Chapter Text
Tartaglia has surprisingly effective puppy-dog eyes. Huffman wishes he didn't know this.
“Come on,” he whines, leaning his head on Huffman’s shoulder. His face is far too close for reasonable conversation, and Huffman can smell the dandelion wine every time he talks.
“I’m on duty,” Huffman reminds him. “Watching you, no less. It would be irresponsible to—”
“Pleeeeease?”
Huffman sighs and shoves Tartaglia off his shoulder, unwinding his hands from Huffman’s arm. The Harbinger slumps onto the counter, looking sideways at him.
Charles shakes his head in sympathy. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did want to drink, dealing with him,” he mutters.
“Fighting words,” Tartaglia announces, but doesn’t move.
“Ugh.” Huffman runs a hand through his hair, fed up, and downs the rest of Tartaglia’s glass. The dandelion wine feels warm in his throat, but not from the actual temperature of the drink. “Are you happy now? Will you calm down?”
Tartaglia giggles. “What if I don’t? What then?”
Huffman lightly whacks him on the back of the head and asks Charles for another glass.
He kind of loses track of time after that. Tartaglia gets more drunk—if that’s even possible—and starts rambling.
“...the flavor is just different, yanno? Mondstadt wine is nice and sweet with like… bitter notes from the dandelion, but it’s got nothing on firewater.” Tartaglia waves a hand in the air aimlessly. “That shit burns going down, best feeling.”
Huffman brushes back some of Tartaglia’s hair that’s in danger of getting in his mouth. “I would have expected you to say battle is the best feeling,” he says, taking a sip from his own wine. Hm. When did he get another glass? Is this his third?
Tartaglia punches him in the arm, not holding back like he usually would. “The feeling of battle is tainted, it’s all your fault,” he complains.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Huffman rubs at his arm—ugh, that’s going to hurt.
“The last time I was in a real fight was—” Tartaglia gestures to Huffman.
Oh. “Oh,” he says. Unconsciously, he brushes his fingers over his Vision.
“Like, I know—” He hiccups. “I know that’s not gonna happen again, especially now that you’ve got a Vision, but…” Tartaglia trails off and rubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand.
Huffman takes Tartaglia’s hand and pulls it away from his face, leaning closer. “Yeah?” he murmurs.
“I don’t wanna be that panicked ever again,” Tartaglia says fervently, shaking his head. “Urgh. I think I’m gonna puke.”
“Okay, alright, we’re going outside. Put it on—”
“The Fatui tab,” Tartaglia interrupts. He sways and nearly falls off the barstool, Huffman catching him and putting the Harbinger’s arm over his shoulder.
The air outside the Angel’s Share is cool but not cold; just enough to be clear and bracing after the heavy, warm air of the tavern. Tartaglia sways into Huffman’s side, swallowing hard.
“Feeling better?” Huffman asks, his right hand idly rubbing circles on Tartaglia’s back.
“I didn’t actually have to puke,” Tartaglia says, in a stage whisper. His breath is hot against Huffman’s face. He leans away from him and almost falls over. “I kind of just wanted to get out of there.”
Huffman blinks and looks into Tartaglia’s eyes. They’re a deep blue, reflecting the full moon. It’s a blue that’s not quite like the sky, or the ocean, but deeper than that, something very different. He lets out a slow breath. “You’re still drunk,” he says, almost as much to remind himself.
Tartaglia tilts his head to the side. “Mhm. I should probably go back to the Goth Hotel.” He doesn’t move.
“Feeling a bit unsteady?”
“Oh, you know it.”
Huffman tracks the way Tartaglia’s eyelashes flutter, as if weighed down by the full force of gravity, and decides on a course of action: he picks the Harbinger up in a princess carry, slipping his other arm under the man’s knees and lifting him into his arms. He’s lighter than expected—probably more muscle weight than anything else.
Tartaglia gasps, then, after a moment of hesitation, rests his arms around Huffman’s neck, twining his fingers together for security. “Hm, are you going to carry me there?”
“It’s a natural course of action,” Huffman says, feeling like he’s trying to justify the way his heart speeds up. “I’m much more steady on my feet.”
“Well. Thank you, then.” Tartaglia smiles, and presses a feather-light kiss to Huffman’s cheek.
Huffman stands there, stunned, for a brief moment, then remembers his plan of action and sets off through the streets and stairways. The longer stairs up to the hotel give him a bit of trouble, since they’re so narrow and there’s so many of them; he tries to look over Tartaglia to see where he’s stepping, but just ends up craning his neck in odd directions and accomplishing not much at all.
“Hey,” Tartaglia says softly. “Hey, are you—” He huffs a quiet laugh. “This isn’t working. Put me down.”
Huffman drops him, following an automatic path of action rather than thinking. It takes him a few seconds to process the sudden absence of weight from his arms, coming with the dull heavy thuds of a body on stone, and he realizes he literally… dropped Tartaglia. He falls to his knees, knocking against Tartaglia’s form, and his hands flit over the other man’s face and shoulders, checking for injuries. “Barbatos,” he curses. “Are you alright?”
“Pfft. Ha, I’m fine,” Tartaglia laughs. He reaches out and takes Huffman’s hands. “Don’t worry about me, I’m a hearty warrior. Worry about yourself, handsome.”
Huffman helps Tartaglia to his feet. “Better get you back to the hotel, then,” he says lamely. It feels like a lot of things: an excuse, namely, and a half-hearted lie. In a moment of clarity through the vague alcohol-induced haze, he realizes, selfishly, that he doesn’t want Tartaglia to return to the Grand Goth Hotel, and for them to part ways again on this strange and distant note.
He thinks about it while he walks.
Tartaglia stumbles on the grass at the edge of the sidewalk and tugs on Huffman’s arm. “Hey,” he says in a stage whisper. “I know a back door. Don’t want the nice people at the front desk to see me like this.” He winks.
Huffman follows him, more willingly than he would have thought possible. The back stairs are a tight spiral up to the third floor balcony, where Tartaglia clumsily unlocks a set of glass double doors, and then turns to look back at Huffman.
He doesn’t know how to describe that look. The Harbinger’s blue eyes shine in the night like one of those animals whose eyes glow in the dark, and his face is flushed warm from the drinking, and he looks at Huffman like no one else has or ever will.
His lips are on Tartaglia’s before he has a chance to think about it. They’re actually around the same height, Huffman leaning down just slightly to press his mouth into the other man’s mouth as if gravity holds them together. He hadn’t noticed that before, and it makes sense to notice now, but it’s quickly overwhelmed by a lot of other things he could notice. Like: the way Tartaglia gasps in between kisses, or the way his fingers curl around Huffman’s wrists clumsily where he’s holding his face, or the smooth way he navigates backwards through the room until they fall backwards onto the bed.
Huffman leans on his elbows, breathing hard, fingers swishing through the ends of Tartaglia’s hair.
Tartaglia looks up at him with drowsy eyes and drool on his face, and asks, “Stay?”
He stays.