♢ — @bogachs said: The sound of a familiar melody carries throughout the prior stillness of Zaporlany Palace’s frigid halls ; a forlorn tune amidst such a grandiose venue, carrying over frosted panes and marbled titles with the deftness of a snake. But unlike such, it does not convey any hint of malice ; for there was never once poison in that harmony, merely the breadth of an aching, age-old loneliness.
“Performing by your lonesome again?” He begins upon encroaching into the madman’s den without a hint of fear, arms crossed and back poised against the doorframe. Amber eyne takes a moment to observe him — the aloof elegance of his profile, the sharp edges of his mask — a beguiling smile deepening onto his lips, whilst Dottore slender hands continue to move deftly across piano’s keys. He has heard this same score played many times in the past, dredged from the graveyard of a heart long believed to have grown cold in its otiose attempts. The Regrator could chant its tempo by memory alone, which provides him with an idea ; a self-indulgent one, as he is wont to do, he could not help himself from seizing this chance.
“Give me some space, would you?” Without waiting for an answer, the banker takes a seat next to him. Under the Doctor’s disapproving gaze, he starts by arbitrarily pressing a few keys, the notes flowing out of his fingertips in a steady stream as he endeavors to remember his training ; it has been a while since he last played an instrument, but if there is anything that he prides himself on, it is his excellent capacity of recollection. Soon enough, his fingers glide back and forth whilst Dottore picks up the pace where he left off — a challenge, offered in ravenous curiosity and rooted in sericate expectations, one that the Regrator is more than eager to meet and — most of all — exceed, always eager to determine his own worth in the face of fate. Erelong, their scattered notes connect like pearls strung on a thread, the speckled golden sunlight that pours through the stained-glass windows capturing their combined movements in a complete piece.
“You’ve repeated this same score so much that it snaked its way into my head.” He says, his gaze triumphant, a tease playing on his lips ; “Perhaps you ought to diversify your repertoire, Docteur. Who knows, you might acquire a taste for it.” A playful lilt resounds in the velvet of his voice ; another challenge, an opportunity to keep their interactions most entertaining in the days to come.
( Hiii hello here’s a surprise!! I couldn't help but think about that one cutscene of Dottore playing the piano and this scene of them wouldn’t leave my thoughts 😭😭 -Pantalone is definitely showing off on purpose here- )
EXPERIMENT IN PROGRESS: UNPROMPTED ASKS - ALWAYS ACCEPTING !
Gloved fingers press upon ivory keys with the same careful precision dedicated unto his true work ; the same hands that wield scalpels to part flesh or disembowel ancient mechanisms of their technology. THIS IS NOW DEDICATED TO SOMETHING FAR MORE USELESS. Still they play, pressing over the keys like nerves - made to sing under pressure. And like all of Dottore's victims, no one will come to see it. At least no one with any intention of offering aid.
A sneer creeps upon his lips ; less venom at his uninvited guest and more to the idea of what such a mark dares to SUGGEST. " As if you don't know full well there would be no other. " Dottore clips back without missing a beat in response time or upon the singing keys. He is not surprised by the other's appearance ; what is the moon without the nightingale, or the sun without wrens? Had Pantalone remained absent for the entirety of his playing, then he might even suspect some AFFLICTION may have befallen the chronic overworker who labors behind the weight of ink and parchment. The weight of a gaze is familiar, settling seamlessly into the scene that is being spun around them in the notes of song and the dance of light and shadows inside the room. IT IS MEANT TO BE. Not necessary, but better for it.
He does not stir when the other approaches ; it is only at the request that the melody is broken. " A demand is still a DEMAND, even if you dress it up in the frock of a question as you are so prone to do. " Dottore does not push the other away even when disapproval settles under the sharp edges of his mask. Gripe as he might, he shifts to allow the other more space upon which to access the keys. His own hands have settled upon his lap for the moment, watching as Pantalone tests the keys in the same way a bird with a healed wing will tentatively tested its healed wing. ( Flapping, fluttering, ENSURING MUSCLE MEMORY HAS NOT ROTTED AWAY. Pantalone then must be tugging at old memories. ) It is not often Dottore witnessed Pantalone dusting off ancient memories ; he takes the time to observe the process beneath gaze both clinical and interested. He's playing the piece. Only upon that does Dottore rejoin in the music, the loneliness now one of two than a singular player. Slower at first, before Dottore edges it back to the standard rhythm in a temptation of a challenge he knows the banker will not concede or collapse beneath. ( Not him, with a pride that scrapes beyond the false skies. ) It is the same. It is different. No longer is it him alone but the warmth of a body beside him sings to that fact as the music pulls them in until the final note rings out.
" Is that the case? Then it seems a part of me is always in your mind. " Dottore smirks, a flash of teeth before they are concealed once more. " It is rare I see you so presumptuous. Much less ERRONEOUSLY so. " And Dottore shall savor that rare treat in its fullest, amusement sliding from him like raindrops on glass. Even Pantalone is not immune to assumptions ; HE IS HUMAN. And Dottore has played nothing else for the other to witness or otherwise indicated an extensive knowledge of other music. ( Even less so when he seems to hold no interest in the performances. ) " I can play more. " A challenge need not even be uttered ; he knows the other well.
" MOVE. " Dottore nudges the other aside to return to the central heart of the piano, but he does not push the other off the bench entirely. His witness can remain seated beside him if he wishes, or move to the plush chairs further to the center of the room. His fingers rest upon the keys, still and silent for moment. NOT IN UNCERTAINTY, but more akin to debating between tools and methods. And then he begins to play. Despite the hesitation that had lingered moments prior to starting, there is no stumble or break in the notes. He presses each note and pedal with steadfast certainty, a refined focus evident in the shape of his spine - the tension of his jaw. It is not a piece as drone-like as his favored piece; there's something squirming and alive in this composition that demands acknowledgement. IT DEMANDS INVESTMENT NOT DETACHMENT ; something calls out between notes. It is too late to undo, whatever the cunning man beside him might see in it.
The final note hangs like a hand outstretched ; DOTTORE SAYS NOTHING FOR A FEW SECONDS. To break the quiet afterwards feels akin to cutting off an experiment too early. But it must break. Dottore turns towards Pantalone, his mask tilting slightly while his expression remains concealed. " My repertoire might be more extensive than you think. Though I still far prefer my labs. " AND YET HERE HE'S PLAYED. Not only his signature, but something else entirely.
