Archive of Our Own

Holidays are typically a private affair for Pantalone. 

A week off to himself, where he does nothing but eat alone, lounge in his own company, and enjoy a break from everything. He throws no grand parties (unless his presence is required at one), and he prefers to keep to himself for the duration of the holidays, for who better to spend them with than the bottle of wine he saves all year, just for this time?

It’s so very nice to spend this time of the season in Snezhnaya, where he can see endless fields of glittering snow, undisturbed as far as the eye can see. From his wing of the palace, he can usually admire the ice garden spanning the length of the courtyard where a stray fox might sometimes trot before skittishly vanishing. The prints it leaves behind in the snow tend to quickly get covered up by the new snowfall.

As the week comes to an end, Pantalone buys himself a little trinket as a treat—a little “Congratulations on getting through another year” to reward himself—and then he takes a full day of rest before it’s back to ledgers and long-winding reports.

(Really, it’s all just a way to avoid thinking about how some of the other Harbingers actually have places to be at this time of year, like Arlecchino with her children, and Tartaglia with his family. 

Isolation means ignorance, and, in cases like these, ignorance is bliss for Pantalone.)

So, yes, holidays are typically a private affair for Pantalone.

But, stepping off the plank, feet touching solid ground after a good while at sea, Pantalone has to take a moment to ask himself what in Teyvat he’s doing back here. Years ago, when he’d left, wrapped in a cloak and a head brimming with ambitions, he’d promised he wouldn’t come back to the city until he was ready. Now, he certainly doesn’t feel ready, yet here he is anyway.

The shore’s icy chill nips at Pantalone’s nose and ears. It’s a harsh reminder of what growing up in Liyue and trying to survive during unforgiving winters was like. Fingers that were once white from frostnip are now tucked securely in fur-lined pockets. The aching pang of cold in Pantalone’s chest is dulled by the scarf that wraps warmly around him and the heavy Snezhnayan winter coat draped over his shoulders.

Snow melts off Pantalone’s lashes when he blinks. He puffs out a frosty breath that turns into vapour the moment it leaves his mouth. He’s no longer the boy he used to be. He no longer has to worry about where he will find shelter, warmth, or his next meal, and he should relax.

Right. Pantalone knows what he’s doing here, though he doesn’t understand for the life of him why he ever agreed.

“Ah, my dear Regrator!” A grating, aggravating call of a familiar voice beckons him over from the top of the docks.

There’s a man leaning against one of the wooden pillars. A thin sheen of snow has floated down to cover his candy-blue hair. It’s a wonder that the liquid in his vial-like earring hasn’t frozen yet. Among the white and blue, his red eyes—Pantalone notes with surprise that no mask conceals them—make a stark contrast, but not more than the pink bowtie around his neck, revealed only by his unbuttoned coat. He seems to have been waiting for at least half an hour. 

“Dottore,” Pantalone replies in kind, eyes crinkling politely. 

A Fatuus hurries past him with his luggage, boots clomping up the snowy planks. Pantalone adjusts his scarf and sets up the same path. His shoes are unfit for this weather—much more suited to clicking assertively down a crystalline hallway—so he slips and has to ignore Dottore’s mocking snorts with difficulty. 

Dottore shakes snow out of his hair. The white dusting flies off, and Pantalone wonders how Dottore can stand this weather at all, considering his origins. 

“It certainly took you a while,” Dottore taunts. The snow gathered by the edge of the pass crunches under his thicker boots as he turns to face Pantalone. The banker blows a stray strand out of his face and scowls. “A little longer and I would have become a popsicle. Imagine that! Frozen in place like one of the Tsaritsa’s ice sculptures!”

“Can it, Dottore,” Pantalone spits. Another wisp of wind makes him pull his scarf higher to cover his pink nose and rub his fingertips together to make sure he can still feel them. “You’re the one who called me out all the way across the continent. You have no right to gripe at me. Could you not handle this mission on your own?”

“It’s not a mission.”

His hands itch to strangle Dottore on the spot. Instead, because Pantalone is a put-together man with the patience of a saint, his smile tightens. “Oh, really? I could swear I saw the words ‘help me on this mission’ in the missive you sent me two weeks ago.”

Feigning innocence, Dottore scratches his nose with a gloved pinkie. “Hm. You must have read wrong.” The evil glint in his red eyes tells Pantalone that he’s just being a pest.

Their shoulders bump when Pantalone pushes past him with an impatient grumble. He doesn’t need to turn around to know that Dottore is following him with a self-assured, smug grin. Maybe he’s even glad he doesn’t see him. It was jarring to see the scars twining on tan skin—he’d always thought the raised tissue looked like a mass of brambles—because Dottore almost always wears his mask. It’s nothing against the scars and more so on the principle of Dottore not hiding his face. 

If Pantalone were to guess, Dottore’s mask would be what Pantalone’s smile is to himself.

“Do you even know where you’re going?” Dottore calls, lagging a few paces behind. Always with something to say about anything, Pantalone did.

“To where I will be staying while I’m here.”

They duck around the Millelith standing guard. They’re quite visibly people of higher status from a different nation, and the Qixing must already be aware of their presence and alert. That means that the last thing they need is to be stopped and questioned under reasons of suspicion (and Tartaglia’s stunt a few years ago hadn’t left officials of Liyue with the greatest opinion of the Fatui). 

Dottore raises a brow, eyes darting around. The hustle and bustle of Feiyun Slope turns to quieter, more peaceful chatter as they cross a stone bridge over a frozen pond. The moment they begin climbing the stone steps, Dottore lets out a startled laugh. “Of course you chose the higher-class rentals to reside in while we’re here.”

“I would not come here unprepared. Don’t dare assume that I would take a ship across Teyvat for you on a whim with no planning.”

“Ho ho! Because Pantalone would do things for me!” Sarcasm drips from his words. 

“Precisely.” It’s Pantalone’s turn to look over his shoulder and shoot Dottore a smug smirk. “Remember that nothing comes without a price. I did not come all the way here for you to drag me around to your liking. I should tell you now that this loft did not cost spare pennies.”

“You and your mora,” Dottore scoffs, but he drops the subject.

So that’s exactly what Pantalone is doing back in Liyue. Dottore had asked him—very abrasively, might he add, to the point of demanding—to accompany him on a task he had to complete in the harbour, and Pantalone, for Celestia knows what reason, agreed. He didn’t specify what for or why he needed Pantalone of all people, and couldn’t just get one of his segments to accompany him, but Pantalone hadn’t asked.

That might have been his first mistake.

His second was actually joining up with Dottore the moment he stepped off the ship.

“My Lord!” a Fatuus exclaims as Pantalone makes the final step up to the building in Yujing Terrace. Since when did Liyue have so many stairs? Smoothing back short brown hair and tucking loose strands behind his mask, the Fatuus bows as Pantalone sweeps by and steps through the doors. While he stomps the snow from his shoes, the Fatuus continues, “Here are your keys. Your belongings are already in your room, and your agent for your stay will be here tonight for a debrief. Let her know if you require anything, and it will be done.”

Pantalone regards the dark, elegant key in his palm and hums. “Dismissed.”

His shoes don’t make much sound against the burgundy carpeting all the way to his room. There are, however, the echoes of footsteps close behind him that remind him of Dottore’s rather unwanted presence.

But, before he can even ask why Dottore is still following him, the Doctor pipes up as if reading his mind. “I have a meeting soon. Would you like to have a bite with me before I’m stuck sitting for another hour or two, engaged in mind-numbing discussion with someone who cannot fathom the intricacies of my mind?”

The key slides in and clicks easily. The well-oiled door opens without a squeal, revealing a cleanly furnished open space. Windows in the back of the room, stretching from floor to ceiling, give on the expanse of the Harbor beneath. A thin layer of snow partly hides the reds of Feiyun Slope and the greys of the tiled stone Pantalone knows to wind all throughout Liyue Harbor.

Maybe, Pantalone thinks, winter in Liyue isn’t so bad.  

Idly, he brushes a finger against the droplets of melted snow on top of his bags. They sink into his gloves, leaving little wet stains. He turns back to Dottore, who has his face turned away. “Did you have a place in mind?”

Dottore grimaces at the floor. “Why bother with the formalities when you already know where you want to go?” He nudges one of Pantalone’s wheeled boxes with a foot. Pantalone suddenly notices that Dottore hasn’t looked at him since they stepped foot into his loft. “But the restaurant is already reserved. It’s the same one you would have wanted anyway.”

He flashes his teeth at the Doctor, neither hostile nor pleasant. Despite insistently staring at the floor, Dottore’s eye twitches. It gives him away. “Sometimes I think it a curse that you know me so well.” Pantalone makes a mental note to unpack everything as soon as they’re back from the restaurant and gestures for Dottore to step out of the loft. “Liuli Pavilion?”

“An exorbitant sum paid to secure a reservation.”

Pantalone slows to let Dottore fall in stride beside him. They ignore the receptionist who bids them a good day as they face the cold again. “And I expect this to all be filed in a report as a ‘business transaction’?”

“No. This is a personal cost.”

He can’t help the surprised raise of his brows. Of course, he doesn’t pry, lest he want to engage in another unnecessarily long debate with Dottore that somehow leads into a bitter subject neither of them has the energy to argue about. So he shrugs and, together, they make their way down the icy stone steps to Feiyun Slope.

Pantalone just hopes his third mistake isn’t deciding to spend his time off with Dottore.

━━━━━°•❈•°━━━━━

Liuli Pavilion is peaceful. 

Growing up, Pantalone had always thought it would be much louder. He imagined the wealthy speaking loudly over drinks and steaming plates of fresh meat, stomachs full and smiles wide as they clamoured over one another to have their stories told. Looking back on it, he’s not sure why he did. Maybe, in his immature little mind, he imagined the holidays to be a time for the wealthy to get rowdy, rather than quieter to avoid attention as the streets got busier. Maybe he associated privilege with obnoxiousness.

Whatever the case, the Liuli Pavilion in which he sits for the first time is nothing like what he imagined.

Yes, there’s a buzz of hushed conversations and the occasional cheer, followed by the clink of glasses, but otherwise, it’s quiet.

Pantalone and Dottore sit across each other at a table for two, pushed up into the corner behind a folding screen. A paper lantern casts an orange glow onto them as they wait for Dottore’s pre-placed order to arrive and for a server to pass by so Pantalone can order, too. Surprisingly, Dottore hasn’t said anything to throw them into an argument yet, so it’s an enjoyable environment. 

He never thought he’d put the words “enjoyable” and “Dottore” in the same sentence.

“What did you get?” Pantalone finally asks, after sitting in silence starts to get to him.

“For myself or you?”

“You ordered for me?” he asks incredulously.

Dottore shrugs. “It saved time.”

“Do you even know—”

“Some potato-mushroom stir-fry for myself, and those noodles you never stop yammering about for yourself,” he interrupts impatiently. He lightly flicks one of the engraved chopsticks so it clinks against his overflowing teacup and scowls at it like it personally wronged him. “I listen,” Dottore adds, sounding miffed at Pantalone’s doubt. “Don’t assume that, because I’m always preoccupied, I don’t hear you.”

“So those times you were ‘preoccupied’ and ‘ didn't hear me’– You just chose not to listen?” Dottore grins, and it’s all Pantalone needs to know. He brings the teacup to his lips and drinks to avoid snapping back a harsh remark. 

“Would it kill you to just thank me?”

“It would. I would keel over right this instant and die if I had to… thank you.” Pantalone sniffs haughtily, jutting out his chin for added dramatic effect. The same dramatic effect that Dottore despises, but that Pantalone loves to make him hate. “Is that all you’re eating? It’s not the most filling meal.”

“Precisely why. You should know, Regrator, that I often cannot stomach heavier foods.”

And yet we sit at the restaurant with a more filling menu, Pantalone thinks. Xinyue Kiosk is known to have lighter seafood-centred dishes. Still, Dottore chose Liuli Pavilion, seemingly because he knew Pantalone would prefer it. A strange emotion simmers in Pantalone’s chest. He promptly squashes it—grabs it by its prickly skin and shoves it down into the depths of his chest, where he doesn’t have to ponder it any further. 

With it, any sarcastic comeback is whisked away, too.

“I know,” is all he manages to reply.

For a while, they are satisfied with the ambient clinking sound of people eating around them. While Dottore traces equations onto the table's wood, occasionally nudging his mask lying beside his teacup, Pantalone looks out the geometrical window panel to gaze upon the docks’ market beneath.

Despite the winter frost, people still mill about, their scarves pulled up high and their chilly hands wriggling to keep the blood circulating. Many enter and exit the Harbor across the wooden bridge without a care in the world. Among the crowds, a family with two children hurries to make last-minute gift purchases, and Pantalone thinks for the second time that day that Liyue doesn’t seem so miserable when he sees it from up here. 

Then their food is set on the table, the aroma of spices wafting into the air between them, and Pantalone’s attention is drawn away.

It’s as he picks at a mushroom that Dottore speaks up again.

“It’s ironic, isn’t it?”

“What is?” Pantalone asks distractedly. He wonders how difficult it would be to make this dish himself. Surely not too hard, right? It has so few ingredients, and the main challenge would be making the sauce. He bites into the mushroom. It’s so good that he almost forgets Dottore’s pestilent presence in front of him for a second.

“That you’re back home for the holidays.” Dottore stabs at a potato on his plate with his chopsticks. It impales the vegetable vertically, punching two holes into the tender flesh. It’s not like Dottore doesn’t know how to use chopsticks—he just has no decorum.

A valiant effort is made not to comment on it. 

“I don’t have a home anymore,” Pantalone simply retorts. 

The look Dottore gives him is difficult for him to pick apart. He’s always had trouble deciphering the Doctor’s thoughts, but he thought that seeing his facial expressions might help. It really didn’t.

“Me neither.”

Just like that, the stilted conversation fizzles out again. 

As if drawn in by this new perspective on Liyue Harbor, Pantalone turns his attention back to the half-frozen waters as he eats. The broken pieces of ice drift to and fro with the weak waves, some breaking when they knock against the hull of a docked ship. In the distance, off the shore of the Harbor, the illustrious Pearl Galley chugs through the frangible ice.

In midday lighting, it looks so unpretentious. The colourful, almost fiery paint job makes it stand out against the blue and whites of winter, but Pantalone thinks it looks much less grand without its glowing lanterns marking it as floating luxury. 

“I always wanted to be invited to the Pearl Galley when I was a kid,” he lets slip, too taken by its sudden appearance on the horizon to realize that he’s still in a predator’s presence.

Immediately, the vulture swoops in to scavenge its new meal.

“Why would a kid like you think he could make it onto that gaudy-looking thing?” Dottore asks, sounding half confused, half sarcastic.

Pantalone scrapes his chopsticks against the bottom of his plate to try to get the pesky noodle, a little more aggressively than he means to. “Of course you would never have childhood dreams,” he spits back at Dottore, far more insulted than he’d expected to be.

To his surprise, Dottore frowns as if he’d taken genuine offense. “I dreamt of being someone who mattered,” he says. It sounds like a protest and an admission at the same time, and Pantalone isn’t sure what to make of it. Thankfully, Dottore moves it along. “You’re important enough now. Why don’t you just get an invitation?”

It’s not that simple, Pantalone wants to say… but Dottore is right. He’s never tried to get an invitation, but, then again, he hasn’t been back to Liyue Harbor since he left. In the back of his head, it was probably still a silly fantasy to go aboard the ship—a childhood dream that was meant to stay unattainable even with the world at his fingertips.

“I don’t have time to indulge in silly daydreams anymore.”

There’s that look again on Dottore’s face: the one where he narrows his eyes slightly, mouth set in a hard line. It’s the one he always makes when he wants to argue, and it usually starts by calling Pantalone out on a lie that seems to only ever be obvious to him. He accusingly picks up a mushroom and opens his mouth to disagree—

Mercy comes in the form of an agent standing half-hidden behind the screen, head bowed to the Harbingers. 

Snapping his mouth shut, Dottore’s attention veers away from Pantalone. Red eyes fix intensely on the agent. He says nothing. He only nods his head once, watches the agent scurry away without a word, and sets his chopsticks—mushroom included—back onto the table. 

“Delightful conversation as always, Pantalone,” Dottore jeers, “but I have a meeting I must attend now. The bill will be taken care of, so stuff yourself as you deem fit.”

“You know I don’t—” He doesn’t get to finish his sentence before Dottore throws on his coat and strides away like the act of letting Pantalone say two more words to him might make him catch a terminal disease. The Second is already out of the restaurant when Pantalone grumbles, “—stuff myself.”

He heaves a heavy sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. Almost all of their conversations end with at least one of their blood pressure spiking, but they keep coming back to it over and over again. He doesn’t know why he bothers anymore. It’s not like Dottore ever really listens to him.

Pantalone finds his eyes wandering back outside to watch the Pearl Galley make its way across the water and back around. A server comes and takes Dottore’s plate off the table, then refills the teapot. He picks at a piece of beef caught in between two noodles, contemplative. 

No, he thinks, and then reluctantly reminds himself, Dottore does listen.

━━━━━°•❈•°━━━━━

On one rare occasion, small talk broke the stillness of filed paperwork.

“What’s a food you miss from your hometown?” Papers rustled as they slid across the ebony desk. A quill was dipped in ink. Too much. It dripped onto the black desktop as it was lifted to the paper. Ink splatters oozed through one sheet onto the other beneath it. A long sigh.

“... Biryani. It’s not from my hometown, though.” A silence stretched, clarification finding its place on the speaker’s tongue. A mechanism clicked as it was fidgeted with. “I worked at a hospital for some time. By coincidence, whenever the week’s meal listed biryani, I would have a shift that same day. I came to like it.”

“Hm. Perhaps you will have it again soon.” The quill tip scratched against paper. “I miss these noodles with mushrooms and whatever game was available. We just called it noodles with mountain delicacies. It was cheap when I got it from the stall of the granny who’d watched me grow up. I tried to have it recreated here, but it’s just not the same. You must understand.”

“Uh-huh.” A series of clicks followed. A dull sound. “Ho ho! I’ve finally figured it out!”

“... Congratulations.”

“So, you were saying?”

“Forget it.”

The quill tip tore a hole in the sheet.

━━━━━°•❈•°━━━━━

The markets are the same as ever, despite the cold weather, though a little less busy. People bundled up in thick woolly scarves crunch in the snow past Pantalone, careful not to slip and slide on slushy pavement. 

He overhears conversations about last-minute preparations for hurried family gatherings and some more about long-awaited lovers finally coming back to spend time with each other. Pantalone wrinkles his nose. Waiting for someone all year? Who could ever do that? It’s a waste of time, and one must surely have too much time on their hands if that’s all they have to do.

Not to mention the emotional investment that Pantalone personally cannot afford.

He wriggles his fingers in his fur-lined pockets and blows out another warm puff of air that condenses immediately. It’s so… different in Liyue. By now, back in Snezhnaya, he’d be popping his aching back after his last long morning of signing and approving papers before his well-deserved break, then having a bath drawn for him to prune in the silk flower-scented water.

In Liyue, he does not relish in warm water. He instead braces his legs for an especially icy patch on the ground ahead and forges onward with no particular goal in mind. It’s not cold enough to stay inside, but not warm enough to stand still and watch the ships drifting through the broken ice. So Pantalone continues to drift aimlessly, weaving through the crowd and eyeing the merchants hawking their wares. 

It’s strange to see the world from a higher standing point, in both literal and figurative senses. Before he began climbing the infinitely high social ladder, he was just a little rat scurrying between people’s legs to survive. By his early adolescent years, he’d already long since learned how to peer past tall stalls without appearing suspicious, and planning where he could steal his next bundle of mora came second nature. 

The thought doesn’t even occur to him now. Now, he only wonders where he can spend a bundle of mora.

“Hello, sir! Looking for something in particular? We’ve got gems and jewels of all kinds for man and woman alike!” A young boy, wrapped up in so many layers that Pantalone can barely see anything but his face, eagerly leans over a table. An elderly woman beside him pulls him back down with a scolding tsk. 

On instinct, he hesitates. To be called out means he was noticed, and being noticed is most often not a good thing, especially in what he could consider enemy territory. In past experience, too, being called out means being caught. But he looks closer, sees that the boy is rubbing his hands together in a poor attempt at warming them up, and he caves.

“Good afternoon,” he says quietly as he ducks under the low-hanging tarp. “I’m looking for something for myself.” It’s a lie—he’s not looking for anything—but the boy lights up at the prospect of something selling, and Pantalone figures that white lies don’t always hurt.

“There are plenty of nice jewels here, and farther down the table, there are little trinkets that Granny made! Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“Perhaps a ‘trinket’.” Pantalone glances over. 

Little carvings of flowers and animals are lined up in rows. He recognizes the herons that inhabit Liyue, and he sees the distinct shape of a glaze lily flower. What a surprise, he thinks. Glaze lilies still hold significance, even in the present-day Liyue. He’d known that the exports of the flowers had been cut down a lot since they were on the path to extinction, but he hadn’t thought that they were still a popular symbol. Silk flowers, an Adeptus, and of course a figure of Rex Lapis sit there unassumingly, every little crook and detail carved with utmost patience and care. 

But a tiny carving that could fit in the palm of his hand catches his attention. It’s round, like some kind of root vegetable with stubby limbs. It is clearly a creature though, because a little smiling face is carved just a few millimetres into the pale, sandpapered cuihua wood. The top of its head spreads out in large leaves, with two more popping out like a stem. 

The creature is oddly familiar.

A wrinkled hand picks it up carefully by the base and turns it around. Pantalone lifts his eyes to see Granny smile softly at it. “I see you’re eyeing this creature. Do you know what it is, young man?”

Pantalone has seen it somewhere, but he can’t remember where.

“It’s like an Adeptus from Sumeru. They’re called Aranara,” she continues fondly, and the realization hits.

Dottore was obsessed with these for some time. All he wanted to do was capture them. Something about harnessing their powers and turning their ties to divinity into fuel. There was always a hint of nostalgia in his tone whenever he spoke of these things as if he was reminiscing the loss of a good friend. But Pantalone could have been projecting his own feelings of loss and grief onto an unfeeling man.

“Aranara?” he echoes, a prompt for the woman to continue.

“I spent some part of my childhood in Sumeru,” she tells him, already lost in the past as she runs a frail finger along the ridges on the leaves. “Growing up there, I met these little creatures. I’m not certain if this is what they even look like—sometimes I even wonder if they were real at all… I am growing old and my memory fails me these days, but I know that the Aranara meant a lot to me. If they were real, then they were my dearest playmates when I was alone.”

“I want to meet an Aranara!” the boy interjects. 

Pantalone only offers him a placid smile. Then, to Granny, “Why sell it if they mean so much to you? Would you not keep something so dear to you to yourself?”

To his surprise, she only lets out a croaking laugh. “Oh, young man, you will one day learn that love is not material, and love is not selfish.”

Frowning, Pantalone bites his tongue and holds back a snappy response about not asking for a life lesson, and that he can no longer even be considered young. He fishes around for his bag of mora instead. “Then how much are you selling that for?”

The satisfied smile that the woman offers him doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Regrator,” a voice calls out from the entrance to Liyue Harbor, where the wooden bridge connects the mountain to the sea. 

Pantalone looks away from the Statue of the Seven and finds Dottore stomping up the path to him, occasionally cursing under his breath when his ridiculous boots don’t grip the ice properly. He makes quite the spectacle, blue hair melting into the peaceful winter scenery with the sun making its way to sleep on the horizon, but the foul curses in the common tongue disrupt any semblance of serenity.

“Doctor.” Pantalone steps aside to leave Dottore a small space beside him, a footstep away, right in front of an absent god. “How was—”

“Do not speak of the meeting. I have no words for it,” he snaps immediately, sweeping a hand through his hair in aggravation. He knocks the mask a little aside on his face. 

Instinctively, Pantalone reaches up to fix it. He freezes in place when Dottore gives him a strange look. Coughing lightly and covering his mouth with a fist, Pantalone prompts, as smoothly as possible, “No words? You seem like you have much to say about this horrid meeting of yours.”

“Pathetic fools who squabble about unnecessary things like cost. They don’t see the bigger picture. It’s like they fail to see that grandeur awaits those who join me. It is as though their minds are encased in such thick, dense wrapping that they don’t even want to break free from its rigid confines and think like me. It’s– It’s frustrating, is what it is!”

“‘No words’,” Pantalone repeats, snide. Dottore does not take well to the mockery, but he holds his tongue.

That’s always it with them. There’s always an air of tension as if one of them doused the space between them in gasoline and the other held a lit match. It was then always just a matter of time before the match was dropped and a calamitous explosion ripped through them.

Pantalone lived for the thrill as much as he hated it, and he was sure Dottore felt the same.

“Regardless,” Dottore says, breathing sharply out of his nose as if composing himself and fixing his mask, “I found myself distracted on my way here. The markets are certainly… lively.”

“In other words, you fell for their sales tricks?”

“I did not fall–” He clears his throat. “No. It was a fully conscious, financially irresponsible decision. All of my own volition, with no outside influence.” 

As skeptical as Pantalone is, any sarcastic retort disappears when Dottore pulls a golden hairpin out of his pocket. Little beaded strings dangle from the end where a phoenix spreads its fiery wings, its ruby eye glinting in the winter glare. Dottore waves it around for a moment like he’s unsure what to do with it, but then he points the sharp ends at Pantalone.

“And what am I to do with this?” he asks, looking at it down his nose.

“It’s yours.”

“Is it now?”

“It piqued my interest because it was glittering. Almost as if it was calling my name. It was an impulse purchase,” Dottore explains with a shrug. “I finally decided that I didn’t have a use for it, short as my hair is, so… it’s yours now.”

Gratitude is due, Pantalone supposes. He doesn’t say anything. He simply takes the hairpin and weaves it expertly into his hair. Dottore’s eyes track the movement as he stands still, hands hanging by his side. Coquettishly, Pantalone primps a loose curl around his face and smirks.

“How do I look?”

“Devastating.”

He shoots the Doctor a look, unsure whether that was a compliment or quite the opposite. Then, he remembers the weight in his own pocket and snorts, because of course they’d do the exact same thing. 

Two sides of the same coin, the Regrator and the Doctor.

“It’s ironic that you are gifting me something you don’t want. A happy coincidence, even.” He feels for the wooden carving in his pocket and holds out his fist to Dottore. “I bought something on impulse, too. A little creature of sorts, one that you obsessed over for some time.”

Eyes narrowing, Dottore opens his palm up. Pantalone drops the carving of the Aranara into his hand and watches as Dottore’s expression shifts from suspicion to astonishment. He pinches it by its fragile wooden leaves and holds it up to eye level. Red eyes flicker between two indescribable emotions—ones that Pantalone has never seen on Dottore’s face—before he slips it into his pocket.

So many unsaid words linger in the air—derision, gratitude, something more fragile.

They move on as if nothing happened.

For a while, they stand there like statues of stone, staring up at the carving of a divine one. Pantalone stands a respectable distance away from Dottore, and Dottore keeps his arms crossed over his chest to keep his hands from straying. It’s serene for a moment. The wind whispers in the air between them. 

It only stops when Pantalone clears his throat and mutters, “I should return.”

“I’m not going to suddenly access your entire past because of some silent rumination before your god. You don’t have to run away.”

“Rex— He is not my god.” Pantalone grits his teeth, skin suddenly prickling at Dottore’s attitude. It isn’t his place to make snide comments about things he doesn’t understand. “And I’m not running away. Unlike you, I have nothing to run from,” he spits.

Dottore turns the slightest bit so Pantalone can see the awfully judgmental side eye he shoots. “You don’t waste time. There is no other reason you should be standing out here instead of splurging ridiculously on useless gizmos from some upscale place that the majority of the general population can’t afford. You’re flimsier than you think, Regrator.”

Always the perfect words to rile him up.

The worst is he knows Dottore is right. Pantalone knows he hides behind his wealth and luxuries as his way of running, because who is he if not the Ninth of the Fatui Harbingers, the one who allows money to flow around the world? He knows that arguing back will only make him seem short-tempered. 

In his defense, he tries to calm himself by clenching his fists and forcing out, “Now what does that mean?”

… Only for Dottore to stare him down and say, “It means I can read you front to back. You’re slipping.”

It’s truly a losing game he plays where he weighs the pros and cons of lunging at Dottore right this instant. Making light of it doesn’t stop the fury bubbling under his skin, so Pantalone storms away before Dottore can get another word in. He makes a straight line for the bridge back into Liyue Harbor, coat pulled tightly around his shoulders.

Footsteps follow behind him, slower but still chasing. Dottore must’ve realized he’d pushed one too many buttons, and Pantalone all but scrambles to hide where he can break quietly.

Too caught up in his emotions, he barely notices his surroundings on time. Someone to his left walks a younger girl dressed in scrappy furs, and they steer just a little too close. In his rush to get away, Pantalone runs into the man, nearly bowling all three of them over. It sends him careening around, hopping on one foot to regain his balance lest he tumble into the bridge’s railing. Head spinning, it takes too long for his mind to register the flowing earth-brown cloaks with those geometric emblems emblazoned on the back. 

But when he does, it feels like a meteor strike.

All of a sudden, he’s the girl, shivering and trembling in the cold, fighting off the creeping frostbite with far too little to cover. Except when he reaches out for a warm hand to take him and promise him that he is heard and seen, nobody reaches back. He calls to the heavens, and they stare back, stone-faced and unmoving. It’s a horrid reminder that he used to kneel to someone—used to throw his minimal honour aside—in hopes that he would be heard. In prayer.

And no one ever came. 

Only now—now that he no longer needs a saviour—does his of the past turn around with wide eyes. Wide in recognition. The realization sinks in. His god has always known his face.

Rex Lapis.  

Hatred rushes through Pantalone’s body like a tidal wave of lava, firing him up until his head throbs with the intensity of it all. He clenches his fist and feels the spark of a Delusion coming to life. Before he can send an outrageous attack toward someone he knows he will lose against, someone steps in between them, blocking Rex Lapis from sight.

“Regrator, do not forget yourself.” Dottore has Pantalone’s raised, shaking arm in a firm grip. Behind the mask, his eyes are narrowed sternly in warning. Pantalone’s Delusion fizzles out in defeat. “Some battles aren’t worth it.”

That’s rich coming from you, are the words Pantalone wants to spit. Nothing comes out but a sharp, barely calming exhale. Over Dottore’s shoulder, Rex Lapis has hurriedly pulled the girl along to wherever they’re headed. He doesn’t look back even as Pantalone watches him go, eyes unwavering from his shrinking figure. Pantalone is never seen. And isn’t that just fitting of the two of them?

Dottore swims back into view. He has yet to look away from Pantalone, and Pantalone’s arm is still held in his hand in a tight but painless grip. They stand at a stalemate for a whole three heartbeats.

With a pointed scowl, Pantalone rips his arm out of Dottore’s hold. “Don’t touch me.”

He can’t even stomp away to seethe quietly because he hears Dottore following him. Then, Dottore’s egregious mouth opens, and his words feel like someone is shoving pins into Pantalone’s throat. “Turning your back on the ones who’ve turned their back on you won’t change that they don’t see you. How is this different from your past? Look at yourself. All you do is run away. When will you face who you used to be?” 

Pantalone has never heard something more hypocritical come out of the Doctor’s mouth.

He’s starting to wonder why he ever considered a partnership with Dottore. He’s nothing but a scavenger who feeds off the chaos he sows. All he does is drip poison into Pantalone’s mind until it festers and spills out in a torrent of venomous arguments. And maybe Pantalone is also to blame for the constant cycle, with the way he pokes at Dottore with his knife-sharp words until the poison oozes, and he can drink from it like an addict.

But he certainly doesn’t blame himself—not in this moment and not ever—because it’s so much easier to blame his vice.

He sweeps past the preoccupied receptionist who doesn’t blink twice as they fly by in a cloud of fury. 

It’s only when Pantalone’s heavy door looms in front of him that he finally turns. Dottore is in the middle of saying something about loving arguing so much yet hiding from confrontation, but Pantalone steps up to him and fists the front of his shirt. The shock factor effectively silences him.

“Why did you call me here, knowing my past?” Pantalone yanks the bunched-up collar closer, only half aware of the pressure building up behind his eyes, threatening to leak out. He has never been able to hold back the frustrated tears when arguing with Dottore. His voice hitches higher with every word, but he doesn’t care if people hear this anymore. “You knew. You knew how I’ve avoided Liyue for years. You’ve watched me turn down mission after mission here. There’s a reason!”

Hands try to pry his away from Dottore’s collar. Dottore grimaces. “I don’t—”

“Do you know what it’s like to come here, see the place I grew up in, and know that I’ve never belonged? Do you know what it’s like to see everyone else have their place in the world? To have one place where they belong and can call ‘home’?” He’s too caught in the words spilling out of his mouth to notice the bitter tears spilling down his face. “My entire childhood, I prayed to a god who wouldn’t listen because what could a poor beggar boy offer? You have no idea what it’s like to grow up worthless, know it, and come back on top of the food chain, only to be reminded where you belong.”

“Regrator.”

He lets go of Dottore, hands shaking. He’s distantly aware of his lips trembling as he chokes out, “Do you know, Dottore, what it’s like to never once, in your gods-damned life, have been taken seriously by someone you need to?” At his cold silence, Pantalone scoffs. “Coming from an educated, privileged,” he spits like a slur, “background, hah, of course you wouldn’t.”

Something snaps.

“Pantalone! Maybe you deserved that!” Dottore’s hand is crushing around Pantalone’s jaw before he can blink or get away. It squeezes, and joints creak. Pantalone tugs away, but he’s only gripped tighter and pulled closer to face Dottore’s anger. “I don’t know your past, because we aren’t like that. We don’t care about each other's details. Do you know what that means, too? That you don’t know what I’ve truly lived.”

“Let go of me,” Pantalone garbles, his words limited.

The protest is brushed aside as the Doctor leans in. “So maybe you deserved to be ignored to remind you that you’re not the center of the world. You’ll never be. You may build yourself towers of gold, but, in the end, to the gods, you don’t matter, Pantalone. Get over yourself.”

Smack!

Dottore’s mask skids across the floor. A bruising blush blooms on the caramel skin where Pantalone’s palm made contact. The grip around Pantalone’s face loosens in surprise, and Dottore takes a step back, more startled than anything. 

The moment between Dottore gingerly, disbelievingly, raising his hand to his cheek and Pantalone taking his first trembling step back feels like an eternity.

Then, he fumbles for the handle, unable to tear his eyes away from Dottore’s glittering red ones that train on him as he shakily throws open the door. For a split second, it looks like Dottore wants to say something, but pride must swallow it down because his lips purse, and he crosses his arms.

That’s the last thing Pantalone sees before he slams his door shut, rattling the frames hanging on the walls. The painted faces in the scenery look almost disapproving as Pantalone stumbles into the loft, the edges of his vision rapidly darkening as his breath comes in short and his eyes blur. His hands scramble across the table in the center of the room, searching for relief.

It comes in the form of a box of Snezhnayan cigars. He tears the fresh box entirely open, cigars dropping out onto the polished table, and frantically lights the end of it. The moments between that and Pantalone sitting by the window, calmly breathing smoke out, are blurry.

All he knows as he sits there is that he refuses to let Dottore get under his skin any more than he did. He doesn’t, he tells himself, and yet he wants nothing more than to hunt Dottore down and continue the argument. He puffs out another cloud and sighs.

He should really quit his vices.

━━━━━°•❈•°━━━━━

The first thing Pantalone notices when he peels open his eyes is the light filtering in through the darkly painted bamboo blinds on the window. The next thing he realizes is that he’s sprawled out on the couch, robes messily strewn everywhere. Oh. He’s half-dressed.

Pantalone sits up, and the third thing he registers is, Oh, Celestia, I’ve had a rough night. His head is throbbing like a storm just passed behind his eyes. He doesn’t even remember what happened between having a smoke and the hours until daylight. When he runs his fingers under his eyes, they’re puffy and swollen, and he hurriedly scrambles for the first reflective surface. 

“Celestia,” he blurts out, “I look horrid.”

Blearily, his fingers probe around the cuihua table, fumbling for the day-old cup of cold tea he’d noticed when he’d first woken up. The porcelain is chilly to the touch despite how warm the rest of the room feels, and the tea inside it is even more so. Pantalone still gulps it down regardless, parched and his throat feeling scratchy.

As soon as he composes himself to present a (somewhat) pristine, put-together image of the Ninth of the Harbingers—though it’s a masquerade he puts on for no one but himself—Pantalone rises from the couch. The blinds open, revealing that it’s late afternoon already. He lifts his arms high above his head with a grunt of effort. His back lets out a series of gruesome pops, and he drops his arms back down with a sigh of satisfaction.

Perhaps he should head back to Snezhnaya. Obviously, the Doctor does not appreciate the things Pantalone does for him—truly the ungrateful bastard. Being in Liyue is more effort than it’s worth, and all for a man who pushes him to the extremes every chance he gets. 

(Of course, Pantalone is snappish. He reacts to Dottore’s probing, and it dominoes from there.)

Sweeping back his hair with a heavy sigh, Pantalone can’t help but glance at his door as if expecting Dottore to be there with a sly grin and a convoluted apology on his lips like he always does. Expectedly, there’s no one.

But there is a crisp white paper slipped halfway under his door. Curiosity gets the better of him. 

All it says is: “I wish you health in the new year.”

He knows deep in his heart who this is without opening his door. He doesn’t need the intricate vase with the emblem of Rex Lapis painted onto it, a dragon twining around it—a symbol of prosperity and protection—to know exactly who the sender is. 

The crumpled note falls onto the floor right outside his loft, bouncing once in the carpeted hallway beside the vase Pantalone picks up before it rolls to a stop. He takes one deep, calming breath and closes the door. 

The vase shatters against the wall with a deafening crash. Pantalone can’t hear it over the outraged scream that tears out of his throat.

It’s not fair. It’s not fair that the one he’d always wanted to save him—to see him—finally does when it’s too late. Too little, too late. How dare He try to make amends when He is no one to Pantalone anymore? The audacity.

Fury is all Pantalone feels, yet it’s still sobs that wrack his body as he falls to his knees, hand clasped over his mouth in an attempt to muffle the sounds. If he can’t hear how pathetic he is, it saves him his dignity. So much for composing himself. Now all that’s left of his mask is the shattered pieces of a rejected gift and of his pride.

That’s how Dottore finds him, a few hours later. The sun is lower in the sky, casting orange rays straight into his loft. It douses Pantalone’s pristine darkness in fiery light. Dottore is unamused and unimpressed when he picks open the lock, and his boots crunch against the broken pieces of a priceless vase.

“You haven’t stepped foot out of here since I last saw you,” is Dottore’s astute observation.

Pantalone’s eyes are puffy, and his voice is hoarse, but he still has enough spleen in him to respond, “And your foot should not have been stepped in here. Why have you broken in? Haven’t you done enough?”

A shard goes skittering a few inches away as Dottore kicks his foot idly, not quite tromping around the clean floors with his boot. Pantalone reflexively reaches out for it. He scoops it into his hand and then continues picking up the next one, then the next, and the next, until there are shards with jagged edges piled in his right palm. Their edges rub dully against the raised scars on his skin, and Pantalone keeps mindlessly picking them up.

“I have,” he hears Dottore say after the long pause. It’s about as much regret Pantalone will get from him.

Then blue hair drops down to his eye level, and Dottore begins to pick up scattered pieces with his own gloved hands. Pantalone can’t help but gape. Dottore? Helping him? Surely not out of guilt, but if not that, then what?

He chooses not to push it. Sometimes, they do inexplicable things to or for each other, and they’ve learned that a peeped word about it ruins the fragile moment. It’s the little things to enjoy, Pantalone reminds himself. And caught up in his thoughts as he is, he doesn’t notice Dottore’s hands cupping around his, transferring the sharp edges in Pantalone’s palms to his gloves.

“Get up, Regrator. Have some dignity. You’re a Harbinger, not an escort—get off your knees.”

Without addressing the situation, Dottore kicks off his boots and shuffles over to the bin, where he dusts the broken pieces off his hands. Then, he reaches into his coat pocket and produces two envelopes from the furs. Even with a mask covering his face, Pantalone can see the glint in his eyes. It’s the one that he has only ever been able to describe as pride. Smugness, even. So he waits to hear what Dottore has in store for them.

Dottore delivers: “A letter of invitation.”

Pantalone narrows his eyes. “What for?”

All he gets in response is a sealed envelope pressed to his chest and a cryptic smile, half hidden behind his mask. “I will see you there at eight.” He’s there one second, and gone with the wind the next, leaving the door wide open behind him.

Esteemed Guest, is all the front of the envelope says.

His heart skips a beat. He knows what this is, but he can’t believe Dottore got one. Two. For both of them. It’s…

Dottore listens.

Pantalone doesn’t know why he ever doubted him.

He rubs at his eyes and places the unopened envelope gingerly on the tabletop where he trusts that it’ll be safe. The rest of the hour flies by as he cleans up and gets dressed to go. And it lingers sourly, but he thinks reluctantly that, perhaps, he had always been seeking the wrong person’s approval. 

For what has an untouchable god given him but thoughtless placation, while a flawed man, his preciously guarded childhood dreams?

━━━━━°•❈•°━━━━━

Fire-lit lanterns hang from the masts, and the Pearl Galley glows faintly like a firefly in Liyue’s far waters. Rich businessmen and women alike pass around drinks, laughing and shouting at each other. The clattering of dice on tables echoes across the deck. A mix of emotions hangs in the air, and it’s almost too much for Pantalone to take in all at once.

He can see Dottore eyeing him watchfully from the corners of his eyes. Then, someone flips open their fan and laughs, and Pantalone’s attention slips back to the Pearl Galley’s exuberance. Jewels hang from the exotic flowers draped on the arms of men. Pantalone had once been one of them, just for less… fortunate circumstances. Here, the escorts don’t look mistreated. They’re beautiful like precious treasures. Pantalone finds that he isn’t envious, even when they pick a glass off of a passing tray, tilt it to their customer’s lips, and smile impishly.

It feels unreal to be here. He never thought he’d make it. It’s a hopeless dream come true.

There’s suddenly a hand pressed to the small of his back. Normally, he’d jump, but he recognized Dottore’s presence. He can’t decide if it’s a grounding or stressful one.

“Are you going to stand here until barnacles attach to your feet?”

Pantalone doesn’t have the words to answer him. He doesn’t even know how to feel. There’s resentment and a tinge of hatred that always simmer in his chest when he thinks of Dottore. There is also the overwhelming, suffocating feeling of such deep-rooted affection that he doesn’t want to address. Right now, though? He thinks he might feel grateful.

Wordlessly, Pantalone takes the first step toward his childhood fantasy. 

The noise immediately drowns out all other thoughts. He gets swept away by the bustling ship before he can check that Dottore is following. Colourful and heavy drinks are handed to him one after the other, and he throws them all back with relative ease. Then, someone sits him down first in a plush chair at the end of a long table, and ivory tiles are dealt out. Mora clinks and clatters. Smoke curls in plumes above the table, a pipe passed around from hand to hand, mouth to mouth.

He’s not sure how long he actually sits there. People call out excitedly. Coins get shifted around the table. Groans erupt from a winning sequence. 

“Damn, cheater!”

Pantalone reveals his hand, crowing his fourth—or is it his sixth?—victory. He takes a pipe from someone beside him, inhales deeply, and sighs with a satisfied smile. “Do not claim that which you cannot prove.”

Golden coins spill between his hands as he claims his win. A dainty flower drags her hands along Pantalone’s jawline, and he leans in with fluttering eyes. She plucks the pipe from his mouth and takes a hit—or rather, pretends to, as she is meant to—before she passes it to the next greedy hands yearning for her attention. Pantalone cups her face and leans in, but she suddenly startles back. She titters politely, then slinks off elegantly to entertain another guest. Normally, Pantalone would feel disappointed at the rejection, but the cloud he floats on is far too high for him to give it any more attention than a mere shrug. 

A heavy presence makes itself known beside Pantalone. A small, cold cup is slotted into his gloved hand. “Shots.”

“Must you scare off the entertainment?”

Tilting his head to the side, half paying attention to the new game that has started at the table again, he finds Dottore giving him a miffed look. Still, The Doctor holds up his own cup. Alcohol sloshes over the sides into the other’s cup when they tap their glasses together in a dazed cheer.

It burns Pantalone’s throat on the way down, pleasant and invigorating.

“Dottore—” he begins. Dottore leans in to hear him better, but, all of a sudden, he’s almost nose to nose with Pantalone, his arm propped up around the back of the chair. Pantalone forgets what he was going to say.

“Yes?”

He gulps and prays the action goes unnoticed. Blindly, he reaches over to his pile of winnings and raises one of the coins to Dottore’s eyes. “Why don’t you try to gamble a little? Put that lying tongue to use?”

The grin he receives in return is wicked, as always. “No. I think you suit such an activity much better than I. Consider me an observer for tonight.”

Which Pantalone knows is his way of saying, This is your night.

He presses the coin into Dottore’s palm. “If you insist.”

That’s his only moment of lucidity. Pantalone turns his attention away, and the Pearl Galley’s warm ambiance and drunken haze envelop him again. Dottore disappears into the background. Women drag the visitors into the belly of the ship, mora gets tossed across tables, and greed and gluttony make themselves the norm upon the polished deck.

Pantalone loses himself in the decadence of his dreams once more.

The night breeze sweeping from Guyun Stone Forest is refreshing against Pantalone’s burning cheeks.

He feels buzzed and alive at the same time, courtesy of the plethora of substances coursing through his veins. The chill is sobering but not yet uncomfortable. It’s quieter up at the back of the ship, behind the cabin. Down below, Pantalone can see the wake left by the boat peacefully cutting through the waters. He stands there quietly until he hears boots clunking on the wood.

“Excuse this stranger interrupting your quiet time.”

Cheeky bastard.

Pantalone turns to find Dottore standing with his hands crossed behind him. “I don’t suppose I can tell this stranger to leave me be?”

“No, you cannot.” Dottore breathes out sharply. To anyone else, it would’ve sounded like a scoff. To Pantalone, his chest twists at the knowledge that Dottore has found him amusing. “I take it you’ve been enjoying yourself?”

“... It’s alright.” Pantalone crosses his arms. “No more different than Snezhnaya’s parties.”

Dottore gives him a searching look. 

He’s always hated how those eyes make him feel raw and vulnerable like they’re unzipping him and seeing him for who he truly is. It’s terrifying to be known. 

“Did you ever see yourself in a place like this when you were a child?” he suddenly asks.

It catches Pantalone off guard. Dottore is not a sentimental man. Why the sudden reminiscence? Pantalone indulges him either way. “Not truly. I imagined myself here in the way one would imagine themself an Adeptus. Simply that: imagination. It was a far-fetched dream to me, and… I suppose, when I finally gained the means to make dreams a reality, I didn’t think of this first.”

Dottore nods once. It’s curt, but Pantalone knows he’s listening. “I didn’t think I’d survive this long, honestly,” he confesses. His voice is stable, but his gaze is distant as though caught in a past Pantalone can’t even begin to fathom. “I never imagined I’d ever reach adulthood. Definitely not… whatever stage I’m at now.”

“Yeah.”

It’s not the most eloquent thing Pantalone could’ve said, but it’s the reality of it. He has no words, only a deep understanding of Dottore’s words. 

“But look at us now,” Dottore says.

Pantalone allows himself a cracked smile. “Look at us now.”

Suddenly, everything feels too real. The fog lifts, his mind clears, and Dottore is so sincerely in front of him that Pantalone has to turn away and lean against the railing before what he feels nauseates him. The waves whoosh against the sides of the ship. In the distance, the moon glistens off the rippling water, an ever-grounding presence. That, at least, is one thing that has never changed.

“Regrator.” Footsteps come closer, and Dottore leans against the railing as well. They stand elbow to elbow, but neither move. Pantalone looks over. “That’s why I called you here. Not to tear into each other. This was a gift to you. From Dottore.”

“Not Zandik?”

Dottore scans his face, though his expression is hard to read beneath his mask. Finally, he gives a small shrug. “It wouldn’t have been a gift from me.”

And Pantalone understands. He understands what it’s like to have shed his old skin and left it behind in a past he treats like a locked chest. The young man who left Liyue is no longer him, and he knows that Dottore, too, is no longer who some might consider the “real” him.

There is nothing more real than who one chooses to be.

Two small words hang off the tip of his tongue, but his pride strangles them. Pantalone stays quiet. 

As they have hundreds of times before, Pantalone and Dottore stand side by side, silent and motionless. The wind and water speak for them, filling the air between them with ambient sweet nothings. They have so much to tell each other. They say none of it.

Then, a loud laugh from the deck shatters the moment. It takes only a second for the silence to dissipate. 

This time, it’s Dottore who speaks. “I always wondered what the Zubayr Theatre performs during holidays.”

Pantalone scoffs. Still, he presses infinitesimally closer, a silent promise. This time, it’s Pantalone who listens. “Well, perhaps next year, I’ll have a mission in Sumeru.”