Chapter Text
The news had just arrived in Zapolyarny - The Captain was gone, dead, or not, it was a question not to be answered yet.
But gone he was.
It left a cleft among the Harbingers' ranks overnight, and a void especially to one of them. Who lay in bed, curled up, and cold was the other side.
So unbearably, forever now, cold and empty.
The Regrator thought he'd take his lover's absence well, could power through it, conjure hopes in his mind that their last would not have been their final goodbye. Yet when he went to sleep, the hole was there, not to be ignored, not to be filled with wishful thinking.
He got up instead, seeking to avoid it, seeking a refuge, just for the night. He would be in enough pain, let him have some hours of peace, at least.
In all his rush, he forgot to don his clothes, went barefoot through the hallways of Zapolyarny, nothing more than a thin pajama on his back.
The cold didn't bother him now - it was already all around.
And he didn't bother to look where he was going, why the concentration of guards increased as he went. It was only when he knocked against one hardwood door that he realized where he was.
Too late to turn around to go, too late to find a good excuse.
Already, the lock clicked, soft night light pouring out.
In looked the Regrator, out the Jester. Dressed no more modestly than the wandering visitor, the Director had at least donned his mask before coming to receive him.
Though clearly awoken, no sleep slurred his speech.
"Regrator. It is late, what do you need?"
Would that he knew. The banker's tongue, so usually quick and witful, lay lame between his teeth. His throat, it swelled, let no explanation pass through. There was something. Something the Captain had once told.
"When you need help, and I'm not here, go to my friend. Our Director will be there for you."
But if the other knew?
No, he should not expect such things from his own superior, should have never come, suffered his own loss.
Heavy-hearted, he denied, "Forgive me. I was foolish; I will go."
The Jester nodded understandingly.
"I see. Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
But the Regrator did not move.
And the Jester did not close the door. He waited, and the other did, as well.
Eyes drawn to each other like magnets, currents too strong to avoid the depth now. Pierro's face revealed nothing, his attention alone seeming nonetheless part invitation, or such was what the Regrator thought it was.
He could not look away, nor walk away - stuck, to the tile of the floor.
The longer they both lingered, the more guards set upon them their eyes, greedy ones, curious ones. Perplexion, intrigue, on any other day the banker would have loved. Yet out the blue, they were a trap, and he was stuck between a welling truth and irreparable disgrace.
"I..."
The Director's stare was just too much.
Fluid filled the Regrator's eyes, faster than he could look away, and the other studied him in silence, in fact.
He did not give the first tear time to fall, when Pierro pulled him out of the hallway, shutting the door behind them.
And not a moment too soon, the banker erupted in tears, crying like an unstoppable waterfall and still trying to swallow his pain and keep it down.
The Jester held his feverishly shaking shoulders, leading him deeper into his living room, away from harking ears. Candles, set ablaze with conjured sparks, and a hearth, roaring to life in the tranquil Jester's quarters.
"He's gone," the Regrator choked out, "Oh my gods, he's gone! He's gone..."
Blankly, the Director closed the despairingly crying into his arms.
In his own mourning for a lost friend and comrade, he could offer him no words of comfort, only run his hands through the other's silky hair, rub his back and shoulders soothingly as the banker sobbed against his chest.
"Have you slept?"
Pantalone shook his head.
That once perfectly refined image of a man in power, reduced to a mess which pained the heart to look at, to hear its suffering of a wound so great one could not wish it upon their worst enemy. The Jester dreaded this state of him, so unbearable as if he carried the Regrator's hurt on his very shoulders along with him.
Seeking to take some of it away, he held his hand against the other man's forehead, kissing a spell of frost through his knuckles.
It lowered the Regrator's temperature, calming mind and heart within seconds.
Most of all, it made the affected tired.
Soft in his embrace, Pierro helped him to his grand couch, offering it to Pantalone for rest.
He wanted to retrieve another blanket, thicker than the decorative ones, from his bedroom, but the banker's hold was tight.
"I don't know what to do. Pierro, please don't let me be alone," he practically begged.
And, seeing no other option for the two of them to get any sleep for the night, the Jester lowered himself onto the cushions, coaxing the Regrator to do the same.
Adjusting a few pillows, he lay down first. The space was plenty.
Patting the free space beside him, Pierro waited for his guest to join him - Pantalone did.
Curling up against him, the earlier spell did its trick. The tears did not subside, but the wracking sobs did, leaving the man freedom to breathe, deep and tranquil.
Just as tired from his disturbed night, the Director pulled a blanket over them both, ceased the candles' light, and brushed the hair out of the banker's face.
Already, he was asleep.
Against his better judgement, Pierro put a guarding arm around him, holding him a little closer. Tracing circles on the other's skin, he shut his eyes as well.
He thought of a friend, now gone, and wondered if his lover knew.
"When my one true love needs help, and I am not here, have pity with him. After mine, I know he'll be well off in your hands too."