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The icy wind battered the walls of the Zapolyarny Palace with unusual ferocity. At the palace entrance, the guards gritted their teeth as their gloved hands tightened around their weapons. Throughout the corridors, servants hurried to lock the windows and draw the heavy curtains, determined to keep the cold from seeping inside.
Even so, some of them hesitated to venture into the western wing of the palace. That was where the Second Harbinger's quarters and laboratory were located.
Most of the time, the Doctor paid no attention to the servants, rarely granting them so much as a glance. Yet a persistent rumor circulated among the staff : several employees who had entered the western wing had vanished without a trace. And who other than the Second Harbinger could be responsible ? Everyone knew his reputation and the human experiments he conducted.
Only the bravest dared venture that far into the palace. All of them carefully avoided the enormous black doors scattered along the corridors. Each one led to the room of one of the Doctor's Segments, and every Segment had made one thing perfectly clear : no one was to enter without their explicit permission.
Of course, everyone knew there was one exception to that rule.
Behind one of those gigantic doors stood an elegant antique chaise longue positioned before a vast floor-to-ceiling window. Upholstered in midnight-blue fabric embroidered with floral motifs and supported by a finely carved dark wooden frame, it brought a touch of refinement to the room.
Pantalone, the Ninth Fatui Harbinger, lay half-reclined upon it, one forearm resting on the curved armrest. Having abandoned his usual businessman attire, he wore a long black satin nightgown whose flowing cut fell to his ankles. Delicate lace framed its V-shaped neckline, while a matching open robe rested carelessly upon his shoulders.
Here, in the privacy of Dottore's quarters, Pantalone ceased to exist. Languidly reclined across the chaise longue, it was Feofan who waited by the window.
A long pipe rested in his right hand, thin tendrils of smoke curling through the air and spreading the heavy, intoxicating scent of opium. Feofan brought the mouthpiece to his lips and inhaled deeply. The smoke lacked both the familiar taste and bite of his beloved cigarettes, but he found he did not mind the difference. He had discovered the drug during his last business trip to Liyue, and ever since, he occasionally returned to it whenever his thoughts grew too loud.
Today more than ever, he craved its soothing effects. Perhaps they would succeed, if only for a moment, in silencing the relentless turmoil inside his mind.
He had been waiting on the chaise for half an hour now, and impatience was beginning to settle in. His gaze swept across the room.
The bedroom was immense. Tall windows framed by heavy dark curtains overlooked the chamber, while an imposing canopy bed draped in ebony silk sheets occupied one wall.
A towering library stretched all the way to the mezzanine that ran along the upper level of the room. Illuminated by candle flames and chandelier light, the chamber was bathed in an atmosphere that was both restrained and luxurious.
As he drew another breath from the pipe, the massive bedroom door opened with a discreet creak. Standing on the other side was his dear partner or rather, one of his countless facets.
Segment 65 stepped into the room before coming to an abrupt halt at the sight of Feofan. Though his face was entirely concealed behind a black plague mask, the younger man could feel the Doctor's gaze lingering upon him, methodical and scrutinizing. Feofan endured the examination without the slightest discomfort and returned it in kind.
Dottore wore a gray three-piece suit paired with a shirt and tie in varying shades of teal. Draped over the ensemble was an imposing black fur coat, while a matching top hat sat upon his head. Of all the Segments, 65 was undoubtedly the most elegant.
"I see your trip to Liyue did you no favors."
At the remark, Feofan's lips curved into a mocking smile. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, letting the smoke drift from his mouth.
"My, why is that ?"
Dottore removed his fur coat and hat before hanging them on the coat rack near the entrance. Pantalone followed the scene with his eyes, making no effort to conceal his interest. Without the coat obscuring his frame, the Doctor's silhouette was revealed in sharp detail. His tailored suit fit him perfectly, accentuating every line of his body with effortless elegance.
Feofan set his pipe down on the small marble table beside the chaise longue. He straightened slowly, his movements weighted by the effects of the opium. His bare feet met the cold floor before he finally rose. With a languid stride, he crossed the room toward the Doctor.
At that very moment, Dottore turned to face him.
An amused chuckle tugged at Feofan's lips. Without the slightest hesitation, he let himself fall against him, as though his own weight was no longer his concern.
Dottore accepted him without missing a beat. One hand settled firmly at his waist to keep him upright. The leather of his glove slid over the silky fabric of his robe, following the curve of his hips before coming to rest in the hollow of his lower back.
Feofan tilted his head slightly, looking up at him through lowered lashes, a hazy smile still lingering on his lips.
With his free hand, Dottore gently took hold of his chin and angled his face toward the light. For several moments, he studied his dilated pupils in silence.
Under the influence of the opium, Feofan found himself convinced that such a simple touch burned far more than it should have.
"I would still prefer you smoking your precious tobacco rather than replacing it with opium."
"So strict. You truly need to discover life's little pleasures, my dear friend."
Feofan did not need to see Dottore's face to imagine the expression hidden behind the mask. No doubt it was that familiar blend of perplexity and irritation his antics so often inspired. For once, however, he chose not to provoke him any further.
The Doctor's gaze dropped to his bare feet. An irritated click of the tongue immediately echoed through the room.
Even after all these years, Feofan had never lost the habit of going barefoot within his private quarters or Dottore's. It was a habit inherited from a childhood marked by poverty, when even a simple pair of shoes had been a luxury beyond reach.
"Unlike your lungs, I cannot simply grow you a new pair of feet," Dottore remarked, a trace of irritation in his voice. "Unless, of course, you are absolutely determined to make me amputate them after a sufficiently severe case of frostbite."
Feofan could not help but laugh at Dottore's exaggeration. His hands left the Doctor's chest and rose to rest behind his neck. Tilting his head slightly to one side, he smiled in amusement.
“That depends. Are you threatening me with amputation or offering to carry me around ? The distinction feels rather important.”
A startled gasp escaped him when, instead of answering, Dottore abruptly lifted him off the floor.
Without a word, the Doctor tightened his hold around Feofan's waist, hoisting him against his chest. Then he simply started walking, as though the question did not deserve a verbal answer.
Instinctively, Feofan slid his hands onto Dottore's shoulders to steady himself. He watched him silently for a few moments, torn between surprise and amusement. Eventually, the corner of his lips curved upward as he allowed himself to be carried without the slightest resistance.
Dottore gently set him down on the edge of the bed before moving toward one of the dressers on the other side of the room. He retrieved a pair of black socks and returned to Feofan's side. He then knelt before him and gently took hold of his right ankle.
Feofan had always retained that slender frame. His body had changed very little since the days when he had been nothing more than a miserable test subject at the time of their first meeting. His tailored clothes, confidence, and natural charisma concealed that fragility with remarkable efficiency. Yet if there was anyone capable of seeing beyond appearances, it was Dottore.
The Doctor rested Feofan's foot against his knee and pulled the sock over it with methodical care.
He was about to do the same with the other foot when Feofan abruptly pulled it from his grasp with a disdainful sniff.
“Tsk.”
Stretching out his leg, Feofan pressed the tips of his toes against Dottore's chest. Slowly, he dragged them upward along his torso, then his throat, until they came to rest beneath his chin. With a slight push, he tilted the Doctor's head upward, forcing him to meet his gaze.
“Why are you dressing me ? You know perfectly well that I came here for you to do the opposite.”
“Is that so ?” Dottore replied evenly.
The doctor's hand closed around Feofan's ankle. The grip was firm, yet gentle. Without taking his eyes off him, he slowly slid his hand up along his leg. The leather of his glove brushed against his skin, drawing an involuntary shiver from Feofan as his muscles tensed almost imperceptibly.
Dottore continued the motion with disarming calm. The satin fabric wrinkled beneath his fingers and gradually rode higher, exposing more skin along his thigh.
At last, his hand came to rest near the top of it.
Feofan braced himself on his arms behind him and parted his legs slightly to make room for Dottore.
The latter rose slowly, his tall frame towering over Feofan's. Never taking his eyes off the younger, he placed one knee on the mattress and moved between his legs with quiet confidence.
As Dottore advanced, Feofan retreated until the younger man's back finally met the pile of pillows at the head of the bed. Feofan allowed himself to sink fully against them, surrendering his weight to the pillows. His arms then wound around Dottore's neck, drawing him a little closer.
The Doctor offered no resistance, his imposing presence now occupying all the space between Feofan's legs.
“I am certain my younger selves would be far better suited to satisfying such needs. Why come to me ?”
“Oh ? Is that a lack of confidence I detect within you ?”
“Do I truly give that impression ?”
Dottore suddenly tightened his grip around Feofan's right thigh and pulled him closer. The abrupt movement drew a soft gasp from the younger man, though an amused smile quickly followed.
He wrapped his legs around the Doctor's waist and threaded a hand through his hair. With calculated slowness, he drew his face closer until the beak of the mask nearly brushed the tip of his nose.
Feofan tilted his head slightly, the curve of his lips deepening. Then he leaned toward Dottore's ear, closing the distance between them even further, as though preparing to share a secret meant for him alone.
“Perhaps you might consider removing your mask ?”
Dottore's caresses ceased immediately.
The Doctor straightened slightly and regarded Feofan through the blue lenses of his mask. Even without seeing his face, Feofan could almost hear the gears turning in his mind. Yet the answer that followed was far from the one he had expected.
“Little Eight told me something very interesting this morning.”
A frown appeared on Feofan's face.
“Discussing your underage self under these circumstances ? I must admit, Doctor, you possess a remarkable talent for killing the mood.”
Dottore ignored the remark entirely.
As was often the case, once an idea had captured his attention, nothing seemed capable of diverting him from his train of thought.
"He pointed out something intriguing."
Feofan let out a theatrical sigh, but he knew Dottore well enough to understand that he would get nowhere until the Doctor had exhausted the subject.
"He told me he saw you on your way to the cemetery, Sumeru roses in hand"
Feofan's body stiffened instantly. He had been certain he had acted discreetly and that no one had followed him. Explanations flashed through his mind, along with several potential lies, but none of them made it past his lips.
"What day is it today, Feofan ?"
At the question, the younger man immediately looked away and retreated into silence. Dottore raised a hand to his face, gently taking his chin between his fingers and encouraging him to turn his head back toward him. Feofan eventually relented, but when he finally spoke, all the confidence he had displayed moments earlier was gone from his voice.
"Why does it matter ?"
Dottore slowly ran a hand through his hair. He could see that the conversation was making him uncomfortable and that every word seemed to deepen his distress. Yet he could not stop himself from following his reasoning to its conclusion.
"Today is my birthday," he said calmly. "But it is also the day of my death."
His words left behind a heavy silence. For most people, such a statement would have sounded contradictory, even absurd. Between them, however, it required no further explanation. Feofan knew Dottore's story better than anyone. That was precisely why he had brought those flowers.
"Who is it that you wish to see when I remove this mask ? Zandik at sixty-five or Zandik before his death ?"
Feofan's hand tightened in Dottore's hair. A trembling breath escaped him as he felt his eyes fill with tears. For several moments, he was unable to answer. Dottore's words had struck their target with cruel precision.
He had been found out.
It had been a year since Zandik died. A year of carrying that absence, of burying his grief beneath work, responsibilities, and the routines of everyday life. Yet when he had awoken that morning, he had felt a gaping emptiness within himself and a dull ache that no distraction could silence. It had followed him throughout the entire day, quiet but ever-present, until he finally stopped resisting it.
His steps had led him almost unconsciously to the only place where he had hoped to find some measure of comfort : Zandik's grave. He had left Sumeru roses there and remained for a long time, motionless, as though the stone might somehow return what it had taken from him.
But it was not enough.
The emptiness remained, just as profound as it had been that morning. Because deep down, it was never a grave he had been searching for.
What he wanted was to see him.
To see his face. To hear his voice. To find again the man to whom he had entrusted his heart and whom he had never truly stopped loving.
Dottore watched him with silent attentiveness. When he noticed the tears gathering at the corners of Feofan's eyes, he tilted his head slightly, as though confronted with a phenomenon he could not fully explain. His gloved hand rose to his partner's face, and his index finger caught a tear that had begun to roll down his cheek. He watched the droplet spread across the black leather before slowly sliding down his finger and disappearing.
"You did not cry when you saw The Original lying open on the operating table. Why are there tears in your eyes today ?"
A disbelieving laugh escaped Feofan. Even after all these years, there was something painful about Dottore's pragmatism. He could dissect the emotions of others with the same precision he used to dissect a body, without realizing that some wounds existed beyond the reach of logic.
Contrary to what Segment 65 believed, Feofan did cry that day. He had simply locked himself inside his apartments until his eyes were dry and his face revealed nothing. No one had witnessed his grief. No one had seen the hours spent staring into nothingness, unable to accept that Zandik would never return.
"You are so cruel to me, Doctor," he murmured at last, offering a fragile smile.
Dottore did not seem to understand the reproach. His expression remained unchanged as he absentmindedly brushed his thumb across Feofan's cheek.
"I am only trying to understand you."
And perhaps that was what hurt the most.
Dottore was not trying to wound him. He genuinely sought an answer, as though confronted with a puzzle for which every one of Feofan's emotions was a clue. Where others might have offered comfort, he could offer only his attention and his stubborn desire to understand.
Feofan raised a hand to Dottore's face and let his fingers wander across the cold surface of the mask. He tilted his head slightly and rested his forehead against Dottore's.
When he spoke, his voice was devoid of all mischief. The confidence that usually defined him had cracked, revealing a weariness he no longer bothered to conceal.
"Leave your logic behind. Just for tonight."
The silence that followed felt endless.
Feofan knew Dottore better than anyone. To ask him to abandon logic was to ask him to deny his very nature. As the silence stretched on, the hope that had kindled within Feofan's chest gradually dwindled. He had already begun preparing himself for a refusal.
Resigned, he began loosening the hold of his legs around the Doctor's waist.
Then a sharp click broke the silence.
Feofan froze.
His gaze fell to Dottore's hand as it moved to the fastenings of his mask. For a moment, he remained utterly still, unable to tear his eyes away. His breath caught as he watched each deliberate movement with almost feverish intensity.
The first thing Feofan saw when the mask fell away was Dottore's crimson eyes.
Then came the wrinkles.
The fine lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes. The creases etched across his forehead and into his cheeks. They were neither unsightly nor unexpected. After all, time had left its mark on him, as it did on everyone.
Yet they were different enough to remind Feofan of a painful truth : The man he had hoped to see no longer existed.
Zandik was dead.
The thought struck him with renewed brutality. For a moment, Feofan wondered whether he had been foolish to come here. Foolish to believe that seeing Segment 65 without his mask might allow him to reclaim some fragment of what he had lost.
"Disappointed ?"
The question carried no judgment, only curiosity. Feofan lifted his gaze to meet Dottore’s. For a few seconds, he held it before gently shaking his head.
"No."
They both knew it was a lie.
Not because Feofan disliked what he saw, but because no face, however familiar, could ever belong to the man resting beneath a gravestone.
For a moment, neither of them spoke, then, Dottore leaned forward and captured his lips.
Feofan returned the kiss without the slightest hesitation. His fingers rose to the older's jaw as he closed his eyes. The tears that had gathered along his lashes finally overflowed, tracing a silent path down his temple.
Perhaps it was cowardice.
But for tonight, he would rather have Dottore in his arms than continue thinking about a ghost.