Chapter Text
Huffman would like to give himself the “Stupidest Knight of the Month” award, for not realizing that, as both the liaison to the Harbinger currently in residence and the knight in charge of distribution of medicine, he now has to deliver medical supplies to the Goth Grand Hotel. So he stands in the lobby with a box of bandages and ointment, awkwardly waiting as the masked receptionist sends a servant up the stairs to alert Childe to his presence.
He shifts on his feet at the sound of steps down the stairs, and a container falls to the floor. He puts the rest of the packages under one arm and bends down to pick it up.
A hand with long fingers, scars on the palm, and freckles on the back snatches it up before he does. Huffman shoots upright again, and his head bangs into something pointy. He rubs at it, making sure nothing else falls to the floor, and looks up at the soft groan.
Childe winces as he rubs at his chin where Huffman had bashed into him. “I thought you were here to kiss my injuries better, not give me new ones.”
Huffman scowls and holds out the rest of the packages. “Depends on how well you like the style of the eyepatch that Captain Kaeya wears. I’m not here for either of those things, so can you please take this so I can leave?”
Childe whistles. “Wow. Well, as hot as it is that you just threatened to tear out my eye, I really don’t want to keep you, but…” He smirks. “I do have some injuries that I can’t reach myself, so you’ll just have to come and help me.”
“Get someone else.”
“Ah, but all the maids are terrified of me!” It’s true—the few young maids hovering in the lobby freeze when he flips a hand at them, and their eyes are wide as they try to hide behind the cabinets of antiques. Childe leans forward, clasps his hand together in a pleading gesture, and widens his eyes mournfully. “Won’t you help me, good knight?”
Huffman grabs the Harbinger’s jaw and pushes him back away from his face. “Ugh. Fine. But that’s it, and then I’m leaving.” He rolls his eyes as he follows Childe up the stairs, keeping his gaze on his heels.
Childe kicks open the door of his rooms—of course he’s got the suite that takes up half of the top floor—and almost falls onto the bed, unbuttoning his jacket and tugging his shirt over his head.
“What—what are you doing,” Huffman splutters, throwing a roll of bandages at him.
Childe catches it easily and grins. “I told you I had injuries I couldn’t reach. You did practically throw me into the fountain in the square; there’s a bruise on my back that I can’t twist around to get ointment on.” He winks. “I’m flexible, but not that much. At least, not in that direction.”
“Childe, you are the most annoying, insufferable—”
“Oh, right!” The Harbinger’s eyes light up. “I wanted to tell you: you can call me Tartaglia, you know. I mean, if you want.”
“Tartaglia,” Huffman says, the name dripping with every bit of vitriol he can pack into it.
Tartaglia nods. “Childe is just a code name, after all.” He crosses his legs on the bed and turns his back to Huffman, wiggling his shoulders. “Now, I’d appreciate some assistance.”
“You are so spoiled,” Huffman mutters, but he dumps the supplies on the bed and sorts through them, trying to ignore how Tartaglia leans closer, his bare shoulder almost brushing Huffman’s arm. He finds the bruise cream easily, and steps back.
Sure enough, there’s a yellowish bruise across Tartaglia’s back, just below his shoulders. It’s a sickly purple on either side of his spine and around his shoulder blades, probably due to bone hitting the stone wall of the fountain, but what really draws Huffman’s eye is the scattered freckles all over Tartaglia’s back and shoulders. Acting almost as if in a dream, he takes some of the ointment on his fingers and smooths it over the bruise in methodical strokes, watching how the surrounding skin darkens with the layer of salve over it, almost to the same color as the freckles.
And there’s so many of them. It’s as if someone took five night skies and overlapped them, with galaxy-like concentrations of freckles spilling over Tartaglia’s shoulders. The Harbinger hums a tune as Huffman stands there, and with the light notes filling his ears, Huffman almost believes he could pick out certain constellations on the other man’s skin.
He finishes and steps back to inspect his work, smearing the extra ointment on a smaller bruise near Tartaglia’s hip. The Harbinger abruptly stops humming with a squeak and grabs Huffman’s fingers.
“You have more bruises,” Huffman states as an explanation. “Do you want help or not?”
Tartaglia gapes at him, his face as pink as one of those decorative angelfish in the lake near Stone Gate. “I thought you said you wanted to leave?”
Huffman sighs. “Well, I’m already here. Besides, if you used it yourself, it would be easier to waste some.”
Tartaglia smiles unsteadily, looking like he’s not sure whether to laugh at some inside joke or not. “Sure. Alright, then.” He turns back and waits for Huffman to finish with the smaller bruises on his back, and then turns around, exposing his front.
There’s a few light purple bruises on his stomach and shoulders, and a darker one on his jaw, but once again Huffman is distracted. Obviously, Tartaglia has to be strong to be a Harbinger, but Huffman doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone who looks so clearly strong. Even though he’s relaxed, the vague shapes of muscle are visible on his arms and abdomen.
He’ll leave the face for last, Huffman decides, and sits on the bed facing Tartaglia.
It’s just a job. It’s only relevant for work purposes in that you know an enemy is injured.
So why does the room feel hotter when he brushes his ointment-covered fingers over the Harbinger’s stomach? It seems to take an extra long time, and he’s hyper-aware of each time Tartaglia hisses sharply if he puts too much pressure on the bruises. After that, he moves up to his collarbone—with the color of that bruise, it’s a good thing nothing is broken. He feels Tartaglia’s skin move as he swallows.
Then he’s left with the bruises on his jaw. His eyes wander, though; taking in the scar on one cheek, the pale tinge of blood that’s been washed off of his chin, his lips barely parted, the dark spot of dried blood just under his nose, and those eyes, deep blue, watching Huffman in return.
He drops the ointment on the bed and runs out, taking the back stairs two at a time. Even with that taken into account, his breath and his heart feel quicker than usual.
He doesn’t understand it, so he resolves to not think about it.
Tartaglia sighs and flops back on the bed, wincing when he remembers the bruises. “Just when it was getting interesting, too,” he whines, and gets up to use the mirror and the rest of the salve.