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The dim light of the sunless sky gazes through the trees, tenderly contouring his features. Tartaglia’s nimble steps cloak him as he strolls the shops of Liyue. He lets the grayish hues of the moon brush the cerulean of his eyes, dancing across his irises. It should have been nefarious to wish for an opportunity to even hold your hand, and yet he did. Over and over again, his head pondered how it’d feel. Soft, maybe. Perhaps even calloused. It didn’t matter to him. It was still yours after all.
It was these exact thoughts that plagued him so, all until he realized that he was already at your doorstep. How he got here was a mystery of its own; a labyrinth of vehemence that perplexed even the 11th Harbinger of the Fatui, in guidance under the Tsaritsa of Snezhnaya.
He thinks of turning back before you somehow find the urge to open your door and see his awkward figure at near midnight. It was always a possibility, after all. Tartaglia took one hushed step behind him. Then he observed the door; only now did it occur to him that it was cracked open, hardly visible to anyone that nonchalantly tread by without so much of a second glance. His mind pondered the possibilities. If he were to close it, it could have made a noise loud enough to rouse you from slumber, if you were even asleep. If he left it alone, what could stop a not-so-innocent bystander from breaking in? He couldn't have that happening either. But what if he entered the house, and found you wishing to see him as well? He was a friend, after all. It wasn't strange for friends to visit one another now, was it?. He overthought the multiple scenarios that could unfold until his hand found its way to your doorknob, slowly pushing it open with a creak.
As Tartaglia walked in, sandalwood and cinnamon enveloped his senses. It reminded him solely of you; reminded him of the way you felt to him- warm and loving. It reminded him of home.
Scented candles lit up the inside of the house, a deeply romantic sight to truly behold. Efflorescent decorations fixed itself atop of the fireplace and kitchen counters, pinned across the roof of the ceiling, and rested even upon the alabastrine window sills. He only took a second to take it all in, despite having been here on multiple occasions before. Perhaps there was a certain intimacy this time, in which he wasn't surrounded by your other friends. Where he could have your full, unadulterated attention, if you so let him.
His fingers found themselves fidgeting with the ring on his pinky as he approached your room. It was the one at the end of the hallway, on the left, with a prepared noctilucous jade dangling at its center. Tartaglia fought the smile on his face. It was the same one he bought you. This door, much like the last, was creaked open. He made a mental note to lecture you for your own safety and wellness. You were and always will be much too important to lose just because of a giant wooden slab.
Tartaglia halted his movements when he opened it. You were a crumpled, trembling mess on the floor. He saw the way your shoulder shook- the way your voice, ever so gentle, broke into huffed breaths. In this moment, he wanted to let you know, now, more than ever, that he was here, as a friend. He didn't want to let himself think about how he wanted to be more. To let himself indulge in you, wholly and fully, without restraint. To hold you in the way he knew you deserved. He wanted you to smile again, more than anything.
He strode in and kneeled down, hand coming to rest on your back. You spun around at the touch, pure fear prevalent in your eyes when Tartgalia pressed your face in-between the pleasant heat of his palms. His eyebrows furrowed indescribably, as if waiting for something, anything really. Any coherent words that tried to leave your throat failed. He was the first to open a conversation.
"What's wrong?" His voice was uncharacteristically quiet, a near whisper that sounded so sweet, so gentle, and so, so loving. You buried yourself into his chest, and he sighed as he felt the way your figure so pliantly melted into his. In the same manner, his arms came to wrap around you. "It's alright. I'm here. I'll be here until you're ok again." It earned a quiescent hum from you, in a way that made him feel like a better person than he knew he could be.
The clock seemed to have cried its truth for a quarter hour before Tartaglia glanced at your tired form in his arms. Your cries hadn’t ceased for the entirety of it, and he swore to himself that he’d never let you feel like this again.
“Hey,” he ushered on, rubbing circles along the expanse of your back. “Can you take a few breaths with me? It won’t take long, but I want to know that you’re ok.” You dip your head in brisk agreement and he’s having you fix your gaze on him. “I want you to breathe in for 3 seconds, and then we’ll breathe out. I’m doing it with you, so just watch me, alright?” He followed his own directions first, inhaling the air and exhaling, eyes locked with yours. Again and again, he repetitively took deep breaths until he saw you breathe along with him. When he was sure your breathing had become less irregular, he paused, hand holding your arm. His lips tinted up, relief and exhaustion engraved in his eyes. “You did so well,” he soughed.
He pulled you into him, resting his chin on your head. Tartaglia took your hand in his, holding it close to his chest. “Let’s talk about this when you feel better. Tell me next time. Please. I don’t want to leave you alone like this.” You show acknowledgement to his words when you subconsciously bind yourself closer. “Talk to me. Even if not right now, please talk to me after this. I want to hear your voice,” he whispers dryly, vulnerability lacing the edges of his throat. He catches himself and becomes aware of the reality before him, in which you’re near him, and he becomes bashful. Even more so as he realizes that your two melded bodies were still on the rigorous hard of the floor.
“Let’s move to the bed, so you’re not sore tomorrow.”
“Mhm,” you responded. Your voice lapsed at the lump in your throat, rendering you unable to speak anything but incoherent mumbles.
Tartaglia placed his gloved hands on the underside of your thighs, grunting as he pushed both of you off the hard of the wooden flooring. He carried you to the edge of your bed and sat, resting your frame on his lap. His fingers came to brush against the bits of hair on your face. "You can cry all you need. I won't leave until I see you smile, ok?" His gentle banter soothed you, and yet you couldn't stop the way your tears cascaded from your eyes to intertwine into his ash gray suit.
In the dull light, his vision seemed to glimmer, and he himself began to waver. He's getting sleepy, you concluded. It was true. He didn't want to admit it, but he couldn't deny the way his eyes had begun to feel heavy- the way his grip loosened, just a hint, before tightening again as he fought the urge to fall asleep. You wiped your tears and ushered yourself quiet.
"Tartaglia," you called out, dry and hoarse. He took a second to grab the water that he was grateful was beside your lamp. His gaze searched yours in wait for your amiable voice. After you drank, you regained your sense of speech. "Won't you stay with me? Just for the night? I..don't want to be alone," you muttered. The question struck him in a way that he didn't expect. He paused, processing the question, all when you realized the possible innuendo. "I'm sorry! I really didn't mean it like that. You don't have to stay if you're not comfortable. I won't mind."
He crooned a playful laugh before his face contorted into a light-hearted simper. "I did say I wouldn't leave until I saw you happy again. You won't be able to get rid of me tonight, Sweetheart." You rolled your eyes at the chaff and his term of endearment.
Tartaglia gingerly laid you unto the soft of the mattress this time. He took his gray coat off and let himself lay beside you, relishing in the astute way your breath hit his chest when you buried your face into him again. His fingers came to comb through the expanse of your hair once more, and you very soon feel your own breathing start to fall rhythmic. He doesn't think he could be much happier. Heart to heart, he has you. The feel of your body against his, just how he wanted before. Just how he likes it now.
Quite a time passes without a word. Just breathing and occasional hums of comfort. Tartaglia thinks you must be asleep by now. He's glad to help you rest for once, and even more glad that he had made the decision to come in the first place. If anything could describe home- not four walls and a roof, but a home, he would use this exact moment as the prime example. You and him, as it should be.
He's falling into slumber as well, all until he feels you shuffling around. A hushed mumble comes out, words slurred in drowsiness. "You spoil me too much, Tartaglia." He almost doesn't hear it at first. Almost. He's not even sure if you were aware you had said it. Right now, he can hardly take the way his ears have tinted pink.
"You can call me Ajax," he whispers. He's not exactly sure why he feels so bold tonight. But the way you flush at the intimacy makes him want to tease you more. You're adorable like this, he thinks. Even more so when your flustered self plops into the crook of his neck. It's a strange, ticklish feeling. One that rouses him and feeds his ever-growing infatuation. He chuckles, "Don't start hiding from me now, or I might think you actually like me," he calls out tunefully. You all too suddenly go dead silent, and Ajax can only hope now that he hasn't made you uncomfortable. He wouldn't be able to live with himself afterwards.
Your hand slid from his chest to his waist, snaking to his back to clutch onto the vermillion fabric of his dress shirt. If you strained your ear, you could hear a faint gasp from his lips. You took a shaky breath, and felt him stiffen. There was only a mere trace of hesitation before, "..and what if I do?"
The five words hung heavily in the inches of space that separated you two. Ajax could have sworn this was just a hopeless dream that he wouldn't be able to escape until the sun pulled him out. You must have been joking..right? He was speechless, in a way he'd never been before. Silently, he prayed to any Archon that listened to not let you hear his heartbeat's acceleration. Suddenly, everything felt too close, too hot and too quick.
He recollected his senses upon the thought that you'd be afraid of your feelings being unreciprocated. "If you did," he started, "I'd ask if you'd let me hold you closer." Ajax pressed further into your embrace. "Like this." He felt your smile against him and he sighed. Ajax had given up hoping ever since the night he fell into the Abyss. But tonight, just tonight, he hoped you wouldn't disperse into thin air; that you were real. That this, right now, was real and not just a figment of his imagination. You look up at him again, and this time, he lets himself admire you outwardly. He thinks of the way your lips are tainted and rosy. The way your face is red and the way you look up at him expectantly. He thinks you're so impossibly perfect, swiping his gloved thumb across your lips. "So? Would you let me?"
You nod, "Please, Ajax." There it was. His birth name rolling off the tip of your tongue, dulling the sins that came with it. He didn't want this to be the last time you called out his name. He wouldn't let it be. The Harbinger leaned in so his forehead met yours. He wanted to stay like this forever.
"You're so pretty," he mumbles. It was sincere in a way that made everything feel secure. You let yourself cave and press a chaste kiss on his cheek. Ajax left one right beside your lips, chuckling when he felt your body heat up. You let it happen, hearing his breath before he speaks, "You must be tired. We can officially talk about what we're going to do with our feelings in the morning, yeah? You've been through too much today already. It's time to let yourself rest. I won't go anywhere. So tonight..just let me admire you."
"Mhmm," you murmur, voice laced in somnolence. You curl into the alluring feel of his touch, delicate and warm. And finally, you let yourself be enveloped in the dark lulling of night. He let his eyes close and held onto consciousness until it began to slip. It was now, when he came to the truth; you were finally as much his, as he was yours.