Work Text:
Pantalone’s gesture is practiced, almost mundane—the sensor responds to the keycard with a beep, and with a left pinky numb from the frost, he yanks the doorknob down. He pushes the door open with his shoulder. The cake box sways precariously; it feels as though it might ugly-squish at any moment.
Whether Zandik and the multiple Dottore modules considered this place a home, a workshop, or a sanctuary—it was a mess. If only a single experiment, even a minor, exceptional one, had ever served the cause of domestic comfort... instead, he had to shake the snow from his heels almost right at the threshold, balancing on the very edge of self-respect. And respect for his dear friend, of course. Water dripped from his fur collar and dripped from his cuffs; deep within the wardrobe, amidst clothes that looked identical to one another, a single, crooked hanger was to be found.
Pantalone feels a gaze upon him—somewhere around the level of his stomach. Poking the crown of his head and two curious red eyes into the doorway, a segment, the youngest of them, peeks out from around the corner. He looks to be about eight.
“It would be polite to assist a guest,” Pantalone remarks to him, and the segment steps fully into the passageway. He scrunches his nose and frowns briefly, a display of innocent, childish resentment.
“You brought the winter with you.”
“And a cake. Be so kind as to take it.”
The boy approaches quietly, almost stealthily. The habits of rejected, unwanted children. For a fleeting moment, Pantalone’s heart aches—whether for the child Zandik once was, or for the one standing before him now, he does not know. The boy's hot, childish fingers burn against his own, which are still ice-cold from the frost, and the ribbons of the holiday box are now gripped in a fist that is unchildishly tight. Rubbing his hands together to chase away the chill, Pantalone watches as the segment lifts the opaque box to his eyes, examining it from all angles. Like a beast, the child catches the air with his nose but scents nothing, though it would hardly be surprising if he did... Dottore is surprising in more ways than one.
“Midsommar Berry? Lakkaberry?” he tries to guess.
With a barely perceptible smile, Pantalone shakes his head:
“Zaytun Peach.”
The segment wants to say something, lifts his gaze—then changes his mind. He purses his lips, looks away, and scowls, muttering something under his breath about being "not finished yet." Then he jerks his chin up, letting Pantalone know that the "prime" is in the study.
Pantalone offers his thanks; someone, after all, has to teach the child manners. Not because he believes Dottore is entirely devoid of tact, but this child handles anatomical atlases and scalpels far more often than literature textbooks and pencils. Regardless, the segment loses interest in him quickly—vanishing from sight, he breaks into a run, as told by the rapid patter of bare feet.
A dotted trail of meltwater stretches behind Pantalone, weaving right and left, with barely any tracks left near the door. He knocks, knowing he is under no obligation to do so. He waits, and receiving no answer, steps across the threshold without an invitation anyway.
Zandik had fallen asleep at the desk like a broken doll: his monocle had rolled onto the floor, his cane stood like a fifth table leg, and a sheet of paper clung to his parchment-dry cheek.
His heels clicked in time with the ticking of the wall clock; the rhythm broke as Pantalone approached the desk, gently placing a hand on Zandik’s shoulder and giving it a soft squeeze. He frowned when he felt no response, and everything inside him turned ice-cold with a terrifying assumption, a chill far worse than any blizzard. Could it be...? Slowly, he lowered his hand toward the older man's face—seeking the warmth of breath—only to feel a tight grip lock around his wrist. He exhaled with a relief so sudden it made his head spin.
“Feofan… what are you up to?”
Zandik pushed himself up, letting go of his hand and resting an elbow on the desk. He focused a sleepy gaze. Fresh notes were imprinted in uneven lines across his cheek.
“Ahem… we started off on the wrong foot. I came to wish you a happy birthday.”
Your eighty-fourth.
“How is your health?”—the question catches, unspoken, in his throat. The sharpness of his cheekbones, the red, swollen eyelids, the irises bleached to a pale pink, the hair losing its color… Like a mora coin that has been in circulation for far too long—tarnished, weathered, and scarred by time. Zandik does not spare himself. He has never been one to fret over his own well-being, yet Pantalone wishes to believe that his friend would prefer the softness of a bed to these papers.
“Won’t you sit?” Zandik squints at the frozen Pantalone. At the Pantalone whose hand still rests upon his shoulder. Who has so unusually shed his usual ease and composure.
“Ah, yes…” he flinches, momentarily flustered, and pulls up the wooden chair opposite. Catching the monocle from the floor, he polishes it with a silk handkerchief before sitting—nearly knee to knee. “I intend to stay for tea, if you do not mind, of course. The weather outside has turned quite dreadful… Besides, I suspect you wouldn't mind sharing a birthday cake with a friend. Tell me, what has drawn you in so completely?”
Pantalone hands the cleaned glass back to Zandik, silently hoping that the man's explanation will distract him from his own grim, clinging thoughts.
Death… They both run from it as fast as they can, but his friend is not fast enough. Let one of them wear flawless youth like a trophy, and Zandik wear old age with the very same pride—even if both are nothing but evidence of endless experiments—Pantalone’s heart remains heavy. He could easily lie to himself, call Zandik’s life a sound investment in his own longevity, but right now such thoughts feel like a cheap counterfeit. He is terrified. Terrified of losing a companion, a friend, a partner. Were he younger, or more foolish, he might have chosen the word "love".
He listens. Listens to the narrative interrupted by coughing, to the raspy voice, and the oppressive silence of the study whenever Zandik wipes his mouth with a handkerchief. Pantalone reaches for his cigarettes, turns one over in his fingers, fiddles with it—and crushes it almost to dust, never finding the resolve to shatter the stranger’s speech with the click of a lighter. He looks into his eyes, looks at his lips, at the dry palms of a friend who has become so fragile, yet remains utterly unyielding. Pantalone wants what he cannot have, what he shouldn't even desire: to be near, to save, to kiss. To wait… and to believe that he will live to see it: that his Doctor will find a cure for old age by his own hand.
“You aren't listening,” Zandik notes at some point.
Pantalone does not immediately hear the words, nor does he realize why the man has fallen silent. Stumbling over the observation, he speaks:
“I… Something is troubling me, in truth. It is not my place to speak of how reckless you are with your health…”
Zandik let out a dry chuckle. Reaching forward as if to snatch a cigarette, he instead caught the other's wrist and turned his hand over, pointing out the stubborn, yellowish-brown nicotine stain on Pantalone's own fingers. From the cigarettes.
“Indeed, it is not.”
Freeing his hand, Pantalone gestured toward the fresh cuts on Zandik's palms:
“Well, then. It seems I am not the only one neglecting safety regulations here.”
“So we are agreed…”
A sudden laugh escaped Pantalone.
They are still laughing when the young segment slips through the door like a nimble hoarder weasel.
In a flash, he is at the desk, spilling a handful of sweets from a paper bag right in front of Pantalone, muttering something about how “in Snezhnaya it’s tradition… for a birthday… made them myself…”, before rushing away just as swiftly, slamming the door shut in his awkward haste.
Catching the edge of a wrapper with fingers still trembling from laughter, Zandik unfolds the little segment's "offering." He holds it to the light, sniffs it… And once again, his raspy laugh fills the room:
“Feofan… look at that,” a misshapen little drop bounces on his open palm. “It’s nicotine!”