Chapter Text
No body had been recovered, but the Fatui were not new to missing corpses. Nearly a year had passed and Dottore was officially recognized as deceased , a descriptor that made Pantalone sick to even address. At the same meeting in which this was announced, Pierro continued on with the fact that a small memorial service would be held in the coming days. Despite the questionable popularity of The Doctor amongst his— now former —colleagues, all of them voiced their agreement to attend the service. Except for one.
No, the Ninth would not be present for the funeral.
The meeting adjourned, and although Pantalone was the furthest from the door, he was the first to pass through it. He could hear footsteps trying to catch up to him, presumably Childe thinking he’d inspire a little “change of heart” , but he kept going. There was a good head on the boy’s shoulders, but now was not the time. If he walked like he had something to take care of, the kid would leave him alone. Stupid as he was at times, Tartaglia knew better than to interrupt another Harbinger’s work. Sure enough, the footsteps slowed, then faded, then turned around and left.
Pantalone kept moving. It didn’t matter where he ended up, he just needed to get away from that room. Away from that assumption of Pierro’s. He’d heard it just as clear as the others had, but he wouldn’t listen to it. Deceased. That word didn’t belong there. Sure, he’d been missing for months with zero correspondence, and sure, the search teams had found nothing. But it would take more than that to convince Pantalone of the man being dead. Even if he could find it in himself to be capable of accepting this, he wouldn’t. Not now, not anytime soon. ‘Giving up’ was not a strategy The Regrator would be seen adopting. He’d sooner let empty hopes tear him apart from the inside out than believe for a moment that Dottore was… not returning.
After all, he’d been the last person to see Dottore before he set off for Sumeru, and he’d been just fine. He couldn’t forget those last few minutes if he tried. Pantalone was by no means a touchy person, but when those arms had opened up he fell right into them. He’d never minded a hug now and again, and if he didn’t oblige he ran the risk of Dottore’s pout being stuck in his mind until his return. That smile of his was always much preferred, sharp as it was.
Looming over this memory was a fog of overwhelming regret. Pantalone didn’t blame himself for not stopping him from leaving, no. It was a mission, there was nothing anyone could do about that. Defying an order from Her Majesty was a high offense. No, his mistake was so much smaller than that, but it felt just as egregious.
He let go first. Pantalone still, clear as ever, could remember the cold air finding its way back to his chest, blocked only for an extra moment by Dottore’s hands. Tearing himself out of bittersweet reminiscence, he stopped walking. He felt nauseous. He felt dizzy. And he felt very, very, cold.