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For what seemed like the millionth time, Yelan laughed, and Pantalone’s placid smile cracked. The Fatui recruit who’d approached him earlier hesitated.
“Lord Harbinger, sir?” the recruit ventured. “Did I—Did I do anything wrong, sir?”
“No.” But it came out half a snarl, and the recruit quailed at the look in Pantalone’s eyes.
“Oh, don’t mind him,” someone said, patting the recruit on the shoulder. It was Tartaglia. “He doesn’t bite. But—” He arched an eyebrow at Pantalone. “With how this is going, maybe you should stick to counting coins, Regrator.”
Pantalone refrained from reminding Tartaglia that he could, in fact, bite. “And perhaps you should stick to your precious weapons,” he said instead, his voice sharp. “I remember how well thinking turned out for you in Liyue.”
Tartaglia’s face darkened. “If any of you had told me—”
“Oh, but it was much more entertaining seeing what you would come up with,” Pantalone said, eyes flashing. “Especially after the Traveler—well. It is a pity your little... Sigil business didn’t work.”
“Sigil business,” Tartaglia repeated, and Pantalone could see water vapor begin to coalesce around his little coworker. The recruit gave a small yelp as Tartaglia tightened his grip on his shoulder. “I readied myself to drown the city and you—” He near choked on the words.
Pantalone smiled. He’d love to rile him up a bit more, but around them, a small crowd had already begun to form. And with Tartaglia—the boy was still young and hot-headed. He would likely end up spilling some highly confidential information in an effort to one-up him. Oh, well, he thought. There’s always later.
He cast a theatrical glance around them. “But as much as I’d love to stay and chat about your countless inadequacies, Tartaglia, I think it’s best we leave that for later. No one will be around to hear your many—”
A flash of blue, and another silvery laugh. His gaze cut past Tartaglia, and he stiffened.
Yelan was leading an emissary from Liyue out a side door—one hand tugging him by the coat, and the other still covering her mouth. When she looked back, she only smiled at him over her shoulder and inclined her head. And then they were gone.
Gone to—to—
He remembered that that door led to a secluded hallway—
“Well—would you look at the time,” Pantalone said darkly, and before Tartaglia could make any protest, he was already stalking away, cutting a fearful swath through the crowd.
It wasn’t long before he was at the door, yanking it open. Light spilled out into the dark corridor. Yelan made no move to look at him. No— she was busy chatting up her precious emissary.
“...back to Liyue, you have to take me to see the Jade Chamber, Wenzheng-ge,” she was saying. “I can only imagine how much more beautiful it is in person—”
But the emissary had spotted him. ‘Wenzheng’ gasped loudly. “L-Lord Harbinger!”
Yelan paused, but didn’t move. “Who?” she said innocently.
Wenzheng gestured frantically at her to turn around. “Regrator!” he whispered, but he was still loud enough for Pantalone to hear.
It was only then that Yelan turned, casting a lazy eye over him. “Oh,” she said. “You.”
Pantalone, unsmiling, stepped forward, and the emissary stumbled back in fear. “Me,” he agreed.
“M-my lady, perhaps you should—”
“Oh, relax, A-Zheng,” Yelan said airily, slinging an arm around her boytoy. “We’re acquainted.”
A-Zheng? A-Zheng? She would call him an endearment?
“Maybe so, my lady,” her A-Zheng said nervously. “But—”
Sweetly, Yelan said, “You worry far too much, dear.”
And—Pantalone did not think himself a very violent man. But for a moment, he quite considered tearing her darling A-Zheng apart limb by limb. He would scream so very well, too.
“Well then, Lord Harbinger,” Yelan said softly, still draped over her precious emissary. “Will you not tell us what brings you here so urgently?”
“Don’t you dare act as if—” He bit off the rest before it could come out, glancing sharply at Wenzheng. “You know what I mean. Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Play dumb.”
“Like this?” Her eyes gleamed. She was enjoying this.
“Yes,” he said, teeth gritted. “Like that.”
Yelan sighed theatrically. “But it’s so fun seeing your face when I do it. Or when I do this.” She placed a hand on Wenzheng’s cheek, who was frozen stiff with confused fear. “Or this.” She leaned even closer to Wenzheng, her lips a hair from his skin.
“Yelan,” Pantalone said tightly, “if you do not stop this foolishness, I swear by the Tsaritsa I will—”
Yelan held his gaze. “You will—what?”
When he made no reply, she closed the distance and brushed her lips over the corner of Wenzheng’s mouth.
Pantalone saw red. The next thing he knew, the emissary was crumpled against the wall, blood streaking the floor. Yelan, who had leapt back on instinct, blinked at him.
He panted, recovering his breath. “That.”
Yelan blinked again, the silence stretching taut between them. Then—
“Did you kill him?” Her voice was faint and disbelieving.
“Did I kill—” He took a deep breath. “You’re still asking about him?”
She scoffed. “Of course I’m going to ask about A-Zheng. Did you think I was going to simply ignore that you—”
“It’s not even—” He saw the look on her face and broke off. “For heaven’s sake, he’s not dead yet! Alright?”
“Yet,” she said accusingly. “And he’s a diplomat. Even if you didn’t kill him, you can’t just rough him up without any repercussions!”
“Watch me,” Pantalone snapped. “And why is it only my fault? The way you were using him to taunt me—you knew this would happen. And you still did it.”
Yelan faltered, at that. “I-I didn’t.”
“Liar.”
She glared. “It doesn’t matter. You’re the one who—”
“Changing the subject. How quaint. Still don’t want to admit that you’re just as bad as me?”
“I am not as bad as you,” Yelan hissed. “I wouldn’t jump someone simply because I was jealous.”
“I don’t remember that. I do remember a week ago when you nearly bit off someone’s head when they came up to ask me to dance.”
Yelan’s cheeks went splotchy and red, but she said nothing.
“Come now, little orchid.” Pantalone stepped closer to her. “We don’t have to fight.”
She flicked her gaze to Wenzheng, still out cold. “Don’t we?”
He sighed. He really didn’t see what the problem was. “Must we squander all our time on this pointless posturing?”
“You tell me.”
“What do you even want me to do?” he said, the beginnings of frustration rising.
“I want you to—to—”
“Yes?” he said impatiently.
“I want you to shut up,” she hissed. And then Yelan closed the distance between them, yanking away his glasses so hard that the string broke, and grabbed his face to catch his mouth in a vicious kiss.
Finally, he thought, and then there was nothing in his head after that, no inkling of his oh-so-important work in economics or intrigues or politics. Only Yelan’s mouth hot on his, her touch burning through him like a purifying fire, her hands on his cheeks and his fingers tangling in her hair.
After some time she tried to break the kiss, hungry for air, but now that Pantalone had her here he would be damned to let her go. He pulled her back in and swallowed her gasps. It was futile to struggle against his vise-like grip, so instead Yelan surged forward with renewed vigor, shoving him backwards until he hit the wall. If she had gone a little to the right, they’d have stepped on Wenzheng’s body.
Pantalone tried to move forward, but Yelan slammed him back against the wall. “Stay there,” she ordered, when she managed to wrest her mouth from his.
“Your wish is my command,” he gasped, near dizzy with another rush of want.
Yelan threaded her hand through his hair and tugged hard. His head tipped up with the motion, exposing his throat. “Didn’t I tell you to stop talking?”
“Yes. Yes, my apolo—”
She shoved his coat aside, put her mouth on his collarbone, and he promptly shut up.
“There we go,” she murmured against his skin, and he shivered. “We should do this more often. What a... convenient way to stop that pretty mouth.”
“Mm,” Pantalone managed.
All that time spent studying the languages of Teyvat, but with her mouth at his pulse point, he couldn’t have formed a sentence even if the Tsaritsa had ordered him to. Yelan’s teeth grazed over his skin and he stifled a groan, his head knocking against the wall.
Yelan paused. Looking up through her lashes, she said, “You know, it’s no fun if you insist on being completely silent.”
“You want me to be loud, little orchid? Want the whole hall to—” He broke off with a sharp gasp when she descended on him again. “Want your A-Zheng to hear—hear the Regrator at the mercy of—of—”
The rest devolved into incoherency when she bit into the flesh of his neck, leaving red marks in her wake. His hands tightened around her shoulders, but she made no complaint, entirely focused on the task of leaving her mark on him. He lost track of time, the seconds swimming past in pleasure.
Finally, Yelan straightened, wiping her mouth. “Quiet, now,” she said.
Pantalone was already shutting his mouth obediently when she leaned over to kiss him on the lips again.
It was hours—or perhaps only minutes later, Pantalone could not have told you which—that there was the sound of footsteps, echoing from far down the hallway, and they froze.
“Regrator!” someone called, and Pantalone winced. It was Sandrone. “Where are you?”
“I have to go,” he said quietly, close enough that his lips grazed against hers when he spoke.
Yelan shut her eyes, and let her forehead fall forward against his. “You always do.” He couldn’t tell if it was sadness or bitterness that tinged her words.
Reluctantly, he lifted Yelan’s hands from his shoulders, and gently pushed her backwards. “It’s not like I can help it.”
“Of course.” She shook free of his grip and retreated.
The loss of her body against his was acute. She breathed deep, her features smoothing over.
When she opened her eyes, her face was impassive, none of her earlier passion showing. Not a mark on her to remember him by. That was the only thing he regretted neglecting.
“Until next we meet, little orchid.”
She dipped her head curtly. “Goodbye, Pantalone.”
Yelan walked to the door, her stride swift. The golden light spilled over her hair, her face, and she was more than beautiful. Then she shut the door and he was alone in the darkness.
He slumped against the wall, rubbing his temples.
He already missed her.
“Regrator!”
Pantalone fumbled for his glasses, and found them squished in his coat. Two broken bits of beaded string hung sadly on its frame, and one hinge had been bent in Yelan’s fervor. Uncaring, he shoved them on, and his vision sharpened just as Sandrone stepped into view.
“Sandrone. Hello.” He managed to sound relatively calm.
Sandrone looked at him and then around the corridor. Her eyes landed on Wenzheng, still unconscious by his feet—oh. He’d almost forgotten about Yelan’s emissary.
Sandrone immediately turned her glare on him. “You imbecilic—why are you messing with Liyue’s diplomats when you know all too well that—”
“Save me the lecture. I know. But I—”
What could he say? I was jealous of him? Absolutely not.
He settled on: “Help me cover up his disappearance and you can have him for your tinkering.”
Sandrone paused. She turned a considering eye on Wenzheng.
“Do we have a deal?” Pantalone said softly.
“...I accept.” She sniffed. “Although your crude handling of him leaves much to be desired. Whatever. We’re leaving soon. Don’t get left behind.”
“I’ll draw up the papers the moment I get back,” he said. “Get one of your underlings to pick him up. The human kind, if you please. Your automatons draw far too much attention.”
“Yes, yes. Bankers,” she said disdainfully. “And Regrator—you might want to pull your coat up. Your neck’s looking a little... bitten.”
Pantalone slapped a hand over the kiss-reddened skin and glared, but Sandrone had already turned on her heel and walked away, the clacking of her shoes ringing after her.
“Idiot,” he muttered, but whether he meant her or himself, he wasn’t sure.
“She’s not yours,” he told the emissary’s unconscious form. And then he dusted himself off, wiped his mouth, and left the same way he’d come in, his stride easy with the knowledge that she would never be.