starlight sonata

Watching him on the battlefield had been somewhat of a dream.

Snezhnaya is known for their lavish parties, merely facades to conduct business that could not occur in the light of day. Their ballrooms are magnificent, oozing with luxury – crystalline and lavish. If Tartaglia had any moment to think, he would have thought Capitano treated the battlefield like any other ball. He was not a dancer, surely, but he seemed like one when he fought.

His pristine white uniform, stained with blood, had been a sight Tartaglia marveled over in his room. He replayed the way he moved over and over again, somehow remembering even the most trivial of details: the sound of his chains clinking when he moved, every tear in his clothing, hands dripping with blood—

He begged to divinity to even have a glimpse of what's behind his mask. What expression was on his face when he plunged his sword into the chest of his opponent? Did he smile? Did it drip with bloodlust? Perhaps it's nothing. Just a neutral line of his lips, nothing behind his eyes. Another battle was just something he had to do that day.

During their meetings, sometimes Tartaglia cannot help but have Capitano within his line of sight. He doesn't care if Capitano knows he's staring. In fact, he wants him to.

They're talking about something that could have been in a letter. Tartaglia is not listening. He's staring into the deep void of Capitano’s mask; endless black space. It almost reminds him of the abyss. He wants to know if that void is just his face or if something else lives behind the mask.

Not even light pierces through, meaning that it has to be space.

Capitano turns to him and Tartaglia tilts his head.

The Captain says nothing. He never does.

Perhaps that lights something inside him, the lack of attention. How he is worth half a glance to him.

Tartaglia is the lowest of their ranks. Of course he is not going to even look his way, but Tartaglia has drowned in the abyss, meeting the stars and crushing them in his hands. He came back home from the depths of the woods, different. Strange. Better. If Capitano saw that, would Tartaglia have a presence in his thoughts? Would he be noticed beyond the corner of his eye?

Sometimes, Tartaglia wants to lunge across the table, take the chains hanging from his mask and tear it off of his head.

But he doesn't.

When the meeting has finished, Capitano leaves first. Tartaglia watches him go.

“Do you make it obvious on purpose?”

Tartaglia turns around, meeting the eyes of Scaramouche. They're the only ones left in the room. “What does it matter? It's not like he does anything in return.”

He scoffs, standing up from his chair. “It's creepy.”

He follows. “I think he's interesting. Do you think he'd want to fight me?”

Scaramouche scowls at him. “Clearly not if the last few months are anything to go by. You are an easy win in our eyes. It would only take seconds to subdue you.” He steps outside as Tartaglia opens the door for the both of them. “It would be a boring fight.”

Would it? he thinks. “I beg to differ,” he counters, grinning. “I think I could take him.”

Scaramouche stops walking, an exasperated expression on his face. “Go to Dottore for a medical evaluation,” he says.

“Like I’ll follow the advice of someone who got cut open by him,” Tartaglia points out, shrugging. “And it's not like it's any surprise. It's just something I’m curious about. Does he have a face?”

“I don’t care. I don't ponder about useless things like you do.”

Tartaglia opens his mouth to say something else, but when he turns, Scaramouche is walking off in the opposite direction.

So he goes about his day, drifting thoughts about what it would feel like to be under Capitano’s hands, how hard he'd press a gun under his throat or the cold of his blade, being inches away from death’s door with nothing but him above. A harbinger is no different than an angel of death.

A beautiful demise it appears to be, but Tartaglia has half a mind to let himself die.

 

---

 

“Do you think it's just a hole in his face?”

Scaramouche looks up from his papers, raising a brow. “What on earth are you even talking about?”

Tartaglia had barged into his room in the evening, taking a seat at the windowsill, sitting in silence as Scaramouche did his work. This has been the only thing he's said in the last hour while he had watched the snow fall – uncharacteristic for someone like Tartaglia, but Scaramouche was thankful for the silence.

“Capitano’s face,” he clarifies. “Is it just....empty?”

“If it was empty, he would have no brain,” Scaramouche says. “Which is strange because you have a face and yet....”

He chuckles. “Yes, little harbinger,” he teases, “I obviously have no brain.”

Tartaglia suddenly feels a jolt of electricity down his spine, making him flip around.

Scaramouche glares at him, electro sparkling in his hands before he waves it away. “Don’t call me that. And why are you so invested anyway?” he questions, going back to his paperwork. Tartaglia also has paperwork, but he isn't motivated to do it today. “He doesn't even know who you are.”

“I think that's too severe,” he says, frowning. “He knows who I am. Sometimes we see each other in the training room. I bother him so much he has to know me.”

Seeing Capitano train the other recruits had been such a sight. He wished he'd be back in his training days to feel his strength.

“He only knows you as the lowest in our ranks,” Scaramouche further details, smirking. Tartaglia rolls his eyes. “And as some annoying guy that keeps pestering him for a fight. But really, he doesn't know you.”

Capitano has no reason to know him. Tartaglia understands this. He only views him as the Eleventh. The last Harbinger. He has not seen him fight, he has not even spoken a word to him personally. Capitano has no idea who Tartaglia really is, and does not need to, but that very fact makes him grit his teeth.

“He will,” is all Tartaglia says. “Sometimes it takes a while.”

Scaramouche’s scoff in response is full of disbelief. “Whatever you say,” he mutters. “Now get out. How long are you going to be here?”

Then decides to bother Signora about it.

“Absolutely not,” she says when he walks into her room. “Have you come to bother me as well? Pantalone already did that for you.” He says nothing as he takes a seat across from her, watching her meticulously paint her nails black with laser focus. “Ah, and don't move the table. Don't even move at all.”

Tartaglia taps his fingers against the surface. “What do you think about The Captain?”

“What?” she questions with a grimace playing on her red lips. “Who even cares about him?”

He does not go into detail about what he wants Capitano to do to him. Those thoughts are reserved for when he is alone in the dark of his room, bored and wanting to fight something but cannot. A small portion of them, however, are only for when he's panting into his sheets, desperate and pathetic.

“I just—”

Something cold whips past him, piercing the wall just a millimeter off of his ear. Blood drips from his cheekbone, but all he can do is sigh.

“You know, you can just tell me to be quiet,” he says, leaning back in his seat. “You don't have to do all that.”

Signora squints at her nail. “Be patient for once in your life,” she scolds. She spreads her fingers, looking at her nails and then, finally, lifts her gaze. “Why are you suddenly interested in him?”

Tartaglia wouldn't say it's sudden. “I want to fight him.”

As she takes in his words, she bursts into a loud cackle. He is momentarily distracted by the point of her canines. “Right,” she says, “That's something you've been bothering him with for the past few months. I never thought you'd be this idiotic.”

“I don't know,” he mumbles. Tartaglia looks off to the side, to the drifting snowflakes, to the frost lining her windows. He wonders if that’s due to nature’s will, or Signora being dramatic in her room. “I just want to. Really bad.”

She hums, smiling. “I am the wrong person to tell this to, you know.”

The snow is probably going to be at our knees tomorrow morning, he thinks, distracted. “I don't care what you do with this information. But I want him to....”

Notice me goes unsaid.

A snowflake appears in front of him. It flicks onto his face to get his attention.

“What?” he asks, looking at her as he rubs the snow out of his eyes. “I already got enough from Scaramouche if you're just going to be rude.”

“You're merely too soft,” she scoffs. “Did you come in here for advice?”

He shrugs. “I don't know, honestly.”

Signora raises a brow. “Then don't come in here wasting my time.”

Tartaglia raises his hands in mock defeat. “Is it that unusual to just confide in my comrades? All of you are so boring.” He stands up, thinking that it really was useless coming here. He got nothing but a cut on his cheek. Though, it wouldn't be the first time she'd done that to him. “You missed a spot on your pinky by the way.”

She looks down at her nails. “Get out.”

He finds himself wandering the palace, unable to get his thoughts in order. He surmised that talking to someone would help, but his comrades are not up for friendly advice and conversation. Most times, it hadn't even been a conversation at all. Just insults and Tartaglia being the subject for their vision usage on him to toy around. He can still feel the shocks from Scaramouche earlier.

Tartaglia turns down the hall and immediately rams into what he first thinks is a wall.

Curious, he looks up, opening up to say something but his mouth goes dry.

Capitano stares down at him, silent.

“Ah, hey there, Captain,” Tartaglia says, a tilt to his head in greeting. As composed as he looks, his heart wants to break out of his rib cage. “I didn't even see you. Now that you're here, what do you say to a—”

Capitano suddenly leans forward, the sharp point of his chin nearly drawing more blood onto his skin 

Tartaglia freezes, eyes widening. He can feel his lips twitch into an excited smile, but he holds himself back.

“What is that?” Capitano asks.

He's talking to me, Tartaglia thinks, slightly amazed. “Whatever do you mean?” he replies. 

Capitano motions with his chin, chains quietly rattling. “The blood.”

Tartaglia touches his cheekbone, his glove coming back with red on his fingertips. “Ah, I bothered Signora earlier,” he says. “Guess she didn't take too kindly to that.”

“Don’t be careless,” Capitano tells him, slightly irritated as he lets go and takes something out of his pocket. He presses it to Tartaglia’s hands as he brushes past him, leaving without any other pleasantries.

Tartaglia pats the corner of the handkerchief to his cut, watching Capitano walk away.

 

---

 

Alone in his room, Tartaglia lays in bed. He counts the patterns on the ceiling, finding faces within shadows, mindless. Bored.

The handkerchief sits on his nightstand, folded into a neat square.

He turns around, facedown on the pillow, and sighs.

I need to fight him, he thinks. Now.

Tartaglia theorizes that if he fights him just once, he’ll be satisfied. But he knows that is unrealistic. He will crave more and more until fighting isn't enough. Capitano is not the type of person to entertain someone’s random ideas constantly. He doesn't even look like the type to do it once. He's been bothering him for months and he does not budge.

He debates whether or not to use visions and delusions during their fight. Physically, Tartaglia is already at a disadvantage, so using his vision might be in his favor. But against a cryo vision, there comes another roadblock. And Capitano is taller than him. Bigger. Even if he's never shown it, Tartaglia knows Capitano’s arms are full of muscle. He's sure he could toss him around like he's a weightless toy.

Tartaglia swallows, digging his head into his pillow, eyes falling shut.

Perhaps Scaramouche was right. It'd be so easy for him to hinder his movements. It would only take seconds to take him out and throw him to the ground. One misstep and Tartaglia can already picture Capitano grabbing his arms to place them behind his back, pushing him to the floor. He'd tower over him, shadow encasing him in an inky black that almost resembles his face, hair tickling his neck.

He tries to picture what his face would be like if he pushed Tartaglia onto the ground, hands bound by his cryo. The cold seeps into his bones, but he still feels warm all over. However, Capitano’s face remains blurry. He can't imagine a single thing except the void. Haunting, dark, enchanting.

His imagination turns to a different direction when sharp teeth appear, surrounding the shape of his face. He thinks he grins at him, but he's not sure. He's not even sure where to look. It's just his teeth, but they're moving. They're shifting. 

Tartaglia swallows, eyes squeezing shut.

Capitano snarls something at him. His voice doesn't sound like his voice, but it reverberates throughout his entire body, sending shivers down Tartaglia’s spine outside of his daydream. It’s the A0 of an out of tuned piano. Screeching cries of a violin. A mellow sigh of a brittle string harp. Tartaglia has never been to an orchestra, but it must feel like this, where the climax is both the beginning, middle and end.

He doesn’t understand what he's saying. His words are warped and syllables deformed, but he thinks it's too late to figure it out now. Not when Capitano is leaning closer and all he can see is the dark.

“You're not even trying,” he mutters.

A small sound escapes him, muffled by his pillow. His room doesn't feel so cold anymore and it shows on his skin. The tips of his ears have gone pink, spreading across his cheeks, his neck. He imagines Capitano pointing it out, tracing his skin with a light touch of his gloves.

They trace down his back, ripping his uniform apart, singeing them and leaving trails of black ember dust.

Tartaglia whines as he grinds his hips against his bed, stuttering when the sheets graze his tip. His mind conjures up the movement of Capitano lifting him up, placing him on top of his lap. His hips move on their own, pretending it's Capitano holding him against his body, grinning at him with all his teeth.

He hooks the hem of his shirt between his teeth, taking his thumb and rolling his nipple until it hardens. He moans, leaning into his touch, pinching them. But his hands aren't enough. He tries with his own spit, trying to compensate for his daydreams, but it isn't right. There's no teeth biting down on his skin, there's no warmth from his own hands.

Out of frustration, he flips around and shoves his hands into his pants, getting a hold of himself and squeezing

He lurches forward, moaning. “Shit,” he whispers, thrusting up into his grasp, panting with every movement.

He sounds so desperate already. He must look like it too. His desperation for a pipe dream to be real fills him with embarrassment, but how embarrassed can he really be when he loves it?

Capitano in his mind leans down and satiates Tartaglia’s desires with a long, tapered tongue flicking across his nipple while the other gets attention from his still gloved hands. He whines, changing his position again on the bed.

He rests a forearm against his bed for support as he flips onto his knees, lifting his hips into the air. He wants Capitano to push his head deeper into the pillows, fingers sinking into his hair and pulling.

His hand reaches behind him, gently running his fingers over his hole. “Fuck,” he cries, hips twitching.

Capitano would probably never give it to him. He would rather watch him cry trying to beg for something inside, teasing his fingers around his hole and watching it flutter trying to ask for more.

“Please,” he whispers to no one. A Harbinger should never beg. “Ah, please.”

Capitano’s bare hands run down his back, digging into his skin, leaving streaks of red behind. Tartaglia wonders if he'd ever make him bleed. Tartaglia wants him to lift him up by the hair, his chest pressing against his back. He wants Capitano’s hand to wrap around his neck, tilting his chin up to lick into his mouth.

“My pretty boy,” Capitano says against his lips. “Acting like a dog.”

This time he sees an eye in the void, slightly curved as if he was smiling.

“Oh, fuck,” Tartaglia hisses, vision blurring with tears he’s too embarrassed to shed. He grazes a finger against his slit, pretending it's that pretty tongue of Capitano’s wrapping around him, spreading his precum down his cock.

He does it again and again until the tears in his eyes drip down his face, until it hurts and he’s biting his lips so hard the skin breaks and blood is dripping from his lips. He wonders if Capitano would clean it.

Tartaglia’s hips stutter, cumming with a silent moan, mouth hanging open. When he lets go of himself, his hands shake, aftershocks coursing through him.

He licks his fingers, tasting himself and wondering if Capitano would tell him that he's good for cleaning it up.

The daydream ends, fizzing out into nothingness, and he's left with his mess to clean.

 

---

 

“—in the evening of this upcoming weekend,” Pierro’s voice says. “Coming to the ball is not an option. Remember who we are trying to lure in. Be cautious and alert. Having a good time is a second thought.”

Tartaglia barely manages to process those words at the meeting. His mind is still fuzzy, not fully woken up yet despite the cold shower he gave himself in the morning. He feels sluggish, which is not a good sign if he has to knock someone off their pedestal today. Though, it may be just what he needs.

But the meeting concludes and Tartaglia snaps out of it.

Coming up to Scaramouche’s side as they leave, Tartaglia nudges him. “A party, huh? Sounds pretty exciting.”

“You know damn well that our parties are just a front,” Scaramouche mutters, crossing his arms. “We aren't even able to drink.”

Tartaglia moves his head side to side. “Yes, well, Pierro technically said we could still have a little fun,” he says, stepping out of the meeting hall. “And when was the last time we even had a party? If I remember correctly, it was to kill that one pesky executive officer.”

“That had been boring,” Scaramouche says. “And this one will be the same.”

This time, he hopes he gets to have the kill.

For this particular mission, their target is Sergei Fedorov. A wealthy man with a shady background, as most of their targets tend to be. There's been some suspicion surrounding him using his business as a facade for the creation of drugs. Specifically, being laced with poisonous substances.

Usually, things like drugs are but a trivial matter to the Fatui. What people inject into their bodies is none of their business as long as it doesn't affect their work. But Sergei’s drugs are spreading around the recruits, resulting in their deaths, and the dwindling number of soldiers is decreasing at an alarming rate. With monsters transforming into something from the deepest parts of the abyss, they do not have as many people as they did before to handle the danger.

Even if it is easy to replace some of them, training recruits is costly with both time and mora. They cannot afford to do it constantly.

Plus, having to go door to door to their families, if they have any, to tell them that their child is dead is mentally taxing.

The mission is in two days. There isn't much to prepare for if Tartaglia thinks about it. All he has to do is wait with this excitement brimming inside him. He truly does love parties hosted by the Fatui. They're grand and dripping with luxury. Something about the glittering chandelier crystals hanging above him makes the firewater taste even better.

Plus, he gets to slip into another uniform that’s reserved for special occasions such as that.

Tartaglia happily goes to meet Arlecchino later on in the day, looking forward to the ball. Perhaps then, he’ll get a chance with Capitano again.

Arlecchino spots him as he makes his way over, leaning against the wall, fiddling with a small dagger. She pushes off and gives him a once over. “You look awful,” Arlecchino tells him when he arrives in another section of the palace. “You didn't even try to fix yourself.”

He fusses with his hair. He did try. “I couldn't sleep well.”

She scowls at him, flipping the dagger over so the point faces him. “Clearly,” she mutters, fixing his bangs with the blade as if it was a fine tooth comb. He must look really bad if Arlecchino is willing to be five inches near him.

They have a small mission out on the field today. Something about a man robbing a bank. He bristles at the menial work, but knows this is due to their lack of force on the field now. They’ll have to pick up the work if they want to be efficient. He is paired up with Arlecchino for this, even though the mission is clearly made for one person and maybe a recruit to shadow. He thinks another Harbinger alongside him is for intimidation tactics.

He shouldn't have stayed up so late last night since this is what he’ll be doing today, but glimpses of last night’s fantasy appear in his mind and he wills the heat on his face to not show up. He'd blame it on the cold if anything.

Tartaglia accidentally presses on the cut gifted by Signora yesterday, making him jolt. “She needs to stop doing this,” he mutters. “I'm running out of band aids.”

Arlecchino hums. “Then stop being a nuisance.”

“Like that’ll ever happen.”

Once in the main hall, others are heading in and out. Busy as always. He doesn't even notice Capitano passing him by until he's in front of them, looming figure blocking anything else Tartaglia can see.

“The Tsartisa has summed you,” Capitano tells her. “I've come as your replacement.”

His head whips around. What the hell?

He drones out the rest of the conversation, trying to conduct a plan on how he's going to ask Capitano to fight him. This might be his only chance to ask him properly. He rarely has a mission with someone else and it's even more rare for his partner to be replaced.

Last night, as embarrassing and gratifying as it was, needs to be erased from his memories so he can focus.

Tartaglia manages to answer Arlecchino eloquently when she asks if he knows what to do and where to go. When satisfied with his answer, she turns on her heel and leaves them.

When they step out into the cold, Tartaglia grins with excitement. The chill barely works to whittle away at Tartaglia’s confidence.

“So, Captain,” he starts, “this is a nice change of things. I didn't think you'd come to see me.”

Capitano hoists himself into the carriage, Tartaglia following behind. “I am not here to ‘see you.’ I am just replacing The Knave for the mission.”

“Don't worry, I can read between the lines, sir,” Childe jokes. Capitano does not laugh. “You know, I heard the snow is gonna be really bad tonight. I wonder if our guy planned this accordingly so his tracks can be covered. Unless, he's still in his house by the time we get th—”

“Quiet,” he says, turning to face him. “I advise that you do not start a fight when we arrive.”

He crosses his arms. “I wasn't going to do that,” he lies.

Capitano shakes his head, sighing. “It's foolish,” he says. “You have no tact. Do not instigate something when it is not needed, Tartaglia.”

“Will you stop me?” he asks. A slow smile creeps up on his face. “I'm pretty sure you can. You know, you could set me straight with a good sparring match. I'm quite the partner—”

A sigh. “Just stop talking.”

Tartaglia shrugs, looking off to the side. “It depends on the situation, whether or not I fight,” he says, continuing the other conversation. It's half true. He'd much rather fight. “I haven't had a good match lately, you see. I may be just a little bit on edge. Who knows what will happen?”

“I’m serious, Tartaglia.”

He taps his ankle with the side of his shoe, a little smile on his face peeking out from his scarf.

“So am I, Captain.”

 

---

 

The man is already a blubbering mess when they knock on the door. Shaky hands, eyes reddened, lips bitten and bleeding red. Guilt paints itself on his face in all vibrant colors. It appears Tartaglia had been right in the carriage.

“Hey there,” Tartaglia says with a polite smile. “You wouldn't mind if we came in, would you?” He holds up his badge, presenting it alongside Capitano’s. “I think we may have some business to discuss.”

The man swallows, staring at the both of them, not even looking at their badges.

“Come in,” he says.

“Sorry for the intrusion,” Tartaglia says through a chuckle. They take a seat in his living room, the man on one couch, and the other two sitting across the coffee table. “I'm sure you're a busy man and all. This won't take too long.”

Tartaglia digs in his back pocket for a piece of paper, unfolding it and sliding it across the table. It is a wanted poster with his face and name printed on it with his last seen location and bidding.

Capitano speaks up. “We know what you did. Please hand over the mora you stole and you will receive a lesser sentence.”

He swallows. “I didn't steal anything.”

Tartaglia’s eyebrows raise. They arrived with his face on an official wanted document and he has the gall to say that his crimes were a hoax?

“I don't think lying will help you,” Tartaglia says. “You stole five million mora from our banks.” He laughs, the sound harsh and grating in the silence of the room. “That’s quite a feat, you know! You should be proud.”

From his right, Capitano turns to him.

“Proud? B-But I didn't steal—”

“You'd let someone else steal the credit for your act of valor because you're too cowardly to admit you did the crime?” Tartaglia prods, resting his chin on a hand. “That's such a shame. I thought you'd want to go down as the first person to ever willingly rob us of that amount of money in broad daylight.”

A dagger slips from the inside of his coat and into his other hand. Tartaglia spins it around between his fingers before he plunges it into the poster, right into his neck.

“If I were you,” he starts, a small smile on his face, “I wouldn't want my victories to be taken by someone else who didn't do anything.”

The man coughs, eyes darting to the left. Tartaglia follows it, looking at a door.

“I-If I got caught, then it wouldn't be a victory.”

Capitano shakes his head, mumbling, “Stupid.”

Tartaglia grins. “That's correct,” he sneers. “I think it's in the room left of us, Captain.”

The man tries to stand, but Tartaglia takes his dagger and throws it, piercing the man’s chair. A lock of hair falls from his head and Tartaglia can't hold back his smile from widening. He's always wanted to do that after Signora essentially taught him how.

“I will be searching that room,” Capitano says, heading towards the door. “Please refrain from making any sudden movements. I'm sure my partner would be happy to demonstrate what would happen if you did so.”

Tartaglia folds his hands together, resting his elbows atop his knees. “I'd say I’m eager to,” he muses. “Five million, huh? Now how'd you get away with that?”

A muscle twitches in the man's jaw. “I—”

“It was rhetorical,” Tartaglia says, holding up a hand. “We've heard enough from you today.”

The floor creaks under Capitano’s weight when he comes back with two large burlap sacks in his hands. “You need to come with us,” he says, closing the door behind him.

The man complies with his head down, making their lives much easier as Tartaglia fetches his handcuffs. Though, he would've put up a fight if that were him.

Tartaglia sees something glint out of the corner of his eye.

Capitano moves. “Sir—”

The man swings on Tartaglia with a knife, but he dodges swiftly, grabbing him by the neck when he’s left panicking, shoving him against the doorway. The man yelps, struggling against his hold, but Tartaglia only tightens his grip.

“No sudden movements, please,” he repeats. “Assaulting a Harbinger wouldn't bring you any more good, now would it?”

Tartaglia shoves him off the doorway, hooking the handcuffs on the man’s wrists and pushing him out the door. The man is muttering something unintelligible, but Tartaglia pays it no mind. All he can think about is getting back into the carriage and asking Capitano to fight.

He throws the man in the other carriage connected to theirs, locking the door.

Satisfied, he turns and bumps into something hard.

Tartaglia rubs the side of his face, looking up at the captain.

“You sure like sneaking up on me, Captain,” he says. “Some say you do it on purpose.” No one has said that, but who's listening?

Capitano chuckles, the sound deep and mellow against the wind of the winter storm.

Tartaglia tries not to obsess over it, given that he can't even picture Capitano smiling at all, but now he's laughing in front of him.

“It's only because you aren't aware of your surroundings,” he points out, slightly chiding, slightly teasing. Finally something different in his voice than straight commands in a flat tone.

He raises a brow. “I'm plenty aware. I knew where the mora was, right?”

A hum. “That's right.” Capitano steps closer, making Tartaglia’s heart fall through the ground. “You did well.”

Fuck, he thinks, swallowing. What is this.

What sends Tartaglia spiraling is Capitano taking a hold of his chin, thumb grazing over his lips. “Though, you weren't aware of your lips bleeding earlier,” he murmurs. “I didn't think a common man would be able to nick you. I guess you have much to learn still.”

Tartaglia holds back an embarrassing noise when he presses his thumb against the split of his lip.

“He didn't do this to me,” he manages to say. “I bit it.”

“I see,” Capitano mumbles, completely oblivious to the fact that Tartaglia’s mind is leaking out of his skull. Tartaglia doesn't even know where to look. “What happened?”

His mind short circuits at the scenario of Capitano asking such a silly thing while prying Tartaglia’s mouth open with a simple touch. It's astounding. When Capitano has never even responded to him, yesterday and today merely feel like fever dreams.

“Last night I had a nightmare,” he lies, unable to calm down his racing heart. “I guess I bit in my sleep.”

Capitano would never do this to someone and this is another one of Tartaglia’s fantasies. His fantasies are just that. They are not tangible, they are not real. With his touch happening in reality, Tartaglia’s brain had not caught up with it. It is dizzying trying to figure out how his face should look while he looks down at him. It must be obvious on his face by now. Capitano is an intelligent man. He must know what the high blush on his cheeks means.

Tartaglia burns under his gaze. He can't blame it on the cold anymore. But Capitano is looking at him. He’s staring down at him with the pad of his thumb touching his lips and his stomach churns with a feeling Tartaglia can put a name to.

He's done plenty to get Capitano to look at him. Annoying him with questions he doesn't answer, making suspicious noises of “pain” when they're alone in the training ground locker room as Tartaglia cleans his own wounds are some to name.

There had been another time when Capitano was training the new recruits on intimidation techniques. Tartaglia had played the dummy, pretending to be an enemy of the Fatui. On his knees with his hands behind his back, Capitano had pulled a gun on him, droning on about precision and whatnot.

When Capitano turned to face him, Tartaglia thought it would be a good idea to take the barrel of the gun into his mouth, sucking on it. Capitano, unshockingly enough, did not have a visceral reaction and merely said,

“Your opponent may even try to seduce you. I suggest you ignore them.”

Very stupid, very idiotic things he did.

But a cut on his lip and on his cheek – that's what does it? His blood?

Capitano hums again.

“Demons can tell when you're lying, you know.”

Tartaglia swallows, mind beginning to race. A sliver of his fantasy comes back to haunt him at this crucial moment of revelation, but it quickly dissipates as he loops the word again.

Demon, he repeats. He's a fucking demon.

“Can you read minds too?” Tartaglia questions, letting himself fall into a cocky grin he knows is fake.

“More like sense emotions,” he clarifies, hand switching to cup his face. Tartaglia feels his knees weaken. The warmth of his touch is what makes realize how cold it is today, not the snow itself. How the flurry covers them both. This really is all it must take to subdue him; a compliment and a soft touch. So unbecoming of a Harbinger. “For a while, something interesting has been coming off you.”

Tartaglia waits for the next words to come. He must know what he feels then if his words are true. The wind waits with him.

“Why do you want me, Tartaglia?”

The words pour out like blood from a wound.

“I want you to look at me,” he demands. “I want to fight you.”

A thumb runs over the bandage on his cheekbone. “You are the weakest out of all of us,” Capitano says, awakening a tidal wave of anger in Tartaglia. “Why should I even try?”

“You don't know that,” he grits out, hands clenched into a fist. “You don't even want to try. And I want to know what you look like behind your mask.” This seems to take Capitano by surprise, spurring Tartaglia on. “So why don't you show me, Captain?”

But the words that follow have nothing to do with his previous statement. “What does battle mean to you, Tartaglia?” Capitano asks.

Regardless, he answers.

“A measure of strength. Getting stronger.” Tartaglia wants to stand a little closer to him. Maybe he'd see stars in the void of the Captain’s face. “All of you are so busy plotting and scheming that you forget how good it feels to sink your teeth into something.”

Capitano does not agree with his perspective of battle. “That is why we do not get along.” Tartaglia can understand that, even as it irritates him. “Fighting is different to us all. I only fight when it is my duty. And this,” he pauses, letting go of Tartaglia’s face, “is not part of it. I am not entertaining your childish ideas.”

“I want to know how strong you are,” he pushes, stepping closer. “I saw you fight. I want to know how it feels firsthand. Everything.”

“That part of me will not be used on people I know. Even to a Harbinger,” Capitano states, walking towards him until his back meets the carriage. Tartaglia wonders if the man inside can hear them. “I do not want anyone to see what I do.”

Erupting with frustration, Tartaglia summons his blades and holds it against Capitano’s neck.

“Fight me,” he breathes out. “I can take it.”

“Even if you can”—Tartaglia hates that word. If. If he can. He can. He will—“I do not want to.” He lifts his chin with his knuckle. “I’m not sure how else I should phrase it. This is as clear as I can be.”

Tartaglia scoffs.

What is so unbecoming about fighting that makes him not want to do it at all? Tartaglia thinks in disbelief. They are both harbingers of death. They are soldiers for the Tsaritsa. He can fight random opponents and spar with recruits. They are the ones that can witness his glory firsthand, but not him?

Black ink trails down Tartaglia’s weapon.

What the hell is that? he thinks.

He wills it away.

And starts walking in the other direction.

“Where are you going?” Capitano calls out to him. “We have to report back. Both of us.”

Tartaglia doesn't bother looking over his shoulder.

“I'm going to go fight something in the woods,” he grits out. The abyss would be perfect right now if he could just fall in again. “I'll come back for the report myself.”

Capitano must say something in reply, but the wind picks up and he listens to their melody instead of his words.

 

---

 

Deep in the woods of Snezhnaya, the monsters are different. Tartaglia does not know why that is. Perhaps it's because these are the same woods he traveled when he was a child right before he fell into the hands of the abyss. Something must lie beneath the roots of the trees, being able to change the monsters on the surface. But all he can remember in those three months was the thrill. The power in his veins. It was almost like a game to him.

He tries to replicate that game now.

Blood follows him wherever he goes. The woods paint a pretty picture with ruby splattered on the snow. It clings to his uniform. It has created splotches on his hair and skin. His weapons are tinted a shade of pink as evidence of his current activities. He wonders how long it will take for his water to look like real blood.

Snezhnayan monsters remind Tartaglia of those twisted fairy tales he'd hear around the campfire during his training days. You don't see many hillichurls around here. Not anymore. Everything is different. Warped. It's almost as if the animals have been infected by something dark and dreary. Their eyes glow red. They are all mangled. Abominations. It could be from radiation poisoning from some shady factory near here. It could be some force lying underneath the woods.

It's like they had been left in their most rotten state: on the brink of death but never having that sweet release.

In these grim fairy tales, no princess gets saved. The beast is always a beast. Happily ever afters are just a phantasm. Tartaglia liked these, as morbid as they were, as cheap as they tend to be when told incorrectly. He did like the contrast of them to their original fairy tales. Sometimes, they seemed much more realistic.

A selfish man will always be a beast. Humans are selfish at times. They want to be loved, they want to be fed, they want to rest, they want to be wealthy. Human beings are no different to a beast, really. Tartaglia thinks it's beautiful in a way. Signora would probably think he's crazy. Scaramouche would tell him he's being dramatic and fairy tales are fake. Arlecchino wouldn't even bother talking about this with him.

And it is clear that Capitano does not want to deal with his childish behavior.

But these monsters must be where those messed up fairy tales came from. They were added to the originals to compensate with their reality, how humans live with monsters in their backyard. Maybe that's why they're there.

Tartaglia finds himself sitting by a frozen lake. He's covered in blood. The fumes probably waft off him as well.

Out across the lake, a wolf stares at him. It nearly blends in with the snow if not for its red eyes. Tartaglia stares back, wondering what it’s waiting for. The wolf runs away after a moment, leaving Tartaglia alone once more.

It’s time to leave the woods.

 

---

 

After getting reprimanded for not coming back with his partner to report, he trudges back to his room an hour later. The blood is still on him and it cracks on his skin every time he moves. Maybe he shouldn't have been so messy today. At least that way, he wouldn't have felt disgusting and exhausted.

He slips into his bathroom, shrugging off all his clothes and waiting for the water to warm.

The water runs pink in the shower. He scrubs until the remnants of his emotions are properly washed away. He doesn't want to remember that today even happened. All he can feel is his own regret and embarrassment for finally receiving the answer. The optimistic part of him can let it go and understand he cannot force everything and get what he wants. But the other side of him wants to feel it. His strength.

Tartaglia touches his lips, trying to emulate the same way Capitano touched him today. He shakes his head, ripping his hand from. his mouth like he'd been slapped on the wrist.

He didn't know Capitano could do something so casually. Pantalone grabs his face all the time, pinching his cheek when Tartaglia is being particularly annoying that day. Columbina always tips his chin with the point of her nail, sneering at him. He can remember many instances where Dottore has grabbed him by the ear to drag him to his laboratory for some weird experiment he's doing.

The others do it, but not Capitano. None of them were as intimate.

Tartaglia felt the heat settling in his stomach when Capitano pressed down on the split. It stung and he caused it as if it was a natural thing to do. He traced his lips as if he were thinking about how soft they'd feel if he hadn't worn his gloves.

Maybe it's only his delusions thinking that way, but with how softly he touched him, it makes him wonder how those same hands have broken bones.

In the moment, he reveled in the feeling of his touch. Tartaglia was getting more than he ever asked for. He just wanted Capitano to notice him for longer than a glance. But he touched him. He said he did well. He pressed down on his cut and spoke softly to him. Knowing how Tartaglia treats all these inconsequential, useless details, it's like he's obsessed with him.

Even if he denied his request to fight, surely Capitano must know what he's capable of.

But after the moment had passed, Tartaglia still felt unsatisfied.

He looks down at himself and sighs. He's hard.

Why? he thinks. Why, why, why, why—

Tartaglia teases his slit with his finger, swearing under his breath at the touch. He doesn't touch himself anywhere else even if he wants to. He stops when he gets close, starts again, stops until he's gasping, nearly sliding down the shower with how weak his legs feel.

He loops Capitano’s praise in his head, watching his cock twitch at the memory. Even if it was trivial in the grand scheme of things. Even if it meant nothing.

A spot of precum falls into his finger. He spreads it around his tip, playing with himself, hearing himself whine and gasp. He turns his body slightly, angling his hips so the water drips onto his cock. He moans, gripping onto the wall, wishing there was someone else behind him holding him up.

Every drop of water against his tip makes him moan like a whore. The pressure is barely nothing, but it rips out the filthiest of noises. It echoes off his bathroom walls and makes its way back to Tartaglia’s ears, constantly reminding how pathetic he sounds. How pathetic he acted today. How pathetic he’s acting now.

And he wants more, but does not give himself it.

He stops his own orgasm by squeezing himself at the base, panting as if he'd ran a marathon.

Tartaglia quickly turns off the shower, drying himself off and falling into his bed. His nightstand drawer carries a bottle lube that is nearly running out, and he uses it, pouring it into his fingers. He doesn't want to feel what he felt today. He doesn't even want to think about it. He just wants to feel good and go to sleep. Maybe the feeling will carry on in the morning.

His leg gets pushed to his chest with a hand under his knee holding it close. With his free hand, he circles his rim, feeling it twitch under his touch.

He inserts one, breathing in slowly, minding the slight burn, relishing the warm feeling in his chest.

Tartaglia is fully exposed in this position. If someone knocked on his door and came in, they'd see everything.

After a moment, he inserts another finger in, slowly starting to move in and out. He moans, head canting to the side.

He never lets himself enjoy it for long enough though. He takes his fingers out and returns to pushing only one in halfway, pulling out and pushing in slowly every time, switching between one and two in intervals. It leaves him wanting to quicken his pace, fast with no care, but he doesn't do that. He lets himself feel his hands, quivering at the wet sounds of his fingers entering his hole.

He massages his rim with the tip of his finger, whining in frustration.

His thighs come to squeeze together to at least relieve the pressure, but after doing so once, he spreads his legs apart and doesn't do it again.

More lube is poured onto his fingers, switching up the pace and pressing two in. His hand moves faster, going in deeper as his hips start to move along with his fingers.

“Fuck,” he whispers, looking down at himself and blushing. He's leaking all over his stomach, more than usual. He gathers it all with his other hand and licks his fingers, moaning when he tastes himself.

He adds another finger and pushes in as deep as he can go, making his back arch off his bed. A brief image of Capitano’s tongue appears in his brain. Tartaglia takes himself in his hands and messages the underside of his head with the side of his finger, a whimper escaping him.

He licks over his lips, panting, and can taste blood.

Tartaglia thinks about Capitano opening his mouth only to shove his fingers inside. He'd been close today, coaxing him to let his lips part with just a featherlight touch. He puts his own fingers in his mouth instead, sucking on them, letting his mind wander to other salacious fantasies.

Capitano lives in his thoughts. He wants to feel his touch, to experience his fury, to see his face. He uses the spit from his mouth as lube when he squeezes down his cock, twisting off at the head, making him gasp. His hips stutter as he does it again, pressure building up throughout his body as he continues to push his fingers inside himself.

Something bigger should be inside of him. He needs something better than his fingers.

He tosses his head back when his fingers graze his prostate. “Mm, shit,” he breathes, feeling himself smile as he does it again. He tortures that spot relentlessly, pulling gasps out of his own mouth. “A-Ah, ah—”

Capitano’s hands come back to his memories – trailing down his body, touching his cock. Doing nothing but toying with his tip, rubbing it between his fingers. Capitano said he could sense emotions, Tartaglia remembers suddenly. If he passed by his room right now, would he be able to tell?

Tartaglia strokes himself at a feverish pace, craving his release. He rocks into his fingers, crooking them just right, thinking about Capitano teasing his cock against him, and he's cumming all over himself with a whine.

He doesn't stop his hands, squeezing every last drop out of his cock. His hips jolt from overstimulation, shoving his fingers deep inside, forcing a moan out of him.

Slowly, he takes his fingers out of himself, lying limp on his bed.

He swallows, panting, letting himself breathe.

“Fuck,” he mutters, closing his eyes.

 

---

 

The day of the ball rolls around and Tartaglia is adjusting his earrings in the mirror. His hair is half slicked back, a few sections of it falling in front of his face. Gold hangs from his ears, matching the chains adorning his suit, a perfect contrast to the white. It hugs his figure perfectly, tailored to his size right down to the exact measurement.

For a little extra touch, he adds a rose to his front pocket. It blends in with the color of his shirt and the accents of his suit, the same shade of blood red. With a satisfied hum, he turns in front of the mirror, wiping the dust off his cape as he adjusts his gloves securely on his hands.

He pats himself down, checking which spots he hid his weapons in his uniform.

Childe slides his dagger into the leather casing around his thigh, lifting up the hem of his pant leg to reveal another one strapped around his ankle. If all else fails, he has his own weapons he can use with both his vision and delusion, but knowing Pierro’s plan, he doesn't want anything flashy. He wants no distractions. Which means, no theatrics when killing their target, disappointing him immensely.

His predictions of how the night will go begin when he steps foot in the ballroom. He thinks Arlecchino will get the kill this time. Hidden behind a wall of the highest point in the ballroom with a panoramic view, she has always been good with a sniper rifle. Her precision is unlike anything Tartaglia has ever seen.

But perhaps Sandrone could also have her moment as well. Slipping poison into Sergei’s drinks will be child's play to her when she's excellent at distraction. That's a much cleaner way of dying.

Tartaglia breathes in the scent of the ballroom, exhaling. There is a tinge of smoke in the air, mingling with the scent of alcohol. People surround him everywhere he turns, the cacophony of chatter making him nearly miss the hiss of static in his ear.

“Tartaglia,” Scaramouche calls, making him jump. “Get into position already. You're nearly late.”

He still isn't used to these new devices from Fontaine. His fingers press against the earpiece.

“Yes, yes, I'm going,” he replies, walking towards the back of the ballroom to guard a room where Pierro waits inside, preparing for business.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Capitano on his opposite site.

“Evening, sir,” Childe says, turning to him. His eyes trail down his figure, following the lines of chains on his uniform before bringing them back up. His hair is styled in a high ponytail with a single lock of hair braided, as well front pieces framing his face. His vest curves around his waist, leaving nothing to the imagination. “You’re looking as handsome as ever.”

“Focus, Tartaglia,” Capitano reprimands. “I see our target.”

Childe follows his gaze. Immediately, he puts a finger on the device. “Arlecchino,” he says, “He's along the west wall speaking with Signora. See him?”

“You don't need to tell me when the suit he's wearing is an atrocity,” she replies. “It's not difficult to find him in a crowd.”

From Signora’s earpiece picking up his voice, Sergei talks about a new business adventure he's been trying. He makes hints here and there, but completely evades what exactly that adventure entails. Signora politely laughs, praising him for his hard work. Childe wants to laugh. Signora would rather die than praise a man.

Clearly, their target likes to brag.

“Why can't we just kill him right here?” Columbina asks. For once, Childe agrees with her. “It's not like anyone will notice. Everyone here is intoxicated. Pierro, let me have the kill.”

“Do not play any games,” comes his response. “This is not the time or place for your foolish antics. If he refuses to stop his production, that is when we will kill him. Diplomacy comes first before anything, Number Three.”

Columbina scoffs, but says nothing else.

Maybe one day Tartaglia will get the kill. Most times at these parties, he's only left standing around, watching and waiting. His veins are filled with adrenaline that eventually disappears when he realizes that he's not going to fight.

“He’s talking to one of our Skirmishers now,” Dottore’s voice crackles in. “He's....hah!” He cackles for a moment before he comes back. “He's seriously handing out his drugs like it's candy! Right here in front of us! Isn't he a bit too brave?”

“What a fool,” Sandrone murmurs in his ears. “People like him deserve to die for making such sloppy decisions.”

Tartaglia hums a note. “Captain, are you perhaps busy after this?” he asks, turning to the side to look at him. “You know what I'm going to ask.”

“Capitano and Tartaglia,” Pierro calls, interrupting them from any further conversation. “Find two others to guard the door. Tail Sergei and bring him to me.” He pauses and adds, “Tartaglia, do not hurt, maim, or kill him. Control yourself.”

Jeez, he thinks, lips flattening. Does everyone think I’m some sort of trigger happy maniac?

”Copy,” he mutters.

Columbina giggles. “Capitano, you better put a leash on him if he does anything rash.”

Tartaglia glances at him, extremely interested in the idea, catching Capitano already looking his way. “Yeah,” he replies, for his ears only. “I just know you're dying to.”

Capitano lifts a hand to his ear. “I understand.”

He finds two Skirmishers shortly after, interrupting them from their conversations and drags them to guard the door. He tells them to not move from this spot for Pierro and they immediately straighten up, focus settling in before Tartaglia slips away.

“Working with me again, sir,” he says, grinning. “You know, the first time is an accident. Second time’s a coincidence. And some say a third time is a pattern.”

“The third time is enemy action,” Capitano mutters, scanning the crowd for Sergei. “There. He’s talking to Nina Belyayev. The chemist.”

Tartaglia squints. He can guess who he's in contact with to make his substances.

They're both looking across the crowd themselves as they speak, as if searching for people watching them. They move closer to them when the two begin to walk. Sergei and Nina do not sense their gaze despite how often they look behind them. They're always barely missing them making their way across the room.

“They're separating,” Tartaglia says on the device. “Arlecchino, do you see where that woman is going?”

“Leaving,” she replies. “Pantalone and Scaramouche should be outside to confirm.”

His voice comes shortly after. “She's getting into a carriage and leaving,” Pantalone reports, sounding bored. Tartaglia can relate. Half of them don't even need to be here. “Honestly, I wonder what she was even here for if she was going to stay for a mere five minutes.”

Tartaglia guesses she gave him something. “Did anyone see her hand him a piece of paper or something? An object?” he asks. “Being a chemist and all, she must have been giving him something regarding the drugs. He's been spreading them like crazy and the transformations are much more violent now than they were before.”

“He is right. I assume she gave Sergei either an update on a new strain or a new list of ingredients for him to use,” Capitano states. Tartaglia looks at him, surprised. “She could either be providing him information without knowing what he's doing with it, or she's his accomplice.”

Pierro hums. “We will worry about her another time and investigate her later. She herself has not committed any atrocities to our recruits,” he says. “Focus on Sergei for now.”

Never did he think Capitano would be agreeing with him on something.

Tartaglia does not have time to point it out, as they are turning down the hallway where Sergei is walking on. Sergei moves as if he knows the palace by hand; not meeting any dead ends, not stumbling on where to turn or where to go. It makes one wonder. Tartaglia takes this with a grain of salt, and theorizes if someone within the Fatui has been giving him information to meet here during the ball.

He voices out his guess to Capitano.

“That would make sense,” he replies, stopping them and pulling him behind a wall by the collar when Sergei turns around. His voice is subdued, sounding like the wind. “With the way he is moving around the palace, it's like he's been instructed on where to go. Though, I do not understand why a Fatui member would want to harm their own people.”

He thinks it doesn't matter why. All that matters is getting him to stop.

Tartaglia follows him when they move out from behind the wall. “Perhaps he's using some silly recruit to spread it and cause more danger. Maybe the recruit has been abusing it not knowing what it does until it happens.”

“You have surprisingly sharp deduction skills,” Capitano says, sounding pleased. “That would align with our soldiers falling dead for the last two weeks without us ever seeing Sergei’s people delivering those drugs. Hiding them in specific patrol areas would make sense as to where they've been getting it.”

He grins. “Don't we work well together, sir?” Tartaglia asks, poking his arm.

Capitano ignores him. What happened to the man of yesterday sensually pressing down on his wound? “We need to separate. He's going to turn that way. You need to go left. We will corner him. Do not harm him. I will stop you if needed.”

“Don't make such a tempting offer, Captain,” Tartaglia says, walking backwards. He winks at him. “See you soon.”

They separate at an interaction minutes later and just like Capitano describes, they manage to corner him.

“Mister Fedorov,” Tartaglia greets, eyes curved in a smile and waving with a flutter of his fingers. “Lovely suit.”

Sergei trips on his feet at his greeting. Tartaglia takes one step at a time towards him, makes him walk backwards until he's bumping into Capitano. His hands are unconsciously reaching for his dagger, but at Pierro’s reminder, he forces himself to not grab it.

“Pierro has something to discuss with you,” Capitano states, crossing his arms. “I’m sure you can spare some time with him, as this is of importance.”

Tartaglia echoes the action unknowingly. “Ah, but of course, not complying will make things very complicated. He's expecting you, you know. It's best not to keep him waiting.”

Sergei swallows, looking between the two of them before he shakily nods his head and follows them to Pierro’s door.

They deposit him inside, Tartaglia greeting Pierro with a two-fingered lazy salute. “Here you go, sir,” Tartaglia presents, guiding Sergei to sit down in front of his desk. “Without a scratch on him too.”

“Good,” Pierro says, folding his hands. His single eye is trained on Sergei. “Now leave. You may enjoy the party or go home.”

They leave without a single word.

“Boring!” Columbina groans in his ear when Tartaglia gives them the update. “I think Pierro’s just going to take the kill from me. I might as well go home now. Arlecchino, darling, you'll join me, won't you?”

“Yes,” she says. “Today’s mission was short lived. Most of us could have stayed back.”

Tartaglia takes out his earpiece when the other Harbingers disconnect. “So, Captain, are you leaving too?” he asks, following him at his side. “Or are you going home as well?”

Capitano looks at him for a moment. “During these gatherings, I tend to go to an empty balcony.”

He tilts his head. “You wouldn't mind a little company then,” Tartaglia says. “Care if I tag along?”

The music fills in the silence when Capitano doesn't answer.

“Do what you want,” he states.

He follows Capitano, going up a staircase Tartaglia didn't even know existed. It’s covered in a thin layer of dust, with broken light fixtures. The metal of the staircase has rusted over, gold turned black with age. When they reach the next floor, he finds paintings lining their red walls, depicting wars and angels of death. There's old armor from another time, as well as various weapons in display cases.

But he doesn't pay much attention to them, finding Capitano’s back more interesting.

When they reach the balcony, Tartaglia leans over the edge, grinning down at the world. His breath comes out in a puff of steam when he laughs, looking at the others on the grounds, mingling with their drinks, chatting the night away. A distant cackle makes its way to his ears, echoing into the night.

“How did you find this?” he asks, turning around. Capitano walks to his side, looking down at the people with him. “I didn't know the palace had an empty floor like this.”

“I merely stumbled upon it during a mission like this,” he says, hands folded at his back. “It's peaceful. Quiet. I assume this floor has been untouched for decades now.”

Tartaglia rests a cheek on the palm of his hand. He finds himself bored of staring down below, and instead turns to face the other.

Underneath the ice cold gaze of the moon, Capitano stands with an air of mystery and unhidden strength. He almost blends in with the night, if not for his pure white suit. The light glints off his chains, glittering every time he breathes. Looking at him like this pulls Tartaglia in further with growing interest.

He thinks about the muscle lying underneath his suit. How nice it is to see him out of that big coat. He's constantly aware of how bigger Capitano is than him. Always having to look up when talking to him, slightly falling behind him when he walks, how easy it is for Capitano to grab his face or pull him in some direction. Something about that very fact has Tartaglia overflowing with desire.

Behind that suit lies a strength Tartaglia wants to see, but due to their conversation of two days ago, it appears he will never experience it.

“About the other day,” Capitano says, as if he'd read his mind.

And Tartaglia raises his brows.

Uncharacteristically, Capitano sounds hesitant.

That creates a sense of unease in him. At their meetings and missions, Capitano speaks smoothly and elegantly. Every word is concise and eloquent. His voice doesn't waver or falter. But now, standing next to Tartaglia under the moon, his voice is subdued.

Interesting, Tartaglia thinks.

“Ah, yes,” he says, nodding. “The other day.”

“I want to apologize,” Capitano says. Tartaglia’s eyes widen. “This may get in the way of our work later on, so—”

Tartaglia shakes his head, looking away. “You don't have to do that, sir,” he interrupts. “I was essentially trying to force you to do something. Although I still don't understand, I won't bring it up again.”

Let Tartaglia’s desires get in the way of their mission again and he'd remove himself from the Harbingers.

“I want to show you so you can understand.”

Tartaglia straightens up, a line forming between his brows. Capitano doesn't show him things. In fact, this is the most he's ever spoken to him. It makes him wonder what Tartaglia did to make this happen.

“But you don't want to fight,” he says, not knowing where Capitano is going with this. He straightens up, wanting to have this conversation properly, but Capitano puts a hand on his shoulder and gently pushes him back against the balustrade. “Hey—”

Instead, Capitano takes him by the shoulders and sets him on top of the balcony to sit. Tartaglia shifts, feeling something churn in his gut when Capitano’s hands come to rest next to his thighs to support his weight as he leans forward.

“It's not a fight,” he clarifies, now looking at him properly. Tartaglia doesn't have to crane his neck to talk to him. And he's so close that the jut of his mask nearly pokes his chin. “I did say I thought fighting is trivial unless it's for work.”

“So, what then?” he asks. “Are you gonna....”

Oh, he thinks, looking at his mask. Okay.

“Demons like me are not common anymore,” Capitano explains. “I don't know much about myself, but I do know that I am not human. Demon does not properly cover it either, but it's what I settled with.”

Tartaglia blinks. “Right.”

Capitano clears his throat, opting to reach behind his head and unfasten his mask.

Tartaglia swallows as it slips off.

“Here,” he says, placing his mask on the surface of the railing. “You can look.”

His hands move before he could even think about it.

A void stares back at him like a black hole.

“You sure are pretty behind that mask,” Tartaglia whispers, hands coming up to hold Capitano’s face, bringing him close.

If he could frown, Tartaglia assumes he would be. “I do not find that funny,” he deadpans.

“How do you eat?”

Capitano chuckles. “That's your question?”

“I have many for you, Captain,” he mumbles with a little smile.

“I don't need to eat human food. I feed off on other people’s emotions or energy. Any high emotion running rampant around me will suffice.” Capitano leans forward, reaching a hand and smoothing out Tartaglia’s hair, a gesture so sweet for someone like Capitano. “And humans are perfect sources for it. None of you know how to control them.”

He feels like he's hinting at something.

“What do emotions taste like then?” Tartaglia asks.

Capitano hums. “Anger tastes sour,” he starts. “Joy tastes like....fruit. Like berries.”

“What,” Tartaglia mumbles. “That's amazing.”

“Lust tastes like red wine,” he continues. “I think it's my favorite.”

Tartaglia snorts. “Wow, our captain gets around.”

He shakes his head, exasperated. “That is not where I get it from. Parties are filled to the brim with lust and love. Simply being there is enough. Love does taste a bit sweeter than lust, however. Like whipped frosting.”

Tartaglia tucks a hair behind Capitano's ear. “What's one that tastes awful?”

“Envy,” he answers without hesitance. “It's rotten. Like spoiled meat.”

He frowns, nose scrunching. “Gross.”

“Gross indeed,” he echoes. “Also, this is not all of it.”

Carefully, his hands come to pull at Capitano’s tie with newfound confidence, slotting him right between his legs. Capitano follows his pull without any resistance, shocking him to the core. “You sure are a man with many mysteries,” he comments. And surprises. “What is it?”

How much is he willing to show me? Tartaglia wonders, fiddling with the chains of his tie. And why is he doing it? It can't be to just make sure our workflow isn't interrupted, can it?

His hand motions over the void, revealing an eye.

“Holy shit,” Tartaglia breathes out. He leans in, trying to make sense of it. It doesn't even look like a real eye. It's merely a black and white shape of an eye. Tartaglia turns his face in every angle. It looks completely flat. “How does that work?”

A shrug. “I'm not too sure. I....tried grabbing it once as a child and it hurt.”

Tartaglia bursts out laughing. “That's amazing,” he says, grinning. “What else?”

Right before him, teeth start to rise. They aren't lining his void like it did in his fantasy, they're normal, aside from being sharpened to perfection.

Tartaglia gasps, watching them glint in the light.

“I can change how many teeth I have. As well as my eyes. I can get rid of the void to have human features, but it's....always off,” he mentions, eye following Tartaglia’s head moving side to side. “My eyes never look right, but I like it like this. It's....easier to work with. Having a human face isn't true to myself.”

Picturing Capitano with a thousand teeth and a thousand eyes does not put fear into Tartaglia like it should. In fact, he thinks it's quite enchanting.

“I need to know,” Tartaglia begins, “do you have a tongue?”

Capitano is silent for a moment before he nods. “I do.”

“Okay,” Tartaglia replies, nodding stiffly, mind already coming up with a litany of scenarios that are not for the faint of heart. “I'm really sorry, but I want to put my hand inside so bad.”

He takes hold of his wrists and keeps them at Tartaglia’s side. “Please refrain from doing so,” he requests. “It feels very strange.”

Tartaglia chuckles. “Captain, I really can't believe you've been hiding this all this time,” he muses, taking a lock of his hair and twirling it around his finger. His hair is just as dark as the void. “Though, you never really did hide it. You just never said anything.”

“That's correct,” he says.

Capitano falls silent.

“You're still curious about something,” Capitano states.

Tartaglia tenses. “Uh, no, I'm not.” When did Tartaglia become such a terrible liar? “Maybe a little.”

“Well, I still have something to show you. I've been putting it off,” he says, filling Tartaglia with both nerves and excitement. “Forgive me for being a little apprehensive. I have not shown this to anyone aside from my enemies. And I make sure they are unable to tell anyone about it.”

Fuck, he thinks. That's really attractive.

“Let’s go to your room,” Capitano says.

Tartaglia does not hesitate to comply.

 

---

 

In his room, Capitano sits in front of him on his bed, back leaning against the headboard. He removes his gloves and rolls up his sleeves, catching Tartaglia’s attention faster than anything he's ever seen in his life. His eyes trail over the veins popping out on his forearms, wanting to trace them with his fingers. Or his tongue. Whichever.

The thoughts come to a pause when thick, black tendrils start to form underneath Capitano’s skin. They peek out from under the fold of his sleeves, ending at his wrists. The tendrils move around, as if alive and breathing.

He holds out his arms, inviting Tartaglia to touch.

“These are beautiful,” he whispers, following the movement with his fingers. Capitano flinches at his touch, but relaxes a moment later. “Are these....made out of your void too?”

Capitano shakes his head. “Something lives within me,” he utters. “I don't know what it is, but when I unleash it, my opponents lose their sense of self. They go completely erratic trying to understand what it is they're seeing.”

As if it couldn't get any better, eyes start appearing on his arms. They blink at Tartaglia, curving up into something malicious.

“Hi,” he says to them. Capitano sputters, in shock. “You're all so pretty.”

“You don't find them....ugly,” he says, in disbelief.

Tartaglia shakes his head. “They're gorgeous,” he compliments. “You're pretty.”

He wonders what would happen if he kisses the inside of his wrist. Would Capitano be flattered or would he be disturbed?

Tartaglia has been staring at them for so long now, feeling something odd happening inside his chest. Tartaglia thinks this is the effect Capitano had mentioned earlier. His heart pounds and he is suddenly overwhelmed. Terrified. But he's still so enchanted by it that he can't bring himself to look away. It feels cosmic. It does not belong here in their world, but it exists somehow within his body. The thought of trying to imagine the entity outside of Capitano’s body fills him with a sense of heavenly grief.

It aches and it aches, but he keeps staring.

“I think it came from the stars,” Capitano tells him. “When I look up, I feel this sense of dread. It pulls within me like they want to get out.” He pauses. “To go back home and take me with them.”

The eyes blink at him. Tartaglia winks back before he's taking Capitano's hand, holding it to his lips.

“Can I?” he asks, looking up at him.

Capitano draws in a sharp breath of air.

“Yes,” he allows. “But be careful.”

He drags his teeth on the inside of his wrist. “I am,” he says.

Tartaglia kisses both of his wrists, trying again to understand the thing underneath Capitano's skin as if he even could in the first place. He tries to understand what Capitano is, how he exists under his hands. He doesn't even realize he's climbed onto his lap before he feels Capitano’s hands rest on top of his sides.

“What are you up to?” Capitano questions.

“Understanding,” Tartaglia answers, removing his shirt.

Everything is presented to him. Every tendril, every scar and every imperfection. Capitano told him he has never shown anyone this before. Does this mean he has been alone with this weight that his void, his very being, isn't beautiful?

Capitano comes from the deep valleys of space where creatures surpassing Tartaglia’s comprehension exist and watch over them. They loom. They wait. They plot. They exist beyond time and their plane of reality is but a speck of dust in their eyes.

Tartaglia marvels over this fact, feeling like he just stepped into the abyss for the very first time.

He's trailing kisses up his arms, whispering his name. He leans back up, meeting his face. Tartaglia wants to kiss him. He doesn't know where.

Instead, he settles for kissing the shell of his ear. “I can do this, right?” he asks.

Capitano wraps his arms around him, pulling him closer. “Please continue,” he says, voice low.

That is all Tartaglia needs to shed every last evidence of his hesitance.

“I wonder,” Tartaglia murmurs, toying with Capitano's earring. “what you look like wielding both your delusion and your vision. In your other form.”

“An abomination,” Capitano answers, gazing at him. “It is mortifying.”

Tartaglia tugs on his hair. Just a bit. “I wish I could see it.”

If Tartaglia ever had the pleasure of seeing Capitano in his delusion form for the first time, it would be just as magnificent a sight as seeing him on the battlefield. He wants to look at it. He wants to be afraid and attracted and repulsed by what he sees. He wants to be overwhelmed by his horror and his beauty. Even if his sanity turns to dust, at least by then he would have seen it all.

But he likes it. The confusion, the dread, the euphoria he's feeling when he looks at the moving shadows under his skin. If he saw the real thing, he thinks he'd feel at peace despite Capitano’s horrors.

Tartaglia’s eyes would be laid upon a cosmic abomination. Stellar monstrosity. A starlight sonata of grief and misery.

“Can you kiss me?” he asks.

Desperation to taste him on his tongue controls Tartaglia’s every move. When he feels Capitano’s lips against his, he wonders where his void went.

Tartaglia's eyes crack open, half-lidded, to look at Capitano’s face.

He was right about his eyes. They aren't right. He has a lot of them on his face. They're almost like tattoos, but not. He has strong brows, furrowed in concentration, committing the feeling of Tartaglia’s mouth to memory. Tartaglia can't bring himself to care all that much about his face anymore. Not when he feels Capitano’s tongue trace along the seam of his lips. He parts for him, a quiet noise escaping when his tongue invades his mouth.

Capitano swallows his gasp, pulling him closer when Tartaglia grips onto his shoulders. His tongue is long.

He separates for a moment, needing to breathe. Capitano returns to his void and takes the initiative to latch onto his neck, biting down and licking over the wound.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, sliding a hand behind his hand and pushing him in further. “Your tongue.”

A hum vibrates his skin where Capitano takes it between his lips, sucking. He leaves marks everywhere on Tartaglia’s neck, unbuttoning his jacket and his shirt to place more on his collarbone. He somehow knows all Tartaglia’s favorite spots, making him arch into the touch, craving more. He ends up taking everything off, giving him full access.

He laughs then, making Capitano lean up.

“What’s funny?” he asks.

Tartaglia grins. “You're noticing me.”

Capitano shakes his head. “You're ridiculous,” he mutters. His tongue pokes out from the black and licks Tartaglia’s cheek, making him laugh. “I have noticed you for a long time already. Your emotions are always so rampant. Additionally, you do very strange things to get my attention.”

So he does remember when I licked that gun, Tartaglia thinks.

“I aim to please,” he says, smiling.

A snort. “Your emotions are high. I can feel it even across the battlefield.”

“Can't hide anything from you, huh?” Tartaglia mumbles, trailing his hands down Capitano’s chest. He bites his lip, untucking his shirt from his pants. “I'm sure you can taste what I'm feeling now, right? I don't have to tell you.”

Capitano’s voice carries a grin. “Don't act so sly.”

He unbuttons his shirt, a coy look on his face. “Sly? Me?”

They kiss again and he can taste all his cosmic horrors.

Capitano presses a hand against his chest, sliding down until it rests on his lap, where he begins to move his thumb up and down, somehow knowing exactly where his tip is. Tartaglia gasps, nails digging into his shoulders where there are more eyes staring at him, looking at every tiny reaction to his touch.

“God, your eyes,” Tartaglia breathes out. “They’re all looking at me.”

“They think you're pretty,” Capitano tells him.

Tartaglia hums. “Really?” His breath then catches in his throat as his other hand reaches under his shirt. The touch is cold. Ice. His fingers dance on his skin before taking them between his finger and thumb, rubbing them together. “Do you, ah, don't you think I'm pretty too?”

Capitano takes a hold of his face, pulling him down to meet his eye. Tartaglia smiles. “I do,” he says simply. A full body shiver runs through Tartaglia as Capitano takes his thumb and opens his mouth. It's like all his fantasies are coming to life. “You have an awfully pretty mouth as well.”

He slides two of his fingers into his mouth, pressing them down on his tongue. Tartaglia licks around them, brows pulling together in focus as he unconsciously grinds himself against the other.

A hand is placed on his side. “Don't move,” he commands.

Tartaglia glares at him. Capitano removes his fingers from his mouth. “You aren't touching me,” he says, annoyed. “Come on.”

“Be patient,” he soothes, his deep voice rumbling through him. Capitano looks down at their lengths pressed together between their clothing. Tartaglia takes this moment to grind against him again, reaping in the reward of hearing Capitano moan. “Tartaglia.”

“You're so slow,” Tartaglia tells him. “Touch me.”

Capitano lifts Tartaglia off his lap, flipping their positions and dropping him down on the bed. “Desperate fool,” he mutters. His heart skips a beat at how easy that was for him. Like he was nothing.

Somehow, Capitano managed to slip his pants off when he'd laid him down. He leans down, pushing Tartaglia’s thighs up, digging his teeth into the flesh.

Tartaglia flinches, hands fisting the sheets.

“You were lying the other day,” Capitano points out, tongue licking over a bite mark on his thigh, dangerously close to where Tartaglia wants it. “You were not having a nightmare when your lip split.”

Blush makes a gradient down his body. “I— Tartaglia stops, biting down on his lips when Capitano trails his tongue slowly up Tartaglia’s cock. “I-I was just— Fuck.”

His tongue laps over his head, digging into his slit where precum is leaking out. Tartaglia cries out, dick twitching right in front of his eye. “You’re already like this?” Capitano questions, albeit smugly, if Tartaglia was able to form coherent thought. “I only touched you for a little bit.”

“Your tongue,” Tartaglia pants, letting out a breathless little laugh. “It feels so good.”

Capitano hums, eye running over Tartaglia's body before he brings his head back down.

Tartaglia leans up on his elbows. “What are you—”

His body seizes as Capitano’s tongue traces over his hole. He laps at it, never pushing in, making sure that Tartaglia is left whining before he starts.

Tartaglia tries to make him go faster by pushing his hips against his tongue— please, he wants to say, please—but Capitano forces him to back down with the touch of his hand.

“Capitano,” he grits out, breaths coming in heavy. “Why....why are you taking so long?”

Instead of inserting his tongue, Capitano leans back, teeth presenting a smile to him. It's full of arrogance, something so attractive on him when he never shows any emotion on his face at all. Tartaglia’s hips twitch at the sight, embarrassed that he's already so aroused.

Capitano presses down on his tip with a finger, watching Tartaglia thrash on the sheets at just one motion.

The laugh that follows has a whine coming out of Tartaglia. “You're so easy,” he murmurs, wrapping a hand around his dick, slowly pumping up and down. The insult has Tartaglia’s brain coming up with more things Capitano could say to him. All the harsh words mixed in with subtle praise to make his head spin. “I thought it would take more to get you this worked up.”

Tartaglia wants to say this is all his fault. That his touch alone is divine and his tongue is too skilled. That his words are doing something to him. He wants to tell him that he's been thinking about this for months ever since he saw him in battle. This is all his fault.

But Tartaglia cannot say that, too busy moaning Capitano’s name as his tongue lolls out again, licking a stripe across his hole. All while he teases the underside of Tartaglia’s cock, sending shockwaves of pleasure all over his body. He craves more. He's too greedy.

“Why did you lie?” Capitano asks, alluding to his lip.

Tartaglia swears under his breath, not surprised that Capitano figured it out. “I....won't tell you if you aren't gonna touch me,” he pants, leaning up to meet his eye. “Touch me properly.”

To Tartaglia’s astonishment, he complies.

Taking both of his thighs, he hooks his legs over his shoulders, tugging him closer to his mouth. He feels his tongue enter his hole, slowly dragging in and out. Tartaglia closes his legs with a pathetic sound, but Capitano forces them open, running his hands up and down to soothe him.

“Hah, ah,” he moans, hand coming to grip onto Capitano’s hair, finding the ribbon and tugging, undoing his hair. He lifts from the bed as his tongue prods deeper. “Shit, faster.”

Capitano hums, leaving Tartaglia to cry out.

He swallows, remembering his words. “I was thinking about you,” he starts, feeling his tongue inside him freeze. “I was thinking about you fucking me.” He sounds so debauched already from just his tongue. “I – ah! I wanted you to t-tease me with your cock. I didn't want you to give me what I wanted. I—”

He cuts himself off with a curse, as Capitano's tongue moves and reaches his prostate, prodding at it with an intensity that makes Tartaglia feel like he’ll black out. He doesn't remember having anything this deep inside. Nothing warm or as smooth as this. All he can manage is pathetic little cries, hand shoving his head to push his tongue deeper into himself, moving his hips. His tongue follows the movement, ramming into that spot every time.

“Fuck, fuck,” Tartaglia hisses. “I-I can't—”

His vision starts to blur with tears, finally falling when his eyes scrunch closed at the feeling of Capitano's thumb stretching his hole and digging into it. “Yes, you can,” Capitano tells him. He screams his throat hoarse, breaking off into a moan as he tries to push it in deeper. “You can take it.”

Tartaglia manages to lean over to his nightstand, taking out the lube and a condom, shoving it in front of Capitano.

He looks up at him, hair sticking to his forehead, blush running down his body—

“Please,” Tartaglia whispers. “I want you.”

He sits up, looking down at him. “Tartaglia.”

Oh, he thinks, nearly cumming right there. His voice sounds different. It sounds inhuman. It sounds like voices upon voices layered on top of each other. Tartaglia thinks that somehow he sounds like a black hole’s orchestra. Deep and terrifying. Otherworldly.

He looms over him, making him feel small. Insignificant.

Like staring up into a sky full of stars.

Tartaglia wraps his fingers around Capitano’s wrist, dragging it down his chest where he stops at his cock. The thrusts up into his hand, gazing into his lone eye, moans pouring out of mouth shamelessly.

Please, keep looking at me, he wants to say. Look at me even outside this room when this is all over. Won't you notice me?

Capitano rubs his clothed length against him, giving Tartaglia a taste of his size. “I don't want to hurt you,” he says, but Tartaglia himself is excellent at reading people’s emotions.

Even without a face, the rest of his body says it all. He doesn't want to hurt him, no, but the way he's digging his nails into his skin, the way he won't stop his hips from rubbing his cock against him—

Capitano still wants to ruin him.

“I told you earlier that I can take it,” Tartaglia says, breathing out. I need you to remember how I feel, he should say. “So hurry.”

He stares down at him, pondering about something he doesn't voice. He leans down before Childe can ask, pointed tongue slipping out between his sharp teeth. Childe stares up at him with eyes wide, watching the drool drip down onto his skin. His hair slips off his shoulders, caging Childe in a curtain of darkness and ink. It's like he's drowning in the deep.

Holy shit, Childe thinks.

His tongue traces down his body just as his nails claw into his skin, leaving red behind. Tartaglia swallows.

“Desperation tastes good on you too,” Capitano says, coming back up to lick the corner of his lips. “I notice that this feeling surrounds you every time I see you.”

Tartaglia grins, chest heaving. “Caught me.”

He unzips his pants, taking himself out of his underwear. Tartaglia holds back a sound coming out of him. Fuck, he thinks, hands clenching. He’s huge. There's a pretty curve to his cock as his hands move to stroke himself. He sends his thanks to the stars as he focuses on the way Capitano touches himself. Tartaglia’s mind reels at the thought that he did this to him. He got Capitano like this.

Capitano drips with want, spreading the rest down the full length of his cock to aid in the slide. He lets out a soft sigh, but Tartaglia wishes it had been louder. He wants to hear how he sounds when pleasure has taken over his mind and body.

Tartaglia is brimming with excitement as Capitano rips open the condom and slides it on. He flinches at the touch of his fingers lathering lube onto his hole, but his mind blanks when he presses the thick head of his cock against him, rubbing absentmindedly.

“Shit,” Tartaglia hisses, eyes scrunching closed. He tries to push back on it, but again, Capitano places a hand on him, halting his movements.

“Stop moving,” he says, pressing down on his lower stomach, then soothing over it up and down. “You can wait, can you?”

No, Tartaglia cannot. “I thought our Captain prided himself on efficiency,” he taunts, a tilt in his head. “Always focused on, ah , getting work done. Working any slower just hinders our process for—”

Tartaglia then wonders if abominations are supposed to be so kind. If their touch is supposed to be this soft.

Even as Tartaglia tried to taunt the captain, irritate him to the point of fucking him into the bed so the ache in the morning would last the entire day, Capitano is turning him around on his stomach with a gentle hand and lifting his hips into the air.

It makes him more nervous than if he'd been rough.

He licks the top of spine before biting down, peppering kisses down the slope of his back. He shivers when his tongue traces over a scar. Being treated so sweetly is unfamiliar, even when pleasuring himself. Tartaglia half expected him to be rough, but he wonders if he's just holding himself back. Holding himself back because of what's living under his skin.

But he's rough in different ways. He doesn't listen to Tartaglia when he tells him what he wants. He teases and bites and leaves marks where any skin is visible. His nails pierce his skin and he hopes that it scars.

“Let's go at my pace,” he says.

Tartaglia thinks this is Capitano’s way of ruining him.

Capitano’s tongue reaches deep inside him and at this angle, he thinks he's touching the stars once more.

“Please,” he whispers, “no more.”

He's never heard himself sound like this. No one has made him act this way. Begging is always the last thing on his mind. It is a second thought, but at this moment, Tartaglia just wants to have him as soon as possible. He wants to know how he feels like this if he can't feel him in a fight.

Capitano pulls his tongue out of him. “I never knew you could be this way,” he comments, rubbing his tip along him again, ignoring the way Tartaglia gasps. “Are you not embarrassed?”

His ears burn with shame, but his cock spurts out a drop of precum.

He slides in, slowly. Tartaglia flinches, accidentally pushing him in further. He gasps, fingers gripping the sheets, tearing them off the bed. It's only the tip, but god, it's already so good.

“You don't bother trying to hide it,” he continues, dragging a finger down his spine, his touch featherlight. Like silk against his skin. “Are you always like this?”

Tartaglia shudders, feeling him go deeper. He pushes back against him, moaning.

“Don't move,” Capitano murmurs.

By the time he's fully inside him, Tartaglia is quivering, soft gasps and whines leaving him as adjusts to the stretch, marveling over the burn. When he thrusts in just once, he screams, feeling it kiss his prostate. It feels so good. He's never had anything this big in his life.

He feels a warm hand slide to the front of his throat, guiding him up, pushing him back against his chest. He lets Tartaglia move once, and he clenches around him, cursing.

Capitano tilts his head back against his shoulder. A tongue licks across his lips before sliding inside. Tartaglia shakes underneath his touch like a leaf in the wind as he tries to take his tongue, pretending his throat is encased around his dick.

“You act just like a dog,” he whispers against his ear, hand trailing from his neck, leading back to his head where he tugs on the strands. He starts to move his hips at a steady pace, but it already has Tartaglia moaning. “Desperate. Pathetic.”

He looks back at Capitano’s darkness, panting and delirious. A smile creeps on Tartaglia's lips.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “I am.”

Capitano forces him back down on the bed, hand pushing his head against the pillows as his hips pick up the pace. Tartaglia's eyes roll back, trying to meet his pace, but when Capitano’s nails dig into his hips, he stops.

Trying to focus on every touch Capitano gives him exhausts his mind. His cock pulls in and out, but the pressure on his head from Capitano's hand is making his mind spin. He can't think of anything else other than this. He lies on the bed, taking everything Capitano offers him. Every moan and gasp that makes it to Tartaglia's ears, every kiss pressed onto his scarred back.

“Harder,” he says, clenching around him.

The effect makes his hips stutter. “You're insatiable,” Capitano murmurs. He lifts his hips up with both of his hands, sliding all the way out, before pushing back in, faster, harder. Tartaglia’s head bumps against his headboard at the action, but he can barely feel it as he screams. “Look at you.”

Tartaglia bites down on the pillow, but still, it does not stop him from hiding his broken moans. “Capitano,” he groans, arms shaking from holding himself up. “Fuck, I—” His words trail off into something incoherent just as he yields, arms giving out. His words become mindless babbles about how good he feels, how he wants more.

It continues like this for a time Tartaglia cannot surmise. Time becomes nothing to him. Seconds are every thrust pushed into him. Minutes are counted by the number of times Capitano presses against his prostate. He becomes mindless, unable to think about anything else than the feeling of his cock inside him.

He grunts as the world spins around him, now facing Capitano. “What,” he breathes, yelping when his hands reach under his back and push him up onto his lap.

“Move,” Capitano tells him, shoving him back down into his cock.

“Shit,” Tartaglia hisses, looping his arms around Capitano’s neck as he arches against him. His hips are trembling as he lifts himself up all the way to the tip, before he's shoving his full length inside him, then moving up and down. “Ah, fuck. Ah, ah, ah—”

He bites down on Capitano’s shoulder, mindlessly setting his own pace, trying to hit his prostate again. Capitano is whispering something in his ears, voices leaking into his brain until Tartaglia can't remember where he even is. It's just the feeling of his cock pressing so deep inside him, the pain of his nails scraping against his skin. The ache of each bite marks all over his body.

Tartaglia tries to separate his hands, but he can't move.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispers, watering eyes managing to catch something black wrapping around his wrists.

His eyes fall shut again in pleasure, but he's sure there's tendrils tying his wrists together. Tartaglia wants to ask more about that. He tries thinking of ways Capitano can use that on him, but his mental capacity fizzles out to nothing and he can't focus on his own fantasies. Only Capitano. Only his touch.

“Just like that,” Capitano whispers to him. “You take me so well.”

A string of curses leave Tartaglia’s mouth as he's held taut, cock grazing against his prostate. “Oh, god,” he whines. Tartaglia lifts himself up and forces himself down again, hitting that spot. His throat burns at how loud he's being. He knows his voice will be hoarse tomorrow. He knows he can't hide the marks littered all over his neck.

The thought makes him smile. Everything that Capitano did to him being on display. Marks peeking out from his uniform. The ache when he sits down. It spurs Tartaglia on, slamming his hips down at a mind numbing pace.

Something trails up his chest.

His eyes widen. “Capitano,” he wheezes out, eyes following a tendril flick over his nipple. “Why....didn't you, oh, use these earlier?”

“They don't come out often,” Capitano answers, breathless. “Only when I....can't control myself.”

Shit, Childe thinks, unable to give him a proper answer when those tendrils tease both his nipples at the same time Capitano hands wrap around his cock. “Fuck,” he gasps, slipping on his balance and leaning on the other’s body for support. “I-I can't – I can't h-hold myself up.”

Childe’s face burns hotter at the sound of his voice. He sounds weak, fragile. As if they'd been at this for hours.

His tongue traces the muscle of his neck. “I got you,” he says, hands coming down to rest under his thighs. He squeezes them between his fingers. “If you can't hold yourself up, how did you expect to best me in a fight?”

He whines, digging his face into his shoulder.

Capitano is relentlessly going at his prostate. The tendrils relieve his chest from the torture for now, but instead go somewhere else.

Tartaglia’s body jerks forward with a sob. He looks down and the tendrils have wrapped themselves around his cock, squeezing his balls, licking around the sensitive head of his tip. It drives Tartaglia to hysterics. All this pleasure being given to him at the same time makes him think that he can't have it any other way for the rest of his life. Nothing else may satisfy him.

“More,” he mumbles. “Please, more.”

Capitano lifts him up by the thighs, pushing him back against the headboard. His legs get pushed to his chest by the back of his knee, essentially folding him in half. His mind shatters to pieces, mouth agape with his wanton moans. He’s never cared about sounding like a whore or sounding so desperate. Most times, he secretly revels in his own desperation. How someone else's touch, including his own, can get him to act so debauched.

But never like this. Never this desperate. Never this pathetic. Capitano has kept his promise with ruining him.

The bang of the headboard against his wall fills him with ecstasy. It's another piece of evidence of how fast Capitano is pushing into him.

“C-Captain,” he gasps. “I-I can't— I'm gonn-—”

Capitano licks his cheek. “You're crying,” he murmurs. “How cute.”

His head bangs against the wall, pressure building inside him. He doesn't want to cum yet. He doesn't want this to be over so soon. “S-Slow down,” he says. “I don't – I don't wanna cum.”

“You will,” Capitano denies.

Tartaglia sobs, tears dripping down his face in streams. He feels so good, he can't breathe. “Wait, ah , wa— Please, I—”

“Take it,” Capitano grits out, pushing him harder against the headboard.

He weeps, eyes squeezing shut. “T-Take it off,” he says, signaling to the tendrils tying his wrists together. “I wanna touch you.”

“So demanding,” he replies, acquiescing nonetheless.

Tartaglia settles a hand over his lower stomach, pressing down. “Oh my god,” he moans, feeling his cock move under his hand. His eyes roll back, falling shut.

With his other hand, he pushes Capitano to his neck, where he follows and bites down again. Tartaglia cries out with a plea, but he doesn't know what he's begging for.

His thumb digs into his slit, finally making cum spurt out of his cock. And there's so much of it. He doesn't even feel it ar first, until he registers It dripping down his chest, down his stomach. There's a ringing in his ears that covers the dirty praises being given to him and Tartaglia twitches through the aftershocks, quivering under his hold.

Capitano stills plunges in him without mercy, a bruising grip under his knees. He cums with a moan of his name, said with a reverence that rivals the way he speaks to the Tsaritsa.

“F-Fuck,” he weeps, twitching from overstimulation. “Fuck.”

He wants to ask for more.

Capitano gathers his cum on his fingers, breathing heavy, spreading it all over his lips, and forcing it in his mouth. Tartaglia licks it all clean even while exhausted.

He finishes with a kiss to his thumb, grinning up at him.

To think he'd be the one to wear Il Capitano out like this adds a swell of pride in his chest.

Capitano gently pulls out of him, making him whine from the loss, bringing him down from the headboard to set him on his lap. Tartaglia feels like he’s floating. He can feel his back aching already along with his legs from how he'd been positioned tonight. But he feels good. Perfect, even.

But he can still feel himself shaking, stuttering breaths filling the silence of the room.

A hand brings his face up. Capitano wipes at a falling tear.

“Let's get you cleaned up.”

Tartaglia hums an answer, preparing himself to stand up, but when he moves, the floor is too far from his feet and his bed seems much smaller than it did before.

Capitano had lifted him up in his arms, carrying him to the bathroom.

“What a gentleman,” he says, giggling.

“I'm not going to make you walk,” Capitano scoffs. He steps into his bathroom, walking past the shower and towards the bathtub. “Are you....alright?”

Tartaglia laughs again, making Capitano’s body tilt to the side. “I feel great,” he answers. “You fucked me so good.”

With a shake of his head, he sets him down inside the bathtub. “You talk so shamelessly.”

He plugs the drain, turning the faucet. “Says you,” Tartaglia murmurs, bringing his knees to his chest and hugs them. Steam rises from the water in tendrils, and Tartaglia thinks about a certain set of dark ones that had bound his wrists and tasted his desire. “You were saying all types of things about me.”

Capitano clears his throat. “I apologize.”

“Oh, don't apologize,” Tartaglia chuckles, he holds out a hand, inviting Capitano to hold it. He intertwines their fingers together. “I like it.”

A huff. “You really are shameless.”

“Just come in here with me,” he says, impatient, tugging on his arm. The water is almost filling the tub. “And I can't believe you still have your pants on. Archons.”

Capitano stands up, undoing his belt and stepping out of his slacks. “I was a little busy,” he replies, folding his garments and setting them elsewhere. “You didn't give me much time to do so.”

“Oh, blaming me all of a sudden, are we?” Tartaglia questions, teasing. “Come on. Hurry.”

“Yes, yes,” he mutters, dipping into the water and settling behind Tartaglia. Some of the water splashes out onto the floors. His arms come to wrap around his waist in a safe, protective, hold. “You're warm.”

Tartaglia cannot hold back the smile on his face. He didn't expect such a hardened soldier and cosmic monstrosity like Capitano could be so cuddly. Tartaglia reaches over for the soap, squeezing everything out and mixing until bubbles start to form and grow in size.

“Ever had a bubble bath before, Captain?” he questions, glancing at him.

Tartaglia feels the rumble of his laughter against his back before his ears pick up the sound. “Do I look like the kind of person that has bubble baths?” is his reply, filled with amusement. “I can't say that I have.”

“Well,” Tartaglia starts, “you are going to have the time of your life.”

They relax in the tub in silence, leaning on each other, basking in the light smell of lilacs. His eyes slowly start to flutter shut, succumbing to serenity. He sighs as Capitano pushes his hair back, tilting his head to lick his neck.

Tartaglia chuckles. And you say I'm insatiable,” he says out, a pleased noise leaving him.

“Quiet,” he mutters.

They have hushed conversations as they clean themselves up. Tartaglia is surprised. Capitano has a lot to say when he isn't talking about work. He talks about the most mundane of things as if they were significant. Childe quickly learns that he admires the simple things in life. Hearing him talk so much is gratifying. It's more carefree and relaxed than how Capitano usually presents himself.

As Capitano massages shampoo in his hair, Childe asks, “Why did you do all of this today?” His movements stop for a moment before they begin again. “I'm not one to question everything, but when someone who never looked their way suddenly shows the deepest parts of themselves and then has sex them, it surely makes a guy wonder.”

“I mentioned it earlier,” he states. “Your desperation around me was almost suffocating. I found it....flattering after a while.” Childe's ears warm at his words. Capitano sighs. “And I also felt displeased that I could not give you your fight. I understand that's how you bond with people. Weirdly enough.”

“We harbingers are pretty strange,” Childe mumbles. He smiles then, amused at how Capitano felt bad. For him. For something so simple. For something he found childish. “I still want to spar though.”

He hums. “I suppose a spar is fine—”

Childe flips around, eyes glittering. “Really?” He leans forward, pressing his lips to the crown of his head. “You'd really fight me?”

Capitano lifts the shower head over his hair, drenching him with water. “Relax,” he says. “But yes. And that's it. Just a spar. Not to the death.”

A pout forms on his face. Capitano washes it away, literally, with the shower head. “When? Tomorrow?”

“Absolutely not,” he denies, aghast. “Did you completely forget the last hour of your life?”

Childe turns around, slumping against his chest. “Whatever,” he mumbles. “As long as I get in in the end, it doesn't matter when.”

Later on, Capitano gets his own relaxing treatment. He leans in and sighs as Childe lathers the shampoo in his hair. When he spreads it to the ends, Childe stops, noticing something behind his hair.

“Whoa,” he says, moving his hair out of the way. “What's this?”

A black four pointed star lies between his shoulder blades. In that start, smaller tendrils move around within it. They curve around each other and loop, wriggling on his skin. He is mystified, lips parted in wonder. He still can't wrap his mind around what Capitano had revealed to him today. Perhaps he never will. But perhaps, understanding that he cannot understand, may be his conclusion.

He pokes the tattoo, making Capitano jolt.

“That was a wonderful reaction,” Childe teases.

“Watch it,” he grits out, but it lacks the animosity. “That is the marking of what lives within me.”

Childe hums. This is where his tendrils retreat when they aren't needed. He traces the tattoo with his finger, following the markings of each inked appendage.

Without thinking, he kisses it.

The sound Capitano makes kindles an urge to do it again, but—

“Tartaglia,” he chastises, looking over his shoulder. His eye relays bashfulness and exasperation. “It reacts strongly.”

“You're just sensitive here,” he says, grinning. “I'll remember this for next time.”

Capitano sighs, letting Tartaglia do as he pleases.

“Say, Captain,” Tartaglia murmurs, when he's chest to back against him again, “I like being around you.”

He hums, pulling him closer. “I fear where this is going.”

Leaning into his touch feels natural. Normal. Maybe that's just his delusions. Perhaps he's still on a high from their earlier activities. “Why,” Tartaglia prods, smirking, “don't want me annoying you all day?”

The bubbles are slowly starting to dissipate in the water. They should get out soon. His fingers are already pruning.

“I wouldn't get any work done,” Capitano states. “You are distracting. Your emotions are always running on high and your face....is quite cute.”

There are plenty of cute things about Tartaglia. Tartaglia himself agrees. “I won't be that much of a bother,” he promises, half lying. “I just want to be with you.”

Capitano is silent, processing his words. “You say it so simply,” he comments. “Like you are sure.”

Tartaglia flinches as he licks up the shell of his ear. “If I like being around someone, I'd want to stay. It really is quite simple, Capitano.” He gathers the bubbles in his hands, closing his fist around them. “You and I just have a little bit of added benefits, if you know what I mean.”

He hooks his chin over his shoulder. “I do not know if I am good at that,” he murmurs into his skin. “Beings from the stars don't exactly have many references to care for people. And a harbinger’s care for another sounds foolish.”

“Foolish as it appears to be,” he says, watching the bubbles drip down his hand, “it still fills a certain desire.”

“A desire for what?” Capitano asks.

Tartaglia hums.

It's true. Harbingers do not need love. In fact, they do not need to be gentle or kind. They serve as weapons of war – no different than a machine. Something for the Tsartisa to use so the will of the gods may finally lay to dust, where chaos and strife can be cleansed from this world. In ice and blood, their kindness is but a second thought that they rarely entertain. They do not need to be gentle when their hands are just blades.

As the harbinger walks through the valley of death, affection should not be a part of that path.

Tartaglia agrees with this wholeheartedly, but Ajax does not. Sometimes he sees kindness in a harbinger, as outlandish as that is. Though, they are merely fractions of this phenomenon. They can still be cruel.

Even if Ajax only exists within the reflection of his mirror when Tartaglia is bleeding in his bathroom, he is still there. Ajax is just him before the touch of the abyss. He still knows of kindness and love. Tartaglia, however, merely tosses such things aside sometimes.

But Childe, he knows the balance. And in return, technically all his facets do.

“To be cared for,” he says, wondering if it sounds too corny for a harbinger to voice aloud, but doesn't take it back.

Capitano breathes in deep, exhaling. “We harbingers do not want such things.”

“I know that,” Childe tells him, cupping another handful of bubbles and setting them atop Capitano’s raised knee. “It's not a matter of want, though. I think it's a necessity. Even Dottore has love for things, as crooked as he is. And it could be fun. I would be a great partner, you know. You'd get to see my pretty face more times throughout the day.”

Capitano scoffs. “Don't get so cocky.”

Childe places a hand under Capitano’s chin, smile widening. They don't need to talk about the technicalities now. Just as long as Capitano keeps looking at him. “Captain, you should spend the rest of your night with me,” he suggests. “Your room is so far away. It would only make sense to just stay here.”

“You make it so obvious that you want me to stay,” Capitano says, standing up from the tub.

His eyes trail down Capitano’s back as he walks to the cupboard, fetching towels. He appreciates how big his shoulders are and the muscles creating gorgeous contours on his skin. “Of course I am,” Childe says, resting his arms on the edge of the tub. “Nights are so lonely, you know.”

A few moments later, Childe is drying himself, and slipping into soft clothes. He tries to find something for Capitano, but everything is far too small. In the end, it doesn't matter. Capitano tells him he only sleeps with pajama bottoms. Sleeping with just his underwear is no different.

Childe surely doesn't mind, being able to see Capitano in all his natural, messy glory.

Capitano comes out of the bathroom with his hair wrapped in a towel. Childe finds himself grinning at the sight of a cosmic being with something as silly and mundane as a towelhead. He unwraps it then, squeezing all the water from his hair into the towel before hanging it up.

He's gorgeous , Childe thinks.

Has anyone else been able to see Capitano in such an unruly, natural state? Skin warm from their bath and gleaming against the warm light in his room, hair messy and tangled. He smells like Childe’s soap.

When he turns to walk over to Childe’s bed, he stops.

“What is it?” he questions, head at an angle.

“I get to see you like this.”

Capitano snorts as he makes his way to the bed, taking Childe by the arm to pull him off and place him on his lap. Childe easily becomes comfortable in his warmth, sighing in content when his arms come to wrap around his waist. If he could, Childe could fall asleep like this. He could get used to this despite it never happening prior to this.

“You enjoy being moved like that,” Capitano points out. “There'd be a spike in joy every time I did so.”

Damn, Childe thinks. I really can't hide anything.

“And you really like doing it,” he fires. “So there.”

“It's because you're smaller than me,” he replies, nipping at his shoulder. “It's so easy.”

Childe shifts on his lap, words making him shiver.

“Let’s rest,” Capitano says, getting them both beneath the covers. Childe leans up to turn off his lamp, quickly returning to Capitano’s side. He still keeps Childe close to him as he wraps his blankets around them, making sure they're both warm. He glances down at Childe staring up at him. “Oh.”

“What is it?”

Capitano takes a hand and squeezes his face. “You look very cute for some reason.” His thumb traces over his freckles, carefully moving under his eye. “And comfortable.”

“This feels great," Childe exclaims. “You have no idea how nice this feels.”

His hand rests on his head with a soft laugh, gently running his fingers through his hair.

Childe lets his eyes slowly fall shut.

 

---

 

The next day, Childe walks to their scheduled meeting, limping. When he sits down, he has to hold back a wince.

Their meeting starts with Pantalone talking about some business expenses they have to cut down on. Childe ignores it all, opting to stare at Capitano sitting across from him instead.

Capitano meets his gaze, flashing his eye in greeting before it disappears as quickly as it came.

“Tartaglia,” Pierro calls, snapping him out of it. “I heard both you and Capitano had brought that criminal to prison along with the stolen mora. Good.”

He nods. “An easy feat.”

His voice continues to drone on about something Childe does not care to listen to. He pretends he's listening by watching Pierro speak, nodding and chiming in when needed. When he’s sure no one is looking, he turns back to Capitano, tapping him on the ankle. It gets his attention.

He trails his foot up his leg with the point of his shoe.

Stay with me later, he mouths to him.

Capitano responds by grabbing his ankle, stopping it from going any further, much to Childe’s disappointment.

From above, Capitano appears to be sitting still, but below, he’s pushing up the cuff of Childe’s pants, gloved fingers writing something on his skin.

Childe furrows his brows in concentration.

For dinner? Capitano had written.

He raises a brow. Boring, Childe teases. But secretly, he's overjoyed at the thought of having a meal with him. This is a significant step up from how Capitano and he usually spoke. He looks at him now, finally outside the corner of his eye. Finally paying attention to him. All Childe did was bleed.

Capitano taps a finger against his ankle, starting to write something again. I’ll cook.

And Childe can't say no to that.