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The opera has long been a preferred pastime of prominent dignitaries across the nation of Snezhnaya, often serving as an opportunity for them to flaunt their wealth and refinement. Of these countless operatic performances that grace Snezhnaya's grand theatres, the performances of the Korolevskiy Troupe are the most renowned, and to be in attendance at one of their shows is an indicator of particularly elevated status, indeed.
"The purpose of this excursion," Pierro says, tickets held between his thumb and forefinger, "is rather straightforward. You are to attend the performance, strike enough of an imposing presence to remind those present who truly governs this nation, and not make a scene. Do I make myself clear?"
The Harbingers all murmur in agreement.
"Our colleague Pulcinella has been gracious enough to secure us box seats," Pierro continues. "There will be three of you to a box, with three boxes in total. Neither Arlecchino nor I will be in attendance, on account of prior engagements. Now, if no one has any questions, I will now distribute the tickets."
On cue, the Harbingers form a by-rank line in front of Pierro as he hands out the opera tickets one by one. They're impossibly elegant, the writing inlaid with gold foil and the ticket embossed with the crest of the grand theatre. However, it is not the design of the tickets themselves that draw the Harbingers' attention; rather, it is what is written on them—that is, the box in which each of them will be seated.
The moment all nine Harbingers come into possession of their tickets, they immediately turn to one another.
"Capitano," Childe asks, "where are you seated?"
"Who else is in box two?" Signora demands to know.
"I don't really care who I'm with," Pulcinella mutters, "as long as it's not that damned Pantalone."
Scaramouche rolls his eyes. "This is ridiculous."
"Oh, would you look at that," Dottore says, turning to Pantalone, "they seated us together."
"I know," Pantalone replies sweetly. "I'm the one who bribed the theatre manager."
After a few minutes of everyone talking over one another, a conclusion has been made: Sandrone has perhaps the worst luck of anyone in Teyvat, because somehow, in a cruel twist of fate, she has ended up stuck in the same box as Dottore and Pantalone. Who are only together in the first place because Pantalone bribed the theatre manager, apparently.
"Columbina," Sandrone hisses. "You have to switch with me. I cannot be seated with those two freaks."
"Well, I don't want to sit with them, either."
"Columbina, I will literally pay you—"
Pierro clears his throat. "I am aware that some of you are, at times, incapable of behaving like civilized human beings around one another," he says. "But I implore you to have some decorum and to not besmirch the Fatui's reputation. Otherwise I'll order Pantalone to cut your funding."
"And I'll do it, too," Pantalone adds with an infuriating smile.
Dottore leans into his ear and whispers, "You would even cut mine?"
"Of course I would. Don't be ridiculous."
"Is that so? Then how come the last time you threatened to deny my funding request, you signed off on it anyway?"
"Hm. Must've misplaced my glasses, or something."
The opera is three hours long. Sandrone is going to die.
The opera itself certainly exceeds all expectations, the performances and voices of each actor moving even the most stone-faced Harbingers to emotion. By the second act, Signora is already fanning back tears, and Capitano has a pair of opera glasses held closely to the infinite void of his mask.
The same praise for the opera, however, cannot be directed towards Sandrone's present company.
"You look ridiculous with those binoculars over your glasses," Dottore snickers.
"Hm," Pantalone murmurs in response, "certainly not as ridiculous as you looked on the train ride here."
"I get motion sickness!"
"And whose problem is that?"
Sandrone groans. "For the last time, will you two please shut up?"
Both Dottore and Pantalone cease their bickering at Sandrone's outburst and turn to face her in unison, twin smiles on both their lips.
"Not a fan of the opera, Miss Sandrone?" Dottore asks smoothly.
If looks could kill, all that would be left of Dottore is his mask. "It's not that I have anything against the opera; it's the absolute dimwits I've been forced to sit next to."
"'Dimwits?'" Dottore inclines his head slightly to the side. "You wound me, Miss Sandrone. I quite pride myself on my intellect."
Sandrone folds her arms across her chest and pointedly turns her head away. "Hmph."
Pantalone clears his throat. "If I may interrupt—"
"You may not."
"—I believe that Miss Sandrone here is still slightly miffed after I denied her budget proposal earlier," he suggests anyway. "Though, I do find it quite rude that you are allowing such personal grudges to interfere with our enjoyment of the opera… some decorum ought to be maintained, no?"
Sandrone balls her hands into fists. "Ugh, you—!"
The music swells dramatically, coming to a crescendo so immense that it takes Sandrone's mind off the quarrel entirely. Picking the opera glasses up from her lap, she leans forward and—
"Oh, this is my favorite part," Pantalone whispers.
"Really?" says Dottore. "This part?"
"Of course; it's the point at which the villains gain the upper hand. The entire narrative takes quite a dramatic turn from here, wouldn't you agree?"
"Yes, but surely there are more riveting parts of the show than this, no? I mean, we've only just entered the third act."
There are five acts in total. Sandrone is going to kill someone.
Pantalone scoffs. "What's your favorite part then, hmm?"
"When Vodyanitsa's character dies, of course."
"Ah. Naturally."
It is truly a shame that Pierro had the foresight to order the Harbingers to be civil to one another for the duration of the show. If he hadn't, the issue of Sandrone's present company would have been dealt with by the end of the first act. "Has it ever occurred to either of you," she mutters, "that not everyone has seen this play before?"
Pantalone hums lightly. "Opera, actually."
Sandrone is going to kill him. "Same difference!"
"Not really," Dottore says. "As a Fontainean yourself, I'd expect you to have more of an appreciation for the arts—"
"Shut your mouth, Dottore!"
"Miss Sandrone," Pantalone interjects, "pardon my forwardness, but if you have never seen this particular performance before, why are you concerning yourself with our conversation, rather than enjoying the show?"
"Unless you enjoy our company, that is," Dottore adds with a grin.
"It's kind of difficult to enjoy the show," says Sandrone through gritted teeth, "when I have you two next to me talking through the whole thing!"
"Oh, my apologies, Miss Sandrone," Pantalone says in earnest. "I did not realize we were interfering so deeply with your viewing experience."
Sandrone scoffs. "You think?"
"We will make our best efforts to keep our conversational volume to a minimum, moving forward."
Sandrone silently weighs the merits of having both their tongues cut out.
The intermission comes like a blessing from the heavens. The moment the curtain falls, Sandrone stands up and smooths the skirt of her gown, excusing herself without a word.
"Enjoying the show, Sandrone?" Columbina asks from where she stands a ways away, waiting with Signora as she orders a glass of white wine.
"Ugh." Sandrone folds her arms across her chest. "I would be, if it weren't for my seating arrangements."
Signora lets out a light laugh at that. "Yes, I noticed you seemed to be getting quite worked up from afar."
"Was it really that obvious?"
"Oh, yes," Columbina affirms, "you looked furious."
"They're infuriating people."
Signora takes a sip of her wine. "They are indeed… though, didn't we already know this?"
"They just never shut up," Sandrone says. "And they keep spoiling the story."
"Hmm, that's a shame," says Columbina. "It's quite a good one."
"I'm sure it is. I just wish I'd had the foresight to buy my own seats."
"Hmm… with what funds?"
"Columbina—!"
Signora laughs. "Sorry to interrupt, ladies, but we must be getting back to our seats now." She downs the last of her wine before adding, "But perhaps a tea party, tonight? Arlecchino will want to know what she's missed out on, after all."
Sandrone tosses a lock of hair behind her shoulder, schooling her expression into one of neutrality. "If you insist."
"Lovely; I'll see you later then."
"Fine."
Columbina waves. "Enjoy the rest of the show!"
Sandrone swears half the things Columbina says are just to piss her off, because there is no way in heaven she could possibly enjoy the rest of the show. As she returns to her box, Sandrone adjusts her posture and mentally steels herself, praying to every single Archon out there that the next hour and a half—
"—already approved your request for six million last week—"
"Well, that was last week, my dear Feofan," Dottore says, elbows propped against Pantalone's armrest as he stares at the banker with a grin, and just what did Sandrone walk into?
"Pardon my impudence," Pantalone says, "but what on earth could you possibly need another seven million mora for? Did you really blow through my money that fast?"
"Well, 8 needed funds for his Aranara project, and 65 has been working on something with biochemical weapon development, and I have no idea what happened with the rest—I suspect 18 had something to do with it."
Pantalone raises an eyebrow. "And what do you need this seven million for, then?"
Dottore scoffs. "Maintaining your longevity isn't exactly cheap, darling."
Sandrone chokes. Pantalone and Dottore both turn to look at her.
"Eavesdropping isn't very polite," Dottore remarks with a click of the tongue. "Didn't dear Alain ever teach you that?"
Sandrone ignores him and rounds on Pantalone. "You're not actually going to give him those funds, are you?"
"I don't know; I haven't decided yet."
"Oh, don't even," Dottore says. "You know you're going to give in, eventually. You always do."
"Is that so?"
Dottore's fingers brush over Pantalone's right hand. "I'd say it is."
Listening to this exchange feels deeply wrong. And also slightly voyeuristic. Sandrone clears her throat. "I'm still here, you know."
"Hmm, and whose fault is that?"
"This is my seat!"
As the curtain rises, the conversation is thankfully brought to a halt…
For approximately two seconds. Because apparently Dottore does not know when or how to shut up.
"So, are you going to provide the funding?" Dottore whispers.
"Have the cost breakdown on my desk by tonight."
"I thought we were going out to dinner tonight?"
"Do you want the funding?"
"Yes."
"Then have it on my desk by tonight."
Dottore turns to Sandrone. "Do you have a pen?"
Sandrone gives him a withering look. "Why in Tsaritsa's name would I have a pen."
"I don't know; I thought you might."
"Well, I don't. Now shut up."
Dottore turns to Pantalone. "Do you have a pen?"
Pantalone sighs and withdraws a fountain pen from the folds of his coat. "Here."
Dottore takes the pen and flips his program to the blank page on the back. To Sandrone's absolute horror, he starts writing on it.
"What in the world are you doing?"
"None of your business." Dottore signs the bottom of the program with a flourish and hands it to Pantalone.
Pantalone takes the opera glasses from over his regular glasses—which, as much as Sandrone hates to agree with Dottore, he's right, it looks ridiculous—and takes the program. "What is this."
"Your cost breakdown." Dottore flashes him a grin.
Pantalone sighs. "Do you ever wonder why I only took up smoking after I met you?"
"All I know is that you don't listen when I tell you to quit."
"Give me my pen."
Dottore hands over the pen and Pantalone signs the program without a moment's hesitation. "Try not to spend it all at once."
"I will."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
Pantalone smiles and brings his opera glasses back up to his eyes. "No, I don't."
And all Sandrone can do is just keep staring straight ahead as if her life depends on it, because the moment she makes eye contact with either of them, the theatre will most certainly find itself reporting a double homicide.
Because really, how is it that her quarterly request for a measly two million mora was denied, but Dottore can get thirteen million approved in the span of two weeks? On the back of a theatre program, no less?
And even if it is a blatant case of favoritism, it's not as if she can even complain to Pierro or Pulcinella about it, because Pantalone somehow controls the entire Snezhnayan economy. Because of course he does.
Oh, well; at the very least, maybe she can finally enjoy the show in peace, now that that's over with.
"Dottore?"
Never fucking mind.
Dottore doesn't look away from the stage. "What is it?"
"Did you ever make the dinner reservations?"
"I thought you made them?"
"I thought you said you were going to make them."
Dottore turns to Pantalone. "Do we not have dinner reservations?"
Pantalone inclines his head to the side. "Yes, it would seem that way."
Sandrone makes a point of letting out a very audible sigh.
"Yes," Dottore muses, "quite the predicament, isn't it, Miss Sandrone?"
"I literally could not care less."
"How unkind."
"It's not my fault you two are incapable of proper communication."
Pantalone frowns. "Well, I wouldn't say that—"
"Just shut up."
Columbina waves from across the theatre. Archons, why couldn't Sandrone have just been seated with her—
"—don't need to worry about it, I can just bribe the manager—"
"Is bribery your solution to everything?"
"Is medical malpractice yours?"
Dottore flashes Pantalone a wicked grin. "You don't know the half of it."
Pantalone raises an eyebrow. "Do I want to?"
"You tell me."
Sandrone is going to scream. The music swells. All three of them lean forward in their seats as Vodyanitsa's voice hits an impossible note before collapsing on the stage. The audience gasps.
"I see why this is your favorite part," Pantalone whispers. He leans into Dottore's ear and adds, "You always did have a flair for the dramatic."
There are several veins this close to popping out of Sandrone's temple. Which is deeply concerning, considering her veins aren't even real. "Can you two please," she says as evenly as possible, "get a fucking room?"
"Why, Miss Sandrone," Pantalone says with an infuriating smile, "if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were insinuating something."
"And really," Dottore adds, "were we to entertain this notion of, as you say, 'getting a room', where would we possibly go? It would be rude to leave the theatre mid-performance, after all."
Sandrone scoffs. "Well, it's rude to talk through the entire performance, too, but you seem to have conveniently forgotten that particular bit of etiquette for the past three hours."
Dottore lets out a light laugh at that. "Do you hear that, Feofan? It seems we've failed to meet certain behavioral standards."
"Hm." Pantalone smiles. "What a pity."
As the curtain falls and the audience rises for a standing ovation, Sandrone breathes an audible sigh of relief, the weight of the world falling from her shoulders as she brings her hands together in polite applause.
The curtain rises once more and the Korolevskiy Troupe re-emerges for a bow. The standing ovation continues, and as the theatre lights brighten, Sandrone becomes aware of a faint shine out the corner of her eye.
There, caught in the warm theatre light, is Pantalone's right hand, and the trinity ring resting on his finger.
Oh.
Oh.
That explains everything.