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Ajax didn’t do much, since he fell through a crack in the earth and Childe took over.
He wrote the letters home to his family, of course — Childe could barely hold a pen steady, his hand more suited to war than affection, and Tartaglia always sounded like he was plotting something. The plot was in Ajax’s best interest, of course, they were all the same person, but even so, his family didn’t need to know about the other two.
Tartaglia had been the newcomer, the fresh meat. It was nice having someone to counter Childe’s incessant bloodlust, someone to handle things without making Ajax look at the gory resolution. Tartaglia didn’t cause the bloodshed — usually, there had been one time in bed with someone that Ajax only had a vague recollection of — but he could stand to be in the center of it all and keep his head clear and his heart cold.
Ajax remembered the exact moment when Tartaglia came to be.
The Tsarina had welcomed him into her court, Childe being too volatile to handle anything diplomatic. She had given him an offer he couldn’t refuse — join the Harbingers, have the power to protect his family, protect Snezhnaya, protect himself from the inevitable future in which Childe went mad and tore him apart. She didn’t know about that last one, obviously, and none of them had any intention of telling her. To do so would have them killed.
But then she told him the catch: he had to prove himself, not in a fight against more random Fatui who happened to have conscripted, but against another Harbinger. She summoned Scaramouche, who gave Ajax the impression he was about as friendly as a rabid pest, and told Ajax to fight him and prove that he could survive.
“Or die,” another Harbinger, Signora, had added. “Plenty of other young men would kill for the honor of serving the Tsarina in such a high position. For your sake, this had better be what you want, pretty boy.”
Childe took over at that, grinding his teeth at the barbed compliment and turning on Scaramouche, and that was all Ajax remembered until he was back at the helm for a few moments, looking around at the other Harbingers, and Scaramouche, who Childe had apparently clawed across the face when he ran out of other options, backing away to lick his wounds.
Ajax shoved down the bile rising in his throat and dropped his control like a hot pan, letting someone else, anyone else, take over. At that point he didn’t care if it was Childe. Ajax wasn’t a killer, he couldn’t be a killer.
And thus, Tartaglia was born, a smooth-talking con man of a teenage boy, a young man, rather, who could charm the Tsarina and Childe’s bloodlust alike, who could be a killer.
Ajax didn’t see much of anything after that, of the Zapolyarny Palace or of Snezhnaya. He came out occasionally when the moment was peaceful, to watch the snow and look out over the scenery, and when it came to matters of his family, but not for Fatui matters, and not to kill. Not even when Tartaglia was in the throes of passion was he invited; it was all diplomatic, all calculated.
Nothing was quite gentle enough for Ajax to come out. He stopped asking Childe to spare people, too, no longer the only other one in his head with any reason. Tartaglia dealt with Childe, Childe dealt with bloodshed, and Ajax was quiet.
Then, one day, he was writing a letter home to his family, appropriately lying about the Fatui’s affairs, to convince his siblings of how successful life was and kick all the horrible things he’d done — Childe had done — under the sink.
His hand was shaking. He’d finished the letter, just going to sign his name, and his hand began to shake so badly he couldn’t write at all.
Something wet dropped onto the paper, and Ajax realized he was crying. He hadn’t cried, not since he’d fallen into the Abyss and Skirk had dragged him to his feet and told him to get his shit together, and he’d stopped being the only person in his body, but that evening, alone in his room, no one but himself and a candle to see him, he cried.
He slapped a hand over his mouth as soon as he realized, muffling his sobs. Nothing good would come of someone wondering what the noise was, and he didn’t really feel like being on the outs with Tartaglia for such a stupid thing. Why was he crying? It was just a letter.
Ajax burned the damn thing, marred by tears as it was, reminded himself to rewrite it the next day, and went to bed as himself for the first time in two years, crying himself to sleep.
And so, Ajax kept quiet, not coming out but for a breath of fresh air, not dealing with people, not dealing with killing.
That is, until a certain funeral parlor consultant in Liyue came along.
Ajax. Wake up.
“What do you want, Tartaglia?”
We have a problem.
“Call Childe, he’ll kill it.”
Not that. You know that funeral parlor consultant? I... I think I’m in love with him.
Shit.
Before Ajax could think about it, he was in control again, Tartaglia disappearing to rid himself from any emotion, as was his prerogative, and Childe communicating that they could sort it out between themselves, and to call him when they needed someone stabbed.
Ajax was standing by the window in a place he recognized to be Zhongli’s home, decorated in a simple but elegant style. Through Tartaglia, he had some knowledge of where things were, the same way he had some knowledge of most things, though he’d hit the brakes with Childe and told him to stop telling him things. He knew Zhongli was in the other room, in bed, still asleep when Tartaglia had gotten up, given that it was the middle of the night.
“Shit,” Ajax mumbled to himself, rubbing his eyes.
Of course he was in love with Zhongli, too. They might not share everything, but they shared a body, and they shared a heart. Tartaglia let Ajax see enough to know Zhongli well, to know how he was kind, and loving, and gentle, and how hard it was to stay focused on the task of betraying him when all three of them had never had anything better than his company.
“Mora for your thoughts?”
Ajax startled, putting a hand to his now-racing heart as he turned around, finding Zhongli in the doorway to the bedroom, leaning against it with his arms crossed.
“Sorry, I thought you were asleep. I just needed a moment.”
“Is something bothering you?”
“No. Well, yes, but— nevermind, it’s not important now. What are you doing up?”
“I missed you,” Zhongli said simply, pushing off the doorframe and coming to stand in front of him, in his space, close enough Ajax could reach out and touch him if he so chose. “Come back to bed, Tartaglia.”
Zhongli put a gentle hand on his cheek, cupping it, and moved down to his jaw, tilting his head up to kiss him. It wasn’t the sort of touch Ajax was familiar with, but he welcomed it anyways. Anything to clear his head, what with Tartaglia sulking so prominently he was starting to give them all a headache.
“One thing,” Ajax said, putting a finger to Zhongli’s lips when they finally pulled apart. “My name is Ajax.”
“Come to bed, then, Ajax,” Zhongli said, taking his hand to kiss it, then pulling him close to kiss him properly again.
It was quite possibly the worst idea the three of them had ever had put together, but for once, they all agreed on one thing: they could stay like this forever.