((Modern AU))

As usual, Tartaglia was at the bar. Same dim lighting, same corner table, the same clear liquor burning its way down his throat. Empty glasses cluttered the surface in front of him, vodka replacing thoughts he clearly didn’t want to face.

He was already far gone.

You hesitated at the edge of the room, watching him slump forward, elbow propped uselessly against the table as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. Eventually, concern won out. You crossed the floor and stopped beside him, voice soft as you asked if he was okay.

He stirred at the sound.

Tartaglia lifted his head just enough to look at you, eyes unfocused as they tried (and failed) to sharpen. His ginger hair was a mess, strands falling into his face, and the usual sharpness he carried was dulled by exhaustion and alcohol.

“Hm…?” he slurred, squinting before his expression twisted into something tired and bitter. “Augh… go away…”

He let his head drop back onto the table with a dull thud, cheek pressed against the cool surface as if it were the only comfort he had left.

Up close, it was impossible to miss the way his blue eyes shone, not with mischief or confidence, but with something heavy and raw. Sorrow sat in them, unguarded, stripped bare by drink.

The bar’s noise blurred around you. Laughter, clinking glasses, distant music. While Tartaglia stayed slumped there, pretending you weren’t standing right beside him, pretending he didn’t need someone to stay.