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"So, not even a single one was spared"
It wasn't a question, but a fact in the face of bittersweet truth. Of course, the Regrator has never been one for questions, always preferring to go over the facts, pry them open like Dottore himself would with his specimens. Bared open and writhing, ins and outs and pros and cons.
"None of them, if the deafening silence within the lab is anything to go by"
Dottore said; swirling the smooth, dark wine over and over in the cold glass. He already checked the once cluttered lab, several floors under their feet and left in total disrepair for him to clean up someday, presumably not today. Really, wiping the entire existence of his segments from the face of Teyvat had been rather curt, even cruel considering the benevolent disposition and childish appearance of the Dendro Archon.
Pantalone hummed in acknowledgement.
"A shame indeed. I quite liked the lot of them"
Maybe not just quite, for Dottore reckoned how his segments used to talk wonders of the Regrator. Deep down he knows better than anyone how horribly lonely of a man Pantalone could be; his segments kept him company from time to time even if for the sake of being bother.
Dottore himself hadn't time to spare and entertain the other with his presence. Today though found them lying on the - already aged - cushions of expensive embroidery lining the couch of the Regrator's office. The man in question had work to do, but the moment Dottore showed up and kicked open the cabinet to his private collection of marble wine, everything else could have been either discarded or entirely forgotten altogether for the sake of listening in lieu of the doctor's grandiose crusade back at Sumeru, the land who once shunned him like his own homeland and all the others that followed save for Snezhnaya.
No work and no worries about the goddamm lab in shambles. Tonight is for drinking and boasting, and alcohol on a light head tastes better with a friend; or that's what dumbfolk at Montstdat tend to say.
Although, Dottore always found it rather funny; the way Pantalone would fold his legs to lie on his knees atop the couch seat, shoes discarded for they were no good to his aching toes. Not an oddity considering that's the usual custom at Liyue, yet Snezhnayan furniture wasn't exactly built for that sort of fashion.
Still, if he found it comfy and less straining for his limbs, then so be it.
He drank the entire glass in one go, Pantalone still eyeing his own with something indescribable and foreign. Maybe pity, probably so.
"Not a loss, considering that I've got enough samples to rebuild them all, but it'll take some time. Incubation needs a few months and enough resources to go by"
"And by resources you mean the funding I'm supposed to provide, if I'm not mistaken"
Dottore rolled his eyes under his mask. Come on, the man talked as if he came here exclusively to ask (demand) for Mora he's supposed to be owed due his title as the second.
Yeah, part of his purpose was exactly to enact his privilege and snatch a good triple amount of the usual funding he was granted- but Pantalone made it sound like Dottore was the greedy bastard out of the two.
"You're not" he responded easily, though sensed no irritation and no protest from the other.
Lone was actually mourning his segments, wasn't he? Even more than their own creator. No use crying over spilled milk though.
"That aside, you seem to be doing rather well as of late"
He eyed the Regrator rather cautiously, trying to divert the subject through a long lost tangent.
In the end, the primary purpose of his visit wasn't that of fetching a raise but to check on his colleague's health and the physical prowess of his chronic pain. Though nothing seemed to have particularly worsened during his stay at Sumeru.
"How are you feeling right about now? No hemorrhages these past few weeks?"
Under his mask, his eyes already scanned every possible mishap. Pantalone had never been too fond of Snezhnaya's cold and it honestly made his aching limbs worse for wear, but with the fireplace cracking quietly there wasn't that much of a hassle. His posture was rather stiff, though. Dottore already noticed a few new strands of platinum hair cascading down his shoulder, and the carefully covered dark circles under his eyes.
Difficulty to sleep due back aches, and probably cramps stiffening his fingers and toes as well. Stress and discomfort quickening obvious signs of age. But no hemorrhages, hopefully none of that.
Pantalone sensed his gaze, but made no comment on it. They both had this silent agreement, in which the Regrator was very aware that this is the doctor's weird manner of expressing concern.
"Well, my legs don't ache the same way they used to, which is good. But there are some days when I feel under the weather, as if I had little to no energy to stand properly"
"And that's where the cane comes into play, I presume"
Almost on reflex, both pair of eyes landed on the artisan crafted cane stationed beside the Regrator's Main cinderwood desk, the same way you would tuck a folded umbrella.
"A certain assumption. I reckoned you might notice it"
Pantalone smiled briefly, the same way he would with his clients. The same way he would deceive the entire world. The same way he's never been able to deceive Dottore. They're far more familiar with each other than that.
"Your observation skills are very polished, I must say. Even for one who hides behind such a hideous mask"
"Tactical advantage above measly fashion, Regrator. You've always had an odd prejudice against my mask"
The raven's silver eyes fixated on him. A warning? No, that's the gaze of someone who's reviewed the same petty subject over and over.
"Perhaps it's because I feel like you're hiding something"
"If I wanted to hide something from you I would leave it on plain sight, under your peripherals. With that terrible eyesight of yours, odds are that you might not even realize-"
Dottore didn't even notice when the Regrator's fingers wrapped around the crevice of his mask, pulling it apart only for it to collide softly with the soft fabric of his own lap. Like this, the orange dream-fire set ablaze the office with warm hues; Light bouncing off the glassy and gold indentations of the chandelier above their heads, and the polished marble tiles under their feet. Yellow and tender dancing along and casting an ominous light and shade on Pantalone, whose glasses reflected flames like molted gold and his entire figure shone as if enlightened by Brockenspengent.
He was beautiful. The obvious signs of age rather bittersweet like the wine he drank just now, yet enjoyable all the same.
"Am I that foreign to you?"
The banker asked, drinking in the mildly annoyed expression Dottore regarded him with no qualms.
It's not like the second taking off the mask was anything new nor spectacular, but Pantalone sort of deserved that privilege if one's to consider the blatant rudeness to disturb the reports and letters he had been signing off before the doctor came along. Pierro would have his ass for it, but that's something for future Pantalone to deal with.
"Besotted with my eyes, aren't you? I bet you're jealous since yours are outright useless"
Shark teeth pulled into one of these grins that did wonders on Pantalone's decaying sanity. Sometimes he asked himself why he put up with this maniac in the first place.
"Don't flatter yourself, dear. I personally think we're far more familiar than hiding behind a paltry mask"
"Fair enough"
In all honesty, Dottore had no reason to complain and no real problem with the Regrator seeing his scars on full display. But would it hurt him to just say please for once on his greedy bash of a career?
Answer is that they're far more familiar than that.
It's also familiar, the healthy dose of silence that followed. Not uncomfortable, per se; but undoubtedly more welcomed than the lifeless silence littering his lab like an ice cube bottled into the Tsaritsa's fridge. The Regrator was good at both speaking and listening, deconstructing arguments and laying bases; but he knows how to bite what he can swallow and nothing else. A sensible man that can bend to logic is something they needed about in their ranks, as Tartaglia was enough of unexpected surprises as they could possibly handle.
The man listened. Dottore spoke. They understood each other and reached an agreement eventually; what costs Pantalone a fortune makes up on glory for the Tsaritsa with the doctor's successful experiments. Their achievements were shared, in a way. A form of partnership, and probably the only one Dottore's ever had.
He still remembers, Pantalone's glistening platinum eyes the moment he was handed his delusion. Like a child being served candy on a silver platter, and surely Pantalone himself felt like one with the surge of excitement being enough to drown out the doctor's voice as he prattled about on what to do and what to avoid.
It was cute, to see him excited like that. The doctor could almost swear he was the only one allowed to see this side of the Regrator. He wondered what he ever did to gain that level of trust.
The first time he was sent to the medical wing, Dottore had laughed so hard he almost choked on his own spit. Nothing too serious, but Pantalone passing out from exhaustion after using his delusion carelessly for a particularly long expanse of three hours and half; had been as unsightly as it gets for the picture perfect Regrator in the flesh. There was also a bruise on his side that Dottore might or might not have pressed too hard just to draw a reaction from the ninth.
It ended with his mask being slapped away from his face. He kind of deserved it, in all honesty.
The second time Dottore met him at the medical wing, he had to stitch up several minor wounds that bleed a cascade for some uncanny reason. Apparently his delusion's most prominent side effect took in the shape to corrupt his bodily functions and most primarily his blood; thus his body rejected the defiled liquid in the form of particularly strong hemorrhages. Concerning at best and troubling in the long run, Dottore settled into considering a new model for a future delusion system, which would come in handy for the soldiers and for the ninth, given how he was the only endangered victim among the high ranks.
Such a frail man, Pantalone could be even when he's by no means weak. The Regrator's ire is not a matter to be trifled with, even when he's considerably less terrifying than Tartaglia's foul legacy form or Dottore's arsenal of former copies of himself. Shall they rest in peace. Or not. Fuck you, Dendro Archon lesser shitty Lord.
The third time Dottore found him in the medical wing, could only be described as an absolute nightmare.
The blood cascaded and pooled on the floor surrounding his bed, flowing free from his chapped lips and nose, his ears as well and several other crevices Dottore wouldn't dare say.
The once beautiful Regrator, now nothing but shambles of the man he used to be.
If it were anyone else, Dottore would feel sort of a morbid glee, being the catalyst of the tragedy behind their onset of demise. Any other day, Pantalone and him would joke about which one of them is gonna die first while serving her majesty.
But back then, Dottore felt nothing but a sudden nausea and a particularly gut-wrenching feeling he could not identify.
Fear. He feared his friend wouldn't survive this once, feared that he wouldn't make it out through the next twenty four hours as the treatment was carried out, delivered by the hand of the doctor himself and his segments.
For some reason, the Visage that stuck with him the most was when the banker opened his eyes briefly. Without his own bodily consent, he began crying that defiled blood in thick streams like a faucet being opened and refusing to ever be closed, his schleras and those beautiful silver eyes tainted red and lifeless. There's never been that much blood on Dottore's hands.
Figuratively, of course. In the end it was him who gave Pantalone that delusion. It was him who encouraged his friend to make use of it. It was him who would be the one to blame if the banker died.
It is him, the only one who would mourn for the Regrator's dead.
Dottore remembered taking Pantalone's hand and muttering- a reassurance? Words of comfort? He couldn't recall, that moment was one for panic and professionalism to mix together into an incomprehensible concoction. Hands moved in pure muscle memory and his segments pacing about in already rehearsed theatrics. Dottore hated to think that he might have lied, telling the Regrator that this would pass and everything would be fine and dandy after they put an end to the treatment.
That's right. Now he remembers what it is that he mumbled, only for the dying man to hear.
Dottore remembers his own voice, strained with exhaustion, drowned out into the pitch-black abyss of his own throat, where words wheezed out of the choke hold the illogical fear had on him. Almost like an snake wrapping it's slippery foreskin around his trachea, sinking it's teeth into several words unsaid.
He told the Regrator that if he died, he would never forgive him or himself, either. And it was nothing but the bitterness of truth among all the lies and falsehoods parading around the banker's usual journey.
Not so fun of a fact that came to mind back during that nightmarish day, how the doctor recalled having read (snooped) into the medical records, and dully noted that Pantalone and him shared the same blood type. AB -- he once joked about their blood being the reason they were kind of a match made in hell by the devil itself, or the Tsaritsa in this case.
But there was no laugh from the raven. Apparently having such a rare type of blood had him almost death by blood loss several times in the past, the only person capable of giving him a transfusion being his estranged brother. The doctor tried to shrug it off and diver the subject elsewhere, trying to avoid the can of worms he just opened.
However, that info came in handy when Dottore riped his own sleeve and all but forced the needle into the protruding vein under his segments' surprised gaze. In the end, they all shared his own blood but it had been replaced and bio engineered so many times, it could very well end up being rejected by the dying man's body at best, or outright poison him into a certain death at worst.
But the prime, the original still required his own birth blood to function properly. As inhumane as he may be, he still needs to keep his heart beating in tandem with the ever changing compass of his experiments. If Dottore received a transfusion from his segments his body may accept it gladly, assimilating the cells as they were meant to be housed by one with his very same body faculties. He had tampered with his own body so much he would be able to take the blood loss, but Pantalone still needs fresh and raw blood to make it through the process.
Wherever Pantalone's unknown brother might be, if he didn't care enough to be by the man's side, then Dottore will. If he had to give up on his blood, that's okay too. If he needed to harvest organs then that's nothing new to him anyways.
In the end, they both had been shunned and unwanted once upon a time. Zandik, the madman shunned from the Akademiya and the poor nameless destitute wandering through Liyue's dark corners and alleyways.
Truly, a match made in hell that Celestia tried to sever. But Dottore is anything if not goal oriented.
And if no one cared enough to save the Regrator, then Dottore will. Even if for the sake of proving his own worth as a doctor without a degree.
(Or that's what he boasted in front of his colleagues. Reality speaks volumes of how pissed he would be if Celestia snatched away his sole friend.
He already dug up both their Graves in the Tsaritsa's frozen Cocytus, and it would be a waste to have Pantalone going first when hell is waiting for them so eagerly)
It was rather funny, to recall the Regrator's words back when he finally awoke. After the whole ordeal had been dealt with and there wasn't a looming threat hanging over their heads.
(The doctor creased his brows, blood red eyes squinting through the sudden brightness of the hospital room. These past few days he had ordered for absolute stillness and dimness as a safety measure to keep the room sterile. After all, there were a few wounds that needed to heal lest they'll get infected, as viruses feed on the little warmth light brings the same way any living organism would, thus keeping it cold and relatively dark would stunt their growth and save the doctor new headaches.
But the doctor wasn't in a particularly good shape today, taking in his fussy head and the icy chill clinging to his bones after the goddamn transfusion. His hands trembled and ached from exhaustion and blood loss, his body literally sank into the chair he's been leaning on ever since the Regrator was brought in that damn hospital bed. The mattress was ruined and the smell of blood and disinfectant itched in the back of his throat, yet Pantalone barely noticed it. Not a surprise, considering he'll be tasting and smelling blood for a few days as it leaked out of his every orifice.
Right now though, he regarded Dottore with that usually collected smile. Even when the doctor noticed his obvious discomfort and scrunched nose when he realized that his luscious locks of raven hair were drenched in Crimson.
"What the hell...?" the bluenette muttered, hands coming to massage his temples, thinking he might have misheard.
"Our blood has been mixed together, doctor. I guess that makes us sworn brothers now...?"
He tilted his head to one side, almost in an obvious mockery of innocence. Blood brothers, sworn brothers or whatever they were called- Dottore had no idea nor interest in finding out. He just shook his head, groaning at the clear amusement the Regrator showed, kind of disregarding their current sorry state- himself bedridden and weak, with obvious symptoms that would draw sequels of his multiple hemorrhages later on, and Dottore exhausted beyond words, almost completely emptied of blood and filled in again in quick succession, alive and awake on the sole account of caffeine and adrenaline-
But they were alive and would be okay. Apparently, Pantalone was trying to grasp the bright side of the whole situation, and tease Dottore because it was more than obvious how much of a mess he had been while trying to keep his colleague alive.
Dottore sighed, pushing his unruly minty hair out of his face and rubbing his tired eyes.
"Shut the fuck up, Regrator"
But he would be lying if he said that hearing the banker's voice wasn't a sweet relief)
Now that he though about it thoroughly, and somehow managed to recall the flabbergasted meaning behind the paltry concept of "Sworn brothers" and such; maybe that's sorta what they are. In the end, Dottore wouldn't find it on himself to regret his decisions that day. Even when he felt nauseous every time Pantalone would wear red garments, as they brought back unpleasant memories.
Yeah, it's also true that Dottore almost strangled Pantalone after he came out of the medical wing. The bastard deserved it for disobeying his warnings, and as the second harbinger he (for once in a lifetime) had to fill in his role and give the raven an Stern telling off for being a careless idiot. Really, he kind of cursed the man and his predecessors and his non existent descendants for his foolery.
He insulted Pantalone for making him fear. For almost dying with Dottore on watch; the sudden dread of helplessness toying with the grinding gears of his brain.
The doctor hated him for that. Hated himself for growing attached.
Hated the sequels that followed. Hated watching his once youthful friend walking with a cane. Hated every time Pantalone moaned softly because of a new pain, strained by the cold. Hated watching him dwindle and break from overworking himself.
He hated being the reason for it all. Regretted giving him that delusion. Regretted not having foreseen this happening.
The hemorrhages didn't stop there. Sometimes Pantalone woke up crying blood (and relinquished in the fact that it was the doctor's blood) or coughing blood. The chronic pains made his limbs sore and his body ten times more frail than it had been. Dottore forbade him from using his delusion again, but knew perfectly well that it was a matter of time for that rule to be discarded in favor of self defense. Dottore's aching sanity feared for that day to come.
He might not be able to take the stress of seeing Pantalone in such a sorry state. Not ever again.
(A part of himself still though, that seeing Pantalone so weak wasn't that unexpected. Dottore had stunted his own cell aging process sometime ago, yet the Regrator was still completely human. Frail and vulnerable, he would age and pass away eventually like any other man.
That same part of the doctor seemed to be in peace with that fact. He pictured the Regrator aging slowly; hair fading into platinum silver like his eyes, pale skin bleached white and his back slightly hunched after spending so many hours boxed into his office, sore eyes reviewing documents and frail bones creaking in protest.
It wouldn't make him any less beautiful, though.
Still, knowing the Regrator he would carry himself with dignity and elegance, walking slowly with a dignified pose and leaning on his cane ever so slightly. Dottore would keep himself as he actually is, for science requires time to make a breakthrough and he already devoted his life to become the first earthly born God-maker of their age.
Yet he found that he wouldn't mind that future. Offering his arm to help Pantalone support his lithe frame, checking on his health every day, becoming his eyes once he goes completely blind.
After all, the Regrator has always been the only one to believe in his genius and show genuine faith on his projects. The only one to call him by his real name, the only one to witness the doctor's frustrated tears whenever failure got the best of him. The only one to reach out a hand to him.
It was only logical for Dottore to return the favor, as equivalent exchange demands.
But he saved that for the years to come. Yet, the chronic pains and sequels of the delusion usage were getting the best of Pantalone. What if he suffers a heart attack and dies all of the sudden? What if Dottore isn't even there to prevent it all? There were no segments to help him out, and it would take a long while to build more.
The several "what if's" had been killing him inside, every moment they spent together and every gaze into his friend's feeble constitution; it felt like the sand of their clock was running thin and scattering into the wind, never to be grasped by human hands)
But that's water under the bridge. No sacrifice goes without reward, and by getting the electro and Dendro Gnoses he would be able to improve and further his theories to make a new delusion model. One that would invigorate instead of stunt the physical prowess. He already made several advances thanks to the geo gnosis, as they all quite literally count as the crescendo of a vision and it's greatest expression altogether.
The doctor shook his thoughts slightly, feeling the raven's head collide softly with his shoulder. No way, was he asleep?
"Get off of me. If you want to sleep, go back to your chambers"
He hissed softly, but made no attempt to push the sleepy Regrator off his shoulder. For his part, the banker cooed quietly and made a feeble attempt to move- just in order to try and get comfortable, or so it seems.
"...Too tired. Be of some use and keep it quiet while I take a short nap..."
Dottore sighed. Sometimes he truly hated this man, but the sentiment was potentially shared. After all the banker seemed to prefer him as a living pillow.
And as such, he let his own head fall atop the Regrator's, minty blue hair tangling with the raven and platinum luscious locks. Boy, what a way to spend the night.
But probably the best one he's had in a long, long while.
...
"It is as her majesty wills it. You shall be patient for the time being"
Pierro shook his head grimly, shadows of the icy columns casting an ominous darkness obscuring his half mask. There's this air of impending doom about his words, colliding with Dottore like a bag of bricks.
"No way" Dottore hissed. Respecting the rank be damned; His ire was boiling over to the point he could barely feel the frostbite clinging to his fingers.
"She said I would be allowed the gnoses for research purposes in the meantime. you can't simply tell me that she changed her mind all of the sudden!"
Pierro had to be fucking with him. There's no way the Tsaritsa suddenly backtracked her own words, after all she promised him that he would be allowed the collected gnoses in order to improve the quality of the delusions. It was to her benefit after all, a less dangerous delusion model would save the lives of dozen and hundred expendable soldiers. It also guaranteed a prolonged use of Tartaglia's foul legacy form without the usual strain to his health in the long run; and it's never been too much of a secret that she's always had a soft spot for the eleventh.
Then, why? Pierro had no reason to lie, in all honesty. So, why? As if sensing his question, Pierro spoke again; the tiredness never leaving his somber tone.
"You surely recall her distress, back when the former balladeer had the audacity to betray her benevolence"
"So what? He was dealt with and I brought back the gnoses"
"And along with you, the imminent threat of the heavenly principles awakening before her majesty has achieved her current goal"
Couldn't Pierro say something relatively new? He already reviewed everything he's going on and about right now. Complete and utter bullshit.
"Are you implying that I might just take the Gnoses and make a run for it?"
Dottore scoffed, crossing his arms.
"If I wanted to do that, I would have done so already and we both know it. My loyalties have never wavered, so where's this lack of faith coming from?"
The fucking disrespect. From him to Pierro and from Pierro to him, his rank was still the second yet Dottore was pretty sure he already garnered enough trust from her majesty. He deserved this privilege and the jester was suddenly trying to take it away from him? No fucking way.
"That's not what I'm implying, Dottore. And we both know it" his own words echoed from Pierro's mouth.
"But as you already know, we're down two members and hanging on a prominent threat. It's on her best choice to prevent you from tampering with the Gnoses for the time being"
"I wasn't going to tamper-"
"We can't chance the risk and pray for luck to be on our side. You'll be allowed to conduct your research for the improvement of the delusions, but all in due time"
Dottore groaned, his voice echoing through frozen walls and bouncing of the fractal chain holding the glistening chandelier above their heads.
It's so fucking unfair. The Tsaritsa could be his God but she and Pierro could be a pair of assholes when the time called for it. This was the pinnacle of the delusion development, and they wanted him to wait? It's always the same with them, wait for this or that. Lay low, give up on your fucking segments for the Gnosis but oh wait, you can't "tamper" with them, that's dangerous and bullshit. She promised him, she promised him while looking into his Scarlett eyes.
"You can't do this" the doctor pointed an angry, accusatory finger at the jester.
"I delivered my part, I brought both Gnoses just as she ordered me to. I killed my fucking segments for this sole purpose, you can't simply decide whatever you think is the best and leave me in the dark about matters that concern my research!"
"I can and I will" Pierro's voice was absolute, and terrifying on its timbre but Dottore wasn't afraid. Not anymore, he's far pass that stage already.
It's almost as if they were toying with him. Dottore wondered if that's how Tartaglia felt, courtesy of poor dear Rosalyne. But no way in hell he's letting himself be roped into Pierro's chess piece; he acquiesced to being one for the Tsaritsa, but that was on his own terms and this is exceeding the limits of his patience.
Pierro couldn't treat him like this. Where's his rank? Where's his merit? They couldn't possibly use him with no reward and hell to pay, they couldn't treat him like Tartaglia!
"Listen, Dottore-"
"No, you listen" there was that feeling again. That feeling of an snake wrapping around his throat, swallowing every word unsaid and spitting venom like bile rising out of anger.
But he couldn't care less, even when it threatened to seize his lungs. If he didn't spit it out right now, he would choke on the bitterness of truth then and there.
"You just said it. We're down two harbingers already, and if Rosalyne went down first who'll be the next? You? Or Capitano? Or maybe Childe? If I'm unable to refine the current model of delusions, they'll end up taking more lives than they're worth! I can't merely sit down and do nothing while-"
For a moment there, his voice didn't sound like his own anymore. It wavered, about to snap in a half and sounded rather distant. Almost as if he were listening to one of his segments, yet Dottore knew better than anyone that it wasn't possible.
"-The Regrator"
If felt like a dam finally broke within him, his own self restraint shattering into scattered pieces of his own conscious. No more holding back what they already knew.
"My one and only friend is dying, and you want me to just stand back and let it happen?!"
The venom he contained broke lose with those words, and Dottore's never been this grateful that his mask obscured his upper face, lest Pierro would see the bitter, frustrated tears that stung on his eyes and clung to his lashes.
A single look at Pierro's visible eye told him that he already knew. Another look revealed that he didn't care enough to bother himself with the laments of a dying man.
"It is as her majesty wills it"
...
The metallic echo of his mask meeting the hard wood bounced and ricocheted back to the doctor, the stillness of the lab like that of a frozen mausoleum. Corpses nowhere to be found, but their voices dug up into the back of his skull like the endless tick tick tick of clockwork, forming a cacophony he'd rather not listen any longer.
It hurt. His head fucking hurt. His exhaustion was bone deep and caved into his limbs sorely. Yet, he couldn't think about simply laying low right now. Segments don't make themselves after all; well- maybe they could, but he needed at least another pair of hands for that and his own were currently too busy burying into his scalp.
The worst part being that the tiredness was both mental and physical; Dottore had tried to focus on the DNA samples to no avail, in this state he'd probably fuck up whatever advance he has garnered in the past few hours.
But he had no desire to just go limp then and there. Usually, whenever the doctor found himself in this state he would venture uninvited into the Regrator's office and get drunk on whatever he could get his hands on. The man always complained like a drama queen but made no attempt to kick him out altogether.
It would usually end up with Dottore sleeping on the couch. Come morning, he would wake up to a blanket over his body and a pillow under his head. Pantalone even had the gall to remove his mask while he slept.
It was almost domestic. Somewhat nice, if one's to ignore the foreign feeling to have a place return to, aside from his lab. Guess that's why the likes of Tartaglia and Columbina and even Pulcinella complained that they were kinda like an old married couple, with their usual arguments and such.
A part of him realized that he wouldn't mind following that routine in the years to come. He hated that he hoped for it to stay that way.
That hope hurt more than anything else.
This was supposed to be his victory. The Tsaritsa was pleased with the outcome, he gathered both gnoses in one go. Then why didn't it feel like one? Hell, it wasn't even bittersweet anymore; for there's no sweetness to be found in this wretched helplessness.
He wondered if this is what hell is truly made of, of fear and helplessness. Despair and agony be damned, physical pain would be ten times better than this.
In the end it was almost as if he were back at the start of his fucked up career, with no segments to help him and too many projects in the long run to actually make sense of it all.
Maybe it was a victory after all, but not really his own as he practically lost everything he took for granted. His segments, his projects, and his only friend and sworn brother would soon follow right after.
It was unfair. Both for him and the Regrator, the man had dreams and ambitions that were on his way to be fulfilled, Northland Bank was doing better than ever; they would soon become the pinnacle of Teyvat, the heart pumping money through the entire world-
It hurt even more than hope, to think that Pantalone might not live long enough to see his dreams realized. Dottore almost feel nauseous, but there was nothing but bile to spit out and draw back.
This should have been a victory. Instead, it became the biggest loss he's ever faced until now.
If Pantalone died, there would be no more comfort in routine, no more drinking and complaining about their coworkers, no more shared achievements and no more worries about the delusions killing somebody. Nobody else truly mattered aside from him.
If Pantalone died, there would be no home for him to return to.
Just the cold stillness of his lab.
Dottore tried to take a deep breath, yet the frigid air punctured his lungs in a cruel mimicry of internal acupuncture; his fingers felt stiff with frostbite already but he couldn't care less. The very same snake from before wrapped around his windpipe, venom stinging his eyes and the whirring loud static of its hiss filled his ears, numbing his every sense.
He was falling apart, wasn't he? It hasn't happened in a long, long time. Last time it took the Regrator to press a wet rag to his forehead and tuck him into his chambers. Back then, Dottore was still fully organic and vulnerable; a plain fever turning his brain to mush and delirium to surge in and out of his thoughts in the shape of incoherent gibberish.
But Pantalone stayed and made sure he was okay, checking on his temperature so his fever wouldn't boil over his brain inside his skull.
That's what a home is made of, isn't it? Being taken care of without asking for anything in return. It felt like returning to a home he's never had before, a home he never asked for but cherished all the same. And somewhere, somewhen his segments also learned this as well, for many of them stopped being so rash and careless. One must presume that Pantalone had been trying to teach them a few things during Dottore's absence.
They were his home as well, the odd familiarity Dottore's grown used to. Without them, the lab was more of an ice cube than an actual lab. Lacking even his own voice.
And thinking about it once again forced a pathetic sob out of his throat. There's nobody to hear him anyways, his segments long gone for seemingly no purpose at all. He missed their chit chat and their immaturity, their discrepancies and idiosyncrasies as a part of himself as well. Brick by brick, his own home was falling apart and there's nothing he can do for he's crumbling as well.
This was unacceptable. Utterly stupid, unnecessary and pathetic, but- if he doesn't break now, he'll break during the Regrator's funeral; somewhere in the not so distant future. Although he would never give two shits about what his stupid coworkers had to say, he'd rather not disgrace himself even further by showing weakness, fruit of his own helplessness.
His hands, bared from his gloves and previously buried into his scalp finally fell limp atop the work bench, mask long forgotten. Dottore hadn't even noticed that he was trembling; of cold? Rage? Fear? Whatever it was wouldn't stop anytime soon as the ugly sobs finally, finally escaped him into a morbid echo.
"...Shit"
Before he could notice, there was that venom again but this time around it streamed down his cheeks. Taking the shape of angered tears and pathetic hiccups.
"-Shit, Shit, Shit, SHIT-"
Dottore felt like he could barely breathe. Almost as if underwater, he was drowning into his own tears. Yet the dam had finally broken, and there's no fixing it right now. It was almost funny, for he's been wondering for quite some time if he still had the ability to cry.
So, he wept like he's never done before. Out of his own weakness, his own humanity and this never ending feeling of helplessness. He tried to convince himself that it was cathartic, mere biology acting upon his barely human body and the visceral response to his current loss.
This should have been a victory, really it was supposed to be one.
But instead, ended up being his biggest defeat.