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Pantalone was curled up on his bed, blanket kicked off on the ground and the sheets tangled around his legs.
It was hot. Too hot. He had unbuttoned his silk top and frustratedly slipped out of his pants. It was still too hot.
Everything hurt.
Tears were mostly dried on his face, a few slipping down still every couple minutes. His legs and arms ached so painfully, his bones had become lead hours ago. He was so nauseous. He had nothing to throw up. That made it worse. Everything spun, a throbbing pressure behind his eyes. It was too hot.
He glanced over at the pill bottle on the floor, now empty when it was full and unopened not too long ago. There was still a bitter taste in his mouth. He felt numb, his lips tingled, his fingers and toes tingled. Everything else ached in a way that clashed with the numbness, somehow making everything hurt even worse.
It was getting hard to breathe. His chest felt tight. It didn’t hurt, not like when his heart stuttered and skipped on hard days, no, but it was tight and so uncomfortable. He wasn’t sure if the air was even getting to his lungs.
Pantalone closed his eyes. Everything was too hard to see, both due to the darkness and the lack of glasses. He didn’t need to see. His eyes were heavy anyways. Everything was heavy. Everything was too hot. He couldn’t bring himself to move.
A click. Pantalone struggled to crack his eyes open, squinting a chore with how heavy everything was. He doesn’t know how long it’s been.
Why was he awake again?
Right. The click.
Everything felt so slow. Lethargic, is what he would say if he had the words. It took him a bit to realize someone was touching him. The hands were cold. It felt nice. There was a hand on his neck, another on his head. Familiar.
With great difficulty, Pantalone managed to turn his head to the side, eyes fluttering as he tried to keep them open long enough to see who it was. There was blue. A beautiful blue. A familiar blue. Cold hands.
He just registered that there was sound. It was muffled. Was there sound? He didn’t know. It felt like a dream. Perceived sound that made no real sense, stuffed deep inside a jar of cotton.
“Zan…” Pantalone tried to speak, but it was hard. Heavy. It was too heavy. Too numb. He let his eyes slip shut.
Only to struggle opening them again when he became dizzy, being shaken as gently as the other could manage.
So it wasn’t a dream.
If Pantalone was coherent enough, he would have scowled. How embarrassing to be caught so vulnerable. But he wasn’t coherent. No, his body betrayed him, and tears started to well up.
“Pantalone!” The voice, Zandik, sounded so far away. He almost sounded worried? How odd.
Pantalone felt his head get heavier, if that was possible. He still felt hot, but it was distant. The pain was subsiding.
His eyes fluttered open to look at Zandik, wanting to say… something. He didn’t know what. His eyes fell closed. He could no longer discern between what was real or imagined.
“Wake up..!”
Dizziness. Shuffling. He felt lighter, for some reason, and it made him so dizzy. He couldn’t open his eyes.
“Wake…. Your eyes..!”
Pantalone didn’t understand. He felt calm. Everything slipped away. No more dizziness, no more weird noise. Just the embrace of the most calming nothingness he ever experienced.
Just blank.
Gone.
Pantalone woke, unsure of where he was. What was going on? It was cold. Too cold.
Everything felt weird, his limbs felt heavy, like they were disconnected from his body if it weren’t for the fact he could see them perfectly in tact. His head throbbed. Nothing felt real.
He looked around, his surroundings blurry due to his lack of glasses, but he can make out colors. There was a weird smell. Saline. He could smell saline. Taste it, too, faintly. He looked down and took notice of something, an IV, in his arm.
Pantalone let out a small groan, closing his eyes again and furrowing his brows. It felt so fake. He was struggling to grasp reality.
A small sound of metal clattering from somewhere, another room maybe, made him open his eyes again. Someone rushed in, standing at the doorframe for a bit, staring.
Ah. Zandik.
He was in Zandik’s lab.
Zandik seemed to snap out of his daze, rushing over. Zandik checked everything over, the saline, his heart rate, his breathing. The whole time, his eyes were wide and rimmed slightly red. A rare sight to see him without his mask.
A hand, free of a glove and scarred, rested against his forehead, “You’re awake.” His voice sounded strained, too much so for someone such as himself.
“Wha…?” Pantalone stared up, confused. He doesn’t remember much…
“You— what do you last remember?”
Pantalone hummed and closed his eyes, thinking. Only to be met with a slight tap against his cheek.
“Don’t close your eyes, keep them open,” and there was a desperation he wasn’t used to hearing from Zandik.
Pantalone opened his eyes again, staring at Zandik, close enough to not be too blurry. What did he remember?
“I was drinking. Wine. I had wine. Three bottles, maybe four?” Pantalone spoke slowly, taking a pause, “…It was a bad day. I… needed something to help.”
It was silent for a while after that. He didn’t like the way Zandik was looking at him. As if he was staring into his soul, picking apart the parts of him he hasn’t shown anyone.
He felt too vulnerable.
“Did something happen?” He hated how weak he sounded. How hard it was to talk.
Perhaps he was the one that wasn’t real.
“You—“ Zandik’s voice cracked. Zandik, of all people. “You overdosed. A whole bottle. Your new one.”
Zandik let out a shaky breath, and oh, Pantalone wanted nothing more than to reach out and grab his hand.
Then it clicked. Overdosed?
Pantalone? Overdose? He admits he isn’t the happiest, and sure, he’s a little too careless with his safety, and he tends to ignore and push away anything that threatens to wedge itself in between his plans even if that means his own feelings. But to try and kill himself? Was he really so depressed?
“No, I—“ Pantalone cut himself off with a groan of pain, a sharp spike assaulting his head. He did remember. It was foggy, too much so to make much sense of it, but there were bits and pieces.
It was intentional. He was an emotional drunk, and the wine brought out his buried feelings and deepest insecurities. He had lived so long now and he wasn’t much closer to achieving his goal as he was a couple centuries ago. Why keep trying? Why keep going when he cannot see the end? When he is so weary and tired? He nearly gave up, and if it weren’t for Zandik coming to bother him, it would have worked.
Pantalone turned his head, looking up at the ceiling, “I did. I wasn’t in my right mind.”
There was a silence, then a grip on his hand, almost painful. A shuddering breath, “Not in your right mind? People don’t just try to kill themselves when they’re drunk!”
Zandik took a breath, trying to calm himself, but he still sounded so uncharacteristically shaky, “Please come to me next time…”
Pantalone looked over at Zandik again, glancing down at where their hands were intertwined. He gave a small squeeze then looked back into Zandik’s eyes, which were still wider than they usually were, the few times Pantalone was graced with his whole face.
“I’m still here, aren’t I? It was a one time thing…”
Zandik’s eyebrows furrowed, his nose scrunched up. Anger. Such a rare sight, and Pantalone hated being on the receiving end of it.
“By chance! I was there by chance. I… I nearly lost you! I—“ Zandik choked back on tears he refuse to let fall, his voice quieting to a whisper, “Your heart nearly gave out. I would have lost you…”
Pantalone stared at Zandik. At his red, teary eyes, at his lips pressed thin, his tussled hair that was always the most beautiful blue. He could feel his shaky hand in his.
Oh, he cared. Zandik cared for Pantalone.
Zandik cared for Feofan.
Feofan teared up then, unable to stop his tears from spilling over. Automatically, he was sobbing, letting out a choked sound that seemed almost painful as he leaned over into Zandik’s chest.
He hates this. He is The Regrator. The Regrator does not cry. The Regrator does not show weakness. Pantalone is not vulnerable. Pantalone is not weak. Oh, but right now, he is not The Regrator. He is not even Pantalone. No, right now, he is Feofan, and Feofan is so, so weak.
With his free hand, Zandik reaches over and cradles the back of Feofan’s head, pressing a kiss to the top of it. Feofan can do nothing but hold onto Zandik and cry. Laying sideways on the operation table is not comfortable, but that does not matter when Zandik is holding him.
“Next time,” Feofan manages, “Next time I will come to you.”