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Four months into his relationship with Zhongli, and Tartaglia found that he had gained a little weight. Had he got a problem with that?
Well…
As he stared in the mirror, tugging at the sides of the jeans that once hung loosely at his hips, he was surprised to find that, no. He didn’t. Not especially. If anything, he was a little confused.
Meal after meal with Zhongli had taken its toll. Sure, that doesn’t sound especially surprising- but what irked Tartaglia the most was the lithe and toned body which Zhongli, despite eating as much if not more than him, seemed to retain.
They would each share seconds, thirds, of rich Liyuen delicacies, and Tartaglia would delight in the indulgence; would reason that, if it was okay for the ex-archon to enjoy himself, then it surely would be for him, a lowly fatuus. He wasn’t particularly lowly, no, but besides Zhongli he certainly felt it sometimes.
…Yes. Pudge. He was sporting a little belly now, one that his jeans did not like; but Zhongli said nothing, never commented, and his eyes never lingered. Tartaglia struggled with the zip of his jeans until it croaked all the way up, hanging in there with unhappy seams and a tormented button. He resolved to buy another pair, and things continued as per usual.
That was, until Zhongli broke the routine. The ex-archon must have been cooking, because their whole house was filled with the delicious scent of eggy fried rice; and as Tartaglia entered the kitchen, he found his hopeful suspicions confirmed. He wrapped his arms around Zhongli’s torso as he busied with the stove, a lazy and half-asleep chuckle coming from his lips. He was still donned in pyjamas, comfy, soft; the belly he now had was equally so as it pushed against the unfairly muscular curve of Zhongli’s back, in a way he couldn’t deny.
‘Good morning, my baobei,’ Zhongli greeted. He angled his face, pouted gently and subtly, and Tartaglia obligingly met those plump lips with his own.
‘Morning,’ he mumbled against them. The way he was leaning, the pudge of his waist was especially tempting, resting and pushing up against Zhongli.
And, Zhongli… he couldn’t help now but acknowledge it as he turned down the temperature of the stove, and faced his adorable boyfriend.
Tartaglia met him with a gentle smile, and a wink. He’d recognise that slightly suggestive look in Zhongli’s eyes any day - or so he thought.
‘You like what you see?’
Zhongli’s smile was painfully familiar, gentle; the corners of his eyes crinkled.
‘I always do, my love.’ His hands moved to Tartaglia’s body, grazing over its outline through those soft silk pyjamas. He moved down to Tartaglia’s waist, soft, notably filled out; his smile turned to something verging on teasing.
‘I think I see a little more than I used to.’
Tartaglia’s face immediately flushed to scarlet. He hadn’t anticipated the change to be acknowledged- he’d feared it happening, in fact. He wondered whether Zhongli would frown upon noticing, or become any less attracted, though truthfully he knew that would be unlikely. This, however? This teasing, gentle acknowledgment? He hadn’t seen it coming, even slightly. For the first time in a long time, Tartaglia’s plump lips parted and absolutely nothing came out.
Zhongli’s expression affirmed. He was smirking now, unmistakable.
‘You’ve been enjoying yourself, haven’t you, my love.’ It was… humiliating. It was not a question. What was he supposed to do? Agree? Deny it? There was no use trying to deny it. There was evidence; material evidence, which Zhongli happened to be holding. Wise hands pinched and smoothed at Tartaglia’s waistline in a way that made him simply… squirm.
Zhongli leaned closer. He nosed at Tartaglia’s neck in a way that seemed almost a little animalistic- then again, Zhongli did have dragonic blood in him, a little instinctive behaviour that Tartaglia didn’t share, but sometimes got the pleasure of receiving.
‘You smell sweeter. You feel softer.’ They felt like accusations, delighted accusations, or pieces of a puzzle that Zhongli was rapidly assembling, right before Tartaglia’s eyes. He was frozen; he could only watch, and fluster further. He was fairly sure that Zhongli had the full picture already.
Zhongli’s fingers were slim, smooth, cool as he cupped Tartaglia’s rounded cheek. His thumb smoothed over; it was warm from fluster. He watched terrified but enthralled eyes as they watched him back, utterly helpless.
And then, Zhongli’s other hand left the silk of his pyjamas- at which, Tartaglia felt simultaneously relieved and disappointed. His disappointment did not last long. His breath hitched and stopped entirely as his hand slipped from atop of the silk to underneath it; and suddenly, Zhongli was gazing at him, a hand settled over the soft, pliant swell of his tummy, and he could not move. He could not breathe.
Ever so gently, Zhongli squeezed. He spoke in a smooth, low singsong.
‘My, my.. if I’m not mistaken, you’ve been filling out, Tartaglia.’
And then, he couldn’t take it anymore. He felt far too confronted, too overwhelmed with - what was he even feeling? He couldn’t tell whether he loved it or hated it, most definitely a sickening combination of the two, and he let out a noise that could be equally as humiliating as the situation in which he found himself; a soft, pained whimper. He moved suddenly, sharply, causing Zhongli’s hand to move upon his bare skin; obligingly, he removed it, and when Tartaglia pressed himself into his space, into his arms, he chuckled gently and held him.
‘Are you okay? It’s not a bad change,’ he was quick to assure his lover, careful. He slipped a hand into Tartaglia’s locks and carded it through, in the way he knew he loved. Tartaglia let out a disgruntled sort of hum, muffled against Zhongli’s own silk pyjamas, causing him to laugh a little.
‘No, really. I think it suits you. You look very sweet.’
Tartaglia’s face grew redder, and Zhongli could picture it; he could sense his fluster in the way his heart raced, sensitive ears picking up its prey rhythms, frozen, ready to be devoured.
As tempting as Zhongli found the notion of utterly devouring Tartaglia, he didn’t plan on it. Not like that, at least… perhaps after further discussion of this topic, they could share sexual intimacy of some kind. He briefly pictured Tartaglia’s breathless moans, fingers clinging to the bedsheets, the softness of his ass jiggling as he slammed his dick into him over and over, and he found the image most appeasing.
For now, he pressed his lips to Tartaglia’s hair.
‘It’s okay, my love. Breathe.’ He hesitated, and then gave a slightly amused, tentative laugh.
‘I didn’t truthfully intend to confront you on this matter so suddenly. At your unexpected hug, I couldn’t help my teasing; I apologise for that.’
Tartaglia mumbled something incoherently into Zhongli’s torso, of which he caught nothing but the word ‘embarrassing.’
‘I’m sorry, my dear. I am. This whole situation may have been a little.. tactless. Come; eat some breakfast, and then perhaps we can discuss things more formally when you’ve calmed down.’
After another few moments, Tartaglia gave Zhongli a gentle squeeze and stood up properly. His entire face was pink, and having his hair played with had fluffed it up somewhat, adding the the impact of his dishevelled appearance.
‘There you go, my love.’ With a smile that was quite distinctly a smile and not a smirk- one which made Tartaglia want to hug him all over again- Zhongli returned to the stove, and began to plate up their breakfasts.
Each of them had generous portions; they always did when Zhongli cooked. Tartaglia took the plate he was offered, and felt his ears go pink.
‘…Are you alright? Would you prefer something else?’
Tartaglia’s eyes lifted from his food to Zhongli, and saw nothing but tenderness, and he shook his head.
‘…No, this looks amazing. Thank you.’
They ate quietly. All the while, a single question burned in the back of Tartaglia’s mind - one which he desperately wanted to ask, but didn’t want to risk being rude. Perhaps that was ironic, after his boyfriend’s humiliating teasing, affectionate or otherwise.
It wasn’t until about half-way through their meal, Zhongli noted, until Tartaglia’s heartrate had returned to its usual pace. Only then, and a few minutes after that, did he ask;
‘What’s on your mind, baobei? I can tell something is troubling you.’
Yes, dating Zhongli was very difficult on occasion. How could he tell? If Tartaglia were to ask, he would probably reply with something weird about his eyebrows, or how he was breathing, and then give a long anecdote about how he learned to notice such things, so Tartaglia spared the effort.
‘…You said I was indulging more. That’s probably why I’ve gained weight.’
Zhongli nodded. He took a mouthful of bacon and eggs, and ate quietly as he waited for Tartaglia to continue.
‘But I… I never eat more than you.’
Tartaglia didn’t pick up on the vague twinkle in Zhongli’s eye as he sipped his herbal tea, and prepared another mouthful, listening, quietly entertained.
‘I‘n eating more than usual, but I didn’t expect to put on weight. I mean- you never do. You’re so slim, and toned, but, eating like you do, I’m- I’ve.. you know.’
‘Filled out, rather deliciously,’ Zhongli finished for him, causing his entire face to heat, all over again. His heartrate hadn’t soared like it had done the first time, though.
‘I’m.. sure,’ Tartaglia conceded, though he couldn’t quite meet Zhongli’s eye.
Tartaglia now fell quiet. Zhongli finished his mouthful at a painstakingly leisurely pace, and then cleared his throat.
‘So you’re wondering why I haven’t also gained weight?’
Tartaglia hesitated and then nodded. Yes; that was what he was wondering. Less wondering, and maybe more confused by- even a little frustrated over, not that he was willing to admit that. ‘Wondering’ would fit just fine.
Zhongli gazed at him, the corners of his eyes crinkled. When he looked at Tartaglia like that, it was impossible to miss their twinkle.
‘My body does not follow the same processes as that of a mortal,’ he said vaguely, a lingering tone of knowing in his voice. It was like the answer was right there before Tartaglia, and Zhongli was simply waiting for him to see it. He was aggravatingly patient.
Tartaglia repeated his words in his mind, but came across nothing.
‘…I know,’ he replied softly.
‘My body takes nothing from food. I eat only for pleasure.’
Tartaglia stared for a moment- for another moment. The realisation that began to settle in made the patience of Zhongli’s eyes feel humiliating in itself. Their corners crinkled further as he watched Tartaglia understand; realised the mistake he had made in his thinking.
‘So you… you can’t gain weight?’
Zhongli hummed in confirmation.
‘What would you look like if you could?’ The question was out of Tartaglia’s mouth before he could consider it. His food was forgotten, chopsticks still in his hands as he stared, enamoured, utterly embarrassed. He had mistakenly indulged in the eating habits of a God, and expected no repercussions.
‘…I would be large, I imagine,’ came Zhongli’s slightly surprised response. One of his eyebrows was quirked a little as he pondered this question; apparently, he never had before.
‘Really quite large…’
But Tartaglia did have to face repercussions. He had a mortal body, a body that needed and used food, and the repercussions were evident in the soft padding all over said body, the swell of his middle that rested atop of the waistband of his silk pyjamas now as he sat. The repercussions were in the plate of fried food that sat before him, filling up his tummy most pleasantly as Zhongli watched.
Oh, Zhongli… he adored those repercussions. He had very much enjoyed seeing his boyfriend grow steadily plumper as they spent day after day together.
‘…You little shit,’ Tartaglia mumbled. He’d never called Zhongli anything of the sort before- never considered it, it would be disrespectful- but now, it seemed more than appropriate. Zhongli laughed softly.
‘But do you not enjoy it? I must say, your weight very much suits you.’ Tartaglia opened his mouth to retort, but merely shook his head.
‘I don’t know. I don’t… it’s…’
Mostly, as I earlier mentioned, confusion had surrounded his weight gain. Now, the confusion had dissipated, and now Tartaglia wasn’t certain what he was left with. He had squirmed under Zhongli’s touch and attentions in the kitchen earlier, tied between loving and hating it. Additionally, a lifetime of fierce fatui training - of total dedication to service, scorn poured upon indulgence, using his body as a vessel or weapon at the disposal of his Tsaritsa… this complicated things.
Zhongli took another mouthful of his breakfast. He was finished; he laid his chopsticks neatly upon his plate.
‘You ought to finish that,’ he said, teasing - Tartaglia had never seen so much teasing from the other in all the time they had been together.
‘It’ll get cold.’
Pink-cheeked, Tartaglia took another few mouthfuls and then declared himself full. Was he? …No, not especially, but after recent discoveries he didn’t feel inclined to continue eating.
Zhongli raised a brow. He’d washed up his own plate, and now he came to stand by Tartaglia’s side. He cupped his cheek, and stroked a thumb over it, marvelling to himself at its softness. Tartaglia leaned slightly into the touch, gazing back at him with an idle smile.
‘…You really don’t want the rest?’
Tartaglia swallowed quietly, but not quietly enough for Zhongli to miss. He didn’t say anything.
Zhongli gazed at the other for several moments, considering what to do- what to say. Eventually, he let go, and moved to bring his chair closer. He sat down beside him. Tartaglia merely watched.
‘I… know this may seem contradictory to my earlier words and teasing, but I truly think that your weight gain has been a positive thing.’
Tartaglia fought the urge to scoff at this. A positive thing? He had been mistaken, under the impression his diet was nothing unusual - he ought to have been more careful, less stupid and naive. He had let himself go. He had gone against all he had stood for; he was an idiot.
‘Look at me.’ Gentle, subtly reprimanding - Tartaglia couldn’t help but meet Zhongli’s gaze. His eyes were neither teasing, nor smiling. They held an air of concern. He looked at Tartaglia as though peeling back his layers; seeing not his softened body, his lighthearted and confident aura, his sharp tongue and danger and bloodlust. He saw the insecurity underneath it all.
And Tartaglia fought the urge to look away, because he loved Zhongli, but when he saw him like that, he felt he couldn’t quite breathe.
He found Tartaglia’s hand, and squeezed it, and he squeezed back. They did it under the table, like there were other people there - like it was their secret.
‘You’ve been hard on yourself for a long time,’ Zhongli murmured. Tartaglia could already feel tears pricking in his eyes, even though- for fuckssake- Zhongli had barely started speaking. He squeezed his hand again.
‘I remember your sleepless nights and missed meals. When you first came to Liyue, you looked as though the warmth of the sun was going to be too much for you.’ His thumb rubbed over Tartaglia’s knuckles, tender, repetitive touches. He gazed at him, too engrossed in him to wipe away his tears. Neither of them noticed as they fell.
‘It reflected off your pale skin and I wasn’t sure it was ever going to sink in. But-‘ he swallowed quietly. Tartaglia watched as Zhongli’s tongue momentarily whetted over his bottom lip; he continued.
‘It did. It brought out your freckles and brought out your smile. It… it brought you to me.’
And now, perhaps somewhat brought back to the present, Zhongli’s fingers interlaced themselves with Tartaglia’s, and squeezed again. His other hand moved so that he could thumb away his fallen tears.
‘There used to be shadows here,’ he whispered, drying his undereyes; fresh tears fell, and so he moved to cup his cheek, resolving to return his attentions later. His cheeks were plump, littered with freckles that the cold of Schneznaya might never have enkindled.
‘These used to be sallow,’ he murmured.
He looked at Tartaglia’s eyes, and found them, as he very rarely did, unreadable. They danced with a sea of emotion, their blue so rich and alive that Zhongli wondered if he, a God, allegedly above all, might just drown. He acknowledged that he would not mind.
‘Your eyes are beautiful,’ he whispered, at a loss.
‘You are… gorgeous. And so much happier than you used to be.’
Tartaglia’s eyes fluttered closed as something, Zhongli thought- hoped- perhaps acceptance, washed over them and washed fresh tears out. He pressed his lips to each of their lids.
‘I love you,’ he murmured. He hesitated.
‘If you want the rest of your food, finish it. If not- if you truly are full- then I shall plate it up, and likely have it later. But I… I beg you. Do not deny yourself any indulgence. Do not feel shame for it; you deserve it all. You deserve the world.’
Tartaglia did finish his food. He was quiet, pensive; oddly at peace. After washing up his plate, he left to get changed, where he found himself stopped by arms around his middle and a rather vulgar request. But he had recently been told to deny himself no indulgence, and so the rest of the morning involved kisses and breathless moans, jiggling asses, teasing and praising, and hands gripping onto bedsheets for dear, dear life.