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"You are not going."
Dottore's silky voice turns needle sharp. His ruby eyes smoulder, like flickering embers.
"Signora went, and she died. Scaramouche went, and he turned against us. Who's to say you're not next? Who's to say he won't kill you too?"
Pantalone laughs. Softly, like the dusty desert wind that sweeps across Sumeru's land.
"Oh my." he laments, a twinkle behind his overpriced glasses. "The ruthless, murderous doctor with a penchant for killing his lovers…pleading with me, a lowly merchant."
Dottore's face flames. "Fontaine will be the end of you." he seethes. "Mission or no mission, there's no way I can– no way I'll let you– you stupid son of a bitch! Don't you realise you're going to get yourself killed?"
Pantalone smiles faintly. The amused light in his midnight irises fades, and tension settles over the room.
"One week at the Masquerade." he vows, steeling himself. "One week."
Masquerade, notes Dottore. There will be dancing and music and wine. With the most elegant dresses and suits. Imperial families from all around. Some may even jump at the chance to chat up someone as…pretty as Regrator…
I don't like this.
Pantalone notes the face he's pulling.
"Jealous?" he says teasingly. "Don't worry, Dottie. After this week, I'm still going to be yours."
After year upon year of solitude found in the world's hatred towards him, after the atrocities he's committed, Dottore knows he's evil to the bone.
But there is that one pinprick of golden glow, shining in his darkness. The pale-faced man with the shit-eating grin that he used to hate.
His heart softens for only one person.
All else can burn.
He snatches up the Regrator's hand. Takes in those features that he knows he may never see again.
"I won't hear all this talk of you getting drunk at the masquerade ball." growls Dottore. "You're signing your death warrant."
Pantalone glances at him. Almost sadly, he speaks.
"Tsaritsa's orders, sir. Signora was overconfident. Scaramouche was stupid. This is my turn now. I can't ruin this opportunity." His eyes glint cold and hard with sudden determination. "I'll be back before you know it."
He puts on a sly smirk.
"And besides," he grins, "no masquerade would be complete without the cunning flirt in glasses and a mysterious smile."
Dottore snorts. "I nominate Pulcinella. He has glasses, right? He can go."
"That old rooster couldn't flirt to save his life." Pantalone bent closer, running a finger through the doctor's mint-green hair. "Just calm down. One week, and I'll come back to you."
His breath feels hot on Dottore's face. "Tsaritsa give me strength." the senior Harbinger mutters. He's like putty in his lover's hands.
He comes to his conclusion, swayed by Pantalone's saccharine charms.
"Fuck you." Dottore grumbles.
Pantalone does his signature shit-eating grin again. "Wonderful."
The Doctor gives him a look.
-
Midnight descends upon the metropolis of bustling steam trains and incandescent lights. The Court of Final Appeal is silent, the security guard-gargoyle splintered into pieces on the floor.
He almost can't believe how easy this is.
The Gnosis rests on the pedestal, unguarded, with no security spells whatsoever to protect it. (He bribed the judges into removing them.)
Divine energy intertwines around his fingers as he touches it. His face stretches into a smile.
Then a figure leaps down from behind him. The unsheathing of a sword is audible in the silent room.
Blond hair frames a silent face that glares at him coldly.
"The weather's nice, isn't it." the infamous Traveler says, almost casually. "I didn't expect to run into you here."
Pantalone does not enjoy small talk.
In fact, Pantalone doesn't enjoy people in general (unless it's Dottore) and he really, really feels like stabbing someone right now.
The celebrated hero takes a step closer.
"I didn't think Focalors would invite such dishonourable people to her lovely masquerade ball. Saw you there yesterday, by the way. You looked ravishing. If only what lies beneath that smartass face could match your outer charm and elegance."
The scorn in his words is undeniable.
Pantalone leans in, contempt curling up the corners of his lips.
"Alright, then." he whispers, a crystal sword forming in his hands as he speaks. "May I have this dance?"
"Try me, filth."
Pantalone grips his sword a little tighter, thinking of Dottore.
"You're signing your death warrant," he'd said in anger.
Pantalone exhales. His lips move ever so slightly. I'll come back to you, Zandik. I swear.
He whirls around and charges into battle.
-
The box is beautiful.
Encased in gold, it gleams prettily in the dimmed lights of the hall. Decorated with storm beads and carved aquamarine flowers, Dottore smirks.
"Of course Pantalone would send the Gnosis back like this," he remarks.
Pierro turns it over in his hands. The box is extravagantly decorated, but it's also a lot larger than any of them expected. Dottore squints at it. He can almost swear Pantalone didn't like storm-bead designs. He always thought of them as tasteless and boring.
How strange.
Childe snorts. "He was always so extra."
Pulcinella pushes his glasses up his abnormally large nose. "This box is rather big for a Gnosis." he observes. "Rather heavy, too."
Columbina taps her foot impatiently, but wordlessly, as if to say No shit, Sherlock . Dottore watches in amusement as Childe inches away from her in fear.
"Still haven't gotten over your phobia of Auntie Damselette, have you." Dottore chuckles, and Childe goes beetroot red.
Arlecchino sighs, but her eyes are gleaming. "Poor little child." she says glacially. "Barely five years old, and already traumatised by the scary mean Harbingers."
Pierro's voice cuts through their conversation.
"As much as I'd like to keep watching all of you torment Tartaglia, we should be focusing on the matter at hand."
Murmurs of disappointment are heard among the group.
Pierro gives them a stern look, then hovers his hand above the golden lid.
"May Her Majesty the Tsaritsa bless us," he says, and opens the box.
A hush falls over the laughing harbingers.
"That's not a Gnosis." points out Pulcinella, and Arlecchino hushes him.
Dottore's heart is dropping to the floor. He swallows, forcing a steely smile, something unidentified crawling into his eyes–
Tears.
He hasn't cried in 300 years.
He looks down at the ornate box, at the blood caking the inside of it, at the broken pair of glasses and onyx hair and a familiar, shit-eating grin.
A clean cut runs along the top of his neck, the severed head preserved in mint condition.
Struck down by the blade of a guillotine.
A stained piece of paper lies at the bottom of the container:
Off with his head.
The silence is broken by Childe. "What do we tell the Tsaritsa?"
No one answers.
Pierro turns to nod at Columbina. "Damselette. You take his place. Go negotiate with Focalors tomorrow. Gnosis should still be with her. We'll take care of the rest."
Columbina stares after the severed head in the box for a moment, then recovers.
"Yes, Pierro."
She bites her lip, smoothing out her streaked hair. Almost like she's nervous, too.
Dottore can feel himself shaking.
He remembers when Signora died. He didn't feel this way.
The Harbingers talk, while he falls silent. No words of teasing leave his lips today. He's too scared, too miserable to tease and laugh it off.
Oho, I didn't know the Doctor had emotions at all.
He tells himself that. Like he's fine. Like nothing's happened.
He's alive. He's still here. He's just in Fontaine right now. This is a cruel prank.
The Harbingers disperse, one by one. Columbina leaves for Fontaine immediately. Pierro goes to tell the Tsaritsa about the…incident. Sandrone and the rest go off to handle the funeral.
Dottore hasn't the foggiest what he's supposed to be doing. So he stays there.
Pulcinella stays, too.
"I know you were quite close to him," Pulcinella starts.
Dottore scowls, whirling around. His red eyes are sharp with fury.
"No I wasn't. I hate everyone, remember?"
The old man tilts his head, leaning on his sharpened walking stick that doubles as his weapon for berating people.
"If you say so, Doctor. If you say so."
Dottore's temper flares. "Leave me alone, Pulcinella."
"…Well, if you ever want to talk, we're all willing to…"
"Would you do me a favour and leave?"
The outburst makes Pulcinella jump, and for a second Dottore fears he's going to pull out another of his long, reproachful speeches and guilt-trip him into talking about his so-called nonexistent "feelings".
"Ah. As you wish."
The short harbinger walks, surprisingly nimbly, out of the hall with the slightest hint of disappointment in his words.
Dottore is alone in the hall with the box.
Looking around to make sure no one's here, he reaches out a hand and curls a lock of dark hair around his finger.
Gently, he strokes it– the remnants of the only person he dare be affectionate to.
"Wake up, idiot." Dottore mutters, biting his tongue to hold in a scream of anger. "This isn't funny, you know."
He runs his hand along Pantalone's wounded cheek, staring into his once-lively eyes.
He's witnessed so many deaths and stained his hands with blood and yet, he can't handle this.
Leaning over, the doctor remembers the stars reflecting in Pantalone's midnight eyes. He hates how it hurts him for him to feel loss.
One week, and I'll come back to you.
Everything that he's said before. Every promise.
You can kill me like you did with her, and I'd still worry about you.
We're all dangerous here, Dottore.
It's okay.
Oh Tsaritsa, don't cry. I can't handle crying people.
I'll always come back, stupid.
I'll always come back.
"Liar." Dottore mumbles, fingertip at his lover's eyelids. He touches them, brings them closed for the last time. "You liar."
When a person's eyes are open in death, it means that they have not finished what they desired most to do.
He drapes himself over the box, uncomfortable as it is. His eyes water with regret that he couldn't stop this.
There, with what remains of the light in his darkness, he falls asleep.
The fires of Hell burn, reflected in Pantalone's eyes, so intensely that he almost seems aflame.
Wait, he is on fire.
The figure sits calmly, flames licking at his fingertips. His skin isn't charred, but the pain is evident at the way his posture is rigid, at the way he shakes his head to stop Dottore from coming any nearer.
The iron chair he's sitting on looks just as painful, and there's a faint, healed scar on his neck.
"No!"
Dottore leaps up from where he lies.
"Pantalone," he whispers, sidling up to his beloved and right into the fire. It burns, but he ignores it. "I just had the worst dream."
"Is that so?" Pantalone dips his head.
"I dreamed that they killed you."
Silence comes, then a laugh.
"Oh, but they did kill me, Dottie. I'm dead. My body in a ditch and my severed head in Snezhnaya. I'm in Hell. Ninth circle, to be exact. You're just visiting."
He points to the arch above them that reads Cell 09-1392.
"I won't have any more of this sick joke." declares Dottore, heart racing. "What am I supposed to do now?"
Pantalone smiles sadly.
"Go home. I'm hardly worth stressing over. I'll be fine."
Dottore can't even mask his enraged scream.
"They took you away and they didn't even care."
Pantalone shrugs. "Is that not what we as Fatui do? All the time?"
"Yes, but–" Dottore breaks off.
Fuck. He has a point.
The doctor swallows his pride.
"I failed to stop you." he mumbles, wrapping his hands around Pantalone's dishevelled form. Smoke rises from the raging fire that envelops the two of them in an embrace of pain. "I failed, and you're dead, and it's…
It's my fault."
For once, the ruthless murderer admits to his wrongs.
Pantalone claps a hand to his mouth, almost chuckling.
"I volunteered to die, Dottie. Don't think too much about it. I said I'd always come back, didn't I? And here I am. Right in front of you."
Dottore's face blooms red. "Not like this."
"I don't think we have much of a choice."
"You had a choice and you died because of it."
"Well, I don't mind dying."
"This isn't about you, you selfish asshole."
How wonderfully ironic it is, that the segment of Il Dottore that once claimed to be the most selfish now speaks of others' selfishness.
"Haven't changed a bit, have you." Pantalone sighs.
Dottore loses his temper. "I walked through fire to be with you!"
The Doctor's pride, it hurts. It hurts and pierces his heart and destroys him from within until he's void of love, void of light.
And suddenly, Pantalone encourages it.
He keeps talking, heart in his throat. He's realised that if he forces every last trace of emotion out of Dottore, then he will never have to see him hurt like this again. He'll never be miserable again because of this pathetic merchant's death.
Pantalone knows what makes him tick. He plays on these fears, smooth like honey, angering him past the point of no return.
- maybe if he hates me, he'll stop hurting. - he forces himself to think.
"I should have died a long time ago." he whispers, pounding in the final nail in the coffin.
Dottore freezes midair.
He turns back to the dead man, tone chilling and cold– like the loss of the only thing he ever treasured has killed off what is left of his humanity.
The monster has awakened.
"I hope you enjoy rotting in Hell alone." he growls, stepping out of the flames. "Because I'm never coming back here again."
Pantalone adjusts his glasses, bowing his head.
"As you wish, sir." he says with a formality that he only uses with his seniors that he hardly knows.
There's something new burning in his eyes. Unspoken words that Dottore will never hear.
And maybe a single teardrop that glistens, unnoticed.
With no sign of remorse or looking back, the new, emotionless Dottore vanishes from the dream.
Pantalone lets himself sigh. The burn from the flames surrounding him is nothing compared to what he's just done.
"I missed you so much."
He speaks only to empty silence.
Dottore wakes to the rest of the Harbingers staring down at him. He realises he's clutching the box in his hands.
"Damn," Arlecchino remarks. "Looks like someone loved him more than we thought he did."
Pulcinella pokes her hard with his walking stick. "See, I was right."
"Okay, okay, I know. You're right. All hail Pulcinella, I guess." Arlecchino grumbles. "Yeah. I had no idea about…"
She gestures to Dottore with his arms around the box of remains.
Dottore throws the box down. It lands with a loud crash , and the rest of the room flinches at the sound of something breaking inside.
"I'm not in love with anyone." he snarls, adjusting his hair and putting his mask back in place. "I hate all of you and I hate him, too."
Even Pierro appears surprised at the poison in his words.
"Did we hit a nerve?" whispers Childe to Sandrone, who ignores him. "Is he in denial?"
Dottore walks up to Childe and jerks him upwards by the chin.
"One more word about that piece of filth, and I'll send you down to hell with him."
With that, he turns on his heel and stalks away.
The remaining six in the room exchange uneasy glances.
Pulcinella looks at the box on the floor, gulping.
"He's not usually so angry."
Dottore's experiments go wilder and wilder over the months. Where he once used to enjoy the experimentation process, he now truly relishes them, the only source of so-called entertainment he has left. The cruelty he executes his little games with keeps him alive.
He burns his old memories. His past at the Akademiya, gone. His letters to the Regrator, gone.
"Zandik" and "Dottie" are gone, and in their place lives a singular Doctor.
Where his eyes once sparkled at the prospect of torturing, they now turn dark with grim satisfaction.
He kills and kills and it's never going to be enough to fulfil his hatred of the world. Colleagues and enemies alike fear him, and even Pierro avoids speaking to him as much as possible.
From his place in Hell, a young man with sharp, pretty features and overpriced glasses looks through a mirror at the world above.
This is his daily ritual.
He loves tormenting himself. He watches how the person he loved the most slowly drains himself of feeling anything at all. He watches him burn down Liyue Harbor and flood the Chasm and hunt down the Lochfolk.
But he doesn't care about the world's suffering, nor his own.
His sinful, bloodstained hands clasped together in an unreasonable prayer, he offers his words to the long-dead Archon of his early childhood.
He appeals to the cruel god who will never offer his hand.
"Rex Lapis," he gasps through invisible tears, "you have never once helped me in my childhood."
He winces at the memory.
"Please, just this once, answer my prayers. Please keep him safe."