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The day Feofan was finally appointed as the Ninth Harbinger was critical. Zandik was sure he’d miss hearing Feofan call him “my Lord”, just as he had missed “commander” once the man had become a bank clerk rather than a Fatui soldier, but dread settled in his chest for a different reason.
Although Feofan would always be tied to him because of the elixir, Zandik wondered if his reverence would cease now that they were equals. Their relationship was odd, its lines blurred and their words ambiguous, which was exactly why The Doctor worried. It was unusual for him to feel this way about anything, but he wasn’t sure if he could tell whether Feofan was fully sincere or if he had exaggerated his behavior as a way to obtain power. Not that he could blame him if that were the case, the man’s silver tongue and ambition were what spared him a miserable death as a faceless test subject in the first place. They were also what attracted Zandik.
He could not deny his interest in the newly appointed Pantalone. Interest that had been brewing for several years at that point, interest he had never acted upon. If anything, at times he had actively self-sabotaged, at least in that regard. Il Dottore wasn’t the sort of man to hesitate to get what he wanted, but that was exactly where the issue laid. If he’d made a move on Feofan while he was still his subordinate, he would’ve had no way to know if the man felt like he was being given orders, or taken advantage of. Would a reciprocation truly come from his heart, or would it merely be a stepping stone for the banker? Would he feel coerced to agree? Would a rejection be because Feofan truly didn’t return his affections, or would it be because he feared their reputations being ruined in the eye of the Tsaritsa?
Zandik, as much as he admired Pantalone, cursed his unreadability, wondering what was hidden behind his ever present smile. Even now, would his decision be affected by the prospect of the Elixir of Immortality? His ageing had clearly slowed, but not stopped. Did Feofan still think he needed The Doctor? Were their non-work related meetings a simple investment on his part?
Too many questions swarmed Dottore’s mind. Questions he couldn’t tackle with the scientific method, ones that no experiment could hope to clarify. The thought of it angered him, fueled his anguish. Still, he was anything but a coward. Maybe he couldn’t conduct a proper experiment, but a period of observation was certainly within his scope. Though none of his notes could be written down, they were meticulously organized in his head.
The first change Zandik noticed since Feofan’s promotion was his change in demeanor. “Sir”, “Commander”, “my Lord”... All names now absent from the Ninth’s vocabulary. Instead, when it was just the two of them, he was more open; he laughed more sincerely, his posture was less composed and his hands were no longer kept to himself. It was a good sign, but not enough to confirm anything.
Secondly, Feofan’s expensive tastes finally surfaced. With the mora he was handling now truly belonging to him, he began to indulge himself. His clothes were made of the best fabrics, tailored perfectly for his body (which caused Zandik’s eye to wander more than once). His cigarettes were of the highest quality, which, although still dreadful for his health, at least reduced the side effects from the stuff they shoved in the cheap alternatives just to cut costs. The tea he drank was the finest he could find, specifically imported from Liyue after a long trial period of sampling his options. He was known to frequent fine dining restaurants all around Snezhnograd, paying no mind to the exorbitant price of the wine that came from their cellars.
Another change that Zandik found himself appreciating was the man’s love for the opera. He had seldom taken advantage of the private boxes reserved for the Harbingers, save maybe for the few piano performances he attended while searching for inspiration. Feofan, on the other hand, was more likely to be found at the theatre than not, often coaxing The Doctor into accompanying him. The latter was, for the first time, glad that Pantalone’s vision wasn’t the best, as he could sneakily stare at his face while the Ninth used binoculars to take view of the stage.
He still found himself wondering what Feofan thought of him. The question had plagued him ever since shortly after he officially hired the banker as his subordinate. Zandik wasn’t particularly empathetic towards strangers, that much was true, but people assumed he was a cruel sadist. That was not the case, he simply didn’t care for them, so he didn’t care to hurt them or to help them. Yet, Pantalone was always very pleasant with him, acting as though he sincerely enjoyed The Doctor’s company. Were they friends? Dottore liked to think so.
The one thing Zandik was sure about regarding Feofan was that he didn’t have an ounce of regret for the choice he’d made ten years prior. He prided himself for his recognition of the man’s abilities from a conversation as short as the first one they’d had, and knew his “investment”, – as Feofan would put it, – had finally paid back tenfold and would increase a thousand times more. But, as uncharacteristically as it sounded for a man like him, that wasn’t the reason at the forefront of his mind; Feofan was the first and only friend he’d ever had. He couldn’t deny the way his chest warmed up whenever they shared a laugh, nor how freeing it felt whenever they discussed their struggles to each other. He didn’t mind the man’s scrutinizing gaze on him, rather taking pride in the fact that he was of enough interest that a man of the Regrator’s caliber studied him so often.
It was during one of their typical late night conversations that things took an unexpected turn.
“You know, now that the risk of you skinning me alive for this is significantly lower, I must tell you something,” Pantalone said, his tone mischievous.
Zandik’s train of thought was finally interrupted, ironically by the very object of his thoughts. He chuckled, “I must commend you for your acknowledgement that it is still a possibility. But do go on, you’ve piqued my curiosity.”
Feofan laughed, “You never know with you,” he paused for a moment, casting his gaze out the window and towards the false sky, “I’m just surprised we’ve gotten to this point, or any point at all, really.”
“Why, because I’m a psychopathic madman who slaughters all his subjects? Come on, Pantalone,” the name felt foreign on his tongue, “you know better than that.”
“Ah, that? No, not at all.” If he was taken aback by the sound of his Harbinger title, he didn’t show it. “It’s not because you’re a psychopathic madman, but rather because at the time we met you were an asshole.”
Dottore looked him straight in the eye, wondering if it was a joke. Still, he wasn’t wrong, so, after a beat of looking at each other, they burst into laughter.
“I was, wasn’t I?” He sighed, “most people would still hold onto that belief, I’m afraid.”
“And they’d probably be right. Am I really so capable enough to get this special treatment?” It was said in jest, but Zandik caught a glimpse of uncertainty in his eyes.
“Capable wouldn’t even begin to describe it.” He said it so softly it was almost a whisper. It wasn’t unusual for them to open up with each other, but they usually just laughed about things in a particularly cynical way, one that suited them perfectly. That tone, soft and reverent as it was, surprised Pantalone enough that he briefly lost his composure, eyes wide and mouth hanging ever so slightly open.
The Ninth seemed to be lost in thought for an impossibly long moment, hand under his chin and gaze unfocused. The Doctor found himself fighting the instinct to bounce his leg due to nerves. Then, “Zandik?”
It wasn’t the first time he’d heard Feofan say his name, but never to his face, never in moments such as these. He stayed silent, finding it difficult to maintain eye contact.
“Is that really all this is? A business venture?” He exhaled a shaky breath, “or does our partnership mean something else to you?”
It means everything. “You are my dearest friend,” Dottore found his predicament utterly pathetic, unfit for a man of reason such as himself, “I reckon you’d know this is beyond investments or mora, by now.”
“Friend,” Pantalone repeated, slouching back into his seat. It seemed he wasn’t particularly interested in concealing his disappointment.
The Doctor really hoped his understanding of social cues wasn’t failing him here, not now. “That’s what you’ve been to me for the past decade. Things are different now.”
“You’ve always treated me differently. I thought it was because you believed I’d make it as a Harbinger, so you treated me as such. You’ve always set me up for success. But then… I saw how you speak to them. How they speak to you. Most of them don’t have your respect. Why me? I’m sure there’s plenty of good accountants or clerks you could rely on. Ones who don’t question you, ones who will shower you in mora without hesitation.”
“I wish you would stop acting like you truly believe you’re a nameless nobody. You gained status for a reason,” he hesitated, “Feofan.”
“I’ve never really considered myself a nobody, you’re right. I was confident because I knew I could deliver. But it’s gnawing at me. Maybe the first time you thought it was amusing. Maybe you saw a spark. But the years after that… Why? Why keep me in your entourage if I was hopeless in combat? Why let me go to the bank job when you were already understaffed? Why see me, like you’re doing now, outside of business hours? Why treat something as banal as a gunshot wound yourself?”
“You used to be more pragmatic, or at least not so direct. Those are some loaded questions.”
Pantalone clenched his fists, his face scrunched up into an expression Dottore couldn’t properly read.
“Answer me,” he stated, without begging or pleading, “answer me, Zandik. What is it that you saw in me? What kind of value do I bring into your life?”
“I enjoy your company. Quite a lot, if you’d like to know. Humans are social animals, after all. Furthermore, the fact that you’re exceptional at your job only makes the deal better. There isn’t a complex reason. I can’t help you find what you’re looking for.” He didn’t know why he said that.
He was left with no response. Pantalone stood, fists still clenched and eyes trailing the floor. Dottore couldn’t risk a mistake.
“Feofan,” he called, stopping the man before he could move to leave, “were you hoping for a specific answer?” It was a gamble. But the man in front of him had gambled his life with him, and it was time they were even.
“You really won’t skin me alive, will you?” He sounded defeated, but even then he managed to sneak some snark in. Zandik felt his heartbeat increase rapidly.
“Most likely not, no.” He stopped himself before he could make a terrible remark about ruining the experiment of the Elixir of Immortality if he went through with such a barbaric practice.
“I was hoping…” His hands relaxed, “I was hoping you’d tell me I’m special to you,” he stepped forward, “that you’ve been enchanted since the day we met,” another step, “that you’ve been waiting for this moment for as long as you could remember,” he stopped in front of Zandik’s chair, reaching out with his arm, “because you could finally ask me to be yours.” He paused for a moment, before he gently cupped Dottore’s jaw, running his thumb over his skin.
“You’re truly mad if you think there’s a real, tangible chance I don’t want you,” he breathed out, looking into lavender eyes that were incredibly close to his.
“Then why haven’t you been selfish yet?” He whispered, gaze falling to Zandik’s lips.
He didn’t have to be told twice. Dottore surged up, capturing Feofan’s mouth with his own. Immediately, Pantalone straddled him, settling into his lap as Zandik ran his hands up his back, earning a few pleased gasps. Even though he knew Regrator’s body better than his own, touching it while it was alive, reacting to his stimuli… It was better than anything he could’ve asked for. He wanted nothing more than to find out every sound Feofan could make at his mercy.
“Zandik,” Pantalone gasped, pulling away just enough to get some air, “why did you wait so long?” He dove back in, stealing another kiss, “I was beginning to think,” he ducked his head, licking at Dottore’s neck, “that you never cared for me at all,” he trailed down towards his chest, leaving a flurry of kisses.
Zandik, in turn, threw his head back, a delighted sigh pushing past his lips as he squeezed Feofan’s waist. “That’s preposterous. You’re just too power hungry, Feofan,” he dipped his hands under Regrator’s shirt, lightly scratching at his back, “who was to tell if you truly, sincerely returned my affection?”
Pantalone chuckled lightly, letting Zandik know he had a point. “No matter,” he said, pulling at Dottore’s hair to guide his face back down and kiss him again, “we’ll have eternity to catch up, anyway,” he cradled The Doctor’s earring, eyeing the liquid as it sloshed around.
Zandik pushed his tongue past Feofan’s lips, dragging him even closer, so that their chests were flush against each other. He kept closing his eyes instinctively, just to force them open again; he needed to see it, see Feofan, to know that it was real.
“You’ll figure it out,” Pantalone said, though it was unclear whether he was talking to Zandik or himself, “you’ll figure it out and then we’ll build the new world we’ve dreamed of,” he nuzzled Dottore’s cheek, leaving a kiss on his cheekbone.
Zandik couldn’t wait.