Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

the classroom was finally quiet.

the chaos of the day had passed; the noisy laughter, the endless questions, and the glitter still clinging stubbornly to every surface. one by one, the children had been picked up by their guardians, their tiny footsteps fading down the hallway.

you knelt on the floor, brushing bits of paper and crumbs into your palm. your knees ached from sitting all day, but the peace was almost enough to make it worth it.

almost .

a soft tug on your sleeve broke your moment of calm.

you looked down. there stood qiqi, as pale as ever, small and quiet—the only child who seemed to have a mind of their own. she was quiet and barely spoke when not spoken to first. she was often lost in thought and wore the preschool uniform a size too big for her. you could say she was a little behind and ahead on everything at the same time.

she never seemed to mind staying after the others left. you’d always thought it was because she found comfort here, in this noisy little world.

you smiled gently, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“hey, honey,” you said softly, your usual nickname for her, hoping it would coax out a small smile.

qiqi blinked at you, then shuffled forward, bashfully pressing something into your palm.

it was a starconch.

simple-looking, blue and white like any seashell, but there was something… off about it. the colors shimmered with a strange vibrancy that made your skin prickle.

before you could ask where she found it, or why she was giving it to you, a sharp, electric shock zipped through your fingers.

your breath caught, and the world around you twisted.

suddenly there was a flash of golden-orange light.

and then a man—around six-foot-something, wild-haired, and seemingly out of place—appeared right in the middle of the classroom, right on top of your colorful circle time rug.

he looked like he’d stepped out of a battle, his clothes—if you could even call them that—-clashing with the soft pastels of the classroom. his eyes flicked around, taking in the small chairs, the scattered toys, and you.

the man pulled a spear from seemingly nowhere, holding it at the ready.

“no battlefield,” he muttered, voice low and amused, “and no summoner’s circle…”

he looked down. just a small child and a bewildered caretaker.

you blinked, still trying to process what had just happened.

your heart was pounding, equal parts confusion and something else—a faint thrill buried deep within the exhaustion.

swallowing hard, you forced yourself to stay calm.

“sir, please put your weapon away,” you said firmly, surprising yourself with the strength in your voice. “or i’ll have to ask you to step outside.”

the man’s eyes widened, a hint of surprise flickering across his face.

“are you seriously threatening me with a timeout?” his smirk was cocky, almost teasing, and utterly infuriating.

you crossed your arms, refusing to back down.

he let out a low chuckle, sheathing his spear with a casual flick.

“ tartaglia ,” he introduced himself. “demiurge of the seas.”

“this is… new,” he added, his tone shifting to curiosity. “so, who are you?”

you stared at him for a long moment, feeling irritation creeping, but you didn’t answer.

before you could think of a reply, qiqi stepped forward, voice small but clear enough for him to hear your name.

oh god.

“he’s going to protect you now,” she added.

your breath caught again.

you looked at the girl, then back at the man.

he raised a brow, clearly amused by the quiet declaration, and grinned, settling quite quickly into the room with a strange kind of ease.

and just like that, the quiet classroom wasn’t so quiet anymore.

you sighed deeply, rubbing the back of your neck.

i don’t get paid enough for this.

Chapter Text

naptime was sacred.

the lights were dimmed. a gentle lullaby buzzed softly from a speaker in the corner. most of the kids were sprawled on their nap mats in warm little piles of blankets and plush toys. the occasional twitch or sleepy murmur was normal.

you finally had a moment to breathe.

you sat at the reading nook, tea in hand, basking in the stillness that came only once a day and never lasted long enough.

and then—

woosh!

the air shifted. that strange, prickling chill crept up the back of your neck like static.

you didn’t even need to look.

you already knew.

with a barely-audible shimmer, he appeared, crouched on top of the wooden block shelf like some alley cat with stunted growth. his red scarf fluttered even though there was no breeze. his grin was too bright for this dim little room.

and worst of all… he wore nothing but pants.

“nap time?” tartaglia asked, in the voice of someone who did not understand the rules of nap time.

you jerked your head in his direction, eyes wide.

he hopped down—graceful, quiet, and still somehow so loud . his boots made no sound, but the feeling of him hit like a drumbeat.

across the room, one of the kids stirred and mumbled something in their sleep. another child furrowed their brow, like they sensed something was watching them.

you raised a finger at tartaglia in warning. “not now,” you whispered.

he blinked then had the absolute nerve to whisper back, “you looked lonely.”

you scowled. “i’m surrounded by toddlers.”

“exactly.” he stretched lazily, flexing his body—which you didn’t know if he was even aware of—and his spear nowhere in sight this time, but the aura of ‘ dangerous man with a sword complex’ still lingered.

but somehow, it wasn’t the spear that was your concern. it was that deliciously toned chest of his—

you resisted the urge to throw a pillow at him. you’d have to explain why you were hurling things at “nothing” again.

tartaglia drifted closer, hovering just beside your chair now, examining the tea in your hand like he wanted to steal it.

“i was in the middle of training, you know. one second i’m flipping over a dummy head, and then— bam ! i’m here. again. honestly your little ghost rock has terrible timing.”

“it’s a shell,” you hissed, then added under your breath, “ starconch, apparently. ”

turning back to face the room, you thought, how did he even get in there anyway?

from across the room, a child whimpered in their sleep and turned over. the air had grown noticeably cooler—not freezing, but like someone had left a door open.

you shot him a glare. “you’re scaring them.”

“i’m not even doing anything,” he said, raising his hands up in mock surrender and feigning innocence with a smile that was not at all innocent.

“she’s right,” came a quiet voice from the reading nook.

you glanced down.

qiqi had sat up, still bundled in her blanket, her violet eyes blinking slowly. she stared directly at tartaglia.

“he’s loud,” she added.

tartaglia raised a brow and gave her a lazy salute. “apologies, honey.”

oh how fast you turned to face him. “did you just—did you just call her honey?”

“you called me that yesterday,” qiqi said, tone flat as ever, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“i’m learning,” tartaglia said proudly, sending a wink your way.

you groaned and rubbed your temple.

from somewhere behind the shelves, a kid suddenly mumbled, “is someone here?” followed by another, “it feels cold.”

you sighed deeply.

i am going to get fired.

Chapter Text

the teacher’s lounge was quiet after what felt like an eternity, mercifully free of klee’s glue explosions, diona’s juice spills, and whatever that sound was from kaeya’s classroom around the hall.

you sat down with a groan, setting your tea on the table just as zhongli stepped in, carrying a metal thermos.

he inclined his head politely to you, a soft smile plastered on his face. “rough morning?”

you gave him a weary smile. “rough month. i’m considering summoning something dark and tenured just to get out of lesson planning.”

behind you, the air shifted. light dimmed, just slightly. a chair scraped back on its own.

you didn’t have to look to know what it was.

“careful,” tartaglia whispered a little too closely beside your ear. “i am dark and tenured, and yet you’re stuck with me.”

you gritted your teeth, whispering behind the cup, “not now.”

zhongli didn’t seem fazed as he poured himself tea, his voice low and thoughtful as he stared out at the window.

“if you truly wish to summon something, i recommend proper warding first. the last thing this school needs is a second one drifting around.”

you and tartaglia spoke over each other.

“sorry—another?”

“excuse me, another?”

though zhongli could only hear you.

he simply stirred his tea. “buildings like this tend to collect things. this one was a shrine, then a post-war orphanage. places of emotional residue attract... phenomena.”

you stared at him.

tartaglia made a face, floating upside down now, arms folded. “who is this guy? why does he talk like the floorboards tell him secrets.”

“probably a religious studies major…” you muttered under your breath.

zhongli chuckled. “archaeology and comparative theology, actually.”

you almost dropped your mug with how fast you jolted forward.

tartaglia narrowed his eyes at the calm man sipping tea across from you. “he looks like he flosses with the stems of a leaf. why’s he so close to you, huh? you like him? he’s got that ‘wise dad’ vibe. i bet he doesn’t leave his socks everywhere. does he have children?”

you gripped your mug tighter this time, whispering to him harshly. “don't even start. you are not allowed to get jealous of my coworkers.”

“i’m not!” tartaglia hissed, knocking a plastic fork off the counter with his foot. “i’m just... keeping... an eye… on things...”

you huffed, rolling your eyes. “sure.”

zhongli calmly added sugar to his tea. “i imagine your friend gets... chatty… when he’s displeased.”

you almost choked, eyes widened by fractions. “you can hear him?”

you felt tartaglia shift away from you.

“no,” zhongli said, maybe a little too calmly for your liking. “but i can sense him. and more importantly,” he looked directly past you—behind you, “i can tell he’s not just a ghost.”

silence fell like a stone.

you and tartaglia froze mid-gesture. zhongli’s expression, however, remained serene.

zhongli shifted in his seat to get a better position on the chair. “whatever he is, he’s old, powerful, and bound. perhaps not fully present, but still tethered, and not malicious but... interested.”

it took a while and much staring for you to generate a response.

“wait… how do you know that?”

zhongli smiled faintly, like a man closing a well-read book. “i studied spiritual entities and folklore for most of my university life. and he’s been leaving clues for weeks.”

he looked at you with a quiet knowing, maybe even a hint of sinister teasing. he started flicking things off in the air like a checklist. “the lights dim when you’re upset, the wind moves when you whisper. i’ve heard footsteps with no source, humming when the halls are empty, and the scent of brine after rainless days.”

you squinted, whispering, “wait- that was him? the humming?”

tartaglia shrugged. “look, okay. i get bored when you're in meetings. a god’s gotta keep himself busy!”

zhongli smiled faintly, a hand on his chin. “he’s not a ghost. i’d actually wager he was a god, or something similar to that.

 “possibly sealed. probably combat-oriented. definitely moody.”

oh, you thought. that was spot on.

“HEY.”

zhongli took a calm sip.

you felt tartaglia get closer to you again. he muttered under his breath, “this guy’s way too observant. someone get him tenure.”

“though i don’t know his name, i know he’s no ordinary spirit.” zhongli sipped his tea, then tilted his head slightly in tartaglia’s direction. “he carries the weight of memory. that’s always the main giveaway.”

then, turning slightly to the side, he added calmly, “and if you’re going to keep haunting my co-worker, at least be more polite about it.”

a long, slightly awkward pause engulfed the room.

then, tartaglia grumbled, answering as if the man could hear him, “...yeah, okay. fine. sorry… sir.”

you set your mug down slowly. “so, you’re saying that… you knew this whole time?”

zhongli shrugged, almost cheekily. “you work with a child who accidentally summoned—or, dare say, re-summoned—a sea god. i’ve learned not to assume that anything is normal.”

you dropped your face into your hands, but not before taking it back out again.

“wait… you saw that?”

the man only sipped his tea as he looked away from you.

oh, well. back into your hands your face did go.

(packing your things away at the teacher’s lounge after that same long, grueling day)

“why does everyone at this school know more about my spiritual life than i do…” you muttered to yourself, shoving your laptop into your bag.

“occupational hazard.” zhongli said to your right, packing his things up himself.

from your left, tartaglia toyed with the small flowerpot-shaped bobble on your desk. “he’s totally making this up. i bet he reads ghost romance novels.”

you sighed, turning to zhongli. “my friend asks if you read ghost romance novels.”

zhongli only smiles. “only the well-researched ones.”

Chapter Text

There were exactly three straws that broke the camel’s back this week.

One, your shampoo was in the fridge again.

Two, someone set your alarm to play what sounded like opera dubstep at 3:17AM.

And three?

You walked into your apartment to find Tartaglia floating horizontally across your hallway ceiling, spinning slowly like a rotisserie chicken.

That was it. That was the last straw.

He flipped lazily mid-air and waved. “Welcome home! I reorganized your spices.”

“You put the cinnamon in the toaster oven ,” you deadpanned.

“Well, it’s warm in there.” He shrugged. “Cinnamon likes warmth.”

You shut the door behind you, dropped your bag by the table with a thud, and marched into your room with your laptop in hand.

“If you won’t leave me alone, then I’ll make you.”

A few minutes later, your cursor found its way to a webpage. Curiously, Tartaglia peeked from behind your shoulder. When he got a little close, you shrugged him off.

Simple Spiritual Evictions: Cleanse Your Home (And Soul!) in 5 Easy Steps.

Perfect.

Fifteen minutes later, your living room looked something straight out of a witch-y Pinterest board.

You looked around the area.

Salt circle? Check.

Lemongrass lavender candle because the eucalyptus one gave you a headache? Lit.

Latin incantation you don’t fully understand? Pulled from a suspicious PDF. 

Willpower? … You were working on it.

As you were setting up, you could hear whistling getting closer and louder. You looked up to see Tartaglia entering the living room, holding your glitter gel pens in one hand and a juice box in the other.

“... This another one of your kindergarten projects?”

You drew the last part of the chalk sigil on the floor, tongue poking out in focus.

“Looks sort of dangerous, don’cha think, honey?”

You rolled your eyes. “No. I don’t care. I’m banishing you.”

 “Banish me where?”

 “Anywhere that’s not here.”

He took a slow sip of the juice box, unblinking, before turning to the juice box. “... Eh, I prefer lychee.”

After what felt like an eternity of setting up mountains of candles around the place, you stood in the middle of the salt circle and put your hands together, praying.

“Oh malevolent spirit, return to thine slumber, to the deep abyss from which you—”

You heard a giggle.

You looked behind you, clearly exasperated. “My god , would you quit it?”

He’s doubled over on the couch, laughing so hard he starts floating upside down.

You pressed on despite the annoying cackling from behind and read the chant twice. Then, in a grand gesture, you grabbed a handful of salt, turned around, and hurled it toward him.

For one second, he actually vanished. Gone.

You froze, eyes wide.

“... Wait. No way. Did I actually—”

Then, you could hear the toilet flush in the bathroom.

You stared at the door.

He walked out, drying his hands on your favorite towel. “Hey. Did you want dramatic thunder with that spell? I can whip that up.”

Growling, you threw the candle at his head.

He caught it without even sparing a glance. “Good form. Next time, try sea salt. I hear it’s more potent.”

The salt circle was smeared. Your floor was a mess of salt and whatever else was there. You’re half-blind from when some of the salt bounced into your eye, stinging you for God knew how long.

Tartaglia flopped onto the couch like he lived there. You thought that he pretty much did already.

You sighed. “I hate this. I hate you .”

“Again, liar.” He shifted over, just enough so that there was room for you to collapse beside him. You did.

Your eye stung. You tried to rub it, only to hiss. “Ugh… salt. Great.”

Suddenly, his fingers were near your face. Gentle, careful.

He was basically invisible, and although you could see him, you couldn’t feel him.

But, for some reason, when he touched your cheek, it was warm.

There was a hum beneath his skin like distant thunder.

You blinked up at him, mumbling, “What are you doing?”

He wiped the corner of your eye with the edge of his pointer, smirking a little but focused.

“Landlord-tenant service package. Includes hauntings and a little bit of first aid.”

Your breath caught in your throat. The world suddenly stilled. The candle flickered.

Then he leaned back with a satisfied nod, tossing your throw pillow into your lap like the moment didn’t just short-circuit your brain.

“You’re cute when you try to banish me.”

You slammed the pillow into his face.

It was already 8PM. You started cleaning thirty minutes ago, and now you busied yourself with sweeping up the salt you had hurled “to” Tartaglia with a dustpan.

He turned the failed exorcism sigil into a refrigerator magnet using one of the star stickers Qiqi had given you earlier. He looked proud as he stared at it from the couch.

“It’s modern art,” he said.

You groaned into your hands, mumbling to yourself. “If I banished myself , would that work?”

“Don’t be silly,” he said, a happy-go-lucky smile on his face as he inched closer to you. “Where would you go without me?”

You opened your mouth to argue. Everywhere, actually.

But you closed it.

With a sigh, you spoke. “You’re never leaving, are you?”

He looked at you for a moment. Another smile found its way on his pretty, ugly face.

Chapter Text

The apartment still smells like lemongrass and otherworldly bad decisions.

You’re hunched over the kitchen counter with a wet rag, salt crusting under your nails, wondering if you can sue a ghost for emotional damage. You doubt that the legal system would recognize him in the first place. He’s thousands of years old.

Did legal systems even exist during his time? You’d have to ask him that one day just out of pure curiosity.

In front of you, the failed exorcism ritual sits in the corner like a crumpled paper towel of shame. Your dignity is somewhere under the couch, next to a haunted spoon.

Behind you, Tartaglia flips lazily through a cookbook he most definitely didn’t buy. “I’ve decided to contribute to this wonderful household.”

You don’t even bother to look up. “Are you going to stop possessing everything in here?”

“Better. I’m making dinner.”

You pause your scrubbing and turn around slowly.

He grins like he just declared war on a Michelin star restaurant. “I’ve selected something called…” he eyes the page, “ pasta salad. It’s cold, so I can interact with it longer. Smart, right?”

“... But you can’t boil water.”

He laughs, loud, and closes the book, tucking it under his bicep. “Which is why we’re skipping that step.”

Not even five minutes later, he’s trying to possess the refrigerator.

It starts humming ominously and the door creaks open on its own, then slams shut every time you try to grab something. The opened yogurt you left in there is levitating.

“Let me in,” you growl, tugging the handle with force.

“You should respect your appliances,” Tartaglia says cheerfully from the other side of the counter, mixing whatever the hell he was putting in one of your bowls. “They’re cold, mysterious, emotionally distant…” he laughs, “Oh! Just like me.”

The fridge rattles and out of frustration, you groan and hit the door.

The yogurt suddenly drops to the floor. You swear your patience has handled some things worse, but the way things are going seems to prove it wrong.

Eventually, you shoo him out of the kitchen by threatening to chant the exorcism spell again—this time with sea salt . You didn’t think he was deathly afraid of it.

At the end of the chaos, dinner ends up being instant noodles. You sit with your legs crossed on the floor of the living room, stirring your food in silence. Across from you, Tartaglia hovers a few inches above the ground, elbows on the coffee table, chin in his hand as he stares at you. He’s unusually quiet.

“You know,” he says at last, voice low, “most people wouldn’t keep trying.”

You look up and blink. “Trying what?”

“To live with me. After the whole ‘cursed starconch possession’ thing.”

You roll your eyes. “I quite literally tried to exorcise you yesterday.”

“Yeah, and then you made me dinner.”

“Because you almost possessed the fridge into catching fire!”

He tilts his head. “So you do care.”

You fling a napkin at him. It phases through his smug expression and hits the wall behind him. You groan into your hands.

But when you glance up, his expression has softened.

His hand hovers above your cup, fingers barely grazing the rim.

“You didn’t throw me out,” he says again, quieter.

Something in your chest stirs. A quiet flutter. You don’t know what to do with it, so you sip your soup and pretend not to feel anything.

A beat passes.

Then you mutter, “You’re not the worst roommate I’ve had.”

He grins, big and toothy. “I’ll take it.”

You try to hide your smile behind your spoon.

Later, you find your fridge magnet sigil has been stuck on the door—held up by a glittery star sticker that definitely came from Qiqi’s folder.

Underneath, in ghostly calligraphy:

“Thanks for not banishing me.

Yet.”

You sigh.

And then smile.

Just a little.

Chapter Text

Tartaglia materializes in the staff lounge with every intention of messing with the vending machine and maybe moving the air conditioner remote somewhere inconvenient.

He expects the sound of keyboards clacking fervently, coffee sips, and maybe perfectly timed yawning from the short brown-haired woman who always wore red.

What he doesn’t expect is to hear your laugh .

He floats to the ceiling, into the vents, and presses himself against the tiles, peeking through the grills and the lights.

You're sitting with Kaeya, elbow propped on the table, poking at your lunch like it’s background noise.

Kaeya says something that Tartaglia doesn't catch and it makes you laugh . Again, It’s not just a polite laugh, it’s a real, head-tilted, teeth-showing kind of laugh. The kind Tartaglia usually only hears when he's knocking over your laundry rack at 2 AM on purpose.

He scoffs, “He’s not that pretty.”

Kaeya leans in slightly. His voice is smooth, effortless, all velvet and teasing.

“You know, there’s a new place down the street. Good shabu-shabu. Quiet enough to hear yourself think.”

You shrug, smiling. “Sounds nice.”

“Do you have any plans later?”

You stop to think. “No, not much. Why?”

Kaeya smiles. “Dinner?”

Tartaglia slams his head into the ceiling beam.

He phases halfway out of the ceiling by the corner of the room as your lips form the cursed words, “Yeah. Sure,” with that— that smile on your face.

Sure? SURE?

You don’t know it but your ghost is short-circuiting just a mere few inches behind you.

Kaeya leans back, relaxed. “Great. I’ll pick you up after work. Wear something nice, or don’t. I’m not picky.”

You laugh again.

Tartaglia begins planning Kaeya’s spiritual demise. Nothing violent, just little things: mild haunting; tiny plagues; misplaced keys forever—the worst things a teacher can even experience that doesn’t involve any blood or broken bones.

You arrive home and toss your bag on the couch, humming and suspiciously cheerful. Tartaglia manifests on top of your kitchen counter, looking at you like you just massacred his entire family.

“So, you and… Kaeya, was it?"

You pause as you remove your coat. “Oh my god. You were there ?”

“No, just happened to overhear through the vents .”

You roll your eyes. “You’re haunting the air conditioning system now?”

“Don’t deflect. He asked you out!”

“It’s not a date,” you say, hanging your coat. “It’s just dinner.”

“ Just dinner? With the guy who called you ‘charming’ while adjusting his sleeves and flipping his hair?”

You blink. “You saw that?”

“I saw everything .”

You throw a dish towel at him. It passes through his face and he pouts like he felt it.

An hour or two later, you’re in your room, changing into something presentable—comfy but decent, just in case. You dab on a little cologne, not because you care, just because… you’re polite. Why not, right?

Tartaglia hovers by the mirror like a judgmental parent.

“Do you always put that much effort into people who aren’t spiritually tethered to you? ”

You arch a brow. “Are you mad?”

“Spirits don’t get mad. We get… metaphysically unsettled.”

“Sounds a lot like jealousy.”

“Sounds a lot like betrayal.”

You walk past him to grab your bag. He floats alongside you like a dog.

“What does he even have that I don’t?”

“A pulse.”

He gasps.

You laugh as you close the door behind you. “Don’t wait up.”

Oh, believe him when he absolutely waits up.

You come home later than usual.

Tartaglia is waiting, upside down on your couch like a vampire bat.

You’re glowing, softly, from laughter, broth and gossip combined. You didn’t even notice time pass. Kaeya’s easy to talk to. Fun. Good company.

But your ghost? Sulking.

“You were gone a long time. ”

“We had dessert.”

“Oh, dessert ? What kind?”

“Cheesecake.”

“What a disgrace.”

You kick off your shoes. “Okay, grandpa.”

“I’m not old. I’m ancient . There’s a difference.”

“Mhm.” You drop your bag on the couch. “Did you haunt anything while I was out?”

“No, I just sat here, alone, thinking about betrayal. Also, your fridge is out of alignment. I fixed it, again. I didn’t even think about payment for my services.”

You smile to yourself as you pour water into your mug. You turn to him. “You’re so dramatic. Thank you for fixing the fridge.”

He huffs. “You laughed more with him in one hour than you’ve laughed with me all week.”

You stare. “You’re counting ?”

“I don’t count, I keep emotional tabs.”

You walk past him, a smile on your face. “ Good night, Tartaglia.”

He sinks halfway into the couch as you enter your room.

“Tell him if he hurts you, I’ll haunt his future children.”

You poke your head out the door teasingly. “Don’t you mean our future children?”

“Go sleep, why don’t you?!”

Chapter Text

the school trip is supposed to be simple.

it’s supposed to be a calm, educational walk through mount qingce. just trees, birds, fallen leaves, and small children poking random things—probably dangerous things, which you tell them off for—with sticks.

you're guiding your junior preschool class behind the senior ones, walking the trail behind your co-teachers. tartaglia is floating beside you like a suspicious breeze, occasionally critiquing the terrain.

“why are you doing this again?” he asks, eyeing a muddy patch with disdain. “this is how horror movies start.”

“because kids deserve nature and fresh air.”

“or maybe because the school says so,” he retorts. “and you say that, but you've almost stepped on three snails and a mushroom that looked like it could be from sumeru.”

you roll your eyes. “yeah, keep counting. i’m trying to be inspiring to the kids.”

everything is going fine. relatively.

until qiqi suddenly stops.

one second she’s holding your hand. and the next, she’s frozen stiff in the middle of the trail, looking to the side with her eyes wide and body trembling.

you turn to see where she’s looking when you hear something—a low rumble.

growling.

a stray dog bursts out of the underbrush—scruffy, dirty, probably just hungry. but it’s barking, snapping, and very not safe.

the kids scream.

one runs behind a tree before kaeya swoops in to grab them.

you try to catch her attention. “qiqi? honey?”

but she just shuts down. she doesn’t move. doesn’t blink.

“hey… hey, it’s okay,” you start, shielding her with your arms.

but before you can do anything else, tartaglia appears in front of you.

not his usual chill, flirty self, and not teasing, no.

sharp. cold. dead serious. his aura gave it away without even sparing a glance.

he doesn’t say a word. he just moves, stepping between you and qiqi and the dog like a dragon guarding his treasure.

and somehow, the dog does a complete three-sixty.

it stops barking, its ears flattening. then, it lowers its body and slinks back into the brush, almost like something bigger, older, just told it to run .

back at the bus, qiqi doesn’t speak. neither on the ride back to school nor when you offer her snacks.

not even when tartaglia, who’s still hovering nearby, tense and solid, tries floating a juice box toward her.

you carry her into your apartment that night, heart aching. she curls into your side on the couch without a word.

you tuck a blanket around her with a hand, another with the remote to turn on cartoons.

you sit beside her, eyes semi-glued to the screen. you don’t feel her do the same thing.

she falls asleep, gripping your hoodie sleeve.

you make the subconscious effort to carry her to your room.

later, when the apartment’s quiet and qiqi’s finally snoring in your bed, tartaglia reappears, pacing your kitchen.

“why is she here?” he asks, voice laced not with unkind but concern. “doesn’t she have family?”

you shake your head. “no emergency contacts. i think… i think she’s used to being alone.”

he frowns, brows in a knot. “she’s a kid.”

you sigh, arms around yourself. “exactly.”

he doesn’t answer. he’s flickering a little around the edges like a hologram, as if the earlier incident took a toll on him.

“you take care of that kid like she’s yours,” he says eventually. “why would you want me around?”

it’s not sharp, not even bitter, just… confused. like he doesn’t understand what he’s doing in your space, why he’s in your kitchen, or why you aren’t yelling at him to leave.

you sigh again, but it’s not a sigh of exasperation.

“because you’re part of this now,” you say, your tone uncharacteristically gentle, “whether you like it or not.”

he looks at you. you’re not sure what he sees or if he knows what he sees.

“i’m not safe, you know,” he says, looking down at his hands. “it’s dangerous enough for you to be near me, let alone a kid barely half your age.”

you nod in understanding. he expects you to walk away, to go to qiqi.

you move closer to him. “but you know how to protect people.”

“that’s not really the same thing, hon.”

“it’s enough.”

and then he stands there, still for once, and doesn’t flicker like he’s running out of time.

it’s the next morning, the day after the school trip that would’ve been nothing but interesting to people your age.

however, not for the little girl currently sitting in the comfort of your home.

you gently place the mug of warm milk on the coffee table and gesture for qiqi to take it, but she doesn’t move.

she’s curled up on the couch, knees to chest, your oversized hoodie swallowing her whole. she’s been quiet since she woke up—quiet in that too-small way, like she's trying to disappear.

you sit beside her, careful not to crowd. “honey,” you say softly, “do you want to talk about it?”

she shakes her head. no.

you nod. “okay.”

a moment passes. then, she whispers, “can i stay here tonight again?”

you reach over, gentle and cautious, and wrap your arm around her. “you can stay as long as you need to.”

from the kitchen, tartaglia watches, shadow of a presence and quiet for once. he says nothing, but when you glance his way, his eyes soften.

he doesn’t understand how someone so gentle ended up tied to someone like him .

but for now, he just stays.

and qiqi, finally, leans forward to grab the mug from the table.

Chapter Text

it started with zhongli an hour after work, just when the last of the kids were picked up and the sun began dipping behind the trees. his timing, as always, was too perfect to be accidental.

without much preamble, he handed you a book—old, bound in dark, cracked leather that felt heavier than it looked. it smelled of dust and something metallic. you weren’t sure what it was.

“this,” he said in that calm, deliberate way of his, “may help you resolve your… situation.”

you blinked, staring down at it. “resolve,” you repeated, because it sounded too polite to be comforting.

he simply nodded, gaze steady as ever. “it’s an option… should you ever decide that you're ready to let go of your unwanted guest.”

unwanted .

… funny word, isn’t it?

that night, the apartment was quiet.

qiqi’s already half-asleep on the couch, curled beneath a blanket with your old stuffed toy tucked under one arm, her breathing soft and steady. she’s gotten comfortable here. maybe a little too comfortable.

tartaglia sat nearby, sprawled out in his usual spot. he’s watching some old cartoon on the television with the volume down, feet kicked up like this is just another ordinary evening in a perfectly ordinary home.

and you? you’re sat at the kitchen table, staring down at that book—on that page—like it’s about to bite you.

how could you not? it was all right there. the instructions were simple—disturbingly so. draw the circle, light the candle, speak the words.

erase him. it would be easy.

one hour from now, you could be free. no more haunting. no more strange, late-night conversations with a sarcastic ghost who’s far too charming for his own good. no more weird tension. no more flickering lights or half-visible smiles.

just you, qiqi, and a quiet, ordinary life.

you glanced up from the page. tartaglia carefully adjusted qiqi’s blanket, tucking it more securely around her shoulders as she stirs. he didn’t even notice you watching him.

his hands were steady. gentle, even, and something inside you twisted painfully as you watched him.

you marched towards your room and headed for your closet before opening it and sliding the book deep into one of the drawers like it never even existed.

out of sight. out of mind.

later that night, after qiqi’s asleep in your bed—because she’s taken to sleeping there lately—you find yourself washing dishes you don’t even remember dirtying, standing in the soft hum of the kitchen light.

hours after having tucked qiqi into your bed, you found yourself washing dishes you didn’t even remember using, standing in the soft blur of the kitchen light.

tartaglia drifted in quietly, leaning against the doorframe with that usual lopsided smirk. “you’ve been quiet tonight,” he said, voice casual, but his eyes watched you all too closely.

you shrugged, soap up to your forearms. “just tired.”

he tilted his head, clearly unconvinced but choosing to let it go with a shrug of his own.

still, something about his presence felt heavier tonight. he was more solid, more… there, per se. watching you like he already knew your secrets deep down.

he didn’t.

before you could stop yourself, the question slipped out, a little too fast and too soft, like youd been holding it in for far too long.

“if i… if i did find a way to free you,” you ask, forcing your voice to stay even, “would you take it?”

the words hung in the air between you.

tartaglia’s expression shifted, just barely—a flicker of surprise to something unreadable. then, slowly, his lips curled into that familiar grin—sharp, charming, too quick to be real.

“well, yeah… of course i would,” he said a little too easily, leaning against the counter, his voice light and too practiced. “i mean, i’ve got better things to do than haunt some stressed-out preschool teacher forever, y’know?”

you forced a laugh, even though it stung more than you expected it to. but then, just as you glanced away thinking that was the end of it, he added, quieter this time,

“but… i’m fine with staying here. until you find a way otherwise, of course.”

your breath caught in your throat. he said it like it was nothing, barely a casual afterthought.

but it wasn’t. to you, it wasn’t casual at all.

you glanced up and met his eyes, and in that split second, you saw it. the things he didn’t say aloud, the things neither of you would.

he didn’t want to leave.

but he’s left it up to you. he always left it up to you.

amongst the chaos of your and his silence, an eye peeked out from the open crack of the bedroom door. qiqi, who stood quietly behind the light that seeped through, small and hidden in the shadows, clutched the stuffed toy against her chest.

she watched silently, her gaze steady in that eerie, knowing way that only children—only she seemed to have.

she knew she was too young to fully understand what was happening, but she knew enough.

she watched him glance away, watched you stare at the floor, hearing the words neither of you were saying.

oh, she thought to herself, gripping the stuffed toy a little tighter. they don’t want to leave each other.

she didn’t say it aloud, didn’t have to.

she just turned around and shuffled quietly back to bed, leaving two adults alone in their stubborn yet endearing silence.

Chapter Text

the storm came in fast.

one second, the sky was clear. the next, a mess of grey clouds and harsh wind that howled like a lion.

the other apartment tenants heard the way the city mewled under it, the way the rain pounded sharply and mercilessly against their windows like a battle-hungry beast. thunder rattled the glass and bright flashes turned the whole building into a nightclub if it catered to demons.

classes of every level got canceled earlier. obviously should. smart call. no one should be out in this mess just to get a couple marks in.

still, you’re hunched at the kitchen table, stubbornly working by candlelight like you’re trying to pretend the storm wasn’t knocking at your door. your laptop was long dead—power’s out. and yet, here you were, filling out worksheets by hand with a pencil gripped way too tight.

qiqi was curled up on the couch, bundled in layers of blankets, clutching her stuffed toy to her chest like it was the last safe thing in the world.

and the other battle-hungry beast? lounging by the window, because where else would he be? watching lightning less powerful than he was tearing through the sky.

“y’know,” he said, voice lazy but just loud enough to make you jump. because you did jump, even if you pretended not to. “most people would take this as a sign to call it a night.”

you didn’t look up. “i have work,” you muttered as another thunderclap rattled the apartment, causing another flinch to lurch out of your body.

oh, you tried to hide it—but he saw it. he always saw it.

he drifted a little closer, a small smirk on his face. “scared of a little thunder, teacher?”

you pressed the pencil harder onto the worksheet. “no.”

he sighed. liar .

qiqi shifted under her blanket fortress. she hadn’t said much, but he—hell, even you, could tell she was spooked too. her eyes, oh so wide, tracked the window, every flash of light reflected in them like she watched something crawl out of the dark.

the unattended silence was left stretched, then another boom rang through and the whole apartment jumped with it.

you squeezed your eyes shut for a second, barely any movement registered by the human eye, but he noticed.

“wow, you’re both really jumpy tonight,” he said matter-of-factly, leaning over your shoulder with a teasing grin. 

you glare up at him, stubborn as ever. “ i’m not.”

but you don’t push him away, either.

the man watched the both of you for a moment longer, watching the way your hands trembled slightly on the page, the way qiqi curled tighter under her blankets so small and silent and trying not to look afraid.

then suddenly, it wasn’t funny anymore.

something crept into him—a foreign feeling he couldn’t quite register. he hated the thunder, how loud it was in this small but spacious apartment, and how helpless it made you look.

without thinking, i shift my focus—reach out to the apartment itself, to the old walls and the air buzzing with static. i nudge it, just enough.

without giving it much thought, he shifted his focus to the walls of the apartment, as if reaching out to the old walls and the static-filled air.

and after a few moments…

you looked up and around your surroundings. the thunder didn’t seem so loud anymore.

it’s still there, but distant and muffled, like it had been pushed behind some thick wall neither of you could see.

you blinked, pausing mid-pencil stroke. “is the storm dialing down now?”

he shrugged beside you, leaning back against the couch with a cocky grin. “can’t have my summoner glitching out over sky noises.”

you shot him a suspicious glance, then look away with no question.

figures .

later, after the storm quieted down to a real dull hum, you finally let yourself crash on the floor, pulling out the old nap mats you kept around for qiqi’s afternoon naps.

you settled in without a word and dragged a blanket over yourself and qiqi both. she didn’t even hesitate, just tucked herself right up against you, eyes already slipping shut.

from his spot near the couch, tartaglia watched as your breathing slowed and your eyes fluttered shut.

you looked… more peaceful like this. better.

no stubborn scowl, no forced calm. none of that. just soft and quiet breathing, your arm curled around qiqi like it was the most natural thing in the world.

he didn’t realize he’d been staring until the candle flickered again, close to dying out.

he could move. he should move.

but he didn’t.

he just sat there, cross-legged, and watched the two of you drift off in the dim, thunder-muted dark.

and for the first time in a very long while, he didn’t really want to look away.

Chapter Text

this all started with a shopping trip.

it was one of those lazy weekends, bright and sunny, with the city buzzing with people and qiqi trailing between you and Tartaglia like a tiny ghost herself—quietly staring at everything with those wide eyes that never seemed to miss anything.

you didn’t plan to buy anything big. just groceries, small errands—the usual.

but then, qiqi stopped in front of a tiny electronics stall. it was a cluttered little shop tucked away between two buildings, stuffed with old cassette players, radios, and gadgets that looked older than you.

and there it was, an old, cheap, and battered voice recorder.

qiqi’s gaze locked onto it immediately . “that one,” she mumbled, pointing.

you blinked, following her gaze. “you want… a voice recorder?”

she nodded, utterly serious. “for talking to other ghosts,” she said simply, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

then, you laughed. you actually laughed right there in the street, drawing looks from a few passersby which hushed you immediately.

but you bought it anyway. of course you did.

“i love where her mind’s at,” tartaglia muttered beside you as he watched you hand over the money, trying not to smile too much as qiqi cradled it like it was treasure.

the recorder became a household thing after that.

qiqi would toddle around the apartment with it, sometimes pressing the button and mumbling little messages to whatever ghost she thought might be listening.

… which was tartaglia, obviously.

he’d humor her always, like flickering the lights or shifting the curtains when she asked.

you never seemed to mind, even occasionally entertaining her with your own quips.

you just smiled and let them play, and he had no concerns with it.

and that’s how it started.

that’s how he got comfortable with it—a little too comfortable.

it was late in the night now. rain tapped softly at the window and the whole apartment hummed with that sleepy quiet.

qiqi’s already in bed, recorder still clutched in her hands as she snoozed under too many blankets.

you were sat beside her, reading a textbook with your legs tucked beneath the comforter, the soft lamplight painting your face a warm shade of yellow.

it’s quiet. too quiet.

he glanced at the recorder again. and before he could stop himself—just for fun, just to pass the time—he drifted toward it, slipping into the plastic crevices.

possessing objects wasn’t hard, he’d done it plenty before.

and qiqi was so used to him playing along with her games that he didn’t even think twice as he let his voice filter through the cheap little speaker.

“ooooooh,” i groaned dramatically, making the thing crackle just loud enough to hear from your spot across the room. “ghost of the apartment speaking…”

you snort without looking up. “ real mature.”

but he kept going, messing around, whispering nonsense and letting his voice warp through the static just to get a laugh out of you.

harmless .

that was what he thought.

the bad part happened later. much later, when the hands of the clock passed by the number 12.

you’d gone to bed. qiqi was already long asleep and the recorder lied on top of the side table beside you.

the apartment was dark and quiet except for the soft ticking of the clock on the wall.

and then— click.

the recorder whirred to life.

no one touched it. no one pressed anything.

but it played anyway.

first, it was just static. faint, low crackles.

then—

“i like the way you laugh.”

tartaglia’s heart stopped .

my voice. my voice.

it was low, unguarded, soft in a way he’d never let it be when anyone was listening.

he remembered now—words muttered earlier, barely over a whisper, when you weren’t paying attention. things he thought were private, things he said out loud when he thought no one could hear.

the recorder kept it. it kept everything.

“you’re stronger than you look, y’know.”

the words hit the air like a punch to the gut— his gut. he couldn’t move, couldn’t stop it.

it just kept playing .

“what a mess you are,” his voice drew from the speaker, softer now and almost fond, “keeping a ghost like me around.”

silence.

then tartaglia, who was in the shadow in the corner of your room, was too horrified to even flicker away and into the walls. all he could do was hover there, eyes flickering between your sleeping body and the recorder beside you as every word landed heavy in the air.

when the recorder finally clicked off, the apartment felt too small—too loud with everything he wasn’t saying.

he saw your breathing hitch, and for a second he thought he was cooked.

but without saying a word, you just slipped further under the covers, and left him there staring after you, every inch of him burning with something he couldn’t even name.

beneath the covers, your face burned a bright shade of red.

Chapter Text

you were not sick.

you refused.

sure, your head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. your nose was a disaster. your throat was on fire. and fine, maybe you were seeing slight double—but none of that mattered.

you had work to do.

you had to finish these adoption papers for qiqi. there was no way around it.

so you dragged yourself to the couch, bundled yourself in blankets, and plopped the paperwork on your lap, determined to power through the swirling fog in your head.

but of course— he showed up with a smirk on his big, murky, little face.

“you look like you’re dying,” tartaglia’s voice drew from somewhere above you, smug as ever.

you didn’t even glance up. “i’m fine,” you rasped, scribbling something that may or may not resemble actual handwriting. you tried to stifle a sneeze.

“you’re not fine,” he retorted immediately, his tone infuriatingly matter-of-fact. “you’re warm. i don’t like it. fix that.”

you glared at him at, well, the general direction of where his voice came from, with bleary eyes.

“then stop hovering.”

there was a beat of silence.

then, you felt it.

the air shifted and felt cooler, like a soft breeze slipping in from nowhere, soothing your burning skin.

you shivered, half from the sudden chill, half from the fact that you knew it’s him.

“knock it off,” you muttered, your voice giving out halfway.

he didn’t listen. of course he didn’t.

instead, the glass of water slid across the coffee table toward your hand, as if nudged by invisible fingers.

you paused, staring at it, then sighed. you were too sick to argue with moving objects tonight.

you grabbed it and took a sip, too exhausted to question the physics.

time blurred.

you weren’t sure how long it had been. minutes? hours? the fever made everything soft and distant.

you thought you heard him muttering nearby, a constant stream of snarky nonsense.

“honestly, what kind of fragile human catches a cold this bad…”

“you’re not allowed to die. you haven’t even fed the fish.”

you frowned at that one. we don’t have fish, you thought fuzzily, but you were too far gone to say it out loud.

he was still there, though, and you felt it—his presence hovering nearby, flickering in and out of focus like a heartbeat you couldn’t quite catch.

there was a brief moment when you were sure you felt a hand—cool, almost weightless—hover near your face, brushing just close enough to ease the heat from your skin.

it was comforting, strangely so.

you let yourself sink into it, too tired to care.

“don’t go…”

it slipped out in a soft, cracked whisper—barely more than a breath—but the second it was gone, you felt the air tighten.

something in the room froze .

oh.

oh .

you were too far gone to process it, but some distant part of you realized what just happened.

still, you didn’t wake up. instead, you drifted deeper, lulled by the cool air and his quiet, steady presence near you.

you thought, just for a second, that you felt yourself tilt sideways, head bumping against something that wasn’t soft or quite hard, but warm, solid, and steady.

you didn’t have the energy to question it.

all you knew was that, right before sleep pulled you under completely, you felt safe .

when you woke up the next morning, alone in bed with the fever slightly broken, you stared at the ceiling for a long, long time.

you couldn’t remember much about last night, just hazy images, cool air, and quiet muttering, a request whispered into the dark,

and a faint warmth beside you—gone before you could even hold onto it.

Chapter Text

you didn't mean to fall asleep. you really didn’t.

but the classroom was quiet, a little too quiet. the kids were long gone, the sun was slipping low beyond the windows, and the soft rustle of papers was almost soothing.

you’re exhausted and heavy.

you barely noticed when your head dipped down onto your arms, the warmth of the room pulling you under.

when you opened your eyes, the classroom hadn’t changed.

everything looked the same, the soft glow of sunlight, the quiet hum of late afternoon. but it felt different. lighter, warmer, and still.

and there he was.

standing by the window like he’d always belonged there—solid, real, no ghostly flicker or strange aura.

just him. tartaglia .

he looked… normal. relaxed, even.

you blinked slowly, too calm to be surprised. “you’re not supposed to be here,” you murmured, voice thick with sleep.

he smiled, small, easy, with that familiar glimmer in his eyes.

“didn’t exactly plan on it,” he said, a tilt his head. “but here we are.”

there was no bite to his words. no teasing edge. it was just… simple and honest.

you didn’t question it. in this strange, soft space, it made sense.

he looked different here, brighter somehow, as if the sunlight itself was clinging to him. his orange hair caught the glow, his features softened by the quiet peace that filled the room.

you couldn’t look away.

“you look…” you paused, searching for the right word, “real.”

he laughed, a low, warm sound that curls in your chest. “i could say the same.”

there was no rush here, no sense of urgency.

you talked about nothing; things that didn’t matter. words drifted like clouds, soft and slow. his voice was steady and grounding. you could sit here forever.

and somehow, you were standing closer now.

you didn’t remember moving.

he reached out, carefully, like he’s testing something, and his fingers brushed yours.

you inhaled sharply. warm. real.

your breath caught, but neither of you pulled away.

instead, his hand shifted, gently cradling yours. “see?” he murmured, voice quiet enough to sink straight to your heart. “in here, i can touch you.”

your chest tightened. it shouldn’t feel like this— safe, comforting, like the world shrunk to just the two of you.

you stared at him, heart heavy in your throat. “what happens when i wake up?” you asked, your voice softer than you intend.

he didn’t answer right away. his thumb moved absentmindedly over your knuckles slow, steady, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

“does it matter?” he said, smiling faintly. “we’re here now.”

something about his words lingered, sinking deeper, and still, you didn’t pull away.

you stayed there, wrapped in the hush of the dream, hands intertwined like it was the most natural thing in the world.

you didn’t want to wake up.

but you felt it eventually, that gentle tug, the dream having begun to fray at the edges.

his hand tightened slightly around yours, just before everything started to fade.

“you’re warm,” he said softly, his voice the last thing you hear. “don’t forget that.”

you woke with a start, alone, back in the dim classroom.

everything was still.

the sun was gone now, the room quiet except for your own heartbeat, steady but too loud.

you sat there for a moment, staring down at your hands, empty, but still tingling with the ghost of his touch.

across the room, tartaglia was there, translucent and twinkling underneath the sunlight, watching you carefully.

neither of you spoke.

but the air between you felt heavier. thicker.

and you both remembered.

Chapter Text

you really should’ve thrown it out.

the starconch sits on your shelf, faintly glowing under the afternoon sun filtering through your windows. it hasn’t made a sound in weeks, hasn’t pulsed since, well, since everything started.

you’ve been pretending it’s harmless and that you’re not bound to it, or, rather, to him .

but, alas, you should’ve known better.

it happens on a quiet afternoon after the kids have already gone home.

you’re tidying up, distracted and more tired than you realize, when you hear it. it’s a soft, faint hum that you’d barely heard if you weren’t so instinctively alert.

you glance up to the shelf by your desk just in time to see it. the starconch—glowing brighter now—in faint, rhythmic pulses of light like a heartbeat.

you freeze, broom in hand. “is that supposed to happen?” you mutter under your breath as you stare at the glowing starconch, heart tightening.

before you can even move, there’s a sudden pulse in your body, as if something inside you has broken loose.

you stumble, catching yourself against the desk as your head spins. your heart isn’t racing, but something inside you is.

qiqi, who you remember was sitting by the windowsill, is now by your side, clutching the hem of your shirt with a worried expression on her face. she calls out your name, but it’s blurred by each throb of your heartbeat.

suddenly, a pulse rushes up your arm, spreading like electricity shockwaves under your skin. it’s not painful, it’s heavy, dragging you by the head.

you stagger, gripping the edge of the shelf, chest tightening and vision swaying.

then you hear it, and you realize you’re not alone in your head anymore.

somewhere in the building, tartaglia roams around when the cold-bloodedness drops in him. it’s sudden and surprising, and he finds himself wide-eyed at the foreign feeling of his body getting lighter and lighter until the weight on his shoulders lessen and he’s breathing scentless air.

he breathes in real, pure air and not the putrid smell of violence and blood alike. the crease between his eyebrows deepen.

and something tells him to go check up on you.

heat moves through you sharply and relentlessly, and your body tenses on instinct, every muscle screaming to move—to fight.

your heart races wildly, but it’s not your own heartbeat you’re hearing.

it’s tartaglia’s.

his fury crashes through you in waves—feral, ruthless waves. his thoughts tangle with the hunger for battle, and it burns in your veins. primal. overwhelming.

you gasp, clutching your chest.

somewhere in the haze, you hear his voice, panicked and raw. “ what did you do? ”

you try to answer but your throat tightens, and you can’t seem to voice anything out. because suddenly, your emotions aren’t yours anymore.

your hands curl into fists, mirroring his own rage. the emotions are his .

your breath quickens as his instincts roar louder, and his panic crashes into you like a tidal wave.

you feel yourself slipping outward, your own emotions bleeding through your body. the hesitation, worry, stubborn calm that doesn’t quite cover your quiet fear slips out.

and then, something else fights back.

just outside your classroom, tartaglia’s body jerks before he could phase through the wall, and for a moment, his fury stutters.

a certain calmness starts spilling into him, dulling his rage and softening the edges of his violent instincts, and his bloodlust fades before being replaced by something… softer.

he curses under his breath, frown deepening as he stares down at his own body. “what the hell is happening?”

weird emotions wrap around him like silk: determination, warmth, and something else he couldn’t quite name.

then, all of a sudden, he’s latching onto it, uncontrollably, and he doesn’t know what to do.

you can feel it all: the fight-or-flight, the readiness of someone always poised for battle, rage, fear, and bloodlust. they flicker through you too fast, too much.

your hands clench into fists before you can stop them, a muscle memory that isn’t yours. 

you feel tartaglia’s presence beside you, hovering.

“break it,” his voice snaps through you. “smash the conch now .”  

but you can’t move. your body won’t listen, locked in place as his emotions drown you. you want to scream, but all you can do is stare as the feeling tightens.

“you shouldn’t feel this,” tartaglia says, his voice breaking in your ear, filled with guilt. “i didn’t want you to feel this.”

his emotions twist again, but slower this time, less violent, more aching, and he receives it with a hiss. a valley sprawls out inside him, filled with longing, loneliness, and that same fierce need you’ve both been dancing around since the day he appeared.

“stop,” he mutters, but his voice is quieter now, less fierce and almost dazed. “you… you’re making it worse.”

but it isn’t worse.

it’s honest.

your body trembles, not from fear, but from the sheer weight of it all.

and then, as sudden as it came, it snaps.

you fall forward, the lightheadedness bringing you down with it, and tartaglia catches you with an arm around your waist.

then everything is quiet again.

the overwhelming feeling subsides slowly, replaced by the sound of your heartbeat returning to its normal state—in tandem with your breaths, slowing down.

you could feel his breath fanning you down. it’s shallow, like he’s still drowning in everything.

neither of you speak. you don’t think you could even do so, but you don’t have to.

and judging by the way he won’t stop staring, you know he feels you too.

you succumb to the fatigue and go limp in his hold.

you awaken in the comfort of your own home, on the couch, surrounded by countless pillows and blankets, and a cold pack placed on your forehead.

you blink away the sleep and the subsiding headache, trying to find the strength to sit up.

“no, don’t stand up yet.”

you turn to see qiqi by your side, holding a mug of milk with the steam still emanating from it.

“you’re still tired.” she places the mug on the coffee table. “please rest.”

you were about to pull your head back onto the pillow when you sight bandages all over her hands.

suddenly, you’re sitting up and fighting against the headache of doing so too fast just to grab ahold of her hands.

“what happened?” you ask her, the frown on your face evidently deepening as you smoothed the pads of your thumbs over her hands. “did you hurt yourself?”

qiqi looks up at you, then away bashfully.

before she could open her mouth, a voice booms from the kitchen.

“she hurt herself breaking the starconch.”

you turn to see tartaglia there, face full of indescribable emotion. he’s neither frowning nor smiling, and it confuses you.

you look back at qiqi, then to him, then back to her.

your hand finds its way on your head, massaging slowly.

he pushes up to walk to you. “you hurt? hit your head anywhere?”

you shake your head, looking down at yourself. “no, i’m fine.”

qiqi smiles, then turns to get the mug and give it to you. you receive it with a smile and “thank you.”

you dip down to sip at your drink when you feel a hand turn your head to the side. you flinch when you lock eyes with tartaglia, faces mere inches away from each other.

qiqi covers her eyes.

you open your mouth to scold him.

“the starconch is broken now,” he says, voice laced with slight frustration and something else. “so, i guess, until we find another object to link myself to… i’m fully yours .”

your breath hitches, eyes wide.

he smirks. “you seem to like that idea.”

you scoff, turning away. “shut up, no, i don’t.”

he hums, joining you on the couch, leaving the conversation there.

qiqi looks between the both of you before inserting herself in the middle. you raise the mug up to give her space to climb onto the couch.

you take a couple more sips of the milk, the warmth filling you up.

you could get used to this.

you glance to the side, the sight of qiqi and tartaglia talking together instantly making you feel better.

yeah. you could.

Chapter Text

You weren't planning to leave the house today.

Zhongli had offered to take over your class again. Something about how you'd been looking pale lately, and how Qiqi would be safe with him for the day. You didn't have the energy to argue, not when Tartaglia kept giving you sidelong glances like he agreed with the whole "take a break" campaign.

But staying indoors made your skin itch today. There was something heavy in the air—thicker than usual. The light seemed off somehow. So you found yourself wandering the quieter streets of town, bundled up in your scarf, ignoring how Tartaglia drifted beside you like a shadow.

"You're twitchy today," he remarked, a half-smile on his face, hands casually folded behind his head.

"I've just... noticed weird things lately," you muttered, more to yourself than him.

"Weird? You're walking with a battle-hungry spirit bound to your soul. You're going to have to be more specific."

You glared at him, but the words tumbled out anyway. "Shadows moving too long. Reflections not matching people. Coins that never hit the ground."

His smile faded just a little. "Hmph... Noticed that, did you?"

"You knew?"

"Of course. You're connected to me now. Things beyond normal senses will start slipping through the cracks. You just happened to open your eyes at the wrong time."

Your stomach churned.

But before you could press further, something caught your eye—a small, delicate pendant resting on a vendor's table. It was shaped like a seashell, silver and swirling with faint, unnatural patterns.

It hummed in your chest. You reached toward it, almost entranced.

"Don't touch that," Tartaglia snapped, instantly serious.

His tone makes you freeze.

You blink, startled.

And just as your fingers graze the pendant, everything shatters .

Gone was the street you just walked into.

You stood submerged in an endless sea of red and black, heavy like the bottom of the ocean.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

Your lungs refused to fill, your limbs moved like they were weighted down by chains, and far in the distance, voices echoed—soft whispers, cries, and something darker beneath it all. 

"You shouldn't be here," a voice crooned, sending a chill down your spine.

Phantom hands brushed against your skin. You fought against it, but everything kept dragging you down.

Suddenly, as did your entrance to this otherworldly dimension, a violent tug—as though a hook had latched into your chest.

The world shattered around you. You slammed back into reality, gasping for air, collapsing straight into Tartaglia's arms.

He was furious. "What the hell were you thinking?" he snarled, voice ragged. "You were gone. You left me. That isn't supposed to happen!"

You couldn't even speak, still dizzy, but you felt his hands clutching you tightly, grounding you. "Where was I?" you whispered.

He hesitated, his voice softening, but the rawness lingered. "Somewhere you weren't supposed to see.”

You shivered, and he felt it.

His grip tightened. "You're mine," he muttered, fierce and possessive, more afraid than angry now. "I don't lose what's mine."

You couldn't even find it in yourself to argue. Instead, you leaned into his chest. He didn't dare let go. 

As he walked you back home, you couldn't shake the lingering chill from your skin.

A vast red sea, engulfed in black skies—otherworldly and utterly dangerous.

But there was something else, too. A lingering echo that was tucked deep in your mind that you could barely remember.

A voice, soft and distant, like a cry, just before you'd been pulled back.

"Is someone there...?"

But the memory slipped away the moment you tried to grasp it.

Tartaglia glanced at you, sensing your shiver. "You're safe now," he said, tone unusually gentle.

But neither of you noticed that faint silver light still flickering inside the pendant.

Waiting, watching.

Chapter Text

it’s late and the apartment is quiet, save for the soft shuffle of blankets and the occasional sleepy murmur from qiqi, curled up on the couch again with her stuffed toy in her arms.

you're bustling around the kitchen, softly humming a tune as you clean up the leftovers from dinner. tartaglia watches you from where he’s perched lazily near the window, faded in the soft glow of the lamplight.

and by the gods, he hates this feeling brewing in his chest.

you look tired, but happy. there’s something about the way you move, careful but natural, that makes it obvious you’ve grown into this strange role you never asked for: teacher, caretaker, summoner… parent —a steady, warm center in this bizarre little family.

he watches as you crouch down to adjust qiqi’s blanket, your voice soft as you murmur to her in her sleep, smoothing back her hair.

you’re gentle. too gentle for this world, for this life you’ve been tangled into, and tartaglia’s heart twists.

somewhere along the way, it became normal—this life, this odd home, the three of you orbiting each other under one roof like some mismatched constellation.

and all at once, it hits him.

i love you.

the words slip into his mind, uninvited, sharp, and terrifying.

he swallows it down before it can go any further.

no. he won’t ruin this.

this peace. this strange, fragile thing that feels too precious for his hands.

he watches you laugh quietly to yourself at, maybe, another funny memory, as you rinse a bright and (awfully) colored cup under the faucet, eyes soft and half-lidded from exhaustion but still smiling.

he could stay like this forever, couldn’t he?

but he doesn’t say it. he doesn’t dare.

instead, when you glance over and catch him staring, he rolls his eyes and leans back with a lazy smirk, flicking a conjured ice shard between his fingers like he wasn’t just moments away from unraveling.

“you look ridiculous,” he teases. “domesticity isn’t a good color on you, summoner.”

you scoff, throwing a dish towel at him that just phases through him.

but you’re smiling, too.

and he thinks that’s all that matters.

so he lets himself bask in it, loving you in the way only someone like him can— silently .

Chapter Text

you’re elbow-deep in the large closet in your room, trying to make good on your promise to “finally clean this disaster.” with qiqi at school and tartaglia off doing whatever it is he does when he’s bored and wants to be a menace, you figured you had time to deal with the growing mountain of junk piled into the space: old blankets with rips in it, snacks you were sure were expired, even a sock you don’t remember wearing or even having a pair of.

and then, with sweaty temples and aching forearm muscles, you see it, tucked behind a desk lamp and an old phonics workbook.

a dusty, old book.

your hand stills.

you know that book. hell, you remember that book. thick leather cover, the texture warped by moisture and age, with uneven edges and crinkled pages—all marks of time. you haven’t seen it in months, not since zhongli passed it to you after hours with that knowing look and the words, “should you ever decide that you're ready to let go of your unwanted guest.”

you thought you got rid of it. apparently not, and you’re not sure why you even kept it in the first place. maybe it’s superstition, or fear, or maybe you’ve just never been good at letting go of things.

it sits at the foot of your bed now, opened to a page you remember scanning. you didn't mean to open it. actually, you didn’t even want to, but the leather felt warm in your hands.

the words stare back at you. you don't mean anything by reading it. it’s more so a reminder of what you could do, of the choice you never made—a choice tartaglia never asked about. 

you meant to give it back.

you meant to.

you should’ve.

"...so that’s what this is."

you freeze, looking up, and tartaglia stands in the doorway, silent and stone-eyed. there’s something dark in his expression. rage, maybe, but not quite yet. betrayal.

your stomach flips. “it’s not what it looks like—”

“oh?” his voice is low, sharp around the edges. “because it looks to me like you're preparing to banish me.”

he says the word like it’s a sin.

your mouth opens, then closes. you were sweating bullets. “i wasn’t– i’m not,” you say quickly, voice pitching high. “i just found it. i was sorting the closet, i didn’t– i wasn’t going to do anything, i swear! i just—”

he’s already walking toward you, eyes locked on the book.

“just what? ” he interrupts. “just wanted to remind yourself how easy it is to get rid of me? just in case?”

you run two hands down your face. “tartaglia, stop!” you shout before you can stop yourself, voice cracking. “i wasn’t going to do anything to you!”

he stares at you in that same quiet that made you prefer him yelling. his eyes are darker than usual, shadows making their way over his eyebrows. “i thought we were past this,” he murmurs. “i thought you trusted me.”

“i do!”

“then why were you looking for ways to make me disappear?” 

our hands shake as you shove the book off your lap. “i wasn’t! i didn’t want to read it, i just—!” you cut yourself off. you’re breathing too fast, your chest aches, tight and angry and panicked all at once.

you try to shut it, but he’s faster. his hand flicks forward—phasing through yours—and the book flips into the air, pages fluttering like frantic wings.

he sighs, a smile on his face that conveyed something different to you. it isn’t the smile you’ve grown used to, isn’t the one that made your heart clench like a vice, no. this smile was that of a bloodthirsty monster, and you were one word away from danger.

“so, that’s why you wanted to be alone today.” he holds up the book in the air with one flick of his wrist, eyes weighing heavy on yours. “you were hiding this .”

“what? no!” you say quickly, stepping toward him. “i wasn’t hiding anything, i just found it again while cleaning, and i was going to return it to—”

“you read this.” he flips another page with the book in the air. “hell, you even marked it.”

“no, i didn’t mark anything! that was already there, it– it came like that!”

but he’s not listening. his grip tightens, and with a sudden movement, like it burns him, he throws the book to the floor.

it lands open, pages fluttering, and settles on a chapter titled in faded ink.

“why would you even think i’d want to banish you?” you snap, getting closer now. “you think i’ve gone through this much, dealing with your relic bullshit, hiding you from the kids, making sure you don’t blow a hole in the wall every time you get annoyed, just to throw you away?”

“you’re the one reading banishment rituals in the dark like a villain,” he says coldly.

“i found it while cleaning!” you yell, flinging your arms out. “and you know that! you were probably eavesdropping the whole time!”

“oh, so now i’m spying on you?”

“you’re always lurking, tartaglia! you’re always there !”

the room is pulsing with heat now, an argument hanging on a thread of something more dangerous. you’re both red-faced, seething, shaking with too much emotion for something so stupid and small. but it’s not stupid, and it’s certainly not small.

“i didn’t want to lose you,” you say suddenly, quieter now. “that’s why i didn’t throw it out. because if something ever happens– if i ever mess something up, at least i’d have a way to fix it.”

he stares down at you, expression unreadable.

“i wasn’t going to use it on you,” you finish, voice softer on the edges. “i just didn’t want to forget i could.”

the atmosphere changes into something else that’s smaller, softer, and quieter. then, a tired laugh escapes him.

“you don’t get it,” he mutters, stepping forward and closer. his voice is hoarse now, rough with something that wasn’t anger, but ache. “you really don’t get it. i don’t care if i’m bound to a seashell, or to you, or to this ridiculous classroom life we’ve made. i don’t care if i’m stuck here for a thousand years, as long as—” his voice cracks when he stops.

you blink. “as long as what?” you ask, barely a whisper.

his hand lifts, and he hesitates, then brushes your cheek just once. gentle, hesitant. “as long as you want me here,” he finishes. “i’d stay until the world wants me dead, but even then, i’d still roam the earth in search of you.”

the words crack something open in you. you hate this. you hate him. you hate that you don’t hate him at all and that thought, so raw and horribly honest, boils out before you can stop it.

“i was scared, okay?” you whisper. “not of you, but of what you’re doing to me, of what i feel when you’re around.”

he stares at you in silence, and you take it as a sign to keep going.

“i used to know who i was, but ever since you came into my life, i’m… i’m not normal anymore. i notice things i shouldn’t, i hear whispers that don’t belong in this world. hell, i feel you even when i’m alone.

“and still,” you add, breath catching, “i don’t want you to go.”

the silence stretches taut between you, then, finally— finally —he leans in, almost closing the gap between you, and you swear you hear a faint heartbeat that wasn’t yours thrumming in the air.

“you should’ve told me,” he says, lips barely brushing yours.

“you should’ve figured it out,” you whisper back.

and then he kisses you, desperate, breathless, like a dam breaking. you gasp into him, fists curling into the muscle of his chest as his hands grip your waist like you might vanish if he didn’t.

his kiss is fire and frustration and relief wrapped into one, and you kiss him back with everything you've wanted to say and everything you’ve tried to suppress.

when you finally pull apart, just enough to breathe, your forehead presses against his.

“i love you,” he whispers.

your breath catches, your mind slowly realizing where your hands gripped his chest. “what?”

“i love you,” he repeats, your name leaving his lips like he worshiped it. “and i didn’t want to ruin what we had, so i shut up, but it was killing me.”

you exhale, shaking, your forehead now resting on his chest. “you’re an idiot.”

“i know.”

silence stretches between the both of you, a quiet understanding floating in the air, not daring to suffocate you in it but to let you know that it’s there. a quiet, breathless laugh escapes him, and you realize that you’d much prefer to hear this over anything else.

you run your hand up his arm, loving the way he flinches when you reach a string of veins below his elbow.

“you can feel me” he murmurs, watching your fingers trail up his bicep. “i’m here.”

your hand slowly lifts, brushing against his cheek, and he doesn’t vanish.

there’s a stillness now, thick and humming with possibility, and then, “does this mean i can punch you next time you scare me in the kitchen?” you ask softly.

he laughs. “you can try.”

you shove his chest without thinking and your hand meets resistance—warm, living resistance. he looks down at you, wide-eyed, and you blink up at him.

and then he surges forward, kissing you again like the world is ending. maybe it is, or maybe something else is beginning.

you kiss him back like you’ve been drowning for weeks and he’s the first breath of air you’ve tasted. his hands are everywhere—your back, your waist, threading into your hair with a certain reverence. yours curl into his shirt, clinging to him like a lifeline.

“you have no idea,” he breathes between kisses, “how long i’ve wanted this.”

you melt underneath his touch, knees almost bucking until he swoops you in his arms and steps forward to throw you onto the bed, careful not to lay your head where the contents of your messy closet lay. you reach out and swipe the things off of your bed before your hand latches onto the curve of his neck that meets his shoulders, and he thinks he won’t be able to get you off of him for some time.

still, he doesn’t complain. he indulges you by dipping down to kiss you, hands gripping your waist as he climbs on top of you. 

“i’ve thought of kissing your lips.” he moves down to nip at your neck. “biting there. everywhere .”

you giggle when he kisses your neck deeper, your hands finding their way to his toned back, and the sound makes him moan.

he pulls away and looks you in the eye in that pure, lovesick way. “archons, i’ll never get tired of that,” he says, “of you.”

you wrap your hands around his neck. “kiss me again.”

he clicks his tongue, his jaw flexing at the movement. “so bossy…” he dips down again, closer to your ear, with a hand running under and up your shirt. “i might be yours forever, but for tonight, be mine, yeah?”

you gasp, then nod sheepishly, before running a hand down your body to the buckle of your pants.

and you swear the pupils of his eyes got bigger.

he tears your clothes off moments later, indulging you in ways you can’t even describe hours later. through it all, you forget about the book that laid on the floor, now covered under piles of torn fabric.

the chapter is still open. complete soul binding. the tether becomes the vessel, the bond manifests into flesh, and love makes it real. but neither of you notice. you’re too busy holding each other like it’s the only thing that matters.

because maybe, just maybe , it is.

Chapter Text

“i can’t believe you’re actually real now,” you say, scrubbing a stubborn stain off a dinner plate.

behind you, there’s a clumsy thud and the sound of a cupboard rattling. it’s not uncommon lately, and you know who it’s from.

tartaglia answers with what sounds like offense and confusion all rolled into one. “i’ve been real.”

you snort. “you phased through the couch earlier.”

“that was,” he pauses, and you hear the floor creak as he tries to defend himself, “a temporary malfunction.”

you rinse the plate and set it in the rack. “you disappeared halfway through–” you glance over your shoulder to make sure qiqi isn’t in the room, “ that . i had to finish the whole mess alone while you sulked in the corner like a dog.”

“that wasn’t my fault!” tartaglia yelps. “you made the sweetest little sound when i put it in and i panicked! it was a lot of stimulation at once, and my human form has delicate thresholds!”

“your human form is a coward.”

“you wound me.”

you toss the sponge back in the sink and turn around, arms crossed, giving him a long look. he’s half-tangible again, flickering faintly at the edges like a hologram. his arms are solid, but his feet are suspiciously blurry.

you raise a brow. “how are you feeling?”

“stronger,” he says, nodding like he believes it. “the soul tether thing must be getting better. i’ve only partially flickered four times this morning.”

“right. didn’t you get stuck in the door earlier?”

“a minor setback.”

you step past him to wipe the counter, only to notice him eyeing the space in front of you. you look back and forth between him and the counter, realization dawning on you.

you narrow your eyes. “don’t.”

“i can do it.”

“tartaglia!”

he smirks, straightens his posture, and speeds straight toward the counter like he’s about to pass through it in a majestic display of confidence. instead, he slams shin first into the edge of the kitchen sink.

a low groan is elicited out of him as he crouches over.

“…did you just hit the sink?” you ask, deadpan.

he folds to the ground like paper. “no, i strategically collided with the sink. there's a difference.”

you pinch the bridge of your nose, a small smile on your face. “maybe you should stick to helping me around the house now, yeah?”

he glares up at you. “are you mocking me?”

“i live with you. if i can’t mock you, i’ll cry.” you kneel beside him. “are you hurt?”

“only in pride.” he exhales, sitting up with your help, then jolts slightly when your hand brushes his arm.

you freeze too and squeeze his arm out of instinct. he stares at your hand, then at your face, then back at your hand like it’s magic. it’s not like you haven’t touched his arm before, but the sensation feels almost unreal.

“oh,” he says, a little stunned.

you squeeze again, harder this time, and he doesn’t flicker away.

“… huh.”

you both sit in silence for a second, just marveling at the simple, impossible fact that you’re touching.

then tartaglia, voice smug and hopeful, says, “so… wanna try it again but with more candles and less soap suds?”

you flick his forehead. “absolutely not.”

“come on , honey–”

“you went translucent in the middle of it last time! i thought i’d killed you!”

“that was one time!”

“it was just last night!”

he groans, slumping dramatically against the cabinet. “ugh, this is so humiliating. i finally get a body again and it’s got a time limit.”

you sigh, voice softening just a touch. “it’s probably part of the whole tether thing. it’s not perfect yet.”

“yeah, well, you’re perfect,” he mutters.

you blink, then smile. “flattery won’t distract me from the fact that you almost broke your ghost shin.”

“not a ghost,” he grumbles, rubbing the spot.

“mmm… then maybe don’t try to phase through things like one.”

he opens his mouth for another dramatic retort when suddenly, a soft voice pipes up from the hallway. “did he hit something again?”

both of you whip your heads toward qiqi, who’s standing at the doorway, blinking very slowly. she’s holding a lychee juice box with both hands.

“he did,” you say flatly, nodding.

tartaglia collapses on the floor with a groan. “why is she always there when i fail?”

“i live here too,” qiqi says.

you shrug.

tartaglia flips over and stares at the ceiling like it personally betrayed him. “i miss when i was all-powerful and ethereal, when you were scared of me and respected me then.”

“you threw a chair at the principal.”

“he deserved it for yelling at the blonde kid!”

“her name is klee.” qiqi sips her juice box. “and you’re not scary anymore,” she says. “you’re like a weird thing who floats.”

“hey, i’m not weird!” he says, indignant. “i don’t float anymore either!”

“you tried to.” she walks past him.

“i strategically collided!”

she leaves. you sigh again, then stand and rummage through the drawer full of junk in the living room for something.

“what are you looking for?” he asks, still pouting from the floor.

you pull out an old phone—dusty, but workable. “you need this.”

he squints. “another one of your rectangles?”

“a phone, so you can talk to people like a normal person does.”

“can’t i just appear dramatically and whisper into your ear like i used to?”

“no, you can’t ‘appear dramatically’ when you’re still struggling to exist.”

he makes a noise of offense. you throw the phone at him, and he catches it awkwardly and holds it like it might explode.

“what am i supposed to do with this?” he frowns. “you never taught me how to use one.”

“you haunted a cursed starconch for years , but a flip phone scares you?”

“it should! it has buttons and opens weirdly!”

you crouch down beside him, sighing again. “we’ll go over it later. for now, just… stay out of the sink.”

“…fine.”

you both fall quiet for a second.

and then, just under his breath, a little bit sheepish, he adds, “thanks for not giving up on me, even when i was mostly echoes in your head and bad timing.”

you glance at him, then look away before it gets too soft. “someone has to keep you from getting lost in the walls.”

he grins. you help him up.

he doesn’t let go of your hand right away.

and this time… neither do you.

Chapter Text

lunch break at the school faculty lounge usually feels like a moment of calm, but lately, it feels like something’s missing.

or rather, some one .

it’s not that he’s gone—tartaglia’s not gone —he’s just no longer tethered to you. the starconch-shaped relic that once bound him is no longer, now pieces in a small box inside your closet. you’re free. he’s free. he can come and go now.

and somehow, that’s more disorienting than when he was haunting you.

you shift on your seat and glance around you. no sigh over your shoulder. no sarcastic voice murmuring about the most random things . just the soft hum of a microwave and your own stillness.

you miss him, embarrassingly much, especially now that he’s, y’know, your boyfriend , or whatever this romance thing is.

you pull your phone out and open the message thread. it’s filled with nonsense: random emojis, accidental voice notes, pictures of household items he doesn’t understand.

tart 🧡: what does preheat mean

tart 🧡: thats smtg to do w heat rite

tart 🧡: hun

tart 🧡: !

tart 🧡: ?

you see your name haphazardly spelled in seven different ways before he gets all of the letters correctly, and you wheeze.

tart 🧡: the bread turn black

then, you pause, eyes squinting. you scroll up to the last time you saw him through a picture. he’d been reorganizing the silverware for god knows why. still wearing his half-tattered, haunted spectacle of fabric, with his cloak trailing ash. he looked like he was ready to lead an army into hell, not unload the dishwasher.

you sigh and type quickly.

you: hey

you: how abt we go get you some real clothes?

The reply comes instantly—well, as instantly as the speed of pushing buttons on a flip phone.

tart 🧡: finally

tart 🧡: i h8 my pants

tart 🧡: diggn into my back

tart 🧡: also the armor is chafing

an hour after the school day ended, you’re in the middle of a mall department store. Tartaglia’s on your right, holding two flannels like they might detonate. Qiqi’s on your left, squishing all the puffer jackets in the kids' section.

“do people live like this?” tartaglia mutters. “so many textures. too many options. that sweater looks like it’ll eat me.”

you side-eye him. “that’s a cable knit sweater.”

“it’s cursed, that’s what it is.”

then he holds up a hoodie suspiciously. you glance over.

“that’s literally just navy blue.”

“exactly. suspicious.”

qiqi appears between you both with a purple scarf and a matching fluffy hat. “i want this for cold days.”

you smile. “that’s cute. we can—”

“aw!” a voice cuts in, belonging to an old, bright-eyed, beaming store clerk.

“you three are adorable . your daughter’s so polite!”

you freeze, and so does tartaglia.

qiqi, deadpan: “i am undead.”

“oh, she’s funny too!” the clerk laughs. “what a sweet family!”

you blink, your brain short-circuiting.

“oh, we’re not— uh, he’s not— she’s—”

but the clerk’s already looking around. “where’d your husband go, though? the redhead, he just disappeared!”

you whip around to find that tartaglia is gone.

“son of a—” you turn to qiqi. “did he—?”

“mhm,” she says, still holding the scarf. “poofed… right after the lady said ‘husband.’”

you find him several aisles over, hiding behind a rack of mannequins, or rather trying to. he’s halfway see-through again, flickering like a hologram. his arms are crossed, face sulking, ears red.

you grab his wrist and yank him behind a shelf.

“are you serious right now?” you hiss. “you ghosted over a word?”

he groans. “it was a scary word!”

“you call punching a warm-up and you flinch at ‘husband’?!”

he throws his hands up. “i’ve never been someone’s husband! you don’t just spring that on a guy in the middle of—” he waves his hands around, “this!”

“oh my god—”

“you didn’t even warn me! i wasn’t prepared! i didn’t have a ring, or a pig for dowry, or… a plan!”

“you’re not marrying me, you idiot. we’re buying you clothes!”

he frowns. “...oh.”

you inhale. “also, you disappeared into thin air out in public. we talked about that.”

“i panicked!”

“you disappeared mid-sentence!”

he crosses his arms again, looking away. “maybe i’ll just haunt the fitting room forever. it has nice lighting and a big mirror.”

you stare at him, the way he’s still faint, still trembling between states. and yet, your hand still clasps his wrist.

“hey,” you say softly. “you’re getting better at this. you know that, right?”

his brows twitch, eyes not looking at you.

you tug his hand until he finally looks. he blinks.

you’re smiling. “now come on, husband ,” you whisper. “let’s get you something that doesn’t make you look like a murderer.”

he stares at you, then quietly, “…you really think we look like a family?”

you hesitate for a second. your face warms up. “i think we look like chaos.”

his grin grows. “…yeah. you’re right. i like our brand of chaos.”

you roll your eyes. “just pick a hoodie.”

“only if you help me try it on~”

when you exit the store, tartaglia’s wearing a new hoodie (that’s navy, and most definitely not suspicious), jeans that actually fit, and a smug grin.

and you? you can still feel his hand in yours. still solid, still warm, and most definitely still here.

maybe the tether’s gone, but you’re not alone. at least, not anymore.

and when you catch his reflection in the shop window, standing beside you—real, alive, and unmistakably yours—you don’t mind the title so much.

even if he did just panic himself invisible for five minutes after being called your husband .