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You’d never dreamed of having the opportunity to travel. To do so required enormous amounts of both Mora and expendable time, neither of which you'd had most of your life. Even when you’d joined the Fatui, in the early days, you knew there’d be little chance for time off - it was a luxury, for even the higher-ranking agents, essentially something reserved solely for Harbingers. And even then, that assumed they did not have higher orders from Her Majesty the Tsaritsa - the one who came above all else.
So when Pantalone mentioned, off-handedly, that he was required to go to Liyue’s Northland Bank, you impulsively perked up at the chance to tag along. You’d accompanied him on a handful of excursions by now within Snezhnaya; a day trip to Morespok, a weekend of meetings with some of his debt collectors near Nod-Krai... Each time, Pantalone had seemed delighted to have you at his arm, beaming at uncomfortable agents who did not know whether to so much as glance your way or bow in reverence to the Harbinger’s beloved. Even still, you had enjoyed yourself, Pantalone ensuring you had an inn rented entirely to yourselves and that you were lavished with the finest amenities possible. And maybe you'd gotten a little used to the privilege.
This time is…different.
Pantalone does not respond with the same enthusiasm as with your previous times accompanying him - Archons, you had not even needed to ask those times; he had merely snapped his fingers at his agents and they were already packing your bags! For him to pause, reflect, his perpetual smile dampening just for a flicker of a second before he simply said, Of course, my dearest ______…it was just odd.
And when you’d sat in his lap at his desk and frowned and asked him if it was really, truly okay, and was there something wrong?...Pantalone had smiled again, a hand at the small of your back, and shaken his head.
“There is nothing to concern yourself with. I’ll have a servant help you pack your things in the morning.”
You pride yourself on being able to read your surroundings. It was a necessity growing up in a world that did not trust one another, where it was every street urchin for themself and where the strongest (or most clever) won out in the end. To be able to gauge every furtive gaze or twitch of the jaw often meant the difference between a full belly or a long, hungry night.
But Pantalone, too, has had plenty of experience in that department. You have, amidst your courting, begun to understand his mannerisms: the crook of his mouth, the wringing of his hands, a slight shift in his tone…and as such, even when he smiles and acts perfectly at ease, you have come to know better. Though he is still far from forthcoming with his more emotional thoughts, you can read the tension in his muscles or the weight of his body against you when he’s had a particularly difficult day. And there is a certain type of pride that comes with being a Harbinger’s source of comfort.
Yet this time, nothing you do or say seems to alleviate your growing concern about his standoffishness.
You know Liyue is Pantalone’s home country. You know much of his ire stems from his disgust towards the gods, and particularly Rex Lapis, the God of Commerce; how painfully ironic that it should be the very god of the place where he spent his childhood starving and haggard. But each time you try to press him during the journey there (bundled up and standing at Pantalone’s side up on the ship’s main deck with the sea wind kissing his fair features), each time that you ask to make sure he is really alright…you are shut down with a tender kiss and a gloved hand at your chin, a distraction that Pantalone should know by now is far from enough to keep you satisfied.
Is this his way of crying to you for help? The complete lack of subtlety in his words, his gestures?
You can only push him so far; not when there are agents and guards and servants teeming about, and his time in your shared berth is spent poring over documents and loan agreements and rehearsing what he must say to which employee. It’s clear he is trying to distract himself, though that gives you ample time to think of a way to chip at the armour he has yet to shuck off in your presence. It shouldn’t hurt you the way it does; you’ve been together for months, courted for months more before that, so you know of Pantalone’s indirect ways.
Still. The fact that you know something is wrong, and he undoubtedly knows he is stringing you along, stokes something hot and irritated inside you. You want him, just once, to be forthcoming with you - to share that he is angry or hurt or reliving a particularly unpalatable part of his past, a past he has never spoken of in clear terms with you.
But there is no time to speak to Pantalone about that either, because by the time you have gathered your courage your ship has docked in Liyue Harbour, and you are greeted to a beautiful array of lanterns decorating ships and cheerful passersby eyeing the mysterious new vessel.
Some slink away when they recognize the Fatui masks the guards don; the braver ones ogle or peek behind buildings or lamp poles. And whereas normally Pantalone would take his time exiting the ship, making a show of his power and his wealth and of your love for him, this time he is strangely rushed. He takes your hand, of course, but there is an air of haste to his movements, and he barely glances your way as he pulls you ashore. You nearly trip on your own two feet with it, and it isn’t until you’re in the city center that you pull at him and stop.
Pantalone frowns, just slightly, when you plant your feet to the ground. “Are you alright, darling?”
“I’m fine,” you say, matching his perplexed expression, “but are you?”
You swear you see his throat bob as he swallows, even hidden by the fabric of his collar. “Why? Have I given you the impression I have something to be bothered by?”
“I- well, not exactly, but…this is your hometown, is it not?”
Pantalone waves his gloved hand and smiles once more. “I have not considered it such in many years,” he says smoothly, so smooth you’d believe him if you did not know him any better. “I merely have many things to review before morning comes. I’ve made arrangements at the inn, they shall have a lovely meal for us to dine together this evening.” He extends that same hand and tilts his head, eyes glistening. There is no reason for you to be on edge or suspicious…and yet…
And yet you don’t believe him.
So even when you smile back and nod and take his hand while the pair of you scurry through the stone roads, the sun kissing the horizon’s edge as it sets and the lanterns peppering the streets with their glow, your mind is racing, trying to silently pick apart your lover’s head and heart. So when you see the street vendors, you wonder if Pantalone sees the faces of those who beat and chased him out for stealing there. When you walk past the kitchens and restaurants, the scent of charred meat and floral tea emanating from the stoves, you wonder if his mouth watered as a little boy who could not afford anything more than what his tiny hands scraped up. The small mom-and-pop toy stand, with gleeful, beautifully dressed children begging their parents for something new - something Pantalone undoubtedly could never have afforded at their age…
Everything you know about him has been masked as sage adages he'd offhandedly shared. And it both bothers and worries you.
You squeeze his hand in reflex reassurance, and, ever the perceptive one, he notices and squeezes back. Perhaps he tells himself it is you he is reassuring, while taking whatever comfort you give. You want him to be open with you, damnit, only this once - you aren’t buying that everything is okay, and he should know that.
Why can’t he do this? For someone he claimed to care about? Were you just another tool, too?
It’s dark by the time you reach the inn, a tall and modern building where two Fatui guards are already stationed. You’re hungry; you did not realize how late it truly was, and how little you’d eaten during your voyage. You’re ready to just let this whole thing about Pantalone’s feelings drop to go stuff yourself silly, his words about your promised feast coming back to mind, when the aroma of something sweet across the street catches your attention.
It’s a little cafe of sorts, selling hot drinks and desserts. It’s quaint with a handful of small picnic-style tables, where families and couples are already enjoying their treats. You don’t especially want to join them, not before your dinner, but…perhaps you could buy a snack to share with Pantalone later. You won’t ask him to pay, either; you’ve never once wanted to take advantage of his Mora, and the possibility that this will cheer him up is too good to let go of.
You tug at Pantalone’s sleeve. “Why don’t we get something to eat later tonight?” you ask, pointing towards the stand.
Pantalone, however, stiffens visibly, though his smile barely falters. “We’ll come back after dinner, dearest, when there’s less of a wait,” he says, already turning to leave, but you frown. There is a short line, but nothing extreme; a family with a young daughter, a lone man, a woman and what looks to be her elderly mother…
“They might be sold out of the good stuff by then,” you insist. “Look, they have flower cakes, we could each get one -”
“I’ll have someone fetch us some once we’re settled in.”
“No, it’ll be my treat.”
Something seems to break in his resolve at your stubbornness; he purses his lips into a grimace, closes his eyes, and removes his glasses to absentmindedly wipe them on his shirt. He only responds when they’re back on, like the gesture gave him a moment to think through his words. What is there to think about? “Alright,” he relents at last, and it’s like you’ve won a fierce battle, what with the exertion in his tone.
There are only two other guests ahead of you now, and it gives you time to pause even amidst your excitement. What has gotten into your partner this whole trip? If you take his words at face value, the visit to his home nation isn’t the problem…then, why the resistance to you buying a dessert for your stay in the inn? Is it keeping up with appearances? Are you making him look bad?
And you can’t ask him, because knowing Pantalone, he won’t tell you.
You’re snapped back to the present when the man in front of you is wrapping up his order. You see him rustling around in his pants pockets, a tad sheepish, before shaking his head towards the server. “Ah, my apologies. I seem to have left the necessary funds back at the parlour…forgive me. I shall return another day.”
Almost instinctive, you look up at Pantalone. You’ve seen him tip your servers well; you’ve seen him throw a generous bag of Mora into beggars’ hats when he thinks nobody is looking, lest it betray his ideal of having every person in Teyvat earn their way up the proverbial ladder. He cares more than he lets on, and it’s one of many things that drew you to him when all you'd initially wanted to do was spit at his boots. But when you catch a glimpse of his face presently, all you see is disgust. What? Why?
“‘Lone,” you whisper, tugging at his sleeve again, “why don’t we help that guy out?”
He sniffs. “There’s no need to do that,” he whispers back curtly. “Let it be a lesson for next time.”
“Come on, don’t be that way. I’ve been in his shoes before, and you know it.”
“Trust me, you haven’t.” Pantalone snorts, a derisive sound that comes from the hatred in his heart, you’re certain. “Not everyone is as deserving of help as you seem to think.”
Something inside you snaps at that, and you shake him off, suddenly irritated. Fine. Let him be that way, let him show the rest of the world how cold a Harbinger is. You’re not like that. So instead, just as the wallet-less man is leaving, you tap him on the shoulder and excuse yourself. You hand over a palmful of Mora - enough to cover a coffee and a small treat - and smile apologetically. “Here,” you say, proffering it to him. “Pay it forward some day.”
The man’s amber eyes meet yours, and he smiles gratefully to you. “I certainly shall.”
The exchange barely takes thirty seconds, if that, but Pantalone is gone by the time you’ve finished. Had he really left your place in line? Now you're particularly peeved. It’s only after a frantic scan of the street that you see his distinctive fur-lined coat as he storms off, and you have to run to catch up to him. You’re angry, maybe even angrier than you were with him when he was a mysterious Harbinger and you were a petty labourer, any sympathy magically gone. What the fuck is his problem today?
“‘Lone,” you call after him, just as you’re arriving at the inn. “Pantalone!”
He ignores you. Instead, he makes sweet small talk with the receptionist - flanked by Fatui agents, of course - grabs the key to your room, and marches up the staircase without a word your way.
And you march right up behind him, grabbing his wrist just as he is about to unlock the door.
That gets his attention. “You didn’t get your dessert,” he remarks flatly. “Funny, considering it seemed so important to you to do so at that very moment.”
“By the Seven, you are insufferable today!” The words spill out as you burst through the door, tossing your coat onto the kingsized mattress. There’s only one bed, but right now, you’d rather sleep on the floor than with the man before you. Pantalone crosses his arms, gazes at you, and says nothing. His calm before the storm, terrifying though it might be, does nothing to abate your anger. “I’ve asked you, over and over and over and over, if you’re alright. I’ve asked you! If you really love me, don’t you trust me enough to give me a truthful answer?”
You hear him exhale, his fists clenching and unclenching. Eventually, his fingertips graze the desk before the bed; a notepad and ink alongside a vase of beautiful flowers rest atop it. He turns away from you. “I’ve told you before that I am fine,” he replies coolly. “Do you not trust me enough to believe me?”
“Why couldn’t you just pay for that guy? Why can’t you be honest with me, for once?” The rage has melted into near desperation, and you’re tip-toeing behind him to brush your fingers against his arm; you love him, you love Pantalone, you thought you did, but -
At that, the air shifts; any semblance of calm is gone, and Pantalone whips around, stalking towards you with a look in his eye that you’ve never seen before. Fiery, hot, yet freezing cold all at once. Before you know it, he has you cornered against the ornately-papered wall, out of place for the way he looks at you like the dirt on his boot.
“You think because our circumstances may have their parallels, that you know more about the way the world works than I do?” he demands, though it’s a rhetorical question at best. You freeze, every fibre in your body screaming, your heart stuck in your throat. His voice is rising, now, each word stronger and more passionate than the last. “You think you know who to trust, who to help?”
“I- I just- I trust you, I wanted to help- to help you -”
“I don’t need your trust. I don’t need your help,” Pantalone spits, turning back on his heel and towards the end of the bed. “I don’t need anyone’s help! Not yours, the Harbingers’, certainly not the gods -” On the last word, his arm juts out, wiping off everything adorning the desk and sending it crashing to the floor. He’s frantic, almost manic, and you can see his shoulders heaving even from the back. “Everything in this world has a price, a value. You can act like everyone else, you can make yourself useful just to stand at my side, when you’ll leave just as soon as something more valuable comes along. Isn’t that right? Do you trust me enough to believe me now?”
Even as you want to run, the last remnants of the love you’ve curated for him remain, and you tentatively inch your way to his side where he stands, his head hanging low. You can fix this. You can…you must…“‘Lone…Pantalone, I-”
“Leave me alone.”
You blink, like his command doesn’t register with you. And instead, you dare to graze his arm with your fingertips again. “You-”
“Leave me the fuck alone!” Your back hits the wall once more when he spins to face you just before the door, Pantalone now a mere breath away from you. Your eyes are wide, stinging with tears you beg your body not to shed. You knew from other Fatui, that Pantalone was known for having a temper, to give anybody who displeased him a veritable tongue-lashing - but a part of you had always believed (always hoped?) you’d always be exempt from it.
Today has proven that isn’t the case.
It’s the tears finally running down your cheeks that forces you both back to the present. The rage in Pantalone’s eyes is replaced by sheer horror (at what he's done?), and he steps back, aghast. “No,” he whispers, hands at his mouth, shaking his head furiously. “No, no, _______, please, I’m-”
You don’t give him a chance to respond. You take advantage of the space between you two, and don’t even take the time to grab your coat; you’re yanking open the door and darting out into the hall, down the stairwell, and out into the night.
The aroma of baked goods and hot tea does little to soothe you as you step out onto the street. It’s quiet in the chill of the night, a strange juxtaposition to your spinning head. The line at the cafe is gone; your stomach suddenly protests the lack of food and your feet drag you over to the counter, where you order a pair of flower cakes and a tea. You almost order a second drink for Pantalone, but change your mind about it. You’re still too hurt to think of that.
As you sit, picking at your food, you take a few steadying breaths, trying and failing to calm your mind. You still don’t understand what got him so angry over asking to buy a stranger a coffee - something you’d requested of him, too. He’s never turned you down before. Clearly, there was something else going on. And clearly, you’d poked the bear one time too many in trying to get him to open up.
You sip your tea slowly and pause. He wasn’t wrong about you thinking you knew better; surely, he had his reasons for refusing to pay for that man. He was far better versed in the ways of the world; it came with being a Harbinger, you suppose. It did not excuse his ire, surely; but…had you been too quick to offer your assistance? Had you been too focused on being important, being right, than just being there for him, whenever he felt ready to speak?
There were plenty of times, during your past, where you had wanted to ask others for help. Yet by the time you’d joined the Fatui, you were too afraid to trust the wrong person after being fucked over one time too many. Pantalone, with all his wealth and status, has to be extra cautious - if he had his reasons for not wishing to extend kindness to a stranger, you (as a non-Harbinger) were far from privy to those reasons. Would those reasons put you in danger? Was this his strange way of protecting you?
That all aside, you know you are fortunate, in a way, that your upbringing left you determined and focused and not traumatized and vicious. Pantalone, for all he has told you, seems not so lucky. He has transformed his discontent into his grand schemes and plans for Teyvat; he has masked his pain with a chilly smile and carefully-selected words. You did not need to ask him if everything was alright; you already knew the answer. And perhaps you'd been the first one to ever give a damn what that answer was…
“______.” The sound of your voice, sullen and achy, makes you glance up from your mug. Pantalone stands across from where you sit, smile gone, his hands all but trembling where they grip the chair tucked beneath the table. “May I…”
You swallow. You could tell him the same thing he told you - to leave you alone, that you don’t need him. But the look in his eyes - fury replaced with longing and sorrow - gives you pause. You glide your tongue over your teeth and nod, hoping you don’t regret it. Pantalone obliges, taking a seat before you, clasping his hands atop the table like he’s trying not to reach for yours. For a moment, neither of you speak.
“I…I owe you an apology. An explanation,” Pantalone eventually begins. When you only raise a brow to urge him on, he continues, “The man before us…earlier…” His voice is low, hushed so only you can hear. “...that was Rex Lapis.”
You blink. But Rex Lapis was dead, was he not? You had heard bits and pieces of his deal with the Fatui…the ‘contract to end all contracts’...you aren’t entirely shocked, knowing the convoluted ways of the gods and their entourage, but you have a hard time believing the Geo Archon was just some ordinary fellow ordering a coffee ahead of you in line.
Yet if Pantalone is so distraught by this…you have no reason to doubt him. You do trust him, after all. It's what you'd told him. And it’s confirmation of what you’d known all along: this place, these people, they all served to trigger the memories he’d been so careful to try and erase from his person.
“I’m sorry,” you say at last. “I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard...”
“Do not apologize.” It’s spoken like an order to one of his debt collectors, not to his beloved. But you're not offended; he wants you to believe him with every part of his being. “You…I never wished for you to see -”
You know what he means. You sigh, close your eyes, and push the plate containing the remaining flower cake towards him; it’s easier to do that than discuss the events of the last thirty minutes. “Here,” you say, “seems I won out in the end and got to treat you after all.”
Pantalone manages a small chuckle as he takes the cake, biting into it gingerly. A quiet lull falls between you both again, and it is only when your tea is cold and the plate of cakes is empty that you stand up, preparing to head out. Pantalone is at your side in a flash, pulling off his overcoat and draping it across your shoulders. His scent, musky and floral and rich, clings to the fabric and you suddenly let yourself melt into it. He offers you his arm and you accept, still wordless.
It isn’t until you are at the door of your room that Pantalone breaks the silence before you enter. “_______,” he says soberly, and with the way he speaks, you sense he has never used such a tone with anyone else before. “I…when I- I said you were like everyone else…”
He unlocks the door and you step inside, turning around till you can face him. You know his pain; you know the isolation and suffering and masking he has endured to try and abate it. And though you do not excuse it, you know his anger comes from emotion, not reason. Not the person before you. “I know,” you say, gazing up at him and leaning into his chest. Pantalone’s arms are around you before you know it, holding you impossibly tight. You can't help but notice that the broken vase and scattered note paper littering the ground are gone; you wonder if it was Pantalone himself who cleaned it up…
“I stand by it, when I say everything in this world has value,” he murmurs into your hair. “But...to me…you are the most valuable of all.”
You manage a soft little snort at his being so mushy all of a sudden - even as your heart flutters from his unusually raw admission, the stoic way he speaks that leaves no room for doubt. “Anyone else would say I’d be a fool to forgive you,” you say at last.
“You are a fool.” Still, he does not let you go.
“Maybe,” you say, “but…a fool who trusts you enough that I do believe your apology.” Yet just as his eyes glisten at your admission, you quietly add, “Just…trust me in return that I care about you for you, not whatever identity you’ve carved out for yourself in the Fatui. And that I do want to help you, and that you don’t need to put up a wall in front of me.”
Pantalone holds you a little tighter; he tilts your chin and presses his lips to yours with the desperation of a man who wants so much for you to stay with him forever, alongside a promise to never let his rage at the universe spill out towards you again. When he pulls away for breath, he gives you his answer. “I will…try,” he finally allows - though to you or himself, you aren’t sure.
You suppose, in a way, it doesn’t really matter.
Because, rightly or wrongly…you mean it when you say you trust him.