Despite the cheerful smile on his face, Tartaglia's eyes are like the sea - deep, dark and most importantly, terrifying.
No one knows what dwells deep within those waters and frankly, many are afraid of taking a dip in that endless sea of mystery. Who in their right mind would dare to see what this ticking time bomb has up his sleeve? Life is easier if you steer clear of him. Bow your head or simply leave, nothing good comes with dealing with the Fatui, let alone a Harbinger.
But to fall head over heels for one, well... That is a story worthy of the history books.
It was difficult to be with him. His lust for blood would never cease and the hunger for power would keep on growing.
That need doubled once you became a constant presence in his life.
Do you see him? Are you looking at him? He sure hopes so. Tartaglia lives for your words of praise, he needs it like air. Tell him he's the best even though he already knows that he is. Tell him that you love him, that you won't ever leave him and watch him take down the entire cosmos for you. Watch him come running back to you bloody and bruised, his tone quiet but sincere as he spills his undying love for you through his busted lips.
He is danger incarnate. Not even his co-workers want anything to do with him. But it's so hard not to fall into his strong, secure arms as he kisses you breathless beneath the shimmering moonlight. People avoid you due to your association with him and sometimes, you miss your old life. Sometimes you miss how the sun would kiss your face as your friends laughed behind you, picnic baskets in your hand as you made your way towards a clearing you all fancied. You can still recall the smell of fresh bread, various jams and the endless sea of fruits everyone would bring.
Those moments were true slices of paradise. They were simple but meaningful, powerful even.
Some things were more powerful however.
You traded the sun for snow. Warmth for cold. Comfortable uncertainty for caged safety. Friends who left you for a lover who was ready to kill for you.
Don't focus on them, the ginger man would tell you. You don't need any of them, not when you have him. And you would grip his jacket tight, so impeccably tight that your knuckles would turn pale. He would then proceed to kiss those knuckles with a gentleness a man like him ought not to possess.
Tartaglia was a walking contradiction of a man. And you wouldn't have him any other way.
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