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In some ways, he knew he had it coming.
He wasn't likable. He knew that as a fact. Tartaglia was annoying, loud and everything the others hated.
But that didn't change the fact that rejection burnt a hole deep through his chest. That didn't change how every fond glance between the others left Tartaglia with a cold ache in his stomach. He wanted the deep trust Dottore and Scaramouche shared. He wanted the soft reassurance Pantalone and Signora gave one another.
He wanted to fit in.
It didn't come as a surprise to him when Sandrone slipped into the spot beside Tartaglia’s own without a glance to spare his way. Still, Tartaglia dipped his head and spoke in a voice low enough that only him and Sandrone could hear.
“When are the others coming?” He knew when they were coming. But if everyone insisted on seeing him as an idiot, why should he act as anything else?
Sandrone made a show of craning his neck, scanning the crowd for someone — likely Capitano — instead of acknowledging Tartaglia. Auburn curls spilled over the Puppeteer’s unconcealed eyes, and then he was out of view. Tartaglia tried not to slouch away in disappointment.
Steadily, the room began to fill up. Columbina, as usual, was more than fashionably late by the time she walked in and Arlecchino didn't even show up — though, Tartaglia could recall that he was still out at the orphanage. Pulcinella, from their spot across from Tartaglia, offered the faintest hint of a smile from under their mask. Tartaglia didn't bother to return it.
Instead, he finally gave in and slumped against the table, testing his chin on his palm. Tartaglia let his thoughts drift, staring mindlessly at the wall without truly seeing it. Bored and unable to keep hurt from pooling in his gut, Tartaglia opted to daydream instead of paying attention.
.
.
.
.
“Tartaglia.”
The sudden snap of his name brought Tartaglia from his thoughts. He sat up sharply, looking around the room before his eyes landed on the one who called his name.
Pantalone was staring at him, those ever-dead yellow eyes boring into his soul with disappointment deep in them. He was nearly impossible to read; a perfected mask of a calm businessman, only there for the gain it could provide him. And yet not even Tartaglia could miss the fact that he was displeased.
“If you desire to sit there and stare at the wall like it will simply turn into a shelf of candy, you may do that in your quarters at another time. This is not the room for daydreaming like a foolish schoolboy.”
A snicker rang out from across the table to Tartaglia’s right. He didn't need to look over to know it was Scaramouche laughing at him. Luckily, a sharp jab in the foot from Pulcinella’s cane shut him up, but it seemed not even they would leap to Tartaglia’s defense tonight.
Pantalone sighed heavily before nodding towards the head of the table. Tartaglia’s gaze whipped over almost instantly, and he felt a burning fire of shame crawl through him as he met Pierro’s gaze. Well, he thought he met Pierro’s gaze, anyway. It was nearly impossible to tell with the full mask that concealed his entire expression.
“Pierro asked you a question.” Pantalone’s voice was dull, and Tartaglia wasn't sure whether or not he imagined the echo of disappointment in it as well. “Would you like him to repeat?”
Tartaglia nodded, not even daring to open his mouth. The room was silent now that Scaramouche was quieted.
Pierro’s voice did not conceal his emotions as well as Pantalone’s did. Tartaglia could hear every syllable echoing his frustration. “I requested a report on Liyue’s mission from your standpoint. Signora’s was rather… biased.”
Tartaglia stiffened with a sharp intake of breath.
No. Not Liyue.
He couldn't do this today. Not when everything already ached.
Tartaglia swallowed excess saliva and tried desperately to ignore the grin Signora aimed at him, falsely concealed by a gloved hand. He knew she was enjoying this, basking in the way his heart rate picked up and sweat made his palms sticky. Scaramouche leaned in, almost perfectly in sync with Dottore’s gaze locking on him.
They were there to watch him suffer. And they were going to enjoy it.
Tartaglia’s gaze flitted, darting between Pierro and Signora like an anxious bird. It finally landed on Pulcinella off of pure instinct, like the bird returned home after years. But there was no reassurance to be found in that cool blue gaze of theirs.
“I…” The silence was loud. Tartaglia needed to speak soon, or else he would surely be scolded for his lack of respect.
He swallowed again. His mouth felt too dry.
“It went well, I—”
Glowing amber eyes imprinted themselves in Tartaglia’s vision, going from a ghost that haunted him at night to something all too real. And yet, there was no way he was there, in that room.
From across the seat two spots down, Signora’s smile widened. Tartaglia’s vision narrowed, fuzzing at the edges. He could hear that voice again, praising him for a job well done as if he had any say in the matter. Tartaglia’s fists curled, his nails digging into his palms and leaving red crescent shaped imprints.
“What’s the matter, Childe?” Signora cooed from her spot, Scaramouche mirroring her grin almost perfectly. “Cat got your tongue?”
Tartaglia’s mouth hung open like a fish’s, words dying in his throat. His mind was empty, unable to conjure up a single thought other than a desperate desire to get out. He was vaguely aware of Sandrone shifting uncomfortably beside him, but it was getting hard to see, hard to focus.
Was he suffocating?
It certainly felt like it. Air wasn't reaching his lungs fast enough and everything was fuzzy, like he was hearing people speak from underwater.
Whatever Sandrone had said was too muffled for Tartaglia’s muddled mind.
His breathing was quickening, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Tartaglia’s worries from earlier about offending someone slowly ebbed away. All he could see now were those amber eyes, blazing with the intensity of a hundred suns. The echo of a blade against his throat lingered, and Tartaglia moved one hand to brush across the scar there, trying to remind himself that it wasn't real.
That he was in Snezhnaya, not surrounded by blood and sun-stained orange grass.
Before he knew it, there was a hand on his shoulder stirring him from his daze. Tartaglia’s gaze snapped open and he looked up, somehow able to recognize Pantalone through the haze covering his mind and making his vision blurry. The gloved hand on his shoulder squeezed him as if trying to reassure, before Pantalone began to talk and Tartaglia had to put every ounce of his concentration into processing his words.
“You’re to leave this meeting early and take a break. As soon as you're calm again, meet Dottore in his lab.” Pantalone’s gaze pierced Tartaglia once more. “It is an order from Pierro himself.”
Tartaglia tried not to express distress at that order, if only because it came from Pierro. He felt far too fast as he rose to his feet, legs shaking with the rest of him, and shrugged Pantalone’s hand from his shoulder.
Without sparing anyone a glance, Tartaglia stumbled out of the meeting room, shutting the door a little harshly behind him. He didn’t even have to command his legs to walk him to Pulcinella’s office. He'd escaped there during moments of distress enough times, and knew the way like the back of his hand.
———
By the time Tartaglia made it down to Dottore’s lab located in the basement, it had been a couple hours since the meeting. He still felt a little shaky as he raised his hand and knocked on the closed door of the doctor’s office, but it was easy to brush it aside as completely normal for his circumstances.
Normally, being sent to Dottore’s lab was a death sentence. For Tartaglia, it might as well be, even if Dottore wasn't allowed to harm him.
When the door finally opened, Tartaglia was met with the cold crimson gaze of Dottore. Despite being over 6 foot by now, Tartaglia still had to look up to meet Dottore’s eyes. He didn't like looking directly at them though, it was like he was constantly being examined as if he was a bug under a microscope. And if Tartaglia didn't look, the feeling could be ignored.
“Take a seat.”
Dottore didn't sound particularly pleased to have him here, but that was fine. Tartaglia wasn't pleased to be here.
He settled down in a chair located in front of Dottore’s desk, watching as the larger man made his way behind it and sat down. Tartaglia’s gaze strayed away while Dottore pulled something up on a computer, opting to look at anything else. He didn't know exactly why he was down here and had the feeling it would remain that way for quite some time.
The office, like the rest of Dottore’s lab, was chilled. Something about keeping everything clean, though with the dirt and blood dried under Dottore’s nails, Tartaglia doubted he truly cared that much for hygiene.
Lighting was dim but not dark. Tartaglia could see everything in full detail, but it wasn't so bright that it hurt his eyes. There was a single ceiling light but it was turned off, leaving the only light source to be a lamp on Dottore’s desk and another by the door. The room didn't have a single window, though that was to be expected considering they were located in the Palace basements.
“Childe.” Dottore’s voice caught his attention, and he looked over. “Do you recall how I was the one to diagnose you with ADHD and RAD?”
Tartaglia nodded before realizing Dottore was expecting him to say something in response. The doctor's gaze never strayed from whatever was on his computer screen.
“I do.”
“Great.” Dottore somehow didn't sound fully genuine as he clasped his hands together, finally tugging his gaze from the screen. “When you were in the meeting earlier today, you exhibited signs of a panic attack. I don't know or care about what happened in Liyue, but I do know that Signora can be unnecessarily cruel and as can the Archon that formerly ruled.”
Tartaglia wasn't sure if he was grateful or not over the fact that Dottore didn't say his name. He didn't know what he'd do if he had to hear it again, each little syllable pronounced on Dottore’s tongue. He'd heard it enough from all of their mouths that day, and in the days afterwards as he boarded that wretched ship with Signora.
Curse her for forcing him to ride with him.
“I’m honestly not sure why I waited until now, but I'm going to add onto that list,” Dottore continued. “All of us here have some kind of trauma disorder, whether that be variants of PTSD or dissociative disorders. Or any number of things, the list never stops.”
Tartaglia shifted in his seat, giving into the urge to drum his fingers against the armrests of the chair. He was used to being scolded for fidgeting whenever someone was speaking to him, his father used to claim it showed disrespect and an impatience to get out of the conversation. But Tartaglia had Dottore to thank for the knowledge that wasn't true.
“What are you going to add?” Tartaglia finally said, unable to keep himself quiet.
“Complex PTSD, developed in childhood due to your time in the Abyss but worsened as you grew older due to various other circumstances.”
Dottore’s mouth twitched as if resisting a smile when Tartaglia let out a long groan. He threw his head back to punctuate the exaggerated nature of the groan, and the back of it thudded lightly against the chair.
In a way, he knew it was coming. He knew it wasn't a misdiagnosis either. Tartaglia was perfectly able to recall the crushing sensation of his last panic attack before the meeting, where he hadn't been the same for hours afterwards. All because of an accident where he was locked into a dysfunctional storage closet and had to wait for Pulcinella to come free him. The cold and dark still frightened him years later.
“And let me guess, you're also going to suggest some weird unethical medication to me?” Tartaglia’s voice was dry, almost perfectly mimicking Pulcinella’s ‘I’m not paid enough for this’ voice. “I don't want it, by the way. I'd rather you give me a lobotomy than try and medicate me again.”
Dottore simply shrugged, not bothering to grace Tartaglia with a response. Instead, he shuffled his chair closer to the desk and began to type, surely adding the diagnosis to make it official. Tartaglia wished to speak to whoever granted Dottore the ability to professionally diagnose people — it was getting a bit ridiculous by now.
“I won’t be medicating you without your consent.” Dottore finally spoke up, looking up at Tartaglia again. “But I will be hiring a therapist for you. It will be mandatory, I have already consulted Her Majesty for permission.”
Tartaglia stared.
He waited for Dottore to laugh at him and brush it off as a joke.
There was no laughter.
Tartaglia’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Why?” He asked as if Dottore had asked him to juggle 5 tennis balls right there.
Dottore sighed heavily, his breath escaping between his lips and sending the post it notes scattered across his desk fluttering. He didn’t seem particularly pleased to have to explain to Tartaglia, but he didn't seem frustrated either. His annoyance was not targeted at Tartaglia, that he knew for sure.
“As much as everyone hates to admit, we care about you. We wouldn't make very good Harbingers if we couldn't conceal our feelings but, with the exception of maybe one person, none of us hate you.” Tartaglia didn't have to ask who that person was. Her cruel smile was still burnt into his mind.
“Then… why do you act so much kinder with each other?” Tartaglia really couldn't wrap his mind around Dottore’s words, but he knew the doctor long enough to know a lie never spilled from his lips.
Dottore’s gaze was even as it focused on Tartaglia’s face. “You’re new.” He said simply. “We have trust issues. Give it some time, and everyone will soften to you too.”
.
.
It was safe to say that Tartaglia left Dottore’s office a lot happier than he entered it.
Even if he had to attend therapy now.