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Signora, brilliant like her flames, had been the loose thread in an elaborate weave.
When Death came to pull at that thread it unravelled, but beyond pitying talks of she could’ve been more, no one could perceive the true extent of the damage. The cracks in the ice, paving way for doubt. The eleven strong unit, falling apart.
The mandate was mourn, move on. Harden the mind and starve the heart. In time they made progress, bested Sumeru, and from there their luck seemed real. A buzz in the air, almost tangible.
Dottore’s success renewed dull hopes. The palace atmosphere scoured dizzying heights. Pierro even smiled, frequently in fact, and one could be forgiven for dropping their guard. A ceremony marked the victory, Dottore’s acts hailed at the front of the hall.
Pantalone stood prouder than most, sincere in applause and admiration, though never in that moment -that curious peace- did alarm come to rear its head. The strange leap in his chest as Dottore found him, then proceeded to give a small wave, was a detail he promptly ignored. Much like the ache for days -weeks- prior, hoping Dottore was safe, eating well, getting rest... it all meant nothing. Surely. Hopefully.
It was perfectly normal, Pantalone justified, returning the courteous wave.
“Yesterday's ceremony was remarkable. And talk about a feast!”
“What did you expect? We are the Fatui.”
Pantalone observed his assistants from afar, a tickle of pride lingering behind ribs. In light of recent good fortune, he didn’t tell them heads down, focus. Their talk granted new life to the open office. The ceiling felt taller. Columns stretched high. Metal trims held a beautiful shine. Indeed the whole palace benefited from the news - the infamous Dottore coming home with hands full.
Technically it had been Omega, but details, as they say. Dottore -to avoid the bother of gossip about the palace- hid away for the duration of the mission, operating his Segments from afar. He’d witnessed the drama, his eventual triumph, and to think... Pantalone aided that feat. Money, hard work and ideas funnelled into that glorious plan. Together they had done it, really. A fact Pantalone pocketed safe to his breast.
“Lord Pantalone?”
“Mm? What is it?”
One of the assistants turned his way; smile too bright given what they were, though quickly excused for what they’d achieved.
“Will Lord Dottore visit here soon?”
“Not right away. But in time, I’m sure.” Pantalone reclined, fingers interlaced. “I suspect he’ll come bearing gifts - fresh funding requests. As for whether I indulge them...” he paused for effect, assistants hooked upon his words. “Business as usual, gentlemen. We’ll tease him a bit before giving the ‘yes’.”
“Such wonderful food, as ever, yet so few here to enjoy it.” Pulcinella waved for Tartaglia to fill his plate more, on account that he'd need to keep building his strength. Capitano was away, bound for Natlan. Arleccino likewise prepared to leave. Excuses were made in Sandrone’s case, and of course, the puppet was gone.
The table for eleven played host to five. Pierro adopted the chair at the end. Columbina existed, serene, formidable, whilst Pantalone regarded the empty seats.
“The Doctor isn’t joining us?” he asked.
“He’s been invited to a party in the city,” said Pierro. “Plenty of the nobles want to offer their thanks.”
“Oh my, he’ll be kept fairly busy.”
Dottore must’ve been living his idea of hell, forced to socialise with smaller minds. Regardless of the praise he’d soon grow weary, fleeing back to the quiet hermit life he adored.
Dottore did not return to that life just yet, nor did he manage to show his face. Pantalone only heard of where he was headed, or which fancy occasion he’d attend that day. He dined with politicians, swanned about the city, all manner of marvellous things which Pantalone’s assistants talked about to no end. Tongues flapped and laughs bubbled in that office.
That blinding, offending office.
Enough, Pantalone decided. Pen slapped to desk, his chair scraped loud. No one dared to speak as he made for the door.
Dottore wasn’t in the lab. Dottore wasn’t poisoning food in the kitchen.
Dottore wasn’t lurking up high in the towers, coaxing corvids with chopped up ‘meat’, nor was he in the library. His other retreat.
Sometime after his magnificent return, Dottore mastered the art of vanishing for good. The guards at the main gates said no one’s left today, and true, all carriages were present.
Pantalone searched high, coat trailing behind him, and as low as one could without needing a shovel. On and on heels clacked through the halls, until at last, laughter echoed. A grit as deep as Haeresys, Pantalone knew it well. Footsteps felt lighter, the chase ensued. At last, some intelligent conversation! A chance to complain without repercussions!
Order was coming. The banker saved.
Pantalone turned the corner. Reality called. It struck his face, shoes squeaked on the floor.
Of course the bastard wasn’t alone. Dottore charmed another crowd, his mask removed, smiling in his rich tone, the flash of teeth, and rubies almost lidded in full. Pantalone would dig those gems from his skull, and give them pride of place upon his desk. He’d pluck teeth one by one till that smile was his, after which he’d... He’d feel awful, actually.
Wasn’t it good for Dottore to be liked? After decades of whispers, people running away, finally they approached, even stayed a while. They listened to tales of sprawling deserts, giant machines and ruins of old. Some filtered off with polite nods and bows, only departing to attend their meetings, whilst those left behind remained at ease.
Dottore’s peace was a curious thing. Sweet, welcoming and soft; everything he wasn’t meant to be. Pantalone swallowed spit gathered in his mouth, fingers clenched until leather scrunched. He stalked the corner, a shadowy witness, unable to mock the scene ahead.
Sweat prickled the line of his brow. His collar felt tight, gloves sticky and hot. The fur of his coat began to annoy. Pantalone’s breath tripped and stumbled from parted lips, and his infernal pulse mimicked the pace.
Seeing Dottore -handsome, guard lowered- muddled senses and fogged the head. Pantalone blamed it on the sunlight, the golden glow, for dazzling weary eyes so. He blamed Dottore’s laugh, that wonderful rumble, which always found a way to stir his core.
He blamed everything he could to avoid the real issue, and then -without thinking- he ran.
Snezhnaya’s winds were kind to flushed skin, a speechless comfort whilst he caught his breath. Pantalone braced himself upon the balcony, overlooking the courtyard below. Fingers pressed until snow crunched, compacted, and eventually moved no more.
Pantalone sighed a sigh heavier than most. A sigh which sank shoulders, threatened his knees, and if he possessed a soul -not likely, he laughed- he might’ve gone and sighed that out of him too. Bleary eyes searched the lands, the impressive snowscape. He relaxed in the presence of endless white.
At last, he was back. Maybe. Pantalone was Pantalone - clear head, poor circulation, likely to feel the frost in record speed. He was freed from the talons of heat, distractions, and the sheer betrayal of his racing pulse.
Pantalone was thriving, until he was not. A strike to the back of a knee sent him down. A yelp tore from his throat and he grit his teeth.
What hurt more? He couldn’t quite say. The blow was bad but the stones were harsh, and as for dignity... well, she was gone. Bags packed and ready for foreign shores. Pantalone was battered, tormented really, glaring at the cane not far from his head. Tiny hands and a pompous hat.
“Was that necessary, Pulcinella?”
“Very much so,” the man replied. “I’ve come to- no, no. Don’t get up.”
“The floor is unpleasant.”
Pulcinella peered down his long, beaked nose. “I couldn’t care less, you brainless boy.”
“Excuse me?” Pantalone sucked in air, back pressed to the balcony rail. “You beat me then insult me?”
“You thought yourself hidden, didn’t you?”
“What do you-”
Ah. What luck indeed. Pantalone filled the blanks, grimacing, finding the truth rather foul on his tongue.
“You were there, weren't you? In that group with Dottore?”
“You were lurking,” Pulcinella stated, the end of his cane jabbed to Pantalone’s gut, “and you didn’t find the sense to say hello?”
“Begone, you violent cretin.”
“Regrator.” The cane retreated. Pulcinella pinched his tightened brow. “Your petulance never ceases to amaze. How is it, I wonder, that those ranked beneath me are so prone to... this.” He deadpanned, paying no mind to the affronted banker. The bundle of wool and fur with knees drawn close. Pulcinella wanted to say prone to tantrums, but all things considered, he decided not.
“I’m not a child,” said Pantalone, making no effort to veil his threat. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten that I, like yourself, was chosen by-”
“I’m far older than you. Be quiet.”
Stubborn tongue pressed flat. Humiliation aside, Pantalone listened. The floor of the balcony was downright bitter, and no amount of layers could fight the cold.
“You truly are a character,” said Pulcinella. “No regard for ranks, let alone your life. You say whatever you please, whenever you please and yet-” he paused suddenly, pity working into his expression “-when you really ought to speak your mind, I find you fleeing.”
“I didn’t-”
“Get up.”
Pantalone grabbed the balustrade for support, making the less-than-graceful journey to his feet. He pat down his coat, inspected for dirt. The snow must’ve spared him in that regard, much like Pulcinella spared him the chance to adjust.
“Harden the mind, and starve the heart.” Pulcinella laughed during his recital. “Easier said than done, don’t you think?”
“Get to the point,” Pantalone replied, not caring for the games. “You caught me leaving, and what of it? Should I have interrupted that jovial affair?”
“You’ve missed him.”
Three words hurt more than the cane ever could. Pantalone choked on spit. “Missed him? What a daft assumption! Perhaps we should call you the Jester.”
“I’m neither a fool, nor blind.” Pulcinella searched Pantalone up and down. “Amongst our ranks you’re one of the few who indulges the heart. You house mere trinkets for their sentimental value, pen letters in your fancy inks, and then there’s your outbursts. Honest. Direct. You have missed him, Regrator, I know, and he-”
“Are you quite finished!?”
The eyes bearing down lacked genuine spite. They wavered, beheld a wet sheen. Pantalone’s teeth pinned his lower lip.
“Regrator-”
“It’s not that.” Pantalone shook his head, frantically searching Pulcinella’s face. “I-I was jealous. Yes. I still am. Who wouldn’t be after what he’s achieved?”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not!” Gloved hand gripped the balustrade. A wheeze ruined hopes of appearing confident. “I’m not lying,” repeated the small voice. “You know how things are. What we must be. I’m jealous of him, I swear it. I cannot afford to...” Pantalone looked away, letting his sentence go unfinished.
“My dear boy.” Pity took hold. Pulcinella could figure out the ending himself. Pantalone built those walls impossibly high, and now the cracks were starting to show. Behind bricks and mortar a young man resided, harbouring feelings inconvenient to possess. “I may be unconscionable, as you once put it, and we have disagreed on a great many things, but this I do not oppose.”
“Now you jest.”
Flakes of snow began to drift. Pulcinella watched them float just past his nose, loop and settle in dark waves of hair. “I do not,” he said, composed. “Ever since I met The Doctor... I’ve felt sorry for him. Yes. If only that brilliant mind had been born elsewhere, away from those narrow-minded idiots. His logic wasn’t wrong, humans can be greater.”
“But his methods,” Pantalone uttered. “No land would excuse them.”
“When something is restricted, temptation grows. Desperate times, desperate measures, as they say and- no. Never mind, I’m digging a hole. Hypocrisy at its best, given the things I've done.”
Pantalone snorted. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, increasingly aware of the frost taking hold. “You know what they say of the Northland Bank. And the taxes.”
“I do.” Pulcinella deadpanned. “The people look to me for solutions, whilst you’re orchestrating an inflation which forces them to take out your loans.”
“Coincidence.”
Pulcinella believed otherwise. He sighed and looked ahead. “You and Dottore are a frightening match.”
“Let’s not get carried away. You know the rules.”
“That silly mantra is not a rule.”
“Oh? Then what is it, exactly?”
Feathered hat tipped. Pulcinella waited. “It might be difficult to believe, but that so-called 'mandate' is a means of protection.”
“Protection?” Pantalone’s nose wrinkled. He could barely feel the movement. “In what respect, exactly?”
“He stills mourns for her. Rosalyne.”
“The Jester?”
A small nod. A cough. Pulcinella’s voice lowered in turn. “She’s left a gaping hole which can’t be filled. To avoid future hurt he created those lines, hoping that emotional distance might spare us that fate. None of us are immune to our emotions, however. Even I... I’ve lived a life.”
Pantalone blinked thrice. “At present, do you...?”
“Love someone? No, dear boy. But I have, and I might do again.”
A laugh came without warning. Pantalone’s shoulders began to shake. “Watch out, people of Teyvat. The mayor's out on the-”
“Finish that sentence, Regrator, and I vow to beat you with my cane.”
“I prefer my kneecaps intact.”
“Then we have an accord?”
Pantalone mock bowed. Pulcinella’s smile meant ‘nothing to fear’. Indeed the old man seemed happy, enjoying their talk, despite the apprehension lingering overhead. Matters of the heart ran deep, intertwined. Pantalone brushed off amusement to loose a breath, watching staggered plumes of white tumble and roll.
“It’s all very well that I have your approval, and you deem The Doctor and I a good match, but you forget one vital detail.”
“Which is?”
“Reciprocation of those... feelings.” Pantalone’s face twisted around the last word. “You presume too much.”
“You think it impossible?”
“Well-” Tongue stumbled at that. It wasn’t impossible. No. But a stretch? Absolutely, yes. Dottore couldn't afford to let his mind wander, not if he wanted results. “I’m just not convinced,” Pantalone excused. “Though I appreciate the optimism.”
“Regrator.”
“Rooster.”
“Rooster!”
Muffled shout. Thumping on glass. Both men whirred to regard the tall window behind, finding Dottore’s index finger jabbing madly. It was a wonder his finger didn’t break, or the glass panel for that matter, but then Dottore was darting towards the nearby door, emerging on the balcony most unimpressed.
“What do you think you’re doing!? It’s freezing out here!”
“Me?” Pulcinella recoiled. “Why I... I’m not sure I understand. I’m fine.”
“You would be, unlike him.” Dottore pointed to Pantalone, namely the shock of pink nose and cheeks against white. “Might I get him indoors whilst he’s still amongst the living, or are you determined to see him suffer?”
“No, no. My intentions were good.”
Dottore cared very little for intentions. His nose geared high. His hand went out. Pantalone looked down, up, down again, eyeing the gesture shoved his way.
“You want to...?”
“Go on.” Pulcinella intervened. “Reciprocation is key, is it not?”
“Quite so.” Dottore took the lead and a trembling hand. Pantalone couldn’t control the shakes if he tried, and as for Pulcinella’s final statement... he decided to leave it be.
“Right, the tea’s almost done. Do you need another blanket? How’s the fire?”
“Dottore, please don’t fuss. And leave the fire be, it’s large enough.”
Dottore stood by the sofa -hands to hips, head cocked- anything but sold by Pantalone’s remark. The poor thing was more blanket than anything else, dressed in a fresh change of clothes which weren’t damp from the snow. Pantalone might have convinced if his teeth didn’t chatter, or erupt into fits of sneezes.
“I’m quite fine, Doctor.”
“You’re quite stupid.” Dottore replied, fetching the tea once brewed. He set it on the unit beside the sofa, took a seat and touched the cup. “It’s boiling. Another minute or two.”
“I won’t feel the heat.”
“All the more reason for you not to touch it.”
Bare fingers bore a purplish hue. Pantalone curled them to test the feel. “Another minute then,” he conceded, glimpsing the shoulder which bumped his own. Dottore lacked all awareness of personal space, kicked off his boots and wiggled toes in his socks.
“The fire’s nice. Cosier than my lab.”
“Make yourself at home, why don’t you?”
“Home...? Now that’s a concept.” Dottore tested the word on his tongue. The mask came off, sent to the side unit. He uttered it again beneath his breath. “I went there, in some shape or form, to the place that should’ve been home.”
Sumeru, thought Pantalone, bundling up in mounds of wool. “You saw it through your Segments.”
Dottore nodded slowly, flames dancing in the glaze of his stare. “It’s been so long that I... I didn’t know what to expect. What to feel. Loathing was there for the Akademiya, but draining their resources eased that blow, and it was rather fun watching them fall apart. The entire system’s crumbled, the traitors exposed. I dare say I’ve made a great mess.”
“But it wasn’t home.”
“No. Not one bit.” Dottore snapped out from the haze. “Anyway, I appeared just in time, I reckon.” He nodded to Pantalone’s hands. “You need to be careful. I’ve told you before.”
“I’m alright.”
“You’re always 'alright', until you’re not.”
“I’ve been through much worse by myself.”
Pantalone referred to the streets, where cruelty came not in winter or hurtling winds, but via the cruelty of those with a home. No one wanted his kind tucked away in the alleys, and would often drag him out by rags or hair, and scream at him to leave.
That was then, and this was now. The situation completely reversed. The concerns over shelter no longer came to mind, whereas the climate became a threat.
“Next time, get back indoors.” Dottore covered pale hands with one of his own. “I created a god from scraps of metal, yet mortal ailments challenge me still. Should the worst befall you, then I-...” His throat constricted. “Do not test the limits of my skills. I beg you.”
“Dottore...?”
The Doctor shifted to face him better, giving cold fingers a gentle squeeze. “What did the Rooster want? Need me to put him in his place? Say the word and I will, I promise.”
“We talked. That was all.”
“Pantalone.”
“Dottore.”
“Pantalone,” Dottore tried again, promptly crossing arms over his chest. “Must you be so diffi- wait, never mind. Don’t answer that.” He met lidded eyes, taken by their quiet intrigue. “For all your verbal dances, and irrational outbursts, I have found myself missing you.”
Pantalone leant back. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’ve missed you,” Dottore repeated. “Did the cold affect your hearing as well?”
“The tea must be-” sneeze “-ready by now.”
“You wicked creature.” Dottore grinned. “For that response, I hope it’s gone cold.”
Most likely, but that was okay. Pantalone settled on the sofa, handkerchief to nose, warmed by Dottore’s earlier admission.
“I’ve missed you too.”
Dottore perked up. “Really?”
“Oh ye-” Sneeze. A grumbled swear. Pantalone waited before continuing. “Without you here, I’m just too rich. No one drains the coffers quite like you.”
“You charmer.”
“I try.”
“Hoho, that you do.”
Dottore draped an arm around the blanketed nuisance. Pantalone likewise moulded to the curve of Dottore’s torso, as if the space had always existed just for him. In that comforting hold the banker saw sense; Pierro's 'mandate' was a well-meant precaution, not a tool for internal torment. Perhaps, all things considered, it wouldn't hurt to lower the guard.
“Welcome home, Doctor.”
A wonky smile. The flash of teeth. Dottore patted dark waves when another sneeze came. “Thank you. It’s good to be back.”