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A perpetual motion machine. A concept yet lost after Khaheri'ah's grandiose demise upon the soil of Teyvat.
With their downfall, a considerable amount of alien knowledge became unattainable, non existent, forbidden for humanity as a whole for no other reason than the Gods' folly. Their privilege only extending to those chosen among the crowds to enact divine rights. Whatever it is that such a notion conveyed.
However though, the idea of building a perpetual motion machine within layer upon layer of human flesh permeated as one of the very first interests and necessities of the recently ostracized Zandik. The nature of self sufficiency one he developed from a very, very young age as he disregarded measly physical needs like rest or nourishment in the form of food or water, all for the sake of his limitless research.
His goals in life, his long term achievements, something bigger than himself and than any of the puny townsfolk that dared look down on his work.
But a breakthrough requires time, and along time exists fate, the bearer of cruelty. To pose a victory against time itself would prove a challenge even for someone with brilliant ideas and the means to have them come true. By the end of the day, Zandik was still pretty much human. Not even blessed by a vision, which is not surprising when you consider the way he's regarded all around and everywhere to go.
Monster. Beast, heretic.
Lesser than human and lesser than animal. Layers of skin wouldn't hide the true nature of his character.
If Zandik could chose, he would have exchanged his beating, languid heart for the precise accuracy of a nutcracker.
Laws state that as long as an object is applied enough strength to push forward into movement, it will continue in motion unless stopped by an external force. The true nature of self sufficiency.
The nutcracker of perpetual movements he built during his wistful boyhood proved as such, a dynamic system that gained him praise back then, the very first of many more experiments to undergo. It would continue until there were no more nuts to crack, and even then it's jaw wouldn't stop. Perpetual like time itself.
Above humane and above animal, Zandik would have taken a third option and chose mechanical instead. Turn himself into a perpetual motion machine for the sake of continuing with his research once this body has outlived it's usefulness.
The answer lies in the endless channels of time itself, lost to comprehension and too vague for replication. Yet, nothing is ever completely lost or erased from the face of Teyvat without a single remnant; scraps of knowledge hidden in the deep recesses of hell itself would provide a way to counter the binds of his own body.
The day Pierro called after him like a dutiful hound, Dottore knew that the answers to his plight towards mortality were not so far from his reach, thanks to technology retrieved from the earthly remnants of Khaheri'ah and refined by the hands of Belzebul, taking in the shape of a being who could pass as ordinary and even dull for the untrained eye. Of course if you are willing to overlook the puppet joints littering his body.
Getting him into the Fatui's Crimson spider Web would be quite the feat, but Dottore is nothing but goal oriented.
...
There shouldn't have been a smidgen of emotion permeating his movements, dictating his course, whirring loudly under his skin like thrumming blood; yet Dottore couldn't hold back his outburst as the visceral innards coated his gloves.
Blood spilled aimlessly, its hue like the Crimson tuft of the young man's hair as his ribcage laid open for the doctor to toy around like several scattered puzzle pieces. Pieces he'll never put together again, his anger breathing heavily from every pore like miasma.
He wasn't particularly spiteful of this man, neither he was of the foolish puppet the Fatui wanted him to bribe, yet their relationship brought a coiling spike of nausea to his gut.
Why?
Why that puppet gets to be treated like a person, bestowed with all the human rights to live and parade around others, while Dottore who was born perfectly human is shunned and ostracized by the people who witnessed his birth and growth? Why is it that Niwa reached out a hand towards the puppet when nobody ever tried to understand the young Zandik and his blasphemous ideas?
His hypotheses, his dreams, his goals. Nobody understood, nobody bothered to.
But a puppet whose existence was a mere accident from Baal's idiotic theories, is accepted - and dare one say, loved - by others that acknowledged the reality of his being.
The puppet had a place to return to, someone to call out to him with fondness, a partner in life. So many, many things the doctor had no hope of ever experiencing.
It made his blood boil with hatred, spiteful of his own kin and shed his own humanity like a snake shedding foreskin, or a crow changing feathers.
Still, there were so many new facts and untested data regarding the puppet and his origins. Technology lost and then found, a perpetual motion machine through and through. Without the need of basic nourishments or requirements for the measly human body, a wooden nutcracker who could keep going on and about for the centuries to come and go. Until the lie of this sky and the deceit of stars above have finally faded into the inky void of non-existence.
A continuum presence that defeated time itself, blooming untouched by waves and tides alike.
The true nature of self sufficiency. Something Dottore had so long desired for himself, his first step to create a God from human hands.
Poor dear Niwa. Yet, his sacrifice would serve a purpose bigger than any of us.
...
It suddenly dawned on Dottore that maybe, he's always had a major case of body dysphoria towards the binds of human flesh. His own blood spilled with no remorse, finding several ways to mold his self towards what he believed would be ideal for the long run.
It never quite worked, though. Shedding organs he no longer had use for never felt new or foreign to his delicacies. Mostly because said delicacies were non existent, but when you're conducting a research in a non-conductive atmosphere you discard the idea of getting picky for the sake of meeting a certain goal.
The creation of his first segment, however, brought a sense of joy like no other. Ribcage opened in tandem with the whirring gears of his heart, Alpha was beautiful in a rare form of sentimental narcissism. The perfect picture of who he longed to be.
Perpetual. Self sufficient, whirring with a clockwork heart like a nutcracker with a never ending jaw motion.
He longed to be like that, to be this inhumanely mechanical, to have been created and engineered by a mind bigger than his own. Being human is overly valued and useless in the long run, his true fate carved by his own hands was to create and destroy, discover the truths of this world and turn them into benefit.
He was born to defy the gods and enhance humans to reach this kind of enlightenment. And the first step is to raise a fist against his own unwanted humanity.
...
If asked about Il Dottore among the Fatui, few can give you a coherent answer if any at all. Some are too afraid of even speaking such a name, in fear of summoning the concept of mad scientific glee and endless sadism.
Preposterous. Dottore wouldn't call himself a sadist, but goal oriented and rather... Apathetic, towards coincidences that do little to pose a detrimentality towards his research.
If there's even a "Himself" to being with.
A mind, extremely developed and untampered by the cruelty of the winds of time, manipulated, refined, adapted to the present day. Too many bodies, artificial nutcrackers that preserved his most important points of view and deviated from his main ideas. A concept, rather than a proper man. Sometimes compared with an Archon after his abstract apotheosis, a risible though that insulted the very seams of his research and strive.
Although it was true. He was above human and above godliness, but even so that wasn't enough.
The original (or at least, the one who everyone believed to have been the original) had been discarded and replaced by a completely self sufficient body, a perpetual motion machine that controlled the segments with a flick of his wrist. It had been one of the most joyful moments of his seemingly endless life, shedding the layers of flesh and discard the vestiges of humanity that remained after his blasphemy.
His own blood spilled and his mind moved into a better vessel that could last forever if given the adequate maintenance every few centuries. The perfect nutcracker of a body he always yearned for, the original stored away to preserve with an unusual fondness.
Like a child who wouldn't bring himself to throw away their favorite toy. The doctor's original body was still the beginning of it all, rewired and tampered with so many, many times until reaching the crescendo. All thanks to the Khaheriahn technology exploited from the balladeer's own body; although Dottore refined the technique far beyond it's intended original means, aiming for nothing but the best of the best.
Zandik was gone. But his dreams and yearns were to be realized by a certain individual known as the doctor. An entity, a concept, a rumor. The true nature of self sufficiency that discarded several more 'humane' points of view for the sake of aiming higher than high.
How sentimental, Zandik had been on his cherished days. Easily riled up by meaningless bouts, under the stupid belief that maybe he could get his kin to understand the trials and tribulations of his research, secretly yearning for somebody to actually acknowledge his plight.
(Somebody who would love and accept who he was)
These puny ideals felt so foreign, alien even for someone who glides into alien territory far beyond work ethics; ultimately prompting nothing but laughter from the doctor thanks to the sheer absurdity of it all. He was no longer a man as much as he was an abstract concept of endless aim and the mind hive of knowledge seekers, there's absolutely nobody willing to understand such a thing without looking down in scorn to everything he's accomplished out of his curiosity and efficiency.
You can't possibly love a concept, less of all one who's incapable of mustering emotions as they steem from the surge of hormones released from a pretty much human brain. That, he lacked.
The faded writings of ancient scrolls stored by the sages of Sumeru disregard the existence of such a matter like a soul, something intangible, spiritual and unique bestowed upon divine creation. Something non existent.
However, there was this concept of an inherent consciousness existing within every single being, passed around the cycle of life and carrying karma upon their shoulders no matter what shape; be it human or animal.
Following that theory, no longer Dottore himself was attached to such considering that he's distilled his own conscious, defied the gods by discarding his own body and became the prime matter of life itself.
An existence of freedom, one would say. He gave life and took it easier than lifting a single finger, knew how life itself worked and understood the whirring cogs of human brain to control it to his liking.
But even so that wasn't enough, Dottore yearned for true Godhood delivered by the hands of he who had been human once but stepped away from the Samsara, shed his sins as easily as he shed his body and became a self sufficient automaton.
And so, he began wondering. If humans such as who he used to be could aim for immortality and become perpetual through the raging winds of time sand, why does people have to die in first place? Why does people need to be born at all? Why can't they advance through the ages with undying bodies, learn from the philosophy of life itself and pass the knowledge unto the youngsters to turn them into knowledgeable sages of blasphemy, preaching about the secrets hidden within the deep recesses of this world?
After all, if one's to gather enough knowledge as to decipher the true meaning behind this world's far fetched lies or turn them into a reality with the flicker of a wrist, who's to say you can't become a God yourself? What is true Godhood made of?
A society of perennial sterility where knowledge stands as a far off pillar dictating the course of unseen future, new discoveries every day framed by wisdom shared by many. The true chosen ones that gained such a state of divinity through hard work alone, now allowed to enjoy in the leisure of an utopia for those who listened to the call and shed their humanity to aim higher than the heavens.
Is this what the Gods feared of Khaheri'ah? They feared that their wisdom would allow them to overthrow the heavens? Such a cowardly notion. Fearing in the helplessness of ignorance, dreading the acquired intellect that breached the self-imposed chart of human potential.
The Tsaritsa promised to burn the entirety of the old world and build a new one from scraps. Dottore had all the rights to chose as well, how this new world would go about. These ideas, considered blasphemous by many would make the Akademiya's sages screech at the sheer vulgarity of his boldness.
The Demiurge, Yaldabaoth they would call him.
Master of the physical world, yet something not really physical himself. The one who molds it to his liking and traps unto said realm whoever he sees fit.
But what's so wrong about it? His ideas festered like crawling maggots into the rotting moss of the dying, human brain of the poor girl whom he choked to death, her pudgy hands getting where they shouldn't have and her words doing little to soothe the manic infestation of his ideals.
What's so wrong about it?
The doctor had distilled his self into a mere conscious, free of the Samsara but trapped unto the physical realm by his own choice, because there's so many things he could still do. He could accomplish much more in this land, utopia justifies whatever means. Being trapped into a physical realm of knowledge and advance would be a blessing yet untold.
(He sometimes wished having been born as Khaheriahn)
If such an outrageous mindset turned him into the Demiurge, then so be it.
...
The day he met the Ninth, Dottore couldn't say that he wasn't surprised by the boldness of the man's request. A partnership, he said.
A business partnership for the sake of profiting the doctor's creations. A wise move, considering that improving the technology littering Snezhnaya and bringing forth measly yet useful customs would surely get him in good terms with the Tsaritsa herself, the mayor, Pierro, and of course Dottore whom he's gracing with a hefty sum for quick starter funding.
The Regrator as they called him reminded Dottore of the old tales about the goddess of dust; intelligent, but so frail she had to hide unto Rex Lapis' scales to keep herself safeguarded. Pantalone wasn't spectacularly strong, but he was quick witted and greedy like the biblical Mammon.
His goal of becoming the heart pumping Mora across Teyvat a tad too ambitious for such a feeble being, but then again that's basically how the doctor himself started off. Rising from the dust of his misshaped, muddy ribs.
And despite his low ranking, the banker had the gall to call out the mayor's economical affairs messy, and subsequently chastise everyone else for allowing the downfall in Snezhnaya's politics which by tangent raised poverty. Something he took rather personal but that's to be his line of work, anyways.
Nevertheless Dottore found it amusing to think about this partnership. The first step to bring an utter revolutionary system for Snezhnaya to bask unto and flourish untouched by the raging cold. His chance as he had been expecting it for so long, enough funding to develop the kind of weaponry that would substitute measly visions; finally on its way to be refined and polished into molten waves of protruding energy running through a common man's veins. The Regrator was endlessly interested in the idea of delusions, asking for the doctor to further elaborate about the basics of this particular ideal.
As they shook hands, Dottore couldn't deny that this arrangement kind of benefited them both. He was using Pantalone and the banker in question used him in return, or so he probably liked to think.
"A pleasure doing business with you, Regrator"
His jaded, sharp smile met the moonlit Crescents of the banker's porcelain features. Like a bisque doll, or a polished Matryoshka reflected by layers of aquamarine jewelry and painted into a courteous expression of self serving gratitude. Egocentric, this man.
Oh, but Dottore hadn't been any different on his good old days! Remembrance, remembrance.
"The pleasure is all mine, doctor"
...
Ever since exchanging bodies for the better, Dottore felt the manic restlessness fading ever so slightly as his mind sharpened, polished and refined like his beloved set of measured scalpels. The days of an impatient, overly emotional Zandik were long gone, the cold calculations of a frigid machine remained on his stead.
Yet, he couldn't control the feverish bouncing of his leg as his ever concealed gaze analyzed the harbingers filling the room with clinical accuracy; the Regrator nowhere to be seen.
Although it was no better to witness the arrival of the banker in question; his partner crossing the doorstep with the captain in tow, chatting amicably with Pantalone's usually condescending smile that the doctor had begrudgingly grown fond of.
It's not that he hated Capitano in particular, but Dottore had no real fondness towards any of his colleagues aside from the Regrator; his business partner and openly a good friend. Perhaps, he also held a decent amount of respect towards the Rooster and his permissive nature but that's about it. A humble man, if Dottore ever knew one among the ranks.
And despite the banker's grace and poise to offer him a proper greeting, Dottore could tell apart the man's clear confusion upon being unceremoniously pulled into the chair beside the Second- which, for the record, was supposed to be Columbina's according to Pierro's distributed order. No matter, he had been saving that spot for Pantalone all the day. Back then his segments were rather unhinged and thoroughly unconvincing when impersonating the prime doctor, which forced him to attend to these dull routine meetings instead of spending his time in less wasteful means. Pantalone's presence would suffice to keep himself focused.
It was a fair exchange, considering that Columbia made herself comfortable in the chair that was meant to be Pantalone's, whispering sweet nothings into Arlecchino's flushed ear. Something Pierro would have considered outrageous, as the higher ranks sat at one specific side of the frigid dining table while the lower ones stayed across from them. An specific order to input a primal form or respect and complexity even among the chosen eleven.
However, said order had been utterly shattered the moment Dottore forced Pantalone by his side. Now, the exchange of flirtatious remarks between the knave and her little dove was anything but discreet; Pulcinella was left sandwiched between Capitano and Tartaglia's bloody chat about carnage rather than battle, a huge sweatdrop rolling down the poor man's temple. Not to mention how a unnerved Scaramouche was indolently cornered by the gaze of both Sandrone and her automaton, Signora uncaring of it all as she reapplied another layer of defrosting make up.
And despite the apparent chaos where there should have been a vanguard of capable harbingers, Pierro's gaze immediately fell atop Dottore and Pantalone. The ones who unleashed it all and now sat side by side, leaning unto each other for comfort and so impossibly close to the point the doctor's raven cape tickled the banker's nose every now and then.
The Jester merely sighed. They're nothing but children. Harbingers yet, but children above anything else.
...
Something Dottore took some time to learn from the Regrator amidst their trysts and partnership, is how easy is to fall asleep beside the man.
Not that he was particularly boring, per se; they always had something to talk about, be it an intricate ordeal of endless spiels delivered by the doctor's quick witted tongue about his latest contrivances regarding his experiments, or the banker's own theories and festering greed into acquiring the Geo Gnosis to serve a greater purpose unto his pliant, bejeweled hands; but mostly because the peacefulness of relative silence was shared amicably between them when there was nothing else to be said.
When they both sated the necessity to strum the strings of their ambitions and the chandelier's ever present glow had dulled into a dim gleam of refined bronze. It's vigor exchanged by molted wax burning with lavender and wisteria, aromatic on it's wake as it is decorative the ember of a dying candle.
The Regrator enjoying a nice old book; ever prideful and avaricious, the man yearned to be avid beyond his field and took upon studying a myriad different subjects during his free time. A wise choice, for it is something Zandik himself did on his petty rebellious days of youthhood; yet he guessed that Pantalone wanted to make up for his time as a destitute by pampering himself with lovely extravagance and exquisite finery, plus the academic knowledge of one who loves numbers and arithmetic ambivalent to an scholar's measly rigor nowadays. Self taught, but Dottore couldn't help but respect him for it.
The candied blue locks strewn like a halo over the banker's lap, a languid doctor gazing aimlessly as the delicate fingers of his companion threaded through the knots and twists of his unruly hair. A practiced performance, so familiar is rather scary. Foreign, but welcomed.
The drowsiness overpowered his senses, Pantalone's melodious humming droning out the restless tik tik tik of his clockwork heart, the nutcracker sleeping but alive within him. Not because any form of noise was needed to have his mind awake and focused; but it was so, so easy to simply lower his guard and enjoy a moment of vulnerability by shedding his outer shell. It felt vaguely familiar to enjoy a mundane comfort like the freedom their trust provided.
(Dottore barely recalled the mind image of Niwa, and the puppet know known as Scaramouche, resting in the very same position and endearing each other with the very same gestures of petty affection like the fleeting touches of skin to wooden shell)
He wondered idly, if perhaps that was the sort of trust he had been seeking for during his long gone boyhood, ignorant to the several mysteries uncovered and moved by the sheer ire from being ostracized and shoved aside like the plague.
Poor, young Zandik who wanted nothing but a life partner like the one Scaramouche had before his heart had been severed from plucked arteries and spilled vessels of useless blood. He though it wasn't meant to him, but life works away meetings in a mysterious way.
Centuries later than his first yearnings, the plea was answered in the shape of someone who understood and listened with keen ears, someone wise enough to deconstruct his arguments and pose his own ideals, someone as ambitious and prideful as the doctor himself.
The Tsaritsa's new world needed more people like Pantalone, in all honesty.
His musings were unceremoniously disturbed by the nimble fingers pinching comically his plump cheeks, out of habit the doctor swatted away the hand without an ounce of his real strength.
"Don't fall asleep on me, you fool"
Dottore lamented having shed his mask in lieu of such a comfortable leisure; opening his eyes to even the faintest light stung just a bit but the sight to behold drained his will to argue. The obsidian tresses of silken hair framed the Regrator's porcelain face, staring down at him with eyes like distant stars.
(Dottore saved away the image under his eyelids, so utterly besotted)
"I wasn't planning to, Regrator"
...
The first time they laid together felt like being welcomed into such a foreign rush of unknown reactions and impulses among reflexes long lost.
The scorching heat burning through his loins and pooling down below his navel was mortifying, carnality a subject long lost to Dottore as a whole. Any primal bodily function had been discarded, disregarded for the ages but he could still feel and it was driving him insane.
The lavish bedroom of resplendent jewelry and scented cinder wood of the king sized bed welcomed him, unbridled into a fit of unhinged want. The lights were dim, Pantalone never particularly enjoyed any set of bright lights due their physical assault to his poor eyes, but nevertheless this would do quite nicely.
Slow and tortuous, the banker's manicured hands marred with faded scars traced the planes of Dottore's naked chest, the muscles being patterned and fondled with the utmost care as the layers were removed in a haste by the lack of restraint of the doctor's desire.
He was burning all over. His partner's body printed under his eyelids as he traced it with scarlet irises, wishing to rip open his garments first.
"Zandik"
Yet, the name the banker called wasn't the apathetic, cruel doctor but the wide eyed scholar who died and gave up on his body for the sake of science. A good four hundred years ago.
Because Dottore might be a concept, a mind hive, a goal and an ideal; but Zandik still exists deep down under the layers of the raven's pinions. That was the man who ached and yearned and loved, fueled by the relentless nutcracker of perpetual consistency.
Zandik, as the curious creature he's always been couldn't help but wonder and study, cherish and fondle the unraveled beauty of the banker's porcelain skin, unblemished and blessed beyond common cognition, fingers mapping every route to hidden erogenous zones and running his velvety tongue over a pair of delectable, peach pink nipples.
And the moment he thrust into the banker, Zandik felt like melting from the heat so different from the mechanic cold and stillness of his own clockwork mechanism. Pantalone was squeezing him whole, tightening his grip around the doctor's neck for good measures and feeling every ridge and vein of his cock within his seared insides.
"Zandik...!"
He breathed out, the scholar above him restraining his movements beyond exertion to not rip in a half the man under him because it was pure bliss, marking and kissing his love, his partner, the reason of his delusion and reminder of long lost humanity, the other half of a broken spectre piecing his artificial heart.
The mantra repeated itself over and over like a broken record, the endless tik tik tik of a machine replaced by the maniac daze of his mind as he feverishly fucked the only one who would provide him this amount of unhinged pleasure.
"Lone"
Once.
"Lone..."
Twice.
"Pantalone"
Thrice, whispered into his lover's flushed ears as the Regrator teared up, pleasure so acute as Zandik's aim stimulated his prostate to overwhelming deals.
And when he came, he spilled his seed shamelessly to fill his partner with a mark of ownership. Hot, thick cum splattering over the banker's unblemished abdomen and licked away by Zandik's pliant tongue, the tears equally kissed away with the tenderness of a passionate scholar. There was but a little plea from the banker as his breathing calmed and leveled to a semblance of normalcy.
"Stay, dear. Indulge me for tonight"
Dottore didn't have it on himself to say no. Throughly cleaned and satisfied, the two enjoyed the rest of the night with nothing but each other's besotted stare.
The snow raged outside with the winds howling a distant siren's song of untold apathy, the frozen lands hidden under several layers of frigid protection. The mantle the Tsaritsa chose to protect her people with, but tonight Dottore only ever chose to softly embrace the object of his affection; the banker's lovely hair tangled into an unruly, raven mess as he hummed non-committaly.
"So it's true. There's no heartbeat"
Pantalone mused softly, drowsiness overpowering his senses but sharp as ever despite the exhaustion. Still, he wasn't patronizing nor spiteful and not even surprised. Just facts, as it always has been.
"Do you mind?"
Dottore couldn't help but ask in tandem, curiosity tainting the usual confidence he carried his arguments with. Yet, the soft purr of his partner thawed away his momentary doubts.
"Not really. Mine can beat for the two of us"
This time around, the doctor didn't bother to conceal his genuine laughter. The Regrator surely had a bigger aim than any of the other harbingers could have ever conceived.
Yet, nestling together and pressing a trail of lazy kisses over the crown of Pantalone's silken hair, Dottore felt so terribly fond beyond his own surprised expectations.
...
Leaving Snezhnaya after a long stay of boxed up thoughts and the whirring cogs of his lab felt odd, foreign to the point he made a home for himself among the never melting ice and aggressive storms of the Tsaritsa's frozen rage.
Sailing away on the ship no longer brought him nausea beyond belief, unlike the younger Zandik and his frail stomach. Yet, turning around and waving at his lover brought a spike of longing back into his skull.
Hadn't he been at the ship when Pantalone arrived to recite his farewells, he would have pulled the man close by his slim waist, stealing these goodbyes unsaid from his Petal pink lips. Uncaring of what others might say.
Pantalone waved back into a distant cacophony of his silken voice, drowned into the strident noise of crashing waves.
Such an useless longing. Restless in his affection, shall it became their demise or their uprising, there's a thin line between one and the other. Yet, Dottore had no regrets.
The puzzle he scattered apart by tearing apart Niwa's heart felt oddly complete. Now, Dottore knew what it felt to have a partner, something to return to.
For he focused into the tightly concept of self sufficiency, to be independent in his achievements and continue with his permanent existence like a perpetual motion machine, the perfect nutcracker for the ages and one capable to build a God from scratch; yet he still longed to return to his lover even when they barely parted ways just now.
He could no longer picture a near future without Pantalone. Not anymore. Not ever again, as weak as it sounded he only ever cherished a new world with the Regrator by his side. That's a dream he would cherish.
And once said dream has been secured, the strident tik tik tik of clockwork would finally come to a halt, the perpetual motion nutcracker would finally stop and enjoy the brevity of their time together. Pantalone is just a mortal, after all. Time would rip his love from Dottore's bloodied claws.
Living without him is not a possibility. Not anymore.
For a moment there Dottore valued a little more his humanity, and a little less his life as a mechanical nutcracker. The perpetual motion machine who could love beyond the boundaries of permissible, much more than he ever did as a full human.
How strange. The way an abstract concept such as love can affect him.
It suddenly dawned on him, that there are so many, many things he still doesn't know about. His endless strive would merely continue and surely flourish into hopeful answers in the many more years to come.
The ever present tik tik tik no longer felt so loud. Now the only melody ringing through his head would be Pantalone's voice, the familiar sound of clockwork bringing to mind his partner's heartbeat.
It beat for the two of them, anyways.