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Tartaglia ended up getting pretty wasted at the banquet.
Through no fault of his own. He'd just gotten swept up in the theatrics of Il Capitano's feigned diplomacy, alright? Perhaps by the end he'd figured things would go differently. He was always getting fucked over. His missions would probably not be so complicated if he was the clone of an Inazuman archon, or whatever.
Zhongli's eyes on him had been so warm tonight. Even the way he'd laced his fingers with Tartaglia's - it had all felt too preciously ephemeral.
Steadying himself against the hallway pillar, Tartaglia rubbed his forehead quietly.