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The Captain's breaths came labored, every exhale leaving him in dense, white puffs.
Every inhale was laced with pain, an assault on his lungs as if he were heaving water.
With each attempt to draw more air inside his body, his stiff hands seized at his sides. The right gripping his sword in a threat to shatter it, would it not endure. It shook. So did Capitano's hands. As did he.
Under the burning gazes of dozens, the Captain fought to gather his senses. He had been ripped from a dream-filled slumber and tossed into a body far, far away from it. The stinging in his lungs woke him fully, forcing him to see blinding scenes alternating between red and white, erasing mellow paths back to the dreamscape he had roamed in. Dimly, he gained enough awareness of his surroundings to realize the body was his own. Still seated among ice and stone, on the height of Ochkanatlan, still on his throne.
The watchful eyes below him were peeking through familiar masks, all raised towards their commander, who neither returned the gesture nor reacted to their awe. He was struggling. Capitano clearly was the one still in charge of them, but he could not act that way. He grunted. Coughed, loosing an obstruction in his airways and convulsed forward, coaxing out a crackling sound from every vertebrae that followed his bend. He felt sticky, warm fluid rise behind his tongue, and with a final excruciating hack, succeeded in clearing it out of his throat.
"Hha... hwhy!"
His first attempt to speak drew concerned gasps from the soldiers, and it had the opposite effect of what the Captain attempted to convey. He huffed loudly, pushing the air past his cords to stimulate them into cooperating, and the next try was still hoarse, but clearer.
"Lhk hway!"
When they still did not obey, Capitano's patience grew thin. Though he knew he could blame no one else but himself for his inability to communicate, it frustrated him to the core that they didn't understand. Seeing how his voice failed, he let his sword do the talking.
He lifted his arm to raise it high, determined enough that he ignored the pain shooting up his shoulder. A loud clang made him flinch. Reflexively moving to counterattack, the Captain drew his arm back, yet he found his hand already empty. No one had raised their hand against him.
Capitano looked down and there, by his boots, there lay his sword. The sound had come from it falling, its point presumably never having left the ground. Something he hadn't felt in years pricked in his eyes, accompanied by a taste so bitter he'd hoped never to taste it again. Hot, sudden shame ate at his resolve. He was Il Capitano, the Tsaritsa's First Harbinger, the Captain, a knight of Khaenri'ah... And he could not even lift his weapon anymore.
Coughing to hide an outcry, he slammed his back against the throne's rest, trying despite shivers wracking his body to appear upright, steady. Confident.
At last, he managed to shout, "Look away!"
A crack betrayed him. Dark phlegm spilled down his lips, and the Fatui averted their eyes just in time not to see it catch in his mask. He took a few breaths to cool off - it already hurt less. Then he made the mistake of trying to wipe away the filth. He must have misjudged his strength, because his hand slammed into the side of his face, uncontrollably scratching rough lines in its descend down, which he also could not stop. If there had been a misunderstanding between his mind and his limb, it wasn't that the former had underestimated the strength. On the contrary; Capitano was weak.
He tried again, slowly, though discovered he couldn't move any faster if he desired it. His arms dropped in his lap with uncanny exhaustion. Looking at them, he was starting to doubt whether this was really him. His hands had never shaken like that. His arms had never looked like that - suddenly so thin and soft. Where he knew there had been muscle mass once, he grasped malleable flesh, barely shielding the bones beneath. No clear contours, all structure practically deteriorated.
A horrifying thought crossed his mind. How long had he been sitting here? How long, that he had become a shell of his former self? He didn't feel like he'd been missing years, but it could have been. It could have even been decades or centuries without him knowing. And truthfully, he was astonished to be alive at all.
His curse was the cause of it, he knew, but he wouldn't have expected it to force him to keep on living in this body when it had reached this state. How could it permit all of his strength to leak out of the vessel it forced to stay alive?
Capitano grabbed his own thigh. His hand could almost wrap around it. Never mind being unable to lift his sword, what kind of leader was he supposed to be if he hadn't even the strength to stand?
He put his feet apart, building a steady base to raise himself on. Using the armrests to his sides as crutches, he called on all his broken-down muscles to work with him this one time. Before he made a bigger fool of himself.
"Turn around!" the Captain bellowed.
And the soldiers obeyed, turning around with their heads lowered. For a few minutes, a single question stemmed clearly from their silence: Why wasn't their Captain standing up?
He could not do it. He couldn't lift himself enough to shift his weight over to his feet, let alone will his core to keep his upper body straight. Attempt after attempt, Capitano exhausted his energy without getting any closer to standing.
The occasional head lifted in the crowd below him, so audaciously concerned it defied both of the Captain's orders. Those of a man who couldn't even find it in himself to correct them anymore. After another moment passing in silence, one of the soldiers finally caught on.
"Are you all idiots? Our Captain has been fighting fate for years and you just let him fend for himself now? Imagine how you would feel - come and help him!"
It was an old, familiar voice that spoke up, that of a comrade who had stood unwavering by the Captain's side throughout his career. A friend, who came climbing up the stairs with a few others, and the first to pat his shoulder in praise before hooking his arm under Capitano's. Another strong man took the other side, and together they lifted their Harbinger into an upright stance at last.
Every bone and string within his body protested against the movements stretching him from his hunched position, but the Captain could do nothing more than grit his teeth and grunt through the pain as he was slowly helped down the stairs.
He hardly heard what they were saying to him. He caught a word of comfort, and more praises, here and there a cheer, dozens of voices. If only there was one more, maybe he'd breathe easier.
"You don't have to worry about a thing, Lord Capitano, we have your back."
"Leave the work to us, you have done more than enough."
"We're going to take you home."
Home.
Capitano let out a noise between laugh and cry.
He couldn't wait to see home again.
~
Over the course of sailing back to Snezhnaya, Capitano gradually regained his ability to move.
He was still far from the way things were before he sat the throne, but he was relieved to no longer be dependent on his soldiers to help him get out of bed in the morning, or needing them to cut his food into smaller pieces for consumption.
Everything they helped him with, they did so as if it was natural, like it was their duty. Capitano knew better. They were soldiers, he was a Harbinger. Neither party signed up for this, neither had expected for this to happen. The Captain was ashamed to have put them into this position, believing it was only pity and respect for his past person that they continued to put up with this.
When he left his room on the ship, just to exercise his legs again, he felt their judgement like Ronova's eyes on his back. Where had their Captain gone? Who was this weak man? What worth did he hold to the Tsaritsa now? Would death have been a kinder fate than this predicament?
Capitano couldn't answer those questions himself when he posed them in front of the mirror. To not further fuel his imagination, he cut his visits to the deck short, restricting his daily rounds to the confines of his room.
He managed to get fit enough to walk a few minutes unassisted, and to do so in a relatively upright manner. It was an effort, but it was an effort he'd gladly go through to walk the familiar halls in Snezhnaya again.
In front of the last set of tall doors, his assisting soldiers let go of his arms and let him stand by himself, and took their leave after saluting him.
Capitano waited until they disappeared around the corner to throw his whole weight into opening the heavy door. What greeted him behind it was another long corridor, only carpeted, warm.
The room at the end of the broad hall was furnished facing away from the doors. Save for the fire climbing up the decorated fireplace, Capitano saw only the backsides of the couch, the armchairs, even the standing lamps.
So, too, did he spot a head of dark hair above the former object.
Rising, it turned into a whole person in his view and bent over a table to tend a vase of flowers.
The Captain made an unsteady approach, motivated only by the sight of familiar hands, delicate and fair. Their fingers brushing caresses through leaves and stems, so carefully readjusting each to preference, until the arrangement was perfect.
And just when he came close enough, the hands were retracted back into the sleeves of the man's long cloak.
"My Captain," the voice spoke finally, and it alone ignited sparks inside of his body.
It conveyed warmth. It was laced with reassurance. It erased the expectations of the unexpected.
This was the voice of the person who had waited and never given up on him, whose feelings had never changed throughout.
"Thrain."
Capitano's legs nearly folded then and there. When the Regrator turned to face him at last, it felt like he'd run out of breaths to catch.
He just looked at him.
He hadn't been able to do so in years, not since he set foot outside Snezhnaya too, too long ago. Still, he remembered it like yesterday, when they exchanged their last sweet promises.
Capitano was lost for words now.
Pantalone looked different.
It was like seeing another person. He was the same height, with the same, beautiful hair, eyes, nose and mouth... His body seemed fuller.
Lean muscles showed through the stretch of his taut clothing, gracing him in every place the Captain had lost his own on his body. And he looked so much healthier than ever before, when Capitano still worried he hadn't got enough to eat in a day or risked his health by going out too sparsely-clothed.
The Regrator no longer strained to steady him; Pantalone stepped readily forward to hold him up when, much to Capitano's dismay, his legs failed him and he threatened to fall. But unlike before, on his journey back to Snezhnaya, the toll on his pride was mellowed by the Regrator's softened gaze, no hint of disappointment within it like there had been in the soldiers' who had accompanied him.
And, well aware of the change in both their physicality, Pantalone handled him gently.
"Now it's my turn to take care of you," he declared.
That easily, their roles were inverted. The Captain did nothing to reject the fact. If the Regrator was sure of it, he could accept it with no qualms.
Similarly, he did not stop him when the hands that held him rose to frame his mask. They lifted it, and the mist dispelled.
Capitano fell into him and, for the first time, he was the smaller person in their embrace. His skin had never soaked the warmth of another body. Strong arms had never enclosed him so completely. Capitano had never been given as he had given others, until now.
At once, he felt like all the love and care he used to pour into the other, Pantalone was now returning it in the same way.
The feeling was magical. It felt safe, far better than he'd imagined.
As if he knew the relief it gave him, Pantalone did not rush to end their hug. His arms spread their warmth over the length of his back, hands rubbing along the bone of his spine, soothing every aching muscle with the wake of his touch.
The Captain's chin dug into the other's neck, who did not seem to mind. They could remain like this forever. It would be far more preferable to wasting away on their respective seats.
"Pantalone," the name slid out of him like a reflexive urge, and he caved, "Pantalone. My beloved Pantalone..."
"I am here."
"Pantalone."
"My dear Thrain."
His voice was like music to his ears. Capitano gave a weak squeeze, a silent request for the Regrator to talk more. He hadn't heard him in so long and his voice had not graced him in the dreamlike visions of his sleep. He craved it all the more.
Pantalone understood perfectly.
"I was prepared to never see you again. When you didn't wake up after a few days, then weeks, and months to follow. Suddenly your place in my bed had been empty for a decade and half, and my hired hands reported on nothing but your perpetual silence. You do not know... You can not know how I escalated when they sent their last report."
Likewise, Capitano wouldn't have wanted Pantalone to see him the moment he'd awoken, a mess and weak. He did not begrudge him not telling him; he could imagine his reaction well enough.
"You began to move one night, they said. They told me your head had swayed from left to right, and that your fingers twitched. The final line was their hope that you'd wake up. Next thing I know, they've come to tell me that my man is right outside the door."
The Captain took a deep breath. Holding himself up by his grip on the Regrator's clothes, he looked down into those bespectacled eyes before he leaned forward to press a kiss on the other's hairline. When he pulled back, his lips were lifting in a smile.
"I walked in here on my own," he proclaimed proudly.
The reply he received was a roll of the eyes, but Pantalone cracked a smile nonetheless.
"I always knew there would be more hellos after our goodbyes, what is a hallway in the face of death? Not an obstacle. Still, here I explicitly ordered them to assist you inside."
"I know I'm not looking my best right now, but you can cut me some slack, Pantalone. I saved a whole nation."
In wordless acquiescence, the Regrator brushed a hand over the scars of Capitano's face and nodded to the sitting area.
"Come sit down. We want to talk."
Didn't he. That, and so much more.
The Captain all too happily let the other help him around the couch. When he sat down, however, he refused to do so alone and pulled the banker along into his lap. He would have said it was worth the pain in his legs - he used to compare Pantalone's to a feather's weight, yet the old truth no longer held up. Their faces mirrored each other's struggle momentarily before Pantalone lifted him up again.
"All bones. Was this how I felt to you?"
And suddenly, it was the Regrator pulling the Captain down, who landed horizontally on top of the other. Arms locked in the banker's crushing hug, Capitano resigned himself to this new position, too easily giving in to the warmth along his backside, all the way down to his legs being framed by the Regrator's. Light breaths tickled the hair in his face.
The Captain leaned back.
Only then did Pantalone loosen his hold on him, and Capitano grabbed a hand before it traveled to caress him elsewhere with the other. Interlocking their fingers, he raised them to place a kiss on the back of Pantalone's hand.
"Yes. But what a man wouldn't endure to rest his head on his lover's lap for a little while."
Capitano enjoyed the subtle quakes under his back from making the Regrator chuckle, evoking memories of the past. In the same notion, the Captain inspected the other's hand a little closer.
Pantalone's hands were always neat. Skin always smooth and nails polished to a shine, factoring into his trying to pass off as youthful. He always cursed wrinkles, fought them with all the means money could buy, and never let them conquer his body. At least not permanently.
The banker who used his hands tirelessly day after day had always prided himself in their appearance. Graceful, clean, polished. Young.
His knuckles carried wrinkles now.
If Capitano had seen correctly earlier, there were wrinkles on his face as well. Around the mouth and by the corners of his eyes, hidden well within his smiles, but they were there. Signs of the years Capitano hadn't been there to see.
"What happened?"
Despite keeping the part of 'to you' silent, Pantalone replied to the question specifically.
"Things changed around here. With you gone, my acting sword and shield, I could no longer afford to stay idle. We've lost Harbingers left and right, and what remains of the Fatui is mostly kept at Her Majesty's disposal now. The cost of hiring and keeping my own protection would have risen to the high heavens. Why throw my money after them when I can rise up to the task myself? People have been much less eager to challenge me since I started working out, so I'm logically inclined to believe I've made the right call."
Capitano felt him hesitate. That was new.
The Regrator's fingers curled more tightly around his.
"How... How do you like me? Like this."
Without missing a beat, the answer came as if prepared long ahead, "You're the most stunning you've ever been. Nothing can subtract from your beauty, Pantalone. Nor from my love for you."
The man behind him stayed quiet. Burying his face into the back of his head and combing through his hair. Capitano's skin tingled all over from the touches, and he leaned into it. They held onto each other that way a long time. It was only when the fireplace spit its last flame and they realized the sky outside had been dark for a while.
~
Pantalone helped Capitano back to his feet after he lost his balance a third time since insisting he could make the walk to the banker's room unassisted.
"It's completely normal," Pantalone reassured him, "Considering how long you sat in Natlan, you're doing great. We'll get you back to full health in no time."
Appreciating the sentiment, Capitano grasped the other's arm for the next steps. He doubted he really would get back to where he was before. It would depend entirely on how much damage his body had retained from years of degradation. And if he was being honest with himself, he did not know if it was worth the effort.
A large part of his training within the Fatui had revolved around the simple point that he had the duty to protect his fellow Harbingers. Particularly, those who could not defend themselves like he could. Specifically, the Regrator. But, now that the latter had become as physically intimidating as grand knight of Mondstadt, the Captain felt like he could trust him to no longer require his whole strength.
Perhaps this was his sign to finally step back a little, now that he could.
Perfectly aligned with his thoughts, they reached the stairs to the upper floor, both coming to a stop at the bottom.
The Regrator fixed the other with a questioning expression, patiently waiting for him to say whether he wanted to try it on his own or needed assistance.
Capitano surprised him by offering, "Unless it would break your back, why not do an old soldier a favor and carry him up?"
"What," Pantalone crossed his arms, "Already in need of another nap?"
The Captain got ready to use his heroic deeds as an excuse again, when the banker promptly picked him up - one arm under the knees and one at the back.
"I guess you do deserve one after the last days. So long as you don't keep me waiting too long again."
Their earlier couch arrangement aside, this was about the oddest position Capitano had ever found himself in. Although, he had to admit Pantalone held him securely, taking from his fear of falling or being dropped because he was too heavy. The Regrator's breathing barely even changed clambering up the stairs with him.
"Did I wake up on my own or was it someone else?"
Pantalone shot him a glance.
His voice turned grave, "Yes to both, I presume. You did wake up on your own, no one tried to rouse you, physically or not. But I suspect something else to be the cause for why you woke up so suddenly. Do not worry, I have the smartest minds looking into the reason, though I had hoped you could tell us more."
Catching onto the tone he used, Capitano could tell that despite what Pantalone was telling him, he was already convinced of a theory made up in his mind. Whoever he hired to prove him otherwise may as well present their results to an indifferent god once they figured it out.
"Who are you thinking of?"
The answer was clear before the Regrator said it out loud; his irritated scowl was enough of a clue, going off past events.
"Well, what do you think? Dottore has got himself into trouble, as usual. A real mess this time, I mean it, and I haven't seen him in a while. At least not since he told me he wanted to get back at the outlandish pest for what happened in Nod-Krai - I'll catch you up on that later. Who knows what that traveler has done to him and what consequences it holds for Teyvat, but I am willing to bet the interruption of your sleep is due to something that happened between them. And I am definitely going to need your help getting Dottore back in order."
Daring to give Pantalone an indicative pinch, Capitano asked, "You believe I'm in the right condition to help you? If I'm being honest, I would let the Doctor figure this out himself, you've been helping him long enough with nothing to reward your efforts. It might be in your best interest to stay out of it for once."
"I don't need your sword, my love. It's your support that I want," the Regrator countered softly, "Isn't it in our best interest to help him achieve his goal? Thrain. My intention has never been to be with you until death. I want to live with you."
He paused at the top of the staircase. Capitano thought he'd put him down again, but the banker's arms stayed firm in their position.
"Dottore is the only one who can make that possible."
When their eyes met again, it was clear where this would go.
They hated to argue, and both had their tactics for de-escalating a fight before it could even begin.
Pantalone sought contact and spoke calmly and affably to keep from succumbing to wanton bursts emotion. Capitano listened before speaking and, once he'd gone over all the possible options and their outcomes in his head, still agreed with the Regrator.
"Fine, you're right. We'll go and help that fool."
The Regrator's face lit up like a light, and that served as a sure enough reminder why Capitano never could bring it over him to refuse him.
Even after all these years, this remained unchanged.