𝘿𝙀𝙑𝙄𝙇'𝙎 𝙎𝙉𝘼𝙍𝙀 ! genshin impact

────── 03.

C H A P T E R  III .
ˢᵃᶜʳⁱᶠⁱᶜⁱᵃˡ ˡᵃᵐᵇ

【✧】

ZAPOLYARNY PALACE WAS ALWAYS COLD.

It was hollow, like a brittle skeleton of a ribcage, serving no purpose but to encase the living, beating heart of Snezhnaya. It sighed. It breathed. Was it presumptuous to believe that the imposing fortress was even alive? Like clockwork, the pretty cogs inside it spluttered and turned in a never-ending waltz, spilling oil and blood when the machine craved the acrid taste of metallic.

The man's clothing was splattered with red. He knew that the apparatus did not want it. He knew that his own monster did. The thing inside him was vicious, thirsting for the chance of exhilaration, and so, so hungry. He'd always wonder what exactly his beast yearned for so desperately. Was it the endless need for battle? The taste of ground flesh and bones?

Or was it you?

Pantalone knew of the little thing his comrade had for you. The word comrade didn't roll off his tongue as he wanted it to -- something unpleasant lingered there, like it had perceived the mocking distaste of its birth creator. The Ninth was not fond of the Eleventh, and he was sure that his feelings were reciprocated.

Yet he had never stood up to him once. He'd never let his glib tongue speak, never been so straightforward with his words, merely because he knew of Pantalone's value to the Tsaritsa's cast of actors. No one had brought the bounties of gold and fortune more than he had.

But it was about you, of all people. You were his Achilles' heel, the one chink in his battle-forged armor that struck a path right to his heart. He had tried so desperately to hide it, to cover it up with flimsy lies and falsehoods, but The Regrator saw everything. Everything, especially the things that he could manipulate and exploit.

And you were such an example.

"Did you see them?"

His voice, devoid of the usual playful and mischievous lilt, pierced through the tense atmosphere like a bullet. If Pantalone was disturbed, not even a sliver of it showed on his perfectly constructed mask as he offered his fellow Harbinger a practiced smile.

"Oh? If my memory does not fail me, I believe you've said before that you 'can't stand the sight' of me and 'refuse to interact' with me 'unless absolutely necessary'."

Childe does not answer, choosing to instead flick off the blood that lingered on his bow with a jerk of his wrist. The crimson was a stark contrast against the frosted floors, silvery and transient with pulsing life.

Pantalone felt more amused than anything as he clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "Well now, look what you did. What would the Tsaritsa think of you so voluntarily dirtying her floors like that?"

"Don't play games with me," Childe laughed, yet not an ounce of mirth swirled within it, "This palace is hardly sacred. And don't bring the Tsaritsa into this either; this is about them. Did you go and visit them the other day?"

"Did I? I'm sure you know the answer to that already."

Tartaglia's hand flexed at his side, opening and closing like an automated mechanism. His generally friendly smile was pulled taut around his lips. He looked so, so close to punching Pantalone square in the jaw, to wrap his fingers around his neck and feel his fragile bones buckle and shatter under the pressure.

He could do it. He could be the cause of a Harbinger's death and he'd leave feeling just fine, unaffected by the manslaughter he'd just committed. Death wasn't new to him. Death was the only constant thing in his life -- it took and it took and it took with the scythe that Childe himself knew how to wield, grabbing souls and dragging them down to the Underworld.

He could do it. He could do it, but he wouldn't. There was just too much to lose -- the trust of his Archon, the lives of his family, hell, even you. There were consequences for everything, but none could compare to if his hands were dirtied with the blood of his comrade.

So instead, Childe kissed his teeth silently, wanting to be anywhere but where he was now. He wanted to fight. That was the only thing he knew how to do. He fought and fought until he drowned in his own exhibitions and euphoria, losing sight of the treacherous world around him.

He was twisted. But it was the kind of twisted that made him so fun to play with, Pantalone mused to himself, gaze lying idly on Tartaglia's stiff figure. The raven-haired banker liked to predict his opponent's movements; it was always so exciting to try to decipher one's psyche, to dig so deep into their mind to the point that one could guess their every action correctly.

The two men stood in a stagnant silence. Pantalone crossed his arms across his chest, the familiar glimmer of his silver rings fleetingly sparkling in the chandelier's light before being hidden away by his deep black attire. What would the Eleventh do now? Would he argue? Would he fight? Would he simply walk away, like the conversation had never happened?

His curiosity was quenched the moment Childe sent a hard glare his way, mouth pressed in a thin frown. So, he'd grown tired of his act of false happiness.

"Don't visit them again, comrade. My business should not be your business." The ginger's words were clipped yet final, leaving no room for discussion nor arguments.

Pantalone watched Childe walk away, the red scarf messily thrown over his shoulders growing farther and farther away until it was merely a sanguine dot in the distance. He seemed to be especially fond of that scarf, judging from how worn it looked and how soft his deep blue gaze became whenever he stared at it.

He hummed contemplatively, recalling an interesting piece of information within the files he had secretly pulled up on you. One of your hobbies included knitting, and every single one of your friends seemed to own something you'd knit for them, whether it be a hat, a blanket or a scarf.

That godforsaken scarf. His neck suddenly felt a little cold, despite the preexisting fabric that clung to his throat.

Pantalone smiled, stifling a chuckle that had begun to blossom on his lips. They knew how much he liked to collect. He had an unparalleled eye for luxury, after all. Anything that caught his attention rarely escaped, whether it was a precious ore from the outskirts of Sumeru, the patent of a remarkable invention from Fontaine, or even the occasional, distinctive person.

But you were like no other person he'd come across. Most cowered in his presence. Some tried to use him in pursuit of avaricious gains. Others just did their best to not cross his path, in fear of what a Harbinger of the Tsaritsa's loyal Fatui could do to them.

You, however, had the sheer gall to kick him out of your building and even get mad at him. There were little who displayed their real emotions on their countenance so easily in the cold embrace of Snezhnaya, and yet you seemed to have no qualms with it -- you wore your heart on your sleeve and you weren't afraid of who could see it.

Not even someone as tainted as him.

Collecting was fun. Collecting was interesting. 

And you might become the crowning jewel of his collection.

"Oh, Childe. Your business was always mine from the start."

━━━━

[ hey hi meant to publish this earlier but i got distracted and spent 10 hrs reading fanfics whoops,, anyways pantalone and childe basically fighting over u <3 more childe next chap btw,, i promise you'll stop seeing sm of those two after i get more into the story gah ]