: all-consuming, like nothing else in the world matters. Zhongli laughs into his tea this time, eyes crinkled to curtain the stars beaming through. He stands up, unfolding from his seat in lithe forms and elegant limbs. He saunters to the window, peeking out with his elbows resting on the sill and his chin cradled in his hands. Tartaglia joins him wordlessly.
The bustle outside surrounds them for a while, the silence peaceful between them, but not without interaction. Zhongli leans his shoulder into Tartaglia’s, and he, in return, props his head against Zhongli’s. They stare out into the air like that, content in the presence of each other.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Zhongli picks up a train of thought midway, startling Tartaglia.
Tartaglia rides with it. “Sure,” he agrees, then tilts his head to glance down at Zhongli. “What are we referring to, exactly?”
Zhongli exhales a laugh, “Liyue.”
“Oh.”
Truthfully, appearances are not something Tartaglia gives much thought to. Subjectiveness is at the heart of it all. He seems to be dealing in a lot of subjectivity lately. But considering it, Liyue is pretty.
His brain gives him that stepping stone and offers him another to test. Why?
He phrases it as a question to Zhongli instead.
“Why do you think Liyue is pretty?”
There’s a moment as Zhongli catches it and ponders on it. Concentration is written across his face, and Tartaglia is tempted to laugh. Instead, he doesn’t, ignoring his own surprise as he directs the question at himself.
Perhaps Liyue is pretty. But this is much like home, where is it really the place itself or the feelings associated with it? The answer comes easily enough. There’s fondness for this harbour city at the bottom of his rib cage, tucked away where he doesn’t usually look. But it’s there, and it smothers the imperfections each time he looks out the window. Then he looks at himself and wonders just where all of the philosophy and sentiment came from. He says as much to Zhongli.
Zhongli simply laughs in response. “Is that such a bad thing?”
Tartaglia frowns. “I don’t feel like myself anymore. I fear I will return home and be exiled by my mother from my home because of how much I've changed.”
Zhongli’s fingers smooth back escaping hair from his brows. “Or maybe they’ll treasure it, because given how stubborn you are, I’m sure that old personality will return soon enough.” Tartaglia knocks his shoulder into Zhongli’s, but there’s no real heat behind the action. He nudges his hand.
“You haven’t answered the question. Why do you think Liyue is pretty?”
Zhongli, for all his complexities hidden in his mind, expresses emotions in the simplest of ways. Less is more, perhaps. His answer comes in four words.
“Because you are here.”
Tartaglia allows this answer to settle, allows himself to feel the ripples of it wash through him. It amazes him sometimes, just the ability words alone hold when it comes to navigating the intricacies of the human mind. Emotions can be tempted with the simplest combinations of the most rudimentary words; those little words can mean so much. Zhongli pulls back from the window, turning towards Tartaglia and holding out a hand.
“Come now, dear one, to bed. There is much to do tomorrow. Pondering can be saved for later.” Tartaglia looks up to see a galaxy of emotions unexpressed circulating in warm amber in the lantern light and accepts the words unspoken, the offered hand. He allows Zhongli to lead him to the sleep chamber, to another night to be spent tucked in a warm embrace.
He allows Zhongli to lead him home.