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Contrary to popular belief, Tartaglia was not stupid. The childlike front he puts up amongst the people does not necessarily translate to his actual character. He is a soldier first and foremost and while many would think he only has the strength and not the brains, he didn't escape The Abyss, become the Tsaritsa's vanguard and the youngest harbinger by being stupid. Surviving the lion's den of politics and power plays happening in Zapolyarny palace also requires some form of intelligence.
So why is it that when he walks in, any semblance to indicate that he is a creature with superior cognitive functions simply disappears?
Crawling out of hell and being thrown into the army at fourteen had rightly messed with a bit of his emotional development, sure, but it didn’t impair his judgement whatsoever and he can say with confidence-
“Fight me.” Well, that did not come out correctly…
Maybe a culture and life steeped in violence and bloodshed had impacted him more than he thought. Skirk had taught him to be self confident, brash, to ‘feel the thrill of battle’ which doesn’t necessarily help in this case. Maybe self-confidence helped, he was a meek child back then. The frown etched on the other man’s face made him realise that he had stayed quiet for too long.
“You’d be writhing on the ground by the end of this fight, harbinger.”
“Fighting talk, I love it! Now let’s see you live up to it.” In a blink, hydro weaponry formed into existence followed by a forward slash. It’s not often he gets to fight with a foe on par with his capabilities but this spar brings out a feeling he can’t seem to name within. The burning sensation that flows throughout his body as they dash across the field, blood and bruises decorating their skin. He feels exhilarated as the man runs his weapon through his hands, the pain not unwelcomed. The impact unfortunately, had him land on the ground with a grunt.
However, being pinned to the ground was odd in Childe’s opinion. In most cases he wouldn’t have let an enemy get close enough to strike him. Years of experience had done nothing but taught him that being careless would end with his execution or perhaps captivity. Pulcinella would chastise him if he could see the scene before him and Scaramouche, Scaramouche would have added insult to injury. ‘A careless imbecile’ he might say or he might finish the job and end Childe himself (had Signora been alive, she would have mocked his incompetence as well but he tries not to think about her nor her death and how it might happen to him one day too. He has his siblings to worry about. He can’t afford to die at his prime, not when he still has much to do, not when he hasn’t brought the world down to his knees.)
But then, why did he let this man get the better of him?
The unknown feeling is back and becomes more poignant the longer Childe stares at his face. A wound across his eye, a bloodied nose, his eyes alight with bloodlust, the way the sun highlights his features, and his hair-
“Childe?”
Confusion is evidently displayed on the man's face and frankly Childe can't blame him. He's also bewildered and itching for something, anything that could cool the bubbling emotion that invades his body. Eyes tracking his movements suddenly widened and the man jumped back as if scalded by a searing heat. 'Did something happen?'. He glowered at the harbinger and scoffed out a remark, “Must you be aroused amidst our battle?”
'Him? Aroused?' He looked down and surely enough, there was a slight tent on his pants. A physiological occurrence that frequently happens during his fights. Nothing a good nap or a cold shower couldn't fix. "Will this deter you from continuing? I hardly believe this warrants such an adverse reaction. Are you that much of a prude, my good sir?". ‘Not that he himself has any room to talk about being a prude.’
Perhaps it’s unfortunate that Tartaglia never had the chance to embrace a woman. Though he may be a harbinger with endless experience on the battlefield, the duties that come with his position and relentless pursuit to master every weapon had hinder his progress in the sexual department. Nevermind having sex, he’s never even had thoughts of touching himself as feelings of lust are often overshadowed by his bloodthirst and need to fight. The Abyss had left a scar in fourteen year old Ajax, a scar that never seemed to heal over time.
His time spent in the Fatui certainly did not help. While his peers had at least some experience with the opposite sex, little Ajax unwind by fighting it out or enforcing more training upon himself. His father wasn’t pleased that he could defeat men twice his age and size but Ajax had felt thrilled. He remembers thinking about how strong he felt at that time. Strong enough for Pulcinella to notice him and induct him into the ranks of the harbingers. He may be blasé as he mentions his concupiscent state but in truth, the concept of carnal pleasure still eludes him to this day.
His sparring partner had merely stared at him in contemplation before a slight smirk graced his face. He leaned down, eyes peering deep into his dull blues.
“Need a hand, Tartaglia?”