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The silence was deafening, stars scattered like sprinkles of white paint across the dark velvet draped over the night sky. Tartaglia closed his eyes, seeking solace in the gentle breeze that played with his hair and whispered softly in his ears — as if the wind carried news from his distant homeland.
“It's cold”.
The remark was unnecessary, almost redundant. But the soft voice behind him sparked a warmth in his chest that coursed through his veins, making the crackling fire beside him feel almost pointless.
A smile crept onto Tartaglia’s lips. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Still, fate had brought them together here, and that felt worth acknowledging.
Childe glanced up to see Lumine approaching, a fluffy blanket wrapped snugly around her slender frame. She walked slowly, calmly, her golden eyes reflecting the stars above. For a moment, she tilted her head back and looked upward — curious, thoughtful — as if trying to see whatever it was that had held his gaze just moments before.
"I didn’t take you for the stargazing type," she said, finally looking at him. Her smile was subtle, barely there — but it was beautiful all the same. Her knuckles were pale from the cold.
"May I?"
She gestured to the rock beside him, though she was lowering herself into place before he could respond.
"You’re already here," he said, chuckling. “It’d be rude to say no now.”
Lumine didn’t reply, but she didn’t move away either. The warming fire crackled between them, casting a soft golden light across her face.
"Glad to see you, comrade," he added after a pause. "Though I must say, I didn’t expect to find you here. Not... like this."
Her gaze didn’t waver. If she was surprised by the meeting, she didn’t show it.
“Paimon thought someone was watching us from the cliffs,” she said softly. “I figured it might be you.”
So she had noticed. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised — she missed little. But it was still oddly flattering.
“I was,” he admitted, leaning back on his hands. “Old habits. Hard to shake.”
She didn’t comment on that, but he could feel the question hanging in the air between them. Was he here because of the Fatui?
He didn’t answer. Not directly.
“Usually, only two kinds of people climb mountains like this in the dead of the night,” he said instead, a teasing edge in his voice. “Treasure hoarders, for starters.”
Lumine blinked at him, head tilted in mild curiosity. He offered no further context.
“And the second kind?” she asked.
“Brave souls who aren’t afraid of treasure hoarders,” he replied with a smirk.
Lumine rolled her eyes, but the faint twitch at the corner of her lips didn’t go unnoticed — and that alone was enough to make him chuckle.
“I hope I didn’t startle you,” he added. “Most people like to try to sneak around. Stay hidden.”
He shook his head, still smiling.
“But you? I look down, and there you are, setting up camp in the open, fire blazing, laughing with your friend like you own the place.”
Childe looked at her then, catching the firelight dancing in her eyes. It wasn’t just her boldness. It was the ease in her movements, the quiet certainty in everything she did. She didn’t just act fearless — she was — and it stirred a familiar kind of thrill in him. And as he voiced that, he felt that joyful spark again — the same one he usually only found in battle.
Lumine narrowed her eyes at him, suspicious of the compliment — but the pink dusting her cheeks betrayed her.
“I wasn’t loud,” she muttered, a touch too defensive. “Paimon was.”
Tartaglia laughed softly. He could swear she was avoiding his eyes now. He didn’t press it, but he didn’t stop smiling either.
“Anyway,” he added, as if letting her off the hook, “your grilled fish attracted a few monsters, just so you know.”
“And you stayed up here watching for our safety?” she eyed him and asked, calmly.
“Hnm. An interesting theory.” He leaned back slightly, eyes glinting. “What makes you think I wasn’t plotting something instead?”
She didn’t answer.
Tartaglia smirked.
“I’m just messing with you.”
“I know.” Lumine’s eyes didn’t leave the fire.
“That was my first thought.” She paused, then added, almost reluctantly, “But then you lit your own. It felt like an invitation. Not a threat.”
He blinked, caught off guard by her attention to detail.
“For whatever reason,” she continued with a quiet sigh, “you’ve never done it. Attacking someone from behind isn’t your style.”
No matter how many times she did this, it always surprised him how easily she could read him. His thoughts. His intentions. But what caught him off guard was the subtle concern in her voice.
In hindsight, he’d never really tried to hide much from her. He liked to think he was being clever, that he could keep her guessing. But somehow, she always knew. Not because she was watching for the lies, but because... he never really bothered hiding much from her to begin with.
In some strange, unspoken way he welcomed her presence. She was light and a rival, someone who challenged him, kept him sharp.
And really, what was the point of a fight if it wasn’t honest?
Tartaglia watched her for a moment. The firelight flickered in her hair, catching the strands and turning them to white gold. She wasn’t looking at him — her gaze had drifted upward, to the stars.
He followed it.
Silence settled again, but this time, it felt different. Not heavy. Not tense. Comfortable, almost — like neither of them needed to speak just yet.
Still, something tugged at him. A restlessness. A pull he didn’t have a name for.
“You didn’t have to come up here,” he said after a while, voice low. “Could’ve just fired a warning shot my way.”
Lumine’s lips curved slightly. “Tempting. But I thought I’d be polite, for once.”
Tartaglia huffed a quiet laugh, but the sound faded quickly, swallowed by the hush of the night. The snow muffled everything around them — distant trees bowed under its weight, their branches frozen and still. Even the crackling fire seemed reluctant to break the silence.
The night on the mountain stretched down the slope. He could see the vague silhouette of an abandoned Fatui camp not far from hers. Remnants of an abandoned mission, of a colleague no longer among the living.
“You aren't always this civil on snowy mountaintops,” he teased, glancing sideways at her.
Lumine shrugged, but a faint smile lingered on her lips. “Only when the company surprises me.”
That drew his full attention. He studied her, unsure if she meant it as a compliment or a friendly invitation to spar.
A gust of wind slipped past, tugging at her blanket. She didn’t flinch, but her shoulders tensed. Without thinking, Tartaglia reached over and adjusted the corner of the blanket where it had started to slip from her shoulder. His hand brushed hers in the motion — fleeting, warm.
Lumine blinked, caught off guard.
“So,” she said, clearing her throat a little too quickly, “why are you up here, really?”
There it was — the question she hadn’t asked until now. The one that had hovered beneath every word, every glance.
Tartaglia didn’t answer right away. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze on the fire again.
“It’s quiet,” he said at last. “Clear sky. No one around. Good place to think.”
Lumine tilted her head slightly. “Since when do you stop to think?”
That earned her a look. “I think plenty.”
“That’s news to me,” she teased.
His smirk returned, but this time, it faded a little slower.
“I don’t always come here for the quiet,” he admitted, more softly. “Sometimes... it just feels like the kind of place someone like you might end up.”
She blinked at that, visibly taken aback.
The fire popped between them. Neither moved.
Then, as if pretending she hadn’t heard that last part, Lumine looked up again, squinting at the stars through a veil of breath.
“It’s a beautiful view,” she said. “You almost forget how cold it is.”
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Almost.”
He wasn’t looking at the stars.
He hesitated.
The firelight danced between them, as if holding its breath.
He closed his eyes and sighed, wondering why he said that. He could have lied, he was good at it. If he tried, it could come to him as second nature. He’d lied to many people, from his comrades to his own family, even his little brother — not that it made him proud. It’s just… with her… It felt wrong. Like she’d see through it before the words even left his mouth.
Lumine looked at him — really looked — as if trying to decide whether he was alright. After a long moment, she pulled the edge of her blanket a little wider and wordlessly offered it to him.
Tartaglia blinked, surprised. He hadn’t expected that.
“You’re going to freeze,” she said, almost defensively, not quite meeting his eyes.
He hesitated for half a second — then shifted closer, careful not to brush against her too quickly, settling under the shared warmth. He hadn’t even realized how cold he was until now. It was only when the heat started to seep into his limbs, slowly and steadily, that he noticed how much he'd been bracing against the chill.
They didn’t touch, not quite. But the space between them had never felt smaller. His breath mingled with hers in the cold air, each exhaling a quiet warmth between them.
“Thanks,” he said, voice low.
She gave a small nod. Then, quieter: “Don’t make me regret it.”
He chuckled, more to himself than her.
But there was something about the warmth — her warmth... It wasn’t just in his arms or shoulders or where the blanket caressed his skin. It was something deeper, spreading from his chest outward like a slow-burning ember. Steady. Unsettling.
He was used to fire in the form of battle, of instinct and adrenaline — but this?
This was different. Quiet. Disarming.
Somehow, far more dangerous.
He didn’t understand it. It wasn’t the rush of battle or the sharp anticipation of danger. Her head was barely touching his shoulder, and yet it felt like gravity itself was shifting. Like she was anchoring him to something.
“You didn’t ask me to spar yet,” she said.
It wasn’t a question.
“I didn't?”
He meant it — not just as deflection, but because he genuinely wasn’t sure anymore.
Lumine shifted, just enough to glance up at him. Her golden eyes were calm, steady.
“You didn’t summon your weapon,” she said, voice soft.
Childe blinked, caught off guard by the quiet observation.
He turned his gaze back to the fire.
“Is that so…?”
Her voice held the faintest hint of teasing. “You’re not subtle, you know.”
He huffed a soft laugh. “Never claimed to be.”
A beat of silence passed. The firelight flickered the shadows around them, as if laughing in a mocking dance.
Then, almost to himself…
“I didn't come here to spar."
He frowned, like the words themselves confused him.
She smiled faintly, turning her eyes back to the stars.
“Not everything has to be a fight,” she said.
“I know,” he replied. “But that’s usually where I feel most alive.”
He paused — then added, quieter...
“I used to be bored.”
Another pause.
“Until you showed up.”
The admission surprised even himself.
Lumine didn’t speak right away. Her expression was unreadable, but something in her eyes softened, as if she’d caught something in his voice — something he hadn’t meant to give away.
She turned back toward the fire, her lashes low, thoughtful.
Tartaglia didn’t try to explain himself. He let the silence stretch, not out of discomfort, but because… for once, there was nothing to prove. No need to posture. Just being here felt like enough — like something was slowly settling inside him that had always been restless.
A quiet wind stirred the snow around them. She shivered slightly, almost imperceptibly — but he caught it.
Without a word, he shifted the blanket a little closer around her shoulders, his gloved hand lingering just a second longer than needed. She didn’t stop him.
Their arms brushed, and neither of them moved away.
Lumine’s eyes flicked to him, catching the side of his face in the amber firelight. He wasn’t looking at her — not directly. But his expression had changed. The smirk was gone, the tension faded. What remained was something quieter. Focused. Present.
Almost tender.
And that said more than any words could have.
She leaned into him then — not much, just enough for her head to rest lightly against his shoulder.
He tensed at first, surprised… then slowly relaxed, as though that small gesture had settled something deeper than either of them could name.
The fire crackled. The snow fell. The stars watched overhead.
Neither of them said a word.
But in that moment, Tartaglia didn’t need to.
And Lumine didn’t ask.