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“When will you come home?”
This is a question that Tartaglia never bothers contemplating. He takes a deep drag on his cigarette before flicking it down to the ground and stomping on the stump for good measure. He plasters a wide smile: an expression that he has managed to learn throughout his training as a Fatui; a mask that can lead its beholder to question the owner’s motives, and turns around to face the hologram of Zhongli, the man from far, far away. He holds the other’s unfaltering gaze for a minute or so.
“I’m still not sure what you mean by that,” he eventually replies after staring at his form for a little while.
“Mean by what, exactly?”
“‘Home,’” Tartaglia pauses as if to show that he’s been thinking about it. “It’s a tricky word because I’ve never considered any place as ‘home.’”
There’s a flit of sadness in Zhongli’s face before he schools it into his usual stoicism. Unfortunately for him, the technology nowadays has advanced so much that even a little bit of what he’s revealing might just be his downfall--and that is putting it mildly. Tartaglia is a man of many strategies, and he’ll gladly use everyone’s weaknesses to his advantage.
As of right now (and also for the past...what...500 years? Has it really been that long?), Zhongli’s weakness is Tartaglia himself. It has always been him. A love so great that it has no bounds--Tartaglia could’ve never understood that concept, not until the man bestowed him with immortality.
The thing about immortality is that Tartaglia did not ask for it.
One night, he woke up with cold sweat and the sheet matted to his back, awoken from his dream about his own mortality in peril while he was battling against those monsters in the Abyss when he was merely a child. That night, Zhongli had been accompanying him throughout the fateful night in Liyue, and his own jolt into awareness stirred the man awake. He told him of his recurring nightmares, and, somehow, Zhongli thought of it as a consent to bless him with such curse. Under the pretense of protecting Tartaglia. Under the pretense of saving him from his own fear of death.
Even his whims took over, and no terms of any contract was made.
But, of course, Tartaglia knew better than to believe all those excuses Zhongli made up to cover his lies. He’s seen what that man has inside him--the loss, the longing, the need . Man or no man, he’s still an egoistic being. He wants Tartaglia all to himself. He wants him to accompany him throughout his lifetime.
After all, love is a sickening concept. Tartaglia learned this the hard way when he found out about the change in his life and threw massive tantrum in Zhongli’s room; when he came to every one of his family members’ funerals; when he saw that the Fatui crumbled and gave his all to revive it; when his Delusion took over a few times because of how much grief and anger he was carrying. He never finds this to be a happy accident--he’s miserable, and Zhongli can’t do anything about it.
That’s why he ran away--he took a boat to be as far away as possible from Zhongli. No matter how long he stayed with that man, the mistake was irreversible, so he might as well start a new fucking life somewhere else.
Finally, Tartaglia thinks it’s a great time for another cigarette.
“I used to think that ‘home’ was somewhere that I could lay my decaying body to rest, but now ,” he says, emphasizing his point with a dramatic pause. His smile curdles into that of a bitter aftertaste, which successfully makes Zhongli glances past the top of his head to perhaps overlook it for a little bit before returning to zero his gaze on his face. He can’t resist this face, Tartaglia thinks as he puts another cigarette between his teeth. “Now, I’m not so sure anymore. Not that it has anything to do with you, though.”
“I apologize for my brazenness. I really do,” he replies, the guilt etched in his amber eyes clearer than ever. “I acted on my impulses; it is true. I have regretted the day ever since.”
“I’m just glad you get to taste the helplessness that I felt,” Tartaglia says as he shields the fire of his lighter from getting blown by the cold night air. “And that didn’t mean that I forgave you already.”
Silence hangs in the air. Zhongli’s hologram is weakening, all fuzzy edges and whatnot. Tartaglia turns back around to look at the view of Snezhnaya miles and miles away from where he is instead of paying the other man any mind.
There’s a low whisper of I’m sorry, Ajax before a beep indicating the loss of connection is heard over his earpiece. After that, no one could hear the screams of agony that he lets out.