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Pantalone had always had an ear for music. As a child, he had adored the classical genre, seeking out the sweet melodies of violins, pianos and cellos. Lacking lyrics, classical pieces left more room for interpretation when it came to the narrative and tone of a song. The formation of the pitch, pace and melody all blended together to form a story. Now that he was older, the banker occasionally got the chance to see live orchestras, in between his busy schedule as a Harbinger. There was something about live music that touched his heart, the rawness that it held displayed the immense talent of the musicians. Pantalone found that music was a pleasant distraction from the harsh nature of the world, filling the cold silence with a beauty like no other.
‘Why did you stop?’ Pantalone’s questioning tone was directed at the prime build of Il Dottore, who was sitting on a piano stool, across from him.
A mischievous chuckle escaped the scientist, who lightly brushed his hands across the cold, ivory keys of the instrument. ‘I ran out of sheet music, for that is where the song ends.’
Sitting comfortably in a sofa behind him, Pantalone folded his arms. ‘Well, I thought the ending was a little sudden. I believe that another bar or two would have been more satisfying.’
Dottore snickered, ‘Perhaps you should take it up with the musician who wrote it, dear,’ He teased.
‘Hmph. I suspect that the original author is long deceased. It is a shame that such beautiful music is hard to come by in this modern era.’ The Regrator sighed wistfully.
‘You’re such an old soul. I thought the piece was of substantial length,’ Prime experimentally played a few notes from the ending of the song.
‘Perhaps you should have been a pianist instead of a scientist,’ Pantalone mused. ‘You’re very talented at it.’
‘Are you… paying me a compliment?’ Dottore’s grin grew ever wider, his fingers poised over the keys with glee.
Pantalone rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t let it get to your head.’
‘Would you prefer if I played it for you again? This time, with an extension?’ Dottore’s smile could be heard through his words. In this cosy room, they were away from prying eyes; both relishing in the privacy of the moment.
‘Go on then,’ Pantalone replied, barely attempting to mask his eagerness to hear the man play.
Before long, the crisp, sharp notes cut through the air, once again enveloping Pantalone in the melody. The careful hands that played the instrument poured striking, beautiful notes into the banker’s greedy heart, which welcomed the tune with vigour. If the world had been quiet before, then Dottore’s presence in his life had flooded it with music. From the sofa, Pantalone was able to indulge in this rare peace, without considering the silence that would ensue if the pianist suddenly stopped playing.
***
As a Harbinger, it was part of one’s duty to be aware of the fragility and impermanence of life. A delicate tether separated the living from the dead, one that could be snapped at any moment; for humans were so very fragile. Death was common within the Fatui’s line of work: the simple fact that every soldier had to accept was that they may never return home. Be ready to put your life on the line, serve Snezhnaya and serve The Tsaritsa. Yet, when that end actually came, who could be ready for it? When faced with the glow of an electro sword that glistened with the shame of defeat, or a choice to make noble sacrifice that would save countless lives at the cost of your own, is it truly possible to be ready to accept death? Innate survival instincts can try to fight against it, but to no avail: for fate is arbitrary and unjust.
Pantalone was no stranger to death. He had witnessed variants of Il Dottore die many times. He had seen the original Zandik dismantle a defective clone right in front of his eyes. The man had ripped the segment’s mask from his face, revealing a colourful array of wires. The banker had protested, claiming that such a violent method of destruction was surely cruel for the creature, yet he had been dismissed by a wave of a hand. The segment was swiftly put out of its misery, a thick, silvery liquid had dripped out of its circuits like motor oil. Despite the fact that the clone was a synthetic being and far from human, Pantalone felt remorse for it. The segments could experience the same feelings and emotions as a human, after all.
As he had grown older, Pantalone had gotten used to the unethical nature of Dottore’s experiments; a man who worked so closely with a scientist like him had to get used to seeing horrific sights. Yet, observing the aftermath of Zandik’s death, where the segments had been eagerly gathered around a vivisection table, was enough to unsettle even the strongest-willed of men. Still, The Regrator did not fearfully abandon the deranged collection of clones, despite every instinct claiming that he should. It was to be concluded that he had grown painfully attached to Dottore.
‘Doctor, tell me why you have requested a 50% budget increase for this quarter?’ Pantalone adjusted his glasses while reading over a document. He was sitting at the lavish desk in his office, with a Snezhnayan tea set beside him. The tea was freshly brewed, having been brought in only moments ago by one of the banker’s subordinates.
The Prime segment stood on the other side of the desk, towering over the seated man. At Pantalone’s words, he flashed him a wide grin, revealing his sharp teeth. ‘What, can’t you afford it?’
The Regrator let out a sound of indignation. ‘Hmph. If I were you, I’d reconsider how you were talking to your benefactor.’ He dipped a quill into a nearby ink pot, already contemplating accepting the terms.
‘We both know that you’ll sign it before I leave this room.’ Dottore leaned over the desk, smugly tapping the contract with a gloved hand.
‘Wherever you find the nerve, I’ll never know,’ Pantalone couldn’t help but smile, amused by the man’s arrogance. ‘Are you staying, then?’ With a quick swish of his wrist, he signed his name.
Glancing at the large, ornate grandfather clock in the corner of the room, The Doctor folded his arms. ‘I suppose I could spare a few minutes.’ With a click of his tongue, the scientist grabbed a seat opposite his business partner.
Pantalone gasped in mock protest. ‘Is being in my company really such a waste of your time?’ He slid the contract back towards Dottore.
He picked up the contract and placed it inside his laboratory coat. ‘I am a busy man. But… I suppose I can make an exception for you,’ Prime spoke with an air of nonchalance, though his pleased expression alluded to his true feelings.
The banker poured him a cup of tea, which Dottore took gracefully. Their business meeting soon became an informal, leisurely chat, as was usually the case.
An unwritten rule of the Fatui was that any emotional connections were to be formed at one’s own risk. Emotions could not get in the way of the Fatui’s end goal. Very little time was given to grieve, in the event that anything tragic should occur; the bitter cold of Snezhnaya’s climate reflected the icy walls that shrouded each of the Harbinger’s emotions. They were soldiers, after all. Yet, The Regrator had begun to thaw. As some of the other Harbingers had warned him, Pantalone was aware that he was risking a great deal by being close to The Doctor. Getting attached to someone while in this line of work was a more slippery slope than the terrain of the icy mountains that surrounded the Zapolyarny Palace. A single wrong move would result in slipping, being plunged into a frozen lake, with one’s warm, beating heart being exposed to the elements. Pantalone wasn’t quite sure when the relationship between Dottore and himself had metamorphosed from a business one into an emotional web of feelings. Yet, the fact remained that both parties were intertwined together in life and death, and Pantalone wouldn’t have it any other way.
***
Over the many years of working with Il Dottore, both the original Zandik and segments of him, Pantalone had grown used to the man’s strange behaviour. Dottore had always put his experiments above his own life, that was no secret. In the pursuit of knowledge, he would sacrifice anything if it meant that he would gain the data that he wanted. Pantalone had always thought that this reckless method of gathering data was rather foolish, but he had no say in the matter. Perhaps Pantalone was the foolish one, for he was clinging onto the hope that Dottore might choose to abandon his scientific data in order to survive, if not for himself, but for the banker’s sake.
‘We could live forever, you know. You and I,’ Pantalone uttered into the night air, enjoying the lingering buzz of wine from dinner.
Pantalone and Prime Dottore were stood underneath the moonlight, in one of the Zapolyarny Palace’s gardens. It was a cold yet peaceful night, there were no animals or people in sight, only the gentle falling snow accompanied them.
Dottore gazed off into the Snezhnayan night sky as he replied. ‘My dear banker, the probability of that happening is very minute.’
Pantalone hummed noncommittally and pulled out a box of cigarettes. He lit one, the small flame contrasting the snowy, dark surroundings. ‘Why? We’ve lived this long… and your elixir will only improve with time and research.’
At the sight of his partner smoking again, Dottore rolled his eyes, but decided that it would be pointless to comment on Pantalone’s frequent smoking habits. ‘You realise how irrational you sound? Have you been drinking again, Feofan?’
The taller man chuckled, before stepping a few paces forward, his heels clacking against the stone floor. ‘So what if I have? Wouldn’t you like to live forever with me, Zandik?’ He spoke tenderly, glancing over at him.
Dottore turned away, his expression was hidden at the best of times due to his mask, but now Pantalone couldn’t tell what the other man was thinking at all. ‘… That kind of attitude doesn’t quite match your career choice.’
‘I’m not going to die, I’m merely a banker.’ Pantalone took a long drag of his cigarette, letting his eyes flutter closed. ‘I rarely go out onto the field.’
‘So you’re weak?’ Prime smirked, unable to resist teasing the other man.
Pantalone scoffed. ‘I can hold my own.’ He shot the scientist a scowl, but there was no real bite to it.
‘Your medical records state otherwise,’ Dottore retorted smugly.
‘Well, it’s a good thing that you’re here to keep me alive, dear.’ Pantalone gazed down on the shorter man, before blowing a puff of smoke into his face. He grinned triumphantly as The Doctor coughed, glaring back at him.
Then, Dottore took a step closer, invading his personal space. Firmly plucking the cigarette from The Regrator’s mouth, Dottore swiftly took a drag of it, before placing it back and letting his exhale of smoke roll over his partner’s lips.
Despite the cold air, Pantalone felt himself grow very warm, his cheeks heating up with rouge. In retaliation, he hastily removed Dottore’s mask, exposing his face to the icy climate.
‘Hey—! Give that back, you—’ Prime protested, his red eyes darting about for witnesses in an almost self conscious manner. His beautiful face was something that Pantalone couldn’t get enough of. Decorated with scars, this segment had the most unique appearance out of all of his counterparts. Perhaps this was one of the reasons why Prime was Pantalone’s favourite.
‘Relax, nobody is out here but us,’ The Regrator’s reassuring tone soon soothed the man’s nerves slightly. He cupped Dottore’s face, rubbing his gloved thumb against a particularly prominent scar. ‘You’re beautiful.’
The Doctor flushed, allowing himself to be held like this for a moment, before the direct attention to his exposed face became too much. Quickly, he closed the space between them, pressing his lips to Pantalone’s. A sly distraction.
Of course, Pantalone eagerly accepted this turn of events, melting into the kiss. This was not the first time that the two had engaged in such affections, but the banker’s heart still fluttered with joy every time they kissed. The pair held each other closely that night, with only the snow and the sky as witnesses.
Pantalone had always had a selfish streak, it was the main reason why he was able to remain so wealthy. So it was no surprise that he selfishly yearned for Dottore to remain by his side forever. Not because Pantalone relied on Dottore’s treatment to remain immortal, but because he couldn’t fathom living in a world without the other man. Perhaps Dottore was at peace that someday he would reach his inevitable fate, but Pantalone was not. What was the point of going out as gloriously as an explosion if the only thing left for one’s lover to mourn was ash?
***
‘Goodbye, Feofan.’ Dottore’s tone was calm, as if he harboured no regrets. ‘This time, that’s what it truly is.’ His words left no room for doubt, cutting deep into Pantalone’s heart like a glacier.
Pantalone’s birth name had been uttered by Dottore many times before. Still, when those syllables fell from his partner’s lips that day with such tenderness, Feofan felt something tug deep within his chest. That intellectual, stubborn scientist who had remained by his side for centuries, the man who refused to yield to anyone, was departing from this world at last.
‘And don’t I know it….’ Pantalone replied with a soft tone, ‘Goodbye, Zandik.’ He needn’t turn around, for he knew that the man had already disappeared: somehow, he felt it. He was gone.
Like the hard, rhythmic keys of a piano, the melody of Zandik’s life echoes within Feofan’s mind. Like an incessant tune that one cannot get out of their head, the notes were engraved upon his very soul. He would never be able to forget the way that those elegant hands had played the piano for him on so many occasions, a reminder of how vulnerable Zandik had allowed himself to be around Pantalone. The note of finality weighed on the banker’s shoulders; a symphony that he had wanted so badly to last forever. Ending harmoniously, the perfection of the song was lost on Feofan, for he had relished in Zandik’s imperfections. With no way to rewind a live performance, the pianist having left the room, Feofan was left alone with the silence that remained.